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yoursweetheartsrevenge · 2 days ago

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In Need of Comfort

Summary: You knew him when he was a prince, desperate enough for friendship that he would cozy up to someone like you. You knew him the moments before he became king, clinging to the idea of running away. You’ll love each other in your own way.

These are the moments you and Aegon are a comfort for each other.

Read on Ao3

Warnings: sexual acts discussed, alcohol consumption, angst, mentions of child death, reader is described as a brunette and from Pentos, MINORS DNI, 18+

Word Count: 5.6K+

Author’s Note: Written for @hotd-bigbang.

Week 3: Friendship - wow another first! Not featuring Aemond as a main character, but a story focused solely on Aegon.

Dividers done by: @targaryen-dynasty

In Need of Comfort

You can not fathom the idea of a prince walking into the brothal. The raunchiest rat infested part of Flea Bottom was your home. Yes, you adored the thrill of it, but knew life may be better else where. This was your life and you would be damned if you did not make the most of it.

The first time you see him, it is only a flash of silver hair. He is bending another whore over a table showing off her firm arse to a group of patrons. They yowl in delight at the display. You can not help smiling. The young woman whose bottom is on display giggles. It is very clear she doesn’t mind the attention, especially from a prince.

Especially from Prince Aegon.

His depravity has been noted by many as he has grown into his manhood. You have heard whispers how he enjoys living his life more in the presence of the small folk of Flea Bottom than anywhere else. The man you were with seeks your attention by rubbing his delicious bulge along your back side. You shoo him for a moment keeping your eyes on the prince.

He fondles with your barely covered breasts as you watch the prince spank the arse of the red haired woman with large breasts. She giggles again. He opens his hand for a beer which is given to him. He downs half the dark amber liquid before nuzzling his lips to her ear, whispering something before laughing loud with her. She snorts and nods her head. He drinks the rest of the beer before holding her chin, cheeks still full of ale. He kisses her. You clearly see the liquid drain into her mouth into hers as they kiss.

“Would you like me to do that to you?” It is the man you are supposed to be bedding who whispers in your ear. His breath is wet with a burp of smoked meat tickling your skin. “Pretend I am Prince Aegon?”

“No.” You are quick to answer. “You could never be as lively as he is, but I prefer you, mi’lord.” You are quick to smile, spin on your heels, and push your loose top down to reveal your perky breasts.

You do not think of the prince until the next morning.

You are counting your coin picking at the debris left behind in your chambers when you hear the exchange.

“He wants more.” It is the red haired woman's voice. She seems tired as she speaks hurriedly to their madame or perhaps another worker in the brothel.

“You did not satisfy him?”

“I did! Several times! I lost track!” She is nearly in tears.

You have empty clanging glasses in your hand. Your breasts are half exposed as you approach the two women. Men with overactive appetites are your speciality.

“Do you know where Deanna is?” You ask, one hand half on your hip as you press the cool mugs to your chest. The red haired woman simply nods. “Well, go get her. Have her bring the twins if they are not busy. Throw all three in with the prince. That should keep him busy for the rest of the morning.”

It does.

You are good at reading men and women alike. It is what keeps you safe. Aegon is grateful to have the delight of having twins in his midst. Deanna, you know, is quite flexible which delights any man in her presence.

“This is for you.” Deanna hands you a heavy sack of coin. It nearly weighs your hand down. “The prince asked it be delivered to ‘the brilliant person who suggested this appetizing mix of pleasure’ It was in the prince’s words, ‘just what he needed’”

You are drinking the next time he approaches. Men are banging on the table cheering on your opponent. Very few have bet coins on you though many are regretting that decision. You may be a small lass, but the way you have handled six pints of ale is impressive.

“All my coin on the beautiful brunette!” Aegon clasps a hand on your shoulder. You look up into his winking eye wiping the foam from your upper lip. Most women would be flustered by the attention of a prince, but you simply wink back.

Who are you to let a Targaryen prince down?

You best the man across from you who falls out of his chair after his seventh ale. Aegon happily collects his winnings praising you as you steady yourself from the table. He talks about his amazement how you can take in so much ale for such a petite frame. He speaks about how he has noticed how astute you are every time something interesting catches your eye.

“I have fallen on that side of your gaze, have I not?” You are surprised at his tone.

You would suspect it to be suggestive and flirty, but it is not.

It is pure curiosity. It allows you to be honest.

“You enjoy life. Most men seek out pleasure to feel good. You seek out depravity to feel MORE.” He blinks at your words shifting uncomfortably as if you have struck a chord.

“You seem to be very good at your work, my lady.”

“I am simply like you.” You pat his hand, soft and velvety from no true labor. “I will enjoy life however I damn well please.” With those words you feel him grab your hand dragging you off to a room. You change course pulling him to your chambers.

“I will pay you of course, but I do not wish to bed you.” He states as you slowly push your silk black gown back to the tops of your shoulders. “I just wish to talk. You said you are like me. How do you suppose a whore like yourself compares to a Targaryen prince?” Again it is not said with malice or disgust, simply with curiosity as he bounces on top your mattress.

“Well,” You pull one heel off and then the other settling off your calloused feet. “I suppose we are alike in how we enjoy our life. Carefree. You enjoy sexual pleasure. If I am correct in what I see.”

He leans back against the painfully large amount of frilled and plush pillows on your bed.

“Guilty as charged. My appetite is unwavering. My desire for seeking out new . . .” Prince Aegon can not seem to find the word.

“Challenges.” You offer.

“Challenges, yes!” He is delighted by your choice in framing his desire. “I wish to challenge myself to push my desire over the edge. Over and over and over again. What is life if we can not explore our pleasures? At no risk to others of course. And only if the partner is wanting. I do not wish harm. I wish to pleasure and be pleasured.”

You join him on the bed, laying beside him. He chastises you about the absurd amount of pillows. You offer him the explanation that every man who wishes to gift you more gold or a prized piece of jewelry for how well you bedded them you ask that they bring you a pillow instead.

“Comfort.” He understands with a smile. “You like what you like without care what others think.”

It is the first time someone beside yourself has said it aloud to you as such.

“I do.”

You continue your conversation late into the night. He discusses his proclivities in regards to sexual desires. You give your honest opinions sharing your own desires. He learns from you that you desire to bed men and women equally. That sparks his fascination with more questions that are simply sparked by curiosity and not depravity. You learn from him that he enjoys pleasuring a woman from behind and giving and receiving anal pleasure.

“A finger up the arse can be quite nice.”

It could have been said as a joke, but the way the prince hugs your favorite frilled green pillow embroidered with his house's symbol on the face makes his vulgarity seem honest and sweet.

He learns from you that you were not born in King’s Landing, but instead were the middle of many daughters born to merchants in Pentos. Your sexual appetite frightened your parents and siblings alike.

“I was seen as depraved for wanting to bed others outside of marriage.” There were other reasons your family had disowned you, but being a “sexual deviant” had been a high contender for their disgust. “I knew I never wanted to stay in one place. I had a strong desire to see the world. To explore all this life has to offer.” You occasionally watch his face as you discuss how your life led to this brothel in Flea Bottom lying beside a prince of the seven kingdoms.

