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He did not mean it.
There is a pit in his stomach. He feels the sickness of falling high in his throat in a way Aemond has not experienced since the night he claimed his right as a Targaryen. Despite how Vhagar’s flight has leveled, his back bows under the sudden urge to spew bile from his lips.
“No,” it is the only word Aemond finds himself able to speak.
He watches the pale blue of Arrax’s shredded wings as they careen towards the clouds like a broken, abandoned kite. Beneath his saddle, Vhagar’s muscles ripple as she swallows her young kin. This time, Aemond really does lose what remains of the bread and salt taken from the Baratheon’s hastily prepared table.
First blood, the part of his mind trained to a fine edge by Ser Criston’s steady tutelage remarks. To be followed by the smaller but much, much more vocal part that names him kinslayer.
I did not meant it, he thinks to himself and wonders who might believe him.
He has studied the histories, the philosophies. He knows what the death of Prince Lucerys will mean.
Many will praise his initiative, moreso perhaps than those who will condemn him. The sapphire sits heavy in the empty socket of Aemond’s eye.
But the truth remains, he did not mean it.
“Arrax!” A pitched wail cuts through the wind screaming in Aemond’s ear.
He nearly flings himself from his saddle in a rush to peer around Vhagar’s girth. Breath caught in a foreign hope, Aemond turns his head and tries not to feel repulsed by the way his dragon suddenly wishes to heed the subtle commands of his movement and turn herself into an arching circle. His focus snaps to a flutter of black and red just before it is swallowed by the clouds.
“Lucerys,” he says, and cannot remember the last time he’d really spoken his nephew’s name aloud. The boy must have flung himself from Arrax’s saddle just as Vhagar had moved to strike. A futile gesture, but the only choice the prince would have had.
Many would have accepted the quick death rather than take the gamble of the long, long fall. Aemond himself would have rather embraced death than chosen the path that, even if survived, would leave him without a dragon.
Aemond swallows, grips the frayed ropes lashed about Vhagar, and makes a choice.
“Dohaeris , Vhagar! Dive!” Aemond shouts, and folds himself low over Vhagar’s neck to keep from being blasted from his dragon’s back as they turn into the steepest plunge they have ever attempted. They close the distance to the cloudline in a moment, and in the next breath the light of the unencumbered sun is swallowed by rain and wind and sea. It is dark, and he has no hope of spying his falling nephew.
“Lucerys!” he shouts again, panic stealing his breath almost as quickly as the stormy wind.
Vhagar grumbles, and a sundering eye is turned in his direction before she seems to understand. Hatred, black and ugly, curls Aemond’s lips. Betrayal maims the bond of pride between them, but he makes sure she understands. Vhagar roars, shakes herself free of the water hindering her vision, and scans the skies.
Aemond grunts as he nearly loses grip of his saddle, but does not look away from the empty skies. “Lucerys!” He screams to be heard over the crashing of the waves and the beating of the thunder.
“Arrax!”
He barely hears him, and only spots the boy after Vhagar’s trajectory suddenly shifts. A triumphant roar swallows any more of the prince’s cries as Vhagar banks to the side and folds her wings once again into a far more reasonable dive.
Lucerys is tumbling head over heels, arms pinwheeling as he struggles uselessly to gain control of his fall. In truth, it is only the paleness of his skin that gives Aemond any chance of holding him in view. Aemond adds to the countless curses against his nephew’s bastard blood. This would be far simpler a feat if Lucerys had the silver hair of his mother, aunt and uncles. Not to mention if Aemond still had the use of both his eyes.
“Lucerys!” Aemond makes an aborted attempt to reach for his nephew as Vhagar streaks past. “Fuck!” he curses as his hand meets empty air and pounds his fist against Vhagar’s scales. She grumbles and shakes as if to dislodge him, but Aemond holds fast. “Dohaeris, Vhagar!”
They make another pass.
Lucerys must take notice of them because this time, small fingers scrabble for his own and Aemond meets his nephew’s terrified gaze before it feels like his shoulder is being ripped from its socket and he loses hold. “No!” Aemond shouts as Vhagar levels out of her dive. He groans against the throbbing of his arm and feels desperation start to clog his throat. Aemond blinks desperately against the storm.
