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Viserys holds together a fractured kingdom.
It is like trying to rebuild a castle of broken glass. A constant cutting and scoring of his hands, a fruitless endeavour. He bleeds all over the floor, and he is ever courteous as he does it, hands clasped behind his back, smile chiselled upon his face, a perfect statue of duty.
No complaint would ever fall from his lips. He is the Hand of the King, and he will do what needs to be done.
There is a comfort in traversing the route from the Tower of the Hand to Maegor's Holdfast. Something steady, brick echoing below his feet. Down the stairs, then up, spiralling around. Into the cool night air, over the drawbridge where they had once enacted a siege of silence. Through quiet corridors, and then outside the King’s Chambers, nodding to the Kingsguard who are stationed outside the door.
They nod back. They are used to Viserys’s presence. He is both the Hand, and the brother of the king — the only person he allows into his chambers, now. They let him in without question, the door barely opened as he slips through.
Aegon stands with his back to him, hands clasped behind, still dressed in his dinner finery. His slim crown sits upon his brow, and there is an untouched platter of food sitting on the table in the centre of the room. All the candles are lit — the room is entirely ablaze.
Viserys shuts the door behind him. It closes with a soft thud.
“Brother,” he says. Aegon turns — the sorrow caught around the corners of his eyes softens for a moment.
“Viserys.”
He still looks at me as if I am a ghost, Viserys thinks. Still one of the dead he counted for years on end.
He has been back at court for over half a decade. He wonders when it will cease, or if this is to be forever his curse.
“Dinner has been dealt with,” Viserys says. He knows he needn’t elaborate. Aegon trusts that Viserys will handle everything — including his hasty departure — and Viserys ensures that trust is not misplaced. It is the least he can do.
Aegon inclines his head. Thank you.
“Have you eaten?” Viserys continues. Aegon shrugs a shoulder.
Viserys frowns. He looks to the platter. There is a hunk of bread along with a soup that is by no doubt lukewarm at best. The pitcher of wine is untouched, and the honey from the meats has begun to congeal on the metal.
“Come,” Viserys says. He crosses the room and sits on the chaise lounge, dividing out the contents of the platter. Aegon sits mutely beside him.
The first dozen times they had done this there had been wariness. Aegon had watched him like a cornered animal, afraid of the tricks that might be played.
Viserys understood. The boy he had shared his childhood bedroom with was gone. He had died on the ship’s deck, and a broken man had fled on Stormcloud’s back.
He understands, too, that he is the only person in the world that knows what it is like to hold Aegon's trust.
“Here,” Viserys says. He hands Aegon the bowl of soup. Then, he tears off a chunk of bread — it is still soft despite sitting out for some hours — and dips it into the liquid. Aegon does not protest as Viserys feeds it to him. He only watches. Swallows. Waits patiently.
“Imagine if the lords saw this,” Viserys jokes, as he tears another piece of bread. A drop of soup falls in Aegon’s beard as he eats. Viserys wipes it away with his thumb.
“They would not understand,” Aegon says.
“They would not,” Viserys echoes. It is a special thing to have his brother allow this of him. No-one can get this close. No-one else can see this.
“They already think me incompetent,” Aegon says. “How much worse can it get?”
“They are wrong,” Viserys says. “Though I’m sure you know this.”
Aegon shrugs, again. His crown glints like molten gold in the candlelight. “Half the realm resents me for not allowing them to use me as a puppet. The other half resents me for squandering our house’s power.”
“You did nothing wrong,” Viserys says. “The usurpers shattered the realm. Mother and Father fought their hardest to hold it together.”
Aegon’s face hardens. Viserys touches the back of his hand to his cheek, and Aegon recedes further.
It is difficult. Sometimes the mention of their parents is enough to lift Aegon’s gloom. Other days it is this — a reminder of the war, and what was ripped from them by their uncles. Father is at the bottom of the Gods Eye. Mother is in the belly of a dragon. All their brothers are dead, and their sisters have long since married.
All they have is each other.
Aegon finishes the bread in silence. He drinks the soup from the bowl, then places it back down on the table, still half full. When Viserys goes to hand him the plate of meat, Aegon pushes it away.
“I am finished for the night,” he says.
Viserys does not like seeing his brother eat so little, but he knows it is fruitless to argue. “Do you wish to retire?”
