Work Text:
I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued and properly jointed
Sylvia Plath, “The Colossus”
If you went looking not for Vhagar’s rider, but for his mother’s son, you wouldn't find him. That Aemond was gone. The prince regent didn’t spare that wretched boy, yet remembered his story, tranquilly acknowledging that he killed little Aemond with his own hands. It wasn’t Luke or Jace, wasn’t his ever absent father, wasn’t even Aegon. The last one he took as accomplice, and his brother didn’t blink, didn’t stop him, only kept laughing as he always did. Aegon was helpful. Kind of quality his brother didn’t show often.
But how could he return a favor?
If he could kill Aegon multiple times, he would. Since he had to choose only one way to do so, Aemond spent years pondering this matter. At first, it was childish: he was abandoned, he was weak, naive and, naturally, he was abused. He didn’t know, really, what it means for someone to be dead, yet he’d learned quite well that killing was the only kind of response to wrongdoing, the only vengeance one could be fulfilled with.
It seemed, killing Aegon would relieve that burning pain his brother was making him gulp. Aegon was vile, his eyes were sparkling with mockery. It i is unnecessary to mention that Rhaenyra’s bastards were always somewhere near. Curious thing, logically, Aemond could recall that they didn’t visit King’s Landing that often. Maybe three or four times throughout his whole childhood. But it seemed, every time Aegon was in the mood for another cruel performance, they were there to watch. Evidently, tormenting Aemond without an audience simply wasn’t that much fun. His brother would get bored and eventually leave him to his own devices. Another curious thing, on such occasions, Aemond wouldn’t feel relieved, but rather neglected.
No matter the bruises every encounter with Aegon was causing, Aemond would languish for him all the same. Combined with determination to take his revenge, that thirst was filling Aemond with such inexplicable thrill. He was anxiously, yet desperately waiting for something to happen. That something didn’t fail to make him cry. And where does every miserable child run?
Mother was his first and only ally, his shield from the world. He would wrap himself into her love and stay like this forever, cherished by her gentle kisses, but the world would seep through his shield, making it rusty. Maybe it was him growing older. Maybe it was the natural way of things. The others would think him weak. Years later he will think them right. He will pity himself, however, but also wonder how he could stay that vulnerable for so long.
Back then he did indulge his foolish dreams about caring older brother — unforgivable sin. Deadly mistake. Aegon's protection wouldn’t make him look pathetic, but Aegon’s protection was nonexistent. But even now it was possible to hunt out that buried urge to seek Aegon’s help. As if it all wasn’t because of him. Humiliation is always about power, but power is much more than that. There was no other reason for Aegon to visit him after particularly ugly incidents but his unconscious wish to keep Aemond close. To make sure Aemond can endure more.
It was piteous enough that he ran to his mother after they gave him a pig, but he also couldn’t go to bed at his usual time that day. He was wandering through his chambers aimlessly, looking at his bare feet, thinking that Aegon deserved to die slowly, hoping that Aegon would come. When he did, he landed on the bed carelessly, as if he didn’t sense any hostility in the way Aemond moved to the other side of it, avoiding the touch. Those two innocent eyes were probably lighting the room with disbelief and resentment. Even if Aemond lost one of them right now, he would still look pitiful. Aegon didn’t admit that desperation, so obviously present in the room, didn’t pay attention to his brother’s need to be comforted. Didn’t honor him with an apology. He moved closer, lightly nudged Aemond’s shoulder with his own. Aemond leaned in, feeling his own hostility melting like the finest metal in the hearth. Like skin, kissed by dragon fire, stinking, blackening, revealing the inwards. By taking a closer look, one could recognise some shattered fragments that vaguely resembled the soul. This was his, this was him. Repulsive peace of meat. Just what Aegon turned him into.
Aemond will make him pay, actually, for the very fact that once it was enough to earn his forgiveness. Giving in for a few inches felt like crawling to his brother’s side, begging for something he couldn’t even name. At least he didn't ask any of the questions burning on his tongue, nothing like: “Will I ever get a dragon?” or worse: “Will you go for a ride with me then?”
He did.