There are some days that are harder than others in regards to work. He inquires for you to share. You do not know if you are ready to explain how some men are too violent and some women choose to spit on you after with nasty tones before returning to their Gods fearing husbands. You are seen as less than human some days. You are sure some day you will share these thoughts with the prince.

Tonight is not that night.

Tonight you share surface level dark dwellings.

Your secrets of the heart will surface in time.

“I am glad my father did not name me king.” He shares pulling at a tassel as a comforting silence settled on the pair of you. “I would be a terrible ruler. My sister would be better suited. She is far stronger than I.”

“I have no doubt that the king’s choice will be the most well suited for the job, but, my prince . . .” You dare to touch him, to slowly turn his cherub-like face toward you. His violet eyes nearly twinkle in the deep night. You can feel how soft and healthy his cheeks are on your fingers. “You would be a wonderful king. You know the people. You care for the people. Despite why you seek out the darkest pits of Flea Bottom, you are unafraid to see their plights. You wish to be loved.” You see him glance at you for a moment settling in that truth. “Love is the most powerful tool in a king’s arsenal.”

Slowly you feel yourself and the prince move closer. In need, you wrap your arms around one another.

You wish to be loved as well.

As you hold the crowned prince you feel him nuzzle into the crook of your neck. His soft wet lips graze you there. You hold him tighter. He does the same.

The pair of you realize one dark truth you share.

You both wish to be loved.

Aegon is there to celebrate the birth of his children.

Twins.

“To Jaehaerys and Jaehaera!” There are cheers to the new prince and princess.

Aegon delights in sharing news of his legacy though he chooses to spend time in Flea Bottom mouthing at the breasts of needy whores rather than taking care of his queen. You do not mind it as you see him enjoying himself.

“I hear there is news for you to celebrate as well.” He is grinning softly as he exchanges the whore in his lap for you. “You are being apprenticed to take over after the madame.”

“Word travels fast I suppose.” You tip your finger lightly to his nose before bouncing from his lap. You motion a barmaid over to fill the rest of the prince and his companions’ cups of ale. “It is only a small thing.”

“Oi, none of that! What do we always say?” He makes you repeat it occasionally when you are feeling less than confident about yourself.

“All small things lead to big change.” You can not help but smile at the saying. He flicks your nose in response. You swat at him with a dirty dish rag. He barks out a laugh.

It has been like this for months, a developing friendship you truly cherish.

Many of the other workers are suspicious of you. You do not know why. You suspect that they are jealous that the prince favors you. You have been asked certain questions about the prince’s habits in bed. There are only so many times you can dance around the subject.

You and the prince do not have that kind of relationship.

There are some nights where he desires your company to simply talk rather than bed another whore or four.

Tonight is one of those nights.

He settles into your plush bed already having a habit of which pillows to surround himself with. He digs for the orange knitted blanket he had made for your chambers as a gift. He folds it over himself before moving to make a nest of pillows in a spot beside him.

“Alright, what is the matter?” He nearly demands it as he sits up.

“Nothing is -”

“Come now, I know you. You can not hide your thoughts from me.” You can’t. This is the unfortunate truth of the nature of your relationship.

“The others. The other whores. They are beginning to suspect that we are not having sex.” Aegon huffs at that.

“And what business is that of them? If I want to spend time with a beautiful woman and not bed her I should be able to. Why does it bother you what they think? You’ve never been one to care what others think.”

It is true.

You had not really cared what others said about you.

You enjoyed living your life how you desired to.

You say it before you can stop yourself.

“I do not like that they assumed we could not be having sex. I am apparently usually loud and it is quite quiet in my chambers when you are here.” You state.

“I see. I suspect they are furious you are being paid to simply talk. I could not pay you, but that would probably only spread more salacious rumors.” He laughed. Aegon offered his hand out to you. Your arms were folded across your chest. You are in a low cut golden gown you had made with the extra coin he supplied you from your late night talks. “We can have sex or pretend to if that would calm these rumors down.”

You looked at him wide eyed.

“What?! Is the idea of having relations with me so horrid?” He chuckled at that and you joined in.

“I am not unattracted to you.” You explain as you roll and settle on the bed. “But you are my friend. Besides,” You stare into his face. Your index finger traces his lips slowly, sensually causing him to swallow deeply. You each know what you could do with your lips to each other that would make lewd enough sounds. “Pretending sounds so much more fun.”

You spend the night making noises as if the prince is pleasuring you. You are so practiced in your long loud moans that it is no surprise that you can very easily choreograph the false love making session. Aegon bounces and squeaks the mattresses grunting with light dirty talk. You are sure to say ‘yes my prince’ a few more times in heightened dramatic tones. You and Aegon halt your giggles as the absurdity of the loud display is nearly too much for the pair of you to handle.

You finish off the act by crying out your prince’s name as if orgasming through the high pitched elated cry.

Aegon reacts in such a fashion you lean over the pillow to see if he has actually cum all over himself.

He is laying fully clothed and panting on his back.

“What? Did you think I was having a wank while you were moaning? In your dreams, love.” He tosses a pillow in your direction. You laugh, catching it against your chest.

“I did, get a bit off.” You smile. His eyes sparkle as if intrigued, sitting up.

“Really?”

“Not by you.” You huff rolling your eyes. Aegon pretends to be offended. “By me. I got a bit wet hearing myself.” You flush a bit not sure if you should be embarrassed by the idea of it.

Nothing has ever truly embarrassed you, but sharing that intimate detail with another brings your face to redden.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. Your act was quite lovely. I bet a few lads heard you and creamed themselves.” You laugh together with him at the thought before he turns to look at you. “Come here, darling.” He folds you in his arms and kisses the top of your temple. “I’ll find you a nice lad with a big cock and a talented tongue or a big titted pretty blonde with thick thighs. You’ve been a bit pent up of late with learning the back end dealings of this work. You need a nice fit man or lass to break that back of yours. Fuck you properly.”

You are very appreciative of the gesture as he snuggles into you.

“You are a good friend, Aegon.” You decide to say snorting a laugh.

“I know. But you are my best friend, my darling.”

You have heard the rumor.

When you see silver hair hiding beneath your overwhelming hoard of pillows you know it is true.

The king is dead.

“I am so sorry, my dear.” You settle yourself on the bed knocking some pillows free to expose his drunken face. He moans moving one to cover the grief waving in and out of his drunken state on his face.

Your fingers brush and scratch at his scalp. He nearly coos at the loving gesture.

“That feels nice.” You smile knowing it is a familiar gesture.

“How drunk are you?”

“Very.” There’s a soft smile pressed to his lips. His cheek settles into your palm. “Everyone is looking for me. I am to be king.”

Your eyebrows shoot up a bit. For years, King Viserys has proclaimed his daughter Rhaenyra as his one true heir. Yes, Aegon was his first son, but from a second marriage. Those who knew the king tried to change his mind, but he had not budged.

Until now you supposed.

“I know it is not what you desire, but . . .”

You can not find the words. He sees that. He grasps your hand and brings it to his lips.

“Come away with me.”

“What?”

It is an offer you never dreamed of.

“We could have a life together. Just as friends of course. I would never ask anything of you, but I would rather a life with you than a life with anyone else.” It is the shine in his violet eyes that lets you know he is serious about the matter.