Aegon nods. “Please,” he says, soft.
He stands. Viserys stands with him, and they move to his bedchamber, stopping beside one of the many low tables piled with untouched tomes. Viserys resists the urge to wipe the dust from the covers with his palm, and instead turns to his brother.
Aegon is watching him. It’s rare for him to make eye contact — rarer still for him to hold it — and yet here he is; steady, cool. Gazing at Viserys as Viserys takes his hand in his — gentle, stroking his palm with his fingertips — and begins to remove his rings.
“How fares the realm?” Aegon asks. Ever the dutiful king. Viserys knows his brother is not disinterested in the throne. He knows he cares deeply for his subjects. He knows it pains him when he is forced to withdraw from court and send Viserys in his stead.
He knows, too, how the darkness that has latched onto Aegon’s neck drains him dry.
“As well as it can be,” Viserys answers. “Lord Arryn wishes to entertain you when you are available. I doubt he will linger at court for long.”
“I will meet him on the morrow,” Aegon says. “I have not forgotten the Vale’s loyalty to my mother, nor their kindness to my siblings.”
Viserys smiles. It is always an awe to him to see the warmth still in his brother's heart. The loyalty he holds. They had never been to the Vale, but it had been the previous lady of the Eyrie who had done all in her power to aid their mother's side in the civil war.
Aegon would not forget. He would never forget.
“Very good,” Viserys says.
“What else?”
“They found Dark Sister.”
“Oh?”
Viserys had received the news two days before, but had tarried to present it to the King. He knew mention of both their father's death and dragons would be prone to affecting Aegon's mood, and decided it was best not drive him into further gloom.
“The tales of the smallfolk were true,” Viserys says. He begins to unbutton Aegon's doublet, careful not to apply too much pressure against his body. “They found Vhagar’s bones washed ashore on the Gods Eye, and chained to her saddle was Prince Aemond. Dark Sister had been driven straight through his skull. It seems Father really did slay him in the air.”
He tries to keep his voice neutral, though there is a triumph in it. They keep the tales of their parents close. Father, especially, carries a legacy larger than life.
Even now it is hard to equate Daemon Targaryen — the king's brother, the man they called the rogue prince — with Daemon Targaryen, the man who had sat Viserys on his knee at dinner and told him tales of sea dragons and Valyrian magic.
Aegon's frown deepens. He waits patiently as Viserys removes the crown from his brow. “And the sword?”
“The blade is fine. Valyrian Steel keeps. The hilt has rusted, and the smithy will have to replace it. Fortunately the original design is largely intact, so the pattern will be able to be replicated. There will be little change.”
“Fortunate,” Aegon echoes. He holds his arms out and allows Viserys to remove his doublet. Viserys folds the garment, then places it on a velvet footstool.
“Most fortunate. The blueprints of its forging were long lost in the Doom.”
“When it is restored, would you have it?”
Viserys pauses, fingers brushing against the collar of Aegon's shirt. He meets his eyes, and finds no mockery within them. Just a cool curiosity.
“You should save it for someone more deserving than me,” Viserys says. He resumes his duties carefully, removing Aegon’s gold-linked dragon necklace. “I am not particularly accomplished, nor do I consider swordplay to be one of my areas of expertise.”
“You are a fine warrior,” Aegon says. “Dragon blood runs thick in your veins. If you will not take her, then I will decree it. As your King, I say Dark Sister belongs to you.”
“You honour me,” Viserys murmurs. His hands shake as he unties Aegon's undershirt and pushes it from his shoulders. His expectation was that Dark Sister would hang on the wall somewhere. He had never imagined it to be his.
(In his head, the sword still has an owner. In his head there is a note of finality in him taking it on. As if he hopes, somehow, that their father might still crawl out of the Gods Eye and embrace them once more. As if he hopes he can restore a glimmer of Aegon's happiness.
Stupid, childish boy.)
“It is what you deserve,” Aegon says. “I would have named you my Kingsguard had you not already been married.”
“The white cloak does not suit me,” Viserys says. The mention of Larra leaves a strange ache in him. He's not really sure he even knew her — only the misery she wallowed within, uprooted from her home.
It had been an ever-present chill on his heart to let her go. No-one stays. No-one has ever stayed.
