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The sept is blessedly dark and quiet.
With the throbbing in his head, there is no better set of circumstances.
The madam at the brothel had been too good to him, plying him with drink and buxom wenches in pursuit of the coin purse attached to his person. And now he is paying for it twice over.
Though he does not often frequent the castle sept on the best of days, there are far worse places to take refuge after being in one’s cups than the castle sept. The septons and septas move about silent as ghosts and there are many in alcove in which one may sequester oneself to avoid detection. The rain too relentless and him too unsteady on his feet to reach the holdfast, he had sought refuge in the hushed quiet and curled up in a prayer alcove, out of sight of any wandering septon that may be lingering past the hour of the eel.
Now, he stretches and stifles a yawn, so as not to alert any to his presence.
He is just about to nod off when a long, drawn-out moan rouses him from his sleep haze. Aegon blinks once. Twice. Certain that he has misheard.
But he has not.
Again, comes the moan and his lip curls at the thought of some wrinkly septon fisting his cock to take the edge off.
Still, he is curious and so he presses his ear against the door, carefully so as not to stir the wood. And there it is, the soft gargle of a cock hitting the back of the throat.
His eyebrows jump toward his hairline and he has to stifle his laughter.
His mother would keel over stone dead if she knew that the septons were partaking in the sins of the flesh. Celibacy must be so very hard for them. He cannot really blame them wanting to get their cocks wet. Gods know he would never be able to manage such a thing. Though he does hope that the septon and his willing throat finish and make themselves scarce by the time he is ready to leave the sept.
He listens harder. There is the harsh sound of gagging followed by a wet slurp. By the Gods, the septon is enthusiastic. The recipient’s poor throat must be fucked raw. His own cock twitches in interest, but he will not pleasure himself to the sound of a septon reaching his own peak. He has some principles.
Another high-pitched muffled moan comes and it is no doubt from the young nubile thing whose throat is jammed full.
His cock twitches again, rather more insistently, and, well, Aegon has never been one to deny his body its needs. And the sounds are remarkably erotic to listen to.
He settles back against the bench and closes his eyes, the throbbing in his cock growing like the ominous pounding of a drum. He fists it lazily. He barely spares a thought for his mother’s teachings on piety, decency and celibacy.
“Gods, you are beautiful like this. Open your pretty mouth wider. Yes, like that. Suck harder.”
Aegon’s eyes fly open.
He knows that voice.
It is oft clipped and harsh or dripping with disdain when directed at him. Not thick with desire or soft with affection as it is now.
He knows if he were to push open the door, it is his brother he would see with his cock down some poor soul’s throat. This is marginally less horrendous than the septon he had thought Aemond was and so he feels not one scrap of guilt for the way he works his fist over himself in time to his brother’s soft thrusts. If Aemond could ignore their mother’s teachings, he certainly could as well.
“On your knees for me, right where you belong. I swear, there is no finer sight in all the Seven Kingdoms than this.”
He wonders what sweet nothings his brother must have whispered to get his cock worshiped so thoroughly and Aegon wonders who it is that is doing the worshipping. Some young septon or septa surely. The omegas of the court gave Aemond a wide berth on the best of days and do so even more now with the permanent storm cloud above his brother’s head since Rhaenyra and her bastards flounced into the capital once more. No, it is unlikely to be a courtier. Nor would Aemond allow a servant touch him in so base a manner. Nor does a septon or septa quite fit with what he imagines his brother’s taste to be.
Aegon supposes he may never know. So he wouldn’t be able to get his own taste of the little ingenue on their knees for his brother.
Aemond curses. Clothing rustles and the wet sound of swallowing has Aegon stroking even more frantically, stifling his own groan as he spills over his fingers. All that Aegon hears is harsh panting, not dissimilar to his own futile attempts to remain quiet and draw no attention to himself.
Outside the prayer alcove, his brother finds his own release. A long moan, bone-deep and satisfied. “Gods, Lucerys.”
Shock comes again, moving like a flood of ice water.
He supposes it makes sense. With the way Aemond has stared at Lucerys since he came back to King’s Landing, this much was bound to happen. Either this or a murder. Aegon knows this is preferable to any other course Aemond would have taken to exact revenge.
And his brother is not yet done it seems.
“Let me lick you,” Aemond demands, but there is a plaintive edge to it that speaks of desperation. How humiliating for Aemond. Aegon almost snickers in vicious delight, but he holds it in. He cannot risk revealing himself now that it’s just getting good. “I can smell how wet you are. Practically begging for it.”
“Earlier wasn’t enough for you?”
And Gods above it really is Lucerys. Wonders never cease.
A scoff. “Hardly.”
“On your knees then.”