Chapter Text
Aemond
He had felt it in his bones. It drowned him and then it pulled him out of his sleep, and when he opened his eye, startled and afraid, he knew his father was dead.
Viserys’s death was expected, as he could barely move without help from four different servants, but it still appeared to be an event so improbable that Aemond had never considered he would get to see it in his lifetime. After all, he was his father, and though their relationship had never been good, it existed, and sometimes that was enough to cause torment in Aemond’s heart.
He had gotten rid of his bed clothes quickly, and all throughout his routine towards his bathroom he did his best to keep his mind off the already obvious subject. Cold air and floors greeted him, and Aemond looked at himself naked on his mirror until, finally, he had the revelation that, yes, his father was truly dead.
Without a care in the world, he called for servants to prepare his bath. Aemond did not know if it was the grief, or the lack of it, that prohibited him to care about his naked body being shown to his servants in all of its distinction. He watched them work, quietly and relentlessly, while they filled up his bathtub with boiling hot water, and they left his chambers without ever saying a word or directing a look at him. Do they know?, he asked to himself.
His bath had gotten cold by the time he had gotten into the bathtub, but he did not care about the temperature, for other thoughts were already eating at his soul.
Aemond dipped his head into the water, like he used to do when he was young and scared, and he visualized his father’s face on his mind. For him, family had always been a complicated matter. His father had always made it clear that he loved their half-sister more, and when he had first learned about it it had not bothered him, but then one of her bastards had taken his eye off. Instead of protecting him, his father almost got his tongue ripped out for talking about obvious claims, and that night he learnt to resent him. A man’s relationship with his father was to never be understood, but they were Targaryens, and in their madness they were to found each other, so why was his father not mad? After that accident, Aemond had tried to drown himself many times in the bathtub, just like he did now, but he would always reach for air after a minute, just like now. Once his head broke the surface of the water, he took a deep breath, and he slammed his hand against the bathtub as he was not sure to why the Gods had choose to punish him in such ways.
He had dragged himself out of the bathtub after a couple of minutes and he got himself dressed when the faces of his mother and sister reminded him of his duties. He wondered if they already knew, and he did not want to be the bearer of bad news, so he took his time while putting on his boots, and until he was sure he was carrying everything he needed to carry, he left his chambers, and he walked the Red Keep hallways with a tug at his chest.
Everywhere he looked, he found people talking in whispers, and when they noticed him, they would slip away into the shadows, and there he ignored the meaning of their talks, for he preferred to live in the unknown if it meant he would not get more mindless duties thrown at him. The walls seemed to grow darker and scarier, and as he reached for his sister’s bedroom, he sent a quick prayer to the Gods, hoping they would be able to help him in whatever was to happen next.
Aemond had grown deeply religious. His mother had always venerated the New Gods, more so after his accident, and it had become a way for them to bond over time. Though he was a child, Aemond felt his mother’s shame in her prayers, and it only took him mere hours of prayer to understand that many men prayed, not for good, but for redemption, such was his mother’s case, and such it would turn into his. If he was not training, Aemond would make some time for his prayers. He would close his eye and take his hands together, and then he would pray for what he always did: forgiveness, for he was rotten.
The idea of hisself being tainted came to him one year after he had lost his eye. When he was not riding Vhagar, he would think of only hate and vengeance towards the boy that had deprived him of view, and the cycle grew so constant he barely did anything else. If he closed his eye, he saw his mother with tears in her eyes begging for justice, and when he talked to her, he would see her tremble at the sight of his deformed face, all transformed by hatred and impulse. Aemond learned, then and there, that only the Gods could bring absolution to his soul, and he was to follow, not only them, but his family duties, and soon he would be rewarded, just like his mother was.
He stopped praying when he faced the open doors to his sister’s room, and when he entered and met both his mother’s and sister’s face, he rectified what he already knew.
“Aemond,” had said his mother, who stood up to walks towards him, and when she hugged him, he felt at peace. He hugged her back, but he kept his eyes on his sister, who was fidgeting her hands over an embroidered fabric of some sort. “Your father…”
“I know,” he answered.
The look on his mother’s eyes could break him, but he remained strong, swallowing feelings he knew he did not had. At least not for his father.
