Prince Aegon Targaryen
Aegon wandered along the thinning veil before final wakefulness, when sleep had begun to retreat, allowing him to sense the world around him, yet had not weakened its grip enough for him to open his eyes. Before, ere the pain had left him, this blissful state had visited him rarely: in his sleep, he might turn awkwardly, numb a limb, or shift his leg, thereby provoking a new cycle of grueling torment that made him loathe every morning. Deliverance from the companion that had dogged him since childhood had not made him love the break of day again (some habits are impossible to root out), but it allowed him at least to reconcile with the morning, especially if he met it in the company of his beautiful wife.
He was pulled from his languor by a tugging sensation, as if someone were pulling his hair. He had no desire to rise: in a couple of days, they were to depart for Dragon's Heart to visit their new home for the first time, yet the Small Council had work without end, and the wedding festivities showed no sign of ceasing. The Prince frowned through his half-slumber, and when the sensation repeated itself, he involuntarily opened his eyes. Before him in the bed, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her, was Laena, idly combing long strands of his hair through her fingers.
"Did you tug at Laenor's hair in childhood as well?" Aegon grumbled; the words, spoken in the haze of sleep, sounded hoarse and disgruntled.
"Nay," his wife answered lightly. "His hair is as coarse as mine, though it does not curl, whereas any lady might envy yours. I, for one, am envious."
"And what do you propose? Shave me bald and make a wig of my hair?"
"Nay. That would be vulgar, though very chivalrous—quite in the spirit of the tales of Florian and Jonquil."
"All men are both knights and fools when it concerns women," Aegon snorted, sitting up as well. Not that he was seriously offering his hair as a sacrifice, but he would not have murmured had Laena taken it into her head to agree. Hair is not a head—it grows back.
"And you said you read no Andal romances."
"I have not, but it may be that I live in one. Who could have thought that the King's youngest grandson would inherit such treasures?" With these words, he leaned forward and kissed her, yet Laena did not allow herself to be distracted. Teasing him with a smeared kiss, she pulled back and inquired archly:
"Do you speak now of your castle or of your gold dragons?"
"Gold and a castle are but dust and pitiful stones compared to the Pearl of Driftmark, my most paramount treasure."
Satisfied with such an answer, his lady wife smiled and, rewarding him with another kiss, moved to the edge of the bed, intending to rise. Unlike her husband, Laena Velaryon had always been an early bird and, by all appearances, did not intend to change her habits in marriage. At least, not of her own accord. No sooner had she started to rise than Aegon moved toward her, wrapping his arms around her from behind and resting his chin upon her shoulder. He sighed, pulling her as close to himself as possible.
The ancients wrote that love is the desire to touch; Aegon agreed with them, but he could add something of his own: to touch and never let go. To his unspeakable happiness, which he could not have expressed in the words of all the tongues he knew, Laena held the same opinion. Even now, finding herself in the ring of his arms, she relaxed and leaned back fully against him.
"You know, it is not enough to simply wear a true treasure, to display it and admire it," he murmured, stroking her belly and gradually moving higher. "One must care for a treasure."
His palms crossed over her ample breasts and squeezed them, drawing a sensual sigh from Laena. While the fingers of one hand toyed with the peaked nipple, the fingers of the other rose higher and traced her already bitten lips. He had only to press lightly, and his wife parted her mouth, allowing his fingers to slip inside. For a time, Aegon allowed her to suckle them, but when Laena grew mischievous and bit them playfully, he squeezed her nipple harder with his other hand in retaliation. With a dissatisfied click of his tongue, he withdrew his fingers, a thread of saliva stretching after them, demonstrating the result to them both.
"And how exactly must one care for it?" Laena inquired in a voice grown slightly husky, accepting his rules.
"Oh, you shall see now."
