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Chapter Text

Larys Strong leaned back into the plush cushions of his armchair as he gazed down on the prince with a mixture of satisfaction and amusement. Aegon was kneeling bare in front of him, his silver hair tousled, and his lips wrapped around Larys’ cock. He reached out, his fingers tangling gently in those locks, patting Aegon’s head almost in a paternal manner. It was a mockery of tenderness, one that he knew Aegon craved.

His fingers then traced the lines of his jaw, marveling at the way he seemed so vulnerable and eager as his tongue and mouth slid up and down his shaft. With him he was so unlike the reckless, defiant prince the rest of the world saw. Here, he was just a boy, desperate for something he could scarcely name.

In their private moments, Aegon often spoke of Helaena in terms that were clinical and detached. She was a means to an end for him; she was his sister and happened to be the mother of his children—nothing more. There was no love lost between them, no real connection.

This disconnect to others was a common theme in Aegon’s relationships. The king had never much for his firstborn son and Alicent had been too wrapped up in her own fears and anguish to properly care for him. His father and mother had truly failed him, leaving him desperate for any affection.

But that was better for him, for never had he met a young man so easily influenced.

Larys knew how to play this to his advantage. He gave him what he wanted: a sense of being loved, of being special. He praised him, soothed him, made him feel important. In return, he paid him back with his own flesh. He gave his body away like one might give away coin in exchange for goods. It had been almost too easy.

To think, a few choice words had reduced the potential future king to this state. Larys had watched Aegon from the shadows for years, noting his insecurities, his desperation for approval, and his twisted view of sex. That last one had been the key.

Aegon’s relationship with sex was indeed strange. Larys had realized early on that the prince did not grasp the concept of consent. Aegon had been thrust into adulthood with no regard for his own desires or those of his sister. Their consent didn’t matter; it was a duty to have children, it was a royal obligation.

The prince did not see the harm in taking what he wanted, not out of cruelty, but out of a simple, almost childlike ignorance. He did not see his own consent as necessary, so why should he care about somebody else’s?

In Aegon’s mind, sex had become a transaction, a means to an end. He simply didn’t see the pain he was causing his victims, because he had never been taught to. Larys suspected something must have happened in Aegon's past to twist his understanding of intimacy so thoroughly; maybe a curious lady or a vying tutor had been responsible.

When Aegon wanted something, he offered his body disturbingly quickly. It was like a second nature to him, a deeply ingrained habit. It was the currency with which he paid when he needed something—a child, a shoulder to cry on, some harmless fun.

Aegon looked up at him, his eyes glazed with a mixture of arousal and desperation. Larys could see the conflict within them, the need to please warring with the remnants of his pride. He tightened his grip on Aegon's hair, pulling him closer, savoring the power he wielded.

“You’re doing so well,” Larys murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You’re always so good for me, aren’t you?”

Aegon nodded, unable to speak, his mouth still occupied. There was a hunger in his eyes, a need for validation that only Larys could provide. He had become addicted to the control Larys exerted over him, the way he could make him feel valued and desired, even if it was all a carefully crafted illusion.

There was something almost tragic in the way he approached these moments. He didn’t seem to grasp the concept of true mutual pleasure; for him, the act was about performance, about giving something in return for affection. It was as if he was conditioned to believe that by making him feel good, he was somehow redeeming himself, earning the affection he needed.

He felt a curious mix of pity and satisfaction as he watched Aegon. Pity for the boy who had never learned the true meaning of intimacy, and satisfaction for the man who had found a way to wield such power over him. He would guide Aegon, shape him, mold him into something useful. And in return, Aegon would give him everything.

Aegon’s mouth worked wonders, his desperation making him attentive to his every reaction. Larys could feel the tension building within him, the pleasure mounting as Aegon continued. He allowed himself to get lost in the sensation, enjoying the way he tried so hard to please him.

“Keep going,” he gasped, his hand tightening in his hair to hold him in place as he thrust deeper, his movements becoming more urgent. Larys felt his release build, the anticipation making every nerve in his body sing with pleasure. Aegon responded immediately, doubling down on his efforts.

