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Aemond felt no feeling as familiar as wanting. It coddled him through childhood, his only true friend among his siblings and nephews. It wrapped him in its arms, his first thought upon waking, and struck through his dreams like great flashes of lightning in the dark.
Unlike his brother Aegon, who wallowed in his wanting and his wine like a pathetic fool, Aemond gathered his wanting and used it to take. He wielded wanting like a sword forged in blood and fire, and drove it through the hearts of his enemies.
He had looked upon Vhagar, wanted, and took. Only a boy of two and ten, he'd hitched his numb feet into the rope draping her side, mounting the rumbling beast and clamping shaking fingers around her reigns. Some would say it was a choice he had made, a cruel one at that. Aemond did not see it as such. There was no choice in the matter, not when the wanting was burning through his blood, seeping into his lungs, taking his breath away. And if left unfulfilled, it was always followed closely by crushing shame and humiliation. He could stand it no longer. He would have Vhagar, or die trying.
So when his dragon came at the price of an eye, well, t'was a lesser price than death. He had succeeded. Vhagar was his and no amount of squabbling and anger from his cousins and nephews could break that bond. Unless of course, they managed to kill him.
But Aemond, maimed as he was, had felt invincible. Something changed in him that day. The fire in his heart - one that burned hot with desire and rage and all other feelings that went hand in hand, flushing his cheeks and stinging behind his eyes before spilling over in tears - turned cold.
The wanting, though, that continued. Calmer, yet sharper. Ice ran through his veins and chilled him from the inside out as he sparred with Ser Criston each day. He devoted himself to his studies, his swordsmanship, riding his dragon. Attended to princely duties, politicking and peacocking with cool indifference, all for the furthering of his Mother and Grandfather's agenda. He was to become stronger, smarter, faster, better. For someday the war brewing between the Blacks and the Greens would come to a head, and Aemond would not fall. Would not allow his family to fall.
Aemond was a man born fighting and the more turned against him, the stronger he became. A pillar in the desert, standing erect, refusing to crumble against all odds.
When his nephews arrived in King’s Landing and Aemond was struck again with a flash of wanting, it did not startle him. It was familiar, welcomed. Life around the castle had begun to bore him. The wanting had faded to a hollow ache, every day as dull and droll as the last. Upon spotting two dark heads of hair in the crowd he preened with pleasure. Did not show it.
“Nephews,” he acknowledged, already having lost interest in Ser Criston Cole and his weak attempts at sparring.
“Have you come to train?”
A smile tugged at his lips at the prospect.
The eldest, Jacaerys, stood indignant and wary, reluctantly impressed by Aemond’s prowess. His dark hair was trimmed to frame his face, and Aemond thought acidly that it looked rather stupid. Meanwhile, the younger cowered behind his brother, peering with wide copper eyes from beneath a mop of dark curls. And oh, he had changed quite a bit. The pug-nosed brat from Aemond’s childhood memory was no more. In his place stood a young man, almost delicate in appearance - all fine features and fawn-lanky limbs. Plush, rosey lips parted in a nervous inhale, pupils narrow with adrenaline.
How Aemond wants. Wants to skewer him with his sword, to gouge his perfect eyes out. Wants to feel his thin chest heaving underneath him, with terror and panic and perhaps… something else. This is not a want so familiar. It is discomforting.
They are called to the court hearing and Aemond watches Lucerys scurry away after his brother. Buries any disappointment he might feel, for it is unbefitting of a man of his station. Aemond knows he will have his opportunity for confrontation in time. As with his sweet dragon, Vhagar, all good things come to those who wait.
The court hearing is a disaster, and a humorous one at that. Watching Daemon cut Vaemond's head clean in half, well… it's a work of art. Envy and respect roil in his stomach as he revels in the bloodshed. He can only hope to someday possess such raw power, though certainly he's on his way.
Meanwhile, little Lucerys cowers behind his mother. Aemond does not blame Vaemond for this anger, though he does think the man a fool for voicing it before the King and his brother. Luke is no Valeryon, that's certain.
Aemond tries to reconcile this Lucerys with the one that took his eye. Even at the tender age of seven, the boy was braver and bolder than he appears now. He remembers his nephew's pig-like squealing, shrieks echoing through the hall after Aemond broke his nose. The way he writhed and spat as the older boy held him by the throat, rock poised and ready to crush his plain-featured face.
