Archive of Our Own

1.

With his whole body throbbing in unbearable pain, Aemond made his way through the winding halls. Face red and swollen beyond belief despite the best efforts of the maestors of High Tide. His mother gripped his hand with a bruising force. Yet he complained not once of the pain that made him delirious. He put on a brave face. To show weakness in front of the enemy was to guarantee your defeat. His grandfather had told him the night before. 

Even as he laid on the bed, groaning in pain as the effects of the milk of the poppy began to wear off, his grandfather did not ask even once if it was terribly painful, if he was alright. But his grandfather had chosen to stand by his bedside, hands clasped at his front with a proud smile bearing down from a height. "You did well, Aemond," Grandfather had said, a gleam of pride in his eyes, "A dragon is not a cheap prize to win for an eye."

A swirl of disappointment, twisted in knots with anger and happiness had settled in his guts. It was one of the few times his grandfather or anyone for that matter had looked so proud of him. No longer dragonless, it appeared he was finally worthy to be glanced at longer than a second now. A hand rested on Aemond's shoulder, squeezing it slightly. As if that would convey his love for his grandson. Something he'd never done, for all these years. 

Aemond simply bowed his head, unable to lend a voice to his thoughts. 

"Aemond, dear. Mother has to go somewhere for a while. Will you be alright?" His mother cupped his cheek, voice breaking, eyes swollen still from the night before. "Just for a bit." Worry marred her beautiful face. 

"I'll be fine, mother." 

Aemond watched as his mother disappeared into one of the halls, with Ser Cole behind her. Mother was the only person that cared for him. Not his father, his grandsire, his own brother. Helaena, he couldn't really fault her for being absent. She had her own troubles to deal with, but still, sweet Helaena tried in her own way to keep him company. 

His whole life was filled with nothing but poisonous whispers and mocking sneers, some levied by people supposed to serve him. His own brother orchestrated his mockery most days. He had no one that truly sought out his company. 

Except one. In the past. He refused to dwell on memories he had no wish to keep. And just as he resolved himself to forget that face, the gods decided to spit on the face of his resolution. 

"Luke, can you wait for me here? I need to talk to your grandsire before he sets sail." Aemond heard Rhaenyra's voice from down the hall. It was quiet enough that her voice could travel so far and so clearly. 

"Mother… " That whiny voice made Aemond wince, his wounds felt like they opened up once more. 

"My darling boy, it'll just be for a bit. Be good."

Aemond heard shuffling and then footsteps slowly walking away. He breathed out, wanting to occupy his mind with something else. Choosing instead to stare out into the skies, to the seagulls sailing in the wind. 

Then, with the gait of a newborn pup, he heard footfalls behind him. Aemond didn't look. He didn't have to. 

"Uncle," Luke called out. 

Aemond didn't want to turn back lest his anger bubble up to the surface, breaking the calm he fought so hard to maintain. But he did, his resolution caving. 

Faced with Luke's pudgy little face, nose bruised and swollen from the impact, Aemond felt a sense of joy. He hadn't escaped unscathed after all. He didn't answer Luke's call, only staring at him with an eye that he hoped revealed nothing. 

Little Luke Strong shuffled on his feet, boots scuffing at the floor, head bent down and lips pressed in an insolent pout. The bastard prince that had everything. He never had to work for anything. Loved by his parents and his many fathers, by the King that neglected his own children. 

Hatred curled in his lips as Aemond taunted, "What do you want, Strong?"

Luke winced but had the decency to not yell. "Uncle, I… "

Traitorous whispers coiled around Aemond's heart. Hoping for those words of his heart to ring true. 

"I… " Luke kept stuttering. But before he could finish his words, Rhaenyra's voice called out from down the hallway. 

"Luke?" The sound got nearer. "Luke?"

"Luke!" 

"Mother," Luke answered, looking relieved as he was pulled into Rhaenyra's side. Aemond wanted to laugh. Her bastard son was the one that tore out his eye yet his half-sister acted as if Aemond was the dangerous one. 

