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There were Five reasons why Jon was so drunk:
One, His whole life had been a lie.
Two, He wasn’t even a bastard.
Three, He was a fucking Targaryen, a prince at that.
Four, they’d just defeated the fucking white walkers and his life was already falling apart.
And finally, five, he’d been having sex with his brother for the past three months.
He wished he hadn’t gone on that walk with Samwell, wished he’d had one more night of peaceful obliviousness. He’d just been so happy to see him, they’d parted ways after the long night, and Jon had missed his friend dearly, and this unexpected reunion in Kings Landing was all he could have asked for... until it wasn’t.
It was a feast, a party, a celebration for the official coronation of Westeros' new duel rulers. The keep was alive with noise and celebration, and all Jon could do was drink his horror away.
He thought the news should not have caused such a chaos inside him. Truthfully, this should have washed over him with little importance. A month ago he’d been at war in an endless wintery night, he’d watched friends turn to blue eyed foes, he’d seen ice and frozen blood rain from from the sky and the dead rode in on winter-fell. They’d fought and lost and fought and lost for nearly several weeks on end, a constant war against an army that had no need for sleep, even with three dragons and the armies of all Westeros united— they’d only just survived it. And yet, his mind could not focus on the bustling hall around him. There was dancing, cheering, and movement all around.
Beside him, Sansa was laughing brightly into her hands as she watched the lords and ladies fall into a slightly drunken dance. Jon took another long swig of his ale, wishing for something stronger.
He could see two heads of silver just in the corner of his vision, decorated in golden bejewelled crowns. Jon drank again, feeling sick in a way that wasn’t just from his drink.
Aegon was bright and glowing, all Dornish gold and Valyrian silver. His hand, Jon Connington, was muttering something in his ear, and Aegon was pretending to listen whilst sending his wife subtle mischievous glances that made Jon’s stomach turn uncomfortably.
He looked so fucking kingly like that. Seated at the end of the high table, draped in red and gold and jewellery. His long white hair was groomed and ending just below his nape— he’d cut it himself just before their final battle with the Others, but it’d been properly fixed up recently. He looked regal. He didn’t look like the bright-eyed boy of nineteen that Jon had met all those months ago at the wall.
Perhaps the thing Jon had liked most about the other man, had been his utter normalness. He hadn’t acted like a king at all whilst they had been fighting up North. He’d spoken gratefully to servants, sutured injuries and packed up carts. Often times it was easy to forget this boy who laughed like a long summer was supposed to be his king. There had seemed little wrong with crawling into bed beside him and letting bodies find each other in a cold night. Now, however, in this stinking rotten city, watching him sit prim and proper in all his robes and regalia, Jon couldn’t help but hate him just a little.
And really, that wasn’t even nearly the worst of it…
Gods, Jon’d had sex with his own brother. The thought of it, even now, made him sick. He thought of his family, the ones that had raised him, Rob, Sansa, and Arya— not once had he looked at them any other way. And yet his own brother— his own blood... he couldn’t stomach the memory of what he’d done.
Quiet suddenly, he watched violet eyes meet his own. He watched them crinkle into a sly smile.
Jon turned away quickly and took another long sip, trying to force his mind to wander elsewhere. It stopped back Sansa, chatting blissfully with the lady Jeyne Pool, and his heart sank again. The Starks, all of them, Rob, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and little Rickon. The children he’d grown up with, who had been his brother’s and sister’s all his life. He thought of Lady Catelyn's hate, those narrow eyes and how pointless they had been. Why hadn’t Ned told her, if he had, maybe she wouldn’t have hated him so. Maybe things would have been different.
He rose from his seat, sick of thinking, and needing more ale. He stumbled drunkenly toward a fresh jug, knocking over a young girl in a deep rouge robe, she scoffed and paid him little mind.
Tomorrow, he supposed, he’d line up with all the other lords and ladies, and pledge Winterfell allegiance to the true King and Queen, and then, he’d ride North the moment he was done. He needed to be out of this sweltering city.
