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“Final tribute!”
Aemond stood up from his chair. Daemon had been watching him all evening and wasn’t at all surprised that his nephew had finally decided to speak up. The argument between Aegon and Jace had plunged all the family members into a tense silence, and despite Jace’s attempts to smooth things over with flattery, Aemond couldn’t hold back the anger that had been building up.
“To the health of my nephews,” Aemond said loudly and slowly. With each pause, the tension in the room only grew. “Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… strong.”
“Aemond,” Alicent hurried to interject. Daemon knew where this was headed, but he waited, noting with some surprise how his nephew stubbornly avoided his piercing gaze.
“Let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys!”
“I dare you to say that again!” Jacaerys couldn’t ignore such a serious insult. Calling Rhaenyra’s sons bastards in front of the whole family was both bold and utterly reckless.
“Why? That was only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”
The fight started quickly and ended even faster. Jace managed to land only a wild punch on the gleeful Aemond’s face when suddenly Aegon, emboldened, knocked Luke face-first into the nearest dishes. The concerned mothers jumped to their feet while the guards rushed in to break up the fight.
Daemon rose from the table slowly and lazily. Aemond was still stubbornly ignoring him, and now it seemed amusing. While Rhaenyra’s children, riled up by the scuffle, were struggling fiercely to break free from the guards’ firm grip, Alicent tried to settle the matter on her own. Daemon heard her accuse her son of using harsh language, and how Aemond, in response, made it clear that he didn’t care what she thought. It wouldn’t be long before the queen finally realized what she had done.
“Wait. Wait!” Daemon arrived just in time. Breaking free from the guards’ loose grip, Jace managed only a couple of steps toward his assailant before reluctantly stopping. Rhaenyra immediately rushed to the scene and ordered her children to return to their quarters. Satisfied that the danger had passed, Daemon stood between Jace and Aemond, casually clasping his hands as he sighed wearily.
Aemond finally deigned to look at him. His face wore an expression of protest, which very quickly gave way to realization and concern.
“Say that again,” Daemon repeated in his mind, echoing the words of the offended Jacaerys. He knew his nephew would understand him with a single glance. “Go on, try it.”
Aemond held his ground for quite a while, but eventually looked away sheepishly, passed by, and headed toward the exit. Daemon watched him go with a smile and, hoping the queen wouldn’t suddenly decide to have a heart-to-heart with her son for the first time in her life, followed him.
When he entered Aemond’s chambers, the boy was already standing by the window - lost, yet ready to face the consequences. Daemon silently paced the spacious, dark room, then stopped beside a cloak that had been carelessly tossed onto a low table.
“What you said is treason,” Daemon spoke in High Valyrian. Under his nephew's watchful gaze, he slid a thin leather belt from the cloak, weighed it in his hand, and folded it in half. Aemond’s expression never faltered. Remaining utterly inscrutable, the boy obediently walked over to the wide bed, leaned forward, and braced his fists against the blanket. Daemon let out a satisfied grunt and stepped closer.
All his life, those closest to him had repeated the same refrain: Daemon was capable of loving only himself. It was a lie, but his rash decisions and thirst for power only seemed to validate their words. Daemon was selfish, to be sure, but he would bleed himself dry for his family. He had proven this time and again, yet his kin reluctantly conceded only one thing: Daemon also, quite clearly, loved his dragon.
In the fearsome, blood-red Caraxes, Daemon saw himself. Or had he crafted the beast in his own image? It no longer mattered. Perhaps it was the same with Aemond. The king’s younger, slighted son was strong, determined, and profoundly lonely. Aemond had always carried himself with more dignity than his elder brother. He was clever and calculating, yet far too vulnerable to his own emotions. Daemon recognized himself in the boy, and he was desperately trying to help.
From the very first strikes, Daemon did not spare his strength. Aemond trembled all over, yet he stood submissively and endured, his fists clenching almost imperceptibly. He had been used to pain since childhood. Not so much physical pain - Daemon knew all too well how the boy's own brother and Rhaenyra’s sons had tormented the proud but dragonless child. Losing an eye in exchange for the largest dragon alive had indeed been a fair price. Jace and Luke had backed off immediately, but Aegon - that scion of Viserys was beyond saving. Daemon tried not to even look in his direction.
At the first painful groan, Daemon tempered his zeal. He struck exclusively on the buttocks and had no fear of causing serious injury, yet he did not wish to turn discipline into torture. While Jace and Luke respected him and bore no grudges after such lectures, Aemond required far more caution - his nephew was utterly captivated by him.
Daemon had noticed it long ago. Ever since childhood, Aemond had watched him with keen interest. At times, it reminded him of the way Rhaenyra used to look at him - so desperate was Viserys’s second son to be just like his uncle. At first, Daemon found it amusing. He couldn't care less about another set of claimants to the throne. Rhaenyra was his only chance. He felt far more attachment to her children, despite the presence of two other father figures in their lives: the gentle Laenor Velaryon and the kind yet stern Harwin Strong. Jace, Luke, and little Joffrey viewed Daemon as one of their closest kin.