“You’re making me feel so amazing,” Larys murmured again. “You’re amazing, Aegon.”

Aegon’s response was a soft hum of acknowledgment, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through Larys. He couldn’t hold back any longer, his orgasm crashing over him in waves. He spilled into Aegon’s mouth, and the young prince swallowed every drop without hesitation, his eyes never leaving Larys’.

Larys caught his breath, his hand still tangled in Aegon’s hair. The prince remained kneeling, his gaze fixed on Larys, waiting for his next command. He looked like an eager little pet, ready to please, desperate for approval. Larys smiled, a slow, satisfied grin, and let his hand move from Aegon’s hair to his chest, his fingers finding and twisting a nipple.

“Such a good boy,” Larys praised like one might praise his dog. “You did so well, Aegon. You made me very happy.”

Aegon’s eyes lit up at his praise, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He looked like a child who had just been rewarded for good behavior. Larys continued to twist and pinch his nipple, enjoying the way Aegon’s body responded, the way his eyes fluttered shut for a moment before opening again.

He wanted to see those eyes filled with pleasure. “You deserve some fun of your own,” Larys said, his voice a firm command. “Touch yourself.”

Aegon hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching Larys’ face for any sign of disapproval. When he found none, he slowly brought a hand to his own length, his movements tentative and careful at first.

Larys leaned back in his chair with a smirk on his face as he enjoyed the show in front of him. In time, Aegon’s hand began to move with more confidence, stroking himself as he knelt before Larys. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps, the pleasure overwhelming him slowly.

“You like this, don’t you?” Larys asked, his tone almost playful. “You like being watched, being told what to do. You crave it.”

Aegon nodded, his mind too consumed to speak, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure. The prince’s body was trembling, his skin flushed, his movements growing more desperate. It was a sight that filled Larys with a deep sense of satisfaction.

Suddenly, the prince fell back onto the cold stone ground, his back arching as he continued to stroke himself with single-minded focus. The Master of Whisperers felt himself grow hard again as he watched Aegon’s desperate display. Larys truly was the one person who could make him feel whole.

“If your mother could only see you right now.” His voice a low purr as he continued watching the prince; completely transfixed. “Pleasuring yourself on the floor like a common whore. How does it feel, Aegon?”

Aegon’s breath hitched, his hand moving even faster. “It feels... so good,” he gasped, his voice trembling with need and his movements becoming more frantic.

He thought back to his subjugation of Aegon’s mother. It had been different with her, a more gradual surrender. Alicent had resisted at first, but her will had crumbled under her paranoia and his relentlessness. She had eventually given in, but her submission lacked the feverish devotion that her son displayed. He preferred Aegon’s boyish eagerness, his need to please as if his very life depended on it.

After a few more moments, Aegon’s entire body tensed, his hand moving faster and faster. With a final, desperate cry, he came, his release spilling onto the cold stone floor. His body convulsed with the force of it; his eyes wide and filled with pure pleasure and relief.

“Have I pleased you?” he asked softly, his voice trembling and weak.

The earnest in his voice was heartbreaking. The pitiful, almost tragic neediness that the young prince displayed before him. Sometimes he wondered how everybody around him had failed him so profoundly.

“Yes,” Larys murmured, reaching out his hand towards Aegon. “You've done well, Aegon. You’ve pleased me greatly."

Aegon’s eyes followed the movement of his hand towards him, almost hypnotized. As Larys’ fingers brushed against his cheek, the prince leaned into the touch, closing his eyes and practically melting into it.

Larys cradled Aegon’s cheek, his thumb gently stroking the soft skin. The gesture was intimate, almost tender. Aegon’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze locking with Larys’. There was a moment of silence, a charged pause filled with the weight of everything that remained unspoken between them. Larys could see the questions in Aegon’s eyes, the unvoiced fears and desires that danced just beneath the surface.

He had become a master at reading the prince, understanding his needs even before Aegon himself could articulate them. He knew what he craved; what he needed.