Lastly, he recalls the burning resentment in the boy's eyes before he took one of Aemond's. The fear and anger, belied by a fierce protectiveness for his older brother Jace. Aemond did not know what it was to feel a brother's love. Seeing it in action further spurred his resentment of the strong boys.
So as Aemond looks upon his bastard nephew, a boy turned young man, he is at a loss. The fire that burned in Lucerys' eyes was squelched, and in its place seems to rage a constant storm of nervous uncertainty. Nothing about him reflected the child of Aemond’s memory. He wants to dissect him, to find where he's hidden it. Certainly he was the same brat at heart that he had been six years prior.
Dinner began riddled with tension and malcontent. A family divided, brought together by a man decaying. Laughable, by all rights. A farce. There was no true family here. Only a gathering of strangers, bound by blood and doomed by prophecy and tradition.
Aemond was growing tired of the day's antics. He did not like socializing - only did so to please his mother and gain political influence. He sat quietly, with little appetite, as grandfather spoke of family and love. The hopeless plea of a dying man. Enough to guilt attendees into complacency for the time being, but Aemond knew better than to think this would turn a new leaf for them all.
He could hear Aegon antagonizing their eldest nephew, already drunk and belligerent enough to ignore the goodwill agreed upon around them. Or perhaps he was sober, and simply picking fights through sheer resentment. What did it matter? Aegon always had an excuse to be petty and cruel. T'was in his nature.
Alas, he was Aegon's brother, and as the protector of his family, Aemond was forced to take his side. So despite the way his brother's words disrespected their dearest Helaena, Aemond stood as Jacaecrys did, looming a tall dark shadow across the table. He did not speak. He did not need to. As he looked at his eldest nephew, his intentions were clear.
To his surprise, Jacaerys, with more tact than Aemond believed him capable of, diffused the situation with a toast. A passive aggressive one, mind you, but Aemond cared little as Jace was the first to seat himself once more. Control was most important to Aemond and this act of subservience pleased him. He, too, took a seat.
The dinner continued after the king retired. Aemond yearned for the event to end, at his wits end with his nephews and their frivolous cousins. A waste of time, all of this. These ridiculous people and their farce of forgiveness. He did not sip his wine, nor did he touch any food. The whole event had him drained.
He's distracted from his misery by a soft huff of air. At first he thinks it must be his sister, twirling about with the eldest of Rhaenyra's bastard sons. But no. When Aemond focuses his attention back on the table, he finds himself meeting the eyes of a bemused Lucerys Valaeryon.
Hmm. This was the Luke he remembered. Crinkled eyes and curved lips, something malicious hidden behind childish laughter. Still, he had grown very pretty. As Aemond turned to face his nephew, he caught sight of the source of his delight. There, on the table in front of him, had been served a roast pig.
The wave of emotion that washed over him hit like a tsunami. Oh. This boy. This beautiful, bold, vicious boy. This bastard who took his eye at the tender age of seven, was now laughing at him. As Aemond trailed his gaze from the pig up to Luke's once more, he did not blink.
And Luke, he could not stifle his amusement. What began as a muffled snort transformed into musical giggling, cheeks dusted pink and porcelain teeth flashing under candle light.
Aemond was going to kill him.
But not yet.
His fist hit the table with enough force to bruise, shaking silverware and sloshing wine. All conversation stopped. Lucerys' smile vanished.
Now on his feet, Aemond paused. Let an uncomfortable silence stretch.
"Final tribute," he announced once he felt the tension was adequate.
"To the health of my sweet nephews. Jace…" he paused to look at the eldest, "Luke…" before turning to Lucerys once more, "and Joffrey."
"Each of them handsome, wise,"
Alicent was staring at him, all but begging with her eyes, don't do this. Not now. Aemond blinked rapidly. Hesitated. No, this was deserved. He could sit idly no longer during this mockery of an event.
He gazed once more upon his nephew. The boy was no longer laughing. His dark hair stark against his pale skin, unlike any Targaryen or Vaelayron in the kingdom, yet so much like...
"Strong."
"Aemond," his mother warned, strained. Alas, he was on a roll now.
"Come! Let us drain our cups to these three strong boys!"
"I dare you to say that again," Jace challenged.
"Why?" He stalked towards the other man, "T'was only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?"
All at once, hell broke loose. Jacaerys threw the first punch, striking Aemond across the jaw with a solid right hook. At the same time, Lucerys rose from his seat, only to be thrown to the table by Aegon, one hand clasped painfully around the back of his nephew's neck.