He longs for it.

“I can not, Aegon. I have a life here.”

“Flea Bottom?” He scoffs waving his hand. “You can make a life wherever we take shore. You are resourceful, smart as a whip, and you are alert to your surroundings. You can read people. You KNOW people, my darling. I would feel safer with you than any gold cloak.”

It is a thick sense of flattering to encourage your willingness to do as he wishes.

You know he means every word as he grabs and kisses your hands again.

“We could go to Pentos.” Your face drops at that. “Or not! Or not . . .” Aegon chuckles looking at the shock on your face. “Anywhere. We could go anywhere. We could dye my hair. Cut yours.”

“I like my hair.” You twirl with the long strands smiling at the notion.

“Fine, a hood would be enough. What do you say?”

You know if you say yes, if you are caught . . . you will be accused of a number of things.

You might even be executed for it.

“You know people that can make us disappear. I am sure of it. What is the one called who -”

“Aegon,” You whisper, letting yourself lie flat on the bed beside him. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can.” He nods trying to let you know he would protect you by touching your face.

“No, I . . . it is a lovely thought, but I can’t. I can’t risk my -”

Life, you want to say, but can not before men enter your room. They are the rough sort paid to do all sorts of traitorous things. Their greedy hands grab for Aegon. On impulse you find the pillow that holds a secret dagger. You stab at one of the men’s hands. It goes right through the palm. The other man slaps you.

“Leave her be!” Your friend remains concerned even as he is dragged away.

The White Worm herself steps into your room.

“Don’t.” She says holding her hand up as the man with the dagger stuck in his hand goes to hit you. “She is an innocent in this.” Her eyes rake you over as if she is impressed. “It is nice to befriend a prince, but even nicer when he is king.” Aegon is gone from the room.

“Don’t hurt him.” You hiss through clenched teeth. There is a spark of admiration in Mysaria’s eyes.

“Oh, perhaps you love him?” Her tone nearly strikes the sentence as not a question.

“He is my friend.” Yes, you do love him. You are the same. You are the only ones that understand one another.

“As I said, it is nice to have friends in high places.” She picks at fluff on one of your pillows. “I have been watching you for some time ever since your madame pointed out the prince’s unwavering interest in you.” The woman begins to rearrange the pillows on your bed. You make a note to move them how you like when she leaves. “The pair of us can not decide what he likes in you so much. You are not average looking of course, but Pentoshi whores are not a rarity either. So why you, my dear? What makes you special?”

What made you special?

“Nothing you can see.” You say suggestively.

Mysaria looks at you for a moment before huffing.

“They say you do not even bed the prince.” The way she moves in your room reminds you of a viper waiting to strike. “You have pretended a number of times and some may have been convinced, but your madam seems to think the pair of you simply . . . talk. Like children afraid to wake their mother, hiding under the covers.”

The woman picks up a wine glass on your desk before moving to the pitcher. She pours the red contents inside. One by one her fingers grasp the stem of the glass. She brings it to her lips. Mysaria drinks deeply letting out a slow hum at the flavor.

“He gifts you perfect reds from distant lands. This is his preferred taste.” She ticks the last word at the edge of her tongue. “But you are not.”

“Does it matter if we fuck or simply talk?” You are bored of this interrogation. You find a silver wine goblet in a secret compartment beneath the desk. That is Aegon’s goblet. The interest in Mysaria’s face peaks even as you pour.

“It does not. Just a curiosity of mine.”

“Curiosity gets good people killed.” You down the entire glass quickly. You are not sure if your demonstration is clear to her. This is why Aegon likes you so.

You are fun.

You drink.

You laugh.

You enjoy a good fuck.

You do not judge him as those at court do.

There is no reason for you to behave in the manner you do toward him.

You have no reason to gain favor.

It is simply because he likes who YOU are and you like who HE is.

“I see.” You are not certain if she truly sees. “Perhaps we should settle this with a toast to our new king. To King Aegon.” Her voice is not genuine. There is a lack it fervor to it.

“You need him for something.” You say tipping your goblet to hers.

“I always need people. Perhaps someday you will be mine as well.” She sips deeply, reflecting a crimson stained smile.

“I doubt it, Worm.” You simply say and drink.

You imagined that when Aegon was crowned you would see him less.

Instead he is with you nearly every night. It grows hard sometimes to do your work. You tell him as such and he begins to bring you clients. Your prince seems to know what you like. You find yourself coupling with knights with big cocks. His wife’s curious ladies in waiting beg to bed you.

Constantly you are letting him know he does not have to offer people as rewards.

“I like to see you happy, my darling.” He kisses your hands giving you a twirl. “If you are to whore yourself about the kingdom I would much rather you are pleased. Old cocks and cunts are unpleasant wouldn’t you agree?”

You can not argue with him.

There is a small celebration when the madam retires and you replace her. You suspect the early retirement was orchestrated by the White Worm herself, but you can not be sure of that. Aegon is still joyous for you. You are happy when he takes you up to dance. He whispers in your ear asking about the patrons.

He always wants to know your insights on the most troublesome creatures in Flea Bottom. The night is so wonderful as Aegon raising a glass to the new madam. You are grateful for how proud he is of you.

Aegon gladly offers you his latest squire.

“He’s a virgin so be gentle.”

“No promises, my king.” You wink as he laughs.

The others do as well.

You enjoy riding the squire that night. You are knee deep in finances of running the brothel the next morning when the rumor hits you.

“The little prince is dead.”

The horrible things that are said about Aegon’s son, Jaehaerys’ death are too much to imagine. You can hardly focus on the day’s work. You know how much Aegon loves his son. He called him his legacy. You remember when he was born.

You are sitting at your desk trying to halt the tears that are starting to stream from your eyes.

“Don’t cry. I came here to escape the tears.”

Aegon holds you from behind.

You hold him.

You do not know how long you hold each other sniffling and trying not to cry.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You tell him in the softest whisper. He rests his chin on you.

“I know, but it is where I need to be right now.” You weren’t sure what that meant as he held you tighter. “I was here instead -” He broke down spreading hot wet tears against your cotton night dress. You settle your hands against his that squeeze you tight.

“Shhh, it is not your fault, Aegon.”

You cry with him.

You comfort him.

He does the same for you.

When his tear ducts have nothing left to give he finally chokes out his desire.

“It is not safe for you here.” He tells you, holding you tight. “Please, I need you with me.”

You want to deny him this. Your work is important to you, but you in a sense need him too.

“Yes,” You understand him. You know exactly why he needs you. “I need you too.”

You take up work as Queen Heleana’s lady in waiting. You can tell Aegon is pleased to have you in his everyday life. His smile is soft and sad as he passes you.

The joy has left his eyes.

The squire you bedded is happy to see you. To feel better you take him as a lover. It hardly makes things better. You take on another lover, one of the queen mother’s hand maid’s is a sweet woman who takes more of a fancy to you then you do to her. She does not make things better either.

The melancholy you feel festers from the war that looms in the keep. Aegon tries to attend to your comfort. You know he sees your sadness and worry. You are worried for him, for his family. Helaena seems to know what your presence does for her husband. She tells you often how glad she is that you are here.