“Uncle!”
Aemond whips his head back, and is shocked to find a soaked head of dark curls and pale hands gripping to the mess of crossed chords serving as the rear of Vhagar’s harness. A breathless sigh leaves Aemond’s chest. “Hold on!” he commands, though he doubts Lucerys can hear him.
His right arm refuses to obey, and the fire in his shoulder only grows with each second that passes from his failed grab for Lucerys’ hand. In all likelihood it is dislocated, but he will deal with that later. First, he must recover his bastard of a nephew.
“Vhagar, land!”
Vhagar’s wings stretch wide, creating a platform wide enough that the edges of her fluttering, membranous skin are lost in the dark. She turns in a gentle circle, making course for whatever land mass must be closest. As their speed drops, Aemond risks loosening his feet from their stirrups and planting himself in a crouch on Vhagar’s back.
It is a trick he has worked on many times, though only when his mother is safely engaged in other activities. It is one he knows Aegon to have no stomach for, and one he doubts his uncle to have managed with Caraxes. He shuffles cautiously across Vhagar’s back, closing the gap to Lucerys‘ cowering form, and reaches with his left hand to grasp the boy’s wrist.
Dark eyes snap to his and Lucerys, if possible, grows even more pale. “N-no, please,” he says, teeth chattering as he somehow tries to both tighten his grip on Vhagar and cringe away from Aemond at the same time. He shakes his head. “Ae-Aemond, please!”
It occurs to Aemond that his nephew expects to be flung from Vhagar’s back like a pest. Part of him curls with satisfaction at the knowledge, another, newly discovered and surprisingly outspoken at the moment, feels nothing but shame.
He strengthens his grip on Lucerys’ wrist. “You’ll not fall today, Lord Strong,” he says, and does not know what exactly he feels when thin fingers grasp around his wrist in return.
Lucerys’ head drops against Vhagar’s hide and the boy goes all but limp as they stay precariously rooted in the safety of the dragon’s width.
They leave the storm behind at last as the sun just begins to dip beneath the horizon. Vhagar eats up the miles quickly, far swifter than Lucerys probably managed on Arrax, and Aemond is swept by a wave of trepidation as the first glimpse of Dragonstone appears on the horizon. As if in smug response, for Aegon had not directed her anywhere except to land, Vhagar gives a low rumble. Aemond glares down at the back of her head, right hand tangled in her saddle despite the way it pulls at his shoulder, while the left grips the back of Lucerys’ cloak. He’d managed to haul them both back to his saddle, but his nephew was lost to shock, all but unconscious despite the slow blinking of his eyes.
Aemond wonders if he’s lost his wits. The bastard could hardly be blamed, given his ordeal, but it would leave a bitter taste in Aemond’s mouth.
He had not meant it. Not truly.
Aemond knows it to be too late to turn back as the silhouettes of two dragons begin circling above the peak of Dragonmont. The long-necked form of Caraxes is easy enough to spot, and he suspects the other to be Syrax. He swallows and shifts his hand from Lucerys’ cloak to the back of his neck, frowning at the icy chill to his nephew’s skin. “You’d better not die on me now, bastard,” he mutters, and lifts his chin as he prepares to face his sister’s judgment.
Syrax and Caraxes make an impressive display, circling Vhagar in loops and twists. And neither of them makes the same mistake as Arrax by blasting fire in the elder dragon’s face. Aemond steadfastly avoids looking in the direction of either his sister or uncle all the way up until Vhagar lands heavily in Dragonstone’s wide courtyard. He takes a breath, makes sure his nephew is stable across Vhagar’s saddle, and moves carefully to dismount.
Sitting nearly as tall as the lowest sand dunes of Driftmark, Aemond had painstakingly perfected his method of leaving Vhagar’s back. But with his dominant arm all but useless, he is forced to make the journey in slow, small steps, gripping the ropes of Vhagar’s harness one piece at a time before descending. It means he is the last to make it to ground, and his back is exposed and vulnerable to his uncle’s approach.
