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Helaena doesn’t like the wedding. She likes the food and maybe the first two glasses of wine, but little else. She doesn’t even seem to enjoy their dance, although that may be because he keeps stumbling over her toes.
She tells him as much. She says I don’t like it here and then when he doesn’t answer, she says Aegon, please, I don’t like it here, like he’s supposed to do something about it. Like he’s the one having a wonderful evening.
"Calm down," he says, and she tries to do as much, if only because he's ordered it. "Have another drink."
She doesn’t, but she watches him spin his own goblet, round and round on the table. Watches him fill it and drain half the glass, watches him wipe it off on his sleeve. Twisting mouth and her constantly worried hands, the ones that pick at her skin and her dress and even her hair, sometimes.
Helaena reaches for his glass with raw fingers (he’s supposed to touch them later, supposed to let them on his body and his cock. Supposed to touch her just the same. Maybe his fingers will be raw, too.) She runs a nail up the side and smears the liquid on the table, her finger rubbing back and forth on the wood.
He pushes her hand away just as someone calls out, a booming voice. A signal for something better. More worthwhile, anyhow.
The hall is large and the corridors are long, and it’s cold when the ladies rid him of his doublet and shirt. Cold when they take his boots and pull on his hair. Even colder when he stands in just front of the door, bare feet and bare chest and too little wine in his system.
He tries to get more, tries to warm up, but Helaena stands (they’ve dressed her in some ghastly nightgown, all frills and high collars. So like Mother, only not in the ways that would help.) She makes that same face and he knows what it means, knows what she doesn’t like. Doesn’t want.
“Mother says to make sure you don’t drink too much," she declares, although it's capped off with a meek little frown, as if even she doubts the likelihood.
“Mother isn’t here,” he answers.
She doesn’t like that either. It makes her cross her arms, standing in just in front of the bed like she’s already claimed it as her own.
“Have you-“ This is a stupid question, but he’ll ask it anyway. “Have you ever laid with anyone?”
Helaena shakes her head.
That’s good, he supposes. It’s not like he’d feel particularly jilted if she had, but it could be nice to get the first experience. He’s paid plenty enough for it before.
"Come here," he says, and she follows that instruction too. Little steps across the carpet, bare feet and her hair let loose, dangling just over her chest.
He draws a hand down her front, over the thick fabric of the gown, trailing across her breast. It rises and falls and fills his hand so nicely, hard nipple rubbing right into the center of his palm, skin soft when he drifts over it. Plump and lovely, even under the all the stupid frills and ribbons.
“No more of those ugly dresses,” he says, and she clenches at the skirts. “You should show these off.”
He squeezes her flesh, weighing it soft in his hand, and Helaena sighs. Hot, sweet on his bare skin and more pleasant-sounding than he expected.
“We’ll have new ones made,” he decides, finger right on her breastbone, trailing an imaginary edge back up over the curve. “Something nice and low. More fashionable.”
Her eyes shut for a moment, just when he circles his thumb over her nipple, pinching right at the skin.
“Mother doesn’t like-“
“Mother isn’t here,” he echoes. “It doesn’t matter what she likes. I’m your husband.”
Helaena fashions her mouth in a straight line, so small and minute she almost seems to swallow them away. But she doesn’t flinch from his touch, doesn’t try to squirm when he squeezes at the tender flesh, testing the weight in his hand.
“You’re pretty,” he says, because girls are nicer when you say things like that, and he can’t quite find the desire to warm her up physically right now. “Aren’t you?”
A flush tracks down her neck, right to where his palm still strokes her skin, the peak of her nipple dark even beneath the fabric. It rolls right under his fingers, back and forth until a high-pitched gasp slips from her mouth, and Helaena makes a strangled expression.
“I don’t- I don’t know-“
“Fuck, but you’ve such nice tits,” he states. “And a lovely face, sister, really. Honest.”
Her teeth dig into her lip, a glimpse of white on the painted rouge. When she drops the hold, the red stains her front tooth, like a smear of blood. Just a dot, something she can’t even notice, not when her body pushes up so easily into his touch.
Briefly, Aegon thinks of biting her mouth for himself, of pulling real blood from it. His and hers, and he’d make her swallow it back down, like their ancestors.
“I’m a lucky man,” he offers, and that gets the deepest blush of all, something thick and crimson right across her cheeks. “Don’t you think?”
Helaena does not answer, but her head tilts down and her heart beats faster, right below his fingers.
It takes only a moment to tug on her gown, to undo the ties and watch it pool on the ground, silent when it slides right off her form. Her hips are wide and her legs are pale, and there’s a blooming bruise on her knee, little red spots along her thigh. Thick curls between her legs, where her hair is still silver, still soft and precious.
