Chapter 5: Bathing in Sin
The scent of rose oil was cloying, thick in the steam that writhed from the twin marble basins. Naerys stood at the edge of her bath, water beading on her arms, watching Aegon with a familiar, simmering fury. He lounged in his own pool, a cup of wine balanced on the rim, his head tipped back. A fresh bruise bloomed on his jaw.
“Ser Erryk said you were in a brothel off the Street of Silk. At noon.” Her voice was a lash. “You missed the Small Council meeting on the Stepstone patrols. Again.”
Aegon took a slow swallow of wine. “The patrols are fine. My grandfather sees to them. I was seeing to something far more pressing.”
“What? Another tavern singer whose virtue required conquering?”
He opened one eye, a violet slit of amusement. “Her virtue was long gone, darling. I was merely… appreciating the architecture.”
Naerys snatched the cup from his hand and flung it across the chamber. It shattered against a gold-inlaid pillar, the wine like a spray of blood in the steam. “This isn’t a joke! Do you understand what is happening? The whispers aren’t just about your whores anymore. They’re saying you’re unfit. They’re looking past you. Past us.”
He moved faster than she anticipated. One moment he was lounging, the next his hand was locked around her wrist, hard enough to bruise. He yanked her off her feet. She crashed into the scalding water of his bath with a gasp, silk shift plastered to her skin, her hair streaming. He dragged her bodily across his lap, the hot water sloshing over the edges.
“Let the servants hear,” he hissed, his mouth against her ear. His other hand clamped on the back of her neck, holding her in place. His arousal was a rigid, demanding heat against her thigh through the soaked silk. “Let them all hear.”
She struggled, but his grip was iron. “You arrogant fool—”
He bit her shoulder, not playfully. A sharp, possessive sting that made her cry out. His fingers, slick and hot from the water, pushed roughly under the hem of her shift, finding the bare skin of her inner thigh. “Keep talking, sister,” he taunted, his voice a dark slurry of wine and malice. His thumb found her clit through the wet silk, a crude, circular pressure. “Let them hear how your clever tongue stutters when I make you come.”
She hated him. She hated the way her body sparked to life under his touch, a traitorous wildfire that ignored her rage. She hated the pulse that began to hammer between her legs, answering his crude call. “They’ll hear that you’re a brute,” she gasped, but the protest was weak, breaking as he ripped the thin silk of her shift open from neck to navel.
“They’ll hear you,” he corrected.
His fingers dove into her, two of them, curling deep. She arched against him, a choked sound torn from her throat. The water rocked around them, steaming. He worked her with a ruthless, knowing rhythm, his fingers fucking her hard and fast, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit with every thrust.
“Is this what you want?” he murmured, his lips dragging wetly up her throat. “To be right? Or to be fucked?” He crooked his fingers, hitting a spot that made her vision whiten. “You can have both. Be the righteous princess on your knees in the council chamber tomorrow. But tonight…” He added a third finger, stretching her, his own breath coming faster. “Tonight, you’re just my cunt to use.”
The obscenity, the sheer debasement of it, coiled the tension in her belly tighter. She was panting, her nails digging into the marble edge of the bath. Pleasure built like a storm surge, undeniable, shameful. She came with a silent, shuddering violence, her internal muscles clenching rhythmically around his invading fingers, waves of heat flooding through her that had nothing to do with the bath.
He watched her face the whole time, his own etched with a vicious triumph. When her spasms subsided, he pulled his fingers from her with a wet sound and brought them to his mouth, tasting her without breaking eye contact. “Sweet,” he pronounced. “And sour. Like you.”
Before she could recover, he flipped her around in the water. He pushed her forward, bending her over the curved rim of the basin. The marble was cool against her fevered chest and cheek. He shoved her thighs apart, his hands rough on her hips.
“Aegon, wait—” The protest was instinctive, washed away by the blunt, insistent pressure of him nudging at her entrance.
“No,” he said, simply. And he sheathed himself in her with one long, brutal stroke.
The gasp she let out was loud in the cavernous room. He was immense inside her, filling her utterly, the stretch a bright, almost painful fullness after the quick work of his fingers. He didn’t pause. He set a punishing pace, each thrust jarring her against the hard marble, the water splashing wildly around their joined bodies.
“This,” he grunted, pounding into her, “is the only council that matters.” His hands gripped her hips, surely leaving bruises. “The only claim.” He drove deeper. “My heir is in your belly. My cock is in your cunt. Everything else is noise.”
She was raw, over-sensitive from her climax, but the friction stoked a new, darker fire. Each slam pushed a muffled sound from her lips. She could hear the slick, wet slap of their coupling echoing off the marble, a filthy, rhythmic counterpoint to his ragged breathing. He leaned over her, his chest hot and damp against her back, his mouth by her ear.
