Salvation - Aemond Targaryen / Aegon Targaryen

Ballad of a Bored Man

Aemond Targaryen was bored.

Bored, bored, bored.

There was simply no other way for him to explain how endless cycles of training, reading and studying made him feel. He had long since mastered the art of the sword, having bested even the bravest of his father's Kingsguard. He could recite the history of his family in depth by memory if prompted, and even bested his Maester at arithmetic. He was nine and ten years of age and had simply done everything there was to do.

When he voiced these thoughts to his lady mother, Alicent Hightower merely brushed him off. She told him if he was so bored, she could ward him with another lord. Or he could ride his dragon, Vhagar, or attend some mass in the sept. She had once even bid him to fuck some poor maiden until he was bored of her, too. So long as she was willing. Anything for him to leave her to the business of ruling the country in his decrepit father's place.

He didn't want to be warded to some lesser lord. Daeron had that chore, to be housed with his inferior relatives in that sanctimonious, self-righteous city of Oldtown. Where could Aemond possibly have gone that would be appropriate as his birth right? Nowhere.

He didn't like riding Vhagar, if truth was demanded, though he would never say it out loud. He wished that he could have waited. There had, after all, been plenty of dragons born after he claimed the beast. Shrykos, the little she-dragon his nephew bonded with. Vermithor, who loomed beneath the castle at Dragonstone and belonged to the greatest king the country had ever known. Even Morghul, his niece's dragon, could have hatched if he had given it enough time.

Anything but the old bat who was slow to take off and far too quick to stop. Age had not been kind to his mount, who seemed to deteriorate faster than the king. Riding her was like standing on the ground as the earth split in two as a chasm formed and tore a continent (which, he had also done. Five years ago.)

Still, he enjoyed the prestige that came with riding the oldest dragon in the world. The terror he instilled on the lesser beings of the world. How it felt to control the queen of the deadliest thing in the skies. She wasn't pretty like Sunfyre, or quick like Dreamfyre, but she was deadly. And a horrifying sight to behold.

He felt like a god.

He was, by all accounts, a god.

Because of this, the third and final suggestions his lovely lady mother had given him were also out of the question. The Seven did nothing for him. And Aemond Targaryen was not his brother, he had no desire to sire bastards by the hundreds and spread his precious seed to those less worthy of him. His blood—the blood of the Valyrians—was not to be mingled with those of lesser birth. He learned this lesson on his thirteenth nameday, when Aegon had taken him to his favorite brothels.

Time to get it wet.

Wet he got it, and it felt lovely. There was nothing quite like the feeling of fucking a woman, of taking a maidenhead. But he knew better than to give in to his proclivities. He had only to look to Aegon to see the dangers of overindulging.

There was a time when he was younger that he looked to his sister. Though not pretty, she was thought capable of baring children, which meant taking her was proper and beneficial to his family. But his mother gave her to Aegon. It left him with two options of suitable marriage—the Velaryons—who were given to those bastards.

There was simply no one left suitable enough for him to... sheath his sword into. So Aemond trained to fight his frustration, his urge to simply fuck as men do dwindled until he could no longer feel it. He was better than his brother. A king, after all, could not go around catching venereal diseases from lowborn whores.