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Kinslayer.
The word reverberated in Aemonds mind as he woke with a start, covered in sweat and filled with overwhelming guilt, a regular occurrence for him these days.
Strands of his pale hair were stuck to his gaunt face, his eye wide with a mixture of fear and desperation, hands clutching the sheets so hard his knuckles were white.
He sat there, frozen in place, for several moments, trying to slow his breathing and the frantic beat of his heart, remembering the exercises Helaena had taught him to calm down.
In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
It worked, for the most part.
Untangling his hands and his body from the sheets, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, spotting his leather eyepatch on the floor, probably knocked off in his frantic thrashing. He didn't bother to pick it up, standing up and slowly making his way over to the window, eye flitting about the room out of habit, praying he didn't see him .
He didn't.
The cool night air washed over him as he swung the window open, sucking in several deep breaths and leaning against the sill. He was absolutely exhausted; it had been just a little over two moons since his death and Aemond had not felt a moment of peace since.
Every time his mind allowed him to drift off, he was bombarded by night terrors, usually set on Vhagars back, an all too familiar storm swirling around them, drops of rain stinging his face as his nephew's terrified expression filled his mind, his final screams, those of him and his dragon, filling his ears. The crunch of bone, tearing of flesh, ending with his dragons victorious roar, waking him up only after a few restless hours.
Others weren't so simple, sometimes he’d be underwater, trying desperately to swim to the surface as something gripped his ankle and dragged him down. He had a strong feeling about who that something was.
Waking up held little relief.
After he had arrived back at Kings Landing, whispers of kinslayer quickly circulated through the castle, his mother refused to look at him, even Aegon didn't seem to view him the same. His guilt only grew.
It had started with barely audible whispers, sounding like they were coming from right behind him, making him look around only to find he was in an empty room. Although unsettled, he convinced himself to ignore them, that is, until they got louder, more distinguishable, demanding to be heard.
Kinslayer.
Dragonslayer.
Murderer.
Aemond remembered feeling his stomach twist the first time he'd been able to decipher what was being said, and he was certain he'd gone white as a sheet and almost fallen to his knees when he recognized the voice who was speaking them.
The bastard would never allow him peace, he should've known that the moment the boy took his eye.
Things had only gotten worse since, the whispers grew louder and more frequent, and sometimes the silver haired prince swore he could feel the brush of cool lips against the shell of his ear.
Soon Aemond was seeing him in the corners of his vision, only to be met with nothing when he looked. He was everywhere, in passing glances, dark corners, not even dragon back was safe, flashes of dark hair and white and gold wings visible through the clouds.
He’d heard the servants, saying he was surely going mad. Maybe he was.
This had been going on for nearly two moons, wearing the prince thinner and thinner until he found himself in tears nearly every night, begging the empty air for peace, for more than a few hours of rest.
Tonight felt different.
As he looked to the courtyard below his window, hoping he wouldn't spot a figure in the shadows, he felt a chill crawl up his spine, goosebumps raising on his arms and across the expanse of his back. He whipped around, bloodshot eyes wide as they scanned the room, finding nothing,
Aemond swallowed hard, sucking in a breath and going to turn back around until he felt something on his shoulder.
The soft brush of cool fingertips.
Jumping to the side and away from the window, the prince whirled around, trying to find the source of his suffering in the darkened corners of his bedroom, feeling his breaths quicken and panic creep up his body.
Another brush, this time on his back, then a whisper, no, barely a whisper anymore, loud and clear, making him flinch.
Kinslayer.
More whispers, becoming louder, more frequent, all in the same voice.
Dragonslayer.
Murderer.
They were more like shouts now, hurting his ears. He tried to move away, to escape them, but it was no use. He felt his damaged socket begin to ache, as if in reminder of who was doing this.
Reaching up to cover his ears, Aemond sank to his knees, feeling his eye burn as hot tears began to make their way down his cheeks. He was hunched over, eyes squeezed shut as he clawed at his ears, tears dripping onto the carpet.
Not once did he beg for silence.
As it continued, screams of death and sounds of tearing flesh filling his head, Aemond felt himself growing closer and closer to his breaking point, beginning to consider tossing himself from his window just to make it stop.
Suddenly, abrupt silence, Aemond could hear nothing but his own rapid heart beat and soft sniffling.
Then, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a cold chill settling over him, making him shiver. Slowly opening his eyes, he brushed his hair out of the way as he began to straighten, only to freeze when he was met with a pair of dark boots, smaller than his own, and shiny with water.
He didn't have to look up to know who was standing before him.
After a moment, he let his eyes travel upward, breath catching in his throat as he took in the boy before him,
“Lucerys.”
His voice shook as he uttered his name, the name that had haunted him since he was ten, and even more so as of late.
The curly haired prince only stared down at him, dark eyes unreadable. Salt water dripped from his clothes and shone on his pale skin, hair curling around his face and sticking to his cheeks.
He was beautiful, even in death.
“Please Luke," his voice was hoarse and filled with desperation, "be done with it, take your revenge-”
It was all he could get out, his voice breaking as more tears began to slip down his cheeks. He imagined Luke striking him down right there as he lay in a pathetic heap on the floor. He deserved it.
Instead, the smaller boy slowly raised his hand to rest it on his cheek, making the Targaryen flinch, eyes never leaving the others. Lucerys’ expression softened, eyes filling with something Aemond couldn't quite decipher. His palm was soft, yet cold, thumb reaching to swipe at a stray tear from his cheek.
Aemond found himself leaning into it, closing his eyes and feeling a sort of peace he hadn’t felt since the boys death.
They stayed like this for many minutes, content in each others presence,
It was only when he felt Lucerys’ hand slip from his cheek did he open his eyes, only to find that his nephew was gone, the only thing left behind was a set of wet footprints and the smell of the sea.