Take me with you before you fall - Unohanabbygirl (2024)

Chapter 1: He never said it back

Chapter Text

Aemond never meant for things to go this far.

He wanted nothing more than to scare his nephew, make him run back to Dragonstone and fall into his mother’s arms as he coward in fear like the pathetic little whump everyone in that hall knew he was. Maybe then the old whor* would come to what little sense she had and realize this sad attempt at a fight she was trying to put up was utterly useless.

Attempting to steal his brother's crown from atop his head would inevitably come to war, he knew it, his grandfather knew it, and as much as his mother tried to convince his drunkard brother to spare their whoring half sister and her beastly brood, she knew it too. Rhaenyra was too proud, a spoiled shameless c*nt that spat in the face of everyone around her as she hauled around her bastards, proudly paraded them as true born sons as if the realm was just as blind to their looks as their father had been. Sometimes Aemond was convinced the bitch had even convinced herself those mongrels were of Velaryon blood.

No, his sister would never bend the knee, she was too much of an entitled brat. And no matter how often his mother cried out for the council to believe she could actually convince her old friend to accept Aegon as king, it would never happen.

Aemond knew that deep down inside, in a hidden box tucked safely behind the steel black walls of duty his mother built up, she too knew war would come. The way she walked up and down the halls during all hours of the night nibbling at the tips of her fingers until they were nothing but raw red nubs, obscenely pruned from her saliva, was all the proof Aemond needed.

It was a known fact that during times of war the weakest were the first to perish. Only the strong survive, and the only thing strong about Lucerys was the muddled blood that ran through his veins.

The display his nephew tried to put up was embarrassing to gaze upon, a sight so pathetic that Aemond would have cringed had he been an easily fraid man. Lucerys mirrored a pup trying its best to make everyone around him think he was a wolf. Having the gall, the absolute audacity to stand in Lord Borros hall, soaking wet with his head held high as he admitted to having nothing to offer for allegiance but a message from his whor* mother. Areminder, his half-sister wrote. Absolutely pathetic. If Aemond didn’t know any better he would think she was the one that lost half her sight. Expecting the lords of the realm to get on their knees and kiss her cunny for no reason other than a promise almost as old as he.

Mayhaps if she saw her sweet boy dripping in rainwater and stinking of piss as he whimpered in fear her maternal instincts that drove her to breed like a mindless dog would kick in and for the first time in her undeserving life force her to make a smart decision.

Aemond wanted Lucerys to gaze upon him, to look and see him for the first time in his pitiful life. See what he had been allowed to do and feel the twisted knot of regret churn in his belly.

Look at me. He wanted to scream.

He only meant to frighten him. Show the bastard that he would never be strong enough to even think about being Aemond’s equal. Cry into his mother's chest like a newborn babe.

Rhaenyra would bend the knee, and Lucerys would never again turn his head up at Aemond as if he were the unworthy one. That’s all. He…he never meant for things to end up like this. He swore it on his life.

However, what you did or didn’t intend to happen doesn't matter when it results in death.

Everything had been fine yesterday, Aemond was confident and calm as usual, sure of not only his abilities as a dragon rider, but also as an intellectual. He was the smart one, the brother that dedicated himself to philosophy as he readied himself to be the king that would never be. Now he was faced down in the mud with nothing left of his nephew except a blooded half eaten cloak and the haggard pearlescent pieces of Arrax floating in the distance through the oceans unforgiving waves, likely to be vulture food by sunrise.

Oh, how quickly someone’s destiny can change in the blink of an eye.

Aemond enjoyed the Valyrian histories. Why wouldn’t he? The blood of the dragon ran hot and thick in his veins, to not learn as much about his heritage as possible would be a slap in the face to those who came before him. Not only did he find solace in his books, learning and retaining such knowledge made him that much stronger in mind. A trait that was arguably just as important as physical prowess. You could swing a sword all you wanted to, but if you didn’t have the intellect to match you were no match.

His ancestral home of Valyria was one of the topics Aemond found the most joy in studying, since the doom had turned the once great civilization into nothing, but a wasteland Aemond made sure to know as much as he possibly could. It was one of the reasons he felt such great pride in claiming Vhagar. Yes, she was the largest beast living, scarred from a countless number of battles as she helped conquer Westeros with Visenya on her back, but what he truly held dear to his heart was the connection to Valyria she gifted him with.

Aemond cherished their bond greatly.

The only reason their house survived the doom was due to Daenys the dreamer. Her vision of what would become of their home led her to convincing her father to move them away to the safety of Dragonstone. An all-around fascinating story, how he wished he could know more.

During his younger years Aemond would often dream of gaining a dragon of his own, a strong beast that could withstand the long and treacherous flight to what was left of Valyria and exploring the ruins for himself. That was until he stumbled upon the short life of Aerea, the previous rider of the black dread before the late king claimed him.

Thoughts of his father had Aemond clutching the book in his hold, squeezing the thing so harshly that he could feel the pages crimple under his fingers. He knew that old bastard had been on death's door for years, since he was born honestly. There hadn’t been a day in Aemond’s life where he remembers his father in good condition, thin strands of what little hair he had left turned whiter rather than silver, off putting skin that was decaying in real time. Everyday more and more of whatever was slowly killing him eating at his flesh as if it were a full course meal.

Rhaenyra running away to Dragonstone like the coward she always had been only worsened his condition, making him impossibly worse once he realized she nor her bastards were coming back. Even now the thought makes Aemond’s blood boil. As if Rhaenyra was the only thing keeping the old man fighting against his illness, allowing himself to succumb once she was no longer around. His other children weren’t worth enough to fight for in his eyes.

No matter now, he was dead and gone, corpse rotting in the maesters quarters like the useless piece of meat it was, in life and death.

Aemond let go of the book and smoothed out the pages, cursing himself for letting his anger get the best of him, especially for such irrelevant matters. There were much more important topics at hand.

After Aegon’s coronation the topic of loyalties came into discussion, who would and wouldn’t swear their loyalty to his brother as the one true king and fight by their side in the event of a war breaking out. His mother went wide eyed every time it was brought up, clearly still holding onto her long dead friendship with the wanna be queen. The lords swore a promise toher,she would say. As if a simple promise held any weight in a time like this.

Lords were greedy bastards who held no true loyalty to anyone, ready to flip to whatever side handed them a prettier offer, always on the lookout for themselves and the future of their own house. As far as Aemond knows no offers were made on the black's side of things to any lords of the realm.

Ravens had been sent to all the major houses offering them one thing or another if they bent the knee to his brother. Most sent back their replies quickly, asking for time to think things through as they weighed their options, others had sworn fidelity to Aegon immediately, insisting that they would always stick by the true heir, the first-born son.

Yet, time was ticking by. Whispers of the blacks preparing for a full-on fight had the council on their toes. Aemond scoffed at their weariness. They had three full grown dragons on their side, Vhagar being the oldest most war hardened one. The blacks were no match for her, regardless of how many tricks they had up their sleeves.

His grandfather looked at him as if he was a dolt, growling out that the blacks not only had Daemon, the rogue prince who unlike him had actually gone to battle before, but also the Velaryon fleet made up of over a hundred ships. This led to the demand request to send Aemond to Storm's end to offer Lord Baratheon a marriage pact with one of his daughters in return for his loyalties.

Borros Baratheon was an older man with a middle-aged wife who had spent her most fertile years bringing forth nothing but useless broads who couldn't pass on the family name nor legacy, a Targaryen marriage would greatly benefit him. His grandchildren would have the honor of dragon’s blood running their veins, royal children in line for the throne who could elevate his worth. He would have to be deaf, dumb and blind with half a brain missing to decline such a generous offer.

Aemond would go along with the plan without fuss, his duty was to secure this pact and get the Baratheon's on their side before the blacks could make their move. He would proudly serve the crown without second thought, but that didn’t mean he liked the idea of polluting his blood with those lower borns. Prostituting himself like a lowborn whor* at the drop of a hat on his grandfather's order’s.

But duty was duty, and unlike his dolt of a brother, Aemond gladly put his duty above all else.

Footsteps grabbed Aemond’s attention, harsh and heavy as the sound of metal clanked with every move. Once the movement ceased, he lifted his head only to be greeted by his mother's trusted and beloved sworn sword. “The hand has stated it is time for you to begin your journey to Storm’s end my prince.” Cole spoke, hands held together firmly. The perfect picture of a knight, the embodiment of what the king’s guard should be, honorable and duty bound with no taste for depravity. Aemond feels a kindred spirit to Criston, both men who put the good of the realm before themselves as it should be.

“And I assume my mother sent you here with a message as well.” He concluded; one eyebrow raised in questioning.

Cole nodded. “Yes my prince, the dowager queen wants you to come back safe and soundly as can be. As well as let you know that she’s proud of you for happily doing your duty as a prince of the realm. She’s sorry she cannot be there to send you off.”

Aemond hummed, waving off the man as she continued to flip the pages of his book. “Thank you, Ser Criston, I'll be out to prepare shortly.”

Cole gives a curt nod however does not make a move, waiting patiently for Aemond to follow along.

Aemond sucks his teeth, closing his books and tidying up the mess he’d made of the library table to the best of his abilities before making his way towards his rooms. He had a trip to prepare for.

Borros Baratheon was an incredibly dense man, so much so that it was almost painful for Aemond to hold a conversation with the fat lord. He was stupid, foolish, a co*ckless halfwit, and any other word in the dictionary to describe a brainless dolt such as he. The man sat high on that sh*t piece of wood he had the audacity to call a throne and look down at Aemond of all people with an uninterested look as he boredly asked the prince what he’s come to his castle in need of. Aemond had to hold back a scoff, wasn’t it obvious enough? Did he not receive the raven from yesterday morning? Or did the man spend too much time knee deep in whatever slop his cooks concocted in this sorry excuse of a castle's sh*t kitchens to take notice of the current political climate?

His wife Lady Elenda stood next to him, dressed plainly in the drab brown and muted yellow of their house. She looked annoyed by her lord husband, even a simple phrase from him had her gritting her teeth in irritation as if the sound of his voice was enough to drive her mad. Looks like he had something in common with his soon to be good mother.

As Aemond brought up the topic of marriage the man perked up, suddenly interested in what the prince had to offer as he pointed him towards his four daughters whose names Aemond forgot as soon as the man uttered them and didn’t care to remember anyhow, he only needed to choose one girl to marry after all.

Borros' daughters were plain to put it nicely, neither ugly nor beautiful, simply there. All four girls were brunette with dark green eyes, skin tone ranging from pearl to alabaster with no clear assets to speak of. He spoke a few sentences to each girl as he made his way down the line. Their voices were high pitched and squeaky as a mouse, the sort of voice that sounds better muted.

They spoke nothing interesting, the usual hello my prince with a small curtsey, anditis truly an honor to meet you,myprince.Aemond rolled his eye, at least they knew how to do something other than stand around like morons, likely thanks to their mother and septa’s since their father was too much of a simpleton.

None of the girls seemed to be interested in him, a sentiment Aemond shared. The one-eyed prince wanted to pull each girl in and tell them he had no interest in being their husbands just as much as they have no interest in being his lady wife. However, Aemond had self-control and the ability to critically think, lord Borros wouldn’t take too kindly to Aemond throttling his daughters before they married, at least not in his hall.

In the end Aemond chose the youngest of the bunch, Floris was her name he thinks. She was still a child, not having flowered yet according to the lord and his lady wife. However, that was more than fine with him, that meant their marriage would not have to occur for some time, giving Aemond enough time to mentally ready himself for his husbandly duties despite how much he wished otherwise.

Though he did not wish to marry any of the Baratheon girls he refused to be a bad husband and subject his own wife to the same cruel and painfully empty marriage his own mother had been pushed into and forced to endure for twenty years. Not only would he be disappointed in himself, but he could already see the look of sadness blooming in his mother’s dough eyes if she were to become privy to such behavior from the son she held such high hopes for.

All children Floris birthed would be graced with the blood of old Valyria, dragon riders in their own right with high positions in society. Aemond refused to be a failure like his own father. He would rather eat his own sword than become a second Viserys of his own will. Aemond would respect his wife and take honorably to his position, something Aegon knew nothing of. Spending his days lounging about with the filthy unwashed whor*s of silk street as he paid and oftentimes begged to eat c*nt. A slobbering pathetic man child his brother was.

Now he’s king of the seven kingdoms.

No, he would be different, better than both his late father and brother. He had to be.

While Aemond engaged in a simple but more in-depth conversation with the girl he noticed her sister’s shoot her sorrowful looks out of the corner of his eye. He mentally scoffed and went about his talk with Floris, those braindead c*nts could shoot them all the looks they wanted.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon my lord.” One of the guards announces, grabbing Aemond’s attention as soon as the words slipped from his mouth.

Aemond leered in on the strong boy who had apparently taken the initiative to remove himself from his half-sister's teat for the first time in his pathetic life. His nephew stood as tall as he could despite being a short thing, trying to put on a hardened look that was quite amusing considering his two front teeth stuck out making him resemble that of a rabbit rather than the dragon he so desperately was trying to appear as.

Though it was dead silent save for the drips of rainwater falling off of his nephew along with the clunk of his heel, the entire hall’s thoughts were loud and clear. The princess sent her bastard rather than the rogue prince? How unfortunate.

