Chapter 7: What Is Deserved

Chapter Text

There was quiet in the Red Keep, but no peace to be found. With Criston Cole as Aegon's sworne Hand, the king's vision of littering the lands in blood and spikes of enemies' heads were coming to fruition. And Aemond was just another spoke in the wheel to get them there. 

The sounds of flies buzzing always welcomed the second son as he crossed into Maegor's Holdfast, forcing his eye line forward so he didn't have to look at the rotting faces he'd torn from bodies. Once he was inside the chamber and away from the sick stench, he allowed himself to breathe as he saw Helaena, sitting within the confines of the bed, looking out the window. They did not talk, Aemond only doing what he was called to for, seeking the removal of their father's replicated structures of Old Valryia, the Dowager Queen ordering for it to be destroyed. The lifelong craft was too heavy to take all at once, so Aemond himself alone struck down on the carved-out stone as Helaena was still not seeing company other than the servant girls who dressed her. His sister flinched every time he hit, the sounds of it crumbling making Jaehaera stop playing altogether and run into the blankets to hide from the noise. During those moments of dragging the pieces he could wedge out, the prince felt that none of what they had accomplished was worth any of it, no gratification yet for the sins they'd conjured.

Slowly, his hands began to wear away, the dust drying his skin and welcoming cracking flesh. Aemond did it until the sun was going down, only once there was a small tower left did he find Helaena standing by the empty sight, picking up the stone curiously. Then he simply watched, witnessing how she floated like a spirit, with her hair undone and white chemise flowing, dropping the last of their father's presence in the Red Keep out of the window, the girl staring as it crashed onto the spikes and became dust.

The Targaryen prince then looked at little Jaehaera, close to the dead hearth with a stone dragon in her hand, clomping it on the ground as if it were a horse, before peering up at her uncle with lilac eyes that seemed too old for her porcelain face. He hadn't even noticed how his nose had gone blind to the scent of sweet decay, his niece whining once a breeze wafted in, Aemond taking his leave and shutting the door immediately before he could watch any more of their disgust. It seemed that feeling was always on display wherever he treaded nowadays.

The people at court tried to hide their disdain from him, but Aemond was seemingly seeking it out as he walked past the strangers. The world was becoming black and white with war, the challenges of what was right and wrong cut through as his king ordered him to shed all morals. The only colors Aemond knew were the contrasting deepness of greens and reds. He'd sit in his quarters to pass the time until summoned again, the fire still not evoking any sort of feeling inside of the once complex boy. The few times he could muster up some of his humanity left was when he closed his eye, imagining he was anywhere else, placing himself in the now crumbled structure of his father's replicated Old Valyria itself, imagining it live and well. 

The loud knocking on his chamber doors and the sudden squeak of its opening made Aemond almost wish their family had gone down in the Doom. But, it was his mother who had flitted into his privacy, her hair wild as she came to wave a scroll desperately at her son, anger displayed upon her features.

"She dare send a raven telling us not to mock her. After what she's done to us? Did Jaehaerys truly have to be slain to manage her fragility?" Aemond takes the parchment and roves his eye over it, seeing it indeed is his sister's frantic scribbling, demanding for them to not continue on with the cruelties of her son's death. It is almost pitiful until the closing sentence describes how she will flay her brothers for what they've done. His own mother stands before him, waiting for his response, the shared moments of scorning Rhaenyra returning between them. He is tired.

"One of her heirs was slain and a feast was then held in celebration of it. I'd take her for a fool if she did not feel mocked." Alicent glares down at where he sits, his chalked hands taking a goblet of wine before she snatches, Aemond tensing upright as his mother points her finger accusingly in his face. He returns the rage, sitting upright to simmer his single eye upon her. "What would you have me do-"

"You think because you ride your dragon and have done what you have you know of war? Do not jest with me, Aemond. Not after all I have sacrificed for you and your siblings," He wants to tell her how they did not ask for it, that not even Aegon himself wanted to sit on that throne of swords. "We have seen only the beginning. And we must look out for one another if..."

She does not finish her sentence, but both know they need each other if they want to live. The silence between them has always left room for understanding.

"What would you have me do?" He repeats again, his voice quiet. Alicent places the chalice away from him, trading it for the entire bottle the servants had left him.

"What you do best."