"Aemond," She spoke, terse. 

"Sister," Aemond responded in kind as both mother and son left him to his own devices, alone, again. The seagulls were no longer in view, the skies bereft of life when he looked out. 

2.

Aemond watched his brother pace his room, wine cup in hand, already half drunk before the ceremony had even begun. 

"For once in your life, can you be sober?" Aemond watched with distaste at his own brother. Aegon only laughed, mirthlessly. "You at least owe Helaena that. Some dignity, for her sake."

"Dignity is something I have no use for, brother," Aegon drawled, eyes surprisingly sober for what he had to say next, "Our mother and our grandfather made sure I would have no need of that, long ago. Along with my mind and my will to live."

"I might as well drag everyone into this hell hole of misfortune and humiliation along with me."

"Our sister has never wronged you," Aemond sighed, willing his brother to have some sense. 

"No. An unfortunate casualty." Aegon looked somber, eyes growing misty. "Well then," He slammed the cup on the table, "Shall we get this farce over with?"

Aemond watched his siblings, dressed in magnificent robes and surrounded by splendor, yet they both looked like they were walking to their deaths. He clenched his fists, wanting to help his sister escape her fate. But he was helpless. He saw his mother worry the skin around her nails. She had proposed this union yet she looked like she'd been wronged. His grandsire remained stoic as ever, no doubt hatching plans for the future. 

His father looked pleased, wilfully ignorant, ever playing the role of the fool for his own peace of mind. 

Rhaenyra and her ilk stood still, half smiles plastered by force on their faces. Aemond saw Luke, he'd grown taller but he still retained the chub of his younger years. Their eyes met and Aemond swore he could see a look of guilt and shame. But it disappeared just the same. 

Toasts were given, so were blessings and the wine flowed free and Aegon drank himself into a stupor. Helaena by herself, uncomfortable with all the attention on her and her eagerness to leave displayed on her face for everyone to see. 

Aemond stalked off to the balcony, wanting to escape the nightmare. Only to stumble onto a greater torment. 

"Uncle," Aemond hated that word. And he hated it even more when uttered by that voice. 

"Nephew," He responded, ice in his tone. 

"Have you been well?" Luke asked, sounding sweet and cloying. 

Aemond laughed. Guffawed. For the first time in a long while, he laughed. The ignorance, the audacity to ask such a thing of him. 

Luke only tilted his head in confusion, fear, and indignity marring his face. 

"Yes nephew, I have been quite well." Aemond snorted. "I'm living the life of envy for many," He mocked. 

"And you? Still clinging to your mother's skirt?"

Luke looked offended but didn't argue. He knew it was the truth. Everyone saw him holding onto Rhaenyra's hand throughout the whole wedding ceremony, scared of the big bad bullies that would call him names. 

"Where's your brother? Shouldn't he be guarding his precious little brother?"

"He's with Baela," Luke answered, sullen. 

"Lonely?" Aemond smirked. 

"No, I came to find you." At Luke's words, Aemond stilled, something inside stretched thin, threatening to break. 

"What for?"

"I wanted to talk to you. About that night." Luke muttered more to himself, voice small. 

"What is there to talk about?" Aemond asked, pretending as though he did not care. He didn't, he told himself. He wouldn't let himself care. 

Silence stretched for a long while before Luke walked closer to him, eyes determined. "Uncle Aemond, that night… I really am-"

Screams broke out from inside. Aemond whipped his head, eye searching for Helaena. He saw bodies pushed up against each other and bloody faces. 

"Fuck," he cursed as he ran into the room. Luke stood there watching the mayhem unfold by himself until his mother rushed to his side to see if he'd gotten hurt. 

"Sweetling, are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, mother," Luke said, eyes wandering over to Aemond who was escorting his frightened sister to safety. 

3.

Aemond felt the stare before he saw it. Ser Criston Cole telling him something about tourneys. He couldn't care less. 