Lucerys eyes were dead set on Borros as he walked towards the man despite Aemond’s hard gaze. He knew his nephew could feel his eye boring into his supple flesh like hot coals, the way his chest contracted heavily as he tried to control his breathing was all the proof Aemond needed, likely trying to keep from running out of the hall and back to that frail chicken he called a dragon.

“Son of princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and the late Laenor Valeryon.” The guard finished.

Aemond smirked at the mention of Ser Laenor, or as he likes to remember his long dead goodbrother; the queer who pitifully roasted in a fireplace. He could even hear a slight chuckle from his betrothed and her nasally sisters, causing him to shoot them a stoic look.

Lucerys speaks up, voice loud and fittingly strong despite the slight cracks in his words every so often. Making sure to put emphasis on his mother being queen, even continuing to stand tall as Borros taunts him.

As his mother’s letter is read aloud Aemond can feel his frustrations rise to heights he thought impossible after losing his eye. That whoring old bitch had nothing but nerve, and her son was the same. Though he knew that already, the way Lucerys plump lips pouted, and cheeks perked up when he laughed had garnered him the title of the realm's new delight, following in his sister’s footsteps. Aemond would’ve thought his nephew to be a lowborn left on the streets had he not been his half-sister's mirrored image. In mind as well apparently as he quickly refused Boross' demand for him to marry one of his drooling daughters.

Aemond could feel his jaw clench, he always knew Rhaneyra was a stupid c*nt but he didn’t imagine how far her delusions went. Sending her bastard here, empty handed with nothing other than a reminder of a promise Borros hadn’t even made was so much of a jest that it was downright disrespectful. No marriage pact or stake in the Valeyron fleet, not a promise of standing on the small council if she is to truly become queen, nothing to give for his benefit, only a reminder.

Shameless, all of them.

Aemond took great pleasure in seeing Boross humiliate Lucerys, even letting his sly comment about his house pass. He would allow it at his nephew's expense, just this once.

Before he left Aemond called for his lord strong to wait, spitting vile at the boy's shameless confidence to go flying about the realm thinking he could steal allies from them without worry of the consequences.

No. He wouldn’t allow such insolence to go unchecked.

He would not only send little Luke strong back home to his mother, but he would also take what he was owed.

He walked the shoreline for hours. Back hunched, feet burning as they cried out for rest. Aemond could feel the blisters forming on his soles, likely red from the abuse his bare feet had endured as they stepped on sharp jagged rocks and crushed seashells. His lips were dry, cracked and bleeding from thirst, the salt floating through the air hadn’t done him any favors either.

His shoes had become filled with so much sea water that Aemond had no other choice but to chuck them off in a fit as they started to slow him down, his pants were completely soaked all the way up to his waist as he had been searching through the ice-cold water. Picking through seaweed, floating rocks and dead fish as he looked for a sign, any sign of Lucerys.

Nephew.

He hadn’t meant to kill him, not consciously. He had been angry, furious that after irreversibly altering the course of Aemond’s life that Lucerys didn’t even think him worthy of acknowledgement. Pretending as though he was invisible, no worse, not even present.

In the training yard he turned his head as Aemond had greeted him, looking around as if he was a sight too boring to give the time of day. As Vaemond stalked his claim on the Driftwood throne Aemond bore his gaze into Lucerys, so harp that he knew for a fact the younger felt it. Yet still no acknowledgement.

The only time the bastard looked him in the eye was buzzed off red wine and giggling with his bitch of a betrothed at the roasted pig he’d been served.

Aemond felt a rage inside of him like no other.

He could’ve been somebody, made a name for himself that garnered the respect of the entire realm. Viable proof that he was more than a second son with no land or titles who wasn’t even set up with a simple betrothal. Lucerys took that chance away from him, snatched it from Aemonds grasp with nothing more than a sharp blade and those chubby little fingers. All without remorse or punishment. Now he was nothing more than the one-eyed Targaryen who ladies at court looked away from in fear.

His nephew hadn’t thought he was even worth as little as an apology all those years ago and he was now affirming his presence wasn’t even worth recognizing. Having the gall, the absolute audacity to stand in Lord Borros hall with his head held high, soaking wet with nothing to give.

Aemond thought the boy would shrivel up in fear and do as he was asked when he tore off his patch, revealing the grotesque beauty of his sapphire. He was Lucerys superior in every way, intelligence, strength, prowess, the boy stood no match for him. However, what he didn’t anticipate was for his nephew to stand so strong in his defiance. Especially not when he spent most of his time hidden behind his mother’s skirts, holding onto her hand and resting against her chest like a suckling babe. When Lucerys stood ten toes down in his refusal despite obviously being scared out of his mind it did no more than anger Aemond even further.

He didn’t know why he ran to Vhagar. It wasn’t his unintelligent, plain faced betrothal’s taunts about his manhood, claiming he’d lost his balls along with his eye. He scoffed as he ran to Vhagar, he couldn’t give a damn about what that baseborn bitch had to say about him. Regardless of their future marriage.

He just…. He needed to go after him.

He didn’t mean for it to end like this, he swore it.

Aemond looked back, falling to his knees once he caught sight of hundreds of footprints embedded into the sand, all his.

His hands fell into the dirt, scrunching up his fists as he let out a deep shriek. Waves crashed into him, soaking his entire body as he laid there mourning everything he’d lost as well as what could have been. Knowing that there would be no happy ending after this, no negotiations or offers of peace.

War would rage, bodies would drop like flies and villages would be pillaged.

He thought of Helaena, his big sister, the only other person besides their mother that cared for him after Driftmark. She wasn’t fit for war, she was a kind soul, a sweet girl in a woman’s body who spent her days playing with her children and collecting bugs. She had been so confused at all the anger during the king’s sham of a dinner, awkwardly clapping at what she believed to be a genuine toast to the strong bastards.

The innocent were always the first to die, a velvety voice whispered through the cool winds.

Just then he noticed swirls of red in the water. Only a few feet away lay a red and black cloak, floating in the ocean's suds. Aemond hurried up, almost falling as he rushed over to grab the cloth before it was taken by the sea. He inspected it, the scale-like detailing, golden specks painted into the crevices of the scales, the torn apart high neck collar. All soaked in blood.

He held it up to his nose. Eyes snapping closed as he took in the metallic scent of blood, but as he continued to take in the scent he found what he was looking for.

Lucerys.

His nephew smelled like orange petals and fresh gardenia, has since they were children. It was still thick on his cloak, even torn apart and bloodied. He looked into the distance to see large chunks of meat floating through the waves, pearlescent with swirls of gold.

What have I done?

Aemond laid there for what felt like centuries, clutching onto Lucerys cloak with a grip so tight one would think it was in danger of flying off into the distance if he let go. He remained at the shores end waiting for the remains of his nephew's dragon to wash up.

They did, bits and pieces here and there, chunks of bloodied flesh and half eaten entrails entangled with seaweed as it made its journey through the unforgiving waves.

Aemond vowed to wait until something of his nephew washed up as well, an arm, maybe a leg perhaps, a finger, anything. There had to be something left of the younger, something more than a torn cloak that smelled of copper and fresh cut grass. The thought that Lucerys body was gone for good made Aemond nauseous, he could feel his stomach begin to churn as acid slowly climbed up his throat, already sore from the countless hours of screaming for his nephew to come back to him.

His skin had begun to itch after some time, whether it was the fault of the sand or the salty water he had not a clue, he didn’t give a damn either. Aemond was shivering like a newborn babe left out in the winter, he could feel his skin prune up and shrivel as his eye began to water from the salty burn of ocean water that had been splashing him in the face for who knows how long as the waves continued to crash down.

While Aemond sat shocked and unmoving, not even the discomfort seeping through the meat of his skin down to his bones enough to break him out of his trance, the skies began to clear, the bright sun deciding to grace the world once again. Harsh waves slowed down until they were nothing more than a gentle splash, birds happily chirping through the skies as they had no stake in what was soon to come.

At that moment Aemond knew there was truly nothing left of the boy he once held hands with as they ran around the keep, making sure to stay out of his mother’s watchful eye.

“I love you uncle Aemond.” The chubby cheeked boy giggled as they cuddled under the library tables while Aegon and Jace tried to find them.

He never said he loved him back.

Chapter 2: May memories of the past soothe your fractured soul

Chapter Text

If you were to ask his mother, Aemond Targaryen was the loveliest baby boy to ever grace this hateful world.

As soon as he was placed into her arms, the queen was enthralled by the beauty she’d created and carried within her. Chubby cheeks that flushed such a bright red one would think rouge had been dusted across the apples of his cheeks. Pale purple eyes that were almost fluorescent, glistening by the will of what little sun peeked throughout slightly drawn curtains of her birthing chambers. Not to mention a full head of thick hair gracing his tiny head, so much so that one of Alicent’s midwives jested that they'd finally found the culprit of the young queen's terrible heartburn for the past moons.

Yet and still, what truly surprised the Hightower were the lovely curls of her son's pale locks. The color of freshly spun spider silk and softer than the plushest of feather pillows as the queen gently ran her hands through it.

Alicent would never admit such thoughts out loud, terrified of the judgment she'd receive at such a confession as guilt drumming through her belly, but pure joy bloomed in her heart at finally had a child who’d taken on one of her own features. His curls matching her own almost perfectly; like mother, like son. Perhaps that’s why the woman took to loving on little Aemond in a way she never did for her other children. Seeing just the tiniest bit of herself within this bundle of joy made what little that remained of her heart jump.

Alicent yearned for nothing more than to send Aemond to old town, protect him from leering eyes and foul plans. He would likely be her last babe; Viserys was losing his strength by the day, barely able to walk on his own let alone sire another child, not that she particularly enjoyed his midnight visits to her chambers. Hiding her head beneath the blankest in hopes that she would simply disappear as her door creaked open, ragged breaths alerting her to who had entered and what duty she would soon have to perform.

Aemond was hers by right, her precious boy who spent his days babbling and giggling as she sang him songs and read the mightiest of tales, watching the corners of his little eyes crinkle as they filled with wonder at her lively gestures.

Her eldest son belonged to the throne since the day he left her womb, her only daughter likely to be his consort in the Targaryen tradition; but her precious Aemond, he was meant to be hers.

Alas, as her father laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder, touch cold and eyes sharp, Alicent knew it could not be.

An heir and a spare, the hand whispered in her ear, his words final.

The bits and pieces left of her softly beating heart were crushed. The only consolation she had left was that deep down she knew her boy would grow to achieve great things, his name engraved in history for generations to come.

Was that not all a mother could wish for?

Aemond had always been a shy soul, afraid of being the odd one out, the unwanted donkey of the group. Mayhaps that was the reason he never truly found it in himself to stand up against his brother's cruel words and cold hearted pranks; too scared that if he were to speak up, he’d be left in the dust with no one to call a friend.

It wasn’t hard to imagine such a thing would happen. Aegon was the interesting one in their pack, the eldest uncle who drank wine (albeit against their mother’s wishes) and snuck out of the keep through the streets of Flea Bottom as soon as the clock struck twelve. Aegon was the rider of what was said to be the most breathtaking dragon living, a golden beauty with scales that glistened like that of a rainbow in the sunlight.

He was the one Jace and Lucerys looked up to and wished to be like in most ways. So Aemond remained on Aegon’s trail, hoping to one day claim a dragon of his own and prove his brother’s incessant nagging was all for not.

Besides, their dynamic had been that way for what felt like ages. Change was no longer an option, at least in Aemond’s mind. From the time he was a young lad the prince had followed behind Aegon simply because it’s what his young nephews did. Seeming to be the best choice taking into consideration that his brother was the eldest among them all. Taking the reins to self-proclaim himself their leader one day in the midst of a study session; their teacher having mentally given up on actually getting the rambunctious boys to actually pay attention and digest the information.

Jacaerys being his usual self simply agreed to his eldest uncle's announcement, always too adamant in making the elder happy. Meanwhile Aemond’s lips pursed in distaste, muttering beneath his breath that he should be the leader of their group considering he the one to receive the best feedback from teachers, not only during their study sessions but in the training yard as well. Ser Cristion patted him proudly on the back as he proclaimed that Aemond would grow to be one of the best Knights Westeros had seen, a natural at combat.

Aegon heard his sly remark of course, eyebrows shooting to his forehead as he opened his mouth, likely to retort with a foul jape about the younger being the only dragon less one among them.

The words stung, pierced his small heart like a steel dagger, but surprisingly enough, it was their youngest nephew, Lucerys, to shoot out of his chair before Aegon could get a single word out, frantically nodding his head in agreement as he voted that Aemond would make the best leader there had ever been.

Aegon stuttered like a tongue-tied fool trying to convince the little heir that he was the better candidate, however the curly haired boy already made up his mind long ago. Making it clear his vote remained with his uncle Aemond.

And if the pale haired prince flushed in embarrassment at the proclamation, using his hair as a curtain to hide the small smile that wouldn’t melt away no matter how much he tried to remind himself to look natural, then that was his business alone.

It was an odd relationship they had, he and his nephews; so close yet so far away all at once, family in blood but not so much in spirit or questionably love. They lived amongst one another, trained together, and studied with the same teachers. From sunrise to sunset Aemond’s days were spent alongside the Valeryon boys whether he truly wanted to or not.