His mother was a beautiful woman, but her expression was always filled with such sadness it always made a younger Aemond wonder if she was truly at peace with them as her family. He got his answer to that when, on a game of tag with her sister, he had listened to a couple of servants discuss the lack of resolve their mother had. A weak mother, though a resolved queen. After that, no mother how much love his mother always doted on him, he would ask himself if their births had tainted her soul in a way no other situation could. He was the reason she had taken after prayer, so the idea that she could also, at least slightly, despise them, was not far off, but that was a topic he knew they would never discover.
“Have they been notified?” Aemond knew he had asked the wrong question when his mother let go of him. She looked away from him and, instead, she hugged herself.
“It is a delicate matter,” her voice low, “you must know that.”
In response, he nodded, and then his mother left the room.
He loved his mother, but her actions, now more than ever, remained a mystery to him. He remembered, once, when her mother had gotten drunker than intended after a ball, and she had tugged him in his bed herself, but before she left, she had taken his hand into hers, and for a moment she muttered a small prayer until, seemingly out of impulse, she had told him that she missed their conversations on the Godswood. They had never talked on the Godswood, but he had learned, later on, that she used to spend the time there with his half-sister, Rhaenyra, when they were younger. The idea had choked him at first, for he remembered the animosity both women kept when they encountered each other, so why was she telling him she missed her? What had they gone through?
Those questions haunted him for a long time, and when he encountered Rhaenyra’s son, the one with a name he dared not speak, he wondered if his mother was dripped in shame the same way he was when his eye detoured towards the Velaryon boy on one of their scarce visits to the Red Keep. Thinking about him, specially in such an occasion, made Aemond feel sick, and so he swallowed his poison.
For a moment he stood awkwardly at the entrance of his sister’s chambers, but in an effort to distract himself he sat by her side, not knowing if she had taken the news in the same way he had.
Helaena did not move when he sat down, and instead she kept her gaze focused on her work. Gold, yellow slivers of fabric dressed her, and her white hair was braided delicately, with only her face portraying the solitude of a princess who no one ever wanted to meet. Aemond looked at her for a moment, but he ripped his eye away when he did not find any of his features on her.
“Where are the children?” he asked, referring to his nephews.
Helaena shrugged, “There’s a beast beneath the boards,” she whispered.
His sister was one of the—truly few—people he trusted. She had always been on the weirder side of their family, but he thought her delightful when younger. Before he had a dragon, she would show him around her collection of bugs, and once she had caught a small snake with the intention of gifting it to him, but their mother had made some servants get rid of it for fear of it being poisonous. It was only on those brief, sad moments that he saw his sister’s face turn into something else but apathy. Helaena had grown to be beautiful, but always had her mind plagued her, and so she grew into a solitaire princess who did nothing much but comply to everyone’s wishes.
He watched her hands work on her embroidery, and a faint smile almost crept up his face, but Aemond did his best to keep it hidden. The sun barely lighted the chambers and the red the candles projected gave the room a feeling of winter. Again, he looked at his sister, her soft features were nothing like his, and in flesh she only shared Aegon’s eyes, ones full of hidden pain and knowledge that ought to never be talked about. Her nose was straight and her lips were small, her full rosy cheeks gave her a perpetual younger look and the strands of hair that circled around her chin sheltered her beauty.
“There is to be a war,” he whispered to her.
Helaena’s hands stopped working, “There always is,” her back straightened up and she looked at Aemond.
“Do you feel sad?” he asked instead.
She shrugged, “Only oblivion of thought can destroy a dragon.”
He nodded, as if he understood, and then Aemond stood up. He squeezed his sister’s shoulder—the only sign of love they would show—and then he left her room.
On the way to his chambers he prayed for her, for if she was to ever be Queen, next to Aegon’s side, then it would be better to be dead.
The rest of the morning he spent on his chambers, not daring to move for his sword training nor his other interests, and instead he focused solely on what was next to happen.
His father was dead, the King was dead, and that meant a coronation, but more than that, it meant war. Aemond had grown into a man of secrecy and in his silence he found himself being confided secrets that others could never hold to their tongues. He knew his mother and grandfather, the Hand of the King, planned on making his brother king, but why him? Since they were children, his brother had always cared too little about his duties. Aegon stopped attending sword training lessons when he first discovered what a couple of wine droplets could do and, soon after, long lost nights on Flea Bottom followed. He was irresponsible at best and violent at his worst, as Aemond saw him, he was not fit to rule. But I am, and as fast as that thought had bubbled up on his brain, he shut it down.