Aemond laughed for the first time all night, delighted at how his nephews embarrassed themselves. Such little self control. He pushed Jacaerys to the ground, easy as swatting a fly. Rhaenyra was clearly too soft on her children. Jace was a sorry excuse for a future king.
Guards lunged forward, restraining his eldest nephew as he struggled, thrashing and snarling like a wild dog. As Aemond turned away, relishing his first sip of wine, his mother clasped his arm. Her nails dug into the sleeve of his tunic, face ever frozen with distress.
"Why would you say such a thing before these people?" she hissed.
These people. Aemond had to laugh. Not even the queen could entertain the illusion of them being family by anything other than blood.
"I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, mother. Mm," he ripped his arm from her clutches, and sniped, "Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs."
Jace, who had wriggled his way out of the grasp of the kingsguard, reached for his uncle once more. Aemond prepared himself to teach his nephew a lesson, when Daemon Targaryen slid between them.
"Wait. Wait."
The man cowed his step-son with a single look, and Rhaenyra fluttered about her children like a tittering bird.
"Go to your quarters, both of you."
Gentle touches, fingers caressing their cheeks and squeezing their arms with motherly affection and concern. The sight made Aemond sick. Far too soft on her children, he thought.
The queen stood behind him, cold and distant.
When Daemon turned his gaze upon Aemond, the young man knew it to be both a threat and a dismissal. This was a man who had beheaded another only hours prior, and although Aemond was a skilled swordsman, he acknowledged when he was outmatched.
Besides, Aemond had made his point. Nobody here was pretending anymore.
Humming lowly, he gave no apology as he strode from the room. Let him retire as well. He knew he was no longer welcome. Mother could pick up the pieces however she wished, spin whatever excuses suited her narrative.
As he stalked the castle halls, Aemond reflected on the events of the evening. In his mind's eye he replayed Aegon forcing Lucerys to the table in his periphery. Pretty Lucerys, with his doe eyes and bitten lips. Little Lucerys with his slender fingers, fingers for gripping pocket knives and wine stems, fingers for digging into the wound and sewing it back up again. A sharp jawline and dark lashes, freckles smattered faintly across an upturned nose. Perhaps not so little anymore. A man of five and ten, now.
There’s a heat gathering in his stomach, swirling somewhere between nausea and the burning sensation of a strong Arbour Red. His skin prickled with it, fingertips buzzing. The strap of his eyepatch felt sticky against skin, pulling in all the wrong ways. Aemond considered shedding it. Reconsidered. No need to frighten the servants.
The weight of his sapphire eye rested heavy in his socket.
Without much consideration, Aemond’s feet led him outside into the Godswood. The sun had fallen below the horizon, leaving the sky a hazy purple that hastened toward darkness. Fresh air filled Aemond’s lungs and for the first time all evening he felt he could breathe freely. Shoulders slumped, a predator letting down its guard. Wind caught silver strands of hair, billowing as a gentle breeze like a kiss soothed his heated skin.
He sat beneath the weirwood and leant his head back against its trunk. Closed his one remaining eye.
He was not aware of how much time had passed, but eventually he was alerted by the sound of footsteps crunching against earth, approaching his direction. He did not move. The footfalls paused, a hitched breath could be heard. Not any of his siblings, then. One of their guests?
“Uncle?”
Of course, Aemond thought. Of course it was Luke. He couldn’t have a moment’s peace. The elder did not speak, barely even flinched. Waited for the insolent child to leave him be.
That is not what happened.
He heard his nephew pad closer, each step more stilted than the last. He wondered briefly if the boy intended to take his other eye as he slept. Entertained himself by imagining the look on their family’s faces if he struck his nephew down at that very moment.
When the boy was mere feet away, Aemond’s paranoia reached its peak. He heard knees hit the dirt, felt fingers brush his leather-clad shoulder, and his one eye shot open. Hand darted out to grasp Luke’s wrist, bird-like bones grinding in his tight grip. The smaller boy yelped, squirming against the assault, frantic and desperate.
“Nephew,” Aemond gazed upon him unblinking. A smooth voice like glacial rivers.
“I didn’t mean to - I -”
Luke’s chest heaved, and Aemond pulled him in closer, bringing them almost nose to nose.
“You shouldn’t wander the castle alone at night. Surely you realize you are not among friends here,” his uncle chastised, lips twisted into a mockery of a smile.
Trying to regain composure, Lucerys ceased his struggling, though he kept some resistance taught where his uncle’s fingers dug into his flesh.