They knew most things about one another that most others would not; how Aegon drunkenly hit on one of the younger dragon keepers before emptying his guts onto the floor not even a minute later. Jace kissing a squirrel after he’d been dared to by a curious Aemond who wanted to see how far he’d go to impress his brother or how Lucerys loudly proclaimed he and Aemond would marry once they came of age much to his own humiliation. Not only because the idea was ludicrous but also due to having to shyly explain to his young nephew why such a thing was not right nor could ever be. All whilst Aegon fell to his knees in laughter as Jace scrawled like he’d accidentally eaten moldy bread.

Early morning talks took place among them, grumpy and half out of their minds from staying up past bedtime and praying to every god, old and new, to bring in a flood and ruin the day's plans so they could trot up to their quarters and rest for ten more minutes.

Telling one another vivid details pertaining to their odd dreams; Jace explaining in awe that he dreamt of his body flying through the air on his own without a dragon to be seen, seemingly having sprouted wings out of nowhere. Little Lucerys excitedly recalling a sweet dream filled with even sweeter desserts; of lemon cakes and raspberry filled pastries with mountains of chocolate squares. Aegon’s on the other hand, were that of nothing but foul mouthed whor*s on their knees, a confession that Aemond had no choice but to hold onto his youngest nephew's ears to protect him from such filth.

Now Aemond? He’d always woken up teary eyed, wishing he could live in his dreams for the rest of his days. Back to a reality where the fluorescent green egg he’d been told was picked especially for him, hatched beside him in his cradle. But even at the ripe age of one ten and one, he’d known better than to expose his core like that. Choosing to share that his dreams were few and far in between.

Every part of the prince’s existence were intertwined in ways they as young boys could not yet understand.

In more ways than one.

Aemond doesn't recall much of his flight back to King's Landing, barely conscious in the present time as his mind was too focused on playing back every wrong decision he made over Shipwreckers bay.

Everything he could’ve done, should’ve done; yet no longer had the chance to.

He’d acted too soon, allowed for his emotions to take the reins and throw him down a path that could never be undriven. The finality of it was enough to make his stomach cave in on itself and tear open his belly for everyone to bear witness.

Going through the motions felt like a freshly woven whip to the back. A part of Aemond still felt as though he was on that salty shoreline searching for any scrap of the boy he’d done away with. Desperately scraping through sand with his bare hands and cutting his fingers on jagged rocks, pushing through the oceans waves as though he could clear space just to see.

The seconds morphed into minutes and the minutes soon became hours before the blonde realized it. The cloudy skies had cleared revealing a blazing sun, birds chirping in delight as they could once again take flight and sing their lustrous songs to the world down below. All whilst bit and pieces of iridescent flesh scattered along atop the blue waters, like chunks of meat floating to the top of a stew. Soon to become fish food, providing nourishment for the ocean's many creatures.

Aemond felt numb, every emotion he’d experienced up until the moment it set in that Lucerys would never come back was snipped into ash. The world around him seemed dull, gray and drained of any life whatsoever, a stark comparison to the vibrant colors flooding his sight before he’d mounted Vhagar with his brother’s message in hand. If it weren’t for the songbirds and crabs scattering through the sand Aemond would have easily believed all life on this filthy planet had perished along with the Strong boy.

Yournephew,dear sweet Lucerys who was once stuck to your hip like a bear cub, you mean?

The scales on Vhagar’s back were no longer simply rough and calloused, but sharp to the touch. Enough to draw blood if he wasn’t careful.

More than enough blood had been spilled already. Raining down from the skies like a fresh spring mist to water the gardens, thick pulp and baby dragon entrails crashing down to the earth alongside. The image of that pearly white creature he once watched his nephew cheerily play with in the dragon pits as he burned envy, barely able to stop himself from stomping away in jealousy as the boy let out a small yet squeaky dracarys.

Yes, Aemond remembers it all so vividly, how the tiny thing roared out a fiery flame that looked more like a small campfire than a dragon's fierce flame. Lucerys had been happy as ever all the same.

Aemond doesn't recall where or how he’d landed Vhagar, too focused on the cloak clutched in his fists as cold as northern snow, freezing his fingers so badly that he was sure he’d get frostbitten if he continued to hold onto the soaked fabric dripping seawater at his feet.

He could almost see a future where his fingers turned as black as coal before they died and pitifully fell from his body. Perhaps that would be for the best, he couldn’t hurt anyone else if he was disabled even further, after all. A fingerless worrier wouldn’t be much of a worrier at all, would he?

Lucerys’ cloak was drenched in blood, the metallic stench trying its damndest to cover the scent of orange blossoms his nephew left behind. It was sort of funny almost, from the way he remembers the boy scarfing down every lemon cake he could get his grubby little hands on during their shared youth, Aemond would’ve suggested the boy smelled similar to the sweet yet sour scent, perhaps even something slater hidden under, more fitting for the future Dritmark lord.

Aemond could feel a spot of it on his nose from holding the cold cloth to his face for so long, desperate to latch onto the scent he once cursed himself for longing for. Long nights filled with salty tears and a hole in his chest that he had been certain could be filled by repaying the debt.

The cursed debt, the gnawing need to right the wrong that was done to him, a wrong that not even his own father had been willing to fight against. Allowing for his son to be maimed without even so much as a simple chastising. The rotting corpse of a man might as well have patted the bastard on the back in congratulations for a job well done.

An eye for an eye had become the words Aemond lived by, molded his every act upon in hopes the day would come for him to receive what he was owed, some form of retribution in the only way his hurt soul could conceive. He was marked, scarred for life, constantly reminded day in and day out that whatever harm would befall him could only be absolved by his own hands.

He wanted to move on, to be free and start the next chapter in his life free of all the woes and hurts that burdened him with a heavy weight upon his shoulders. He wanted to be seen, yearning for his voice to be heard, to know that his hurt mattered, that he deserved justice.

If only he’d known how bitter justice tasted on the tip of one’s tongue.

As Aemond walked through the halls of the keep waiting eyes of servants and guards alike were pointed at him, staring through his rigid form straight into his broken soul as they took in the horrid sight he made. Soaked from head to toe, roots of his hair slightly curled as his silver strands were dirtied with specks of blood and sand. The prince left a damp trail behind him as he stunk up the halls with the putrid scent of copper and seawater, the bloody cloth in his grip soaking the pristine castle floors as he held it close to his side, gripping it as though it would be pried from his hands if he didn’t.

Walking into the council room wasn’t as hard of a feat as it should’ve been, not with Ser Cristion too enticed with serving his mother to do a proper job of it. Aemond didn’t hold any blame over the man’s head. His mother was an honorable woman, a pleasure to serve through most days. The perfect picture of duty and honor, a respectable woman that many could look up to in terms of her regency as she stood by his father’s side for as long as she had without so much as the slightest complaint.

But Aemond was no longer a little boy blinded by the fierce protection she gracefully placed upon him. Now a man grown and as such he could truly recognize the faults lying within the woman who’d given him the gift of life as well as her undying love. She was a nervous person, constantly nipping at the tips of her fingers so harshly she made herself bleed without a second thought. Broken skin and dried scabs crusting around her nail beds making for a skin crawling slight to gaze at. Biting the insides of her cheeks so often that Aemond normally could spot the exact moment she bit down too hard and drew blood, her slight flinching so discreet that anyone who hadn’t spent a lifetime by her side wouldn’t be able to catch it.

She prayed over his bed most nights, late hours when he was supposed to be in the land of dreams, hovering over his lax form and praying to the gods; praying that his soul would never see the seven hells, tearily begging for her beloved child to be spared of whatever retribution the gods saw fit to bring upon him for his blood, for his war torn beast of old Valyria whose mere existence was a challenge to all that was holy.

Now, as takes in her shaking form, hunched her the meeting table as her eyes blurred with tears at the sight of her dutiful boy soaked in rainwater and smelling of death, does Aemond truly know what it feels like to burn in sin. Perhaps she had been right to pray over his bed for all these years.

Kinslayer.

“What have you done Aemond? What have you done? Oh, may the mother have mercy on our souls.” Mother cries as she clutches onto her chest, fingers turning red as her grip tightens with each second that passes as her question remains unanswered, her hope that this was all one big misunderstanding crumbling as well as her naive wish for reconciliation with her childhood love along with it. It looked as though she meant to rip her heart out of her body and let it burst into nothing but pulp just to escape the pain. After all, the heartlessness are numb to most emotions is what many would tell you.

“Who was it?” Otto demanded, hands coming down on the thick wood so harshly a bruise instantly began to bloom on his pale flesh. Red and angry as purple patches spread across his knuckles. “Open your mouth and answer me you stupid boy!”

“Lucerys Velaryon.” Aemond spits, unsure of why he announced the bastard's name in full. Mayhaps a piece of him felt that if he did the reality of his actions would finally set in, no longer a dream he'd find himself awakening from.

Aegon sent a whor* to his rooms once; tan skin and short dark hair, doe brown eyes that held too many horrors behind them to make her innocent lip biting and finger fiddling the slightest bit believable. The half-naked slag refused to leave him be until she had properly satisfied his supposed cravings as per his brother’s exact wording. Climbing into his bed to swing her legs over him before he’d gently pushed her off, having to mentally remind himself that whor* or not she was still a woman no matter how filthy and sinful she may have been.

He didn’t f*ck her, his body uninterested and his mind repulsed by such demanding actions. Yet he allowed her to remain stood in the corner like an eager child until Aegon was finished with whoever was in his company before dragging the whor* back to him. However, the girl was talkative, chatty in the most annoying of ways; similar to many of the ladies at court going on about their shopping and trips across the country to visit their summer homes. One thing led to another, and she somehow ended up going on about a certain act those in her culture did for the dead.

Whenever a life ended, be it old age or otherwise, their life was snipped out. Only their whole names were spoken aloud as not only a final act of respect, but a way to remind others of the light they once brought into their lives.

After what felt like hours of unbroken silence passed, Aegon was the first to speak. Small, badly hidden giggles morphing into harsh snorts of uncontrollable laughter, throwing his head back as though he were witnessing the most amusing play the best jesters in all of Westeros put on especially for him. “Finally! I must say that you had me scared for a moment there brother, I was so sure a different name would’ve fallen from your mouth, but alas it was only the Dritmark bastard who you’ve done away with, huh? My gosh, this calls for a celebration don’t you all think? A feast with the best wine, greatest bands and most marvelous of whor*s this world has to offer!”

Raising his cup, Aegon smiles wider than he’d ever thought the elder was capable of, his eyes dancing with something he couldn't put his tongue on before toasting. “Good job, truly. Deep down in my heart I knew you weren’t completely worthless. Now you’ve only proven it.”

Their mother’s cries only increased, wailing sobs filled with pain only a mother could come to understand. He wonders if she cries for her own children's souls, the retribution that will surely rain down upon their heads or for what will become of Rhaenyra once she catches word of her sweet boy's gruesome fate. His half-sister always babied him, holding his hand and pulling him close as she placed kisses upon his hair.

Grandfather only scoffs, staring at both princes as though he wanted to tear their head straight from their shoulders. “Foolish boys, the both of you! I expected something like this from you, but you.” He snares, finger pointed at Aemond as he trembled in barely contained rage. “You're supposed to be the smart one, I actually had hope for you. But now I see you're just as dimwitted as your siblings.”

“Well that's not very nice, now is it? I personally don’t see the reasons to get your knickers in a twist. One less dragon and dragon rider for the blacks, not that sweet Laury and his dragon were much of a threat in the first place. Tiny little things they were, probably felt like snapping a twig in half.” Aegon laughs.

“Lucerys” Mother sniffles. “His name-his name was Lucerys.” Shakily standing up as she rests a hand on Cole’s shoulders. The man worryingly moves to hold her up as she begins to lose her footing, the pressure of it all becoming too much for her to bear.

Otto growls. “War has just become inevitable you halfwit. Rhaenyra and her husband will rain hellfire upon us and half of King’s Landing included for what your brother had done.” Turning back to Aemond, talking over with enough venom laced through his words to kill. “You’ve murdered the heir to Driftmark, the largest fleet in all of Westeros with the power to bring us all to our knees by starvation if they close the shipping lanes. You only lost one eye; how could you be so blind?”

Aemond doesn't answer, swallowing thickly before turning to leave the room. Ignoring his grandfather's screams that he hadn’t yet been dismissed and to come back in an instant. Accusing him of cowardice as he turns his back after committing such an inexcusable act of war.

He didn’t pay it much mind, the yelling, screaming of terror for not only his family's fate but Lucerys soul. The common featured bastard whose mere existence was a mockery to their house and a stain upon Aemond’s heart.

Shoes full of seawater and a tight grip on the red and black cloak.

Forgive me mother, for I have sinned.

The pink dread wasn’t the cruelest of acts Aemond’s brother committed to humiliate him. No, there had been a handful that were much worse. One of them took place not so long before his spirit was finally crushed in the dragon pit that day, sounds of snorting ringing through his skull like a bell.

There had been a serving girl by the name of Alma who Aemond took quite the liking to. Cheeks flushing pink and heart skipping a beat whenever he laid eyes on her. The picture of beauty she was, caramel skin and dark brown eyes, hailing all the way from a small village in Essos. Her common tongue wasn’t great, speaking too little words for them to have a proper conversation. However, that never made the short interactions they did have any less enjoyable in Aemond’s book, always looking forward to any time he could spend alongside her.