Aegon didn’t. Vhagar’s rider never asked him to. He’d learnt to be proud, prouder, then changed the very manner he perceived himself. It seemed, now not only his absent eye, but his very bones were hurting, almost ready to crush. Or perhaps he was just getting taller too fast. Taller than Aegon, he thought. For some time he still measured himself by Aegon’s templates, but it didn’t challenge him for too long. Just the way Aegon used to get bored from teasing his little brother, Aemond gave up comparing them. This wasn’t satisfying, just bitter. The way he always felt. Bitterness has been pestering him as years went by, making him see that neither the largest dragon in the world nor his advanced fighting skills could give him an opportunity to retaliate. He might have become taller, but he could never overgrow Aegon’s birthright. There was some kind of duty, apparently. Small obstacle between him and his brother’s death rattle. Instead, it was him who was choking with helpless wrath.
Many may not know, but when you don’t pick the fruits of wrath, they become ripened, they decompose, they turn into something poisonous, dangerous, morbid. Maybe, this is where bitterness comes from. From inevitable contemplating of Aegon's undeserving existence. This is why he was always choosing the opposite. He was unlike his brother in every possible aspect, thoroughly burying his childish desire to be just like him. The desire based on the undeniable fact that Aegon was the smartest, bravest, strongest man he ever knew.
That very man who was lavishing his legacy on whores, lowborns and bastards; who was giggling, stinking of sweat and Flea Bottom, clumsy and dull, dressed untidy and carelessly. There were several layers of dirt on him that you had to get through to see something that their mother actually gave birth to. It was long since the last time Alicent could recognise that herself. It was easy with Aemond. She made him dutiful, modest and decent. This, too, was suffocating, this was a pure pretendence caused by primal urge to be loved. Did she know that he wanted to break Aegon’s ribs, then feel them deforming even under the gentlest of touches? Tender misery. Just the kind Aegon imposed on him by nudging his shoulder that day. He would do many things. He would twist Aegon’s arms, pull him by his greasy hair, almost breaking his neck and bring him to his knees. None of it would be enough.
There was a day when he couldn’t bring himself to kneel in the Sept anymore. No one could possibly expect Aegon to come, but he was different, wasn’t he? He was ever obedient, never stubborn. The son for Alicent to find consolation in. He was breathing calmly, listening to her quiet command: “Go find Aegon”.
Go fight him, bring him to the heel, pathetic, stinking of sewage and fear. Among the obvious reasons why Aegon was unworthy of the crown was the fact that after coronation he became even worse. Here he was, gawky and inelegant, so obviously enjoying himself. Provoking their grandsire and enrapturing the crowds with imbecilic promises like: “Taxes suck, let’s call them off”. Bragging to his henchmen and even to the small council about all the things he wasn’t. Infuriating Aemond, ignoring him, praising him, protecting him, throwing a feast in his honor, because kinslaying, apparently, didn’t suck.
“That bastard deserved it. Nice job, brother”, he said, patting Aemond on the shoulder. Is there anything one can answer to that? It seemed, he’s awakened Aegon’s interest by doing something no one would expect him to and now, for a few elusive seconds, he had the king all to himself. In reward, his arm has been squeezed just above the elbow. The gesture was awkward and impulsive, doomed to vanish away, since Aemond didn’t have anything to say in response. He wasn’t entertaining enough to enjoy Aegon's attention for too long, not to mention that his big brother was rather occupied these days. There was a pressing need to get disgustingly drunk, twaddle about the things he didn’t have a slightest idea about, negligently defile their father’s legacy and embarrass his wife.
Hail his grace Aegon the Ignominious, the one to catch servant's gaze as she poured him more wine, the one to rest his hand on her hip for a moment before Aemond comes, his eye full of silent judgment, his mouth full of gall.
“Stop it, Aegon,” he said.
“Stop what?,” his brother didn’t let the girl take her leave, only hid her behind his back to confront Aemond.
“This lechery,” Aemond hissed, his eye fixed on the king's wry smile.
“I like how you’re not overreacting at all. I didn’t do anything. Just a small chat with an old friend of mine, I’m afraid I didn’t introduce you…” He tried to pull the poor girl closer, but Aemond abruptly grabbed his wrist, tightening his grip with every second of laughable resistance that followed. He curved his eyebrow, mockingly asking his grace what he would do next.
“Let go of me,” Aegon whispered. The servant girl figured out that the fight wasn’t meant for her ears and quietly disappeared. The king didn’t notice her absence, because his brother’s company had just become entertaining. Finally.