Daemon Targaryen grabs him by the back of his coat like a cat would a misbehaving kitten, and hurls him to the ground. Training spurns Aemond to turn the tumble into a roll, but as his weight shifts over his shoulder, pain blackens his vision. Aemond manages to come up to a crouch, but he falters as instinct drives him to try and draw his sword. He cries out, and nearly falls on his face as he grips his shoulder.
The world stops spinning just in time for him to watch Daemon’s boot come up to shove against his chest.
“Luc!” Rhaenyra’s voice is shrill as she must notice her son strewn on Vhagar’s back. Thankfully, her cry distracts Daemon enough that Aemond is allowed to claw back his breath as his back meets uneven cobble. It is a moment of reprieve, but it does not last long before his uncle is wrapping a hand around his throat and Aemond’s head is brought crashing against the ground. Aemond struggles, his left hand fumbles for his sword, but the point of Dark Sister pressed against his stomach brings him still.
Aemond struggles for air and looks up to his uncle’s steady stare. This is not how he’d imagined their inevitable confrontation to go. Daemon eyes him like a piece of meat. “Give me one reason not to stick you like a roast pig,” he says.
The clanging shuffle of armored boots means the men at arms of Dragonstone have finally made their appearance, but Aemond doubts there will be much need of their services. Daemon is more than capable of meting out whatever justice the Black Queen demands.
“I’ve returned the bastard,” he says, loud enough only for Daemon to hear. The lift of one pale brow is the only reaction he gets in return.
“Luc? Lucerys, oh thank the gods.” Rhaenyra sounds close to tears. Daemon’s grip remains steel around Aemond’s neck even as he turns to ensure his lady wife’s relief is not in vain. Aemond also tries to look, though mother and son are stood squarely in the blind spot left by his lost eye.
“M-Mother,” Lucerys mumbles before the sound of his wailing reaches Aemond’s ears. The word is sweet nectar, and Aemond is surprised to feel tension leaking from his chest. Words, at the very least, are not lost to the young Lord Strong.
“Daemon. Release him,” says Rhaenyra. For a moment black spots pepper Aemond’s vision as a thumb and forefinger dig in beneath his jaw, but then he finds the pressure all at once lifted from his person as Daemon stands. Aemond coughs and turns himself over, sucking in free air. He braces himself on his left elbow and meets his half-sister’s cold eyes.
Her purple irises are rimmed with red and she has her son’s head gripped tight against her chest. Aemond is relieved to see Lucerys standing on his own strength, though the boy is still shaking like a leaf in the wind. Rhaenyra presses a kiss into the prince’s dark curls. “I will have the truth of what happened,” she says, voice thick with command even as it comes out with clear strains of relief.
Despite himself, Aemond bows his head in acknowledgement.
Bloodshed had not been his intent. War was an inevitability, but Aemond did not wish for it to begin by his own act of folly. Unthinking idiocy was his brother’s inclination, not Aemond's.
More shuffling of the Dragonstone guards, and unfamiliar hands grip his arms. Aemond hisses between his teeth as his shoulder is jostled and he allows the touch only until his feet are beneath him and he shakes himself free. “Don’t touch me!” he warns them as he stumbles into the open space between his estranged family and the guards seeking to restrain him.
He will not allow himself to be put in chains. He is Targaryen, blood of the dragon, and brother to the king, he will not suffer such indignity. He backs towards Vhagar who stands to her feet in reaction to his agitation. She roars and Aemond feels the skin of his neck prickle with a fear he has not felt towards her since before he’d claimed her.
Perched higher on the face of Dragonmont, Syrax and Caraxes roar back in challenge.
“Lykiri, Vhagar! Lykiri!” He demands calm of her, and thankfully, she obeys, settling back on her haunches and curling her neck, perfectly content to fall into a doze like they have not just delivered themselves into enemy hands.
Syrax and Caraxes both chitter, but are quick to settle once it is clear their elder has no intention of attacking. That leaves only the men at arms as a threat. One or two dare to attempt an approach towards Aemond, but surprisingly enough, Daemon steps between them.