If Criston Cole is the tool Aegon needed to paint the realm with war, Aemond's brutality is the muse. They sit in the council room, conjuring ideas for the suffering and torture of their half-sister, planning ways to peel her away from her island across Blackwater Bay, wondering which other of her children shall die in the same horror Jaehaerys had. Aegon named Jacaerys, as he was said to be his mother's heir, the one who made the pacts between the North and the Vale. That he would just be another bastard ridden from Westeros. When the councilmen finally felt it the least egregious, the Hand began to list ways to have their king's wishes come true, devising the next act of kin-slaying-kin without losing sleep, taking their meals to eat even during the discussion of how exactly Rhaenyra's firstborn would be slaughtered.

"We cannot attack head-on. We cannot sneak into Dragonstone without being sure of the layout itself. We have only such an option as of one of us men going and possibly succeeding or dying in the process." Cole said as they had maps of the build of the fortress of an island pulled from archives, maesters careful to let the men know that the amount of intricacy and secrets the Red Keep had built within it, the ancient volcanic carcass had just as much, if not more. Aegon tensed in his seat, beckoning for the squire to fill up his cup, to which Aemond shot him a look of disapproval, but the moon was beginning to rise and at least the elder had held off until such.

"An assassin, is what you suggest?" Aegon's tone is playful, making Ser Criston simply peer about the room, seeing if any other suggestions come up before his king can scorn him further. Nobody saves him. "I suppose we can call upon one of the Faceless Men while we're at this point in our idleness. Surely we can hire a buffoon to muster up another mistake." 

The Masters of the council dare not speak as suddenly the attention of Aemond's act falls upon them again. The second son stirs only slightly, trying not to show the way his eye rolls in contempt for his brother's words.

"I can go." He offers it flatly, Aegon unamused with how the younger no longer shows fear for what he's done. How could he when he has yet to get his own hands as dirty as his brother's? "I have already killed one from her brood, what is another?"

His king sits straight now, violet eyes flickering with astonishment as Aemond begins to front his boast, jutting his jaw and trying not to yell at him in front of his men, knowing that their arguing could meet their mother and no satisfaction would ruse from such an affair. So, for the first time, Aegon thinks before he speaks. 

"And if you get killed? We would be one dragon rider less- I would be the only dragon rider with us left." He is either reasoning or refusing responsibility, nobody really knows.

"Daeron is alive and well protecting Oldtown, Vhagar can always be tamed once more, and I-" The Targaryen prince calms himself, thinking about what Alicent had said earlier, her warnings of them coming undone and what that could lead to. He lets his anger subside, tapping his fingers on the table. "I will not be slain."

Aegon takes a sip, chuckling lowly. "I'm sure Luke thought the same."

"I will go." Ser Arryk steps forward from the wall, just as Aemond has risen gruffly from his chair, all around struggling to either bring their attention between the two princes or the knight. As he reads the room, the Cargyll twin understands he should keep talking once Criston gives him a nod. "I am somewhat familiar with the ancient seat of House Targaryen. Any who possibly spot me will not be alarmed as my... traitorous brother certainly makes his rounds. I am yours to send, my King."

Even though he kneels and addresses Aegon, it is Aemond who his eyes trickle to, the scene making the Targaryen lower back into the chair beneath him.

"It's settled then. Very well Cargyll, the hour of kinslaying is upon you." His head perks up at the mention of Aegon's word, the men of the council being flitted out, and Cole rising from beside his king to begin to prep the knight. They tell him to kill whoever he can get his hands upon. That murdering Rhaenyra herself would put a stop to their war, but her chambers were most likely heavily guarded, so the next option was to snuff out her leftover heirs and any more of their half-sister's fire. The Strong boys were Arryk's safest bet. Joffrey was but of age six, so there was no struggle there, but Jacaerys was five and ten. Any fight he'd put up would rouse the rest on Dragonstone. He was to be last. 

"The only other person who will know of your true identity would be your brother." Aegon slurs, stifling a burp as he finishes off his sweetened wine of the night, Aemond glaring at him. Arryk hangs on every word he says still, his liege. "You will kill him if your paths should cross. Do you hear me?"

Perhaps that is when the twin understands he has chosen the wrong side, his face falling as Aegon dismisses himself from the council room, Ser Criston aiding the stumbling man back to his quarters. Aemond moves to take his leave as well, in desperate want of a scorching bath to wash off the dreary day, but the sound of armor shifting makes him stop in his tracks, his good eye swinging to the side of his peripheral where the knight stands up now. 

He struggles to say what he needs to, Aemond facing him head-on with his body, seeing if the knight will ask to be spirited away, the same way Aegon had when they desperately had him in their clutches to ascend the Iron Throne. It seems like eons ago. Finally, the man speaks in a hoarse whisper, head lowered in shame as he only peeks his eyes up, quivering in their sockets. "Would you be able... to kill your other tethered half, for the sake of the realm?"

