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“Some princes do not become kings,” Aegon says dismissively.
Uncaring, unbothered—it is no matter, he says. It is a jest all the same, to either one of them, to both, one that Aegon does not truly care about, one that gets under Jace’s skin more than he can admit. Aegon pushes against Jace’s body until they are flush, until he is close enough to count the specks of gold in the bastard’s eyes. Until Jace’s caged between uncle and wall.
“Some princes should not become kings,” Jace replies, softly.
His voice is a low rumble Aegon feels in his own chest. He considers it, throws the words around damaged parts of his mind for a while. Princes and bastards and kings and whores. Whatever trueborn means, these days—whatever the crown’s worth when the King can decide to pass it around however, whenever. And yet you’re right, bastard, Aegon thinks, but doesn’t voice it, doesn’t dare. He looks at Jacaerys and Jacaerys looks at him and he thinks, if only you were a prince yourself.
If only you were my saving grace.
Something shifts under his skin. Twists into shapeless agony, tears through him. Aegon moves before his face betrays him—hides against Jace’s neck, breathes in, takes him in deep. Dragon, saltwater. Jace is anything but a Velaryon, but he feels like water, he feels like ocean—Aegon drinks him in and lets his existence wash him away, drown out doubts and misery.
Jacaerys moves a little, calls his name out in the same quiet tone. Waits in silence, and presses on again with another, “Aegon.”
But Aegon isn’t done. Aegon’s still wondering about life with his sister on the Iron Throne, crown prince Jacaerys somewhere on dragonback with him. He’s still thinking about the endless labyrinth of possibilities letting Rhaenyra get her throne would allow him—what forsaking his mother, grandfather, these nameless lords who still believe in the old order of things would feel like. And the need is so clear, the need so sharp, it stabs through his chest like an arrow, poisoned and deadly, pierces his heart, takes his breath away.
He thinks—I want it. I want it so fucking bad it burns like fire, burns like hell.
It’s idiotic. It’s aberrant. Aegon doesn’t remember much, but he remembers this. He doesn’t remember his father’s face before the hole in it, his chest before his heart festered. There have always been variables, madder shades of green. The Targaryen tapestries used to mean something—Aegon doesn’t remember what exactly, but he remembers Jacaerys’s made-up tales about them. He remembers Jacaerys himself, all of him. He remembers watching as the bastard walked the castle down as if the place was his already, thinking, I could be his, too. He remembers prolonged eye-contacts during family dinners, wandering hands, fleeting touches as they grew into their body, shed their skin. He remembers cornering Jacaerys, one night—teeth breaking skin, bones cracking.
Aegon doesn’t remember wanting this hard, but he remembers getting.
And now that he has it—he doesn’t intend on letting go. Now, ever. The house of the dragon could burn itself to the very core—Aegon doesn’t let go. Keeps a tight grip on both of Jace’s wrists, enough to mark, enough to bruise. Left-handed; they both are. Digs his nail on his pulse, presses on the veins there.
Jace doesn’t flinch away from the touch. He lets Aegon have his strange, obsessive ways with his body, lets him rub his face against his neck, draw invisible lines inside of his palms, wordlessly. Something about dragons being territorial, creatures of habit, of familiarity. Jacaerys, too, is a dragon—reacts like one when cornered, pushed around.
“Let go of me, uncle,” he dares ask, not realizing, not understanding how much these words make Aegon resent him. (He shouldn’t say such thing without meaning it—he shouldn’t say such thing at all, not to Aegon, not to the blood of the dragon, never.)
Aegon looks up, at least. Meets his nephew’s eyes, the deep purple, so dark it looks brown, even black, so dark Alicent Hightower keeps mistaking it for something less striking, less important.
And this—he remembers, too. He remembers when it hit him, first. He remembers being over the painted table of Dragonstone, its Prince somewhere deep inside of him, forcing his head in strange angles to seal their lips, when he realized his mother was wrong, so damn wrong, thinking Rhaenyra Targaryen’s sons plain-featured. Jacaerys was nothing but plain, and his eyes aren’t brown—they’re Valyrian. Aegon’d laughed himself breathless, said in a half-broken whimper you’re not so Strong after all, nephew, his heart bursting in his chest, his blood sizzling in his veins. But Jacaerys had the dragon’s temper, its pride, and Aegon’s words were lost on him, their meaning no more than a jest, and he retaliated like a dragon would, fucking him blind, until he cried, until he passed out.
Until Jacaerys burnt out a hole in the shape of himself inside of Aegon, and made a home of his ribcage.
“You’re staying here, kid. Right here.”
Aegon doesn’t add with me. Jace smiles all the same. When he turns them around and pushes Aegon to the wall, Aegon lets him without releasing his wrists.
“Stay where, uncle? Here?” Jace kisses his neck, goes for the smooth skin of his throat; bites hard enough to make Aegon’s knees weak. “Here?” His lips move to his nape next—trails wet kisses all over; Jace maps the slope of his jaw, the proud curve of his chin, but never quite kisses his lips.
They rarely do, refusing themselves the luxury of such intimacy just yet. Aegon has yet to kiss his own sister-wife, and if he did, the memory is lost to him. She refuses to look at him, refuses to give up any part of herself other than her warm, welcoming cunt. Helaena doesn’t give but she takes all of him the same; Aemond is another story. Aemond is—
“Here, with me, uncle.” Jace bites his cheek, full force. Aegon feels warm palms cupping both as he blinks back to reality.
Aemond. Hell. Something pulls at his edges, rattles him to his core. He feels uneasy, restless. He feels overly seen. Jace has moved, freed his hands. It doesn’t bother Aegon as much as the fact that it happened without him, that he was never conscious of it. Because Jace knew, sensed his mind drifting away.
Aegon isn’t naïve or stupid enough to think he’d have any sort of natural authority over a son who came out of Rhaenyra Targaryen’s royal cunt, raised by the Sea Snake himself first and the Rogue Prince second. And—he relishes in it. Closes his eyes and lets Jace lead the dance, pull at his lifeless limbs, mark him up and lay him down, bruised, tired, but relieved. Liberated; free of himself, of his mind.
“Here,” Aegon chokes out, quivering. His fingers dig into Jace’s tunic, afraid he will step away, afraid he will allow room between them, afraid the empty space would fill with what Aegon’s nightmares are made up of.
But Jace doesn’t. Jace stays—“Here,” as a mantra, as a anchor to reality.
Aegon’s chest deflates as he exhales terror, agony. He fills it back with the scent of saltwater, of smoke, and repeats it once, twice, to get himself back together. To look his part, in a futile effort, to live up to his name, his legacy. But legacy, in the face of something much greater, will crumble; and as many times before, Aegon crumbles; to ash, to dust.
But it is no matter, Aegon thinks. It is alright, even. If Jacaerys is water, if he is the soothing ocean that can wash away whichever miserable part is left of him, Aegon will be just fine.