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Little Lord Strong arrives in Borros Baratheon’s hall with all the dignity that he can muster.
Which, in Aemond’s eyes, is hardly any at all. Luke, Lucerys, is a boy sent to do a man’s job, and he very much looks the part. His clothes may be royal made and tailored for him, but with his big eyes — eyes like a doe, eyes that make something hot and wanting stir within Aemond, and not just for the justice that he is owed — his mop of brown curls, his full little lips, the barely concealed fear that worms under his skin and trembles his voice, he looks like a child playing dress up.
Lucerys’ eyes linger on him time and time again, even when Borros addresses him it is Aemond who Lucerys cannot look away from. Drawn to him. Aemond could preen at such a thought.
“And which one of my daughters will you wed, boy? ” Borros questions, rough as a dragon’s scales.
Lucerys hesitates for but a moment.
“My Lord, I am not free to marry.”
Those pretty, pretty eyes look upon Aemond once more, meeting his one eye.
“I am already betrothed.”
Pure satisfaction settles throughout Aemond’s body as he returns Lucerys’ gaze with another smirk, sharper than even his favorite dagger.
My Lord Strong.
In a sick sort of way, Aemond supposes they are betrothed. Born into the same family, fates intertwined ever since they were children, further cemented by Lucerys taking his eye and marking him for the rest of his life.
Aemond need only to return the favor, now. Lucerys’ eye would be a gift of his mother, a long overdue justice, a gift she’d deserved for years now, but it would be more than that. He would have the boy cut his own eye out, but in doing so, would leave his mark on Lucerys for the rest of their days.
An eye for an eye. Scars for scars. Forever intertwined.
The sound of Vhagar's mighty jaws tearing through Arrax's body is a sound Aemond will never forget.
It happens so fast, so easily, Vhagar cleaves the young dragon's body into bloody pieces like a hot knife through butter. Flesh tears, bones crunch, vibrating through Aemond's body into his core and down to the tips of his toes.
Aemond leans over, watching through the blur of panicked tears with his one wide eye as the massacred pieces of Arrax's body tumble through the clouds and into the roaring storm and surf below.
His detached wings, twirling in their descent, almost look like the little leaves Aemond would see spinning to the grounds each fall, scattering across the cobblestone. If it weren't so horrifying, it might even be pretty.
Blood. Entrails. Scales. Body parts. Arrax is no more, merely food for the fish and the sharks and whatever monsters may lurk in the dark brine of the sea.
There is no sight of Lucerys, nothing of him, and somehow, that's worse. There had been no realistic hope of it before, no chance of Lucerys' little body plummeting through the air that Aemond may catch, but knowing the alternative makes him feel sick.
What little bit of Lucerys that may be left is probably stuck between Vhagar's massive teeth. Or, perhaps even, the force of her jaws snapping closed—
Perhaps there was nothing left at all.
“Vhagar,” he croaks, “what’ve you done–”
He hadn’t wanted this.
Emotions surge in Aemond’s chest; anger, fear, grief, regret, all bubbling and roiling inside of him until his head pounds like the hooves of a million horses and his stomach churns like the sea below the cloud-line.
He had not wanted this.
He had wanted Lucerys’ eye, he had wanted justice for the wrong he’d been dealt all those years ago, but he had not wanted Lucerys to die. He hadn’t even wanted to blind the boy. Aemond was not like this brother; he was not a cruel man, he did not take pleasure in the torture of others, there was no enjoyment for him in watching wild children tear each other to shreds like there was for Aegon.
Aemond knew himself to be a bully on occasion, especially to his— his little Lord Strong, but this—
A debt had been owed, is all, but this is not how Aemond had wanted it to be paid. He had not slid onto Vhagar’s saddle with the intention of chasing his nephew down and massacring him.
Aemond had only wanted to scare him. Send the pup running back to the Princess with his tail tucked between his legs. Relay the message loud and clear that his brother’s seat upon the Iron Throne could not be conspired against so openly.
The wet leather of his gloves tense and groan with the force that he grips Vhagar’s saddle. His eye pinches shut, his teeth grit. The pounding in his head grows louder as the wind whips his hair around him.
Both of their dragons had disobeyed them, but Aemond cannot fault Arrax. Arrax was young, barely a child by the standards of dragons, and like any animal would when it was terrified and backed into a corner, he’d lashed out. He’d been trying to protect himself, protect Lucerys, and Aemond cannot fault him for that.
But he can fault himself. Can fault Vhagar too, to some extent.
She’d always been headstrong, a grouchy old woman of a dragon, but Aemond had never had a problem putting her under his control before. Even on their first night, their first ride, Aemond had tamed her with relative ease.
He should have been able to control her. Should have been able to stop this. It was never supposed to go this far.
Guilt is not an emotion Aemond is overly familiar with — except for the time he’d let all of Helaena’s little creatures free and she had been devastated — but now? It overwhelms him. Swallows him up and drags him under until his lungs scream for air.
He chokes on the bubbles as he strokes his palm against Vhagar’s scaly side. He doesn’t know how she feels him, as he is to her as a flea is to a cat, but she makes a low crooning rumble that is for him and him alone. Perhaps an apology, not for what she’d done, but for making him so upset. It doesn’t matter much, really. Aemond’s head is underwater, and there is no coming up anytime soon.
“What’ll we tell Mother then, Vhagar,” he says, as if he’s actually expecting an answer from the beast. His tongue feels heavy, his words taste like ash.
He feels guilt, not only for Lucerys — his little Lord Strong, his favorite bastard, his nephew — but for what is to come. He knows what Lucerys’ death means for them all, knows that if war was a possibility before that it is guaranteed to break loose now as soon as Rhaenyra finds out.
Lucerys was dead. There was no stopping the dominos from falling now, and there would be no one who would believe that this had been an accident, that Aemond had not wanted to kill Lucerys.
Aemond the Kinslayer, a voice whispers into his ear, louder than any dragon's roar.