The Targaryen prince shifts where he stands, his lips twitching to say he already has. But he cannot, instead the blight replies on his behalf, mumbling a low, "I couldn't say. I only do things for my own sake."

Before any more fragility can be spilled, Aemond leaves the twin to be, walking quickly through the Red Keep to ignore how his heart quivers, clenching and unclenching his palms to let the cracking skin unsettle him more than his stirring feelings already have.

They prepped him in the morning, waiting until dusk to send Arryk to Dragonstone, the knight who never had the desire before all of this, stepping into the sept to pray. Aemond felt it was for forgiveness if he came back from the killings, and for mercy if he was to be caught. He left the gravel shore of King's Landing in a single boat, cloaked and still as he rowed diligently against the calm of the waves, in the direction of his own personal doom.

Joffrey and Jacaerys were not slain that night, because although their plan had worked, and Arryk had made it into the heart of the fortress, right upon the halls to their chambers, his brother had come to stand before him. It was said that they bid goodbyes before their swords were unsheathed and that their fight was so furious that nobody could come between the two, the twins made whole again through their battle before they impaled one another. The Cargyll's died together in those volcanic halls, painting the grey stone crimson to let both sides of the war know their sacrifice.

Through the many exchanged second-hand accounts, Aemond knew the truth of the warped gossip. Neither brother had called the other a traitor.

___

Aegon and he sit in the council room quietly, waiting for the arrival of the other men to come lining in and taking their spots at the table. Otto had yet to try and make an appearance back within the space, working silently in his chambers through letters and messages to the Trident, trying to summon a victory that will make the king feel foolish for retiring him of his role. Aemond doesn't say it, but he feels his grandsire to be somewhat level-headed for this, as their strengths in the sea were nowhere to be found, Corlys finally on his feet to spring life back into the water through his Velaryon fleet. In that moment of rare silence, he thinks of the life that could have happened if Rhaenyra had never left King's Landing the day their father died, imagining a grown Lucerys sat upon the council table as Master of Ships, dressed in ocean blue.

"How is she fairing nowadays? Helaena, that is." Fantasies cannot be afforded. 

"She's finally taking full meals. Jaehaera has night terrors still." Aegon nods, fidgeting with the rings on his fingers. There is a small resemblance between him and Rhaenyra in the soft light peering from behind him, his hair brushed and formally tamed. Perhaps the deaths of the knight brothers did ring something soft inside the elder.

"And mother? How has she been with the babe? She hasn't shown her face to me since Jaehaerys' passing. I think she finds too much of him in me. Maelor, that is. The twins have...had...all of Helaena's...softness." He swallows, bringing his hands up to cover his quivering chin. Aemond feels maybe he should've sailed the man away, but the blight twists, the memory of their youth where Aegon's amusement stemmed from his own humiliation. The sound of his hoarse voice makes the second son feel as if he is hearing a ballad. "Mayhaps that is why my wife named his life to be taken instead."

The councilmen come in before the words can settle. Abrupt news of more battle opportunities takes up the entirety of the room, letting the softness of grief waft out of the open windows and burn in the crisp heat of the midday sunlight. 

"The Clubfoot has arranged a list of all the traitors about the realm who have bent the knee to your sister. We have strength here, on the mainland, while the pretender Queen is still struck with grief and has her hold on the sea." Cole announces, unfolding a scroll right in front of Aegon's face and talking urgently, not even sitting down beside His Grace to continue on with his plans of attack. "We have the numbers, we have the means. If we can ascend upon these houses to either have them bend the knee or die fighting our claim, the rest of her vouchers will understand what it means to see Rhaenyra as the true heir."

Aegon nods, not even bothering to read the scroll prepped dutifully for him, so Aemond instead takes it. "Where do we start?"

Ser Criston chose to begin upon Rosby and Stokesworth, leaving King's Landing with an army of a hundred knights and five hundred more men of honor to press the lords into fielding loyalty to King Aegon. There they had no fuss, and with their forces becoming enlarged, their quest to continue their infiltration furthered as news followed that the harbor town of Duskendale was being burnt, Lord Darkyln himself beheaded at the cost of his refusal. The Targaryen prince would read the scrolls over in the dark of the night, or when the ravens came during the silent meals between him and his mother. In the moments after the maesters left after reading the news, they would acknowledge the carnage, and go about their day, waiting for the next rattled letter their sister would write.