Aemond knew the consequences such heresy would bring, and though usurping thrones was a common Targaryen practice, he had not been taught to do so, or so he believed. Instead, Aemond had been trained in the sword, countless of tutors made him understand the beauty of their past, and maesters took hours of their day teaching him High Valyrian until he was able to dream in it. After the loss of his eye, he had submerged himself more onto those tasks, hoping that in that way his mother could look at him again with love and appreciation, but her eyes soon turned to remorse, and he had copied her too, though for completely different reasons, all which he grew to ignore.
He had stood up from his seat when a maiden called him to his mother’s chambers, and he could not deny such orders, for he knew what was at stake now.
His mother had received him, again, with bloodshot eyes and a worried expression. He wondered if she was mourning his father, but even though his mother was devoted to the kingdom, he had never truly seen a link between both his parents. It used to put him off, but they were royalty, and no relationship was bound to be perfect.
“Have you seen Aegon?” she asked him after he sat down in front of a lit chimney.
The question did not surprise him, “I haven’t, mother,” Aemond looked at the fire in front of him and wished, for a moment, to dip his hand into the flames, “I suppose he’s avoiding his duties, as always.”
He felt his mother’s hands on his shoulders, “Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?” she asked again, completely ignoring his comments, but he supposed it made sense. After all, it was more important to find their future king than the opinions of the second son, who would never be heir.
Aemond did not answer, and instead he wished for his silence to answer the questions his mother was throwing at him.
“We have to…” she held her words for a moment, “The coronation has to happen now,” the insistence on her voice was not new. Every single time the situation involved the Iron Throne, Aemond felt his mother’s opinions were bound to become aggressive.
“Does this mean we are usurping the throne, mother?” an uninterested tone got ahold of him, but Aemond knew a sparkle of curiosity burned him through. If Aegon got to the throne first, rather than their sister, then it would cost them dearly, but the idea of a war had already made his way onto his head.
His mother kept silence, and so he had his answer.
They were interrupted by Ser Criston, and only then his mother took her hands from off of his shoulders. She walked towards him and, at first, they spoke in whispers, as if the idea of treason had not been brought up by Aemond first.
He looked at the flames in front of him, crackling and battling for grandeur, all Targaryen features. If his brother was to be anywhere, he was on the Street of Silk, but if he was not there, then they should issue a visit to the Dragonpit, for if Sunfyre was not there, then their question of his whereabouts was to be answered.
“I’ll accompany Ser Criston,” said Aemond as he stood up, decided and aching for something other than war. His mother held him by the arms again, and he corresponded, but her words did not come through, “Ser Erryk isn’t the only one who knows of Aegon’s doings.”
Then, they left.
Leaving the Red Keep was a hassle, especially since everywhere he looked, he felt eyes on him. Everyone was expecting, cautiously, for the news to break free. Ser Criston told him, while they did their best to disguise themselves in cloaks, that Larys Strong had issued for most servants and maidens to be locked on the dungeons, possibly in an attempt to have the word not fly towards Rhaenyra’s ears. Those were hasty and stupid movements, but he knew his family was the one orchestrating everything, and he had to comply. Duty is first, he had been told a long time ago. But what happens to duty in times of war?, Aemond had thought in return.
It took them some time to reach the whorehouse Aemond believed Aegon to be in. He knew his brother, and he knew he was nothing more than an unintelligent sex-guided man. There was never honor in his actions, though Aemond’s were no better, and his impulsiveness always brought shame to their family, but their mother never said anything, and instead she would just feed him constantly the idea of him wearing a crown on the Iron Throne. Again, the image of that hurt Aemond’s mind. The only reason to why his brother was to be King was because of being a first born, but at best he was incompetent, and where would that lead the kingdom? They skidded throughout sickness infested streets and Aemond looked at every single person in those streets and wondered if, when his brother became King, this would be the permanent new image of King’s Landing, and not only King’s Landing, but of the kingdom as a whole.
Aemond got snapped out of his thoughts when they stopped, finally, in front of the supposed pleasure house he believed Aegon to be in, the same one he had took him to when he turned thirteen. As he watched the door open, hundred of thoughts were brought back to his mind, and so he let Criston do the interrogation.
