Chapter Text
Aemond wakes up as the sunlight warms his bare chest. Although he is well-rested, he still grumbles about waking up. Waking up means he must face his duties as the commander of the Gold Cloaks when all he truly wants to do is to spend every minute of his day with his love.
His days are spent with rigorous training and work, and his nights are filled with his husband riding him until they are both spent dry, he still grumbles about waking up. His life is filled with small contentments that truly make him grateful for each day that he has.
But he still despises waking up in the early morning.
With his eyes still closed, he turns to the side, arm looking for the body of his beloved, only to be met with cold sheets.
Highly unusual, Lucerys would never be the one to rise first, unless his brother and his family were visiting, and Aemond knows they are not due for another week. He sits up slowly, lone eye scanning the room, maybe his paramour was just getting ready or was on his way to close the curtains so they may have a longer sleep.
But no, he is not in the room at all.
Strange.
Now alert, he notices some more details that are amiss in their room.
He scrambles from the bed, eye darting from the shelves to the desk to the chaise lounge, the paintings on his wall. The missing item jars him awake, first his husband, and now every item that his husband owns. All gone.
Like he has been spirited away, with no trace left behind.
Aemond huffs, massaging the bridge of his temple.
There can only be one culprit.
“Aegon!” He shouts as he stalks the halls. Surprisingly, he does not find his brother in his room. He finds Helaena in her chambers, and when she asks about their brother’s whereabouts, she gives him an odd look, her lips frowning in confusion, and directs him to the council room.
He does not bother knocking, his brother may cower behind their mother or eldest sister, but they will surely be on Aemond’s side once they find out that he is playing another trick on him.
Again.
The council is gathered around the table, but to his surprise, his sister was not in her seat. Instead, it is Aegon sitting at the honoured spot, the crown of the conqueror on his head, lopsided and skewed. He looks like death, but Aemond could not find it in himself to care. He was supposed to wake up with his husband’s kisses and not this jape schemed by his drunken fool of a brother.
“Ah, brother,” Aegon looks up at him, his voice sombre and already dripping heavy with wine, “Finally, you have come to grace us with your presence.”
“Enough of this farce,” he snarls, taking him by the collar, earning a gasp from the small council. Aemond notices that Daemon is also absent, probably with Rhaenyra. If he finds out Aegon has once again looped Lucerys in some scheme or trick like this, he will surely feed him to Caraxes and no good word from his sister or mother would stop him.
“Aemond!” His mother’s worried voice will not be enough to stop him from maiming his brother for this trickery, nor Ser Criston who looks baffled about whether to help Aegon or not, his hand hovering over the pommel of his sword.
“Where is he?” He shakes Aegon a bit, trying to get him to straighten up.
The confusion is evident on his brother’s face, “Who?”
Aemond has to give it to him, his acting is getting better, “Lucerys, you imbecile, where is he?”
He hears his mother gasp, and the council, lacking Lord Beesbury, begins to murmur around him, Maester Orwyle paling so much that he looks seconds away from fainting.
“Lucerys?” Aegon sounds ridiculously entertained, “Are you, serious brother? You, of all people? Asking where our nephew is?”
Uncertainty creeps upon Aemond, like a noose wrapping around him, tightening, as Aegon’s smile turns uncharacteristically cruel, no different than a cat that has caught a bird.
“Of course,” he does not let his voice waver, “You are always the mastermind in whatever trickery he ends up doing, I should let Daemon and Jacaerys deal with you and your vile influences.”
The threat does not make Aegon cower like it usually does, none of the whimpers of begging please do not tell the Rouge Prince or the Queen’s heir oh gods Aemond they will castrate me! , who will certainly not hesitate in disciplining him for trying to turn Lucerys into a delinquent. He will help them if it will stop all this mummery his brother was too fond of.
“Are you hearing yourself, Aemond?” Aegon wrenches himself out of Aemond’s hands, “Have you gone mad? Where is Lucerys? I will tell you where our nephew is.”
“Aegon, Aegon, stop,” their mother tries to get in between them, eyes imploring Aegon, “Your brother is clearly distressed!”
