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As Caraxes wrapped himself around Vhagar’s throat, Aemond knew his life was coming to an end. The war was effectively over, or would be shortly. Anyone who survived would either be sent to the Wall, or executed. Alys and their child would likely be killed. If they did survive….He was never meant to become a father anyway, he had only ever been like the blackness of Valyrian steel. A shadow. A tool. A weapon raised up, pointed at his own kin, until there was nothing left of either.
Aemond knew then that what he truly wanted wasn't a dragon – it wasn't to become king.
But that desire was nothing more than a distant childhood dream.
Lightning struck, and Aemond remembered the moment his childhood had died, as Lucerys fell to the ocean. A true Velaryon, in name and spirit if not in blood, to a grave of water instead of being burned by dragonfire.
Daemon raised Dark Sister at his heart. He looked older than the rogue prince that Aemond grew up hearing tales of. He looked tired.
For a moment, Aemond wanted it to happen. He welcomed it.
He didn't know why he fought.
Aemond swung, no finesse to his movement, just barely blocking as the Valyrian steel sang against one another in the air. It wasn't enough to avoid damage, but it kept him from dying. His own sword slipped from his hand as Dark Sister plunged into his shoulder. Deep and sharp enough, it emerged from the other side. Aemond could smell his own blood, wet in the rain and storm. He lurched forward, the sword still in him, using it to pull in Daemon Targaryen.
Aemond pulled free the dagger at his side and plunged it into Daemons heart. The same dagger that took his eye.
Daemon looked shocked at first, but it slowly faded into a softer expression. He mouthed a name, but Aemond knew not if it was Rhaenyra or Nettles. Daemon collapsed over his saddle, blood dripping down the sides of the dragons necks.
Vhagar's blood joined it soon, as Caraxes finally took the last bite from her throat. They began to fall, still entangled. The dance of the dragons would end here.
Aemond closed his eyes, expecting to die with them.
He awoke to agony, a pounding headache making his injuries slowly known. His shoulder still burned hot and angry – Dark Sister still remained plunged within it.
They'd crashed, into the water of the God’s Eye. Vhagar was dead, Aemond could feel it, the connection he'd had with her was gone. Caraxes had gotten to the bank of the water, but no further. Aemond knew he was meant to die here, he didn’t understand why the fates would not allow him to join his family. The storm overhead broke and cracked, light flashing and rain pouring.
It was payment, Aemond thought as he pulled off his helmet, letting the rain run down his face. He'd have no rest here.
Untangling himself from his harness, Aemond pulled the sword from his shoulder, biting down on the leather between the pieces of his gauntlet to avoid screaming. He couldn't pass out here, he’d drown. His arm was likely broken, his ribs were in no better condition, judging from the pain he had when breathing. The corpse of his uncle fell onto his saddle as Aemond moved, a nearly content look on his face.
Aemond pushed himself up, chest heaving from the strain. He held Dark Sister with one hand, using it to support himself. He stared down at Daemon, before gritting his teeth and driving the sword through Daemons eye. Like nephew, like uncle, Aemond thought, looking down at the body. Anyone who found his corpse would likely mistake him for Aemond now.
He stumbled to shore, limping as he pulled on the remnants of his armor that remained. Vhagar slowly sunk into the water behind him, pulling Daemon down with her. Aemond didn't watch, he simply walked, boots soaked with water and blood, until he collapsed along a small dirt road.
He wasn't certain how many moons it had been until he understood his surroundings once more. Laying on a bed of straw, the smell of oxen and pigs around him. Aemond cracked his eye open, and found a piglet sniffing at his hand, nudging at it. He reached out, to scratch at it’s cheek.
Aemond heard hushed tones, whispers in the barn. He pushed up onto his elbow to find a young boy and younger girl watching him with trepidation. They had hair the same color as the straw he rested upon. The girl inched forward, a piece of bread in her hand, even though she was clearly scared of him. They had every right to be.
Aemond closed his eyes again.
It was over a fortnight until Aemond left the farm, from the safety of the barn. The family had been kind to him, fed him, and the children would come into the barn at night to tell him stories – and when he was well enough, he told them the tales he'd heard as a boy. They didn't have much, they could barely afford to feed him as he healed.
He never told them how he'd lost his eye, or where he'd come from.
The night Aemond left, he knelt down to behand the little girl his sapphire. He closed his hand around hers, looking her in the eye. He'd likely burned hundreds of families just like hers.
“Take this to your parents. Tell them you found it on the shores of the God’s Eye. It will fetch a fine price, I promise you that.”
She cried as he left, but he couldn't stay. It was too dangerous for them. Soldiers would likely be in the area for some time to come, hungry for revenge.
Aemond cut his hair short, and took to using a simple hat to cover it’s paleness. He wrapped his eye with linen, to look like a more recent injury, but it was best if no one noticed him. Pulling his cloak over his head, Aemond climbed into the on the back of cart heading to the markets of the Crownsland. He watched the small farm vanish behind him in the dark of the night, and thanked them quietly.
Walking through Kings Landing in the weeks that followed, Aemond found it in chaos. He heard bits and pieces of the war and battles that had taken place. Rhaenyra wouldn’t hold King's Landing for long, that much was certain, but this was no longer Aemond’s battle.
He had died twice to the storm, so to the storm he had to return. He knew not why his heart pulled him to the tides, but Aemond could only follow it.
Prince Aemond Targaryen had been dead many cycles of the moon before he reached a small fishing village on the outskirts of Storm’s End in Shipbreaker Bay. It was little more than a handful of homes and shacks on the side of the water. No Inns to speak of. Walking for so many days on end, with little food to show for it had worn him down. The small folk seemed as dreary as the waters they lived on, suspicious and far less accommodating than many of the small towns he’d stopped in on his travels.