“Or what?” Aemond exhaled. It was time to end this pitiful masquerade. No one really could believe Aegon to be king, not with his countless vices, evident lack of knowledge, bravado and empty promises. Not with his subtle posture, childish whims, doe, doll-like eyes, gentle curls, womanly curves… It’s been days since Aegon tried to flee from his own succession only to end up in Aemond’s hands, trembling like a helpless little dove, whispering this desperate: “Let me go”.
And would it not have been the best thing to do? To spare them all from Aegon’s inglorious reign? Aemond could do that so easily, couldn’t he? But his quick reaction failed him, he just didn’t move until Cole approached them, until it was too late. He was frozen, watching the hope dying in his brother's eyes. Their clear blue became deeper from tears and despair. Aegon’s porcelain skin has tarnished, his gaze has blackened — not in reality, but in some kind of vision Aemond seemed to have. Maybe, that was what their lunatic sister was interpreting as prophecies, maybe it was his imagination, maybe it was nothing at all, but for a few heartbeats he was sure he saw Aegon dead.
Yet, what he has done, what he hasn’t done felt right, because releasing his poor excuse of a brother would be just unforgivably merciful. Aegon failed him so many times that at some point of his unworthy life he must come into Aemond’s possession. Only then his debt will be paid, but for now Aegon’s hair was tickling his nose, Aegon’s breath was leaving a burning mark on his neck. There was no rush to claim what was his. Time will pass, seep through the fingers, but don’t worry, brother, — he thought, — I will own you till the vultures peck your eyes out and the worms come for you.
But for now Aegon inevitably came back to his senses, put his mask back on, so that the usual smug expression appeared on his face.
“Gods you are strong. I should be happy to have such a warrior on my side, shouldn’t I?” Another reminder that no matter what he does, he will always have to back down first, he will always be the one to obey. Released, Aegon grabbed his goblet, suggesting: “After all, we’re celebrating you today, so I would like to raise a cup…”
And the masquerade continued.
It was hysterically funny to realize that Aegon didn’t say it just to tease him. That he really believed Aemond would protect him, would hold him, cradle him, keep him safe. That is what Aemond’s arms became strong for, to serve the realm and the family, just the way mother did. The growl that he always knew better than to set free, has managed to climb his gullet and now was scratching the back of his throat. It felt like the worst fever, like the world was fading away, like he was falling into delirium.
But Aegon always cared to be infuriating enough to bring him back to life. He just had to be himself, namely produce even more outrageous things like “My dragons are bigger”, like “I have Vhagar” with his vain mouth. In fact, that was what he had responded with to Otto’s attempt to bring up their battle strategy.
“Does it disappoint you, dearest grandsire? Is your offspring’s temper not to your liking? What have you been doing all this time to raise a proper heir to the throne? Oh, indulging him! Letting him drown into his cups, depravity and ignorance”, he thought maliciously. It was hilarious now, really. And why did the first realization that Aegon considered him to be his loyal hound shattered Aemond that much? Aegon’s spectacular stupidity was making him an easier target, making him all disposable and unshielded. By all means, why did it hurt so much to know that his brother never suspected him, never presumed that the hound was an attack dog, never realized that he had ruined Aemond and turned him into a loathsome beast? He didn’t even hate his little snot-nosed sibling, he was just having fun.
This is just what Aegon was about: creating mess around him and destroying everything he touches out of pure idiocracy. No ill will, no perfidy, nothing at all, only Aegon who unintentionally distorted his brother yet deliberately showed him where to strike, where to bite. It was like having the king's white fragile neck all to himself, like vibrantly smelling its sweetness.
“I’ll lick and fawn you with my fire till you scream”, he thought, suddenly excited, thrilled, almost aroused.
But he was not the first one to make Aegon choke on his own delusional expectations. Their benevolent uncle aimed to make a bloody pulp of Aemond, but made him next in line instead. The new heir left the castle unnoticed, avoiding his mourning family. Logically, he was satisfied. Emotionally, he felt nothing. This numbness wouldn’t bother him, if only it wasn’t so deceptive, so unreal. The guilt of what just happened was yet to overtake him, so he was making every step cautiously, wrapped in his gray robe, as if the grief was after him, ready to sink its teeth into his flesh. “Shouldn’t I be just a little devastated by my innocent nephew’s death?”