“Of course, he is,” Aegon does not spare her a glance, instead, looks at Aemond with a mixture of uncharacteristic cruelty and some… some pity, “His guilt consumes him. Let him find Lucerys, she’s probably done with him already, let the kinslayer find what remains of our nephew in Vhagar’s shit.”
And Aemond lunges at him.
“You have gone too far!” Aemond shouts the white cloaks trying to pry him off his brother, “To pretend he is not in the keep is one thing, to claim his death–” he can’t even fathom the thought, no, it was too cruel of a joke. The insult runs thick like tar and clouds his vision. “No more japes, no more trickery, where is Lucerys?”
Aegon only laughs from the floor, a wheezing, mocking sound that rings and bellows around Aemond until it is all he can hear.
His mother cups his cheeks, directing his attention to her tear-stricken face.
“Aemond,” her voice breaks as she whispers, “Aemond, Lucerys is dead. You killed him.”
Aemond wakes up, but he feels like he hasn’t.
Soft kisses on his temples, on his cheeks, on his lips and chin and he opens his eyes slowly to an apparition.
“Lucerys,” He murmurs, voice still heavy with the milk of the poppy he had to drink to get any rest.
“It’s morning, my love,” his nephew smiles down at him, his cheeks flushed with life, and oh how Aemond almost cries at feeling their warmth on his fingertips as he cups his cheek. Lucerys leans into his hand, that smile unwavering, kissing his palm softly. “I must have thoroughly tired you out last night, my love.”
He leans in to lick Aemond’s lips, soft and tender, and Aemond knows he is dreaming. It is a strange one, none of the shouting, the blood or the gore, and none of his nephew crying, begging for mercy Aemond wished he gave. None of his anger and rage, hissed through a corpse rotting in the water, that would startle Aemond awake, screaming for absolution.
No, this dream was all softness.
“Lucerys,” he kisses him back, relishing the feel of his body, so warm , so alive . His nephew gives him a playful smirk.
“Aemond,” he whispers back, and it burns a brand upon his chest to hear him say his name with so much affection.
“We must get ready soon,” he nuzzles their noses, “I suppose it is my duty to wake my dragon up.” He says as if complaining, and yet the smile he gives Aemond bellies his true desire.
Lucerys pulls away from him, and he whines at the loss of contact. He does not want to wake up, he wants to stay here forever with Lucerys, where he is warm and alive and… naked?
His mind slowly catches up when his nephew, naked as the day he was born, straddles his hips.
“What—”
“Don’t worry, husband,” Lucerys purrs, pushing down the blankets to expose Aemond’s cock, already half hard and quickly filling out at the sight of his nephew, and his small hand pumping at the girth with practiced ease. “I am still loose from last night.”
He positions himself on top of his cockhead, and with a slight wince, a minor resistance, he sinks down, and Aemond moans at the warmth. His hole pulls him in, a tight fit but a fit nonetheless, and slowly Lucerys slides down until he has Aemond fully seated inside him.
“Oh,” Lucerys sighs as he starts grinding, delicious movements that light a fire in Aemond’s belly, “Oh, my dragon, your cock was made for my cunt.”
Until it finally hits, this is not a dream.
This is one of Aegon’s schemes.
With a snarl, Aemond pushes him off, this fake whore landing on his back with a cry. His cock slides out of him and if he is not as mad as he is, he would have missed the warmth.
He straddles him this time, so small like their nephew, breakable, bendable, it would have been impressive how quickly Aegon found a look-alike if it was not being used to torment Aemond.
“Aemond—” the whore looks up at him frightened, daring to say his name in his voice.
His hands fit around his neck, and he squeezes hard.
“Fuck you,” he snarls, as the whore thrashes under him, “And fuck the king! How much did he pay you? To make a fool of me! I killed him, he’s dead! He’s dead! Lucerys is dead!”
The whore screams, “Aemond, stop! It’s me! It’s me!”
He is lying.
