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The peach was a pink blur. The fuzz of it tickled Aemond’s palm, plush carpet soft, promising a burst of sweet juice once bit into. Aemond moved the fruit closer to his face. Further. Sideways so he saw it at a slight angle.
Better, but only marginally.
Aemond brought the peach to his nose and inhaled where his fingers had grabbed it, bringing the scent up to the surface. Slight bitterness of the skin, sugar below.
“I’ll take a crate of these,” he told the stall keeper.
“Great choice, Mr. Targaryen.” He was a short man in a permanently juice stained apron, maybe in his mid-50’s.
Basically a child, mused Aemond, paying for the produce. That was the last task on his list, so he glanced around, trying to find him in the milling Saturday crowd.
The farmer pointed to their right.
“Over there.”
Aemond recognised the shape of his hat.
Aemond hated that ugly hat. It was slouchy and covered in decorative pins, wide-brimmed enough to cast a shadow across Lucerys’ face. It marred an otherwise respectable outfit like a bruise.
They stood out enough, with Aemond’s scarred face and sapphire eye—sometimes donning an eyepatch, sometimes not. Aemond had hoped his wrinkling skin would blend into the damage over time, but it hadn’t. The sapphire eye had been a great way to avoid questions about where he parked, though those had fully died out with his advancing age.
If I wear the hat, no one will look at your eye! Lucerys had explained, his smirk the only thing visible through Aemond’s cataract. Aemond couldn’t argue. The hat was that hideous.
Lucerys would not let it go, as it had been a birthday gift from Aemond’s son, from his first marriage. Aemond had worried that it was some sort of homophobic insult, but Luke had reminded him that his son had handmade it, and also that his son had been eight years old at the time. They got along.
“Wine delivery scheduled.” Lucerys tucked away his phone. “And the rest too.”
“I got peaches.”
Lucerys tried to grab the crate but Aemond swatted his hands away with a grumble.
The crate pulled at the muscles on Aemond’s back, but Luke had fallen down the stairs a few years ago, so this was the way it was. Aemond worried about different things.
“Some of the peaches might be damaged. I couldn’t check.”
“I’ll make a tart,” Lucerys dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand. Aemond perked up. Luke’s peach tarts were some of his favourites, topped with a spoonful of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Luke’s face fell suddenly. “I’ll make it as soon as we get back. Since you can’t eat too late. Your surgery is at 8.”
“I remember.”
Lucerys went quiet, his hands fiddling with the car keys. Aemond held no more resentment in this matter, but a non-negligible part of himself was still delighted to know Luke felt a bit guilty, even after all these years.
“Aren’t you worried?” asked Luke, his voice fraying at the edges like roughly cut fabric. Aemond debated how honest he should be, and decided to lie.
“Not really. I’m already blind, so it can’t get much worse, can’t it?”
Luke seemed mollified. They reached the car and Luke loaded their groceries, then ran around the car with a slight skip to get to Aemond’s passenger door. His knees weren’t great and he hobbled, but Aemond let him win.
“Can you make that earl grey syrup with the tart?”
“Sure, I have time before everyone gets here.”