But even that worn-out woman to whose unsophisticated tenderness he’s been returning, knew that it wasn’t only the guilt he was running from. Motherly insight, trapped in the old whore’s body, made the conclusion easy for her. She was stroking his hair as she said, dangling: “This is a maddening thought that someone else dared to make him suffer. This is beyond your comprehension”.
He curled up under her touch, naked and ridiculously vulnerable, fighting an urge to cry out: “What should I do?” She never gave him direct answers, but he was often leaving with them, placated and reassured. Right now Aemond didn’t say anything, just burrowed deeper into her warmth, eye fixed on faded tapestry. Right there, two people were snuggling up to each other, limbs intertwining, the woman’s hair covering them both. Prince couldn’t help but wonder how such proximity to another living thing must feel. Was there anything but physical sensation? Was there anything else at all?
These imitating intimacy caves were separated from each other only with curtains, but the lightning was lovely, enveloping, comforting. Somewhere in the Red Keep the inconsolable father was twisting his wedding ring, and the candles in the room were echoing his tantrum with their restless flames. Those lights were ominous and disturbing, Aemond could tell. Indeed, nothing else crossed his mind and he remained unnoticed, while slowly approaching his brother.
“Aegon”, he said, and his voice obeyed unwillingly, hoarse and rough. It was only then when Aemond realized that he was really standing here. That he had left the brothel, that woman’s familiar grip and returned to his brother without second thought. He wasn’t sure there was even the first. According to his mentor and lover, one cannot suppress the urge to eat one’s brother’s heart out simply by ignoring the latter. Luckily, Aemond was done trying.
But then Aegon looked up at him, his gaze firmly tied to those red-rimmed, inflamed eyes. It seemed, Aemond was bound to them too. The king was biting his lips, perplexed and uncertain, but then he simply held out his hands. Embrace that followed was clumsy and sweaty, awkward and uncalled for, just like everything Aegon was capable of. It was so easy to shrug off, but he couldn’t fucking move.
“They came for me”, he reminded the king, inviting him to get mad, blame Aemond, throw things in his face. Aegon shivered and pulled him closer, or rather, pressed his forehead tighter against his brother’s chest. Silence. None of them could stay in this position, but the king's hair turned out to be slightly curly, the texture different from his own. It couldn’t be neatly tied up or brushed into glancing silk. Maybe, just like his hair, Aegon was doomed to be this way.
“Aem”, his brother whispered mindlessly, as if they were children again, only when they were, Aegon called him a twat. “You’re here”.
Yet, he was here, thinking of Agon’s hair, his trembling hands, his poor beheaded son. Aemond wondered what the king meant by those words. Was he simply grateful that Aemond — anyone, actually — didn’t forget him, came to comfort him? Or was he forgiving his brother for not being slaughtered in the little prince’s stead? Right now the king pulled away, his eyebrows raised, his lips parted from frequent breath and agony. His tears were glowing on Aemond’s chest, burning their way through the ribcage. Although he knew he wouldn’t feel them through the doublet, something was hurting badly and nothing else could. Aegon didn’t ask anything, didn’t complain or blame his brother for what happened. Maybe he was simply too weak or spineless to do so, but was it absolutely necessary to look this way? Wishing for Aemond to dissolve all his sorrow, begging for something unsaid.
There was nothing else to do but caress Aegon’s cheek, thinking about how easily this pitiful king’s skull could be fractured, cracked open, so that his brother’s very being would be oozing from the fissure. Foolish, unhinged, unworthy king. Aemond would lick him from his fingers. But for now Aegon’s forehead was heated and it was whole, the following kiss made sure of it.
“You pull yourself together”, he said strictly and demandingly, hoping his endearment couldn’t be tracked. Despite it, Aegon peeled the phrase, like an orange, sank his teeth into its flesh and drank its invigorating juice. And didn’t he prevail again?
There was no measure to Aegon’s carnality, it seemed. The tragedy of Jaehaerys’ death might have ennobled him, could have reconciled him with the family, but here he was, drinking again in a highly inappropriate company. Around Aemond he was acting like his little brother was still an outsider, like simply by looking at him Aegon could catch some nasty disease. Yet he expected that brother to be fiercely loyal and to burn his enemies by the slightest whim. Was there anything about him, despite his cocky ignorance? Was there anything else at all? The new king was rushing from side to side, either deciding to be a gracious sovereign, or vindictive and unforgiving one, obey the elders or pose as an independent ruler with the mind of his own. The realm was shuddering erratically.
