Chapter Text
Aemond Targaryen is not a man prone to panic.
Not even when he lost his eye to his nephew, Lucerys, did he panic.
But then, losing an eye is one thing. His dragon not listening to him, is quite another thing entirely. The biggest cause for panic, if ever there was one, Aemond is sure. It claws at his heart mercilessly, tying his stomach into knots.
The sheer horror and paralyzing dread that burns through him when Vhagar bites at Lucerys and Arrax while he desperately tries to stop her, is not something Aemond will likely ever forget.
His heart stops for a moment before it starts beating double time, feeling like it might burst out of his chest.
His eye flits around the clouds desperately, staring at the spot where he saw pieces of Arrax fall, but there is no sign of his nephew.
“Lucerys!” He screams into the cold, empty air, voice cracking on the last syllable. His eye starts burning as nothing but silence answers him. He swallows down the sudden lump in his throat, ignoring it.
“Go down.” Aemond commands Vhagar, and this time she listens, diving beneath the clouds. The moment the water becomes visible, Aemond’s eye starts searching once more.
The pieces of Arrax makes nausea climb up his throat as he imagines finding his nephew in pieces too.
Despite all of his bluster, despite all of his taunting, Aemond never wanted to kill Lucerys. Settle the debt, yes, but not kill him.
Once, when they were children, Aemond was fondest of Lucerys. Lucerys, who always had a wide smile aimed at Aemond. Lucerys, who demanded to be carried on Aemond’s back, all over the Red Keep. Lucerys, who after every prank, checked on Aemond to make sure he knew they weren’t trying to hurt him. And even though it did hurt, Aemond never told Lucerys and always forgave him.
Until his eye, at least.
But even as he couldn’t forgive and forget, even while he silently raged at the injustice of it all, even when he wanted nothing more than to knock that mocking smirk from Lucerys' face, he still didn’t want his nephew dead.
Aemond scours the Bay, looking for any sign of Lucerys, growing more and more frantic, the longer he finds nothing.
And then Aemond spots him, laying on a piece of Arrax’s wing, looking unconsious – at best. At worst . . .
Aemond pushes that thought out of his head as best he can – he doesn’t have the mental capacity to let himself think of the worst right now. Not when hope surges almost violently through his entire being.
He commands Vhagar to get as close to the water as possible where his nephew lies, and doesn’t allow himself to think before maneuvering himself out of the saddle and jumping into freezing water.
He ignores the stabbing cold of the icy water, focused on nothing but his nephew as he swims the few feet to him.
Up close Lucerys looks even paler and more like death itself. Aemond ignores the way his hand shakes when he goes to feel for a pulse.
He will never admit that he held his breath until a faint pulse beat against his fingers. Or that a tear fell from his eye from the utter relief that he felt.
What follows is one of the most difficult things Aemond as ever attempted. Mounting his dragon one-handed from the sea, his unconsious nephew clutched tightly to his chest in the other, is not something he’d care to repeat ever again.
He gets it done, in the end, running on little more than adrenaline, pure will and determination.
Aemond looks at his nephew when he's mounted – unnaturally still and void of colour, but gloriously alive.