(Even Aegon had left, once.)
“The Gods saw fit to return you to me,” Aegon says. “I only wish for you to remain by my side, now.”
“If it must be so,” Viserys says, “then we will draw our last breath together. I will not leave you again.”
“Thank you,” Aegon murmurs. He turns his face to the side to stare at the floor, and Viserys finishes undressing him in muted silence. A quiet intimacy, a strange thing that swells between them; beautiful in the way only something so easily shattered can be.
One wrong move and it could be broken forever, and yet it is this fleeting nature that makes it all the more special. Like spun sugar and delicate glass, like a baby bird, held between gentle palms.
When Aegon stands bare before him, Viserys hands him his bedclothes. They too — like everything he owns — are black.
“You wish to dress yourself?”
“Yes,” Aegon says. He is ghostly pale. Viserys resists the urge to lay his hand on his bare skin, and instead retreats with a short nod.
Routines. Rituals. Things they've chased a hundred times before. Viserys knows how to draw his brother from his shell. He knows how to ease him along.
He hopes he can show him how he is loved.
Aegon does not say anything when he finishes dressing. He merely retreats to his bed, and looks to Viserys to follow.
For Viserys there is no need to disrobe. He merely removes his boots and his belt, and climbs into bed beside his brother, already dressed in clothes suitable for sleep.
They lay beside each other. Face to face, Aegon curled in on himself
Viserys places a palm on Aegon’s cheek. When Aegon doesn’t react, he mirrors the gesture with the other, holding Aegon’s face delicately between his hands. Aegon stares at him — eyes wide and dark. A delicate, impossible kind of trust.
He knows only he will ever earn this. Aegon will never trust anyone again — only the one he knew before his world splintered into a thousand shards of glass. All those nights spent on Dragonstone, curled up in each other’s beds. All the secrets they told each other. All the times they snuck out, Viserys’s slender hand in Aegon’s chubby fist. Sitting on the balcony picking out the shapes in the stars. After Father had shown them the secret paths through the dragonmont it was there they would play. Hot earth and sticky dirt, black glass glittering on the ceilings.
(It was there that Aegon pressed a childish kiss to Viserys’s lips, and promised that he’d never leave him.)
(It broke him. Viserys knows it broke him. He knows it broke him because it broke Viserys, too.)
“You are just like your father and his brother,” Mother would always tell them, when she found them together, covered in soot and mud. "Naught but trouble."
Aegon would smile sheepishly. Father would pinch their ears, and ruffle their hair with his large hands.
“Look after each other,” he’d say, and Viserys had always thought he’d sounded a little sad. “To care for your blood is what is most important.”
He does not know whether to laugh or not, knowing what he knows now.
“You appear pensive,” Aegon says. Viserys startles. It’s rare for Aegon to speak without being spoken to first. Rarer still for the strange amusement in his tone.
“Just thinking,” Viserys says.
Aegon nuzzles against his palm. He raises his eyebrows, questioning.
“About how Father always told us to look after each other,” Viserys elaborates.
“This is what this is, is it not?”
“It is,” Viserys says, no bother to hide the half truth of the statement.
“You keep me strong,” Aegon says. He closes his eyes, and Viserys misses them in an instant. ”It was the worst years of my life thinking you dead by my hand.”
“You did what you had to to survive.” There is no shame in that. This Viserys knows. “I did too. They kept everything from me. I spent years in Lys only hearing that it was Aegon that sat the throne, not knowing if it was you or the usurper. I prayed every day that my egg might hatch, so that I would be brought back to you. I didn't know where you were. I just knew my dragon would know my heart, and my heart would find you.”
“Ah,” Aegon says. He breathes out long and slow. “That sounds like a maiden's tale.”
Viserys flushes. He's glad Aegon isn't looking at him now. “Good Queen Alysanne said something similar, yes…”
“Do you think yourself my sister-wife?” Aegon says. He opens an eye. He's teasing. A tender laughter bubbles up Viserys's throat.
“I think myself your brother, and your Hand.”
There is a warmth in him. Viserys leans in and presses his lips to his brother's bare brow.
“Mine own blood,” he says.
“Mine own blood,” Aegon echoes. He covers Viserys's hand with his. His skin is dry and cool. “Would you kiss me?”