“That will not be necessary,” he says, holding his nephew’s gaze. He lifts one hand to ward the guards away and opens the other towards Aemond. “My nephew will come willingly and unarmed. Will he not?” That lifted brow again, and Aemond swallows back his own fear before releasing his sword belt and offering his only visible weapon to Daemon.
Daemon takes it and tosses the sheathed blade to some nameless guard who fumbles and nearly drops the sword before catching it in his grip. The company falls to silence until Rhaenyra seems to find some satisfaction with the situation and turns herself and Lucerys towards the keep. Daemon gestures his arm for Aemond to follow, and he does.
The walk is long and slow and Aemond feels his uncle’s footsteps shadowing his own carefully and with great intent. It is rare that Aemond feels himself as anything but the attacking predator, but he must begrudgingly acknowledge that his uncle is well-versed in carrying himself as such as well.
Servants and occupying lords watch them in silence as they make for the private chambers of Dragonstone’s small council. He is even surprised to find Ser Erryk in their number, and sees his shock reflected back as the Kingsguard steps in time with his Queen.
“Send for the maester,” Rhaenyra demands of a page, just before the doors are closed to leave their family alone with only Ser Erryk as witness to what will take place.
For a moment there is silence and Aemond stands alone in the center of the chamber as Daemon perches himself with a shoulder leaning against a far wall. Rhaenyra, with Ser Erryk standing not far off, pulls Lucerys from her chest and frames the boy’s face with her hands. Trembling thumbs brush Lucerys’ round cheeks and Aemond looks away.
“My sweet boy,” she says in hushed murmurs. “What happened?” The occupants of the room hold their breath in collective anticipation, to see if words are now beyond the young prince.
“A-Arrax,” he manages, and Aemond feels as if he has been gutted. His mouth opens before his mind can catch up to his body.
“Sister, I did not mean-”
“Shut your mouth!” Rhaenyra snaps and Aemond does as he is commanded. “I will have you speak soon enough. First I will hear the truth from my son,” she says, then looks back down to the young prince. “Go on, Luc.”
Lucerys’ mouth opens and shuts a time or two before he finds his words again. “W-we were being ch-chased. V-Vhagar- I tried to stop him, but Arrax attacked and-and Vhagar-” Lucerys’ expression crumbles and he collapses against his mother’s chest a second time.
Knowing grief washes over Rhaenyra’s face before she swallows it down and nods her head. “I’m so sorry, my son,” she says.
She sniffs and draws her hand through the boy’s dark hair. “Ser Erryk,” she says. “Take Lucerys back to his chambers. Prince Daemon and I will speak to my brother alone.”
Rhaenyra is met with no protest, and as Ser Erryk sweeps the young prince away, Daemon is swift to take his place standing at his wife’s side. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but they are interrupted as the doors to the chamber creak open and the maester makes his humble approach. “Your Grace,” he says, and bows to Rhaenyra before casting Aemond a curious glance.
“Maester Gerardys,” says Rhaenyra. “You will see to my son Lucerys in his chambers and make certain that he is well,” she commands. “Once that is certain, Prince Aemond’s shoulder needs tending.”
Aemond blinks in surprise, but the maester simply nods before excusing himself from the chamber. Rhaenyra turns back to Aemond. “I take it your pain is manageable for the moment?” she asks.
He nods. “It is.”
“Good. Then you will explain what happened between yourself and my son.”
Aemond wets his lips and searches for the words to describe what feels more like a fever dream than the events of just a few hours prior. “I- Arrax provoked Vhagar. I could not-” he chokes on the memory of blood and Vhagar’s incomprehensible power as she had nearly devoured Arrax whole.
“The Prince must have leapt from Arrax’s back, I saw him falling and I just-”
“You saved him.” Rhaenyra sounds nearly as shocked by the notion as Aemond feels for hearing the words spoken from her mouth.
“His incompetence put the prince in danger in the first place,” says Daemon, his arms crossed as he stares down his nose at Aemond. “And cost Lucerys his dragon. A debt which must be rectified.”
Aemond’s spine goes stiff. Despite the pain, his right hand grasps at the empty space where his sword should be and he grimaces as white hot agony spikes from his shoulder. “No,” he manages to say between grit teeth.