He’s hand misjudged its path as he poured more ale, nearly tipping the jug all the way over. A hand reached out and stilled it quickly, though not without grazing past Jon’s waist as it did.
“And I thought you were the one trying to tell me, us southerners couldn’t hold our drink?” Aegon hiss gleefully into his ear.
Instinctively Jon shoved away, but at least he had enough sense not to make a scene about it.
Aegon eyed him curiously, “Are you alright?” He said gently, as strands of silver fell over his golden skin. His new gold crown was uneven on his head, it had slipped just so.
“Fine,” he grit back, wanting to escape.
“Drink some water,” Aegon said, his smile returning to him, “You’ll hate yourself tomorrow if you drink anymore.”
Jon rolled his eyes, “Yes, your grace,” he sneered petulantly, he sounded like a child. Gods he hated himself.
Aegon snorted and shoved him joyfully, before leaning closer to whisper, “Now, Snow, I won’t have you passing out before I get to show you just how thankful we are that the North has decided to swear its allegiance. If you kneel tomorrow, perhaps I’ll be persuaded to kneel for you tonight.” His voice was just a breath against Jon’s ear, and yet still he couldn’t help but jump back and glance around as if someone could have just heard the words his own brother had just said to him. Not that they had heard. Not that anyone knew they were brothers.
Yesterday, Jon would have pulled Aegon away into an empty corridor and made him get on his knees now. Today, he was just trying not to run.
He’d been so careless with his relationship with Aegon. Too many people knew. Neither had hidden it very well. Between Jon’s experience at the wall, to Aegon’s Dornish roots, neither one cared particularly for any intense secrecy.
On the wall, without women, there was an unspoken yet well know courtesy with certain relationships— and discretion was rarely necessary. It was a part of himself Jon would soon have to train out of. Whilst relationships with other men in the Winterfell were deeply frowned upon, at the wall it was different, he’d had Satin, he’d been lord commander, everyone had known, and no one had dared to say a thing against it.
Now, however, if anyone ever found out about Jon’s true parents, they’d know the truth of what he’d done.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Aegon asked carefully.
Jon bristled, trying to contain the emotions bubbling within.
“Thank you for your concern, my king,” Jon said, “Here’s to your reign,” he said with a drunken cheer of his cup, before returning swiftly to his seat. Aegon watched on, unsure of it all.
He stared at Jon for some time, blinking stupidly, and going a little red.
Jon decided to drink the rest of his thoughts away.
He’d left soon after that, though not before puking in a corner behind a well-made cloth tapestry.
He stumbled drunkenly back to his chambers, he’d been put up in better rooms than many of the other lords and ladies. Though he was still not a lord yet, he supposed. Tomorrow, all he had to do was make it to tomorrow when he’d kneel as Jon Snow, and rise as Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, then finally, he could leave this hell of a city.
By the time he finally pushed into his rooms, escorted in part by a helpful gold cloak who’d noticed him stumbling through the halls, he instantly collapsed fully clothed into his bed.
Though it seemed, the gold cloak had other plans, turning him on his side and handing him a small pot to rest against his head.
Hands unworked his tunic, gently slipping it lose and off his shoulders so he lay in the open to the warm night air in only an undershirt.
“Drink,” said a voice, handing him a small goblet of liquid, and when Jon tried to mumble back a complaint the water was pressed firmly to his lips. The gold cloak was very insistent, and Jon was too drunk to fight on it, taking slow sips of the water, letting slowly cool him.
A hand ran through his hair, slow, and rings caught on Jon’s curls. It was nice, and peaceful, and for a little while, Jon didn’t have to think about any of it.
He woke only a few hours later, to the sound of a heavy door shutting. He shot up awake, and slightly more sober. The firelight of the room still burnt bright illuminating a room that was far too nice and far too familiar to be his own.