She jolts when he touches it, pokes a single finger through her folds, up her slit and down to where he can feel her warmth. She’s slick when he dips inside, barely a fingertip sliding just along the sweet skin, before he slips right out again.
It would take too long to try and find her pleasure; maidens do not know what they want, don’t understand what feeling makes the wetness build and which touches cause the heat to fall from their bodies, so the whole experience generally feels more effort than it’s worth. Instead, he wipes the digit on his own covered thigh, fingers quick at his laces. His clothes join hers, a pile of wrinkled cloth abandoned on the rug, and he climbs to the head of the bed. Hand on his cock and his eyes darting down, watching the stroke of his touch along the reddening skin.
Her neck is still red like this, he thinks. She’s just as affected, only she doesn’t even know it. There’s some sort of perverse pleasure in that, something that’s wrong even in this thing that’s been made so very proper and right. The idea makes his hand move faster, tight on the base and growing rough when he runs his thumb over the slit, rubbing the same pattern down the side.
Helaena watches, her whole body turning to follow the movement. Her eyes grow dark and her mouth falls open, but she doesn’t make another noise, not even as he bids her to come join.
“Here,” he mutters, and her legs sway when she brushes the bed, her hands tight to the wrinkled blankets. “Come sit on me.”
For a moment, his sister only stares. The same gaze fixed on his torso, his moving hand. Bobbing up and down with his cock, absorbed so closely in the motion, he thinks she may not have heard at all.
“Helaena, come sit.”
Her eyes finally fall, slipping to the mussed featherbed and right down to her own hands, gripping nervous fists in the dark threads.
“That’s not-“ She seems to swallow the words, choosing her intention so very carefully, and when she looks back up at him once more, it’s a strange sort of compassion in her gaze. “That’s not how you do it, Aegon.”
He could laugh, yet his cock remains the more pressing matter, so he only slows the strokes. Long and steady, twisting right at the top, a touch that leaves his muscles taut and tense.
“Says who?”
“Mother,” Helaena insists, all deadly serious. Devout in her teachings for him. “I’m meant to lay on my back, and you’ll lay over me-“
“Fuck.” The snort escapes this time, rough enough that he feels the spit on his chin, smearing across his cheek. “Is that so?”
She nods. “Yes, or- or, if you like, she says also… Also I may be on my belly, but she said that might hurt for tonight, and perhaps we could only try it another time.”
When they were all young and shepherded into the same endless lessons on High Valyrian and histories of the Seven Kingdoms and various courtesies he’s long since forgotten, Helaena was a favourite of the maesters and septons alike. She could sit quite still for hours, longer than even Aemond, and she never spoke a word unless asked. She listened to each book with the same concentrated expression, and could recite back various sections of text without even thinking. The septon need only start a sentence, and Helaena could finish it on the spot.
It’s Mother’s text he hears now, Mother and Helaena’s ancient septa, two women who will never please a man as long as they live.
They may be confined to that fate, but he has higher hopes for his little sister.
“How many men has Mother fucked?”
That gets the biggest reaction yet; wide eyes and pink cheeks, a differing sort of embarrassment clinging to her face.
“Mother?” She asks, and he nods. “Only- only one.”
Aegon smiles.
“Father,” she adds, in case he was confused. “She has only lain with Father.”
There is something so sweet in the statement, a tenderness that clings to all of Helaena’s soft words. He wonders if she will be proud to say the same, some day.
“And me?” He prompts, stiff cock brushing his belly, hand slick with sweat and spit and his own wetness. “How many women do you think I’ve bedded?”
She appears to consider the question very seriously. Her eyebrows scrunch and her arms wrap around her middle, fingers tapping at the skin.
“Five,” she decides, as if she’s solved an arithmetic equation, added it all up in her head. “Is that correct?”
Five. Close enough, he figures.
“Yes,” Aegon agrees; it is not a lie between husband and wife. Only brother and sister. “Five. Forgive me if I know more than Mother when it comes to such subjects.”
An innocent smile pulls on her lips, a tiny flash of teeth as she moves. The bed dips and her legs scramble only a little, but she does not stop until her leg brushes his.
All of Helaena feels so terribly innocent. Sweet and gentle, molded and created only for this moment. Simply to crawl onto his body and lay her knees at his waist, the slick of her cunt hovering just above him.
She doesn’t speak when he sets hands on her hips, close on the plush skin as he helps her down. It’s maddening, tight and hot and far slicker than he anticipated, like their brief conversation has only served to make her wetter.