He felt his tongue grow heavy as he called out to his nephews, "Nephews, have you come to train?" His one eye never leaving Luke. There was fear and awe in those dark eyes. 

The little Lord Strong had grown taller again, face shedding some of the fat. Nose still as pudgy as ever. Before he could taunt them further, Ser Vaemond entered. Fury in his steps and scorn in his eyes as he looked at his 'nephews'. 

Aemond watched with glee at the Strong brothers' tense bodies. The claim for their inheritance was being challenged as was their ancestry and bloodline. Everyone whispered loud enough for the two boys to hear. Aemond chuckled. 

He, a second son who had no claim to anything, wanted to see everything ripped away from the boy who had everything. It would give him great pleasure to watch the despair wash over that sunny facade. 

Aemond followed after Luke. The boy nearly ran out of the throne room at a speed that impressed Aemond. 

"Nephew," He caught up to the boy.

"Uncle," Luke said, eyes wavering despite his best efforts. 

"Shouldn't you be hiding under your mother's skirt? Or are you trying to act a grown man now?"

Luke bristled at the insult, seemingly remembering a similar comment from Aemond from years ago. 

"I do not wish to argue, uncle."

"Well, neither do I." Aemond stared at him, watching those clenched fists and tightened jaw. 

After a beat of silence, Luke began, "What do you wish for then?"

Aemond tapped his boot on the floor, the sound grounding him. "It has been quite a while, nephew."

"It has," Luke answered, short. 

"I recall we have unfinished business from the last time we met."

Luke looked confused, trying to gather his thoughts and sift through his memories. "I don't understand."

Aemond looked irritated. Was he the only one that hung onto that conversation? "You said you had something to tell me that night. As I recall, you never did."

Luke genuinely looked confused as he tried to remember. "I'm afraid I don't remember. It was quite an eventful night after all." 

A bloody one. Daemon had said it wouldn't be a Targaryen wedding without bloodshed, jokingly, to ease the tension from Luke's frightened body and lighten the mood. But he remembered and it still unnerved him. He still saw the bloodied face of a man, head caved in. His stomach rolled and he shuddered at the image. Then Vaemond's decapitated head surfaced, making him clutch his stomach. 

"Nephew?" Aemond enquired, looking at his ashen face.

"I have to go," Luke said, covering his mouth as he rushed to his chambers, hoping that the contents of his stomach would stay put until he reached the privacy of his own room. 

Luke never saw the shift in Aemond's eye. The storm brewing at the thought of another perceived slight.

Later, as he rinsed his mouth of the taste, Luke took a deep breath as his mind finally cleared. He remembered what he'd wanted to tell his uncle. Perhaps he would get the chance tonight, at dinner. 

Alas, who could have known a moment of immaturity on his part would set their fates in stone. Broken beyond repair. 

4.

Aemond stalked into the dinner hall, mood stormy. His eye glanced over the table watching with disdain as every soul around it pretended to be cordial. As if they weren't ready to kill each other on first sight. 

Luck would have it, that Aemond was sat directly across Luke, who was cozying up with his betrothed, giggling like children over some mundane joke. Everyone had someone by their side. All except him.

If his mood was sour, it only became more so. The gods seemed to always rejoice in his misery, in his humiliation. He watched as they made toast after toast, hiding their true feelings behind feigned pleasantries. All for the foolish, old, dying man who did more to push the family apart with his attempts to bring them together. 

"It isn't so bad, mostly he just ignores you, except sometimes when he's drunk."

Helaena made a toast as well. The only sincere one of the night. And all he wanted to do was strangle his drunkard of a brother. But he stayed his hand. 

The tragedy of their family trying to emulate something their own mother hated so much drove him mad. He loved his mother, dearly so, but he also knew she had a distaste for the Targaryens and their customs. But in the end, she pushed her children to embrace something she loathed. To what ends, Aemond wondered looking at his brother's wine-sunken face, his sister's withdrawn self. 