Aegon looked at him a little guiltily as he pressed the door fully closed. He was half in the motion of removing the huge gold crown from his head and setting it on a dresser.
Jon glowered at him.
“Sorry I woke you,” Aegon said gently, already turning away to slip off his rings and bracelets. He wore so much jewellery these days. “Go back to sleep, I won’t be long.”
Jon’s exhaustion begged him to do just that, and his remaining drunkness begged him to let Aegon come and crawl up next to him and hold him to his chest. His stubbornness prevented him from doing either.
“I’m going to bed,” Jon said gruffly, slowly crawling out of Aegon’s so soft sheets.
Aegon turned quickly, “I’m sorry I woke you, I promise, I won’t be long. Just lie down, i'll be there in a minute,” he said working faster on undoing the many laces on his very extravagant regalia.
“I want to sleep in my own bed,” Jon said simply, suddenly feeling quite guilty for how he’d been acting. He wasn’t mad at Aegon. He just— his head hurt a lot from thinking.
“Jon, you haven’t slept a single night in that bed since you arrived here?”
Jon shrugged, he didn’t have a very good answer for that, and he was too tired to come up with a lie.
Aegon went for him, standing beside where Jon sat on the edge of the bed, winding both arms around his waist gently. “What’s wrong Jon? You’ve been acting strange all afternoon?”
Jon flinched away again, standing and trying to make distance. “It’s—“
He tried to think of what to say. Aegon’s eyes were wide and heartbreaking and Jon hated how much this was hurting them both. With sudden realisation, he knew he needed to tell him. He wouldn’t wish this feeling on anyone else in the world, this horror, this disgust, and yet he’d have to tell him, or break Aegon’s heart— and he didn’t think he could do that.
“I spoke to Samwell today, he’s been studying at the citadel, you know.”
Aegon nodded, listening intently.
“He found something about your father, Rhaegar…”
Aegon’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
“Sam didn’t realise what it meant at first. It was about Lyanna and Rhaegar— he thought he was a mistake, and so he asked a friend of my fathers, a man named Howland Reed— and he confirmed it.”
“Confirmed what?” Aegon asked and there was fear in his eyes, and something Jon didn’t know.
“I’m not a bastard,” he let himself finally breathe the words, “My mother was Lyanna Stark, and my father was Rhaegar Targaryen.” He watched as the words reached Aegon, watched them break apart his face piece by piece, “Rhaegar married my mother in secret, against her will or not, I do not know, but she died giving birth to me, she asked my father— my uncle, Eddard Stark to protect me from Robert, she made him swear to protect me, and so he raised me as his bastard.” He watched Aegon gape, watched him take it all in, but by this point he couldn’t stop himself anymore, he had to keep going, and he finally brought the words to air, “I’m your brother, Aegon.”
Like a wilting flower, Aegon slowly sunk down onto the bed, still gaping at him. “You telling the truth,” he said softly, his voice sounded raw, He sounded like he was going to cry.
“I am.”
And then quite suddenly, Aegon leapt to his feet and wrapped to arms around Jon’s neck to pull him into a tight embrace. He was laughing a little, he sounded hysterical, and Jon was sorely confused.
“Jon,” he gasped against his neck, truly Jon could not tell if he was laughing or crying, when he finally pulled away to grip Jon’s face in both hands, he realised it was both.
“My whole life I’d thought all my family dead. And now I come here and I have so much, the Martells, Daenerys, and now—“ he was grinning madly his wild eyes dancing over Jon’s face, “You.” He kissed him then, a gentle ecstatic sort of kiss that knocked all sense out of Jon.
“W—what,” Jon sputtered, forcing them apart, “We’re brothers,” Jon repeated to draw more sense into Aegon, who was clearly making none.
“I know!” Aegon practically squeaked, pressing a flurry of kisses onto Jon’s brow and cheeks.
“Stop it!” Jon squeaked, he was sure now that Aegon had gone into shock.