Aemond, however, had always been kept at a distance. Neither Viserys nor his scandalous choice of a bride, the Hightower girl, gave the boy the attention he deserved. The king ignored his sons entirely, bestowing his love exclusively upon his eldest heiress, while the mother, Alicent, was so consumed by her position at court that she taught her children nothing but fear and self-defense. In Aemond, this mindset had taken deep root, and now it severely hindered him from managing his emotions.
The first time Daemon truly took notice of him was when the boy claimed Vhagar and lost an eye. That night, the Hightower girl lunged at Rhaenyra with a dagger, but her son, exhausted and bleeding, said only one thing: “It was a fair exchange.” Hearing those words, Daemon finally saw it all clearly - the lingering glances thrown his way, the borrowed mannerisms, and a burning desire not just to be like his uncle, but to surpass him and prove to everyone that they were unworthy. Daemon watched his nephew for a long time until one bleak evening, when the wounds of losing Laena had somewhat healed, he took the boy from his chambers to teach him how to fly a dragon.
“You must train,” Daemon had told him then, before walking away in silence, knowing full well the boy would follow. Aemond shadowed him all the way to the Dragonpit, not daring to speak a word aloud. From that night on, it became the routine of their midnight encounters: they spoke little, and exclusively in High Valyrian. Aemond was a quick study, and with each passing night, Daemon grew fonder of him, letting the boy closer into his world.
“It is long past time to let go of childhood grudges,” Daemon continued his lecture. The belt hit the trousers with a dull thud. Aemond swayed slightly, but he was still enduring it. “You ride the largest dragon in the world. They are no threat to you... unlike your own brother.”
Hearing this, Aemond lost his footing and let out a loud, muffled groan on the next strike. Daemon paused, allowing him to find his focus once more.
“Saying such things in front of everyone, you risk losing not just an eye, but your head,” Daemon threatened as a parting word. He was ready to defend the honor of Rhaenyra’s children against anyone - even the one who had managed to grow close to him.
“He was mocking me!” Aemond hissed through his teeth in Common Tongue. For that, Daemon struck twice as hard, rewarded with another unrestrained groan.
“I didn’t notice,” Daemon continued, as if nothing had happened.
“They set a roasted pig before me,” Aemond finally deigned to speak in High Valyrian. It was visibly difficult for him to focus while enduring the pain, but he was trying with all his might. “He laughed… Luke.”
Daemon couldn't suppress a smirk. He had always found the business with the pig stupid, cruel, and completely unfunny, but the fact that Lucerys had drawn such a parallel at dinner amused him.
“You ride the largest dragon,” Daemon reminded him once more. His arm was beginning to tire from the monotonous strikes, so he decided to switch sides. “Who else should be laughing?”
“I will kill them.”
The threat carried a chilling weight. Daemon tossed the belt aside, walked around the bed, and sharply forced his nephew’s chin up. Unprepared for such roughness, Aemond didn’t even think to resist.
“Then I will mount your head on a spike,” Daemon replied.
Aemond yielded once more, unable to hold his gaze. Daemon let go of him, put his belt back on, and patiently waited for what would come next.
Rhaenyra’s children had been surrounded by love from their earliest years. Daemon, unused to lavish displays of affection, endured their attempts to hang on his neck with great difficulty. Fortunately, Jace and Luke quickly realized it was best not to play such games with him, and eventually outgrew the age when throwing themselves at their fearsome relative seemed amusing.
Aemond had nothing to outgrow. Unlike Rhaenyra’s children, he had received neither paternal nor maternal love. Alicent showed her son sympathy only when he was in danger. This had become deeply hardwired into the youth’s mind, and Daemon was not surprised to learn exactly how his nephew sought attention and affection.
The first time it happened was a year into their regular flights and Valyrian conversations. Aemond had decided to show off, forcing the clumsy old crone Vhagar into a narrow cleft between the rocks. Fortunately, the dragon smashed the stone with her massive bulk, and the clumsy rider escaped with nothing but a good scare and a few scrapes. Back then, Daemon knew little of raising children. For that matter, he still didn't. His sole instinct at that moment was to spank the foolish boy so hard that he would never dare pull such stunts again. And so Daemon did. Aemond barely resisted, but he wept and begged for forgiveness, shifting to the Common Tongue. Daemon himself didn’t understand why he suddenly chose to hold the boy. Perhaps it was his own heart, still hammering with fear; or perhaps, over time, he had grown so attached to Viserys’s son that he had come to think of him as his own. Since then, Aemond desperately craved his embrace, yet never dared to ask - he only provoked. Daemon had played along with this game for a very long time, but each time, he wondered more and more where it would lead them. Aemond had long ceased to be a frightened little boy. He had become a man.
Aemond didn’t move away from the bed immediately. He had long since learned to bear pain with dignity, but composing himself and catching his breath was deeply important to him. Daemon silently pulled him closer by the nape of his neck. With age, Aemond had grown self-conscious about his weakness and hesitated, not daring to make the first move. Daemon found this amusing and a tiny bit gratifying. Whenever Aemond finally wrapped his arms around him, Daemon found reassurance that he still played the ultimate role in the boy’s life.
“Forgive me, uncle,” Aemond whispered, pressing himself closer, unwilling to let go. Now, it was Daemon’s turn to yield. He didn’t mind.
Maybe Daemon really was capable of loving no one but himself, but Aemond was the man in his mirror.