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Aemond couldn't help but cast a dark glance at the man in front of him, knowing he was playing with fire with his boldness.
Glancing behind the man's figure, he noticed his nephew shaking and teary-eyed, gripping the back of the man's dark coat, those lovely, devastated brown eyes staring at him, pooling with fear and dejection.
Gods, how he loathed those eyes—those warm, empathetic brown eyes that softened whenever they looked at him, openly offering affection and assurance, comforting him in his darkest moments.
But most of all he hated the face that belonged to those brown eyes, the face of his nephew, his beautiful, sensitive, adoring nephew, Jacaerys.
Aemond gritted his teeth then, feeling his fists clench, the sting of his nails burying themselves into his palms. Not caring that he was inching closer to death he took a step forward, closer to his nephew, closer to the man he was hiding behind; Daemon.
The man did not draw his sword, but it was clear from the white-knuckled hold he had on Dark Sister that his hesitation was waning. His uncle glared at him, his green eyes spewing nothing but hatred, fury, and the promise of blood, every aspect showing nothing but the need to protect, the need to kill.
Aemond could not help but scoff at this, not understanding why the man would go to such lengths to protect someone who was not of his blood, who was not his child.
When news has spread of Daemon and Rhaenyra’s marriage, it came to no surprise to Aemond and his family, the love between his sister and uncle enduring despite the passage of time. But when the Rogue Prince readily accepted Rhaenyra’s bastard sons as his own, easily assuming the role of stepfather, raising them, providing for them and loving them, without hesitance, is what surprised everyone.
Even with the birth of his own sons, Daemon’s love for the boys did not waver; Vaemond Velaryon's death was a testament of that, testament that he was willing to kill for his stepsons, to protect and honor them by any means necessary.
And now, standing in front of the man who stood between him and his nephew, his stance and aura, the very picture of a dragon in rage, ready to burn anyone who wanted to harm his children, Aemond had little doubt he'd be joining Vaemond soon.
And that angered him.
Maybe it was jealousy, maybe it was petty resentment that Jacaerys, despite being a bastard, had a loving stepfather, three loving fathers when Aemond's own didn't give a damn about him. Perhaps it was resentment at his nephew’s affections, the little fool thinking confessing his feelings for him and then expecting them to be reciprocated so naively that infuriated him. Maybe it was his own feelings, the growing affection he had for Jace, feelings he couldn't fathom, feelings he didn't want; not understanding that despite his many walls, the boy had managed to squeeze past them and enter the most vulnerable parts of his heart.
Whatever it was, when he had reacted angrily to Jacaery's confession, the boy had become frightened, those lovely, honey eyes quickly changing from warm love to fear; he had fled then, frantically trying to get away from him, seeking protection from him and by chance, found the one person Aemond could not take him from.
And here they were now, Aemond resisting every urge to march over and seize Jacaerys, the proximity of Daemon and Dark Sister be damned.
His anger still blindly controlling him, he found himself taking another step towards the two, the sound of valyrian steel halting his movements.
“Take one more step Hightower and I won’t hesitate to remove your other eye.”
As hard and rigid as the steel of his sword, Daemon's voice was serene—deadly calm. His uncle’s face was etched with hard lines; his gaze never wavering, his eyes never straying away from him, sharp, darkened and full of promise.
The threat alone would’ve made any sane man run but Aemond was anything but; his vexation and feelings towards Jacaerys blinding him from any sensibility. The fact that Daemon was willing to kill him to protect him adding more fuel to it.
He couldn't stop himself. He had to know why his uncle would go to such lengths. Why he cared so much.
His voice was practically dripping with venom, the words coming out of him at nearly a hiss, his body practically trembling with rage.
"Why are you so protective of him?! Why do you care? He's just a bastard who doesn't know his place! He doesn't even look like a Targaryen! If it weren't for his mother and the fact that he has a dragon, he would resemble any other brown-eyed whore on the street! A good for nothing Strong who has been given everything handed to him on a silver platter because of the king and your wife! "
Aemond was practically snarling now, certain that if he were a dragon himself steam would be frothing at his mouth. His glare never wavered from his uncle, irritated that the other had remained so calm in the face of his words; moving his gaze from Daemon's narrowed eyes to Jace, he found his nephew still staring at him with wet eyes, the fear in them gradually being replaced by pity and affection, that sickening, sincere affection that his nephew wore on his sleeve, an affection he didn't want, that he didn't need.
Feeling blood began to seep from his palms and through his fingers, he hastily turned away from Jacaerys’ sweet face and stared at Daemon.
His next words came out then strangled and filled with something akin to deep pain.
“He is not even yours, he is not even your son…!”
The placid exterior Daemon held had finally shattered at Aemond’s words, the roar that he let out so thunderous and filled with deep, billowing rage that Aemond wouldn't have been surprised if all the Seven Kingdoms heard it.
“He is MY SON!!”