Larys offered him a curt nod as he withdrew his hand, beckoning Aegon to rise as he himself stood up from his armchair. “Come,” he said, his tone now much lighter. “Join me on the bed.”

Aegon followed his directions eagerly, his body still flushed. Larys watched him closely, every movement of the young prince held a deep fascination for him. Once Aegon had reached the ornate bed, he laid down; stretching out on the soft mattress, his eyes tired.

Larys made quick work of his own clothing, discarding it carelessly onto the floor. He joined Aegon on the bed, settling down beside him. He wrapped an arm around Aegon’s body, pulling him close. The young prince’s body was warm against his, and Larys could feel the slight shivers that still coursed through him.

“You’ve done exceptionally well today,” Larys murmured into Aegon’s ear.

Aegon’s lilac eyes met his, and Larys’ breath hitched. There was a heartbreaking innocence in his gaze, a desperate need for validation that tugged at something deep within Larys. He reached out, running his fingers through Aegon’s hair comfortingly

“Shh,” he whispered. “Relax, my prince. You’re safe here.”

As he continued to soothe Aegon, he felt the young man gradually relax in his arms, responding to his ministrations. Larys allowed his mind to wander then; he thought of the potential that lay within the prince in his arms. Aegon was destined for greatness, despite his many flaws. One day, he might ascend the throne and become king. When that day came, Larys intended to be there, by his side, offering support and guidance.

People had underestimated him his whole life, acting as if he was made out of glass; as if his disformed foot had poisoned his mind too. No one had ever seen him as a legitimate threat, something Larys had used to his advantage. They would talk openly, thinking he would not know what to do with the information right in front of him.

Oh, how wrong they all were.

He had become a very efficient observer; after all, he had seen the weaknesses in Aegon’s character, the cracks in his facade that others had missed or ignored. But he also saw potential, a strength that could be nurtured and shaped.

He would be there for Aegon, listen to his troubles, offer him praise, ease the young prince’s burdens. It was a delicate balance, maintaining his influence without overstepping, but Larys was confident in his abilities. He knew how to play the game.

“You deserve to be happy,” Larys said softly, his hand moving to stroke his back now. “You deserve to feel loved and valued.”

Aegon’s eyes fluttered closed at his words, a soft sigh escaping his lips. “Thank you, Lord Larys,” Aegon murmured, his voice drowsy. “For everything.”

Larys smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. He did have a soft spot for the prince. “You’re welcome, my prince. I’ll always be here for you.”

As Aegon drifted off to sleep, Larys pressed a kiss to his brow; a gesture that surprised even him. He looked down at the sleeping prince; there was much work to be done, but Larys was patient. He would guide Aegon, shape him into the leader he needed to be. And in doing so, he would secure his own place in the new order that would emerge.

Chapter Text

The crumpled, bloodied body of the man who had taken Jaehaerys lay at his feet. The sight was both gratifying and upsetting; an image that felt like it belonged to someone else’s life, not his.

The bat Aegon had used lay heavy in his hand, slick with blood and bits of bone. It had been all too easy, too quick. He hadn’t hesitated; the rage had consumed him completely, and now there was nothing left but emptiness.

His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his chest heaving with the effort of controlling the sobs that threatened to break free. He felt profoundly hollow, a void that seemed to stretch endlessly within him. Jaehaerys was gone. One of the only good things in his life, one of the only pure and innocent parts of his existence, had been brutally snatched away.

His children, his precious children… the only beings who saw him without judgment, without the weight of his past sins. They were good, so deeply and achingly good, in a way that Aegon had never been and could never be. Now, with Jaehaerys dead, that goodness felt tainted, lost.

Aegon took a shuddering breath, releasing his grip on the bat. It fell to the floor with a dull clack, the sound echoing in the quiet of the dungeons. The weapon seemed so small, so insignificant now, lying amidst the blood and carnage. Aegon felt as if he were standing outside himself, looking down on the scene from a great distance.