It was said Rhaenyra was in ruin from her stillbirth, and from the loss of her Lucerys. Though, they knew she had madness inside her. That them cornering a dragon would surely mean fire would come their way sooner than later, and that Westeros could witness how crazed 'The Realm's Delight' could be. Alicent made sure to let Aemond know how desperately they needed such an advantage, breaking the silence of their midday meals in the council room, emptied as the Masters were dismissed to attend to their own private matters.

"Borros Baratheon's daughter is still set to marry you. I think a marriage would be a great ordeal, something for the smallfolk to distract themselves with." The little appetite he has is gone, Aemond turning grimly to the auburn-haired woman, his eye so contemptuous it makes her clench her hands together and sigh. "You might see this as something minor in the scheme of these matters of war, but this pact sets our house and theirs together. They could have refused you after all- after what you did-"

"Mother, please. Must we talk about politics all the time? Even when we eat?" Aemond wipes his hands with the cloth napkin and pushes his plate only half finished away from him, sitting up straighter than ever and clasping his hands together. Alicent is calm, watching as the tallest boy of hers ripples with childishness.

"When Ser Criston and your brother come back, we'll summon the girl. You will be wed." She stands to leave, removing any more room for him to try and defy her. To let him know that these are her orders, and that in the past days of silence, she has been stirring over these matters, thinking of ways to make the once diligent child of hers steady again. It does not work, as he wipes his mouth roughly, getting up hastily from his seat to get away from her, Alicent walking from the opposite side of the room to catch him at the door. "Aemond, stop acting this way. It is unbecoming of you."

He pulls away from her harsh grip, towering over her with his eye-crazed and brows raised. "What else would you have me do? Because truthfully, I want to laugh in your face, Mother." 

Her brown eyes are searching for something in his face desperately, using her hands to hold him calm as Aemond is coated with rage, not knowing if it is directed at her and what he will do. After the minute that his tremors mixed with her own settles down, he pulls away and widens the distance between them again, head lowered as he speaks lowly. 

"I am unsightly. I am sick." He confesses, but even he doesn't know the full truth of what he means. Alicent only furrows her brows, glancing at the spaces of the room that are anything but Aemond, unable to look at the boy, even when he finally peers up from the floor in his rare moment of vulnerability. Slowly, she closes the emptiness, taking her second son into her arms and patting his back softly, remembering the way she used to when Aemond was barely the length of her torso. When he was whole. "Can't you understand this?"

Her lips shake as she pulls away, her eyes void of anything as she simply whispers back to him. "You will wed. Just as I was to do. It is a duty."

She moves to kiss his forehead, having to strain as Aemond does not bend to her touch. "It is a privilege."

That night he feels his mother to have said something to her father, as Otto summons the prince to his chambers where Aemond sees for the first time just how much writing his grandsire has been doing. There are parchments sprawled about his work desk crazily, wax practically bubbling as it's been set atop a candle flame to readily seal letters, the pads of his the Hightower man's fingers blackened with ink. Quietly, he takes his place next to him by the fire, shifting in his seat as servants bring in tea. Then when they leave, and Otto has gathered enough of his thoughts, he talks to the boy cautiously, slowly.

"I heard- a rumor I suppose- of your visit to the Street of Silk." Aemond's throat is dry, his eye trained on the dark brown tea even though his grandfather's own pair are boring into him. "Tell me it is not true."

"It is not true." He says instantly, eye flitting up and tone cold, drinking slowly to try and melt away his nerves. Whether or not the man believes him, he continues on anyways, satisfied with himself.

"Good." He drinks, setting down his cup and pouring himself another. "You are not like your brother, Aemond, you never have been. And that is good."

He wafts the scent into his nose, Aemond watching him peculiarly as he finishes his own during the silence, retiring his dish down and turning his attention back to the blazing fire. 

"You are a second son. I know you understand what that means. People like you and I are always aware of everyone else's dynamics within the family, but especially of our own. That we are meant to inherit nothing- that we are not owed anything in the same regard our brothers before us are, no matter if they are qualified or not. We are left with scraps to deal with, but you know this. You've never been dense." Otto retired his own cup now, his tone tense and demeanor hardening as he leans into a whisper now, perhaps paranoid of the other rats inside the Red Keep.

