Chapter 2: The Bedding Ceremony
The laughter in the feast hall was a coarse, living thing. It rolled over the high tables in waves, crashing against the dais where the newly wedded prince and princess sat like figures on a funeral barge. The air was thick with the smells of charred meat, spilled wine, and the cloying sweetness of decorative sugar sculptures now melting in the heat of a thousand candles. Gilded banners depicting dragons and seven-pointed stars hung motionless, witnesses to the spectacle.
Naerys sat straight-backed in her chair of dark carved wood, her hands folded in her lap, hidden beneath the tablecloth. Her wedding gown was a confection of ivory samite and Myrish lace, heavy with seed pearls that caught the light with every slight, unwilling movement. It felt like a shroud. Across from her, Aegon slouched, his own tunic of black and gold already stained with wine at the cuff. He was on his third cup, maybe his fourth. His eyes, usually so sharp with mockery, were glassy, fixed on some middle distance as lords and knights bellowed bawdy songs and toasts to the couple’s fertility.
A hand, meaty and ring-laden, landed on her shoulder. She flinched. “Time to see the dragon to its lair, my princess!” laughed Lord Rykker, his breath a gust of garlic and ale. Other voices joined in, a chorus of drunken encouragement. Hands reached for her, not to harm, but to claim. This was tradition. The bride was to be carried to the bridal chamber by the revelers, a last bawdy joke before the door closed.
Naerys felt a cold panic tighten her throat. She could not move. She was carved from the same wood as her chair.
A shadow cut through the throng of flushed, grinning faces. Aemond, his own face a mask of cool displeasure, stepped between her and the reaching hands. His single violet eye swept over the men, and the laughter died in their throats. He did not speak. He merely placed a firm, gauntleted hand on Lord Rykker’s chest and pushed, not hard, but with an absolute authority that brooked no argument. The man stumbled back, confusion replacing mirth.
“My sister,” Aemond said, his voice a low, clear knife in the muffled din, “will proceed to her chambers with dignity.” He turned and offered Naerys his arm, his expression unreadable. “If you will permit me.”
Gratefulness, sharp and sudden, pierced her numbness. She placed her trembling fingers on his arm, rising from the chair. The hall had gone quiet, the merriment snuffed out by the prince’s interference. Aegon watched from his seat, his face unreadable, a goblet dangling from his fingers.
Aemond led her from the high table, through the silent, parting crowd. He did not speak until they were in the relative privacy of a torch-lit corridor, the sounds of the feast fading to a dull roar behind them.
“They are pigs,” he stated, without looking at her.
“It is custom,” Naerys replied, her voice hollow.
“Custom is a shield for the uncouth.” He stopped before the ornate door to the chambers that had been prepared for them—her old rooms, now joined by a newly constructed passage to Aegon’s. He looked at her then, his gaze assessing. “He will be drunk. More than usual.”
“I know.”
Aemond’s lip curled slightly. “A fool’s performance. But the performance must go on.” He released her arm. “The door will be watched. They will listen for… consummation.”
A fresh wave of nausea hit her. She nodded, unable to speak.
“You are a Targaryen,” he said, and it sounded less like comfort and more like a command. “Endure.”
He turned and left, his footsteps echoing on the stone. Naerys was alone before the door. She pushed it open.
The chamber within was a portrait of forced intimacy. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows over tapestries depicting pastoral scenes that felt like a cruel joke. The room smelled of beeswax, rushes, and the faint, lingering scent of Aegon’s preferred citrus oil. Her things were there, mingled with his. A book of histories lay on a table next to a polished dragon-riding glove. The large canopied bed, draped in black and red velvet, dominated the space.
She walked to the hearth, letting the heat try to thaw the ice in her bones. Time became a viscous trickle. She heard the distant, rising noise of the feast again, a approaching tide of shouts and singing. The door burst open.
Aegon was half-carried, half-shoved into the room by a knot of his cronies, young lords with faces flushed from drink and sport. He stumbled, catching himself on the bedpost. His hair was disheveled, his tunic untied at the throat.
“Out!” he snarled at the laughing men in the doorway. “Get the fuck out!”
They retreated with more whoops and hollers, pulling the heavy door shut with a definitive thud. The sound of a bolt sliding into place on the outside echoed in the sudden silence. They were locked in.
Aegon braced himself against the post, his head bowed, breathing heavily. The raucous energy bled from him, leaving only a sullen, wine-sodden exhaustion. He glanced at her, then away, as if the sight pained him.
“Charming,” Naerys said, the word dripping with frost.
“Fuck off,” he muttered, but it lacked his usual fire. He pushed himself upright and walked unsteadily to a side table, pouring himself water from a pitcher with clumsy hands. He drank it like a man in a desert, water sloshing down his chin.