Born ready for him, perhaps.
Her thighs are tense and her body stiffens above him, but she takes him all the way, until their hips bump against each other. Her bones are sharp yet her body is soft, and the contrast feels strangely enjoyable. Tense and taut and somehow still gentle.
There’s a stilted breath against his cheek, a heavy grunt when he slips a hand below her thigh, prying her wider. Her gasp catches in her throat, but he can tell by the wrinkled forehead that something hurts, his cock or his movements or the nails he’s digging into her back, trying to keep her from squirming so much.
Her belly rises right into his, breasts so sweet when they press along his chest. Her hands clench on the blanket once more, unwilling or unable to grab onto him for purchase. Instead, it’s only her body that pitches forward, until her forehead rests on his, and her lips barely brush his mouth.
His lady wife wants a kiss. The other girls never do; whores and servant girls and whoever else he can trick into finding some dark back room. They seek no more than he gives them, and they never beg for seconds.
Aegon turns his neck, so she licks only at her own lips.
“I’ll fuck you now,” he offers, and the statement earns him a low whimper.
“I thought-“ she shifts back up, spine straight and her curls slipping over her shoulder. “I thought we were.”
Innocent and pure. Just as Mother crafted her for him.
“Fucking involves moving,” he explains, and her hips wiggle just at the notion. “I’ll do it this time, but you ought to be able to do it on your own after.”
She nods diligently. Attentively. A very proper wife, so willing to listen and learn and let him push at her knees until she’s spread open above him. Her little bud below his rough thumb, wet and slick when he lifts her up, hot and heady when he drives her back down. Up and down and pulling her hips right into him, tilting her so he can reach that pretty part, the precious bit that tugs another gasp from her lips.
Her cunt clenches right around him, an impossible tightness that leaves him cursing right into her shoulder.
“Like that,” he orders, but she only blinks back in confusion. “Do that- do it again. With your cunt.”
Helaena tries to rise up and sink down, to mimic his own actions. It’s not quite what he was looking for (she’s fragile in the movement, unsteady when she rocks against him,) but it feels well enough. Even better when she plants her hands beside his body, pushes herself up with a growing speed, a stronger intent to her twisting.
Once she seems to understand the dance, he tries to push right up to meet her, bucking hips that nearly throw her off guard. She falls forward, breasts smushed on his chest and her cheek pressed to his, another cry right in his ear.
“Aegon–“
She sounds thick and warm, a voice he’s never heard from her before. An arousal that’s swirling in her body, something even she is unfamiliar with.
“Aegon, it feels like–“
“Good?” He interrupts, jerking right up when he tries to thrust deeper, to fill her the way he’s meant to. This is their duty, from now until the end of his life. This is his wife, and his sister, and this is the frantic way her body feels when he’s fucking her just right.
Helaena only nods, stilted and sharp. Her body keeps wiggling, a constant squirming even as she drives herself down, rolls her hips right against his.
“Good,” she declares.
The praise is unneeded, but it makes the liquid heat simmer in his belly all the same. He tries to tuck her in closer, to slow her movements so he can simply push up, up, yet she’s grown too fond of her rocking and writhing.
“Will it be like this on my belly?” Helaena asks, and he thinks of kissing the last of that innocence right from her tongue. Sucking it down as he fills her gentle cunt, until she even leaks with the proof of him.
Only him, and no one else. For the rest of their lives.
“Yes,” he swears, even if he can’t quite remember her question. “Of course it will.”
Her smile feels too sweet for this; their marriage bed and his shuddering body, the fingerprints he leaves on her hips when he spills. Deep and red, like little grooves to adorn her, to mark her as his wife and lady.
He helps her off with a quick hand, pushing until she settles at his side instead, slick cunt and dripping seed on her inner thigh, pinched between her fingers when she pokes at it.
“Don’t-“
“I know,” she says. “It’s meant to stay inside and it’ll make us a babe.”
Of course, Mother was right on some things.
“But if tonight–“ Helaena curls her lips, not sharp or sour, but a soft sort of smile, like she’s attempting to subdue it even as she lets out a girly giggle. “I don’t mind if it does not take tonight. I think I would like to do that again.”
She’s wet and waiting and wanting, and she’d like to do it again. Like to bounce on his cock and shove his face in her breasts, offer his pleasure without quite finding her own. Let him fill her as many times as he likes, as often as he likes. Be a proper lady and give him her pretty little cunt, her whole body, just as she gives him sons and daughters and delicate kisses, right on his cheek.
Truthfully, he sees no reason to argue the proposal.