Aegon laughed, and kissed him again, this time Jon shoved him away with more force.
“You’re not getting it Aegon, we’re brothers!”
Suddenly Aegon stilled, and for a moment Jon prayed he understood.
“We’re Targaryen’s Jon, I’m married to my aunt.”
“That— That’s different.”
“Is it? I would have been married to my sister if the war hadn’t happened. I would have been married to you if you were born a girl,” That final sentence seemed to come out of Aegon’s mouth before he’d had the chance to truly think about it, but he watched as Aegon worked the idea around his head, watched him smile at his own thought. Jon smacked him when he saw that smirk.
“Stop it!”
Aegon was still grinning madly. They were right, when a Targaryen was born the god’s flipped a coin, and it was clear to see what side Aegon's had landed on.
“I should have known,” Aegon said, staring at him in awe, “I knew from the moment I saw you that there was something about you. It was almost like you were made for me— and you were, you literally were made to be mine,” his eyes were wide, his hands held tight at the side of Jon’s face his thumb stroking softly at the line of his cheekbone. “Jon… This is incredible…”
Jon was furious, he smacked Aegon’s hands away from him and shoved past him, forcing a distance.
“How can you be like this?” Jon sneered, “My whole life has been a lie, Aegon. Everything I’ve ever known, it’s all a lie.”
Aegon’s expression fell gently, his pretty face all marred with concern. He tried to reach for Jon again, but Jon moved away quickly.
“All of this, all I’ve fought for in the North. Even my father’s insistence on me taking the black— relinquishing all my titles— it’s because of this. My whole life I’d felt confused and lost with who I am— and now I finally know and wish I didn’t— my whole life the Targaryens had been the people who killed my uncle and grandfather— who kidnapped and raped my aunt.”
“Jon,” Aegon said softly, “come, sit down, talk to me.”
Jon shook his head furiously, “You have no idea what this is like, no idea! All you have in your head is your own self-obsessiveness.”
“I do know, Jon, maybe not the same, but was 10 when I learned who I was,” The was a sincere gentleness to Aegon’s voice that made Jon still, “It didn’t take long after that to realise I was a tool, what all my studies where training me for. That I was Vary’s chess piece,” He said intently, “I remember learning what had happened to my family. What they’d done to my mother and sister. I remember so vividly, the tale of the boy who took my place— sold for a jug of wine. I remembered slowly realising that I’d never know for sure if any of that was even true— that maybe it’d all been a lie to set up a controllable pawn as their king.”
“Viserion wouldn’t have accepted you if it was a lie,” Jon found himself saying slowly.
“A dragon is a dragon, whether it is red or black,” was all Aegon muttered back, which made very little sense to Jon. Though, Aegon consistently made very little sense to Jon.
“Come here,” Aegon said weakly, going to sit down on the bed, two hand’s reaching out for Jon to follow, and stupidly, Jon allowed it. He didn’t sit, instead, he stood a little awkwardly in front of Aegon, allowing Aegon’s hands to slide up and down his waist in a slow soothing motion.
“This is what makes us different, Jon,” He whispered gently, “We’re bound together. You, me, and Daenerys.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Jon said.
“Then don’t think,” Aegon said and rose. He was taller than Jon by only a little. They were so close, and for the first time since he’d found out the truth, he allowed himself to truly take Aegon in.
They had the same brow, Jon realised after a moment. Strong and sharp and thick with thought. Though Jon’s face was long and thin whereas Aegon’s was sharp and defined, but Jon could see, if he looked closely enough, there were the same marks of similarly between them.
Aegon’s hands were still tracing lazily at Jon’s body, just waiting for Jon’s command.
“You’re not a bastard, Jon,” Aegon gently whispered, “And I know that changes everything in your mind. But it changes nothing for me, I still love you with all my heart.”