"So why now are you holding yourself back? As much as you are Targaryen, you are my own blood. A Hightower. You have been lavished in such ways because I made it possible. I turned this place- this family from irreverent to distinguished simply from my station as Hand of the king...But I made my daughter queen, and now, my grandchildren hold the seat to the realm. Why? Because I did what needed to be done." He pulls away finally, Aemond's eye staring at him with a mix of fear and hatred. Otto continues anyway, familiar with the look of changed perspective adorning the child's face, placing a falsehood of kindness within the warmth of his hand onto Aemond's forearm, grinning as the muscle tenses. "The part you play is just as important as your brother's. It always has been since you claimed the largest dragon in the realm. Do not worry your mother then, because you understand, yes boy?"

His grip tightens, the prince pulling away and getting up abruptly and transfixing his stare at the man before him, jaw tense and eye crazed. Before he leaves, Aemond replies with a flat, "I understand." 

He doesn't sleep especially sound that night.

The next midday meal that comes, news of the slaughterings happening up at Rook's Rest is alarmed to the Dowager Queen and Aemond before breakfast, Criston writing that Lord Staunton had prepared for their arrival, and sent his own batch of letters for his queen to aid his call. Then, it states that his king calls upon Aemond to take action, as with how hateful their half-sister was nowadays, she would certainly be eager to meet Aegon in the sky and finish the war at once. Meet the same ferocity and desperateness they had when sending Arryk to Dragonstone to slaughter her children, so blinded in rage that she would not expect Vhagar to be away from the throne. Aemond doesn't touch his plate, instead, getting up while ordering the servants to prep his riding cloak, turning to Alicent who moves without a word to clasp him in her arms and mold her heat into his body, the Targaryen completely unmoved and cold.

Only does his heart hammer in his chest when his hands run along the rough scales of his dragon, Vhagar's head turning to acknowledge Aemond before moving out of her relaxed position, shaking off her sleep to adhere to his needs. Vhagar blows a steady breath of heat through her nostrils as he presses his palm onto her snout, the jagged teeth along her bottom jaw poking out crooked and uninviting. So dull and worn over the years she'd lived, Aemond wonders if her bite through his nephew was one that was agonizing and slow. The low grumble she emits brings him out of such gory imaginings, climbing onto his she-dragon and taking off to tend to his king, white hair floating behind him.

He arrives on the eighth night of their settled stay, his very presence along with Vhagar's making even the wounded at their camp stand to greet him, Aemond stalking through to the largest tent, boots crunching through the battle-soaked grounds. When he peels back the opening and the servant leading him has bowed his head in his own dismissal, Aemond glowers as he realizes why exactly his brother was so eager to leave the Red Keep, a camp-follower woman on her knees before Aegon. He clears his throat, careful to not state his distaste for his king's actions so clearly, but his older brother is too deep in both his wine and the captive's throat to be bothered by Aemond's judgment, turning around to face him with his mouth hanging open in a laugh mixed with a moan of his release.

"Brother! Would you like a round?" The woman swallows as her scared eyes fall upon the second son, quivering at the sight of his maimed face. Aegon grabs her chin roughly, laughing as she screeches from the suddenness, her agape mouth still sticky with his seed but that is not the only part of her that leaves Aemond with revulsion. "Her teeth have been pulled for my utmost satisfaction. A biter she was."

He throws the woman to the ground, her eyes stuck to the floor as the boy walks forward, unwilling to meet his gaze again in either shame or fear. Both, Aemond figures. 

"I'm here on account of the war. Not frivolities, Your Grace." Aegon clicks his tongue in annoyance, waving the woman away, the girl crawling up and out quickly before the cruel man can change his mind. "Where is your Hand? Are there not great plans to be discussed-"

"We could die tomorrow, brother. So would it kill you to be anything else than prim and proper for a night-"

"I am not set on the Stranger coming my way. Mayhaps you can delve into those ideas for the night, but I have come to fight, not mourn what has yet to be lost." He dismisses himself from the tent, coming out just in time to cross paths with Criston who was on his way in, the two sharing a look of acknowledgment and moving elsewhere to discuss.

They slip into a nearby counsel tent, men aligned along the white fabric with exhausted bones settled on tables and emptied chairs. All get up immediately to pay their respect to the Targaryen prince, settling once he goes without the reciprocated acknowledgment. Ser Criston unfolds a map of the land, of Rook's Rest as he begins to list the directions he's given his men, the number of arrows and bows to be wielded and launched incessantly upon Rhaenyra and Syrax. Aemond corrects his approach, advising him to not waste such manpower, but Cole gives him a grin that he cannot grasp the meaning of, other than it means something crazed.

"We will not have to adjust for rest on our behalf. Not when we have you, my prince." 