It was more than obvious, this little infatuation the second son had with the lower-class girl from across the seas; anyone who paid close enough attention could see it in the way Aemond found himself tongue tied around her. Even his nephew, little Lucerys caught wind of the way his uncle had been entranced by her, pouting like a fussy babe whenever the older prince was too focused on her to pay him any attention.

It was amusing really, how the brown-haired boy took to huffing and puffing whenever Aemond chose to not to participate in their usual games. More often than not, Lucerys’ elder brother Jacareys had to soothe the younger's pain by proclaiming they would spend the whole day playing together; just the two of them side by side as it should always be. It was enough to lift poor Lucerys spirits, but feelings of rejection still lay heavy in his tiny heart.

This caused more than a little rife between Aemond and his eldest nephew, the Valeryon boy huffing whenever Aemond asked where his brother had been as of late. You still care to spend time with him? I thought your interest lied elsewhere.

Aemond didn’t have the slightest clue as to what his words meant, but he left it alone nonetheless, too busy trying to work out a way to communicate with Alma. Seemingly no longer interested in doing anything besides.

That was until Aemond walked in on a scene he would spend years trying and failing to scrub from his young mind.

“f*ck, that’s it.” Aegon muttered, jaw slack and eyelids fluttering as the servant girl pleasured him on her knees. Vulgar slurping and desperate moans echoing through the now thin air.

Aegon's gaze is heavy as he takes notice of him standing in the entryway, books having fallen to the floor long ago as his fists clenched in anger, young soul splitting into pieces.

“Brother!” The fool greets, hands clutching onto the girl's dark locks just that might tighter, a nod of encouragement if you will. “At first I had my doubts about your little infatuation, but I must say you have good taste.” He chuckled, hissing as he threw his head back. “I won’t be long; you’ll be able to have your turn shortly.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched at the sight, slowly turning around to make his leave. Books having long been forgotten on the floor. Whatever his plans for the day had been, not even he himself remembered over the sounds of his heart shattering.

Mother did her best to cheer him up, not doing as great of a job as she could’ve considering her youngest wouldn't open up to her about his hurt. Not much could be done as Aemond knew the truth would send his mother into a panic. So like any good son, he lied, mumbling to her that his nephews had called him dragonless once again.

It seemed to work, if the calm hatred in her eyes and fierce embrace said anything.

After a few days spent nursing a bruised heart and pitiful tears staining his pillows. Aemond visited the kitchens in search of Lucerys. Knowing the little bugger would be there drooling over the freshly baked batch of lemon cakes. His half-sister was day's away from popping, yet her sweet tooth remained as strong as could be, practically inhaling any slightly sugary treat in sight.

Aemond thought some time reading his favorite Valyrian tales may help ease his heartbreak, Lucerys enjoyed the stories as well so figured there would be no harm in having a reading buddy.

Much to his surprise, the younger boy paid him no mind as he sniffed the miniature cakes. Rolling his eyes at Aemond’s attempts to lure him to the library.

“You enjoy reading stories with me, do you not?” Aemond huffed, hands on his hips as he tried to figure out what his nephew's problem was. Had they spent such a long period apart that the younger’s interest changed completely?

Lucerys let out a small humph,lips pursed before turning to look up at theblonde. “I have plans with Jace today.” And that was the end of that, the boy stomping away having forgotten all about his initial plans to bribe the sweet kitchen maids into sneaking him a lemon cake or two despite his mother’s no sweets being supper rule.

Aemond scoffed, leaving the kitchen with his tail tucked between his legs, ignoring the small snort of a kitchen maid at the scene between the young princes’. “He feels pushed aside, my prince. Ignored.” She informed him before going back to her duties.

Aemond didn’t fully understand at the time, choosing to blow off the woman’s words wholly.

Perhaps that's why Lucerys so happily participated in the pink dread.

It rained down upon all of King’s Landing that night, raging thunder sounding closer to that of a pained shrill and strikes of purple lightning that brightened the whole sky whenever it struck. The streets were empty excluding those without shelter, mothers hurriedly pushing their young ones inside as men closed down their stands for the day. Streets filled with muddy water as the pour from the heavens only gained strength.

Word was already beginning to spread even through the disastrous weather, whispers that the prince Aemond had arrived back from Storms End not only with the allegiance of Borros Baratheon, but the blood of an enemy staining his hands. No one knew for certain who the poor soul had been, not yet at least. Hushed theories flowing through all of King’s Landing as to who had been the first man slain under the prince's sword.

What was for certain, is that Aemond had become a true warrior all in the name of defending his brother’s crown. Some called it noble, other’s felt it was only the beginning of a horrendous reign, war looming over their heads.

Aemond Targaryen had spilled blood, taken a life as all great warriors have before him. Yet it hadn’t felt like a rite of passage, or pride filled victory, but a gut-wrenching mistake. Regret lurched in the prince's gut, spilling out in the form of sickness as vile acid climbed up his throat and out onto his room floors. His entire body was wrecked by feverous shivers, trembling as he laid on all fours, hot tears blurring his vision.

Memories bombarded him, hazy visions of his youth that had never been filled with that child-like innocence he oftentimes grieved never having gotten the chance to experience. Ruined by his grandfather's cunning and mother’s inability to speak love to him and his siblings rather than expectations and reminders of duty. Aegon’s sick perversions, tainting what little purity he had left.

But there had been good times, few and far in between. His mothers warm embrace whenever father forgot his name day, Ser Cole’s pride filled grin as Aemond put his sword to the man’s neck and forced him to surrender for the first time. How the crowd filled with the heavy's gazes of lords and ladies impressed with his strength.

Helaena’s visits to his chambers with a story book to lift his spirits as he healed; deathly terrified of how he could go through life half blinded despite the strong face he wore in his mother’s presence.

Lucerys holding his hand as they journeyed through the castle Library, his brown eyes filled with wonder as Aemond told his favorite old Valyrian tales. Taking pride in the way his nephew smiled at him as though he hung the moon and the stars.

Now, all that was left of the boy was his cloak; torn and bloodied but held close to Aemond’s heart all the same.

Chapter 3: Its simply a matter of mourning

Chapter Text

The death of Prince Lucerys came as a shock. Shaking the realm down to its very core as havoc soon began to run amok.

The steadily building fear of incoming war amongst the common folk bursting like a bubble of hot air. News of the crown princess’s beloved son having been slain at the hands of his own uncle making its rounds through the city in no time. It was a topic that hadn’t been left unheard by a single ear in King’s Landing, from the mouths of nosey serving girls into the cities down below. Every man, woman, and child old enough to understand the high tension knew of the young heir’s brutal death. Now, the only question left among most was when the Blacks strike of retaliation would reveal itself.

Such a crime wouldn’t go unpunished, this every soul who’d been a witness to the princess’s love for her second eldest knew well. The only hope the common folk held onto in all of the chaos was that their own lives wouldn’t be made one of thousands of casualties caught in the middle of dragon's fire.

Most people’s memories of the young prince lay with the announcement of his birth. Bells of the keep ringing down upon the city as news of the princess’s labors bearing fruitful with that of a son. Heavy bones and strong lungs as his cries could be heard throughout the castle halls. Some even claimed to have heard the babes' screams all the way down in Flea Bottom, though people rarely listen to the tales of mad drunkards roaming about the streets.

It wasn’t until the Princess made her first appearance upon the common folk since her pregnancy, moons after she’d given birth that whispers began. Whispers that she bore yet another bastard, pools of warm amber for eyes with brown curls that looked to be as soft as the clouds their gods strung high above them every waking morning. Many attempted to catch a closer glance whilst Ser Laenor held the babe tight in their carriage. Curiosity burning bright in the pits of their stomachs as sly eyes roamed. Yet all that could be seen of the babe were chubby pale fingers clutched tight around the knight's own. The rest of his body wrapped snug in a soft blue blanket littered in gold symbols.

Most people cared not for the rumors of bastardy; hearts of the small folk still lay heavy with love for their delight in spite of the long years of her girlhood having passed. Love that carried onto her three young sons despite their lack of Velaryon features, and more than likely, blood.

Lucerys Velaryon may not have been well known among the common folk, hardly seen after the rumors of the boy having cut out his uncle’s eye in a one on five tussle involving their cousins began to swarm. Yet and still, his death left a mark that would surely turn the tides of history. Whether that be for the better or worse, no one knew. Holding onto hope that the boy hadn’t suffered in his last moments. That the gods held enough favor for the prince to gently guide him to accept the stranger’s kiss.

There was a heavy fog polluting the air, thick and smelling of death. Weighing down on the hearts of most, chests tight as their bellies churned. The feeling of incoming disaster striking the small folk like the never-ending bolts of lightning in the skies above Storm’s End. Dark clouds casting over King's Landing as though the gods were giving their final warnings. Leading up to a dreary rainfall that went on for days without sign of letting up.

Children were kept in the home, barred from roaming the muddy streets with their mates in such a tense climate. Men lost valuable business due the sudden change in weather, counting their last coins in desperation as the future of what would become of their families without the means of trade left them feeling hopeless, drowning in despair.

Brothels still ran smoothly as ever, even more so now that the realm was stricken by the official call to war. Death was one of those things that brought a man’s true nature out from the shadows, revealing the ravenous beasts that lived deep within. Throwing down good coin for a chance to f*ck their local madame’s youngest girls, preferably a freshly flowered maiden. Desiring nothing more than to hear the cries of a weeping virgin beneath them before they inevitably lost their lives. Fighting on the battlefield for a war they never believed in.

While most whor*s remained stationed at their usual place of work, others took their more scandalous talents to the next tavern over in hopes of attracting a softer clientele, men who were more pathetic in bed than they were aggressive. Crying into soft shoulders as they rambled on about the fate of their families during such trying times, while others sung woes of never having left a mark on this world with progeny. No one to carry on their names in spite of being drunken bastards with no name to carry on. Too lost in the daze of liquor and pleasure to spew anything other than nonsense.

Surprisingly, their newly crowned king—- who happened to be a well-known patron amongst the streets of silk, hadn’t been seen since before his nephew's untimely death. The realization was beginning to stir quite the gossip, word of the King’s plans for celebration of his brothers self-proclaimed accomplishments leaving a bad taste in the mouths of most.

There will be endless rows of the best cuisines, rare wines specially shipped in from Dorne and all the live entertainment one could ever dream of. A smashing event it’ll surely be. A celebration for all to join in honor of Prince Aemond’s honorary deed.

Some thought such an event to be more amusing than it was morbid, breaking out into toe curling laughter at the idea of silver spoon-fed royals destroying their house like that of a snake eating its own tail. Others felt it quite tasteless, disgusted with the King’s cruelty towards his own kin, a helpless child no less. But such actions weren’t the most surprising considering the rumors that the spoilt man-child had a penchant for crawling between his shy sister-wife’s legs whenever he was knees deep in a good red wine whether she desired it or not.

But such words are no more than gossip, aren’t they?

In spite of the accusations pertaining to adulterous deeds that followed behind the princess Rhaenyra like a bad stench, most still held her in high regard. A true delight of the realm no matter how many years passed them by. Every mother from the filthiest corners of Silk Street to the small towns of Dragonstone lit a candle for the woman. Praying for the heart of their princess, a heart that surely lay broken to pieces in her chest.

Word is they never found the young prince’s corpse no matter how much they searched. Days of scrounging the beaches of shipbreakers bay proved fruitless as not even a single shred of clothing could be found. The only remains of the boys and his dragon having existed in the first place being chunks of rotten meat; sucked dry of all blood and crawling with maggots as it cooked under the harsh sun. Crows pecking at the tiny larvae eating at pearlescent flesh making for quite a gruesome sight many have heard.

That is, if you trusted the words of disfigured wenches parading about the towns with a rusted tin held out for spare coin in exchange for the latest gossip.

Women found it heartbreaking, clutching their chest as tears welled in their eyes. Thoughts of their own children swirling through their minds, unsure if they’d ever be able to live with themselves if their little ones died such a tragic death whilst they lived on. Gods forbid.

Men on the other hand felt anger, cursing the boy’s stupidity for facing Aemond Targaryen of all people. While the second son may have had nothing to his person other than his name, the one-eyed prince had long proven himself to be a warrior in the making. Beating various members of the King’s Guard including Ser Cristion Cole in the training yards according to loose lipped lower nobles.

Stupid, stupid boy, they cursed. Taking on the rider of a hundreds year old warmonger whilst his own dragon looked more like any ole pup abandoned on the streets than a mighty beast. A true shame it was, the death of a boy at the hands of his own kin. Coming as an envoy no less, never able to return to his mother with news of new allegiance. Truly a horrifying end for young life.

However, there was one train of thought easily lost in the gritty haze of opinions. The wishful thinking of youngsters who liked to view this world through the lense of their cup’s remaining half full rather than half emptied. Seeing the prince’s death as a blessing, unable to catch a frail thing such as himself in the brutal crossfires of war. His soul now one with the stranger and awaiting the arrival of his kin.

Wishful thinking it certainly was.

There was a common saying amongst men; specifically, men who have taken the lives of others.

Whether their reasons lay with being caught in the crossfires of war, fighting for not only themselves but their fellow man. Or attacking one another in drunken rage at one of various sh*t taverns littering the city's corners. Vision going red and fists balled tight as their opponent lay beneath them, beaten till their features were no longer apparent. Nothing more than a repulsive splatter of flesh and bone, crimson blood and malleable tendons.