Viserys smiles. “The king does not need to ask for permission,” he says, even as he adjusts himself on the mattress. He is careful not to touch Aegon anywhere except for his face. Unsure yet how far this might lead them, knowing any kind of physical intimacy is an immense barrier to be crossed.
He presses a light kiss to Aegon's lips. Hovers, breath soft against his skin. Aegon strokes the back of his hand, then kisses him back, similarly light. Small, innocent pecks. No more than brushes of mouths together. Still, Aegon's breath quickens.
“Kiss me as if I was your wife,” he says.
“None of that.”
“Kiss me as if you wish to bed me, then.”
“I do,” Viserys says, and then he clarifies: “I do wish to bed you.”
Aegon purses his lips. “You deserve better.”
“You are my brother.”
It's simple. More of an explanation than a thousand words could be. Aegon is his brother — all that he has left. Surely he will understand.
“Show me, then.”
“Are you sure?”
Aegon's eyes are so dark they are near black. Viserys knows it to be not arousal, but merely a trick of the light. Deep purple may look like ink under the candlelight, after all.
“More than I have ever been.”
Viserys lets it take him over. Arousal, rippling, quivering. Spreading out from between his legs, like the branches of a web. Like lava flowing through rock. Unstoppable.
“Okay,” he says. He takes Aegon's hand in his, and holds it tight. He kisses him again, firmer. “Here,” he whispers. Close mouthed. Easing him into it, slow as can be.
No rush, no rush. A sharpness of breath. Aegon squeezes his hand tight, and he is strong and real. He keeps kissing Viserys. Following him. Mirroring him. Nudging their noses together, sharing their breath.
Viserys likes this. He has always liked this. He will never tire of the awe that takes him in having Aegon’s trust, in the way it fills him up.
They share everything. Their blood, their bed. Their bodies, their birthright. The throne was made for two. Their hearts were made for two. Two inseparable boys ripped apart by war, now two men with a shattered kingdom in their palms. Viserys strokes Aegon’s cheek, and Aegon shakily deepens the kiss.
He chases. Takes the permission and opens up. Aegon hisses, and Viserys freezes for a second, before he realises Aegon has shuffled closer, and then heat explodes through him. Anticipation, lust, a wild little creature. He is but a mortal man, after all.
Normally this is as far as they go. Aegon hesitantly licking into his mouth, and Viserys allowing him so. Sometimes Aegon will press their clothed bodies together, but it never goes further. Viserys always aches after, and Aegon must know what he’s doing when he excuses himself for a moment but — it is as Aegon wishes, and it is better for Viserys not to sleep with a hard cock.
And of Aegon’s wishes —
“Lie on top of me,” he says, then, softer: “Please.”
“No need to plead,” Viserys says. He kisses Aegon once more, then disentangles himself from his limbs. Aegon rolls onto his back, and Viserys climbs on top of him, bumping his knee against Aegon’s thigh as he does so. Aegon gives a tiny smile in response.
“Okay?” he asks. Aegon nods.
“Fine.” He rests a hand on Viserys’s thigh. “Come back here, brother.”
Viserys laughs. Aegon’s eyes dance.
He leans in, and allows his weight to settle on Aegon’s thighs. When Aegon does not protest he lowers himself down, bracing himself on his elbow and leaning to the side. He brushes his lips against Aegon’s cheek, then his jaw, then the corner of his mouth. Pauses, listening to the ragged anticipation in his brother’s breath.
“Kiss my lips,” Aegon says. “I told you. Kiss me as if you wish to bed me.”
“Are you that impatient?” Viserys teases.
“Perhaps,” Aegon says. He turns his face to the side and kisses Viserys on the mouth. “Perhaps I desire you. Perhaps I am beholden to my desires.”
It strikes Viserys as an echo. Like father, like son. Like brother, like brother.
“Are you ashamed?”
Aegon pauses. His breath fans across Viserys’s mouth, their lips brushing together as he speaks. “I feel as if I should be.”
“But are you?”
Anticipation thrums the air.
“Yes,” he says, shaky. “But not enough to stop.”
There is a gentleness to it all. Tender hold that threatens to swallow Viserys whole. His heart is raw and full of ache, and melancholy drapes Aegon like a burial shroud.
Still, he presses kisses to his mouth from beyond the veil.