Rhaenyra too looks faintly put off by the idea. “Daemon-”
“The dragon was stolen to begin with. Now he has proven himself incapable of controlling her.” Daemon lays a hand on the hilt of Dark Sister. “Seems a fitting exchange to the Greens to allow their second son to keep his head in exchange for his dragon’s.”
And also rid the Blacks of the greatest threat against their own slew of young dragons in the same stroke. Aemond sneers. He might not fully trust Vhagar at the moment, but she is still his. “I will not accept such a trade,” he says.
“You have little choice in the matter, princling,” says Daemon.
“Then allow me back my blade and we’ll settle this quarrel as men-”
“Enough!” The Black Queen’s voice rings out in the otherwise silent chamber and brings both Aemond and Daemon to silence. She sets a hand on the crook of Daemon’s arm and steps between him and Aemond. Somehow, Aemond finds it difficult to hold her eye contact.
“Alicent would not have you throw your life away, Aemond,” she says. “And dragons are not common dogs to be butchered in consequence of poor handling, Daemon.” She gives her husband a quelling glare and he meets it with raised hands.
Rhaenyra takes a breath, straightens her skirts, and then turns back to Aemond. “Prince Lucerys admitted his own fault in the confrontation. Nevertheless, your failure to control Vhagar has cost him his dragon, and nearly cost him his life. Do you deny this?”
Aemond feels his shoulders hunch and the prickling mix of indignation and rightful shame makes it impossible for him to do more than shake his head. Guilt is not a familiar emotion to him, and now that he has had a taste, he has no wish to entertain it again.
“You once said the exchange of your eye for a dragon was an equal one. Now that my son has lost Arrax your debt is settled. Am I understood?”
It takes a moment for her words to sort themselves in Aemond’s mind. His senses are still trained on Daemon and the threat he poses and it makes him slower to register Rhaenyra’s decree. But once he does, he finds himself going slack with shock.
“Settled?” he asks.
Though it seems to physically pain her, Rhaenyra steps towards Aemond and offers him her hand. “We are family, Aemond, and you are my brother. Not only that, you saved my son’s life and brought him home.” Aemond reaches with his left arm and takes Rhaenyra’s hand. She grips him back with surprising strength. “Your mother does not wish for bloodshed, and neither do I. So let this be my statement of intent.”
For the first time, Aemond thinks he can truly see Viserys within Rhaenyra. Surprisingly, it is not the weakness he would have suspected.
“Let there be no more war between us, brother,” she says, and drops his hand to step away.
“And what of the matter of succession?” he asks. Aemond is not fool enough to think the Hightowers would so easily relinquish the Iron Throne now that they’ve placed their puppet Targaryen upon it. And his brother is no doubt already drunk with the power he now wields. His opinion means very little on the matter, and the same is true for his mother.
Rhaenyra seems to understand this though, because she only offers him a sardonic grin. “One day at a time,” she says.
With that, the period of interrogation and negotiation is brought to a halt. Rhaenyra clears her throat and when she speaks again, the very pitch of her voice demands a calmer mood. “You are welcome to the comforts of Dragonstone until your departure, Prince Aemond” she says. “Although I suggest you avoid the princes’ chambers for the time being.”
Aemond nods, bewildered, and when he glances at Daemon, finds an equally nonplussed edge to his uncle’s steady expression. “Thank you, sister,” he manages to say, and even bends himself into a bow which he will only realize later is ten times deeper than the one he offered Aegon during the pompous lout’s coronation.
Aemond leaves the chamber unaccosted, and a servant finds him quickly and guides him to the maester’s chambers to have his shoulder treated. As he sheds his coat and begins working at the removal of his shirt, he considers the black leather he has draped over a chair to dry.
His mother had commissioned him another similar coat to be colored in the darkest of green. He is not certain anymore whether he wants it or not. Red and black are the colors of House Targaryen.
Aemond huffs, amused by his own fleeting notions. He has never had any designs on being a peacemaker, and he doubts that has changed because of one foul flight. But then again, he’d reached for Lucerys’ hand and Lucerys had reached back. That had to mean something.
Aemond shakes his head. One day at a time, he tells himself. Just as Rhaenyra had said.
One day at a time.