“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, his voice raw. “Tell me you love being my whore.”
Tears of furious pleasure leaked from her eyes, mixing with the condensation on the marble. She nodded, her forehead scraping the stone.
“Say it.”
“I want it,” she whispered, the admission scalding her tongue.
“Louder.”
“I want it!” she cried out, the sound bouncing off the walls, likely reaching the ears of the silent servants beyond the door.
He groaned, a sound of pure conquest, and his rhythm fractured. His thrusts became erratic, animalistic. He fucked her with a final, desperate fury, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. She felt him pulse deep within her, a flood of heat that seemed to go on and on, his whole body shaking with the release.
He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the marble edge, both of them spent and steaming in the cooling water. For long minutes, there was only the sound of their struggling breaths and the distant drip of water.
He finally softened and slipped out of her. He turned her in his arms, his expression unreadable. He traced the bite mark on her shoulder, then bent and licked the raised skin, a gesture oddly tender after the violence. He looked exhausted, and for a fleeting second, young.
“They will never look past us,” he stated quietly, his earlier bravado gone. It was a vow.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her body hummed with the echoes of him, and her mind was a riot of contradictions. He helped her, silently, from the bath, wrapping her in a thick linen sheet. He dried her with a surprising gentleness, his hands lingering on the still-flat plane of her stomach.
As they dressed in silence, a soft knock came at the door. A serving girl entered, eyes downcast. “The Queen Dowager, Your Graces,” she murmured. “She requests the presence of the Princess Naerys in her solar. At once.”
Alicent had heard. Of course she had.
Naerys met Aegon’s gaze. His mouth hardened into a thin line. The fragile truce of the last few weeks was gone, burned away in the steam. The game was no longer just between them. It had an audience now, and the most critical member was summoning her.
“Go,” Aegon said, his voice low. “See what fresh piety she wishes to spew.”
Naerys straightened her gown, the high collar hiding nothing from the knowing. She walked to the door, every muscle aching, the phantom sensation of him still moving inside her. She paused on the threshold and looked back.
Aegon stood by the bath, staring into the cloudy, scummed water, his reflection fractured in the shifting surface. He looked like a stranger, and like the only person in the world she truly knew. He did not look up as she left, closing the door softly on the steam and the scent of their sin.
The corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast were cold after the bathhouse’s stifling heat. The stone walls leached the warmth from her skin, leaving her feeling hollowed out and scraped raw. She adjusted her high collar again, the fabric scratching the tender bite mark on her shoulder.
She found her mother not in the solar, but on a terrace overlooking the training yard. Alicent stood rigid, her knuckles white where they gripped the stone parapet. Below, the clang of steel on steel echoed up—Criston Cole putting some green squire through his paces.
“You summoned me, Mother.”
Alicent didn’t turn. “I could hear you. From the stairwell.” Her voice was thin, stretched tight. “The whole Keep will know by nightfall.”
Naerys leaned against the cool stone, exhaustion a weight in her bones. “Let them know. Maybe then they’ll stop politely suggesting I host more bloody teas and start understanding the situation.”
“Understanding?” Alicent finally turned, her eyes wide and wounded. “They will understand that my daughter is her brother’s doxy. That the future king has no control, and his twin is no better than a Silk Street girl.”
“He has control,” Naerys snapped, the lie automatic. “Just not the kind you approve of.”
“Do you?” The question was a needle, aimed right at the bruise beneath her clothes. “Does it feel like control when he uses you like a chamber pot?”
The vulgarity from her mother’s mouth was a shock. Naerys barked a short, humorless laugh. “It feels like a transaction. He gets his release. I get an heir. You get a grandson to secure the line. We all play our parts.”
Alicent flinched as if struck. “It cannot continue like this. The violence of it… the spectacle.”
“Then tell your father to stop sharpening Helaena’s sons as replacements. Tell the lords to stop looking at Aemond with that speculative gleam.” Naerys pushed off the wall, her body protesting. “The spectacle is the only thing holding the damn realm together right now. A show of unity. However twisted.”
She left her mother there, staring down at the violence of the training yard. The path to her own chambers felt endless. She needed air that didn’t smell of rose oil and sin.
The afternoon was bleeding into evening when she found herself in the inner gardens, the last of the sun gilding the rose bushes. The crisp air helped. It scoured the memory of steam from her lungs.
“You look like you’ve dueled a dragon and lost.”
The voice came from behind her, dry and familiar. She turned to see Aemond emerging from between two tall hedges, a heavy book tucked under his arm. His sapphire eye caught the dying light.
“Something like that,” Naerys said, managing a faint smile. Of all her brothers, Aemond had always been the easiest to be around. There were no games, just a sharp, relentless clarity.
He fell into step beside her, their pace slow on the crushed gravel path. “I passed the bathhouse servants earlier. They looked like they’d witnessed a regicide.”