Beside him stood Larys Strong, silent and composed, as always. Larys had brought the man to him, had presented him with the opportunity for this grim justice. Aegon turned to look at him, and something stirred deep within his stomach—a mix of gratitude, anger, and, shamefully, lust. Larys had taken him seriously, had given him the means to exact vengeance. It was more than anyone else had done for him in a long time. In this moment of crushing loss and helplessness, Larys had been a constant, a steady presence.

“Larys,” Aegon said, his voice hoarse and raw. The name tasted bitter on his tongue, a reminder of all the compromises, all the moral surrenders he had made. But in this moment, he needed something—someone—to hold onto.

“Your Grace,” Larys replied, his voice calm and measured, as if they were discussing the weather and not standing over a murderer’s corpse.

Aegon’s eyes burned with unshed tears, his vision blurring as he looked away, unable to bear the look in Larys’ eyes. “What am I supposed to do now?” he asked, his voice breaking. “I can’t... I can’t even look at Jaehaera. Every time I see her, all I see is him. And I... I’m so lost I—”

He trailed off, his words dissolving into a choked sob. Larys stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. The touch was surprisingly gentle, almost comforting. “You are not alone in this, Your Grace.”

Aegon looked at him, a flicker of something—hope, perhaps, or desperation—sparking in his eyes. He had never been more vulnerable, more exposed, and yet here was Larys, steadfast and unflinching. The man who had always been there, who had seen him at his worst and had never turned away.

“Come to my chambers later,” Aegon said, the words escaping his lips before he could fully process them.

He didn't know what he expected from Larys, didn't know what he wanted. Perhaps just to be held, to be reassured that he wasn't entirely lost. Or maybe he wanted to be fucked, a way to drown out the pain and guilt that threatened to consume him. Whatever it was, he needed something, someone, to anchor him to reality, to make him feel human again.

Larys nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

As he walked away from the scene, leaving the body and the blood behind, Aegon felt the weight of the world pressing down on him. He was a king, but he had never felt more powerless, more adrift. The Red Keep felt like a prison, each of one of his steps echoing with the ghosts of his failures.

He reached his chambers and closed the door behind him, the silence was almost deafening. He collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. The tears came then, hot and unrelenting; not fit for a king. Jaehaerys was gone, and nothing would ever bring him back.

Aegon lay there, the moments stretching into what felt like hours, his sobs gradually subsiding into quiet, exhausted breathing. He truly was a king only in name; a failure emptied of all emotion, all strength.

The knock on the door was soft, almost hesitant. Aegon wiped his eyes, trying to compose himself. He knew who it was.

“Come in.”

Larys entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him. His expression was inscrutable, that ever-present mask of calm. Aegon looked up at him from the bed, his eyes red and swollen, his body slumped in defeat. He felt the weight of the crown he never wanted more acutely than ever before, an anchor dragging him down into an abyss of despair.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. Larys’ gaze was steady, unflinching, and Aegon found himself searching those dark eyes for something—judgment, pity, understanding. But Larys revealed nothing. Instead, he moved forward, stopping just before the bed.

Aegon felt a strange pull in his chest, a need to bridge the distance between them, to seek the older man’s touch. He slid off the bed and onto the floor, the cold stone pressing against his knees. It was a pathetic display, he knew—a king reduced to crawling before his Master of Whisperers.

He moved forward, until he was at Larys’ feet. His heart pounded in his chest, a dull, relentless beat. He looked up at Larys, his eyes wide and pleading. Larys met his gaze and Aegon leaned his face towards his hand, craving the touch, the connection. When Larys’ fingers finally brushed his cheek, Aegon melted into the contact, closing his eyes as if savoring a rare and precious gift.

“Your Grace,” Larys murmured, his voice soft and almost tender. His fingers were cool against Aegon’s flushed skin, his touch light but deliberate. “You are far too valuable to grovel like this.”

Aegon felt a bitter laugh bubble up inside him, but it died in his throat. “Is that so?” he whispered, his voice thick. “And what am I valuable for, Larys? My crown? My lineage? Certainly not for who I am.”

Larys ignored his whining as his other hand moved to his head, fingers running through Aegon’s hair. “Will you stand up for me, Your Grace?” His thumb stroked Aegon's cheek, the touch reverent. “Let’s get you out of your bloodied garments.”