Grandsire for his part actually looked pleased with Helaena's unintentional insult to his brother. The only grandchild he showed a modicum of affection for was Helaena. And Aemond couldn't fault him for that. She didn't ask for any of this. She never wanted for anything, unlike the rest of them. 

He watched Jace ask Helaena for a dance. The delight on her face quelled the anger inside his chest for a while. And then it happened all at once. 

Rejoicing himself in a memory of a bygone era of shaky peace, Luke snickered in mockery at what was laid in front of him. 

"Behold! The Pink Dread!"

Fist slammed against the table, eye unblinking as he stared down the boy who took his eye from him. He had been about to take his anger from him, forever if Aemond had caved in earlier in the day. If he'd chased after a fleeing nephew, wanting to hear those words. 

No, his anger would not be taken. It was the only thing he had that belonged only to him. His anger was the one thing he did not have to steal and scrap from others' leftovers. It was his. 

Aemond raised his glass. "Final tribute. To the health of my nephews, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise, strong."

"Aemond," His mother pleaded. 

"Come! Let us drain our cups, to these three strong boys."

"I dare you to say that again." Much to his disappointment, it was Jace who answered, not Luke. 

"Why? It was only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?" He watched the boy storm up to him, punching him. But instead of pain, he felt satisfaction. It felt good. 

Aemond saw Aegon slam Luke onto the table, and he grinned. He was a fool to believe there had been a glimmer of hope for their reconciliation. He should've slaughtered that thought long ago. Instead of letting it fester and pollute his mind with hope. Hope was something he and his kin should not go near. He understood that now. 

When all was said and done. He expected a sense of relief to wash over him. To be freed from the dreadful clutches of hope. 

But when he ran into his nephew in the hallway, his anger surged. At Luke and at himself for expecting something of him. He shouldn't. 

Hallways were cursed, Aemond surmised. 

Neither of them said a word as they passed each other by. Shoulders tense and backs rigid. Luke glared at him with fury in his eyes but muddled with something else. 

Aemond pretended to not see Luke opening his mouth, about to speak. He was done with it all. 

He sneered in return and as Luke cautiously shut his mouth, something inside him broke and he told himself it was for the better. 

Back to one another, they left. Words left unsaid. Regret, hatred, and anger cloaked their bodies. 

5.

Storm's End was a dreary sight. Dark and gloomy, it mirrored Aemond's thoughts. War was brewing, simmering beneath the ground, ready to erupt at any moment. And here he was negotiating alliances with a boorish lord whose pride was greater than all of King's Landing combined. 

He promised his hand in marriage for one of his daughters. A necessary evil. One he would annul as soon as he was able. 

The storm continued to rage outside, lightning occasionally illuminating the halls of Lord Borros Baratheon. He was making idle conversation with his newly betrothed, attempting to look interested in her tales of rouge and powder. 

Then he heard the doors open and several footsteps approaching. The surprise on his face was well masked when he saw little Luke walk in, flanked by guards on all sides. The men around him dwarfed him, making him look all the more pitiful. 

Those dark eyes cast a furtive glance his way and Aemond felt a smile curve his lips at the look of discomfort on his nephew's face. 

This was no place for children. Barely separated from his mother's bosom. And Lord Borros seemed to think the same. He'd called him a 'pup' and Aemond smirked. 

A pup wanting to play with the wolves. Aemond laughed. 

"Wait," His voice rang out through the hall. Despite the onslaught of rain, it was clear. "My Lord Strong."

He taunted and spoke of treason, goading him to react and so Luke did. 

"I will not fight you. I came as a messenger, not a warrior."

He reveled in the fire those eyes held, ready to fight. Though it would be a futile fight if it ever came to that. And he said as much, "A fight would be little challenge."

"No, I want you to put out your eye." His anger fuelled his words. His hatred for his nephew surged once more, bubbling up to the surface. He saw no one but that bastard boy, who had never known what it was to not be loved, to be worth only the dirt on the boots of his brother who was undeserving of such loyalty. 

