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    Summary

    Aegon can feel the heat from the wine beginning to bloom in his gut, creeping up into his head. Too much all at once, he thinks dimly, too much of everything, too much of me. “I am still your elder!”

    “And so, the gods would’ve been wiser to have given you a c*nt.”

    The noise Aegon makes is thin and pitiful, shame rising flame-bright on his cheeks.

    “But…” Aemond draws a dagger. “As they say Targaryens are closer to gods than men, perhaps I’ll correct their mistake.”

    “No!”

    The King winces, knees curling up to his chest, but Aemond is quicker and stronger. He lunges in, snarling, and thrusts the blade between his brother’s legs. He doesn’t mean to do it, not really. He just wants to frighten him. Hear him shriek. But when the heel of his hand runs up against something warm and hard, he freezes.

    Series
    Language:
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