He killed him, him and his dragon, he killed them on Vhagar, a messenger fed to his dragon for an eye stolen, and he will kill this whore too, gut him and send his head to Aegon for this vile, cruel trick.
The whore’s eyes roll backwards, his mouth agape as he tries to take in breaths that Aemond will not allow. His doors slam open and sounds of shouting and bodies in armour shuffling in, and he will show them, he will show them all.
He is already branded a kinslayer, he will not be branded a joke for this farce.
Strong hands grab his shoulders, as he is pushed off the whore, but it takes more men to hold him down from finishing the job. He is pushed to kneel on the ground, but his eye still angrily follows the whore who shakes and cowers.
His mother stares at him in shock as she gathers the whore from his bed, using a blanket to cover his modesty as he coughs and wretches, his pale neck marked red with Aemond’s fingers.
“I’ll kill you!” he shouts, but he is kept still, furthermore when a sword is pointed at his face.
“Stand down, boy,” the rouge prince looks down at him, the tip of his sword pointed at Aemond’s chest.
“What are you doing here?” Aemond huffs out a laugh, “Come to bend the knee or take revenge? Parading around protection whores with warm cunts?”
“Don’t tempt me, nephew, I will cut off your hands for hurting my son,” he even lifts Dark Sister, but Aemond only laughs.
“Kepa, no!” the whore shouts hoarsely as he scrambles away from his mother, shielding Aemond from the sword.
“Lucerys,” his voice softens, but Aemond is more focused on the whore’s nape, the way the marks of his fingers reached the back, red and raw. “He hurt you.”
He shakes his head, his curls so close to Aemond that he can smell them, floral with hints of mint.
“What’s all this?” It is Aegon, finally stumbling in with a cup of wine in hand, “‘Tis too early for all of this ruckus.”
“You!” Aemond snarls at him, struggling to get to his brother. “You did this! Why are you punishing me when all I did was secure your seat!”
Aegon dares to look confused, “My seat?”
“Your seat, your grace,” he spits out, all venom and anger, “And what do you do? Hire a whore in our nephew’s image to punish me?”
“I would never!” Aegon looks between Daemon and Aemond and the whore, “I would never I swear!”
“See kepa, he is confused, he might have been poisoned,” the whore pleads, and the rouge prince’s face softens.
“Bring him to the dungeons,” he commands the kingsguards holding him down.
“Kepa!”
“He hurt you, Lucerys, be grateful he is only being sent to the dungeons and not the execution block,” He helps the whore up, who looks down at Aemond with tearful eyes. “We will have a maester sent to see him, but he needs to be detained.
“Lies,” Aemond hisses at both of them, “Lucerys is dead, I killed him!”
“Husband—” he tries to touch Aemond’s face, but he snaps his teeth at his hand until he backs away, now crying as he looks at him, “Please, Aemond!”
“I don’t know what scheme this is, but you are not Lucerys,” he snarls. The hurt look he is given pierces through his heart, too similar to his nephew, too close to how frightened he looked above Shipbreaker’s bay. “I will kill you,” he promises.
“Aemond,” it is his mother this time, her hands clutched over her chest, “Aemond, that is Lucerys, your husband.”
They at least gave him clothes, a scratchy and worn tunic that smells like shit, and nothing else. The dampness of the dungeons creeps into him settling in his bones. He wills himself to wake up from whatever hellscape dream this was, sure that the poppy the maester gave him was tainted.
Only for the tormentor to appear, clad in pale blue, carrying a tray of food and wine, more luxurious than any meal reserved for prisoners.
“Are you alright?” He asks, settling close enough that he can push the tray forward until it touches the bars, but still far enough that Aemond cannot reach him.
Wise choice, Aemond would have strangled him.
Again.
He ignores him and the offered food, probably poisoned by Aegon. He wouldn't put it past his brother to continue this torment. He is either dead or dying, or his brother has decided to create an elaborate scheme to drive him mad.
The fake sits there with his legs tucked underneath him, hands clasped on his lap, waiting, watching, unnerving in the way he looks at Aemond like he knows him.
“I will kill you,” he promises again, gritting it out when the hunger in his stomach growls.
