Salvation - Aemond Targaryen / Aegon Targaryen

Above the Rest

Jeyne had never looked to Aegon as her savior.

She had always looked to Aemond, since she knew them. In the months since her arrival in the capital it seemed that Aegon was not to be trusted. She viewed him as a drunk, a sinful man who had only been absorbed in his own self pleasures.

She remembered how he had spoke so vulgarly to her at their first feast together. The way he insinuated that he would come to her chambers, that he would ruin and corrupt her. She thought of his intoxicated begging and pleading, pressed against her as he mumbled into her skin his desire for another child.

Jeyne also remembered him on the steps of the sept earlier that morn. How he was a different sort of pathetic, only a harm to himself—desperate for guidance.

The Aegon that rescued her was not the feckless lecher, nor was he the mewling child from the sept. This Aegon... was like a shorter, thicker version of his younger brother. Princely. Chivalrous. Jeyne saw the glint in his eyes so similar to Aemond's Jeyne was sure it was genetic.

He was dressed as a prince—thick black velvet tunic with black silk dragons crawling along the thick of his arms, a high collar accentuated his sharp squared jawline where his hair hung wild and windswept. He wore thick black leather riding gloves, boots oiled black and tight breeches a dark grey that showed the bulge of his thighs as they tensed on the saddle.

He rode the dragon below him as if he were born atop of it. His hands were tensed around the reins, thick lips curled upward in delight.

"Your name, ser!" Aegon shouted, legs gripped tightly on the gilded saddle. Jeyne saw his grin falter. "I should like to know it."

Jeyne saw the man between her legs stumble to gather himself back into his dusted breeches. His face was bright red beneath the patched hairs, lips trembling with fear. "P-prince." He stuttered, far less intimidating as he soaked his breeches with urine. "Your grace."

Jeyne pushed herself back, legs screaming at her. She felt her hands connect with the carcass of the men who had held her down. The hand of the one who held her legs—Jeyne recognized as the one who had reached for her calf. The others had run from the commotion, disappeared into the darkness that had returned to the forest.

She had not seen their faces, nor did she know their names. But the men who roamed the Kingswood were savages, who bowed to no god or king. Not for the first time that night did Jeyne curse her own stupidity, her insane desire to be with Aemond—to be near him at all times—would be her downfall.

Aegon shifted atop his golden beast. "No," he chided. "That's my name. I asked for yours."

The man dipped to his knee, trembling hand releasing Aemond's dagger to the soil. Jeyne snatched it, hand held outward with the point of the blade pointed toward him. "Barros, your grace." The man's lips caught between his teeth.

Sunfyre—a beast of near two decades in age—had a pretty pink belly shrouded with glittering gold scales that decreased in size the closer to the tip of his tail. His large, folded wings held thick pink veins across the membrane that was broken up only by thick boning like beaten gold. He was different than Jeyne pictured, younger and smaller than Vhagar by far but no less frightening to behold.

His teeth were as sharp as daggers and just as long, protruding neatly from a thick golden jaw that sizzled as the beast's jaw unhinged like a snake. The beast had eyes like molten gold that seemed to pool like a liquid within the iris, covered by a thin membrane-like eyelid that did not blink.

His eyes were focused on the man—Barros—waiting for permission from his master to swallow him whole. Aegon sat back on his saddle, foot stroking his beast's back lazily. "Well, Barros." Aegon sucked his teeth. "You've made a very grave error."