A woman answered the door, older than his mother, and the air she exuded was one of pride, as if the use of women in such situations could be anything but horrible. He remembered the instinctive fear he felt when one girl, who looked barely older than him, had touched his thigh hard, inviting him to a small room. Aemond had swatted her off and then he had ran off to find his brother, but the other was too deep in another woman’s legs to care much for what his brother wanted. In return, he had spent hours on the outside of the whorehouse, with his head down in case people would recognize him.
The situation had scarred him, and the only thing it brought on him was more than shame, not for his actions, but because if there was anyone he had ever desired…
“How you’ve grown,” said the woman in front of him, and again, that got him out of his self-created sin.
Again, they left the place, and he managed an excuse to why Aegon was not there, though he still knew that Flea Bottom held the information to his disappearance. His brother could not have been long gone, that he knew, for information of Sunfyre on the Dragonpit had reached his ears, and he knew that his brother loved his dragon more than anything, and he would never leave him, not even in situations as desperate as this.
As they walked, Aemond looked at Ser Criston. In his eyes, he was a man eager to please. He had known him all of his life, and in all of those years he had shown to be volatile and, sometimes, unpredictable, but always completely loyal to his mother. When bastards claims of his half-sister’s sons reached him, he could always see how Ser Criston laughed in that matter, but sometimes he could catch a glimpse of anger when those words were spoken. He was a man of honor, that he knew, but Aemond also knew that something had happened for him to turn into the man he was today. No other knight was held so close to his family as Ser Criston, so naturally Aemond always found himself orbiting around the other, for he was the closest thing he had for a father figure, though that could also be one of the reasons to why Aemond had grown up to become the man he was now.
They stopped their search when, as if synced, both let out a sigh of stress.
“Here I am, trawling the city, ever the good soldier,” he felt himself grow angrier, “in search of a wastrel who’s never taken half an interest in his birthright,” at his words, Ser Criston turned his demeanor towards him, “‘Tis I the younger brother who studies history and philosphy, it is I who trains with the sword, who rides the largest dragon in the world. It is I who should be…”
He could not continue.
Ser Criston got closer to him, his voice now a hushed whisper, “I know what it is to toil for what others are freely given” But did he, really?
Aemond knew Ser Criston, and he knew that his closeness to his family had been a result of his mother’s whims. In Aemond’s eye, he never got to fight for what he wanted, all of his opportunities were a result of countless luck which he had stumbled upon. He did not care for what had gone through, for in that moment, it was not important.
“And we can’t find him, Cole,” he continued, “You are a decent man with no taste for depravity. His secrets are his own and he’s welcome to them,” Aemond walked closer to Ser Criston. In his mind, it was he who was the everlasting martyr, he who had sacrificed his freedom, time and time again for duty, he who begged the Gods, he who carried eternal shame, “I’m next in line to the throne,” he wanted that war, “Should they come looking for me, I intend to be found.”
Ser Criston said nothing to him, but he knew he understood, though the plan could never be carried out, and so he swallowed his anger and looked away, moving until he was sure Ser Criston was farther away from him.
Call it pure, old fashioned luck, the kind he hated, but when they encountered his grandfather making conversation with a woman he thought he knew, he understood they would take the lead.
It was easy to follow Arryk and Erryk, for they were tall and always called everyone’s eyes to them, so soon enough Aemond found himself facing the Grand Sept, a place he used to visit when younger, but now he preferred to pray on the solitude of his room.
The architecture was astounding, and though he wanted to go in and get Aegon with his own two hands, he waited with Ser Criston on the stairs of the place, counting the seconds until they heard the brothers discuss with someone whom he knew was his brother.
An ambush was not something that he preferred, but it had to do, and when Aegon took off running, he followed.
It was the first time in days that he had seen his brother. His hair was short and matted, his clothes were dirty and he looked like a peasant, but the color of his hair reminded everyone around them of his important lineage and, more than that, of the duty he had been avoiding. They stumbled on the floor when Aemond managed to catch him and they wrestled relentlessly, just like when they were younger. Hearing Aegon’s laughter brought him some memories of his younger years he had grown to ignore.
His brother was heavy, but smaller in size, and easily he lunged at him again, finally making him submit under him even though he moved desperately from side to side.
“I was hoping you disappeared,” Aemond said.
“Is our father truly dead?” his brother’s question almost made him laugh. As always, he had been apprehensive, and he had ran away before he even knew the facts.
“Yes, and they are going to make you king,” he hated to say those words.