“Aegon—“
“Shh,” Aegon said, tucking a strand of dark hair behind Jon’s ear. Jon always hated when Aegon treated him like he was some fragile little girl. “My Hand is certainly going to have some words for me when I tell him about this, however,” Aegon said lightly, “He’s always trying to warn me about what happened our father got involved with Starks the last time.”
Our father.
“I suppose this quells the succession crisis for a little longer at least, so at least he can’t complain too much,” Aegon offered.
“I’m still in awe you’ve yet to get her pregnant,” Jon challenged, for the first time, feeling just a little bit more normal.
Aegon rolled his eyes petulantly, “It’s not like I haven’t tried, you’re worse than my small council. I’ve wed her, I’ve bed her, and still no heir… well, until now I suppose, little brother.”
Jon gulped, he wasn’t sure how he felt about Aegon calling him that, especially when Aegon’s hand were still slowly tracing up and down his body.
“I can’t be lord of Winterfell and be a Targaryen prince, Aegon.”
“No,” Aegon said, not even trying to hide his glee at that, “You’ll have to stay here with me, and all us stuffy lily-white southerners.”
Jon didn’t know what to think about that. He hadn’t expected to have much control in Winterfell for very long, just until Rickon came of age and could take over himself. Still, he’d never pictured himself staying in Kings Landing, perhaps part of him suspected he’d return to the wall after and retake his vows. Now that all felt like such a distant memory.
Suddenly, Aegon kissed him, it was a chase kiss. A gentle brush of lips, still Jon flinched away unsure.
“I don’t know,” Jon whispered, in reply to the kiss, “I don’t know what any of this means for us.”
“It doesn’t change anything, Jon. We’re Targaryens.”
“It— It doesn’t feel right.”
“Jon,” Aegon said, letting his lips hover closer, “how could any part of this be wrong,” he closed the distance again, another slow, longing kiss that made Jon’s body sing. Jon let it happen, in contradiction to all his thoughts, he allowed Aegon to hold tighter, and press himself into the kiss.
Aegon liked to kiss slowly, always had, even from their first kiss all those months ago in Winterfell.
Jon found himself drowning in it, allowing the simple joy of just a kiss to take him.
They tangled in each other's arms, and Jon sank into Aegon’s touch. It was a simple thing, allowing himself to be loved like this. Aegon was all fire and fury when allowed this close to Jon, but it was always nice to have it be simple.
Aegon was warm against him and his kisses tasted like sweet wine, and really it wasn’t long until they were in the bed, warm and naked and rutting slowly.
Aegon pushed his way on top, his hand snaking down between Jon’s legs with soft languid strokes that had Jon gasping into his mouth.
“You’re mine,” Aegon whispered against his lips, “Always have been. You were made for me, Jon.”
Jon huffed a little, this again, he thought, of course, Aegon would find a way to make it all about himself.
Aegon took that only as a challenge.
“He wanted you to be a girl, you know, for me to marry,” Aegon said, mouthing down Jon’s throat, “We’d have been just like this.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
Aegon laughed and kissed him again, and Jon thanked the Gods for the silence.
They were slow about it, and the torchlit bedroom made Aegon’s hair glow a deep sunset orange.
“Mm, Jon,” Aegon groaned and Jon’s heart thrummed at his own name, and he sank into the simple pleasure.
Though it wasn’t long before Aegon was ruining it again.
“I can’t believe I found you,” said Aegon, his fingers slick with pre-cum teasing up and down Jon’s shaft. “Mmm, my little brother.”
It was like ice water had been dunked over his head, and Jon shuddered at the realisation. He flinched, and grabbed Aegon’s wrist, forcing his touch away.
“Don’t,” he said coldly, his skin tingling under Aegon’s vile words.
“Why?” Aegon said, his voice all silk and lilting, trying to fight against Jon’s grip to resume his ministrations, “We are the blood of the dragon, are we not?”
“Aegon—“
“I’d thought all my family dead and gone all my life, Jon, and here you are,” Aegon said, a hand coming up to cup Jon’s cheek, fingers tracing through thick stubble, “Alive, breathing, and all mine.”