That is the second night in a row Aemond does not sleep soundly, knowing why exactly Aegon spoke of death being so close to the Targaryen brothers. Understanding his curse is laid beneath his feet, his dreams showing that the fiery ring of Hells are alight and ready to collapse, swallow him whole.

___

He forced himself to eat, all of the soldiers did. Some felt the meal would be their very last, so they gorged on the feasts to the point where they threw up, sick with fear and gluttony. Aemond finished his plate, watching as his elder brother took his own slow bites as if to memorize the feeling of food on his tongue, find the beauty in the tepid soup. As if he was one of the many common men without a great beast to wield and shield him. It made Aemond huff out a single laugh, moving his head aside to witness the great preparation for the arrival of Rhaenyra, men mounting on horses and armor clanking together as lines of knights began to start walking out to their set places in the fields. 

Ser Critson came to the brothers with news of a dragon being sighted, heading toward their direction, alerting them to start their journey, to set the trap. They both moved in unity, rising upon horseback and setting off west to CrackClaw where Sunfyre had been resting, Vhagar somewhere hidden within the forest as well. Even though the Targaryen's had been given the fastest horses, the two did not seek as much efficiency in the steeds, so accustomed to the great speed of their beasts. So Aegon was quick to feed the creature to his golden beauty once he came upon her, but when Aemond approached Vhagar carefully, the green-scaled mountainous giant loomed over the simple farm animal, not even bothering to sniff it.

Quickly he climbed upon the great she-dragon, scowling as Aegon took off without waiting for him, cursing as he pulled the reigns of Vhagar to take to the sky, commanding her in High Valryian to soar. And she did, her wings so strong that the gust of wind that mustered up behind her created a clearing, the great century-old trees around crunching like ordinary twigs beneath them. Aegon was faster on Sunfyre, appearing like the day itself as he flew onward, the sight they had so high that the clear view of Rook's Rest being covered in fire made Aemond urge Vhagar on, tense on her thick neck as she roared at the sight of Meleys spewing flames unforgivingly.

Aegon suddenly had shed his fear of death, plunging head-on toward Rhaenys as the seasoned dragon rider did the same, a great cry sounding from her own beast as they whipped around to fight. No scratches from arrows were made upon the two despite Cole's plans. 

Sunfyre was as eager as his rider, raking his claws at the scarlet red dragon that evaded him ever so slightly, the brothers realizing quickly that the 'Queen Who Never Was' never had the intention of killing the king, but the Kinslayer. She screamed for Meleys to spring upon Vhagar, Aemond pulling the reins just in time to escape her fury. Vhagar blew a stream of orange flames her way, trailing after her with a snapping jaw before the second son could stop her, Aegon quick to get between the two, utilizing his dragon's speed to etch heat onto Rhaenys' back. Aemond led Vhagar up higher, eager to trap Rhaenys from moving away from Sunfyre's wrath, creating a blanket of darkness over the two before the woman did a great trick neither of the brothers could predict, holding onto Meleys as they flipped through the air. The brief moment they were sandwiched between both Targaryen brothers, Rhaenys did not waste her chance in diving toward Sunfyre beneath her, the sight of red jaws settling onto the dragon's golden-scaled neck making Aemond remember the brutalizing moment of just above Shipbreaker Bay, his arms moving to pull Vhagar down. 

They went in a whirlwind into the ground, Aemond sure the Gods would make the dirt and grass would split open to bury him and his kin for the awful war they'd spurn about the realm. But it stayed still, welcoming their great crash. He was still strapped into the saddle, the silver-haired prince stirring upright as his eye steadied in the upkicked dust and smoke, Vhagar moving without his consent and hurling a great breath of fire onto whatever was beneath her chin, Aemond's chest quickening as he turned to either of his peripherals and did not see Aegon nor Sunfyre. What he saw was a mess. Lines of the battle men who had failed to shoot Rhaenys down, skulls cracked in half, limbs upturned and sprung from their torsos as if growing from the soil instead of from flesh and bone. There was much of that to see as well, the sound of some choking on blood and smoke making Aemond realize that his own heavy breathing hurt, that the ash he inhaled made his throat dry and his eye sting. He moved shakingly to pry himself from the hold of his saddle, shifting and clutching onto Vhagar as she began to move from the carcasses she'd painted with sweltering heat, Aemond rolling off of her and thudding into the ground, coughing as the wind knocked out of him. He lay there for a brief moment, his ears ringing and head throbbing as the ash and gray air swirled around him, pulling himself up from the ruin as his aquiline nose found the scent of seared flesh.