“He is happier with you here.” Her soft smile breaks your heart.

How horrible is it to lose a child?

How hard is it to know the husband you have seeks company in others?

Occasionally Aegon curls up in your bed. He rests his head on your stomach and cries. The king lets out his frustration on the strategies of war and the devastating loss of his son, which still weighs too heavily on his heart. You scratch his scalp and pull at his silver hair. You wipe away his tears feeling how soft his cheeks are.

You are glad to have him even if some nights he is drunker than you think he should be.

“She wants me to do nothing.” He says speaking of his mother. “How can I do nothing? I am king.” He hiccups, wiping his own tears.

“You are too precious to lose.” You curl your fingers in his hair as he mumbles his appreciation.

“I am glad you are here. The White Worm can not get you and neither can anyone else. I will not lose any more of those precious to me.”

You could explain to him it is selfish to take you from your life. To hide you here in these walls away from the life you knew, the life you loved. You are sure he knows it. Every moment he holds you or clings to you, you realize how much he really needs you.

You know you need him too.

Despite how much you miss the life you knew, you feel a small spark of comfort knowing he is this close.

You would have stopped him if you had known he was determined to fly to Rook’s Rest.

It is the one moment he does not seek your comfort.

When he returns, there is not much of the prince left.

He is burnt.

He is broken.

He is in pain.

You are suddenly nothing. You can not see him. You can not be near him. The man, the person you love most in this world is so close to you, so hurt, and you can do nothing.

You can not comfort him.

You wait.

You watch.

You listen.

His brother is declared regent. You know his physical status must be in dire shape if Aegon is no longer able to make decisions. You try your best to enter the chambers when he awakens. You feel your heart ache every night you do not know if he is okay.

It is soon after you watch the prince regent leave Aegon’s chamber that you are able to sneak in. You did not think of how you might see him.

You need him.

You need to see him.

When you do you keep your composure upon seeing his skin cracked black on one side with red fleshy scars running across his body. His face is shriveled on that same side, split and scarred. His leg is shattered. It is lifted up in a cast as his head in bandaged. You swallow moving closer to smell how bad the flesh burns.

“Please.” He whimpers.

Your hand rubs the soured scars at his knuckles.

“I am here, my prince.” You assure him and kneel at his side. You wish to kiss his hand, to crawl on his bed, to curl up with him, but decide to feel his weak fingers curl around yours.

“My darling,” The nickname is lazy on his split lips. “Please don’t look at me.”

“Aegon,” The sharpness of your tone is true. You see his eyes flow elsewhere. “Look at me.” You attempt to will him to do so.

He can not say no to you much longer.

You see the utter desperate sadness in his features.

“If you were well I would do as we always did.” You feel him squeeze your hand. “I would crawl to your chest. I would curl and you would play with my hair, tell me to forget the world. Tell me we are the only ones who matter in this moment.”

“It would be a nice thing.” He coos and sighs. “But I will never be the same. My cock -”

“Do not say.” You know it is the pain of not being the same as he was that must hurt the most.

“Please, my darling.” He squeezes your hand the best he can. “I do not care of the pain. Not having you with me is more painful. Please.” He slowly moves his other hand to tickle your skin.

Your body doesn’t hesitate. The way it lays next to Aegon feels so natural. You do not care if he smells or if he is cracked and broken.

He is still your Aegon.

He is still your prince.

You feel his lips on your forehead.

“My only regret is not having fucked you.” There is a joke in his tone that you sense is only part true.

“Perhaps when you are better you can still taste me.” You return the tease.

“Promises. Promises.” His humor fades into a smile at your temple.

You remain in each other’s presence hoping for a better future with your best friend. For your life would not be the same without him.

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agirlsawalittlerose · 3 days ago

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This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 8: Electric Feel

What had happened at the label was absurd, and it was on the verge of becoming genuinely dangerous and counterproductive.

It was one thing to be a fucking thorn in everyone’s side—a useless junkie good for nothing but giving people headaches. Compared to what had happened the day before, even burning bridges with every collaborator Aemond had introduced him to seemed like nothing.

But putting someone else’s safety at risk just because he couldn’t go two minutes without provoking whoever was in front of him?

He should’ve stayed in rehab.

That night on that sidewalk, he should’ve…

And yet, there he was, sprawled out on their parents sofa, lazily strumming his guitar like he wasn’t the human equivalent of a dumpster fire. Like he hadn’t raised hell just to get his attic back—though Aemond had known from the start that he didn’t actually need it. He just wanted a place to fuck in peace before coming back here, throwing some beans on toast, or picking at whatever leftovers the housekeeper had made for dinner.

Completely unfit for life.

Of course, Aemond hadn’t thought his incompetence extended to something as basic as using an elevator. And yet.

If Victoria decided to tell them all to go to hell after this stunt, she’d be completely justified. Especially since, without a contract and the looming threat of a hefty penalty, it would be easy.

So he’d had Laura prepare all the documents and asked their lawyer to draft up a contract as quickly as possible.

He was skimming through section 6.3 when Aegon interrupted his thoughts.

“When are they coming back?” he asked, without much interest.

He was talking about their parents, who had fled to Barbados in a desperate attempt to soothe their mother’s anxiety over the album and everything that would come with it.

“Sunday,” Aemond replied curtly, eyes already back on section 6.3.

Aemond didn’t bother to gauge his reaction. He couldn’t have cared less. His leg kept bouncing as his eyes flicked between section 6.3 and his phone, waiting for Victoria’s response.

Texting her to come sign the contract at his place wasn’t exactly the most professional move, but the anxiety was eating him alive. The possibility of becoming an indispensable asset to the company felt both incredibly close and a messy elevator ride away.

He allowed himself a small moment of triumph when he saw her short but incredibly satisfying reply: coming.

“Victoria’s coming over,” he announced, hastily setting the contract down and looking for a more appropriate place to put it—anything to make up, at least a little, for how unprofessional this was. The coffee table in front of Aegon seemed like the best option.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, now I have to deal with her here too?” Aegon groaned, stopping the mindless tune he had been strumming and humming.

Aemond shoved his feet off the coffee table to make space for the contract.

“Well, if you hadn’t almost killed her, I could’ve had her sign it yesterday,” he shot back, barely restraining his disgust.

“Oh, come on—it was an accident! She put in just as much effort as I did to get that fucking elevator stuck,” Aegon defended himself, but Aemond wasn’t listening.

“If her presence bothers you that much, go annoy Helaena,” he said, leaning against the half-wall that separated the open kitchen from the massive living room.

“She’s editing. She doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Aegon replied, already strumming again. Lies. As if he had ever once given a shit about not disturbing people.

Aemond didn’t even have time to dwell on how irritating his brother was before his phone buzzed—Victoria was downstairs.

He made a quick sprint to the front door, pausing for some reason to adjust his hair before opening it.

“Hey,” she said the moment he let her in.

She looked tired, her fringe messy, a beer stain on her shirt.

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside to let her walk past him into the apartment.

“Thanks for suggesting this,” she started as he shut the door behind her and motioned for her to follow him down the hallway toward the living room. “Not to be shallow, but knowing that once I sign, you guys are legally required to pay me makes me feel a lot better.”