In times past, during intimacy with a woman, all Aegon's thoughts and desires had been lawfully directed toward obtaining his own pleasure. To be sure, he did not forget that he was not alone in the bed—when he shared a couch with Viserra, she never remained unsatisfied; after all, the brothels on the Street of Silk did not earn such coin from the Prince's visits for naught. Yet only with Laena did he feel the need not merely to receive amorous caresses, but to bestow them, not simply as a reciprocal gesture of courtesy, but for the sake of it.
Aegon lowered his hand between his wife's legs and rubbed her own spittle over her nether lips, mixing it with the moisture welling there. Laena sighed again and threw her leg over his knee, opening herself to meet him.
"What, are you so impatient, jorrāeliarza (my love)?" Nay, wait," he chuckled, continuing to tease her from the outside, occasionally straying to stroke the tender skin of her thighs.
"Aegon..." the woman moaned in response.
"Count this as a small vengeance for the hair, ābrazȳrys ñuha (my fiery wife). Did I not say that I love not to remain alone in the morning?"
When the festive stupor had abated after the wedding, Laena, as befitted an early bird, had taken to slipping out of bed before Aegon could find the strength to rise. Conversation could not hold her, unlike displays of love such as this.
"You said..."
"It is such a trifle, is it not?" with these words, he parted her folds and slipped his middle finger inside, ceasing not to caress her without.
Laena jerked forward, trying to impale herself deeper, but Aegon was ready for this and held her back, pressing her to him. A new moan, in which frustration now seeped, broke from her lips, and the Prince kissed his wife consolingly on the temple.
"Lykirī (Gently)."
It was an unfair tactic, they both knew it. In bed, the High Language only heated the blood in their veins.
"Karys jessives aō ūndegon ñāqē ilvot īlvys, ābrazȳrys ñuha (We should find pleasure in this together, my wife)—" Aegon introduced another finger inside and began to move them rhythmically, ever increasing the pace. "We could both receive it. Sepār sīr. Selā? (Right now. Yes?)"
In answer, Laena moaned something unintelligible and threw her head back onto her husband's shoulder.
"Evidently, that means 'yes'," he concluded and, shifting his grip to be more comfortable, added a third finger. The woman cried out, and the Prince began to trace a path of kisses from her collarbone up her neck, simultaneously quickening the movements of his hand. Finally, with another moan, Laena clenched tight, gripping his fingers, and shuddered. For a time, they simply sat, body to body, skin to skin: while his spouse tried to catch her breath, Aegon's hands wandered over her chiseled figure, stroking soothingly and teasing slightly.
"That was... most persuasive," Laena managed at last. "I wager they do not teach such arguments in the Citadel."
"No, naturally," the Prince snorted.
"A great oversight on the part of the Conclave."
"They would have to make a woman the Archmaester of the Arts of Love, and the thought of a woman within the walls of the Citadel frightens those greybeards until their knees knock together."
Laena giggled and, freeing herself from Aegon's momentarily loosened grip, turned to face him. The Prince had only time to exhale in relief (his member, pressed between two bodies, was smearing his belly and her back with slickness, demanding release almost painfully) when his wife drew him into another kiss. Taken by surprise, he yielded to her onslaught at first, but quickly recovered and slipped his own tongue into her mouth, biting her lip.
Meanwhile, Laena, settling onto his lap, raised herself and guided his member into her heated womb with her own hand. Placing his hands on her hips, Aegon began to set the pace, while he buried his face in her firm breasts, his tongue caressing her nipples. The room filled once more with wet sounds and languid sighs. As soon as the Prince quickened his pace, Laena buried her fingers in his hair, now massaging his scalp, now pulling at the long silver strands damp with sweat.
All these sensations became too much at once, and Aegon, thrusting a few more times, spilled his seed inside with a groan that sounded more like a dragon's roar. Freezing for a few moments in that pose, clutching the woman he loved to himself, he fell back onto the bed, settling Laena on top of him.
"You shall fall asleep again," she remarked in a feigned stern tone.
"Oh no, I have only just awakened."
Laena tucked another loose strand behind his ear and admitted:
"Aye, perhaps for the sake of such an awakening, it is worth sleeping longer."
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