When asked about the lives they’ve burnt out with their own hands like two fingers to a low flame, their words were all the same. Uttering one measly sentence as though it were the only correct answer one could give. An indisputable truth from their lips to the ears of the gods so help their eternal soul.

Taking a life will slowly kill you.

There was once a time when a younger, naïve version of Aemond scoffed at those words. Turning his nose up in disbelief as he stalked away in irritance. If members of the kingsguard wanted to spew horse sh*t at Aemond then he’d let them have at it. After all, how many of those stiff faced cowards could actually say they’ve taken enough lives to be worthy of being asked such a question? Nowadays the biggest threats to the haggard king weren’t poisoned food and drink by the hands of scorned allies or being usurped by his own brother—- no matter how often the hand tried to slip such thoughts through Aemond and his siblings' skulls.

No, the biggest threat to their walking corpse of a king were his own limbs. Puss filled sores that seemed to bubble should he stand under sunlight and gangrenous patches of dry crusted skin rotting off frail bones more and more each day.

If Aemond wanted to know what it was like to take a man’s life he’d simply have to wait for his own time to come.

His first kill would be one of honor, striking down any and all threats to his brother's kinghood despite the pathetic excuse of a firstborn son’s clear aversion to taking control of his responsibilities. Yes, he may despise the thought of Aegon of all people being the man he’d plead allegiance to, but it would be more than worth it in the grand scheme of things.

The young prince could see it, a crystal-clear picture of himself clad in black armor with Dark sister at his hip. The absolute image of knighthood as any man that dared to challenge him were rewarded with the sickening taste of iron as he ran his sword through their mouths and out through the backs of their skulls. The dragon rider wouldn’t shed tears or sing songs of regret for not showing opponents his mercy. Their souls wouldn’t weigh on his chest like those of weaker men.

It was funny how a person's core beliefs could change with time. Dragged through the mud by the experience they once scoffed at.

His younger self thought such sayings of regret were mere nonsense spilled by weaker men who didn’t possess the mental strength to take another’s life. Held down by their own cowardice and inability to take pride in their actions. But now, as Aemond lay splayed across his bed, stripped down of all furs and feather pillows, did the prince realize his way of thinking was no more than the ignorant thoughts of a child. Blind to the real cruelties of life that lay outside the high walls of the training grounds. Not fighting with the sharpest of blades, but creaky hilts of wooden swords.

If only he could step backwards, turn back the mocking clock of time and knock some sense into his younger self. Warn him of all the ways in which he’d burn with regret and ache in pain if he took to the skies and allowed the grimy stain of blood to dirty his hands. Tell him that the glory of vengeance was fleeting and futile. A minimal high that lost its bliss as your mind soon began to clear in realization that once the light of one’s life was snuffed out it could never be relit.

None of it; the chest clawing malice, the absolute need to be repaid and prove that he’d long grown from that bullied boy in the dragon’s pit with tears welling in his eyes as his own kin paraded a pink hog in his face without an inkling of mercy.

None of it was worth the steadily gaping dark pit in his chest.

Even so, no matter his regrets, it was too late to take back his fatal choices, was it not? No matter how much he ached, Aemond lacked the power to change the past. Unable to push back the clock and allow the Strong bastard to say his peace before trotting back to his pathetic excuse of a dragon and right into his mother’s arms.

What's done is done. Aemond’s childhood companion whom he read stories with as they feasted on days’ worth of lemon cakes and strawberry tarts made especially for their larger-than-life appetites by soft hearted kitchen maids. Finding solace in one another’s company as both their elder brothers floated along in their own worlds, claiming they’d grown past the younger's childish exploits. Moving onto bigger and better things— which for Aegon meant drowning himself in wine whilst attempting to convince Jacaerys to take part.

Aemond hadn’t allowed himself to look back on the past since the night his eye had been stolen, but even so, he was only a man. Weak to the cotton like daze of nostalgia those days held. Weak to the aching need to relive a time which he’d taken for granted.

It was a gloomy day, storm clouds gathering above as thunder bellowed across the skies. A heavy downpour greeted every soul in King's Landing from the city outskirts to the red keep itself.

Such harsh weather made training impossible for the young princes, every inch of the yards covered in mud as the winds carried debris of thin branches and fallen leaves. They’d all been disappointed at the news to an extent, at least, all of them except for Aegon. The eldest among them taking to sneaking a sweet wine out from cellars to celebrate.

While very much upset that he’d be unable to sword train with Ser Cole, Aemond easily picked himself back up as he took to the library. Faring that a good tale would be a way to pass the time.

He picked a good one, or at least one he knew for certain his nephew would enjoy. Skipping behind the silver haired prince as though he were a lost baby chick that caught a whiff of Aemond and in turn decided the older was his mother. Stuck to his side as he babbled on about his last trip to Driftmark. How he ran about the beaches collecting as many shells as his coat pockets could hold all while Lord Corlys tried his best to keep up. Getting to sit upon the hardwood throne as his grandsire recounted tales of his own youth. Excited as one could be to return despite only having left days ago. Adamant that he’d swim out as far as he could until he made contact with a sea siren.

“Can you even swim? Last time you dipped a single foot into water you nearly drowned.” Aemond teased, the corner of his lips pulled up into a smirk as he found a small spot hidden in between two of the largest shelves. Laying down the soft quilt Helaena crocheted the younger as a gift for his previous nameday.

Luke rolled his eyes, hands on his hips and looking at Aemond as though he were the one stringing together utter nonsense of mermaids and singing birds with the heads of fish. Comical is what it was. “Did not! Lady Dana filled the tub up too high is all. S’not my fault.”

“Yes, she filled the tub too high and you nearly drowned in your own bathwater. But I'm sure you’ll do just fine out in the endless depths of the sea.” Aemond scoffed, taking a bite of a soft sugared biscuit before continuing. A sly bit of attitude seeping into his tone. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with that place anyway. I hear its drab as can be and your brother says the smell of salt makes your nose itch. You should be perfectly fine here rather than begging your father to take you to Driftmark all the time.”

“Because, silly. Driftmark is just as much my home as the keep is. Also, grandsire Corlys says a good sailor must become one with the ocean should he ever want to travel it. How can I do that if I’m always stuck on land?” Luke questioned; chin stained with jam as he stuffed two creampuffs into his mouth. Cheeks blown up like a squirrel stashing acorns for the winter.

With a frown the older shrugged. “It's not as if you’ll always be on the ground. The dragon keepers say Arrax will soon grow large enough for you to climb atop and ride wherever your heart desires.” Leaving him behind, though that went without saying as the silver haired boy felt his chest tighten.

Aemond was beginning to accept that he wouldn’t know what it was like to be a dragonrider for the foreseeable future. With his egg remaining unhatched till this very day along with every dragon in the pit from the eldest to most immature having denied bonding with him from the time he was old enough to attempt doing so without the pity filled stares of the keepers boring a hole into his back.

He hated it, hated that he lacked the one thing that made a Targaryen who they were. All the while his bastard nephews practically threw their good fortune in his face.

At least that’s what his mother and Ser Cole always said.

Luke chuckled. “Don’t be stupid, uncle. I’ll still fly Arrax as much as I can, nothing could ever change that. Our souls are one you know.”

Aemond couldn’t help but scoff. His misfortune once again thrown in his face and all the while his nephew seemed more than blind to how his words tore the older apart. “Well not all of us are riders, you know. Some of us have been damned to a life of loneliness.” He said grumpily, opening the heavy book as he flipped to the middle pages. Ready to start off where he left as the conversation was quickly starting to irritate him. Wondering why he even brought such a topic up in the first place.

Luke pursed his lips, bushy eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he cuddled up next to the older as close as could be. Wrapping small arms around Aemond’s own before closing in, their noses centimeters from touching as he starkly declared. “It doesn’t matter if you never have a dragon of your own because as soon as Arrax is big enough we’ll both be able to take to the skies. Muna even says that she’ll have my father commission the biggest, most comfy saddle—” Jumping up as his arms were splayed wide in display. “So we’ll both fit nice and snug. We’ll even fly to old Valyria if you want. Just wait and see.”

Aemond swallowed thickly, turning his head as a pink flush began to sprout on pale cheeks. Heat rising by the second as he scrambled for words. “Whatever…now pay attention and keep your eyes on the passage.” He rumbled, finger pointing to the text as his nephew shrugged before following along.

Both boys allowed silence to take over, escaping into the world of gold armored knights and bridge trolls who spun silver.

Aemond felt his chest tighten as memories of a better time played on a tortuous loop. The image of a pink cheeked boy with honey brown curls and soft eyes burned into the back of his mind like hot coals over a steadily growing flame.

A week had gone by since Lucerys’ death. Seven days, ten hours and thirty-two seconds to be exact; that is if Aemond’s estimates were correct.

It's been days since Aemond allowed his anger to spiral out of control and take hold of the reins. Carelessly pulling back the safety net his patch provided him from prying eyes to reveal his deformity. Forcing the bastard to face his work. Bear witness to what he’d stolen from the older the night he threw stones only to hide his hands. Hiding behind his mother’s skirts like an innocent babe, hand clutching his brothers as he looked up to Daemon in pure wonder as though the man was a savior sent from the heavens. All the while his delicate hands were coated in blood splatter, palms pink in irritation from gripping the hilt of his blade.

Days had gone by since he sent his young nephew fleeing from the dreary halls of Borros’s pathetic excuse for a court. Voice cracking and practically shaking in fear as he refused to bend to the older’s will. Nothing more than a pup attempting to stand up in the face of a full-grown hound and failing so miserably that even those present halted their judgmental stares and whispers of gossip in fear they’d be forced to watch the boy be torn apart limb from limb.

Days without a proper night's rest, leaving the prince haggard, barely present as he lost himself in the horrors of his own mind. The image of a dragon no larger than a stallion torn to pieces with a single snap of the jaw. A gust of blood flowing through the wind like a red spring mist on a warm summer’s evening. The sight of entrails lost in the cool breeze as Vhagar continued onward was almost haunting. It was as if sinking her teeth into such delicate flesh was no more than your average day's experience. Perhaps even a satisfying end to the hatchling that dared spit fire towards her; burnt scale beginning to peel as dark blood crusted into surface wounds. Tongue licking at the marred skin in an attempt to comfort herself all whilst her rider shook with panic as despair soon rose to the surface once the cloudy smog of adrenaline cleared.

Aemond hadn’t been able to make out anything more than chunks of Arrax’s corpse in the haze. Not a single piece of his nephew's frail body to be seen in the gruesome mess of meat and horrid smelling innards. Had he not known any better, the dragon rider may have lost himself in denial of the boy’s death. Telling himself that the brunette surely survived the fall, washing upon the shores of Dragonstone and crawling back into his mother’s arms with a gnawing hunger to send Aemond and his family to ruin.

His mother surely thinks so, driving herself to the brink of madness as tensions rose. The fear of the black’s retaliation looming over their heads like storm clouds.

Looking up from his plate, Aemond allows his gaze to settle on the woman. His mother has always been a regal; emerald green gowns and moss-colored bodices serving as an outward expression of pride to her paternal house. Long auburn curls styled to perfection in the traditional ways of the faith for a married woman of both her age and bearing. The crown of her head always covered in a jewel encrusted headpiece topped with three seven pointed stars. Matching the crossed necklace that lay flat on her chest to perfection. Not a day having gone by without the golden piece wrapped around her delicate neck.

A picture of perfection she was, yet what many failed to properly understand was that looks were simply a part of the picture rather than the frame as a whole. The dowager queen's grace was more than the swallow pool of appearances. Twas in the way she carried herself, arms folded, and head held high yet not too high as a show of respect to both her father and King whom stood steps ahead of her. Handling even the most stressful situations with the utmost of grace. Keeping peace with those who spat in the face of the faith as she allowed her gods to enact their punishment.

Had Alicent truly been the horrid woman his half-sister claimed then she along with her brood of bastards would’ve been put to the sword long ago. It was only right seeing as their existence was an abomination to all who knew the path of the seven. Instead, she allowed the princess to continue on with her whorish ways. Holding onto hope that honor would prevail.

Yes, Aemond’s mother was the absolute picture of perfection. A breath of fresh air, an embodiment of nobility that most women would benefit from should they follow in her footsteps.

However, in this moment no such perfection was present to speak of.

As far back as Aemond could remember there had never been a time he’d seen his mother shatter. The closest he’d ever come to such a sight was the night he’d been attacked, ambushed and mutilated beyond repair. Her anger burned greater than any dragonfire Aemond had ever seen. Sorrow thick enough to choke on as it tainted the air, eyes wide and reddened from choked sobs as her husband refused to seek justice for the sin committed upon his own blood. A horrid image that the prince would never forget so long as he remained tied to this earth.

It was a sight no child should be forced to bear the emotional weight of. Seeing their mother, their protector since before they’d even had a name, begging as she cried out for her child to be avenged.

Something deep inside him changed that day, forever altered as his eyes opened to the true nature of his nephews that Ser Cristion had always warned him of. Sly insinuations that doe eyes and a soft smile weren’t to be trusted, a look of worry in his eyes as he left the prince to his own devices.

Aemond swore to himself that his mother would never shed another tear on his behalf. Undeserving of the pain and neglect, pushed aside and ordered to let things be even in the face of a threat towards her children’s wellbeing. Twas an oath the silver haired man took with pride, holding it to heart as he returned home a true dragon rider.