"As payment for mine." Aemond wanted something to claim his own. By right, he should be given the eye he was owed. He would not be denied any longer. 

"One would serve," Aemond said as he threw his dagger at Luke. He wanted his debt repaid, willingly. He had been denied of those words he craved for all those years. Now those words could no longer put out the raging inferno in his heart. But perhaps an eye might. Solid in his hands, he would be able to hold his paid debt. Look at it when those ugly feelings of hope resurfaced. "I would not blind you."

"No."

He was denied, yet again. Every time, he was always denied. Denied an apology, denied love, denied affection and care and now he was denied what was rightfully supposed to be his. 

An eye for an eye. It was not such a difficult request to fulfill. 

The festering pus of anger and hatred seeped out from his every surface. Wanting. Craving for revenge. For acknowledgement. Of his pain and humiliation. 

But at every turn, he was denied. 

Maddened, Aemond chased after Luke on dragonback. The only thought in his mind was to take back what was owed. Perhaps then, the whispers inside his head would quieten. They would finally cease their torment of him. 

You deserve nothing. Second born. Bereft of any claim. Undeserving! 

The downpour deadened him to their whispers. It was a welcome change. He felt freer than he'd ever felt, high in the sky, enveloped by thunder and rain. The cold felt alive on his skin as he laughed. 

"You owe me a debt," He bellowed into the darkness. 

"Boy."

A flash of lightning and then a burst of flames. Vhagar roared under him and his madness began to quell as he realised she would not listen to his commands. 

In his panic, he commanded his great dragon. Yet she refused to listen. Enraged and out for blood, it happened in the blink of an eye. 

He saw the bloodied tail of Arrax plummeting through the air, a dismembered wing pathetically floating down through grey clouds. The rain let up and as the sun shone on his face, Aemond felt cold. Colder than the storm that just passed. His bones felt heavy as the realisation of what he'd done finally dawned on him. 

He'd gotten more than the eye he sought for. And he felt sick. 

1.

Aemond climbed out of the little boat, his boot thumping loud against the creaky wooden planks of the dock. The smell of saltwater and fish innards assaulted his nose. 

Handing over the pouch of coins, Aemond watched the man set sail, leaving him by himself. The man had done well to bring him to a deserted part of the docks. The hustle and bustle of the little fishing town could be heard in the distance. Traveling by water had been the better choice.

He made his way towards the town, hood pulled up hiding his hair from any curious eyes. His gait a little uneven. The phantom ache still lingered even after all these years. 

Aemond felt the dagger in his pocket. It was never a bad idea to be cautious. Not after all that has happened. 

The little fishing town almost appeared untouched by the embers of war. The structures remained the same as ever from what he recalled from his youth unlike those at King's Landing that had to be rebuilt. 

Slithering his way into the alleyways, Aemond made his way to the house just beyond the edge of town. His stomach turned and his feet felt weighed down. And he massaged the long-healed wound on his leg, left by Dark Sister. 

He'd hope to end his misery that day above God's eye. But the fates decreed he had still more to suffer and repent for. He'd lived. And as he watched the hatred in Daemon's eyes he felt ashamed. Of his own cowardice. 

"I killed him," He told his mother. He didn't speak of how it was unintentional, an accident. He would not show such weakness. Enough had been taken from him already.

He did not refute Daemon as he hurled insults at him, calling him a Kinslayer, a murderer. Because he was. 

For just a moment, he thought to tell Daemon everything. That it was all a mistake, that he didn't mean to. But he kept his mouth shut and listened to the accusations levied against him. He would rather be labelled a murderer, a kinslayer, than a stupid boy who couldn't control his own dragon. The undeserving prince who couldn't control the dragon he'd stolen. 

When he came to his senses, he'd reached the quaint little house. After a rap on the door, it creaked open to reveal a wizened old man. His wrinkles told the story of his life. 

"Ah, My Prince. I've been expecting you."