Nothing was reliable and no one could be trusted. The familiar contours of the world could be torn down like those brothel curtains, separating secluded caves from the cunning eyes. Aemond should have seen that coming. Aegon’s laugh was crumbling in the back of his mind, but it was too late when he realized it was real. The outer world crashed on his head, dropped by his drunkard of a brother with lousy “Ooops”. And then the laughter became louder.
All of a sudden, his wise companion and adviser turned out to be an aged whore named Sylvi, in whose company he was found completely naked. Truly, laughable — because he saw himself with their eyes. Aemond turned away from his brother’s companions, but he could not erase their faces from his memory. Caught in fire, they stiffened in various expressions: amusement, contempt, scorn. Some kind of deeply hidden fear of what might come. What Aemond One-Eye could inflict on them for witnessing his shame. He knew that Aegon could never be afraid of him, not even in his most ridiculous dream. The king was having his well-deserved fun. He broke some tableware and furniture, made a certain amount of exclusively dumb decisions, hanged a handful of people, got rid of the only reasonable man in his surroundings and got drunk.
For Aegon, there was no absolution.
Aemond stood up and forced himself to look at them. At all of them. That wasn’t a nice, sweet thing that they’ve just unwrapped and torn into pieces, this was just a whore, not better than anyone else. The role was Aemond’s second nature, he was breathing in it, letting it stick to his face. His body was fully exposed, but it was the others who tried to hide their eyes. Good.
As if it wasn’t enough, Aegon decided to remember his name. The same he just spitted out minutes ago, as if it was poisoned, but now, on the same very lips, it somehow became pure.
“Aemond”, he called. When the answer didn’t follow, the king deigned to follow his brother himself. Turning around and looking in Aegon’s eyes was inevitable, because otherwise there would be a touch, Aemond could already sense it on his skin. He had to step into a relatively dark corner, separated by another unreliable curtain, slowly realizing that his clothes remained there. He would rather die than ask his brother to bring them.
Eventually, the king did try to reach for him, just as years ago, aiming for that very shoulder. Aemond recoiled and clenched his fist, knowing that the force throbbing within it couldn’t be unleashed. Keep the fucking distance, Aegon. But his brother wouldn’t heed this demand even if it was expressed.
“Why do you come here?” he asked, softly. And then, unapologetically, something started to melt. There still was this deceptive acceptance in the way Aegon could appear when they were in private. It would make Aemond wild from desperate hatred, from years of vain yearning for this look on his brother’s face. It would make him mad, no matter how hard he tried not to dwell on it.
“You brought me here”, he said, his voice indifferent and ice-cold. The deathly silence followed and hit him with the easiest appropriate answer he failed to give. “For the same reason any other man comes here”, he should have responded. But he was already naked and humiliated in front of his king.
“Why couldn’t you just leave? That day, Aegon. Just tell me why”, he growled. For a moment, the brother lost his breath and frowned in confusion. It looked like he didn’t remember giving Aemond instructions, correcting him or praising.
“You’re doing well, baby brother”.
“Just like this”.
“Good boy”.
As if Aegon was pleased with him, as if it was Aegon who he had been pleasing. Now, it took his older brother time to even recall it, the very fact of it, when Aemond remembered the tone of his voice, emotions dripping from every single word. He remembered these intonations to be… Not taunting — tantalizing, almost fondling. At this very moment nothing of it was even true. The king shrugged his shoulders:
“You asked me to”, as the matter of fact. “You didn’t want to be alone”.
“That is because I didn’t know what was about to happen, you asshole”, he screamed silently, knowing that the bitterness of the accusation would oblige his brother to apologize. But Aegon was not the type to regret something. By doing that, the king would expose himself to insufferable torture of overthinking his life choices and the disgrace of this life as whole. Something was undeniably broken in Aegon, something wasn’t well, and his ability to reflect on things was surely affected by this malfunction.