An oath he’d broken in a fit of rage.

His mother sat across from him practically drowning in her own misery. Head barely above water as her sniffles filled the deafening silence, hitching with every breath she took. Eyes bloodshot and glistening with tears under orange candlelight, lips cracked and stained with dried spots of blood as her tears poured like the rain above shipbreakers bay that day. Aemond had never seen her in such a state, hair tangled and skin blotched. Refusing to meet her son’s eye all whilst poking and prodding at her meal. likely as cold as the snow at the highest peak of Winterfell as the seconds ticked on.

Her gaze was a privilege these days, a privilege Aemond had been denied ever since he’d brust through those council room doors. Soaked from head to toe in rainwater and smelling of utter despair.

It drove him mad, his mother’s unwillingness to look upon him in fear of what she might see. As if a simple glance would reveal his deepest most repulsive secrets. No longer able to see him as her son, but a pretender. A flesh consuming beast who’d killed her precious second son in the dead of night before slipping into his skin. Parading around in a sick, twisted form of mockery for no other reason than to torture her.

He’d done this, Aemond thought. He’d turned his mother, his beloved champion, into a stoic embodiment of despair with not a soul to blame but himself. Wondering if a day would ever come where she would happily look upon him again.

“I see you're enjoying your meal brother. Perhaps I should order the kitchen wenches to fill your belly with pork roast from sunrise to sunset so long as your presence remains. I think it’ll be the key to stringing you up from this little rut you’ve found yourself in. Especially since I need you up on your feet and chirpy as a somd bird in time for the celebrations. Seeing as you’re my honored guest, of course.” Aegon chuckled, speaking for the first time since he’s ordered them to take their meal together as a family. Conveniently having forgotten to ask for their grandsire to join.

Aemond almost laughed as a servant found their way to his chambers to give the message. Wanting nothing more than to send the trembling man back with a colorful message of his own to the drunken king.

The younger gritted his teeth, fork stilling just as it pushed through the tender slab of pork. Plate still overflowing with a hearty serving of meat and vegetables. “I see being crowned king has done nothing to improve your appalling sense of humor.” Aemond muttered, cringing as he brought the dripping slice of meat to his lips. The smell causing the knot that had been growing in his belly for the last days to twist in disgust.

Aegon tilted his head, grin growing into an eerie smile as he leaned closer and put a hand to his ear. “What was that brother? Speak a bit louder so that your king—- may hear you.” An air of arrogance surrounding him as his tone remained drenched in mockery. Only serving to irritate Aemond further.

There was an old saying in Andal culture; passed down from the mouths of wise elders to the immature ears of their young. Should you give a poor man your last coin, he’ll continue to take until your back is bare if you allow him.

Aegon was an immature dolt. A child in the body of a man grown. His never faltering audacity and aversion to using the common sense he was born with was only made worse by a never-ending supply of wine and whor*s at his disposal. So repulsive that Aemond often wondered if his brother's ways were a matter of nature or nurture. Had the gods designed the older in such a way or was it merely the fault of their surroundings at play; the influences of alcohol and pleasure of the flesh holding more weight than the grace of their holy teachings.

“I said, that being crowned king has done nothing to improve your appalling sense of humor. Having said that, now I can clearly see how it’s also damaged your hearing. Or is it the ungodly racket down in your favorite corner of silk street that’s ruined it? Mayhaps the fighting pits you’ve shoved half of your bastards into.” Aemond hissed, nose flared and hand gripping silver tight enough to break the calloused skin.

From the corner of his eye Aemond could see Helaena shrink back as though she’d been burnt. Looking away as she silently put her head down to hide behind folded arms. Never having been one for confrontation of any kind, no matter if such dealings involved her or not.

On the opposite end, mother leaned forward. Chest heaving and fists balled up tight. Nails likely digging into the sensitive skin leaving behind a path of torn flesh and small streaks of crimson. She looked like a child, sitting on the sidelines as her parents broke out into yet another argument. Crying out for peace among this poor excuse of a family with nothing more than a broken stare.

Sadly, there was no such power that could glue together the shattered pieces of their family. That is if they were ever a family to begin with.

Aemond’s read books in youth with the main bases being the love families were meant to hold for another. How they were meant to protect each other and shield them from those who attempted to break them apart. While mother tried desperately to make sure they got along, such an idea was nowhere near what many said to be the true meaning of love. If anything, Aemond found the descriptor of his findings with his half-sister. The undeniable love she held for her bastards oftentimes too much to bear witness to.

Jealousy was not an emotion he felt towards anyone of the Strong boys, nor did he feel any need to be loved by their whorish mother. That being said, to see love given so outwardly made Aemond’s chest feel tight. As if there was no room left for his heart to continue beating.

He could never put a finger on why, much to his frustration.

All in all, Aemond simply wants to cease the fighting and go back to poking at the morsels on his plate until Aegon grew tired with his shenanigans. Freed from the shackles of following his pathetic dolt of a king’s desperate prying for entertainment and retreat back to the lone darkness of his chambers. Was that too much to ask for?

The fool laughs, pointing his knife towards the younger as his eyes swirled with amusem*nt, or perhaps it was simply the wine playing tricks. “Tread carefully when you speak to me. While I may be a patient man there’s only so much disrespect I’ll tolerate, regardless of your delicate mourning period. Though I do wonder if one deserves to have a mourning period if the deceased met the stranger at their hand. What do you say, mother?” Aegon teases nastily, eyebrows raising to his hairline as Aemond slams a clenched fist down. Silverware and porcelain plates shaking through the aftershock.

“Leave her out of this.” He growled, voice dripping with anger as he was powerless to the string of Aegon’s childish games. They were men grown, too old to make such a mess in front of anyone. Especially their mother.

Aegon twisted his body just enough to fully face the younger. Cheek in one hand whilst the other held the rim of his goblet. Filled to the very top of course, small drops of dark red dripping onto white cloth. Staining the soft material just as Lucerys’s blood stained his cloak. The scent of orange blossom and salted lemon cakes no longer smelt as sweet to Aemond’s dismay. Creating an indescribable aroma as copper festered.

“Leave her out of this?” Aegon questioned, seeming genuinely puzzled. Eyes darting across the nearly vacant room as though he were looking for someone to chime in spite of having ushered out every present servant in the guise of only wanting to be in the presence of his closest family. “Last time I checked you aren’t her keeper, now are you? Excuse me mother but I’d appreciate some input on this. Should our little cyclops be allowed to mourn in peace considering he’s the reason our dear nephew is rotting in Vhagar’s belly? I’d like to hear your opinion, truly.”

Mother went green in the cheeks, bottom lip quivering as she shied away. She looked younger, no more than a girl of ten and four when she was like this. “We must not argue in such trying times—”

“Trying times, you say?” Aegon interrupted with a deranged cackle. Eyes wide and unblinking before slamming his cup down in a fit. A sea of red ruining the tablecloth as his half eaten meal is soaked, the remaining slab of pork now truly looking as though it was freshly cut from a hog’s belly.

Aemond could almost hear Helaena’s heart quickening in dread. Sitting as still as a sept mouse. Praying for the fighting to cease.

Aegon continues on. “And who’s the reason we’re in such trying times mother? Hm? Who! Is it you and grandsire— chasing me down and dragging me back to hellhole only to put a crown on my head that even the simplest beggars in Flea Bottom know I’m not fit for? Or would it be the one-eyed imbecile who murdered a boy he used to cry over into his pillows like a rejected servant girl crying over a boy she fancies. He’s made his guilt and despair everyone’s problem since— and where do you think you’re going? Your king hasn’t dismissed you yet!”

Aemond shakes his head, biting down on his tongue as he flees the room without a second glance. Indifferent to both his brothers hissy fit as well as his mother’s look of absolute sorrow. He’d had more than enough, unable to sit there any longer as every person present saw him as nothing more than a kinslayer.

It was fascinating, how quickly someone’s perception of you could change.

Contrary to what many may assume nights were soothing to the kinslayer’s weeping soul.

During the late hours Aemond often found it much less difficult to fall into memories of the past, dreams of better times gracing his mind like a kiss from the gods. A less taxing time, filled with the innocence of adolescence and unaffected by what the future held in store. Such times were better for them all, but most certainly for his mother—- to a certain degree naturally.

Though the woman would never admit it, Aemond knew that a piece of the dowager queen died the day his half-sister fled to Dragonstone with her brood. Still holding a fondness for her childhood companion regardless of her indiscretions. A look of yearning shining in brown eyes whenever his half-sister turned her back. Not quite as sly as she thought herself to be.

Yes, the nights were kind to Aemond in a way that was still foreign. Easily slipping into his mind as he allowed for scenes of long passed days to take the reins. A glorious escape from the hushed whispers of serving girls smelling of dread. Refusing to make eye contact as they brought him his meals and nearly breaking numerous bathing oils as his bath was prepared.

Had he possessed the energy Aemond would’ve bared his dead eye to them. Took pleasure in their fear as he leaned in to make sure their view of his mangled face was superb.

Instead, the prince ignored their presence. Tossing in bed as his nephew's ruined cloak remained at his side, tucked beneath feather pillows as his fingers played at the inner lining that felt similar to dragon scale. It was soft, his nephew’s cloak. Almost as soft as the blankets the brunette's had been cradled in the first time their eyes met.

It was a winter that had been cooler than most. The 15th day of the 10th moon, the sun just beginning to rise as his nephew was brought into the world.

Aemond hadn’t understood the look in his mother’s eyes as she looked down upon the babe. Innocence clouding his mind as all the prince could focus on was the babbling child tucked safely in his half-sister’s arms. Small coos of amusem*nt ringing throughout the room as soft brown eyes met shimmering violet. A chubby hand reaching out for silver strands.

Rhaenyra looked hesitant, eyes drifting to her father before subtly leaning closer to her brother. “Say hello to your uncle Aemond, my love.” She breathed, a small smile playing on her lips as the young prince seemed to take pleasure in his title.

Surprisingly, the babe let out a soft coo, almost as if he'd understand his mother’s words.

Aemond couldn’t his own smile of joy, leaning down to press a kiss to the babe’s cheek. Looking to his elder sister as if afraid of her reaction to such a bold move. Eyebrows furrowing as he caught the glistening twinkle of unshed tears in the princess’s gaze.

Soon enough, the kinslayer’s eyelids began to flutter, streaks of tears staining pale cheeks as he fell into a sweet slumber. Memories of the past guiding him into the sandman’s gentle arms.

Chapter 4: Let us raise our cups

Chapter Text

Aemond knew disappointment quite well, always has if he were to be nothing but honest with himself. Pulling out a comfortable chair lined in cow skin leather and sheep’s wool as he allowed it a front row seat to the crumbling ruins of what remained in wake of every shattered dream and ounce of stomach curling wasted potential laying thick through the steady ripping string making his life what it was.

Knew it better than any of the numerous tales he’d spent the majority of his youth reading from front to back like it was pure gospel from the saints’ lips themselves— all whilst huddled in the keeps most secret nooks and crannies. Sometimes alone, oftentimes with another soul right beside him, a doe-eyed child who somehow always smelled of orange blossoms despite having a habit for practically consuming nothing but sour lemons. Held disappointment in the quivering palm of his right hand as he clenched his aching fist tight enough to crush it into no more than a bleeding mess of deep black blood and slimy pulp. Wiped the remnants over his beating heart for no reason other than staining his chest with a permanent reminder. A constant show of what had once been in hopes that he’d never forget how things began no matter how much time passed.

Not that time was all that insistent on passing much at all these days. The sun never seemed willing to rise whilst the moon refused to set, days stretching out longer than Aemond’s ever experienced. As though he could physically feel the impact of every miniscule second running through him. Had he not known any better the prince would’ve insisted an extra ten hours had been added to the clock without notice. Would happily ask his mother if she could dry her tears and finally build any nerve to look at him.

Disappointment pooled in those brown eyes too, at least when she could still stomach taking in the image of her dearest son.

There was once a point in his life where the ever-present hopelessness constantly brewing on the tail end of his mind managed to slip through every tiny crevice. Leading disappointment into becoming one of Aemond’s closest companions, his only companion as a matter of fact. Disappointment was more than a lonely boy’s overwhelming emotions, it was his one true partner in crime, a brother in arms in all the ways both laughingly miniscule and painstakingly major which Aegon happily failed to achieve.

Not that the squirrel cheeked bastard constantly doused in a thick musk stinking of liquor and piss attempted to be a brother at all. Doing his all to squeeze insecurity into the younger back in their training days whether or not he realized it. The japes and mocking snarls, going out of his way to find and carelessly f*ck whatever maid Aemond felt himself flush around. Caught in the crossfire as a heartbroken voyeur more often than he cared to admit even to himself. The sheer burning humiliation of it all eventually dimmed into a soft yet painful warmth before turning colder than stone.

Soon enough, disappointment finally took on its final form, shaping itself into Aemond’s closest friend the very day little Lucerys decided filling that greedy space in the olders world meant all of nothing. Something the blonde had unfortunately foreseen happening sooner or later, disappointment always having been a constant, a never-ending loop of loss that would eat away at him until there was nothing left but dry bone. Though still broken all the same when Lucerys warm laugh that never failed to make his heart skip over two beats like stones across a small pond was directed at him rather than with him. An eerie sense of peace having followed, for he knew even all those years ago a day would come when no one would remain at his side.