“Is there anywhere a traveler may rest his head for the night?” Aemond asked three fisherman coming in to dock In a small rowboat. “I have no coin, but I am strong. I can reel lines, chop wood, butcher meat, or tend to the animals.”
The men exchanged glances. There was still a war in the north as far as Aemond knew, they were right to not trust him. They'd be at risk if he turned out to be a deserter.
“Aye, perhaps you can go to the fool.” A grizzled man said, salt water and hard life making him look older than he likely was. “At the end of town, there's a small shack. The fool won’t likely say no to you, on account of him not hearing anything you ask.”
Aemond’s brows furrowed. They were sending him to a deaf man?
“He's a nice lad, but not much in his head. Simple type.” One of the other men added, likely an elder son or son-in-law. “He would probably welcome the help, he lost a leg as well.”
Aemond nodded his head in thanks, and started to make his way, but one of men spoke up.
“You've got an eye patch, son. Were you a soldier?”
Aemond stared down the road. “What use would they have for me? I have but one eye, I’d be little use in a fight.”
He left, wrapping his cloak across his shoulders. The chill coming off the water was intense and biting as a storm rolled in, but he'd not felt warm in years.
Coming to the end of town, it began to rain harder, puddles growing into small lakes on the rocky paths. Aemond could barely make out the shape of the shack at the edge of town, nor the figure walking outside.
Though, walking may have been the wrong wording. The figure seemed to hobble from the boat dock on a cane in both arms. One leg, they'd said. It seemed the God’s had not been kind to this man.
Aemond called to him, even if it was futile, waving his arm to get the man’s attention, as the storm grew. Even if he had been able to hear anything, no one would hear anything over the weather.
The figure stared at him from about twenty places, before he moved towards the shack. He held the door open, long enough for Aemond to run to it; catching it and walking inside.
It was warm. He could still hear the wind screaming outside and the rain dripping in places within the shack. But, a roaring fire in the hearth took much the cold off of him. The man that had been called a fool limped his way over to a simple chair, stringed fish in his hand. He began to light a lantern, before placing it on the windowsill. There was a pot on the hearth, it smelled of oats and little much more.
“Thank you for allowing me to stay the evening…” Aemond trailed off as remembered the man wouldn’t hear his words anyway. He noticed firewood stacked in the corner, and an axe hanging on the wall.
He watched the man pull out a knife and begin to gut the fish he'd caught. His profile in the light was younger than Aemond had assumed.
Aemond turned to grab wood to chop for him, he’d had much practice in menial tasks in his time on the road. He took pleasure in them, truth be told. His mind would be quiet in those moments, focused on the task at hand.
After he'd finishing cutting enough pieces that the fire would be well tended, Aemond turned back to find the man tending to the fish he'd caught. At first, Aemond thought him to be totally silent, but after a moment, under the wind outside, he realized the man was humming quietly. His back was to Aemond, and he’d pulled off his rain soaked cloak. He had a head of dark curls.
“I'm Prince Aemond Targaryen, heir to the throne.” Aemond said, and waited for a reaction, but none came. The man continued to prepare the fish, humming with little care. The tune sounded familiar on his ears.
Aemond sighed, walking over to help with the fish. He had a knife, he could remove the skins and scales. Then maybe he'd be afforded food as well as rest.
The man looked up at him, water dripping off of his hair and down his cheeks.
Aemond froze as Lucerys met his eye, cold washing over him.
But that was impossible.
Luke had died, he'd seen him fall. There was no way it should have been possible. But Aemond knew that face, he’d seen it in the back of his mind often enough, in his darkest moments.
But there was no hint of recognition in Lucerys’ eyes.
Aemond looked down, at his missing leg.
Lucerys reached down, and patted just above where the leg had been lost. He looked back up and smiled a bit sadly at Aemond, before touching at his ear too. Then, he reached over, and touched the binding over Aemond’s missing eye. We're the same, he seemed to be saying.
Aemond felt paralyzed, at the softness of the touch on his face.
He leaned into the hand.
He wouldn't be leaving.
Aemond pulled the traps into the boat, looking at the crab and lobster that pulled and pinched at the metal. It’d make for a good stew, after he traded one of them for root vegetables and simple spices.
His hands had grown callused and sea worn here, by Shipbreaker Bay.
Lucerys was sitting outside their home, sharpening hooks and their knives. Aemond had kept his hair relatively short here, but Lucerys looked very much like his mother and father now. It was his nameday, though Aemond knew Lucerys remembered nothing of such things, just as he hadn’t the year before, or the year before that.
Aemond hung the traps on the side of the house, his catch safely in hand as he walked up to Lucerys. He moved so he’d block the small bit of sun that ever graced the shores here, until Lucerys looked up at him and smiled at him.
Aemond knelt down, touching their foreheads together, and then their lips. It was chaste, but they'd spent the night getting drunk on drinking in one another. Aemond would never tire of the softness of Lucerys’ voice; or how his skin looked in the firelight, his scars under his hands, the warmth of him that burned away the cold inside his soul.
Aemond had little idea of who sat the Iron Throne now, but he didn't care. For years past and years hopefully to come, this was his fate. This love that saved them both, and delivered them to a house by the sea.
Nameless, bloodless, but together. The heart of the storm.
Lucerys traced a finger down his lover’s cheek as he slept, down the faded scar on his cheek. Their legs still intertwined on the bed they lay on. His love had built him it, and made the shack into a place they'd both grow old in. Lucerys could still feel the heat inside him, the seed on his stomach and thighs, but he still wanted for more.
He wanted to hear him.
Lucerys leaned in to kiss Aemond’s eye patch.
But Lucerys supposed it was a fair trade for the eye he'd taken; because now, his uncle belonged to him.