“Our father’s going to be away for a while,” Aemond lied smoothly. “He wanted to make sure everything was in order before he got back.”

She suddenly tensed up as soon as she stepped into the living room.

Who could blame her? She’d just spotted the atomic mushroom cloud.

"Hey," Victoria said to Aegon, definitely annoyed, though she was making an effort to sound diplomatic.

"Hey," he replied from the sofa, stopping mid-strum.

"Have a seat, Victoria," Aemond suggested, gesturing toward the sofa. But she hesitated, glancing at him first, then at Aegon, who was sprawled out across the cushions.

Luckily, that idiot picked up on it and got up, abandoning his guitar against the side of the sofa before moving over to the record player, disappearing behind the glass cabinet of vinyls.

Only then did Victoria sit down, picking up the contract and squinting at it. Probably nearsighted. Aemond thought glasses would suit her.

"If anything is unclear or if there’s something you want to discuss, just ask," Aemond said, settling into the armchair next to the sofa.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, still reading, pausing only to throw a couple of glances in Aegon's direction—probably annoyed by the racket he was making while messing with the vinyls.

"This might as well be written in ancient Greek. How can I be sure I’ll be properly credited when my contribution to the songs is significant?" she finally asked, not looking up.

Smart.

And cautious.

He couldn't blame her.

"I’m keeping track of all your sessions and exactly how much of your work makes it into the final album," Aemond replied, reaching back over the half-wall behind him to grab his notebook.

"I have no intention of screwing you over, if that’s what you’re thinking," he added, flipping it open and waving it slightly, hoping his smile looked convincing.

Of course, he had no intention of screwing her over. That notebook was his ultimate proof—his trump card—to show his father that if Aegon's album worked, it would be solely because of Victoria.

"And you’re free to check it anytime you want."

Victoria looked at him, impressed. She didn’t say anything, just nodded before turning her attention back to the contract. Though not before throwing another glance at Aegon, who had apparently finally found whatever the hell he was looking for.

Maybe now he'd stop making a mess while Aemond was handling things that were infinitely more important than his brother’s entire useless existence.

"Just to make sure you understand the technicalities. The label has final say on synchronization deals."

Victoria leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "Meaning?"

Aemond looked up from his notes. "Meaning, if a brand, film, or TV show wants to use one of the songs you've written, the label decides whether to approve the deal. You'll get your cut, obviously, but you won’t have the authority to say no."

Victoria's voice was flat. "So if some toothpaste brand wants to use my lyrics, I just have to suck it up?"

Aemond gave a shrug. "If a toothpaste brand is willing to pay a six-figure licensing fee, then yes." He paused, his tone turning more serious. "I did, however, ensure that any political or ethically controversial uses will require your explicit consent."

Victoria placed a hand on her chest, dramatically feigning extreme gratitude. The gesture made him laugh.

"Next," Aemond continued, shifting back to business. "The advance. You’ll receive a non-recoupable advance of twenty-five thousand."

Victoria frowned. "Non-recoupable? Are you serious?"

Aemond was matter-of-fact. "Would you rather they front you money you'd have to pay back with your own royalties? Because that’s the standard."

Victoria grumbled under her breath. "Fine. How soon do I get it?"

"Half upon signing, half once production is complete."

"And the royalties?"

"Quarterly payouts, standard processing time of sixty days post-accounting. Meaning, if the album drops in January, you'll see your first check around July."

Victoria shook her head. "I love how artists are the last ones to get paid."

Aegon let out a chuckle at that, as he got up, pulling a vinyl from its sleeve. Victoria suddenly turned her head toward him.

"That’s the industry," Aemond said dryly, trying to bring her focus back to the important matters.

Aemond continued. "Right of first refusal. If you write anything new, intended for the album, during the next eighteen months, the label gets first dibs. If they pass, you're free to shop it elsewhere."

Victoria narrowed her eyes. "So, basically, if I come up with something great, I’m stuck waiting on their approval before I can do anything with it?"

Aemond's voice was calm. "Not stuck. Just... on hold."

Victoria’s tone was flat. "Right. Totally different."

Aemond leaned in slightly, making eye contact. "You’re getting a fair deal, Victoria. Most labels would lock you in for years. I got them to limit it to eighteen months, no exclusivity after that."

Victoria scoffed. "How generous."

The sound of music filled the room, followed by the sliding door to the terrace opening and the click of a lighter. Aemond noticed Victoria turn her head again, watching Aegon at the open door, smoking and gently bobbing his head to the music. Her expression was one of someone barely containing the urge to comment, but Aemond quickly redirected her attention.

"Arrangements," he said, sliding the contract toward her and pointing. "The label and producer have full creative control."

"No," Victoria said firmly. "No way."

Aemond raised an eyebrow. "You expected to have veto power?"

Victoria crossed her arms, leaning back. "I expect to have a say. If they completely butcher my songs, I just have to live with it?"

Aemond's tone was cool. "Not completely. You'll be consulted. But final decisions on production choices—instrumentation, mixing, even lyrical edits—will rest with them."

"Why?" Victoria asked, her voice demanding an explanation.

"Because they’re investing in the album. And investments require control."

Victoria exhaled sharply, sitting back. "Wow, and you really softened this for me?"

Aemond nodded. "You should’ve seen the first draft."

"Jesus," Victoria muttered, grimacing.

Aemond smiled, then pulled out the pen he had tucked into his notebook and handed it to her.

Victoria stared at it for a moment before turning back toward Aegon. Aemond couldn’t blame her. He just hoped—desperately—that his brother, the elevator incident, and even just his presence in the room wouldn’t be enough to make her change her mind at the last second.

But then Victoria exhaled sharply and nearly snatched the pen from his hand.

“Fuck it. Better sign now, because if I think about it for another two seconds, my brain will explode,” she muttered before bending over the coffee table and finally marking the blank space at the bottom of page 26 with her name.

She had a nice signature.

Aemond felt a wave of relief crash over him, almost startled by the sheer euphoria the transaction caused him. His plan was working—despite Aegon’s best efforts to ruin his life.

When Victoria finished signing, she dropped the pen onto the table with a clatter.

“I need a cigarette. Writing my name has never been this exhausting,” she said.

Aemond smirked, pulling out his steel cigarette case and offering it to her. Victoria accepted without hesitation. He took one for himself as well and followed her toward the balcony doors, where Aegon was still smoking, staring into space, drumming his fingers against his thigh.

Aemond held out his lighter, but Victoria shook her head, showing him her own. She thanked him silently with a small nod before lighting up.

“This could be the best album of the last twenty years,” she said suddenly, looking over at Aegon.

He turned his gaze from the void to her but remained unfazed.

“I liked Junk too, but Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming is an unrepeatable masterpiece,” Aegon replied.

Aemond had no fucking clue what they were talking about.

“Literally the soundtrack of my life,” Victoria said with a smile. “Or at least, I wish it was. My life is probably way too boring for M83 to be its soundtrack.”

Aegon turned to face her fully, leaning his back against the half-open door.

“I know, right?” he said, flicking his cigarette to shake off the ash. “Those bastards make me feel a weird kind of nostalgia I don’t even understand.”

Victoria’s face lit up. She didn’t hesitate.