This makes the fake smile, almost benevolently, and Aemond swears to cut off his face.
“Eat,” he gestures towards the food, “I assure you it is not poisoned.” He takes a bite of the stew, and makes a show of drinking some of the wine, “See?”
But Aemond only takes the wine, drinking it in thirsty gulps, it will satiate him for now. The fake smiles at him again, pleased with his obedience, and Aemond throws the goblet at him, missing when it hits the bars and bounces back into his cell. It makes him smirk, so similar to the disaster of the dinner they had last.
“Kepa thinks you have gone mad,” he speaks slowly, like Aemond is too dumb to understand, “But I think you’re not my Aemond.”
He scoffs, “You are correct, I am not yours. I am a prince of the realm, not some plaything for a two-penny whore.”
“You are exceptionally cruel when you want to be,” there is a hint of anger when he speaks, a tinge of courage much like Lucerys in Storm’s End.
Aemond refuses to look at him any longer, his voice may be of Lucerys, but the words he speaks, are nothing but lies. He wants to be left alone to his thoughts, to wallow in this punishment Aegon deems necessary.
Aegon or the gods, he’s not sure. Targaryens are closer to gods than men, so maybe it is both.
But the apparition does not take the hint, even when Aemond turns away from him, his side with the good eye pressed on the cold stone.
“You have a scar on your hip,” he says, and Aemond instinctively reaches for it over his clothes. It’s a recent one, a deep cut from where it hit his saddle and bearings to reach Lucerys.
His little Lord Strong, falling falling falling, to the depths of the sea.
“My Aemond doesn’t,” there is a note of finality to his words, “That is why I know he is not you.”
Aemond scoffs, “Not the way I tried to kill you?”
He chuckles, a soft, low sound, more sad than amused, “Oh, that too, but I still thought there would be a possibility he had been merely poisoned, a tonic or tincture could help with that.”
“Your Aemond,” he scoffs, “Truly you cannot think that being bedmates with someone who hates you is a good idea? To trust him explicitly in good faith?”
“Of course,” he speaks with confidence, grating in the way that he is so self-assured, “He will never hurt me like you did, he loves me.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, nephew, but your Aemond is lying to you,” he twists the knife in, “He doesn’t love you, he’s probably waiting for a chance like this to kill you.”
“Do you think all Aemonds are inherently liars, or just yourself?” he doesn’t believe him, his voice shifting to annoyance.
It almost elicited a chuckle out of him, but he only bites his lip, refusing to take the bait.
“I’m not sure what happened to you, what version of events led to this jaded, bitter existence, but you do not speak on behalf of my Aemond, he loves me, truly, and that is something a heartless, sad mimicry of him would never understand.”
He snarls towards him, bars may hold him back, but they still let him see the mutilation he inflicted, “My eye, Lord Strong, you took my eye! Or was your Aemond lucky enough to be spared the misery?”
This seems to finally do the trick as the spectre winces, turns away from him, eyes downcast and he trembles.
Aemond tamps down the want to assure him and hold him, tell him he is sorry.
He is not. He will not allow it.
“I took his eye too, my Aemond,” he speaks softly now, guilt-laden and remorseful, and Aemond wants to scream, to remind him that he is Aemond too, that he deserves just as much of the affection Lucerys offers instead of the deep, cavernous longing he is instead given.
“I took his eye, and he hated me, and yet we are together because we love each other more than he could ever hate me,” he speaks as if Aemond was not there, as if he is assuring himself too.
“He does not, my lord Strong, trust my words.”
“I cannot,” he turns to Aemond, tears threatening to fall, his cheeks flushed, plush lips trembling, “I know you love him too, your Lucerys. He is special to you no matter what vitriol you may spew.”
This angers Aemond and sends a torrent through him full of lashing winds and icy hail, “I hated him,” he seethes, “With all my being, I hated him, for taking my eye and being a snivelling second son who gets everything handed to him on a silver platter, a bastard born cloaked in princely attire he does not deserve.” His voice breaks, but he does not let his tears fall, “And I killed him for it.”
