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After all was said and done, after much ado was made of the war of dragons, in the end, when victory came, it left not a triumphant taste in his mouth but rather an unfulfilled itch beneath his skin.
The heads of the Blacks adorned the gates of Dragonstone. The sound of the cries and wails of its residents had long died down. The bloody sun had finally set on this ancestral land of his. Before today, not once had he set foot in these lands, these hallowed halls once filled with history and the grandeur of his lineage. A Targaryen denied entry into the home of dragons. Well no matter, all that was ever denied to him, he had now taken, with fire and blood.
"My King." One of his trusted men came up next to him. "We've found a rat in one of the rooms."
Aemond hummed. His gaze steadfast, locked onto the Painted Table, boring a hole on the wooden plaque for that accursed land of sand sea. It appeared he had not been as thorough as he believed while administering justice. "Bring him…" He paused, then tore his gaze away from the table, fingers brushing over the plaque. "No. Show me."
"It is one of the maesters. He had several scrolls and books in his possession. To hide them away, most likely."
They walked through the lit halls. Bright and fiery flames danced on the walls. They passed through several chambers, the doors ajar, furniture upturned and belongings ransacked. When they finally arrived at their destination, he fully expected to be met with walls lined with treasured books and texts, annals and recordings of their Targaryen legacy. Instead, what greeted him was thick damask and rich velvet draped over tall windows. A silken canopy over a grand wooden bed frame. Tables littered with trinkets, toys and daggers.
And there next to an open bronze chest, the frazzled maester of old, clutching some silk or velvet shirt to his chest, Aemond could care less. The old man was on his knees, swords at his neck but still clung to that dusty old fabric as though his life depended on it. How long had it been since he'd seen that haggard and wrinkly face?
"Books and gold, I can understand. But I had no such knowledge that a maester would be so fond of…" Aemond smirked, hand gesturing to the silk tunic that was far too small to belong to a grown man or woman. "Such perverted and mundane interests."
"These were found in his possession, your grace."
Aemond glanced at the array of books and scrolls scattered on the table. He opened them one by one. Valyrian history, of their past and present. Scrolls with their recorded legitimate and illegitimate ancestry and lineage. All expected.
Then he flipped through a worn down book. No title, no author. A child's stupid scribbling, it appeared. Aemond was about to close it when a few words caught his eye.
Uncle Aemond took me to see the lanterns. We didn't tell anyone. It was our secret.
As he read them, he could hear those words, feel them, taste them. It was oh so familiar. Nostalgia steeped in bitterness, anger, and hurt but always at the end, a distant sweetness that would ever evade his touch.
And all too quickly, the dark red damask around the room turned to dripping blood. The pale silken canopy turned to ashen skin and the velvets turned to mottled flesh.
Aemond.
Aemond.
Why did you kill me, Aemond?
Aemond.
Is my debt paid, at last, uncle?
Your grace.
Your grace.
"Your grace."
Aemond blinked and turned. "Your grace? What shall we do with the traitor?"
Aemond looked at that old familiar face. Gerardys, was it? The maester that dotted dearly upon his nephew. Kill him. The command was on the tip of his tongue but the words refused to form.
"Throw him in the dungeon."
The guards faltered for a moment before nodding their heads and dragging the maester away. He usually did not have a habit of taking prisoners.
Once alone, Aemond walked over to the open chest, the silk tunic now lay fallen on the stone floor, catching dirt. Now he remembered. Lucerys had often liked to wear that when he came to pester him when he was still in the Red Keep.
"Can I come watch you spar? Can I? Please?"
Annoying little gnat.
Carefully picking it up, he dusted it off and placed it back in the chest. Aemond was about to close it when he saw something curious.
He should've left it. Closed the chest and locked that god forsaken room forever. Then, he should've burned down this whole island till nothing but ashes remained. But he didn't. He was a creature of impulse. He lacked control. As was evident in all the events of his life. So, why should this one be any different?
Slowly, cautiously, he unravelled the crude knot. The meticulously stacked letters cascaded on the table. When had he taken out the letters from the chest, when had he seated himself on the chair, he was unsure. All he knew was his heart hammered in his chest as his fingers came closer and closer to the first letter atop the pile.
There was no name, nothing written atop it to garner such a reaction from him yet his palm felt clammy and his throat continued to close up.
When he finally opened it, he regretted it.
Gerardys stared at the damp walls of the dungeon. He had made peace with the fact that his head would be severed from his shoulders the moment he was caught. He had awaited his execution with acceptance but it never came.
It had been nearly a fortnight and his head was still attached to his body. His meals, however measly, were always delivered. He never starved. No one came to torture any information out of him. Or to question him. It was a strange predicament he was in.
Sworn to the late queen, his loyalty had always been with Rhaenyra. He was given one last order from the queen before she went to face the Greens. Take as many books and scrolls as he could and flee to Essos. If they were all to die, at the very least, their story should remain and be told. While he had managed to take the most important of annals and texts, sentiment would beseech him to take a piece of the family that he cherished so much and so he did. The Queen, her heir, the two princesses, the young prince, the twins and of the heir of Driftmark. He'd succeeded in that and was about to leave when the trappings of nostalgia shackled him.