Aemond nodded his head and entered the house. It was bare for the most part. Littered with paper and herbs and all sorts of tea, powder, and concoctions. 

"Where is he?" Aemond cut to the chase. Unwilling to draw it out any longer. 

"He is here. I would not dare lie to the prince." The old man did not look to be afraid of him. Smiling at Aemond with pity in his eyes and Aemond detested that look. He did not want anyone's pity. 

"There are some things you must know before you meet him."

Sliding over a cup of tea, Aemond finally sat down and listened. If anything, he needed to go in prepared. 

For years, long after the dance of the dragons had ended, Aemond had been constantly tormented by the ghost of his nephew. Everywhere he looked, he would see him, an unfathomable look in his eye, sometimes anger and hatred would reflect in those dark pools when Aemond wished to escape into the privacy of his own quarters. But all for naught. 

Luke followed him everywhere he went, tongue dripping venom, wishing madness upon Aemond's mind. And he had begun to grow mad. People had begun to whisper. 

Not of their usual taunts but of the mad prince, the kinslayer who would soon kill his own brother for the throne he so craved. Steal it like how he did the dragon whose corpse lay rotting beneath the surface of the lake. 

The voices inside his head grew louder and louder as his own voice grew quieter. He spoke less and less, withdrawing further into himself. 

Then, in a fit of madness, he'd escaped into the night drowning himself in cheap ale, wanting to forget everything in the arms of whores. But he never could. 

He was all but dead when finally he received rumours of a man that resembled their once prince, roaming around. The second son of the realm's delight. The rumours stayed for a fortnight before it was forgotten for something new. 

But Aemond remembered. Always on his mind. And so his search began. For years he could not find even a hair of that creature that plagued his mind and then a man with a limp and a disarming smile had given him hope. Something which he had sworn off years ago. Lucerys Velaryon was still alive. He'd survived and he walked among the commonfolk, he'd been hiding right under his nose.

Without a sliver of concern that such news could be a lie to lure him away from the safety of the crown's reach, he'd made haste to travel south for Cape Wrath. 

"He is without his memories," Aemond recalled the old man's words as he slithered back into the shadow of the alleyways. He knew where to find Luke.

"A kind fisherman found him drifting ashore near Shipbreaker Bay." The man sipped his tea. Aemond left his untouched. "He did his best to keep the boy alive, treating whatever wounds he could. But he was no healer." 

"He brought the broken boy into my house in the deep of night, asking to save him." Aemond watched the ripples across the surface of the tea, his own reflection distorted as he listened. "I had no hopes of the boy waking. But I still did what I could," he released a sigh, "He slept there on that bed," he pointed towards a makeshift bed, littered with paper, "for three weeks."

"And just as I was about to release him from the misery of this world, he woke up. Like a stubborn child that refused to accept defeat." Aemond cracked a small smile at that, it did sound like Luke. "But he awoke with no memories and a battered body, a face scarred from who knows what."

"Mayhaps he knew not to look too deep into his memories, he did not ask anything of his past or if I knew about him. The scar on his face seemed to remind him of his past some days but he would forget soon after."

Aemond watched from the shadows as a young man rounded the corner, sun-kissed skin and a genial smile adorning his face. An ugly and jagged scar ran down the right side of his face. Aemond let out a breath he didn't know he was holding when he saw those dark eyes had remained intact. A treasure he sought to have for his own, plucked from the handsome face.

But Aemond preferred them like this. Whole. He no longer needed them. He no longer had the courage to ask anything of Luke. He'd taken everything from him. His dragon, his brother, his mother, father, his entire family. And it appeared Aemond had taken away his memories of them as well.

Relief flooded in at the thought. That Luke would not have to bear the burden of such a past. Unlike him. 

Unbeknownst to himself, Aemond had left the safety of the shadows and walked towards a Luke that was distracted. 