“Sleep eluded me, so I chose to walk the castle grounds. This was once my home, too, Aemond," he wrinkled his upturned nose, "As a guest, and as your family, I should be free to come and go as I please. Now unhand me."
Aemond’s grip did not falter.
Lucerys winced.
“Please,” the word left pursed lips tender and raw with anxiety.
Looking into his nephew’s hunted eyes, Aemond knew he should release him. Now was not the time to take action, to take revenge. A feral, more vicious part of him was purring with satisfaction, scenting the terror in the air backed by Luke’s own unique smell - cardamom and dragon, the wine from dinner souring his shallow breath.
“Tell me, sweet nephew. Does a guest mock their host? When you maimed me all those years ago, was that befitting of family?” He emphasized his words by pressing the boy’s small fingers to the eyepatch, cool leather against his hot, sweaty hand.
Lucerys balked at the accusation. “You were going to kill Jace. You stole Vhagar from Rhaena. I did nothing you did not deserve that night.”
Ah, there was the spark Aemond had been looking for. Trapped by a man twice his size and Luke was bristling like an angry cat, spitting anything but an apology. His uncle’s eye darkened, burning more ocean black than blue in the night.
“I should cut out your tongue for such insults,” the blond murmured.
The air between them fizzled with tension, each man’s muscles taught like the string of a bow. Lucerys was half-pulled, half-sprawled across Aemond’s lap, his wrist throbbing in time with his frantic heartbeat. Aemond’s scrutiny was intense and left him feeling like a pinned insect. Yet, he was no longer pulling away.
The fingers he’d left resting upon his uncle’s eyepatch twitched, trailed along the rounded edge of the covering, before drifting down to gently caress the scar cutting through Aemond’s cheek. For reasons he couldn’t understand, Aemond allowed this to happen. Loosened the iron grip around his nephew’s wrist and sat stock still in the face of this exploration.
Lucerys was sure he’d gone mad. Nevertheless, he felt himself lean into his uncle. His heart was beating faster than before, but he’d strayed from all thoughts of retreat. Curious digits stroked the edge of the patch once more, slipping beneath the covering, barely a hairsbreadth. Aemond remained still. Hardly breathed.
Even before Luke reached his slight hands behind Aemond’s head, the eldest knew what was about to happen. The clasp of the leather covering clinked in the quiet night, before hitting the grass with a muddied thump.
“Oh,” said Lucerys.
Aemond mirrored the statement, lips curving sardonically, “Oh.”
The sapphire in Aemond’s socket was a deep, royal blue, damaged eyelid barely holding it in place. A gnarl of scar tissue bulged below his lower lid, knotted and twisting like the wood of the great tree he rested against. It was a hideous, painful thing to look at.
Luke felt a surge of twisted possessiveness nevertheless. He had done this. Marked his uncle in the most permanent of ways. It’s followed swiftly by guilt. He should not be proud of such a thing, it is not right.
Aemond must see something in his eyes, because he rumbles husky and low, “Savagery becomes you, nephew.”
Lucerys shakes his head. Denial. Refusal. No.
“Uncle, I do not regret defending my brother, but,” he takes a deep breath, and Aemond is recoiling from him, but he has to say his piece, “I do regret the outcome. If I could go back and find another way, I would.”
Aemond says nothing. Stares for a beat. A thousand emotions seem to cross his face, and Lucerys can decipher none of them. Then the curtains close, and his uncle’s gaze is cold once more. He strikes out like a viper, shoving Luke to the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Mounts him from above, knees bracketing his nephew’s hips and one hand pressed to the dirt near his cheek. With the other hand, he seizes Luke’s jaw. Certainly there will be finger-shaped bruises there in the morning.
“I have no use for your pity, nephew mine,” Aemond snarls, his one eye unnervingly wide and still, “I will spare none for you when I take what is owed.”
And Luke does not have to ask what he is referring to. He remembers the queen’s declaration all too clearly, despite the years that have passed. There is a debt to be paid. He has not felt such terror since that fateful when day Aemond loomed over him, child-sized hand wrapped around his throat and stone poised unforgiving above his head.
That is how Aemond leaves him that night, sprawled in the dirt. The older man stalks from the courtyard like a caged beast, and Lucerys is left to pick up a worn strap of leather from beneath the weirwood tree. He does not return it before his family’s departure.
Ultimately, it makes its way back to Dragonstone with him. It seems there’s little he won’t take from his uncle.
He has no more apologies to offer.