The silence stretched, taut and unbearable. This was it. The moment the laws of gods and men demanded. The performance Aemond mentioned.
Naerys began to mechanically undo the fastenings at the back of her gown, her fingers fumbling on the tiny pearls. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her struggle. If it had to be done, she would do it with her own hands.
“Stop,” Aegon said, his voice rough.
She didn’t. A clasp gave way.
“I said stop.” He was closer now. She could smell the wine on him, sweat, and that underlying scent that was just him, a smell she’d known since birth. It made her stomach turn.
“Why?” she asked, not looking at him. “The listeners outside require proof. Or have you forgotten the purpose of this farce?”
He crossed the space between them in two strides, his hand closing over hers, stilling her fingers. His touch was hot. “I haven’t forgotten a damn thing.”
She finally looked up at him. His violet eyes were bloodshot, but clearer than they had been in the hall. There was no mockery in them now. Just a bleak, hollow intensity she didn’t recognize.
“Then what?” she challenged, pulling her hand away. “Shall we get it over with? You’re adept at the act, I’m told. Though usually with women who are paid to pretend enthusiasm.”
His jaw tightened. A muscle flickered in his cheek. He didn’t speak, just stared at her with that unsettling look. Then, slowly, he sank to his knees before her.
The action was so utterly foreign, so disconnected from the Aegon she knew, that she could only stare, her breath caught in her chest. He was on his knees, his face level with her waist. He looked up at her, his handsome features softened by the firelight, etched with a conflict she couldn’t name.
He reached out, his calloused fingers—dragonrider’s fingers—brushing against the silk covering her thigh. The touch was shockingly intimate, a brand through the fabric. She stiffened.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice a low rasp, stripped of all pretence. “Tell me to stop, and I will. I’ll sleep on the fucking floor. I’ll tell them anything they want to hear.” He swallowed, his gaze dropping for a second before rising again, meeting hers with a raw, terrible honesty. “But gods help me, Naerys… I’ve dreamed of this.”
The confession hung in the air, more devastating than any crude advance. It was a crack in the wall between them, revealing a dark, twisted truth that should have remained buried. It wasn’t love she saw in his eyes. It was a desperate, wanting hunger, years in the making, forged from shared baths as children, whispered secrets in the dark, a lifetime of being each other’s mirror. It was possession, and need, and a forbidden pull that their blood and their world had now sanctioned.
She didn’t tell him to stop.
His fingers traced upward, over her hip, finding the remaining fastenings of her gown. He undid them with a surprising delicacy, his knuckles brushing against the linen of her shift beneath. The heavy gown loosened, pooling at her feet like a slain ghost. She stood in her thin undergarments, trembling, not from cold but from a terrifying, electric vulnerability.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against her belly, his breath hot through the linen. His hands slid around to cradle her backside, pulling her slightly against him. She could feel the hard plane of his face, the tension in his shoulders.
“I hate this,” he murmured into her skin, his voice choked. “I hate that they made this a command.”
“And yet,” she whispered, her own voice unrecognizable to her.
“And yet,” he echoed. He looked up, his eyes blazing. “Fuck them.”
He surged upward, capturing her mouth with his. It was not a kiss of tenderness. It was a clash, a claiming. The taste of him—wine and something fiercer, more essential—flooded her senses. His tongue pushed against her lips, and she opened for him, a soft, helpless sound escaping her throat. One of his hands fisted in her silver-gold hair, pulling her head back to deepen the kiss, while the other dragged her shift up, over her hips.
The cool air hit her skin. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, to look at her. His gaze burned over her body—the curve of her breasts barely contained by the linen, the flat of her stomach, the pale triangle of hair below. A look of pure, unadulterated want transformed his face.
He stood, tearing at his own clothes, buttons flying. He shoved his tunic and trousers down, kicking them aside. He was naked, fully aroused, his body lean and strong from riding and swordplay. She had never seen him like this, all that casual grace focused into a single, predatory intent.
He didn’t give her time to think, to regret. He backed her toward the bed until her legs hit the edge, and then he was pushing her down into the thick blankets. He followed, covering her body with his, the heat of him shocking against her skin. He kissed her again, harder, his hand groping between her legs.
His fingers found her, parting her folds. She was dry, tight with fear and a sickening thrill. He growled against her mouth, a sound of frustration. He spit into his own palm, a crude, animal gesture, and then his wet fingers were back on her, rubbing, circling, seeking entrance.
“Aegon,” she gasped, turning her head away.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough. He caught her chin, forcing her face back to his. His eyes held hers as his finger pushed slowly inside her. It burned, a sharp, stretching pain. She cried out, but the sound was swallowed by his mouth. He worked his finger in and out, his breath huffing against her cheek. “You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, more to himself than to her.