Aemond looked upon Vhagar to see if she had been hurt, the great beast settling in the heart of the battleground without any discomfort, completely contrasting her young rider. With a quick movement, the prince propped himself to his knees, standing up warily and shuffling through the dead, his long legs taking him quickly to the sight of great shadowy figures, one moving while the other did not. The Targaryen unsheathed his sword, coming upon the shocking view of the charred body of Meleys, her once vibrant red scales blackened by Vhagar's flames, a curled up, lifeless shell of what barely resembled a human body laying beneath the dragon's chin. From under the wings of the dead creature, the small fires around Aemond allowed the glittering scales of Sunfyre to be shown, fluttering weakly to try and prop upright, the young prince moving to lift the heaviness of stilled wing, the golden dragon rolling over onto its belly. 

The small shake of the ground from the beast stirred a quiet sound emitting from a person, a groan of pain, one that Aemond recognized instantly from the past weeks of agonizing hangovers, eye flitting everywhere to find its source. Once he used the length of his sword to fully raise the dead weight of Meley's spanned-out wing, did the outline of Aegon find the younger brother's attention, stilling him in his action.

Through the grimness of the aftermath, under the dark shadow of the dragon's corpse, Aegon did not resemble a king, but another man fallen in the awfulness of war.

His breathing rattled something inside his lungs. Blood-- Aemond found out quickly-- as it spluttered from his brother's struggling mouth, the one that had been hanging open just a night before, abusing the fruits of life. Of pleasure. Now only pain coursed through his broken body, a concave in his chest, Aegon's lower half crooked, the cool tone of his armor burnt bright orange from heat, the metal melting into his skin. His skin. There were spots of it missing, seared off, leaving jagged openings on his person, embers of ash embedding themselves into the wounds; eager to infect the forged king.

Aemond carefully dragged his brother out, stopping for long periods when his cries sounded too broken, but mostly when Aegon would cease taking breaths from the world. When he would stir alive again, with his brother pulling desperately at any part of him that was seemingly untouched and whole, the man would beg for him to drive a sword through his head, to end his suffering.

"I meant to give- to give my life for you." Aegon rasped through the upchucks of curdled blood within his throat, Aemond turning his head to the side to let the contents drip from his filling mouth, a tooth floating out through the saliva and iron. "So take it- just take it."

He sat on the cracked ground with shaking cries, the younger brother holding Aegon's head within his lap and keeping his eye on the violet-wavering ones. The Targaryen heat inside of his body was leaving, Aemond rocking him back and forth to keep him afloat, even if that meant having to hear the pleas for mercy hit his ears in waves, welcoming the sobs as the smoke began to clear and the sound of thundering hooves began to come closer. Ser Criston's face settled on the torn one of the second son he'd raised, the battered boy bloodshot and clutching onto their half-dead king, the two resembling children to him, but the common men saw something else entirely, overlooking the suffering. 

They saw two violet-eyed dragons alive, while everyone else insignificant to the Gods had died in the heart of a fiery battle.

Aegon's body was propped and steadied in a tented cart, on-hand healers working to cool his sizzling skin, and the single blacksmith meant to coat the grounds, dictate which weapons were worth saving, instead was utilized to cut off His Grace's disfigured armor. Aemond refused care, his silent demeanor and steady tracking back to where they came making Criston understand the thoughts unfolding within the prince's mind, his palm wrapped around the hilt of his sword the whole way. Vhagar was left in the ash, the great dragon swallowing down livestock, eating as if she always knew she would make it out of the battle unharmed.

The Targaryen came upon the threshold of Rook's Rest, silent as he sliced through the approaching soldiers left in the garrison, leading the army through the takeover. Even with his lungs coated with flame, his white hair smudged with smoke, Aemond fought onward through the hoards of men, up until he needn't, his sight which was set on Lord Staunton quenched finally. The man who rested at the head of his dining table began to bring himself to his knees, shifting uncomfortably onto his aged bones and visibly bending the knee, but Aemond did not care for his pleas, did not blink when his eyes pooled with fear.

He sliced through his thick neck, his warm skull rolling away from his body, leaving a trail of hot blood that fell limp onto his feet. Aemond kicked the dead weight away and turned to Cole behind him, crimson speckled across his pale face and eye flitting to the men wavering in his presence. Finally, did he take the seat Lord Staunton was just in, at the head of his home's table, the wood still emitting the lord's heated essence, Aemond swallowing deeply before huffing out, "Collect it."