But the fake only shakes his head solemnly, “My Aemond told me that he would love me in every universe,” the fake smiles at him, and he wants to scratch out those pretty eyes for daring to look as serene as that, “So you love your Lucerys too. You say you killed him, but maybe he’s out there, in a fishing village somewhere. Have you even any proof your Lucerys is truly dead?”
He laughs bitterly, “Is this it? Daemon’s plan on finding the bastard’s remains? They will find nothing, he was swallowed whole by my dragon, I saw it with my own eye.” He did.
But he does not tell him about how he landed Vhagar, how he ran upon the shores of Shipbreaker, shouting his nephew's name, how he saw the remains of Arrax wash upon the shore, torn, tattered, how he saw… a hand… an arm… torn, tattered… mangled and destroyed.
“I know he is dead,” is all he says.
The fake looks at him, looking for something in him, “Then I shall pray for his soul. Even if only your grief remains, you should still make peace with how you truly feel.”
The impudence of the whore tires him, and he wants nothing but to curse him. He knows nothing of the pain Aemond has gone through ever since he lost his eye, how it worsened with the death of his nephew, how sleep does not bring him any rest but instead the phantom of Lucerys.
“Your Aemond lied to you,” he instead says, turning away, too blinded, “I hate you, how could anyone love their mutilator? It is better to say that every Aemond has hated every Lucerys that has ever existed.”
“Oh he hated me, too,” but his smile never wavers, “For years he did, after I took his eye, but my Aemond was brave enough to look into himself and truly understand the depth of his feelings for me.”
Aemond gnashes his teeth at him, “I am Aemond, trust me when I say he hates you, he lies to bed you only to destroy you.”
He looks up at Aemond with so much pity that it hurts, his eyes brimming with tears, carving a path down his cheeks, “I only trust him, his words, his love. You do not belong here, and the sooner we return you to whatever hellish world you came from, the sooner I get my husband back.”
He leaves without turning back. Aemond closes his eyes when he hears the doors groan close, and he is left to the darkness of his cell.
Aemond is detained in his room, as begged by his mother when his brother wanted to send him to the cells. His arms chafe at the binds they put him in, but it does not compare to the uncomfortable sight of the familiar yet unfamiliar walls. He hates it.
The walls are bare of Lucerys’ paintings, childish scribbles and charcoal drawings of their dragons, of flora and fauna from the Kingswood, of Aemond.
No banners made from colourful paper from Corlys, no flowers hung to dry from Rhaena and Baela, and, most devastatingly of all, no paintings of Aemond and Lucerys in their wedding regalia.
He used to complain that the artist didn’t quite capture his nose, and the likeness of Lucerys’ on paper pales in comparison to the real thing, but he would rather have all of his depictions with the weirdest nose if it meant he could be with his husband again.
The room is dour, it had books and familiar personal things, but none of his lover.
He hates it.
The door opens to let his mother in, and he can’t help the frown as he notices her cuticles are red and bloody.
“Do you still do that?” He asks, startling his mother.
“What?” She responds sharply, he supposes his weird behaviour could be blamed for that.
“You pick around your fingers when you’re nervous, it looks like you still do it.”
She stills, opting to clutch her fingers over her dress, but Aemond can still see the blood-caked skin.
“Have you talked to Maester Orwyle,” she asks, and he wants to roll his eyes at how timid she is acting. She was the master of whispers, the left hand to the Queen, and a former Queen herself, she should be standing with regality befitting her station.
“He has, and he speaks nonsense.”
She sighs, a tight sound that makes her whole body tremble, “Aemond—”
“He told me Lucerys is dead, but he is wrong. He’s alive, I slept with him in my arms.”
She flinches at each word, almost cowering into herself.
“Mother, you may think I am not right in the head, but I speak only the truth, Lucerys is alive.”
Her shuddering breath leads into sobs, shaking his shoulders as she falls to the ground kneeling in front of him, “Aemond, he is not,” she whispers, as if afraid of someone hearing her speak, the gods, who knows, but she trembles as she continues, “What happened was an accident, we all know this, but my son, you must accept the truth.”