He added a second finger, the stretch more intense, a tearing sensation that made her arch off the bed. He was watching her face, studying every flinch, every gasp. His own need was a palpable thing, a hardness pressed against her thigh.
When he pulled his fingers free, they shone wet in the firelight. He positioned himself between her thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against her entrance.
“This will hurt,” he said, no apology, just a flat statement of fact.
She nodded, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood.
He pushed.
It was a white-hot lance of pain, a violation so complete it stole her breath. She screamed, a short, sharp sound he muffled with another brutal kiss. He sheathed himself inside her in one relentless, grinding thrust, tearing through the last physical barrier between them. He was buried to the hilt, a foreign, burning presence.
He went still above her, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. Sweat beaded on his brow. She felt split open, impaled. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over to trail down her temples into her hair.
He lowered his head next to hers, his lips against her ear. His voice was ragged, thick with an emotion she couldn’t place. “It’s done,” he whispered, almost gently. “The deed is done, wife.”
Then he began to move.
The pain receded, not vanishing, but transforming into a deep, aching soreness. His thrusts were slow at first, measured, as if he was mapping her interior. His breathing grew harsher. His hands gripped her hips, holding her still for his rhythm. He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in, making her gasp.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his control slipping. His pace quickened, turning urgent, jagged. The bed began to rock, the headboard knocking gently against the stone wall in a steady, damning rhythm for those listening outside. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, driven by a base need that had nothing to do with politics or duty.
Naerys was a vessel, filled and used. She wrapped her legs around his waist, not to pull him closer, but to anchor herself against the storm. Her body, traitorously, began to respond. The friction sparked a low, shameful heat in her core, a counterpoint to the pain. A moan escaped her lips, unbidden.
He heard it. His eyes snapped open, locking onto hers. A wild, triumphant light flared in them. He fucked her harder, driving into her with a brutal, punishing force that shook her whole body. His grunts were animal, raw. “Mine,” he growled, the word a rough scrape against her throat. “Say it.”
She couldn’t speak. She could only cling to him as he hammered into her, the world narrowing to the slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, the hot rush of his breath.
His rhythm fractured, became frantic. He gave one last, deep, shuddering thrust, burying himself inside her as a guttural roar was torn from his chest. She felt him pulse, a hot flood spreading within her.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his heart hammering against her breast. They lay like that for long moments, joined, slick with sweat, the only sound their ragged breathing and the crackle of the fire.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He rolled off, landing on his back beside her, an arm thrown over his eyes. The physical connection was severed, leaving only a sticky, aching void.
Naerys lay staring at the red velvet canopy above. The pain between her legs was a dull, insistent throb. The smell of sex and sweat filled the air, a new scent in this old room. It was done. The marriage was consummated. The realm was secure.
From the hallway, very faintly, she heard a smatter of applause and a few coarse laughs. The listeners had heard their proof.
Aegon’s voice broke the silence, flat and drained. “Happy wedding night.”
She didn’t answer. She simply turned onto her side, away from him, drawing her knees up to her chest. She felt his gaze on her bare back, but neither of them moved. The fire guttered low, and the castle’s noises faded into the deep watches of the night, leaving them alone in the dark with what they had done.
The fire guttered low, and the castle’s noises faded into the deep watches of the night, leaving them alone in the dark with what they had done. Naerys didn’t sleep. She listened to his breathing even out into the shallow rhythms of wine-heavy slumber. The ache between her legs was a persistent brand. Just before dawn, she slid from the bed, her muscles stiff, and washed herself with water from the basin. It was cold. She didn’t look at him.
He woke to the sound of her dressing. She’d chosen a high-necked gown of deep blue, something that covered everything. He watched from the tangled sheets, his hair a pale mess against the pillows, eyes shadowed.
“Planning an escape?” he asked, his voice morning-rough.
“Breakfast,” she said flatly, not turning. “With our parents. And our siblings. Or have you forgotten that, too?”
He let out a short, humorless breath and swung his legs out of bed. He moved stiffly, naked and unselfconscious, pouring himself the last of the wine. He drank it in one go, a pre-emptive strike against the day. “I remember.”
They didn’t speak again while a silent maid helped her with the final laces. Another servant brought Aegon fresh clothes. He dressed slowly, his movements deliberate, as if each one cost him. The playful prince was gone, replaced by a hungover stranger with a closed face. He fastened his own dagger to his belt, the same one she’d seen glittering in his room days before.