A single soldier scrambled to get the forever begging face, Ser Criston shifting where he stood, his mouth twitching to say something. The prince grew tired of the formalities, of the scared looks, speaking again with the same icy tone. "And the great Meleys' own. I plan to make it a gift to my betrothed."

___

The days that passed after the Battle of Rook's Rest within the Red Keep were no surprise, Aemond so familiar with the way grief and anger rang within the brick walls. Aegon was hidden in his quarters, never allowing anyone else other than the maesters, Alicent, and Cole to tend to him. To view his torn body.

After the nights his mother took to cry, to mourn the son that begged for death every time he awoke from the ample amount of milk of the poppy, she came to Aemond's quarters. They sat in silence, the auburn-haired woman tensing and relaxing again and again in the seat beside him, the second son hiding his annoyance, biting his tongue to tell her to speak of what she needed. To spew her anger at him, to make him feel even worse in his guilt. Alicent left before he could, the prince chalking it up to her not knowing how to scold him for the retrieval of the scarlet dragon's head, parading the beloved beast through the city of Flea Bottom, without bringing up his father's own loving mother who once rode Meleys. Or maybe Alicent was too enraged from how Borros reacted to the barbarity, so unnerved, the Baratheon girl was still being kept at Storm's End. Afflicted with sickness, they said.

Instead, the Hand came to Aemond's side a few moments afterward, kneeling to the prince to speak without meeting his eye, the boy wanting to laugh at the clear disfavor toward him and their new circumstances as he said, "You must rule the realm now, until your brother is strong enough to take the crown again."

The corners of his mouth upturned slightly, humored by the wilted state of the Dornish man, the blight inside him entertained at the sight of the knight once in his corner, wary of Aemond. He only let out a short hum in response, his mind wandering to the idea of his sister finally stirring from what seemed to be eternal mourning, if she'd fly to slay her second brother herself at the news that even he had graced the Iron Throne before her.

So he sought to it, the preparations for his crowning made, settled in the hall where the throne of swords rested, all the royals of the court who had yet fleed King's Landing all gathered to see the Kinslayer's ascension. He felt maybe the Gods had favored him then, that they left him unscathed and unharmed for this sole purpose. Aemond tried telling himself that as the servants dressed him, the heaviness of the fabrics and jewels pressed him closer to the core of the realm, the hot molten Hells. 

"What is it you shall be titled as? King Regent?" Cole asks quietly as he preps to walk into the hall before Aemond, the chosen Hand to announce and crown him. Quietly, as if he is sure this is a dream, the prince utters a quick sentence, a name for him to be called that Ser Criston fears his face might show how he feels this all might be a sick game Aemond plays at. But he stills himself once more and nods, knowing the young prince has only ever known the insincerity of court politicking.

Once he left him, and the Targaryen boy was slowly led into the room by the Kingsguard, he let his single eye steady onward, ignoring the royals who bent the knee and showed the backs of their necks to him, even though they'd never met his gaze. His mother stood to the side, his grandsire showing a smile that made Aemond feel sick, feel as if every sin he summoned sat right with the Hightower, that this very moment made it worthwhile. 

At the front of the room, his head throbbed, his throat tightened, and his back stiffened straight as the matter ensued, as everyone watched him. Despised him, it seemed. The noise of the ceremony was muddled as his blight was finally consumed by sickness, the dark shadows of the room shaping into smoke from battle, threatening to take Aemond. To leave him to rot where Rhaenys lay in the fields outside Rook's Rest. To scorn him without true impact to Westeros; forever regarded as a mere second son. The ordeal was one the young prince had felt he deserved his entire life, but after the weight of the ironed-ruby crown sat upon his pristine head of hair, his mind flickered to the scent of burning flesh, the cries of his brother as he craved to see the Stranger, and the sounds of Arrax's bones crunching in between Vhagar's dull teeth.

But he was seven and ten. He was meant to be a man, as his brother had said. Bear the true blood of the dragon.

"To our Prince Regent, Protector to The Realm, the first of his name, Aemond Targaryen!" All around to hear such a title used to refer to the young prince of blackened heart had felt their own one's still in their chests that day. That was entirely what he'd meant to do, forge fear in the people who most detested him, who whispered their secret opposition of him. The quivering eyes and contorting faces struck him with familiarity once more, but the Targaryen yet did not feel seen in his entirety, even if he had shed his eyepatch and been adorned to the truest form of regalness.

No-- Aemond only felt truly noticed if the brown of two eyes hit his single one. But even that pleasure he had taken from himself.