He can’t, not when he knows it’s lies.
“Mother—”
She slaps him, surprising them both. His mother has never raised a hand to him, it is always Aegon who messes up, Aegon who needs disciplining, and Aemond as the dutiful son who always does what he is told.
“Cease this,” her eyes were wild as she implored him, “I know you have had untoward emotions towards the boy, complicated feelings that bordered on obsession, but he is dead.”
Aemond frowns as his cheek smarts with the sting of her slap.
“I swear, mother, I speak only the truth. Lucerys is alive, he is my husband. We are happy together,” he looks at her, his lone eye observing how hers turns watery, darting from corner to corner as if any word she speaks will be her last.
“He’s dead, Aemond,” she repeats, clutching his knees, “He’s dead, Rhaenyra and her forces will be upon us, the sooner you accept the truth, the better. We need you and Vhagar to win this war.”
Aemond’s breath hitches, “War? What war mother?”
His sister, despite the unrest about her gender, has been nothing but a fair ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. The triarchy is still an ongoing issue but Aemond thinks they will never get any reprieve from them, and the Iron Islands dare a rebellion twice a moon or so but are quickly squashed down by their allies in the North.
“The war we started when we crowned Aegon,” she whispers, “The war we escalated when you killed Lucerys.”
That again. Pain lances through him, the thought... inconceivable, impossible, he will not let his thoughts wallow on it lest it sends him spiralling.
“He is not dead,” he wants to see him, “Mother, he is not.”
“Aemond—”
“He cannot be, I will die if he is,” he let his tears run unbidden. He swore his life and sword to Lucerys, not only because of duty but because of love. He may have lost an eye, but he gained a dragon and a partner who stands by him no matter what. The thought of living without him… is unfathomable.
His mother cups his face, her thumb running over the scar on his cheek.
“I’m not sure what happened, the maester thinks it may be your mind protecting yourself,” she kisses his forehead and he feels the tears run down his hairline. When she moves back, she is openly crying, and he wants to comfort her. Her eyes were already red and puffy and Lucerys will not forgive him for making her cry so much.
“Mother—”
“Lucerys died above Shipbreaker bay,” her voice trembles as she speaks, “ a traitor to the crown, you fought while you flying above Storm's End, and Vhagar,” she took a deep breath, “And you and Vhagar won. His body was never recovered.”
Aemond shakes his head, “Traitor to the crown? Mother what are you saying? Vhagar… Vhagar adores Lucerys. Adores Arrax! We would never attack them, we would…”
She looks at him with such sorrowful eyes, her lips quivering.
“He was,” her hand remains on his cheek, but it feels so cold, “He was helping his mother usurp the crown, the crown that is rightfully your brothers.”
“But he is not the rightful king, it has always been Rhaenyra,” he remembers when his sister showed them all the prophecy on the Valeyrian dagger his father treasured, the words carved by their own ancestor.
“Your father wanted Aegon, Aegon was the prince that was promised.”
“No!’ Aemond needs air, he needs to stand, to pace, if he doesn’t he feels like he will faint, “No, Aegon is not the prince that was promised, mother, and father never intended for Aegon to be crowned. Rhaenyra is his heir.”
“I was there Aemond, in his last breath, he told me.”
Cold water washes over Aemond, “Mother, I was there when he died. We were all there. He crowned Rhaenyra as Queen before he passed. He spoke of Aegon, our ancestor who saw a vision about the prince that was promised.”
His mother’s eyes widened impossibly wide, “What are you saying, my love?”
He shakes his head, his vision blurring, his heart hammering through his chest and trying to catch up to his breathing, but it all feels too much, so much, and his breaths come in shallow gasps.
“Aegon is not fit to rule,” he rasps out, “The crown has always been meant for Rheanyra.”
And finally, he succumbs to his panic, blacking out and thinking only of Lucerys Lucerys Lucerys . His mother calls for him, desperately patting his face so he remains awake, but he can’t. He lets the darkness take him and he hopes when he wakes, that he is there, and it will all have been a bad dream.