“Like nostalgia for a life you never lived—and probably never will?”

“Exactly! Fuck, yes! I couldn’t have said it better myself!” Aegon exclaimed, smacking her shoulder with a little too much enthusiasm.

Victoria tensed. There it was—that familiar, grating idiocy. Incapable of any kind of human interaction without being either obnoxious or excessive.

Still, she straightened, acting as if nothing had happened.

“You know how people like to theorize about what music plays in heaven?” she asked.

Aegon thought for a moment. “No doubt about it. Hoppípolla by Sigur Ros plays on an eternal loop—it’s perfect, and there’s no risk of ever getting tired of it.”

Victoria let out a sharp laugh, almost choking on her cigarette smoke in her eagerness to agree.

“FUCK! I’ve never thought about that before, but it’s perfect!”

Aemond glanced at her. She seemed genuine.

“For me, though,” Victoria continued, smirking, “Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming is what plays in purgatory.” It sounded like something she had been waiting a long time to say but had never had the chance to share.

“One hundred percent. And Lower Your Eyelids to Die With the Sun is what the universe plays the moment you’re dying,” Aegon said, grinning at her.

“Or what will play the moment the world ends,” Victoria countered.

“Oh my fucking god, Vic, dark,” Aegon chuckled.

“I know, sorry,” she said, pressing a hand to her forehead with a laugh.

“No, no, it’s perfect—I totally see your vision,” Aegon reassured her, still laughing.

Aemond had had enough.

“Do you want something to drink?” he cut in abruptly. Both Aegon and Victoria turned their heads toward him at the same time.

Victoria smiled, and Aemond felt his shoulders loosen slightly.

“On any other occasion, I’d say don’t bother,” she said, riding the high of the conversation. “But does the label, by any chance, offer me a beer as a signing bonus?”

Aemond returned the smile, nodding slightly.

“Of course.”

As he turned toward the kitchen, his brother’s obnoxious voice rang out behind him.

“Grab one for me too?”

Aemond rolled his eyes.

Fucking parasite.

He took two beers from the fridge and set them on the island, then searched for a bottle of red wine to open for himself.

Canned Guinness was disgusting.

In the background, Victoria was animatedly recounting how she had seen M83 live three times earlier that year, and Aegon mentioned that he had seen them a few years ago. He had to skip last year’s tour because he had been in rehab.

Aemond glanced up, watching for Victoria’s reaction to the mention of rehab, but she didn’t even blink. She just kept chatting cheerfully, praising the band, Anthony Gonzalez, and the same album that was still playing in the living room.

Aemond wasn’t sure how to process this sudden common ground between them. He took a moment to observe them more closely while he poured himself a glass of the finest red he had found.

Pinot Noir, 2021. Santenay Premier Cru Les Gravières.

Well, this was certainly better than having to call in the studio techs after every session because the two of them had trashed the place.

And Victoria, even if she wasn’t a professional yet, probably understood the weight of the opportunity she had been given. Maybe she was making an effort to present herself in a more mature way than his brother.

Perhaps her enthusiasm was a good thing. A sign that she was opening up—to their name, to the contract, to the possibility of signing as an artist herself.

To them. To his plan. To him.

Aemond thought back to their conversation that night at the pub. Victoria knew what it was like to have a difficult brother. Maybe she was just better than he was at dealing with lost causes.

He put the wine bottle back in the cellar. On any other occasion, the idea that someone could be better than him at anything would have annoyed him. But not this time.

This time, as he approached the two of them, still deep in conversation, he felt something closer to admiration. And when he handed Victoria her beer and she gave him a genuine smile, thanking him, the sudden shift in his stomach confirmed it.

He had bet on the right artist.

*****

Vic and Sara had, of course, met on SpareRoom.

When Vic’s old roommate announced she was leaving for Cambodia to embark on some kind of spiritual journey—one Vic had no intention of questioning, lest she get roped into yet another analysis of her dark and depressed soul—the last thing she wanted was to go through the whole ordeal of finding someone new to split the rent with.

But the moment Sara stepped through the door of the available room and made a comment about the billions of Post-it notes covering an entire wall—left behind by the hippie roommate, each one filled with aggressively positive affirmations—it became clear the search was over.

“Are you sure you weren’t living with a member of the Manson family?” Sara had said, and Vic had immediately fallen in love with her.

Beyond an absent father—and, as a result, a shared disdain for straight men—Vic and Sara also had a common passion for music, though in different forms. Sara, with her dramatic energy and the kind of presence that turned heads every time she entered a room, was destined to be an actress. She had moved to London from a small town in the North to chase her dream of making it on the West End.

Unfortunately, lacking both the malice and that particular brand of strategic evilness required to win over casting directors in non orthodox ways, she had to settle for a temporary job while waiting for her big break. Vic had been thrilled to bring her into the pub. Tony had adored her from the start—she wasn’t as efficient or precise as Vic, but she had a way of captivating customers, keeping them at the bar for hours, talking, laughing, and ordering round after round of drinks. Vic usually made them for her, just so she wouldn’t have to break the spell of whatever wild story she was weaving.

Some were fragments of real life, embellished for dramatic effect, of course. Others were completely made up, always with her as the protagonist—tales so compelling that not a single old-timer at the bar ever doubted their truth.

Vic found Sara’s lightness utterly captivating. Sometimes, she even envied her ability to avoid falling into the trap of self-sabotage. But Sara was so incredible that her magic extended even to Vic, reminding her—when Vic let her—that she, too, could choose not to self-sabotage.

Not that it always worked. Vic was stubborn, and Sara—despite what Vic might have sworn—was not actually a fairy-tale fairy.

That's why, that morning, when she saw her emerge from the alley in Leicester Square where she had disappeared—unexpectedly early and stomping furiously toward her—Vic was confused.

“What happened?” she asked, getting up from the stone bench near the Harry Potter statue. She had just bought herself a coffee, and if she’d known Sara would be out this soon, she would have grabbed one for her too.

“That absolute dickhead of a director,” Sara snapped, dropping onto the bench with enough force that Vic could swear it creaked. She wrestled with her lighter, trying to spark the cigarette dangling from her lips.

Vic raised an eyebrow and gestured for her to continue.

Sara took a deep breath, finally managing to light the cigarette. “Two minutes. Two fucking minutes of singing, and then he cuts me off. And you know what he does next? Starts grilling me with crazy questions. ‘What’s your favorite Sondheim musical?’ ‘Can you name all the Olivier Award-winning productions of the last ten years?’ ‘Do you think Andrew Lloyd Webber’s influence on modern theater is net positive or negative?’”

Vic let out a low whistle. “Jesus. Did he want you to perform or write a dissertation?”

“Right?!” Sara gestured wildly, nearly smacking Vic with her cigarette. “I mean, I love musicals. I live for this shit. But am I supposed to memorize the entire history of the West End just to prove I can belt out a song?”

Vic took a sip of her coffee, nodding. “Honestly, sounds like he was just stroking his own ego.”

“Oh, it gets better.” Sara leaned forward, eyes blazing. “So after this interrogation, he asks me to do a cold read of a monologue. Fine, whatever. I start reading, and halfway through, he’s looking at his phone. His fucking phone, Vic. Didn’t even try to hide it. And then—then—when I finish, he just sits there for a second like he forgot I existed and goes, ‘Hmm. Do you have any dance experience?’”