Aegon was breathing very hard, and his gaze focused on Jon’s face in a way it never had before. The aristocratic clean lines of his jaw were hard and forced into line. There was an intensity behind those violet eyes, a desperation.
“You are mine, aren’t you Jon?” He asked gently and Jon wasn’t sure how to respond. Not less than an hour ago he’d been frantic at the thoughts of what he and Aegon had done, and now he’d let his own brother get him in his back with a hand between his legs— Jon couldn’t trust his own mind, let alone his word— Aegon had always done something strange to him. Even since their first meeting, before everything, Jon had noticed something about his new king. He’d sought him out and hunted him down, and Jon had been weak and lazy in his defences to all that Valyrian charm. Perhaps it had been their shared blood that had drawn them to one another, but Jon had found himself so quickly fascinated by him. He had been surprisingly pleasant, at least for a Targaryen— at least for a king. His company had been easy, a man with simple wishes— who seemed to hold no hidden meaning in his words. He liked to speak plainly, but mostly, he liked to speak. He’s talk and talk and talk— and when he could no longer, he’d sing instead.
He was too easy to love. Glowing like the sun incarnate, blazing and brilliant and made of fire, and all full of hope and ambition— and in the darkness of the long night, that had been just what Jon had needed.
But now, in a world past all that, Jon wasn’t sure where he and Aegon fit.
Jon had wanted for many things in his life, and yet now, he wanted nothing more than he wanted Aegon. And he knew Aegon wanted him just as much… And Aegon, possessive and entitled, kingly Aegon, always got what he wanted.
Jon should have known better. Aegon was the son of Rhaegar. And Jon was still a Stark in blood.
Jon surged up and kissed him as if it was a challenge. There was a hunger between them, a fire spurred on by years of longing for something neither one knew they even wanted. Jon tasted the tang of blood from where he’d bit Aegon’s lip, and it only spurred him on. He used the force of the kiss, and his shoulder on Aegon’s shoulders to flip them, forcing Aegon down against the sheets, his thighs bracketing Aegon’s hips, he could feel Aegon’s cock sliding between his cheeks leaving behind a sticky path of pre-cum.
“Gods,” Aegon gasped, and, “Yes, yes, yes.”
They were tangled in each other’s bodies, and fire alive between them and Jon was lost again in the simple taste of skin and the heat of a body beneath his own. He wanted— no he needed— His brain felt a terrible drunken mess of need. His body sang out for Aegon like it knew its own destiny— like even through the fog of war— they’d managed to find each other through all of it.
He found the oils easily, he didn’t even need to break the kiss— he’d become so accustomed to this dance with Aegon, without thought, his body knew it better than it knew battle.
Aegon mouthed at Jon’s scars, his tongue pulling through the lines of raised red flesh along his chest, and he pressed hot open-mouthed kisses against the mark right at his heart, and Aegon’s slickly oiled fingers pushed inside him.
“Yes”, Jon was saying, “yes” and “more”, and “just like that."
Jon had never been one to take much control during sex, perhaps it’d always been easier to roll over and let someone do the thinking. Maybe he just had too much shame every other time. The memory of the vows he’d taken, the thought of siring another Snow, his station over Satin as his Lord Commander— with Aegon, he could take what he wanted, and oftentimes, he didn’t even need to ask. It was maybe the only thing Jon allowed himself without guilt.
His body thrummed with heat, and all he could think was more, more, more. It was a passion he could not describe, a want he had never quite felt before except with Aegon.
He slid down onto Aegon’s cock with an ease of practice, but still, the sensation always took him somewhere else. Aegon was big but felt almost impossibly so, and every time Jon was unsure if it would even fit— yet somehow it always did.
“Made for me,” Aegon hissed out as Jon sank all the way down, he’d been rambling for quite some time, but Jon had been far too lost in sensation to hear him.