Two bodies bumped against each other. The warmth Aemond felt beneath his palms assured him that this was real. Luke was well and truly alive. Then he released his hold, no longer wanting to burn himself with guilt.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Luke's voice had grown gravelly with age. Or maybe the remains of the wound Aemond saw around his neck had something to do with it.

"I wasn't looking where I was going, so sorry."

Aemond watched as Luke apologised a second time, righting himself.

Up close, Aemond could see the freckles made more apparent with age and the sun-kissed skin, he could vaguely see traces of the soft pampered flesh beneath the tan, but barely. Luke had changed. 

Much taller than when he last remembered, all childish fat from his youth gone, cheekbones high and prominent, jaw angular and sharp. He almost lamented the loss of that childish appearance. Almost. Because Little Lord Strong was still a handsome young man in his own right. A different kind of charm. 

Perhaps the one thing that did not change was his eyes. Wide with wonder at all things. Belatedly, Aemond realised Luke was staring at his head, more precisely his hair. His hood had slipped down. 

As Aemond hurriedly made to cover it back up, he watched Luke's reaction pensively. There was a momentary shock that swam in those eyes and for a brief moment, for a single heartbeat, a treacherous part of Aemond hoped Luke would remember him. 

Luke spluttered, fear and anxiety riddling his body. Aemond feared his wish had come true, that Luke had remembered. Happiness and trepidation made his body taut like a bow string pulled too far back. 

"You Grace! M-my Prince! My apologies, I did not mean to offend you." Luke scrambled to kneel but Aemond caught him. 

The feeling of ice-cold water travelled through the length of his body and Aemond swallowed a lump in his throat. Luke did not remember him. The young boy from his past would rather cut out his own eye than call him 'My Prince' and kneel for Aemond. he would spit at his feet and curse him to an eternity of pain and torment. 

"No offense was taken. Please, be at ease." The words escaped his lips without difficulty.

"You know of me?" Aemond chartered dangerous waters.

Luke just blinked owlishly, his face revealing his thoughts. Aemond realised his appearance was not so uncommon that people would have trouble associating it with a name. His reputation, after all, preceded him.

Wringing his hands in nervous anxiety, Luke mumbled, "Hair like your Grace's is not something we commoners see often around here. That and the..." Luke trailed off, eyes darting over Aemond's eye patch. Even with his memories gone, Luke seemed to always avoid talk about his missing eye. 

"I see," Aemond said, getting a closer look at his nephew's appearance. His clothes were made of coarse material, far from the fine silk he used to drape himself in. His hair had grown long, unruly curls caressing his shoulder. He looked unkempt but there was a roughish charm to him. The skin of his hands seemed rough. The result of years of living such a life.

He'd taken up the trade of fishing, he was told. The smell of fish clung to his very being and Aemond wondered how many baths it would take to remove that smell.

"What do you do?" He asked, knowing the answer already.

"I'm only a simple fisherman, My Prince." Luke's posture had become lighter from his earlier rigid stance.

"What is your name?" Aemond wished to know more of him. From his own lips.

"Lorren, My Prince." Aemond felt his teeth ache.

"I see," Aemond had so many things he wanted to say, but his tongue felt heavy and he could only repeat himself over and over like a fool.

Seeing that Luke kept glancing around, body seemingly wanting to leave for somewhere, Aemond braved the winds and asked, "Earlier you recognised me. So, do you who I am?"

Luke straightened up, a wary smile on his face. "The King's brother, Prince Aemond Targaryen."

it sounded so distant to his ears that Aemond only scoffed at himself for wanting to hear 'uncle'. "Indeed I am." He looked at Luke, gaze studying the raised skin around his scar. "Aren't you afraid of me? Surely you've heard the rumours." Bloodthirsty monster, kinslayer, murderer, demon.

"You don't seem so bad." Luke quirked a small smile. "You can only trust rumours so much."

Aemond laughed, that ignorant smile driving the dagger deeper into his heart. He laughed at himself. "Is that so?"

Before Aemond could say anything, a young child bounded towards Luke. "Father!"