In a sickening way, Aemond knows the grotesque shadow of disappointment constantly trailing behind him has been there since the very beginning. Slowly yet surely coming to be when he was still but a weeping babe, not that he weeped nearly as much as he should’ve according to his mother and former nursemaids. Quiet as a child could be whilst the black cloud he’d soon come to know better than anyone who walked this earth began to form. Only gaining momentum with each passing day without a single crack to marvel upon in the luminescent shell of a carefully picked dragon egg. Sitting cold, unmoving in his cradle, rock solid stone from the inside out.

Days turned into weeks and weeks slewed into moons without one sign his egg would hatch at all. Something that despite having no memory of, Aemond knows he could sense in the aching pit of his little belly as one of few maids his mother allowed to care for him throughout his childhood had a fixation when it came to telling stories from those days. Insisting the keep’s entire left wing had been in utter disarray from the ear gnawing shrill brought down upon them by Aemond’s cries when it was suggested that his egg be taken to the pits. Mother no longer seeing any point in keeping it so close as it was apparent no hatchling would break through the cracks anytime soon.

According to his mother, the egg surely must’ve been defective in one way or another: the crystalized dud of whatever clutch it’d been picked from, filled with the remains of a dragon that would never draw breath. How allowing it to sit there was akin to allowing the prince to latch onto a rotting corpse. Reaching into his cradle to pluck it out only to receive panicked cries instead.

Aemond’s sorrows could only be soothed once the queen placed the dreaded thing back where it belonged. Where it remained well into his eighth year despite having long grown out of that dreaded cradle. Nothing more than wasted potential, an empty shell of what could’ve been.

Their dragons are what make them Targaryen’s. Dragonlords of old Valyria blessed to share blood with these great breasts. One of few remaining houses that survived the doom for no reason other than the visions of Valyria’s fall, granted to Daenys through her dreams. Vital pieces of their soul which would never truly be whole should that bond between dragon and rider never come into fruition. Left to wither with rot.

Aemond knew that feeling, it was something that he’d never forget no matter how many years passed with Vhagar at his side. The feeling of being incomplete, forced to watch as those closest formed bonds you’d never understand so long as you remained the odd one out of the bunch. Left to wonder what it was like to share one soul with another being, dreaming of the shrill that filled your beating heart with every command that slipped off the tongue. Those wants, the deep seeded desire to feel complete being the one thing to push you into the pits in hopes of being successful in forming a bond knowing good and well it could easily result in yet another heart wrenching rejection at best, perhaps a scorching death by the very thing he desired most at worst. Forced to make your way through crowded halls covered in soot and dripping with shame as all passing eyes present could easily put two and two together. The poor prince, rejected by his own blood right yet again.

But it was more than that, more than a petulant child dragging his feet after being cruelly denied what his mates had been blessed with without trying. It was a constant ache in the smallest knicks of his chest, a pain that not even his mother’s warm eyes and soft words of encouragement could ease. His soul felt cold, left to blacken with ice in a winter's frost.

A Targaryen without a dragon was a man without his strength. Even the late king knew that, forced to continue on with life as his bonded’s remains laid bare for all to see.

Aemond oft found himself awake at night, facing the ceiling with a weight of questioning sat heavy on his chest. Left wondering if in a world where his father cared for he and his siblings as he cared for the gleaming apple of his eye the realm knew as his eldest daughter, would he have given Aemond the same comfort his mother never held back from showering over him. Would he have sat his younger self down and given encouragement, wisdom of any sort? Showed that he understood what it meant to be without that missing piece of you.

The rational side of Aemond knows these desires were nothing more than that, desires. A waste of valuable time. Wants that could never be fulfilled as the man who was meant to be his father, his first example in what honor should look like, turned out to be nothing more than a hazy smog of childish hopes struggling to form the shape of a man. Aemond’s foolish yearning created a beast made up of lovely desires and horrid nightmares coming together as one entity. Constantly hanging over his shoulder only to soon reveal itself through the murky shadow of disappointment for the second time in his young life.

Disappointment was always there, lurking, waiting for any moment to take pleasure in crushing what little joy Aemond allowed himself to hold close. Following in the darkest shadows with piercing red eyes that a younger version of himself quickly realized only he could see clearly. Present during every training session that ended with his face down in the dirt when just the day before he’d been able to make Jacaerys yield faster than most men could blink. Watching him from a distance when dragged from the dragon pits by the skin of his teeth after another failed attempt at claiming that nearly ended in him being burnt to a crisp of blackened blood and flayed flesh spread across hard stone floors.

It lingered with a horrid mock smile plastered across its lipless face, peeled back eyes catching every second of Aemond’s shame. Feeding off it, breathing it in like one would the air surrounding them. Slithering across the darkest edges of Aemond’s rooms, remaining strong through his never-ending rasps of prayers muttered into soft feather pillows. Eyes squeezed tight enough to crush them to pulp in his skull, something he felt would be a blessing in that moment.

Unbeknownst to him, he’d lose his sight soon enough.

Driftmark was a turning point in Aemond’s life, a shift for not only himself but his future. Still pushing himself through every drawn-out day without Rhaenyra’s bastard constantly whelping at his side. Blind foolishness leading him to miss the brunette’s cloying presence like a phantom limb.

The absence of Lucerys constant questioning of the little things that usually drove Aemond up the wall left him feeling empty back then, lost even. Remembers being asked if all birds traveled in flocks or if the narrow sea would one say dry out beneath the sun as if he of all people held the answers to such peculiar questions. Not that those inquiries had an answer to give in the first place. They were ridiculous thoughts to have at all, much less harboring precious time seeking an answer.

In spite of it all Aemond could recognize that he wanted it back; the annoying questions and constant attempts at holding his hand despite knowing such actions would only lead to thicker tensions if caught in the moment by his mother. The queen knew of their closeness, who wouldn’t? Considering that not only was the keep full of watching eyes, but that his nephew was a glutton for affection thanks to Rhaenyra’s never ending infantilization of the boy. She’d probably feed the bastard at her teats if it was possible.

His mother didn’t like it, never had and for good reason. Making it clear every passing day that their actions needed to cease as his half-sister's son would eventually end up wounding him in the end, the true nature of a bastard coming to reveal itself sooner rather than later. Words which panned out to be nothing but truth.

Claiming Vhagar was Aemond’s one true victory. The key to overcoming fears that the following shadow of failure held over him like a threat. Taming both beasts just as the heroes in every story he and Lucerys read with one another in their warm bubble of childish wonder.

At the time Aemond was certain his nephew would actually be proud of him. That as soon as those round eyes took in the vision of him riding atop the largest dragon breathing that he’d run back into the blonde’s arms just as before. To see the shadow hurt in that same gaze he yearned to look upon him was like a kick to the gut, betrayal in the sickest of ways. How Luke looked to him as if he were some sort of monster simply for finding the second half of his soul. A pain he’d been certain would never leave his chest.

Lucerys had once been his closest companion, knew his dreams and hopes, heard every greatest fear right from the horse's mouth now staring him in the eye with a look of distrust as lies were spouted from jealous mouths. Laughable accusations of theft, as though he were some mangy commoner come to snatch goods in the night rather than the blood of the dragon claiming what he was owed. Words of how he stole Vhagar, speaking like the she dragon wasn't the very beast Visenya rode into battle during the conquest but a poor farmer’s sickly sheep standing on its last leg.

It was insulting, infuriating and humiliating above all as he stood there with bleeding stretch marks across his cheeks and thick mud staining his shoes. Rattling off in every ounce of anger he’d been made to hold in for years before, body moving faster than his mind could catch up with just as the world went red before him. Searing pain that he’s still certain was worse than experiencing death itself.

That was the day any inkling of innocence still holding on by a thread was snatched from him. Made to listen while his own sister declared he spilled lies.

Aemond was many things as a boy; impatient and anxious, as well as more than a little insecure he’ll admit. But a liar was not on that list. No, Aemond wouldn’t come to take part in giving out half-truths and filth stained lies until much later in life.

It was funny looking back, Rhaenyra’s insistence that he wasn’t but a liar even when faced with her own falsehoods. Building up over years of spitting in everyone’s face with that pretty pink smile of hers.

Quick to throw stones whilst dancing the night away in a ballroom made of glass. Willing to name him a lying child who didn’t know what he spoke when according to his mother, her childhood companion has had a tongue made completely of silver since they were young girls. Hinting more often than Aemond assumes the woman realizes that a great deal of delicate laced trust between them had been broken with false promises for no reason other than Rhaenyra’s own selfishness, her entitlement to use others as she saw fit. The faraway look taking over as dark eyes melted into glossy wisps of brown told Aemond his mother’s words were an absolute truth, a mirage of hurt that couldn’t be faked.

Rhaenyra seems to be a soft spot for all of them other than Helaena. Her presence being so close yet so far away, held up in Viserys palms as though her existence trampled over all of them put together. Unable to see that his love for her shone bright while his wife and children were left to wilt in the dust. Giving up the fight to remain a conscious presence once the bastard bearing whor* left for good, deteriorating to rotting skin and frail bone the moment she set off for Dragonstone like the coward she’d forever be. Unable to face the truth of what awful lies had done, her stomach was far too weak for it.

A younger, more naive version of himself would’ve asked what he’d ever done to be he hated with such ferocity by his eldest sister. Desperate to know why she barely acknowledged his presence or spoke his name when not an absolute necessity. Had she held him as a babe? Did she even desire such? Why were they not worthy of the same love she washed over her children? Her acceptance as true siblings at the very least?

Aemond laughed, rugged and dry coming up his throat after days of ongoing silence. Taking another swig of the ale Aegon placed on his bedside table moons before he’d become a kinslayer. Insisting that the least he could do was unwind with a good drink on his nameday since he refused a visit down to Silk Street.

Never before did Aemond think he’d actually open the liquor, let alone drink it down to the last few remaining drops. Head full of cotton as the world morphed from gray hues and sharp edges to a blurry haze filled in bright blues before him, shadows bouncing off of green walls seeming to slither from corner to the other faster than Aemond’s brain could catch up to. All the while the smell of stale alcohol on his breath was enough to send him into a stupor. The never fading demon of disappointment looming over him in his pathetic state. Reduced to a boneless heap laid across sour sheets whilst clutching his dead nephew’s cloak like a newborn babe would a soft blanket.

It was his saving grace really. The last piece of something that’s been lost for nearly a decade before it left this world. Memories of a different time, though difficult in its own way, still so much simpler than the troubles life has granted him these last moons. A time when his biggest worries were having a dragon of his own and successfully making it past Aegon’s rooms before the older was given the chance to drag him in just to pin him down as he shoved his face in dirty undergarments.

Now— now his concerns were for the safety of his family, his mother and dear sister. Keeping an eye on his niece and nephews as he could feel the tides were soon about to change for the very worst. An eerie sense of impending doom sucking him in whenever he visited Helaena’s quarters only to catch her in the midst of sobbing. Crying out strange mutterings, speaking of dripping blood and modeled cheese as she lost herself to the darkness of her own mind. Staring at her babes with guilt ridden eyes whilst they played amongst one another. Young minds blissfully unaware that the world’s soon to collapse around them. The shame of a parent who’d failed their children marring Helaena’s delicate features, enough to send a thick bout of sick up Aemond’s throat. For it was the same hopeless gaze their own mother now gave him on what rare occasions she could find it in herself to face the monster she’d created, her nights now spent lighting candles in mourning for the boy she hated.

Strange it was, how her disappointment was more often than not saved for Aegon’s failures. His inability to remain sober throughout the days, barely remembering his children’s names let alone their faces. A proud whor* monger who openly shamed their sister for all to see without a single care in the world despite the love Aemond knew he held for her deep down. Hidden somewhere between his own self-pity and weakness coated in aggression.

Aegon was the golden child in the eyes of the people for no more than what he represented as their fathers first born son. But here, behind the castle's walls Aegon was no more than a constant failure, the disappointment who’d never live up to expectations placed upon him since birth. Here, inside brick walls and marble floors, Aemond was the son deserving of it all, yet born far too late. The reliable shoulder for his mother to cry on, a student who never took a day off in search of earthly pleasures which would only earn him a place in one of seven hells. He was the scholar, the fighter, the honorable charge who took action when most needed.

But now— now he’d taken his brother's place as failure in the eyes of the only two people he cared for most in this sin ridden world. Shunned by their grandfather and ignored by their mother as looking at him would only serve to bring forth tears. Helaena’s mutters of impending doom as her eyes glossed over like shining opal enough to bring the young man to his knees.

If only his past self could’ve seen where his decisions left him in the present. Drinking himself numb whilst clutching a disheveled cloak that smelled of salt and bronze, a stinging hint of mildew doing it’s all to erase what little fresh blossom aroma lingered. Curled in on himself, clutching his stomach through the burn of drinking aged ale on a terribly empty stomach, memories of olive cheeks stuffed full of lemon cake on a continuous loop that replayed no matter what action the blonde took to rid his cracking mind of his forever lost childhood.

Tonight, Aemond would drink. He’d drink, and he’d allow his right eye to water whilst the other throbbed around the piece of stone lodged into his sensitive socket like a horrible jest. He’d cry and moan in crumbling frustration and putrid anger until no water remained in his body. Take in what little remained of his nephew’s scent until his head spun something terrible until the sun rose, facing every servant and knight and ditzy lady attending that dreadfully incoming victory feast in faux confidence, act himself proud of what he’d done, proud in his long-awaited revenge.