In a dirty move, his brother spat at him, and it disgusted him such he almost let him go, but he did his best to stay calm, and he used more force than necessary to hold him down, but he escaped his embrace, and another fight ensued.
Aegon begged when he managed to grab him, but Aemond did his best to ignore him, and instead he performed the fight his brother wanted to carry out.
“I do not wish to rule,” he struggled against his body, “No taste for duty! I’m not suited,” all obvious statements he had grown tired of thinking and was glad the future king was saying.
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
It was fun, for a moment, to think that this was just brother’s play, but it was not, and Aegon reminded him of that when he faced him and, with both his hands, he cupped his face.
“You let me go, I will find a ship and sail away, never to be found” his words were too good to be true, but he knew his brother was a coward, just like him, and so he looked at his eyes and, together, they both ventured into a future scenario in which he was King, and his brother was lost at the sea.
The crown called for him, power called for him, and he knew Aegon knew, for when he looked at his face he found the same need and shame all of his family seemed to share. Truthfully, none of them were ready for that kind of power, and they will never be, but Aemond loved to wonder, he enjoyed the idea of having thousands at his feet for it meant he was forgiven. If the Gods ever granted him such a position, he figured all of his prayers had paid off. His obsession would be forgotten, and he would be able to fall asleep without wishing for peace, for he finally had it.
“The Queen awaits,” and then Ser Criston pulled them out of their fantasies.
His brother begged, ever so slightly, but Aemond refused to speak. This was his duty, and it did not matter how much it hurt him to not fulfill to his wishes, it hurt him more to know he was tainted, and in following other’s orders was the only way in which he could build himself up.
The crown dispersed in front of his eyes, and he sighed, defeated. He could not keep sinning, and he could not permit himself to toy with the gifts the Gods had given to others.
His brother’s coronation was to be carried out on the Dragonpit, a wild idea he did not consider possible, but there they were.
Thousands filled the place, one so sacred to his family it felt sacrilegious, but they had constantly shown to be rotten, all of them, and so this decision appeared fitting.
Where they stood, he could look at everything. The open doors let the light in, and it grazed people’s faces softly. The ambience was quiet, though people talking could be heard, but most of them just wondered about what is to happen. Aemond stood next to his sister, who was looking at the floor, and he felt himself grow angrier.
People around him continued their preparations, and he did nothing but watch and loathe. A maester carried something in his hands, and soon his breath stopped when he saw the crown of Aegon the Conqueror on plain daylight. That should be mine, he thought to himself. The rubies barely shone on the crown, as if they dimmed with the idea of who was to carry it.
When the announcement of Aegon’s crowning was made, he kept himself stoic. He watched as his brother walked through the crowd, his face close to tears and fears, and with his eyes filled in resentment. His mother kissed his face, and the act seemed foreign and not at all fitting, but more than ever, their family was pretending. They pretended Aegon was the true heir of the Iron Throne, they pretended that war was not at their door, and they pretended to be glad everything happened the way it did.
“A new King to lead us,” he heard.
Aemond looked at the crowd, unable to graze his brother with his acknowledgment, but then the crown was handed to Ser Criston, and the words he had said to him on Flea Bottom turned meaningless when Aegon’s crown was placed on his brother’s head. The rubies called for him, and an aching power ate at his mind, but the inability he had to get what he wanted showed him that the Gods despised his very actions. If he had been worthy, if he had been forgiven then the crown would be on his head, but it was not, and he had to live with that. He had to live with the thought of being the puppet of his family forever, and only a war could birth him anew in blood and glory.
“Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne,” Aemond felt blood pool in his mouth. Why him?, he wondered again. Were his sins less than those Aemond carried? Was he less of a man thanks to his obsession with the boy he dared not name? Disgracing your given name seemed to be less important than the shame Aemond could not face.
He acknowledged his brother in his fury, and then his suffering began.
“All hail Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” his brother turned to face the crowd, and it erupted in cheers.
The ambiance had changed, and everyone knew it. Aegon unsheathed his sword, and he rose it to the sky, time and time again until he looked like a child tasting independence for the first time. He liked it. He loved it.
And then war erupted.
Debris flew everywhere, burying people under the Dragonpit and instilling a fear Aemond already knew all too well. He took a step upfront, shielding his sister from whatever was to happen, and then he saw it.