They kiss for some time. Tangled up in each other, body melting into body. Aegon is warm beneath him, and his arousal is obvious, his hardness pressing insistent against Viserys’s thigh. He keeps shifting, edging closer, then withdrawing, as if he’s still unsure. Viserys tries to soothe it, peppering kisses across his face and jaw before returning to his mouth, murmuring to him about how good he is.
He is good. He is so good, and Viserys has wanted this for so long. He drinks in of him, tastes him, presses against him, and Aegon touches him in return. One hand on his shoulder, the other fixed in his hair. Light, unsure.
“Do you want more?” Viserys asks. He kisses Aegon’s cheek, then props himself up on his elbow once more.
Aegon turns his head to the side. He stares at him, dark eyed, hair falling over his face. He is exceedingly handsome — far more than Viserys could ever dream of being. Far more than any man in the realm. The pure blood of Valyria, through and through.
“I—” he starts. It catches. His lips shine with spit. “Yes.”
His voice is exceedingly soft, low. Crawling through Viserys.
Viserys nods. “Would you like me to use my mouth, or my hand?” he asks. He aches so much he thinks he might shatter — his entire body taut like the steel string of a harp.
“What feels best for you?” Aegon asks, instantly. Viserys holds his burdens. He holds his choices, he eases the anxiety away from him.
“I want to do what’s best for you,” Viserys says. They’re still staring each other in the eyes. “Tell me what you want.”
Aegon breathes in. He’s flushed red, like spilled wine. Quite beautiful. Viserys reaches out, tentatively, and touches his crotch, feeling the shape of his erection through the loose fabric of his bedclothes.
“This?” he asks. He licks his lips, then noses at Aegon’s cheek. Aegon tilts his head to kiss him, biting light at his bottom lip.
Viserys hums into the kiss. Feels him out, stroking along his length in slow motions.
“This is good,” Aegon says. His breath is hot, brushing Viserys’s skin like tiny bird’s wings. “I — I like this.”
“Would you like me to take you out of your clothes?”
Aegon nods. His gaze wanders away, then snaps back as Viserys takes him in hand — raw, flesh on flesh. Warm, soft, slick with fluid. Viserys presses another kiss to his lips, and another, stroking him.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs. He brushes the tips of their noses together, and Aegon chases him for another kiss.
“I—” he starts. Hitching. He sounds beautiful, unfurling like a night-blooming flower, a delicateness only revealed under such rare light.
A delicateness only for Viserys. He is the king’s keeper — his brother’s keeper. His brother’s love. He’ll make him safe. He’ll hold him together, for however long he needs.
“It’s okay,” Viserys says. His heart feels so full it is fit to burst, spilling over with warmth. He looks down, in the narrow gap between their bodies, and beholds the way Aegon looks in his grip — the head of his cock peeking in and out as he thrusts into Viserys’s hand.
There’s an eroticism in it — sure — but mostly there’s just Viserys’s blood singing. This is how the two of them were always meant to be. They are each other’s. They are everything.
Another kiss from Aegon. A whimper, as Viserys uses his thumb to apply pressure on the upstroke.
“Brother,” Aegon says. His voice shakes. “Can you…”
“Would you like me to use my mouth?” he asks, not sure if it’s wishful thinking. Thankfully, Aegon nods.
He leaves him with a kiss on the lips, then shuffles down the bed, repositioning the two of them, nudging Aegon on his back with a light touch of his hips. His heart pounds. He’s all laid out before him — cock red and shining with slickness, nestled in the thatch of silvery-gold hair at his crotch. Viserys holds him in hand once more and licks along the length of him, and the noise Aegon makes is beautiful — all whimpery and high, keening with desire.
He takes him into his mouth.
Aegon’s hands fall on him. One in his hair, light, the other on his shoulder. Reaching out, touching him. Viserys meets his eyes, and lifts his hand. Touches Aegon’s wrist, then slides down, tangling their fingers together and squeezing tight in reassurance. Arousal flickers across Aegon’s face, and Viserys slides down the length of him, sucking, using his tongue to lick as he does so.
