Jaehaerys is the last of his three sons to have achieved this accomplishment, the final proof that he has survived the precarious early moons of infancy. Prince Maekar, the eldest of the three, is already nearing nine months, his features sharpening with the first hints of the boy he will become. Prince Daeron follows closely behind, his chubby fingers grasping at the world with quiet curiosity. Yet, despite their shared lineage and their shared milestones, there is one stark difference between them—neither Margaery nor Desmera have been summoned back to their Emperor.
Joana had watched, curious but silent, as Aegon entertained himself with Marianne Vance in the weeks following Maekar's birth, never elevating her beyond the role of a concubine, never granting her more than passing indulgence. And then, without warning, he had ceased even that. The moment Maekar reached six moons of life, the liaisons had ended. At first, the court had whispered, wondering if he would return to Margaery's embrace and resume his attentions as though nothing had changed. But he hadn't. The absence stretched on, unanswered, unspoken, until speculation turned to confusion, then to quiet acceptance.
But Joana had her suspicions. She had watched him too closely, known him too intimately, to miss the subtle shifts in his choices. Aegon did nothing without reason.
It is still the afternoon, the golden light of the sun slanting through the windows, painting long streaks across the cool marble floors. The air is heavy with the scent of summer, thick and sweet. The day will linger for hours yet, and still, he is here. With her. By nightfall, the harem will know. The whispers will spread like wildfire through silken corridors, slipping past guarded lips and hidden glances.
Joana smiles, tilting her chin as she looks at him.
"I couldn't wait," Aegon murmurs, his voice a low hum that settles into her bones before his lips descend upon hers.
She responds instantly, her fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, drinking in the scent of him—warm, spiced with the faint trace of leather and smoke. His kiss is relentless, commanding g, and arrogant in its certainty.
He does not ask, does not pause, does not hesitate. He takes. He kisses her like he already knows her answer, like he knows every unspoken thought curling within her, every longing before even she has recognized it herself.
Aegon slides a hand between her milk mountain, his palm warm as he cups her breast, fingers kneading with a deliberate slowness that sends a shiver racing down her spine.
His other arm snakes around her waist, guiding her backward with steady, unyielding pressure.
Each step forces her closer to the bed until the backs of her knees meet the edge, the soft mattress pressing against her.
Joana exhales sharply, her breath hitching as she rakes her nails up the strong column of his neck, feeling the way he shudders beneath her touch. His reaction fuels something heady inside her, a thrill of satisfaction curling in her stomach.
Aegon moves, fingers gripping the fine fabric of her skirt as he tugs her forward, pulling her flush against him.
His body is solid, unrelenting, the heat of him seeping into her through the thin layers of clothing that still separate them. His lips trail a path across her face, brushing over her cheek before seeking the sensitive skin of her ear.
Then he bites.
A sharp, teasing nip at the delicate curve just below her ear, his teeth sinking in just enough to leave a lingering ache. Joana gasps, her fingers tightening in his hair, yanking in response. Aegon only hums.
He soothes the sting almost immediately, his tongue gliding over the mark he left. Even as his mouth works over her skin, his hands remain busy, continuing their slow, torturous work of pulling up her skirts, baring more of her to him, inch by agonizing inch. The cool air kisses her exposed thighs, but it's nothing compared to the heat pooling in her pussy.
Suddenly, his hand slips between her thighs, fingers trailing over the sensitive heat of her core with an agonizing slowness. The first touch is featherlight, barely there, yet it sends a sharp jolt of pleasure rippling through her body. Joana gasps, her breath stalling in her throat, but before she can release even a whisper of sound, Aegon's mouth is on hers again—hungry, demanding, silencing her with the force of his kiss.
His fingers move, stroking along her slick folds, teasing, coaxing, until she is trembling against him.
He knows exactly where to touch and exactly how much pressure to apply, and the torment of his expert hands only fuels the fire spreading through her veins.
Her legs weaken, her knees threatening to buckle, but his arm is already wrapped around her, holding her steady, keeping her pressed against him.
The heat of his body surrounds her, the taste of him flooding her senses as his tongue tangles with hers, matching the rhythm of his fingers as they work her into a slow, maddening frenzy. Her fingers clutch at his shoulders, her nails digging in, desperate to anchor herself as pleasure swells within her, an unstoppable tide.
Aegon swallows the whimper that rises in her throat, his lips curving against hers as if he's amused as if he knows exactly what he's doing to her. And he does.
His fingers move in slow, deliberate circles around her cunt, teasing her with a touch that is both gentle and insistent.
The sensation sends tiny shivers through her, pleasure bubbling up from the cradle of her hips, spreading in warm, pulsing waves. Her breath comes in shallow, uneven pants, her body arching instinctively into his touch, desperate for more.
Aegon watches her with dark, knowing eyes, his lips curving into a smirk as he feels her tremble beneath him. He has learned her body well—its rhythms, its weaknesses, the places that make her sigh, and the ones that make her shatter. With just a flick of his wrist, he can have her unraveling, her moans spilling into the quiet of the room, her skin blooming with the heat of her rising pleasure.
Her hands grasp his arms, her nails pressing into the firm muscle as she struggles to hold onto something, anything, as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in her lower region.