Together, they left the chamber. The walk through the Keep felt longer than it ever had. Courtiers they passed bowed, their eyes hungry, scraping over the pair of them for any sign—a bruise, a smile, a clue to the night’s events. Naerys kept her gaze fixed ahead. Aegon offered a lazy, defiant smirk to a pair of whispering ladies, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
The breakfast solar was sun-washed and deceptively cheerful. The long table was laden with plum buns, honeyed ham, and poached eggs. King Viserys was already seated at the head, a blanket over his knees despite the warmth, his face a kindly map of pain. Queen Alicent sat at his right, back straight, her green gown severe. She watched them enter, her gaze dissecting.
Helaena was already there, methodically buttering a piece of bread while staring at a spider traversing the window ledge. Aemond stood by the hearth, a dark sentinel, a cup of tea steaming in his hand.
“Ah,” Viserys said, his voice a frail rasp. “The happy couple. Come, sit. You must be famished.”
Alicent’s smile was a tight, practiced curve. “We trust you rested well.”
Naerys took a seat beside Helaena. “Adequately, thank you, Mother.”
Aegon dropped into the chair opposite Naerys with a thud, reaching immediately for a pitcher of spiced wine. Alicent’s eyes tracked the movement. He poured a full cup.
“A vigorous night calls for strong drink, I see,” Aemond remarked, his tone dry as dust from his place by the fire.
“You’d know all about vigorous nights spent alone, brother,” Aegon shot back without looking at him, taking a long swallow.
“Aegon,” Alicent chided, a sharp edge beneath the soft tone.
“It’s fine, Alicent,” Viserys waved a gouty hand, though he looked weary. “Let the boys have their sport. We are family here. A quiet morning together.”
It was anything but quiet. The clink of cutlery against plates was deafening. Helaena looked up from her spider, her large, pale eyes shifting from Aegon to Naerys and back.
“The dragon has three heads,” she said softly, “but one of them is always biting its own tail.”
Aegon froze, his cup halfway to his lips. He set it down with deliberate care. “What’s that, sweet sister?”
“Nothing,” Helaena murmured, returning to her bread. “Only the spinning is loud today.”
A servant offered a platter of sausages to Naerys. The smell of greasy pork hit her, and her stomach turned. She waved it away, reaching for dry toast instead. She could feel Alicent’s stare, could sense the calculation behind it. Proof of consummation was one thing; proof of potential pregnancy was the next required step. Her refusal of food would be noted.
“You should eat, daughter,” Alicent said gently. “You need your strength.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“The toast is good,” Helaena offered, pushing the butter toward her.
Naerys accepted it, just to have something to do with her hands.
“And you, Aegon?” Viserys asked, seeking common ground. “Will you fly Sunfyre today? The weather is fair.”
Aegon shrugged, picking at a piece of ham with his fingers. “Maybe. If I can be bothered.”
“A king should be bothered by his dragon,” Aemond said, not moving from the hearth. “It is not a toy for when your other amusements pale.”
“Who’s talking about being king?” Aegon’s gaze finally lifted, meeting Aemond’s across the room. A challenge flickered there. “Father looks quite alive to me.”
Viserys shifted uncomfortably. “Aemond only means that responsibility does not wait for a crown, my boy. Your interests… must deepen.”
“My interests are just fine.” Aegon’s eyes flicked to Naerys, a quick, unreadable glance. “I attended to my primary responsibility last night, didn’t I? Ask the guards outside the door. They have a detailed report.”
The table went utterly still. Naerys felt the heat flood her cheeks. She looked down at her plate, her vision blurring.
“That is enough,” Alicent said, her voice cold steel.
“Is it?” Aegon pushed his plate away, the scrape loud in the silence. “Why are we all sitting here pretending this is a happy occasion? You got what you wanted. The line is secured. Can I go now?”
He stood abruptly, his chair legs screeching on the stone.
“Sit down,” Alicent commanded.
“Aegon,” Viserys sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. “Please.”
But he was already moving toward the door. He paused beside Naerys, leaning down. His breath stirred the hair by her ear, a mockery of intimacy. “Enjoy your breakfast, wife.”
He straightened and left. The door closed behind him with a solid, final sound.
The silence he left behind was thick enough to choke on. Alicent closed her eyes for a brief moment, collecting herself. Viserys looked sadly at his eggs. Helaena hummed a little tune.
Aemond took the seat Aegon had vacated. He poured himself more tea, his movements precise. His single eye found Naerys’s. There was no pity in it. Just an unnerving understanding.
“He will need guidance,” Alicent said, opening her eyes, her gaze fixing on Naerys with renewed intensity. “Yours. Now more than ever.”
Naerys looked at the knife beside her plate, its edge sharp and gleaming in the morning sun. She thought of the dagger in Aegon’s chambers, the one by the wine bottle. She thought of the one now on his belt.
Her hand closed around the cool hilt of her breakfast knife. She didn’t pick it up. She just held onto it, her knuckles whitening, under the table where no one could see.