“Aegon was in a mood.”
“Aegon is a mood. A permanent, indulgent one.” Aemond’s tone was matter-of-fact. “He stank of cheap wine in the yard this morning. Nearly took Ser Criston’s head off with a wild swing. It was pathetic.”
They walked in silence for a moment. The simple companionship was a balm.
“He won’t change, Naerys.” Aemond stopped, plucking a leaf from a lemon tree, shredding it between his fingers. The citron scent burst into the air. “You keep waiting for the boy you grew up with to reappear. That boy drowned in a Dornish red vintage years ago.”
“I know.” The admission hurt. “But what’s the alternative? Chaos? You saw the looks at the last feast. The whispers aren’t just about him anymore. They’re about all of us. Our fitness.”
Aemond met her gaze, his single eye stark. “Fitness isn’t granted. It’s taken. You have the mind for this. The spine. He has the claim and the dragon.” He tossed the shredded leaf aside. “It’s a poor fit.”
“Don’t,” she said, a warning in her voice. They had danced near this edge before.
“I’m not suggesting treason. I’m stating a fact. The ship is listing, and our brother is drunk in the hold.” He resumed walking. “Mother worries about his… appetites. I worry about his waking hours. He signs papers without reading them. He promises ports to rival lords. It’s a slow-motion wreck.”
Naerys felt the truth of it like a stone in her gut. “And what do you suggest I do? Lock him in his rooms?”
“I suggest you stop cleaning up the wine stains and start looking at the ledger.” His casual tone was at odds with the severity of his words. “You manage the accounts for Dragonstone, yes? You see the flows of grain and gold. Apply that here. Know what he’s promised. Know what he’s spent. Arm yourself with something other than good intentions and a high collar.”
He nodded toward her neck, his expression unreadable. The bite mark throbbed under the silk, a secret, painful pulse.
“He needs you,” Aemond continued, his voice lower. “But not as a conscience. He needs you as a foundation. Because when he finally staggers too far, someone will need to hold the damn roof up. It may as well be someone with sense.”
A servant approached, bowing deeply. “Your Grace, my prince. The King requests the prince’s presence. An, um, issue with a tribute from Lys.”
Aemond sighed, the sound weary. “The issue is likely that he’s already spent it.” He gave Naerys a final, assessing look. “Think on it. Gardens are for more than ruined strolls.”
He left her there, the shadow of the Black Tower stretching long across the manicured lawns, engulfing the roses in deep blue shade. She stood still as the evening chill settled into her bones.
She touched her collar, the fabric now damp from the garden’s mist. Aemond’s words carved a new, terrifying clarity. She had been fighting a losing battle against Aegon’s nature. Maybe it was time to start building defenses against the consequences.
From high above, a dragon’s cry split the twilight—Sunfyre, circling lazily over the city. A beautiful, reckless creature, beloved and dangerous. She knew the feeling.
She turned her back on the sound and walked toward the Keep, the ghost of his teeth on her skin a reminder of the work ahead.
The work began in ledgers, not councils. She took Aemond’s advice like a knife and used it. She had the keeper of the keys, a man terrified of the prince’s temper, bring her the receipts for every barrel of wine, every gem given to a mistress, every "lost" wager on a tourney bout. The sums were staggering. She cross-referenced them against the Crown’s expenditures, her quill scratching furious red circles in the margins late into the night. She felt the bite on her shoulder tighten as she wrote, a phantom reminder of the cost of doing nothing.
Her body began to change. First, a sudden revulsion at the smell of the heavy Myrish wine Aegon favored. Then, the subtle curve of her belly, firm beneath her hands each morning. Aegon noticed none of it. He was embroiled in a feud with a lord over a disputed hunting ground, threatening to roast the man’s forests with Sunfyre.
She told him one evening in his chambers, as he was half-dressed for another night out. “I’m with child.”
He paused, one arm in a tunic of deep purple. He blinked. “You’re sure?”
“Quite.” She didn’t smile. “The maester confirmed it this afternoon.”
For a long moment, he just stood there. Then a slow, triumphant grin spread across his face. It wasn’t the smile of a soon-to-be father, but of a victor. “See? I told you.” He finished pulling on the tunic, the fabric straining across his shoulders. “An heir. That’ll shut the old crows up.”
He swept out to celebrate, likely at a brothel. She touched her stomach, feeling utterly alone in the crowded silence of his rooms. The work, it seemed, was solely hers.
The months piled on her. Her body grew heavy and unfamiliar, a vessel of aching bones and relentless kicks. Aegon’s behavior worsened, a spiral of petulant defiance. He seemed to view the pregnancy as a completed task, freeing him for greater idiocy. He got roaring drunk at a feast in her honor and vomited over the balcony onto Lord Caswell’s head. The Red Keep buzzed with gossip, and Naerys felt the speculative eyes on her belly, calculating the quality of the life within.