Aegon shivered at Larys’ voice—that was the power he had over him, that was how his body had been conditioned to react. A tear slipped down his cheek, the weight of his emotions too much to contain. Whatever it was about Larys, it drew Aegon in, a moth to a flame, and he found himself wanting—no, needing—what he offered.

He nodded at Larys’ request, the motion small and almost imperceptible, and rose to his feet. With trembling hands, Aegon began to unbutton his doublet. Larys watched him, his gaze never wavering, as Aegon shrugged off the blood-stained garment, letting it fall to the floor. Aegon bent down to unlace his boots, his fingers fumbling slightly, the simple task feeling monumental. Once they were off, he removed his trousers, the fabric slipping down his legs to pool at his feet.

He stood before Larys in his smallclothes, the thin fabric doing little to hide the contours of his body—the body Larys knew so well.

There was a hunger in his gaze; he could feel it like a physical touch. He had seen that look before, knew what it meant. It was the look of someone who wanted, who desired, and Aegon had always been adept at satisfying those desires.

His body was truly his greatest weapon, maybe his only weapon. He remembered the beautiful ladies at court who had fought for his attention, the way the men in Flea Bottom had looked at him, the touches, the whispered promises.

All these experiences had shown him what it meant to take hold of someone fully, to use his body as a weapon, a means to an end. His body was his, and he’d ought to use it—it was his most prized possession, his most effective tool. He knew it, and he wielded it with the same cold precision as any other weapon.

Aegon took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Sit down on the bed,” he commanded softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Larys inclined his head, a slight nod of acknowledgment, and moved to the bed. He sat down, his posture relaxed but attentive, his eyes never leaving Aegon’s face. Aegon felt the strange thrill of power, a flicker of control in a world that seemed determined to strip it from him.

He reached for the waistband of his smallclothes, his fingers hooking into the fabric. His movements were slow and sensual, mimicking the women he had seen in the pleasure houses. He knew how to use his body, how to make it a thing of beauty and desire. He let the smallclothes fall to the floor, leaving him completely bare before Larys.

Larys’ reaction was subtle but unmistakable. His eyes darkened, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. Aegon could see the desire in his gaze, the way his pupils dilated, the way his lips parted slightly.

He truly would’ve been such a great whore in another life.

The thought came unbidden, yet it felt almost comforting. He had always been told he was beautiful, that his striking looks made him desirable. If he hadn’t been born a prince, he could have used that beauty to carve out a different kind of power, a different kind of existence.

He remembered the nights he used to get drunk and offer himself up to anyone who would have him. He didn’t even do it for money; he had no need for it. It was the feeling of being needed, of being desired, that drove him. The way someone’s eyes would light up with hunger and want when they looked at him, the way their hands would reach for him, desperate to touch, to claim.

He's had it all—women and men, nobles and smallfolk, Dornish and Northern, even a rare Summer Islander or two. He had tasted the exotic and the familiar, the rough and the tender.

And now, here he was, with Larys Strong. Larys, who was neither the most handsome nor the most charming, but who had a presence that commanded attention, who wielded power with a subtle hand, and who had an unsettling ability to see right through him. Aegon knew, deep down, that Larys was using him to gain influence. The Master of Whisperers was always playing some deeper game, always several steps ahead of everyone else. But being used had never felt so good.

Aegon moved forward, climbing onto the bed to straddle Larys’ lap. He could feel the man’s hardness through his trousers, his arousal pressing against his thigh. It sent a shiver of anticipation through Aegon’s body. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Larys’, the kiss desperate and hungry. It was a kiss that spoke of need, of a deep, aching desire to feel something, anything.

The kiss deepened, Aegon’s hands tangling in Larys’ hair, pulling him closer. He poured all his grief, all his desperation, into that kiss, trying to lose himself in the sensation, to drown out the pain that threatened to consume him. He wanted to forget, to escape, if only for a little while. He needed Larys to take him, to fuck him bloody, to obliterate the memories that threatened to crush his spirit and break his spine.