Vic blinked. “Dance experience? Was that even in the audition brief?”

“Of course not! If it was, I wouldn’t have dragged my ass out of bed at six a.m. to get there on time!” Sara threw up her hands. “So I tell him, ‘Well, I can move. I mean, I’m not a trained ballerina, but I can handle choreography.’ And he does this face, Vic. Like I just told him I had tuberculosis.”

Vic exhaled sharply through her nose. “Pretentious wanker.”

“Right? And then he goes, ‘Hmm. That’s a shame. This role requires someone with a strong dance background.’ And I’m sitting there thinking, then why the fuck did you call me in?”

“That’s some next-level bullshit,” Vic muttered.

“Oh, we’re not done yet,” Sara said, voice dripping with venom. “Because then, after all that, after treating me like a goddamn TED Talk on musical theater and deciding I wasn’t ‘dancy’ enough for a role that, mind you, had no mention of dance in the casting call, you know what he says?”

Vic could already tell she wasn’t going to like the answer. “What?”

Sara took a long drag of her cigarette, exhaled, and then mimicked the director’s voice with exaggerated smugness: “‘You’re very pretty, but I just don’t think you’re the right fit.’”

Vic’s grip on her cup tightened. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah. Yeah. As if that was ever relevant. Like, what does that even mean? Should I just accept my fate and become a decorative prop on stage?”

“You should’ve told him you’d love to discuss it further over dinner and then stabbed him with a salad fork,” Vic muttered.

Sara snorted, finally exhaling a long stream of smoke. “Don’t tempt me.”

For a moment, they just sat there, the noise of Leicester Square filling the silence between them.

Then Vic nudged her. “Listen. That guy’s an asshole, but you are good. You know that, right?”

Sara gave a half-hearted shrug.

“And auditions are bullshit. Half the time, they don’t even know what they’re looking for until they see it. Maybe you weren’t what he had in mind, but that doesn’t mean you’re not talented. It just means he’s got shit taste.”

"He has shit everything," Sara muttered under her breath, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. She looked like a sulking child, but there was no mistaking the exhaustion in her voice. Her big green eyes, usually so full of fire, were dulled by disappointment, and something about it made Vic’s chest tighten.

Vic refused to let her sit in that feeling.

An idea sparked in her mind, and she nudged Sara’s knee with her own. “Well, at least you’ve got the rest of the day free, right?” she said, her voice deliberately light.

Sara sighed, still staring at the ground. “Yeah. And to think, I actually believed I’d make it to the second round. What an idiot.”

Vic’s stomach twisted. She knew that voice. The one that picked at you from the inside, kicking you when you were already down.

"Sara..." she said, her tone firm but gentle. A warning.

Sara huffed, like she already knew what was coming, but Vic caught the way her fingers tightened around the cigarette.

“Come to the studio with me,” Vic suggested, tilting her head toward her.

Sara scoffed. “Oh, come on, Vic. I don’t want to get in your way while you deal with your—what’s the word?—oh yeah, tormentors.”

Vic rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “Nonsense. Fuck them. I’m not leaving you alone, not even for the ridiculously overpriced contract I signed the other night.”

That seemed to snap Sara out of it. Her whole face lit up, a little of the usual spark flickering back in her eyes. “Alright then! But we’re taking the stairs.”

Vic laughed, shaking her head as she downed the last sip of her coffee. “Of course we are.”

Once they arrived, Vic was surprised to find both brothers already in the studio, ready for the session.

“Morniiiiing,” she greeted, tiptoeing in with a guilty expression, hoping they wouldn’t make a fuss about Sara joining them that morning.

If either of them dared to make her feel unwelcome—especially today, of all days—she was fully prepared to smack them both over the head with one of Viserys Targaryen’s ridiculously expensive semi-acoustic guitars.

Both of them turned sharply as Vic shut the door behind Sara. It was obvious that Aemond was holding back a comment, sitting on the usual sofa with his ever-present notebook at his side, though he still managed to shoot her one of those disapproving looks he usually reserved for Aegon. Vic ignored him and turned her attention to Aegon, who pushed his sunglasses up from the bridge of his nose to the top of his head.

“Morning, princess,” he chirped, totally unfazed by the unexpected guest, before going back to lazily strumming the Telecaster slung over his shoulder.

“You remember Sara, right?” Vic said casually, dropping her bag on the sofa next to Aemond’s notebook and rummaging through it.

“Of course. The very single one,” Aegon replied with a chuckle.

Vic rolled her eyes, already gearing up to tell him off, but then she heard Sara answer, amused, “Indeed,” and decided to let it go—for now. At least Sara didn’t seem uncomfortable.

“This is supposed to be a closed session,” Aemond said sharply, almost under his breath, leaning toward Vic. She paused just long enough to meet his gaze.

“Sara’s an amazing singer. Her input could be valuable. And she’s excellent at keeping secrets,” Vic replied evenly, unbothered by the reprimand. She turned to Sara as if to confirm, and Sara wordlessly ran a hand across her lips, miming locking them shut.

Vic grinned before going back to digging through her bag.

“If we’re making this about who belongs here and who doesn’t,” Aegon chimed in, “I’ve explained to you multiple times that your presence in this studio unsettles me and distracts me from the delicate artistic process we’re engaged in, but you’ve never given a single shit about that.”

His tone was meant to sound serious, but it was unintentionally hilarious.

“Well, I am the artistic producer,” Aemond shot back icily.

“Really? That’s the first time I hear that,” Aegon replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Vic finally found what she was looking for, pulled out a book, and walked over to Aegon.

“Here, Pete Davidson,” she said, handing it to him.

Aegon frowned in confusion, taking the book from her hands. “What’s this?”

“Sweet Anticipation by David Huron. Completely changed the way I think about songwriting. You might like it,” she explained.

Aegon looked up from the cover and smiled at her.

Vic felt her face suddenly flush, cursing herself for not thinking ahead. Because, of course, along with this purely professional gesture, there had to come his gratitude. And probably—no, definitely—one of those damn perfectly white, 32-tooth smiles.

The “Thanks,” he said, sincere and warm, hit her like a grand piano falling from the sky, forcing her to get as far away from him as possibile.

She made a noise—one that, in her head, was supposed to mean “Don’t mention it”—before promptly turning on her heel and making a beeline for the piano.

“It’s a shame Aegon can’t read,” Aemond remarked caustically, clearly pleased with himself as he flipped open his notebook.

“What a mean thing to say,” Sara chimed in suddenly, gracefully throwing herself onto the sofa beside him.

Aemond shot her a baffled look, while Vic had to bite back a laugh. Yep—bringing Sara had been an excellent idea.

“You tell him, very single Sara,” Aegon said absentmindedly, still focused on the Telecaster as he resumed strumming.

“We’re brothers. This is normal,” Aemond replied, composing himself like he was explaining a basic life lesson to a first grader. He turned to Sara expectantly.

“I’m an only child,” she said defiantly.

“That explains it,” he declared flatly, giving her a once-over and then flipping through his notebook as if nothing had happened.

