━━━━ aegon targaryen ii.
she is not her father's daughter and he is not the prince that was promised. and with all the chaos brought by the dance started by their family, there is always each other.
some wounds cannot be hushed; no matter the way one writes of blood and what reflection arrives in its pooling.
HANIF ABDURRAQIB; the prestige
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[aegon]
122 AC
Aegon wakes up to the sunlight directly in his eyes and a head of blonde hair beside his face.
A heavy weight amounting to the crown on his head renders him hyperventilating for air as he tries to wake himself by furiously rubbing the palms of his hands on his eyes until he can feel the sockets. The remnants of the strong wine and other psychedelics linger in his system, settling in his muscles in a sluggish manifestation that makes him groan in pain once he manages to sit up from the messy mattress catching all the dust floating around in midair streams. Aegon lets his long hair cover the sides of his face, the memories of the previous night pounding against the temples of his head. No amount of poultice can relieve the migraine gnawing at the walls of his mind. With his head down low, assuming a position unfit for a boy of his status, he spots his clothing strewn out and about the floor of the brothel room. He feels the bed shift from the sigh he let out, stiffening at the thought of the whore pretending as someone he truly adores and worships waking up to see him in a vulnerable state. As if the gods don't bestow him with their benevolence, the whore sits up and proceeds to massage the tension around his shoulders. Aegon jumps at the physical contact brought by the whore placing her chin on his skin.
"Good morrow, m'prince," the whore whispers in a dulcet tone that must have enticed him last night in his drunken haze but only churned his stomach with shame at this moment. "Leaving so early already?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, Aegon hastily stands up from the mattress, the blankets pooling around his ankles as he picks up every article of clothing he can find on the floor. His mind is running on its own as if a puppeteer holds all the reins on his actions and he has no choice but to follow the vibrations of the strings. Once he has his breeches on, he realises that his vest is missing, his undershirt buttoned incorrectly on his chest. Aegon looks around the room, face scrunching up at the variety of smells creating a cacophony in his senses—cheap perfume, wine, musk, and stuffiness combined in one inhale, yet he can't see any sign of the vest Mother tailored for him only a week prior. Annoyance prickles his entire limbs when he hears the whore giggle behind him. He doesn't dare look at her right now for fear that he might burst into angry tears, just like every time he indulged too much in his needs.