Meleys rose from underground, and with her, Rhaenys Targaryen on battle armor. She looked fearless and, like a true Targaryen, she damaged all around her without a care in the world. He could not keep his eye from the dragon, and when she walked closer to them, facing his mother and brother, he feared they would die, but they didn’t.
A war begun with a roar.
The coronation had left him static. He could not remember what happened after, for the maesters and servants packed everything and left with the King, and they followed.
The damage to the Dragonpit was nothing that could not be repaired, but it had sent a strong message to everyone in King’s Landing: Aegon’s ruling had begun in blood, and it will end in blood.
His brother hadn’t seemed shaken up, for he was still too dazed in glory when they arrived at the Red Keep, but then their mother and their grandfather drove him towards the council chambers, and they stayed there for the whole night. Aemond, on the other hand, had made sure his sister arrived safely at her quarters, and after spending some time with his nephews, he had left towards his own freedom.
He took off most of his clothing off when he arrived at his chambers, and he locked the doors, making sure no one would be there to bother him. Before he changed into his bed clothes, he walked towards the bathroom, and there he faced his mirror, the only one he had.
His face looked the same as always; disgusting in his eye. Though his long, white hair was beautiful, everything else threw his appearance off. Aemond forced himself to remove his eyepatch and look into his scar, the one that had started it all. A sapphire met him, and in the sapphire he met his sins.
War was now established, they had to prepare, and they had to win. His half-sister, Rhaenyra, was not vicious like him, nor like his family, but he knew that she could grow to be, his mother had told them so, and so he was to stand by his family’s side, but would they win?
Aemond touched the sapphire, and it had stopped hurting a long time ago, but he still flinched. Its color was still shining brightly, but instead of making him prideful, all he encountered was disgust. He thought about the cause of his problems: the family of his half-sister, and he wondered what would he do when it became time for him to dirty his sword.
They had dragons, more than he and his siblings did, but they had King’s Landing and, as far as he knew, his grandfather had been planning a war since a long time ago, so that could only mean they had men, too, and even if they did not, he had Vhagar, and his dragon was enough to put any rebellion down. The idea of a war filled his chest with illusion, he could use that for his benefit, sacrifices to the Gods could be made, and in his satiated bloodlust he could find forgiveness. With war now at their door, he could be free with the excuse of honor. Aemond could run away for long periods of time, he could put army’s to death with only a few words, and if he was to encounter any other dragon, he could defeat them easily. But dragons and blood could not wipe away his feelings for long.
Aemond kept his eyepatch off, and he walked away from the mirror, this time with the intention of falling asleep, though he knew it would not be possible.
When he laid on his bed, he thought again about what he was to do. With this war he could find an excuse, and he could please the Gods, but first he would have to become a puppet again. He had Vhagar, and with her he could destroy, but she was a weapon he knew his family would want to use, Aemond was also the only one of his siblings that was not betrothed, thus he would probably be exchanged to the daughter of some powerful lord with the hopes of making a strong alliance, and he would have to oblige. The idea of a wedding shook him up, romance itself seemed improbable in his life, and him being a sinner did not make it right.
He clasped his hands together, just like he did when he prayed, but he could not find the courage to close his eyes and go through with it, for now he saw the boy he had been ignoring on his mind. War meant facing his half-sister’s family, and in that family was the boy that had ripped away not only his vision, but his sanctity.
Lucerys Velaryon was his name.
The idea of his name occupying his mind felt wrong, but it was there, it was always there, and with his prayers all he could do was to push it away until it was so hidden he would not be able to feel it. Aemond despised Lucerys, he hated him such it had turned him into the man he was today. Because of his hate he had grown twisted, not only physically, but spiritually.
Aemond knew shame, he bathed in it, but his problems did not end in shame. Lucerys’s action had opened a place in his mind he could not close. When he had gotten his eye cut out, he learnt to despise people. Aemond had always been a soft, cautious kid, but even kids banter could be harmful, and it had shown in Aemond. His brother and nephews loved to play all sorts of tricks on him, and sometimes he would laugh, but they grew relentless. A clear example was the pig they had gifted him as a joke, for he didn’t had a dragon, and all they had caused was for him to grow angry and desperate, those were the first few “bad” emotions he felt. When he got the chance, he claimed a dragon, but not for the love and amazement he had over them, but because he wanted to prove himself worthy. Aemond had wanted power, and he had wanted for people to look at him in wonder, and he had achieved that when he claimed Vhagar. But it had not been enough, for a fight ensued and he lost his eye.