"You lied! You said you would take me with!" The young girl of around seven or eight complained, voice aggrieved. 

"Vyra, behave. Don't yell," Luke whispered, casting a glance at Aemond to see if he'd taken offense at the disturbance. The girl cocked her head and pouted but listened nonetheless to her father. The word 'father' tasted sour on Aemond's tongue. He'd been told as much but to see with his own eyes, Aemond felt something ugly rear its head.

While Aemond had been tormented into madness, Luke had gone off and started a happy life of his own. He'd lived his life with warmth and happiness while Aemond was eaten alive by guilt and regret.

Luke whispered something into his daughter's ear, prompting the girl to pipe up, "My Prince" as she curtsied. Aemond felt it to be a mockery. He closed his eyes, willing his thoughts to quieten.

"You're very pretty." Only a child of his nephew would be so bold as to call him of all people 'pretty'. 

"Your daughter?" He asked.

Luke nodded his head with a sheepish look at his daughter's shenanigans. "She just had her eighth name-day." 

"She doesn't look anything like you." Aemond sharpened his tongue, wanting to cut open old forgotten wounds in the man.

"She takes after her mother." Luke smiled wistfully at the child. He was a widower, Aemond was told.

"Don't the people question her birth?" Aemond wanted to hurt. Wanted to inflict the same kind of pain he did years ago.

"She's still my daughter. Their words won't change that."

Aemond retreated his claws, shame-faced. He was stewing in his own misery when he felt a weight on his injured leg. "Can I see your hair?" Little Vyra asked, adding a small, "please" at the end.

"Vyra!" Luke scolded her, pulling her back to his side.

"My Prince, she doesn't know what she's saying. I am deeply sorry, please-"

Aemond cut him off. "You seem to have a knack for apologising. This is the fourth time." He looked at Luke worrying his lips and felt a pang of guilt. He'd done enough. Aemond lowered his hood as he knelt down, eye level with the child.

"So pretty," She whispered in awe.

"Thank you." Aemond gave her a small smile. Luke seemed to deflate as the tension finally left his body, giving Aemond a grateful smile.

Ages it had been since Aemond had a smile directed towards him with no malice. And he felt himself wither. Exhausted from the burden he refused to let go of, he wished to sink deep into the waters.

"You're indeed far from what the rumours say," Luke brushed the stray locks of hair from his daughter's face. A genteel smile aimed at Aemond with that.

Aemond didn't correct him. That those rumours were true. He was the monster they spoke of. He should tell him the truth but he had not the courage to do so. Instead, he wanted to hide in this lie. He wanted to feel something other than hatred and fear levied against him for once.

Long after the two left, Aemond stared at their backs growing smaller in the distance. He wanted to chase after Luke, tell him the truth, wanted to hurt him with the memories he'd discarded but he stayed there rooted to his spot. The emptiness inside his heart growing ever larger. He recalled Luke's final words.

"I'm sorry but we have to leave, My Prince."

That was the fifth time Luke had apologised. As if making up for all the times he hadn't done so in the past. Luke had left him, again. With a smile and an apology on his lips, freely given. He did not have to fight to get them. Aemond should finally be freed from his guilt. Luke was alive and well, he was not a kinslayer. And he'd gotten his apology. His sins had been washed away. So why did he feel the ache in his hollowed out eye grow worse.

His nephew was cruel beyond belief. Smiling at Aemond as though he'd done nothing wrong. As though he forgave Aemond for all that he stole from him. Luke was so cruel as to give Aemond what he desired so much for all those years like it was some cheap trinket he could throw away so easily.

In the end, Luke was still the boy who had everything while Aemond was left with nothing. His nephew would be so cruel as to take away what little he had left of himself as he disappeared in the distance. Taking the hate and anger that kept Aemond alive. The only things that truly belonged to Aemond.

When Aemond stepped onto the boat, he felt empty. He wished the gods would take away his memories. But when had the gods ever listened to him?