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The dress catches Aegon’s eye as he’s rifling through the cabinets in Mother’s room. He’s only looking to make a mess of her possessions, to annoy her even further like a petulant child who wants to take revenge on his parents for disciplining him.
He’s had too much wine to be rational about anything. He feels filthy, dried vomit and spit staining his wrinkled shirt, dust clinging to his hair. His struggle with Aemond in front of the Sept has left him with a bitter aftertaste – he should’ve been in better form, put up more of a fight. He should have clawed out Aemond’s only working eye. He laughs out loud at the thought and it echoes in the room.
He pulls the dress out carefully. It’s a vibrant Hightower green with a deep neckline and ornate sleeves that connect to the hem. Before he even properly realises, he’s started removing his own clothes, as if hypnotised by the garment.
The fabric feels scratchy in Aegon’s hands as he begins to pull it on. The inside of the dress is lined with what feels like the finest satin he’s ever touched, and it’s cool on his skin as he pulls it up past his knees, anticipation causing his fingers to tremble slightly.
The dress won’t go past his thighs. Aegon pulls at it, frustration building until he feels the all too familiar burn of tears in his eyes. He fumbles for the laces on the back of the dress, hands tearing at the opening until the fabric rips and he’s able to slide it on the rest of the way.
He stares at himself in the mirror. The golden decorations on the sleeves shine bewitchingly against the dark green backdrop. The neckline is cut deep, and he briefly wonders about Mother owning something like this – all her current attire is very modest, fabric coming up to her collarbones and neck, colours and patterns beautiful but conservative for the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Dowager Queen, his mind corrects him.
He struggles for the lacing again, this time pulling it tight to make the fabric settle against his body more naturally. He likes the way it looks, the colour making his skin appear almost sickly pale.
“You should be bathing,” a cool voice says behind him.
Aegon startles out of his thoughts. Aemond stands at the doorway, surveying the scene before him with an irritated look in his eye.
He crosses the room to Aegon and stands behind him, placing heavy hands on his bare shoulders. His palms are cold and Aegon shivers.
He feels foolish now – Aemond’s gaze is fixed on him in the mirror, taking in the ridiculously low neckline that shows the milky skin of his chest.
“You’ve ruined Mother’s dress,” Aemond’s voice is quiet as he slides his other hand to the small of Aegon’s back where the fabric is slightly ripped. He plays with the lacing that Aegon fought to tighten earlier.
“What were you thinking? Did you intend to mock her again? To have her find you like this and see how pathetic her precious firstborn son truly is?”
Aegon makes a small sound of protest. His head is swimming, now equally with the wine and humiliation.
He wants to explain himself, to tell Aemond that he wasn’t thinking straight. That in his befuddled mind he just wanted to be more like Mother, wishing desperately to borrow some of her piousness and strength from the fabric, to cling onto some part of her like a needy child. It sounds stupid, he knows, but he means no insult to her. Not with this.
There is also the small voice at the back of his head that whispers how his life would have been so much easier if he were born a daughter.
He would have no duties or responsibilities other than staying quiet, dressing pretty and occasionally spreading his legs for his highborn husband. If he lets the fantasy run long enough his treacherous brain replaces the nameless man with Aemond. Aemond who easily pulls his legs open and presses him against the bed to –
He snaps out of it when he feels Aemond tug at the lacing of the dress. His hands are slow and deliberate. Torturous.
The fabric starts to dip lower on Aegon’s body, slipping down from his shoulders and he yelps, catching it and clutching it to his chest.
Aemond lets out a mocking laugh. “So now you’re trying to preserve your dignity?”
He continues unlacing the back, his movements more insistent now, and Aegon realises Aemond means to not spare him from his frustration this time.
The thought fills him with delicious anticipation, heat pooling in his stomach at the intensity of his brother’s gaze. Aegon is desperate to forget his current position, the responsibility that looms over him, and Mother’s expectations.
When Aemond bends him over the table he goes willingly. Aemond’s fingers are rough on him, lifting the hem of the dress to brush against his hole in a hurried, sloppy, almost violent manner. He’s not interested in making this good for me, Aegon thinks, oddly glad about it.
He grunts as Aemond pushes his cock in. He tries to catch his breath against the uncomfortable stretch, grips the edge of the table as Aemond starts to fuck him in steady strokes.
They’ve done this enough that this part needs no instruction – their bodies know each other, know what to do.
He desperately wants to touch himself, but Aemond has him pinned down and he has no choice but to take it, to roll his hips back against his brother’s cock. Aegon’s pace is getting sloppy and he can hear himself making pitiful, whining sounds, equally from pain and pleasure.
He’s still wearing the dress. It’s bunched up around his hips, Aemond holding the fabric back to get a better grip on his body. Aegon knows there will be bruises on his skin later. His upper body is sliding against the surface of the table from the force of Aemond’s thrusts, and he feels delirious with arousal.
Aemond comes with a choked groan. He pulls out and steps away, and Aegon remains slumped on the table in a heap of sweaty green fabric. His cock is still painfully hard against his stomach and his whole body aches. Aemond’s release starts to leak out of him and he shudders, stomach churning a little.
“I’ll have the servants bring in hot water so you can clean yourself up,” Aemond says somewhere behind him. “I don’t want Mother to see you like this.”
Aegon hears the door close after him.
When he finally manages to gather the strength to get up, Aegon wanders back to the mirror.
The top of the dress has slid almost down to his waist, and the back hangs open from where he ripped it. The hem is wrinkled from Aemond’s rough treatment. His skin appears almost grey in the low light, and the fine sheen of sweat makes him look ill.
He feels ill too, the last remains of arousal replaced with faint disgust. The dress is stained with both him and Aemond – yet another thing they’ve ruined. One more inescapable reminder of how Aegon will never be good like Mother wishes.