“Don’t you see, Jon, this is how it will be always,” Aegon said, slow and gasping, and Jon took pride in watching his king melt at his touch as he rocked his hips, he watched the sweat pool at Aegon’s temple, watched him moan and lose himself.
Aegon thrust up hard and sharp and Jon felt his cock twitch against his stomach, his toes curled and he moaned loud enough for Aegon’s guards to hear.
Aegon was holding him tight, two hands squeezing at his waist, forcing him into a desperate, unrelenting tempo. Jon tipped his head back, gasping out at the change. The world around him blurred into a darkness of orange firelight and the pitch-black night. His eyes focused on the heavy iron chandelier above them, swaying with Jon’s every movement, the flames licked hot at the ceiling, casting mangled moving shadows throughout the room.
A hand squeezed around his cock, and Jon squirmed, arching back against Aegon, his vision clouding. Heat and pleasure swelled in the pit of his stomach, and he shuddered hard as he felt his orgasm rush upon him, painting Aegon’s sweaty torso with white as he felt Aegon’s own release spill inside him.
His body thrummed, exhausted and stated. He could do little more than collapse backward onto the bed, his head knocking on Aegon’s leg. The chandelier refocused slowly, still swaying in his vision from his movements. His chest heaved and sweat began to cool against his skin.
He felt Aegon huff a tired laugh, and collapse into his pillow.
“You are a peculiar sort, Lord Snow,” Aegon whispered hoarsely, and then, after a moment of thought, “I suppose I should stop calling you that. You’re a prince now, after all.”
“I’m no prince,” Was all Jon could manage back.
“Second in line to the Iron throne, I cannot think of another name for you if not a prince.”
Jon said nothing, but felt Aegon shift in the bed, moving to crawl toward the side and stand.
“I suppose,” Aegon said slowly, stalking toward the foot of the bed where Jon lay, planting both hands on either side of Jon’s head to peer down at him, all frazzled hair and wicked eyes. “I could honour our father's wishes and take you as my second wife and make you queen.”
Jon pinched his forearm for that and Aegon yelped and swatted him away.
“You Northmen and all your precious sensibilities,” Aegon scoffed, rubbing his forearm, with a deep pout.
“Well, my prince, tell me, does this ease your mind some, “ Aegon said, with a soft, sweat-glistening smile, “That nothing has to change.”
“Everything has changed, Aegon.”
“My love for you has not.”
“All but that,” Jon lamented, “but everything else.”
“Everything else does not matter.”
Jon sighed, but let his hand come up to thread through Aegon’s sweat-slicked hair.
“The North should go to Sansa.”
“Daenerys will not like that.”
“Daenerys will not like any of this,” Jon challenged darkly. He’d always had a fondness for his queen. She had a strength and fire to her that reminded him of Arya, but just as stubborn and sure as Aegon.
“You are her family, Jon. You hold very little weight for what that means for her and I. You may have grown up around your litter of Stark siblings, but Daenerys and I had no such pleasure.”
Jon’s hands traced against Aegon’s scalp, the both of them slow and blissful in the afterglow.
“What do you know of him— my father— our father.”
“I know he was an honourable man. I know he preferred books to war. I was told he was a good man, and he would have made a good king,” Then Aegon took a breath, and his eyes lost themselves just past Jon, “I know he betrayed my mother and cast her aside for his own ambitions— and I know everyone calls him a good man, but sometimes, I cannot believe a good man would do the things he did in the end.”
“Do you ever think about how things would have been if he had not run away with my mother? If the war hadn’t happened?”
“Sometimes— but I suppose, I understand why it had to happen,” He said, “Otherwise, I would not have you.”
Aegon’s lips were gentle against his own, strange from Aegon’s hovering position over his head, and yet still, Jon could only melt into the kiss.
This, he supposed, this was all he needed. For now, this would be okay. Tomorrow he’d deal with what it meant, all that had changed, but for now he’d just enjoy the kiss.