It’s awkward, and a lot of coordination, and Viserys truly has no idea what he’s doing, but he has always been exceptional at nearly everything he has applied himself to. And his brother’s pleasure — well. This is the greatest motivator of all. The taste of him, the sound of him. His sweaty palm clutched in his, the musk of him flooding his nostrils. The way his cock sits in his mouth. Viserys rubs himself against the bed, and he sucks at Aegon, listening to the harsh pant of his breath, watching the way he stares down at him.
Aegon warns Viserys of his imminent finish with a squeeze of his hand. His eyes flutter shut, and Viserys pulls off, bringing him to completion with his hand, marvelling at the way Aegon’s back arches as he reaches completion. His hips lift off the bed and he spills all over Viserys’s hand — warm, wet, dripping onto his stomach and the hair at the base of his cock, going for considerably longer than Viserys had expected.
He collapses. Back into the mattress, breath heavy, his exposed chest red and heaving.
Viserys licks his spend from his hand and watches Aegon, fond, still aching in his smallclothes.
“Shit,” Aegon says, when he opens his eyes, and Viserys can’t help but let out a laugh. His brother does not curse often. It sounds almost comical coming out of his mouth.
“Gods,” he says. He groans, then gazes up at Viserys, all pliant and fucked out. “I would like to watch you—” he gestures, awkward, his face already blushed deep red. “If you want to, of course.”
Viserys nods. He can’t stop staring at Aegon. He takes himself out with hands still sticky with Aegon’s spend, and heat shoots through as he sees Aegon stare at his cock. Gaze flicking back and forth between the stroke of his hand and his face. Eyes lidded, humming, still somehow the most intense thing Viserys has ever experienced in his life.
Aegon reaches out and presses his pointer against the underside of Viserys’s cock, and it all slams into Viserys. He spills without warning, onto Aegon’s hand, onto his own hand, a small amount landing on the bedsheets.
“I’ll be just a moment,” he says, as he returns to his body. His thighs shake as he stands, head fuzzy and his vision slightly blurry. He pours water into a small washbasin, then returns, blowing out the candles as he does, until it is only the ones beside the bed that remain. He dips the cloth into the water then wrings it out, until he’s satisfied it won’t drip everywhere.
“Sorry, it’s cold,” he warns, as he dabs at Aegon’s stomach — porcelain pale, coated in fine, downy hair.
Aegon just hums. He just lays in the pillows and watches. Viserys cleans him up, then retrieves his trousers and helps him pull them back on, tucking his soft cock back inside and then tugging his shirt down — not before pressing a feather light kiss to his belly.
“Okay?” Viserys asks, as he wipes down his hand. Aegon nods.
“Okay,” he echoes. His voice is rough. He reaches out for Viserys as Viserys lays back down, and pulls him close, tucking himself against Viserys’s chest. Viserys presses a kiss to the crown of his head.
“Did you really…?” Aegon asks, after a few moments of muted silence.
“Hmmm?”
“W— wish to bed me.”
Viserys’s lips press against Aegon’s soft, fine hair. “I would never lie to you,” he says. “Not about that.”
Aegon breathes out, long and steady. “Okay,” he says. He nuzzles against Viserys. This kind of physical contact is exceedingly rare, Aegon’s touch aversion often all consuming.
It’s a gift to see him like this. His walls pulled down, pliant and gentle.
“Would you do it again?”
Viserys smiles. His heartbeat quickens. He knows Aegon must hear it. “If that is what you wish.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
Viserys laughs. It was his ‘Hand of the King’ voice. Obedient, subservient. All for his king. “Of course,” he says, now, speaking as brother to brother. “It would be my pleasure. If only for the reward of seeing you like this.” He pauses, stroking the nape of Aegon’s neck. “I have long desired you.”
“Me too,” Aegon says, his voice small. “Though I do fear I do not deserve it.”
“Hush,” Viserys says. “No talk of that. You deserve every good thing, and I will give them to you. We are Targaryens. We are meant for each other.”
“Okay,” Aegon says. He yawns, all tangled up in Viserys. “If that is what you believe, then I will believe it too.”
He lapses into sleep, his breath evening out, his grip on Viserys’s shirt going slack. Viserys stays awake for a little longer, holding him, watching the candle burn low. Listening to the muted sounds of the city outside, alive even in the small hours of the night.
His brother’s kingdom. Their kingdom. He’ll keep it alive. He’ll hold him together, as long as it takes. For their promises to their parents, for his promises to his brother.
It’s the least he can do.