Back then, Aegon didn’t bother to think about the consequences of his decision to stay and observe. The only time his brother indulged him he failed Aemond more than he ever could by ignoring his existence. That little two-eyes Aemond, the one prince regent would never spare, was that lonely and unsure, that clinging and terrified. He needed a father, a mother, some older, wiser being to cry to, but he only had Aegon and Aegon has been leaving him as long as he could remember.
That was a familiar feeling: waking up to the phantom pain, the longing for something he never knew. Aemond was tired of the bitterness, but he was about to learn the smell of burnt skin, the howl of a falling dragon, the gut-wrenching silence of his dying king. He could feel it coming, he could tell it was already there, smelling like fate, tasting like ashes. He should have remembered Aegon as he was: sweet and tiny, with his porcelain skin and exquisite features, with his lightweight curls and delicately shaped eyes. There was something slovenly ethereal about him. Subtle and imponderable, Aegon was destined to hover in the air, unable to fall.
The whirlwind took him down, and the war-torn earth swallowed its king, burning and agonizing as he was. Aemond was drunk from pure power, from exhilarating jolt of violence, from boiling fury, rushing through his veins. He could still feel his brother's breath, barely audible, rustling beneath. It appeared to him, his whole life was drenched with premonition of this moment. This very idea was conceived with him, yet he couldn’t make sense of what he had done. He needed Helaena to break it down to him, to proclaim that it truly was treason. Almost kinslaying.
“You burned him and let him fall”, she would say and then he would know. Before that was the battlefield, covered with smoke, reeking of calamity. He could hope to rinse it off, only it was clear that no matter where he went, death would follow him. One could imagine it lurking in the sealed black box which they brought back to King's Landing, or devouring what was left from Meleys, but Aemond knew that the vulture was him. Dressed in gloom from top to toe, he could feel his mother’s turmoil writhing in the sharp edges of his face. Running off his cheekbones.
“What happened, Aemond?” she would ask, but he wouldn’t know how to explain. There were things beyond comprehension, beyond measure. He had to plunge into Aegon, rip the skin and muscles with his beak, since the Gods didn’t bless him with the mouth to kiss. If only the prince regent had anything soft about him, if only he could be gentle… The piece carved from stone, he touched Aegon like he could.
Aemond hated him the way you can only hate someone dear. It was a personal feeling, glowing in his loins and corrupting his mind, like overwhelming lust or religious ecstasy. And the vulture was going about the world just like he was taught to. Looking at the fruits of his labor, the rotten grapes of wrath before his feet, Aemond felt no remorse. There's a certain way of things, he thought, and nothing can be done about it.
He was calm, mostly. The limbs were slightly trembling after the battle and stomach-churning flight. It was supposed to go away, only it didn’t. Aemond couldn’t quite catch the count of days, as if he was sinking deeper into the nightmare. Somewhere below the illusive surface of reality, his brother was waiting for him, but for now Aemond was feared and he was alone.
After his first small council meeting in the new role, he remained in his seat, trying to get used to the new perspective. He suddenly thought that there was no surprise on people’s faces, that such an act was almost expected of him. After the dry season, you do not wait for the bountiful harvest. After all your children die of the plague, you do not hope that the smallest, the weakest might survive.
Only what if he does? You’re waking up to the panic, to the rapid heartbeat and your own cry, scared to death after the sweetest dream you ever had. They do not write books about abused children growing into cruel adults, only about the marvelous, beautiful hearts that manage not to turn into stone no matter how many are thrown into them. Aemond did not feel remorse, but he was suddenly, fiercely mourning the life he never had. What if the killing wasn’t the right response to wrongdoing, not because it was immoral, but because it didn’t make the pain go away?
He stood up and started to wander around the room, trying to cradle his heavy heart. He should have returned to sleep, because there was no one to come and nudge his shoulder. So Aemond curled into himself on the ledge, as if his crimes could be undone, as if he could crawl back to his mother’s womb and forever remain unborn. Tomorrow he will release Alicent from her place in the small council, but today he allowed that one single tear to cross his cheek, reflecting the scar on the other. Knowing that his dismay would melt away with the dawn, he let the thought torment him with its bittersweetness. It’s just… He could have forgiven his brother, he could have been Aegon’s most devoted warrior, his ally and protector. He could have been fighting his war, revenging his heir, promising never to leave his brother’s side. He could have been pressing his forehead against Aegon’s in a silent confession. He could have been good, couldn’t he? Couldn’t he?