Sara ignored him right back, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, glancing between Aegon and Vic, who was settling in at the piano.

“So, what’s the plan for today? Completely break the elevator? Full building blackout? Plague of locusts?” she asked, a little too on edge.

Unfortunately, since she only ever heard about these sessions secondhand from Vic, she had no idea how mind-numbingly boring they could actually get.

Aegon snorted, and Vic echoed his amusement—earning them both yet another withering side-eye from Aemond.

“I was actually thinking of starting with your song,” Vic said, looking at Aegon.

He froze for a second, clearly not expecting that.

Vic noticed him swallow—not that she had been looking at him, his neck or the glimpse of his chest visible through his half-unbuttoned shirt or anything.

And fuck, it wasn’t her fault he wore an entire goddamn jewelry store around his neck that jingled every time he moved his head, or that his tattoos were right there.

By the time she’d finished her entirely inappropriate and unprofessional train of thought, Aegon had already recovered from his initial surprise.

“Sure,” he answered—sharp, steady, and, surprisingly, proud.

Vic settled her hands on the piano keys, trying to ignore the strange heat creeping up the back of her neck. It was fine. Completely fine.

Aegon adjusted his guitar strap and tapped the Telecaster’s body, his gaze flicking toward her. “Alright, so where were we?”

“You tell me,” Vic said, tilting her head—giving him the reins.

Aegon tentatively strummed the progression with that tweak Vic had suggested the day of the elevator incident, then fell into the progression like muscle memory. Vic followed, pressing into the keys as if the melody had been waiting there the whole time.

Aegon’s strumming stuttered for half a second. He shot her a quick look—half surprised, half impressed—but didn’t say anything. Just kept playing, adjusting to her seamlessly.

Something twisted in Vic’s stomach. She ignored it.

“Oh, that works,” Sara murmured from the sofa, sounding about 40% invested in the song and 60% invested in watching them.

Aemond made a noise that could have meant I approve or I hate this. Impossible to tell.

But Vic wasn’t paying attention to either of them. She was watching Aegon, who was watching her, both unconsciously shifting to match the other.

Well. That was new.

“You should bring the second verse up sooner,” she said, unwilling to acknowledge whatever the hell was happening here.

Aegon arched a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She played under the line, letting the shift settle into place.

Aegon adjusted immediately, picking it up without hesitation.

Too easy. Too easy.

And then he smirked, because of course he did. “Damn, princess. That’s good.”

Vic gathered all the coolness she could muster. “I know.

Aegon laughed, and for some reason, it made her want to throw something at him. Or maybe kiss him. Or maybe just slam the piano lid shut and walk out.

Suddenly, it was fun. She liked how he adjusted his rhythm to fit hers, how she let him lead without losing herself in it.

She scowled at the keys like it was their fault.

Vic cleared her throat. “Again. From the top.”

Aegon’s grin widened. “Bossy.”

“Shut up and play.”

And he did.

And, annoyingly, it was good. Again.

So they ran through it again. And again.

And okay—maybe Vic was enjoying this a little too much. Professionally, obviously. Because she wasn’t used to sharing the creative process. She had never even done it with Charlie, and yet suddenly this fucking nepo baby just got it—adjusting on instinct, following her changes without hesitation, pushing back just enough to make the song better.

It was infuriatingly natural. And fun.

Not that she was going to tell him that.

After the third run-through, she cut him off mid-chorus. “Okay, this—this actually works.”

Aemond, still unreadable, tapped his pen against his notebook. “The progression is solid. The chorus sticks. But the lyrics in the bridge could be stronger.”

Aegon groaned, flopping back dramatically. “Fucking knew you were gonna say that.”

Then, with the expression of a teenager forced to leave a party too soon, irritation flickering in his eyes, he shrugged. “Alright, genius. Fix it.” He said, turning to Vic.

“You’re fixing it with me,” she shot back, pointing at him.

Aegon stared at her for a second, like he hadn’t quite understood. “Yes, ma’am.”

They leaned over his notebook, which rested on his amp. Vic tapped the page with the end of his pen. “The phrasing’s off. You’re stuffing too many syllables into the first line.”

“Oh, I’m stuffing too many syllables?” Aegon repeated, feigning offense.

“Yes,” Vic said flatly.

He put a hand over his heart. “Unbelievable. Insulted in my own studio.”

“Not your studio,” Aemond muttered.

Aegon ignored him. “Alright, fine. Where do we cut it?”

Vic hummed the bridge under her breath, fingers drumming against her knee. “Here, I think.” She pointed to a section and crossed out a couple of words.

Aegon narrowed his eyes at it. “That works, but now the second line feels unbalanced.” He tapped the notebook. “What if we stretched it out here?”

Vic considered it, adjusting the words, shifting the stress on the syllables.

She couldn’t help but glance at him from her vantage point standing while he remained seated, the Telecaster in his lap like a brick wall between them—yet not nearly enough to keep the electricity of his proximity at bay.

He was focused, slipping off his sunglasses and setting them on the amp, running a hand through his hair. His dedication to what they were doing was, without a doubt, the most attractive thing about his already perfect face.

Vic had to snap out of it.

She tested the new bridge under her breath.

Aegon nodded. “Yeah, that flows better. But—” He hesitated. “The last line’s still missing something. Needs a sharper hook.”

Vic glanced at him. Serious. Focused. Not performing.

“Okay,” she said, softer now. “What about this?”

She muttered a phrase, half-formed, and Aegon caught onto it instantly, tweaking it, flipping the words just enough to make them hit harder.

They both paused. Looked at the notebook. Looked at each other.

The electricity had just turned into the blackout Sara had been hoping for moments earlier.

That worked.

Aegon tested it, letting the words slip into the melody, adjusting his grip on the guitar as if he already knew how it was supposed to sound.

And Vic—felt it. The way their instincts locked together like it had always been there, waiting.

Well. That was dangerous.

Vic cleared her throat and turned to Aemond. “See? Stronger.”

Aemond, who—thankfully—didn’t seem to have noticed whatever that had been, nodded slowly. “It’s an improvement.”

Vic ignored all of it. “Alright. Again.” She all but ran toward the piano.

Aegon, still watching her, huffed a quiet laugh.

Then he nodded, adjusting his grip on the guitar.

They ran through it once more, and this time, it was perfect.

The song settled into place like it had always been meant to be there, like they hadn’t just stitched it together minutes ago. The whole thing locked into rhythm, effortless, inevitable.

Aegon played the last chord, let it ring out, then exhaled sharply.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “That’s it.”

Vic, heartbeat unreasonably fast, forced herself to act normal. “Took you long enough.”

Aegon shot her a look—half amused, half something else—but didn’t argue.

From the sofa, Sara let out a slow breath.

Vic turned to her and—oh.

Sara was grinning, wide-eyed, unable to look away from them like she had just witnessed something borderline supernatural.

Vic frowned. “What?”

Sara glanced between the two of them, then turned to Aemond, her voice equal parts amused and stunned.

“Are they always like this?”

Aemond, who had spent the entire session watching with careful scrutiny, didn’t answer immediately.

He just blinked once. Then, in a voice far more controlled than his expression:

“No.”

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