Revenge that tasted more bitter than any lemon.

Here’s the thing; ever since he was but a boy, wet behind the ears and untouched by the cruelty those closest to you could inflict without the slightest hint of remorse, Aemond nursed an endless curiosity surrounding his seemingly perfect eldest sister. The woman his mother constantly pushed him away from each time the prince attempted to inch closer to what felt to be the impenetrable bubble surrounding the realm's beloved delight. Aemond had been quite shy then, excruciatingly so. More than what made sense for a boy of his status, meant to mix and mingle in hopes of remaining within the good graces of who would one day be the lords and ladies of their closest allies' houses.

More often than not faced with a horrid nervousness whenever it came down to speaking to anyone other than his own family. Morphing into an aching ball of wound-up nerves stirring to the point of physical pain during tourneys and ball’s and everything above. Clammy palms and quivering knees with a stomach-churning rumble making itself known in the deepest pits of his belly that made Aemond feel as though he’d simply implode should he be forced to let go of his mother’s comforting hand in favor of speaking with a stranger for whatever ludicrous reasons.

Nursemaids were certain to ignite a raspberry flush of embarrassment when crossing their paths despite having been fed at those same women’s breasts. Still too young to understand his brother’s filthy implications and overtly raunchy one man depictions of certain physical acts yet more than old enough to know such thoughts called for an added hour praying at the mothers’ feet once mass had been called. Avoiding their considerably sweet gazes much to Aegon’s amusem*nt.

Measter’s on the other hand left Aemond bearing a terrible sense of anxiety even before the loss of his eye; their dead stares and eerily void conversations without words amongst one another inspired a deep fear in Aemond’s young heart. Unchanging no matter how many visits he’d made to dreary quarters for treatment. Stitches along busted knees after a particularly bad fall onto kicked stone or dressing for sore elbows skinned down to the white dermis hiding beneath. The consequences of heated arguments after childish quarrels gone array, afraid to meet the haggard healer's gazes as two men joined to stitch him up, terrified for no good reason other than his own stunted nerves coming out to play a game of catch. Happily pretending the pain was no more of a problem than it looked from the outside just to avoid any further conversation.

Aemond sometimes wonders just how many broken bones would’ve set worse than the common cripples and which scars set to fester with rot only to further disfigure him had his mother not been there to knock sense into him. Pulling the blonde down badly lit halls straight into Maester Ormund’s hands before leaving to deal with Aegon herself. Not that Aegon was one to he handled at all, already having become a shameless degenerate by that time. Regardless of whether or not her scoldings would inspire even a semblance of guilt or change within her eldest never mattered much to Aemond, just happy to have someone who cared— someone who made the effort to let him know he deserved better than being pushed around no differently from the everyday street fairing fool with a dirty coin sack in hand.

Even his own father often inspired a coax of anxiety within the blonde more often than not at that age. Nothing especially surprising considering the man had always been so close yet too far to latch onto. More of an unattainable figurehead standing from the highest peaks of the world below him than an actual father. A stranger who Aemond shared nothing more than the blood running through his veins with and little to nothing else.

Viserys acted as many things to him back then; the man who wore the glimmering bejeweled crown of The Old King, wielded the sword of the conqueror, and sat upon the iron throne though not nearly as often as a king should’ve for more reasons than one. Looking down on all who scattered around below as if he truly deserved the seat in which he sat. Though now as Aemond looked back on memories of childish fright he could confidently say his younger self had been just as much as a weeping priss as Aegon claimed. Scoffing at awfully skewed memories twirling through his throbbing head, an achingly crippled father who could barely walk without a cane much less wipe his own ass being the gruff man in the shadows whose presence alone made Aemond flinch something awful.

Laughable didn’t cut it, the idea was downright hilarious, enough to leave you with tears in clouded eyes and a sharp twist cutting into your belly.

Perhaps what they say is true; everything you know as a child is more exaggerated than the reality. Young minds hinting on certain details only to blow them out of proportion. Creating demons that’ll haunt you for years down your line from the leftover ash of gray smoke and a cracked mirror's gleaming light.

Once he’d grown up Aemond eventually came to see that his father wasn’t the monster lurking in the shadows who caused his mother to flinch in fear. Nor had he been the rock-solid jaded figure with a black cloud enshrouding him wherever he ventured. No, Viserys was no more than a sick old man hanging halfway in his own shallow grave who’d easily fall into a fit of awfully hidden bloody coughs when faced with word of trouble stirring amongst their loosely bonded family. Those faded amethyst eyes Aemond’s younger counterpart was certain hid ill wills were weak in more ways than just physically. Now old enough to see how blinded the king was by simple desires. Too lost in an unobtainable want for a future coated in peace to see that what little cavalry shared between broken fractions was no more than a horribly executed facade. One that barely held up for two hours’ time before words were exchanged as blows were thrown.

Maddening it was. How any soul who wasn’t so easily fooled as a slowly dying man whose own regrets haunted his every waking moment could see the fine line their house’s peaceful charade skidded across. Years before truths were thrown and blades had been gripped.

Even the blind could see his mother’s reluctance to allow Jace and Helaena a simple dance during their last maidens ball. Unaware of his own wife picking at the delicate skin making up thin cuticles as she bit her lip nearly raw. Counting down each minute down to the very second until the song was over with, desperate to get her only daughter back into safe hands and away from Rhaenyra’s mongrel of a son. The subtle insults that flew passed the mind of most shared between the crown princess and queen consort. Jabs at Ser Laenor’s affinity for young squires in tight leather garments as well as his half-sister’s fondness for her personal guard. All quips that cut his father’s sweetest heir down to the bone. Too giddy on the high that came hand in hand with time spent together as a unit no matter how poorly constructed to realize what was happening before his very eyes.

Aemond had a slight understanding of the hidden meanings of certain words thrown around despite his young age back then. Knew that Ser Laenor’s awfully close relationship with his shipmates was sinful, could see quite clearly that his nephews shared more of a resemblance with Ser Harwin than their own alleged father, as well as count on one hand the number of occasions in which his half-sister failed miserably to hide the anger in her gaze when whispers began floating just as always.

Jacaerys began connecting the dots, this Aemond knew for a fact. Long before Ser Harwin’s death. The only soul present who’d been more blind to the truth other than his father being his closest nephew. Munching away on roasted duck, slathering more acorn butter than what was likely good for his little heart across sea salted golden potatoes whilst still keeping an eye out for dessert despite already full cheeks. Unaware of what insults were being hurled at his family right before his own eyes. Back then Aemond was content with the younger’s inability to catch what was being thrown around so carelessly, a sign of his innocence, Aemond’s assurance that the boy hadn’t yet been spoilt to the unforgiving truths of the world.

A part of the one-eyed prince had been joyful the night of his cousin’s funeral. Jacaerys laid out, kicked to the floor and spat on like cow sh*t curded beneath the soles of his shoes. Finally getting a simple taste of what Aemond was made to swallow down for years on end. Forever the odd one out, the dragonless carry on who vied for the attention of a boy who’d so easily abandoned him in favor of throwing stones alongside their brothers. Trading in their talks in hidden corners of the keep with a small basket overflowing with baked goods to keep them fed for hours to run about alongside a half-drunken Aegon. Throwing away precious tales of old Valyria for filthy retellings of deeds done in musty corners of whor* houses he didn’t truly understand.

It was freeing in a way, clothes his mother had always been adamant about keeping in perfect condition even during his training with Ser Cole dirtied with mud and ripped apart at frail edges. Sensitive skin beginning to heat with bleeding claw marks at the hands of those sniveling c*nts, bruised purple welts forming in the shape of small fists. Chest heaving as his heart continued to race whilst his mind looped over their nonsense accusations of stealing dragons. Attacking him for no reason other than their own humiliation. All the while Lucerys stood there, eyes wide as the truth behind Aemond’s words sunk in. It was as though everything that never made sense in his young mind finally clicked into place at that very moment. Pug nose sporting an obvious crook all the while leaking crimson trickled freely, no different from a lazy bond.

In that moment Aemond took joy in his nephew's sweet innocence cracking at the seams whereas before he would’ve been the first person to assure the younger that such things didn’t matter. Regardless of whether or not he believed his own words, knowing that oftentimes people needed to be assured of lies rather than acknowledging the painful truth.

Everything Lucerys thought he knew about himself slowly came into question right then, and Aemond could see it. His father— the man whose blood he’d been told ran through his veins over the course of six long years was no true kin of his.

All of it collapsed, dying a horrid death that Aemond lavished in like liquid gold. Spewing words he himself can hardly remember correctly after all these forlorn years, let alone find it in himself to speak. Crumbling to ash when the cool dip of that very dagger he’d knocked out of Jacaerys’ hand pressed against his eyebrow, the world turning red before him in an instant. An overwhelming pain that burned like the scolding flame of dragon fire flooding shot senses. Blood rushing to his ears whilst dripping from between clutched fingers.

Sometimes when Aemond allows himself to truly think back on more than just his mutilation, he comes to realize he doesn’t know what hurt most; the fact that he’d been cut down by those who were supposed to be his family, or knowing they ran off like cowards. Leaving him to cry and writhe in his own blood just when the guards barged in, leaving him faced down in the first once again, his cries of pain meaningless in their eyes.

Aemond let out a gritted huff, reluctantly taking a sip of the soured wine that’s been festering in his cup for the last hour despite his less than fond relationship with the so called pleasures life had to offer. Unable to see what his brother and so many others found irresistible about the bitter mixture in spite of having been drinking himself stupid these last nights. There was nothing enjoyable about the taste, nor did it elate much of a buzz. Only managing to leave a slight tingle in his throat after going down without much else, a deserved punishment more than a wealth of pleasure.

He laughed, swirling the drink in a single hand. Mayhaps he was too far gone to find true pleasure in anything other than the heavyweight of a sword tucked tight in his hand. Perhaps the cool hiss of midnight air on his neck as he looked down at the world below was the only poison he’d fall victim to.

Sitting his cup down, Aemond took a breath, single eyed gaze wafting through the crown room in a maddening mix of disgust and envy. Coming to this sham of a celebration was the last thing on Aemond’s mind tonight. His original plans being to stay as far away from the keep as a whole considering what few events his brother was granted the leeway of throwing never ended quite well for either of them. Aegon usually too drunk to stand as he was dragged out on his heels by their grandfather while Aemond himself received just as much of a verbal lashing simply for not keeping the oaf on a leash. Punished for no reason other than choosing the peace of a late-night flight or reading in the quiet darkness of the libraries rather than spending hours acting as a grown man’s keeper.

No, Aemond hadn’t planned on being anywhere in Kings Landing tonight at all; the night of a feast thrown in his honor by the man-child millions were now made to call King for his good deeds and unconditional loyalty to the crown, as Aegon put it. Boating to any and every one who’d listen of his younger brother’s brave feat in ridding the pretender queen's army of one less dragon. A tiny thing no bigger than a horse who squealed like a kicked pup just as Vhagar sunk her teeth into him, there one minute and nothing but spilled entrails falling like rain the next.

Aemond took a breath, closing his eyes as he took another sip of wine. Hoping he could rid himself of the memory for the night, rid himself of knowing he’d been the one to put an end to not only one life but two.

In spite of what the evenings last hours would have many think, Aemond was far from a heavy drinker. Perhaps it was an effect of having grown up watching Aegon fall victim to drowning in his cups long before anyone outside their small group could take notice. Claiming he liked nothing more than a few small sips here and there for the burn it left buzzing at the back of his throat, to being unable to go without for more than an hour before falling restless. Smelling of stale ale and dark red more and more with each passing day until Aemond could no longer remember the older boy's natural scent prior to taking up his careless activities.

Everything about the habit turned Aemond off; the smell it left clinging to your breath, how it left its mark in the back of your throat, and how quickly you could lose your mind to its pull. Most liquor tasted quite awful to tell the truth, so why Aemond just couldn’t stop himself from chugging every cup full like water was a mystery.

How the sham of a victory feast ended was lost on the prince, having checked out both physically and mentally around the time Aegon pushed for a toast. Refusing to hear whatever sick words their new king had to say, knowing it’d bring him nothing more than pain. Accepting praise for what he did when at night a piece of Lucerys still slept tucked beside him with care. Fearing that abusing the cloak would mean yet another bloody stain dirtying his hands. Standing up on his feet right when Aegon lifted his goblet, making sure to take the last bottle of red before retreating to the safety of his rooms. Ignoring the sensation of hundreds of eyes following behind.

It's what led Aemond to this very moment, clothes that suddenly felt too tight ripped to shreds on the ground as he sipped and sipped until he no longer had a choice but to throw himself over as he soiled already filth covered floors in vomit.

“I didn’t mean it.” Aemond breathed between his bouts of brutal retching. Hoping that if he said the words aloud the gods would look down in pity, mayhaps even rid the prince of his pain; leave him numb. “I swear on everything I hold most dear— I didn’t mean it.” Tears burning in the corners of blurring eyes.

As of now, Aemond lay unaware that his cries would prove to have dire consequences. A future of pain intertwining with the present as word spread across the realm of the Kings great feast; a celebration crafted in honor of the man who took Lucerys Velaryon's life.

A son for son,Daemon wrote. Words that would haunt Aemond from this life into the next.