Remembering that event made Aemond feel uneasy, for he knew what was next to happen, but he could not control it. After that tragedy, his feelings intensified, and all he could feel for days, besides pain, was hate. It drowned him, and there was nothing he could do about it. Aemond would wake up sweating and scared, he used to fear that someone would show up in the middle of the night to claim his other eye, and though that never happened, the paranoia it left him was enough to push him over the edge. He had not only gained a sense of mistrust, but his relationship with his mother became tainted. Every time she looked at his scars, she would flinch, and sometimes she would not be able to meet his eye, and the worst part for Aemond was not that it happened, but that his mother pretended there was nothing wrong. It was around that time that he swore to himself to a twisted idea of justice, and in his search for it, he became tormented.
There was not a day in which Aemond did not think of Lucerys, he would use all of his free time on more training, hoping that the right time would come and he would be able to hurt the one who had hurt him the most. Soon enough, he became a formidable swordsman, but that was not enough, for he needed to be better than everyone at everything, and he launched himself into his studies, hoping that in that way he could be proved worthier than everyone else in the family, but it did not prove anything. His obsession started to consume him, and sometimes all he could feel was pure, unfiltered hate, and that takes a toll on even the strongest of men. At first it had not shown on Aemond, but then he grew up, and living such a monotonous life meant he could only truly feel when he faced strong emotions, and the only emotions he had grown to know where the ones Lucerys caused on him. Aemond became a slave to his obsession, he turned into nothing, and he had found out about it too late, and now there was nothing he could do to change it.
In the eyes of most people, he was a good man. He always fulfilled his duties, he trained relentlessly and he never disobeyed, but his need for blood grew too big, and soon that was not enough. A banquet had happened once, on honor of his father, and their family had all gathered together. Lucerys had been there after years of not stepping foot on the Red Keep, and Aemond ached for him. At first he thought he was to make him pay and that in that night he would get what was his, but when he met Lucerys again, for the first time in years, his obsession blossomed into something more rotten.
Aemond, who had grown hateful of everything that was not his motivation, suddenly found himself unable to form a coherent thought when faced with the fearful expression his now grown nephew carried. The first thought Aemond had had when he saw Lucerys was one of praise and, instantly after, his haunting feelings multiplied.
Lucerys had grown to become a magnificent man. He had lost all sights of the baby face he used to carry around, and now he looked so beautiful it was petrifying. While his older brother had inherited his father’s strong face, Lucerys had grown to be more like his mother. His face was sweet and, in some places, still soft, and the nose Aemond had broke was completely unharmed. Unlike Aemond, everything in his face complimented him good, and his eyes shone in ways Aemond’s had never done.
Throughout the banquet, Aemond’s anger had subdued, and admiration took him whole. Only for small periods of time he would stop looking at Lucerys, but at every chance he got, he would focus all of his attention on his nephew, and that destroyed him. After they had left, without ever exchanging a word with Aemond, he had secluded himself in his chambers, and he contemplated gouging his other eye out, for the shame he felt in his feelings had overcome the previous hate that drove his life around.
He had picked up on praying after that. Aemond knew that what he had felt when he looked at Lucerys would only get him into trouble, but he could not stop it. Everyday he woke up, everyday he would think about his nephew, and in that he felt disgust. In his eyes, Aemond was supposed to be driven by hate and resentment, but after that encounter he could only wonder when he would get to see Lucerys again. His obsession consumed him, each day more than before, and he got to the conclusion that everything he was going through was a punishment from the Gods. He was to not feel the way he was, and because he did not stop it, he fell into oblivion.
Every look of disgust he got, every word that lacked interest, and every reason to why he would never get true power all relegated to the actions he himself had created. Aemond thought that, if he had never gotten so obsessed with Lucerys, then maybe he would not be acting the way he was after seeing him for the first time in many years. He prayed for forgiveness, and he prayed for understanding, but the Gods did not answer, and his absolution never came.
Now, Aemond saw in firsthand what his conflict had caused. He was not pure, and so he was to never be king. He was not forgiven, and so he had to fight in a war that would forget his name. He was shameful, for he spent his nights with his hand down his pants, thinking about his nephew, and for that the Gods omitted his prayers.
This war, he thought to himself, was the way he could make things right. In this war he could encounter the boy who had brought despair upon his life, and in this war he would bring justice to himself. All he had to do was choose a side.