Larys broke the kiss, his hands roaming over Aegon’s body, exploring the familiar terrain. He moved to his backside. “What do you want, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice hot and wet against Aegon’s ear.

“Please fuck me,” he whispered, his voice raw and pleading. “Make me forget. Please.”

The older man nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. His hands were steady as he undid his trousers; freeing his hard cock. Aegon watched, his breath hitching, his mouth watering. Larys spat into his hand and coated himself, then guided Aegon down onto him.

The initial breach was always unpleasant, Aegon admitted to himself, but the feeling of being filled, of being stretched, was something he craved. It made him feel alive, anchored to the moment. Aegon moaned, his eyes fluttering shut as he started to move. Shamefully, Aegon started to cry as he moved, the tears slipping down his cheeks. He didn’t know why Larys had this effect on him, why he was so addicted to the man. The depth of his need, his yearning for Larys’ words, for his presence, was overwhelming.

“Such a good boy,” Larys breathed, his voice strained with need that mirrored Aegon’s own. “So beautiful, so perfect.”

Aegon felt like he might see stars. He had spent his life seeking love and approval from others, but it had never felt like this. It had never felt so... complete. He wondered, not for the first time, if this was love, or if it was just another form of dependence, another way to fill the void inside him.

Larys’ hands moved to Aegon's front, one wrapping around his length, stroking him firmly as he continued to move inside him. The dual sensations of being filled and stroked drove Aegon to the edge. He moved desperately against Larys, riding him like a whore looking to make ends meet.

“Look at you,” Larys moaned, his tone was reverent, almost worshipful. “My perfect king.”

Aegon cried out. Could this really be it? Was this desperate, aching need a form of love? He had never known love, not truly. He had known desire, lust, the fleeting pleasure of another’s touch, but this felt different. It felt like he was falling, spiraling into something he couldn’t name, something he couldn’t live without.

“Please,” Aegon whimpered, his voice a fragile plea. “Please, Larys, don’t stop.”

Larys’ thrusts grew deeper, stronger; each one sending waves of pleasure coursing through Aegon’s body. His hand moved faster on Aegon’s length, reducing Aegon to a moaning mess.

Aegon nuzzled his head into the crook of Larys’ neck; biting into the older man’s skin. He whined softly, the sound low and almost pitiful, as he moved with increasing fervor.

Larys responded with a groan, his free hand gripping Aegon’s hip, guiding him, controlling him. The intensity was almost too much to bear; Aegon felt like he was being consumed by the sensations coursing through his body.

“Larys,” he gasped, his voice breaking. “I’m close... I’m so close...”

“Come for me.” Larys was trembling too now; his voice breathy and weak. “Come for me, my beautiful king.”

With a final, desperate cry, Aegon came, his release spilling between them, coating Larys’ hand. The pleasure was blinding, overwhelming, a white-hot burst that left him trembling and weak. He slumped against Larys, his breath ragged, his body spent.

Larys held him tighter, his own release following soon after. Aegon felt the familiar warmth of being filled. It was a moment of pure connection, of being utterly and completely taken.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, Larys slowly eased out of him, both of them collapsing onto the mattress. Aegon’s body felt heavy, sated, his breath still coming in uneven gasps. He steadied himself, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

Larys lay beside him, his hand resting gently on Aegon’s back. The silence between them was thick; it always was.

“I won’t survive this,” Aegon whispered, his voice barely audible over their labored breathing.

Larys’ hand moved in slow, soothing circles on his back. “You will, Your Grace,” he said simply. “You are strong an resilient, even if you don’t think so.”

Aegon turned his head to look at Larys, his eyes searching the older man’s face for any hint of deceit. But all he saw was a calm, steady gaze. Aegon felt a lump form in his throat—the tears dangerously close to spilling over once again. Being used by Larys felt so comforting, so good.

“I think I love you,” Aegon said softly, the admission feeling both terrifying and liberating.

Larys’ hand paused again, then moved to cup Aegon’s cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Maybe you do,” he replied. “And maybe that’s enough for now.”