She confronted him after, in the shattered quiet of the post-feast hall. “You humiliated me. You humiliated your heir.”
“The heir is fine,” he slurred, gesturing vaguely at her swollen middle. “Warm and cozy in there. He doesn’t care about Lord Caswell’s wig.”
“I care!” Her shout echoed. Servants flinched in the shadows. “They are measuring you, Aegon. Every stumble. They are weighing it against the babe in my womb and finding you wanting. They are looking for the door.”
His violet eyes, clouded with wine, sharpened for a second. A flicker of the boy who used to fear their grandfather’s disapproval. It vanished into a sulk. “Let them look. I have the dragon.”
“Dragons can be challenged,” she said, her voice dropping. “Or they can die in their sleep.”
She left him there, staring into an empty cup. The next morning, a set of heavily edited ledgers, scrubbed of his most egregious indulgences, appeared on her desk. No note. A silent, surly concession. It was something.
The pain woke her hours before dawn, a deep, internal wrench that stole her breath. It ebbed, leaving a false calm. Then it returned, closer, stronger, a fist of iron tightening around her spine. She knew. She rang for her maid, her voice eerily steady.
Word spread through the holdfast like dragonfire. By the time they’d helped her to the prepared birthing chamber, Alicent was there, wringing her hands, the maester was mixing his potions, and a clutch of experienced women hovered. The room was too hot, filled with the smell of beeswax and fear.
Another contraction seized her, a blinding wave that bent her double. She gritted her teeth, a low groan escaping. Through the blur of pain, she saw the door open.
Aegon stood there, still in his riding leathers, hair windswept. He smelled of the night and cold air. His eyes were clear. “Out,” he said, not to her, but to Alicent.
“Aegon, this is no place for—” Alicent began.
“I said get out.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it held a flat, unarguable finality she’d never heard before. “All of you. Except the midwife. And you,” he looked at the old, stern-faced woman, “stay by the wall unless she calls for you.”
Stunned, the room emptied. Alicent cast a desperate look at Naerys, but Naerys was riding another contraction, nails digging into the bedpost, and couldn’t speak. The door closed. The sudden quiet was a shock.
Aegon walked to the side of the bed. He didn’t touch her. He unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall with a thud, then shrugged out of his leather jerkin. “Tell me what to do,” he said.
She couldn’t answer. The pain was a continent, and she was lost on it. Hours dissolved into a liquid hell of pressure and tearing strain. She choked on the posion the maester had left, vomiting it back up. She screamed, curses and pleas muddled together. She begged for her mother, for the gods, for it to stop.
Through it all, he was there. He never flinched. When she gripped his hand, she felt the bones grind together, but he didn’t pull away. He held a cold cloth to her forehead with his other hand, his movements methodical, precise. He pushed her sweat-drenched hair back from her face.
“You’re doing it,” he murmured once, his mouth near her ear. His breath was clean. “You’re breaking it. I can see you breaking it.”
His words made no sense, but the tone did. It was steady, an anchor in the storm. He wasn’t the drunken prince or the cruel twin. He was just a presence, solid and unmoving, the one fixed point in the universe of her agony.
When the midwife finally said “Now, push now, with everything!” it was his eyes she locked onto. Violet, focused entirely on her, reflecting her own terrifying strength back at her. She bore down, a primal, gut-deep effort that felt like it would split her in two.
There was a final, searing rush of pain and pressure, and then a sudden, hollow release. A thin, indignant wail pierced the air.
Naerys collapsed back, spent, trembling from the aftershocks. The midwife was busy, a flurry of movement between her legs. Aegon’s hand was still crushed in hers. He was staring at the source of the cry, his face pale, utterly stripped of any arrogance or mockery.
The midwife approached, holding a squirming, blood-smeared bundle. “A son, Your Graces.”
She placed the baby on Naerys’s chest. He was red and wrinkled, his mouth a perfect, furious circle, a thatch of pale silver-gold hair plastered to his scalp. Naerys’s arms came up around him, instinctual, overwhelming. A love so violent it felt like another kind of pain flooded her.
She looked up at Aegon. He was still staring, his free hand hovering in the air as if afraid to touch. A single tear tracked clean through the dust on his cheek. He didn’t seem to notice it.
He slowly, carefully, released her shattered hand. He brought his trembling fingers to the baby’s head, the lightest possible touch on the damp hair. His breath hitched.
The baby’s cries softened to snuffles against Naerys’s skin. The room was quiet except for their breathing. Aegon finally looked at her, his eyes raw. He didn’t speak. He just leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against her damp temple, his body bowed over her and their son. He stayed like that, perfectly still, as outside the dawn began to bleed across the Black Tower.