Memories blinded him and he lost track of time. He was going through the prince's childhood keepsakes when the guards found him. As they tried to drag him away, he grabbed onto whatever he could, the wooden dragon, the dusty old workbook, his old tunics, anything.
Footsteps broke him from his reverie. It was earlier than usual for his dinner of stale bread and watery stew to arrive. Gerardys looked up only to find in place of the stiff guards Aemond had brought with him to the island, the Targaryen himself stood there, ever imposing.
Silence stretched the rancid air thin.
"My prince, what brings you here?" Why have you still not left Dragonstone was what he really wished to ask.
"King. I am your King now. Rightful King."
The menacing air around him was suffocating, still Gerardys did not falter and recognise his claim. He would sooner die than recognise any other than Rhaenyra as the rightful ruler, even in death.
He saw the tensing of Aemond's jaw and the way his nostrils flared in distaste for his disobedience. Perhaps, now Aemond would be so inclined to stop this pretense of benevolence and kill him.
Aemond did not.
"Tell me, what were you doing in Lucerys' chambers? Surely, nothing questionable and nefarious?"
The accusation did not succeed in getting a rise out of Gerardys. "It is as the Prince saw. Nothing more."
Aemond glared at the address. But still, no heads went flying. "Hmm, rather fond of the bastard, still. Aren't you?"
"The Prince Lucerys was beloved by all. I am no exception."
"Is that so?"
"Indeed."
The conversation stalled and neither seemed willing to break the lull.
"You were quite close with Luke…the bastard, were you not?" Aemond finally broke the stalemate. Neither mentioned the fondness they heard in the name.
"As was permissible in accordance with his station."
Gerardys watched the constant ticks in Aemond's jaw. A habit of his when he was impatient, one that he had yet to leave behind even in adulthood, it appeared. Whatever it was that Aemond was here for, he would have to be upfront about it.
As it turned out, Aemond was still the prideful child of old. The Targaryen prince stormed out of the dungeon with not another word.
It was precisely three nights after his first visit then that Aemond returned.
"What do you know of these?"
A bundle was unceremoniously thrown on the floor in front of his cell. Ah, it appeared he'd found them.
After nonchalantly picking up the letters from the ground, Aemond made his way back to his chambers. Sparsely decorated and entirely utilitarian. A contrast to that one chamber he refused to go near. Ostentatious yet he recalled spitting the word "plain" and "common" with venom when he waltzed into it one evening, drunk and angry.
He had ascended the throne but he held no feast in his name. He was yet to return to King's Landing and sit on that wretched throne for which he had lost everything.
He had no family left to celebrate him. No friends to honor him. He had no one. He had nothing.
So, perhaps it was for that reason he stayed here. On Dragonstone. He did not have to face reality that way. Yes, that was why he remained on this lonely rock. No other reason.
No other reason, he told himself as he dusted off any dirt from the letters. No other reason. None at all.
He was always fond of you.
The words haunted him. It was a mistake going down there.
He was always sorry for what transpired that night, on Driftmark.
Aemond knew. He'd read as much in these letters. The regret, shame and apologies that never reached his ears when he yearned for them.
At once, sorrow turned to anger than a spite-filled satisfaction when he remembered how Otto had died screaming, soiling his pants. Of how his mother had wept as she watched her father burn.
They were responsible for their own ends. The moment they chose to withhold those letters he never got. The apologies he waited for with resentment and naive hope all in one.
He often spoke highly of you and your skill with the sword.
He remembered the stolen glances sent his way in the once lively courtyard.
He was always hopeful you could mend your relationship.
The smirk sent his way. What he once saw as mockery now he saw them under a new light.
He wished to soar high above the clouds together on your dragons and race.
The look of horror etched on those lovely features. Eyes wide with betrayal as Vhagar descended on them.
How dare he look so betrayed? Was he not the one that took his eye? Was he not the one that refused to apologise? Show remorse? Offer his regrets? How dare that bastard look so distraught when he plagued Aemond's every breathing moment. Torturing him ever so gently and cruelly with his sincerity etched in ink. Always made the villain. Forever the villain.
How dare that bastard?
How dare you?
How could you?
"Luke, how could you… "
Forsaken by his mother, his sister, his brother. Unloved and cast aside by his own father. Nothing but an afterthought to the people that were supposed to love and cherish him.
But remembered in fondness by the one soul he despised and who he believed returned it in kind. Only for him to kill the one person who thought kindly of him. The only person that had never stopped reaching out to him, even in his last moments.
The tears that came stung his eye. Aemond welcomed the sting, the ache. He allowed himself to mourn this person and to mourn what could've been. In this cold grave of his, he welcomed the warmth of his tears. He would grieve and mourn one last time before he put an end to this whole tragedy and burnt everything to the ground.
Aemond watched Dragonstone crumble. Stayed rooted to his spot until all that remained was a lump of stone, nothing else. As he mounted Vhagar, he chanced a glance one last time before he set off, never to return. He had much to do. All would end in fire as he with the pure heart continued to slumber in the sea.