Salvation - Aemond Targaryen / Aegon Targaryen

Idle Hands

Morning, noon, and night—Aemond's thoughts were consumed by that girl

Two weeks. Two! He had averted his gaze from her. He held his tongue. He controlled himself. He did as he said, like any benevolent god would, and let her be. He thought that he could suffer it temporarily until she was shipped off or he was. Then that would be that.

Then his mother refused the Sea Snake's call for help. She refused to send him and his war dragon to the front and Aemond was utterly dumbfounded.

Dumbfounded and stranded.

Jeyne Hightower was doing her duty. In the two weeks since he tasted her—since she moaned for him so sweetly as she rubbed herself on his knee—Jeyne prayed daily and nightly. Her other time, he knew, she spent planning the god forsaken wedding.

Aemond spent his time being beaten to a pulp by Ser Criston.

"You're getting slow, my prince." Ser Criston Cole's features were pinched, sweat barely dotted his brow. "You've normally made some snide remark about besting me by now."

"Perhaps I grow tired of it." Aemond rolled his eye. "I can only say it so often. The sword has become predictable, perhaps if you'd chosen a new weapon for me to face I could... find some renowned interest."

Ser Criston lowered his sword to the dirt. The training yard was filled with lesser born knights and lords whom had decided to train with various weapons—maces, short and longswords, even a few who had decided to practice their archery—none of whom seemed interested in seeing Aemond defeat his mother's sworn sword again and again.

Not for the first time did Aemond long for the Strong Bastards to return to court. It gave him something to focus on—something appropriate for his rage to be channeled into. When his bastard nephews graced the Red Keep his anger was because of the loss of his eye. It was fueled by a permanent disability all because he had the nerve to claim that dead whore's dragon while his cousin slept.

Now, his anger was fueled by that golden lion and the notion of him fucking her.

Jeyne Hightower had caused more damage to his psyche than losing a thousand eyes. What had previously consumed him was the idea of revenge, of training to prove that it was he who deserved the throne, not Aegon.

Now he was no better than Aegon. He said that he would not take what could have been given, but he took a taste of her without permission and gods help him—he wanted more.

"I suppose we could try the Morningstar." Ser Criston pulled at the collar of his armor, eyes drifting toward the large table of weapons. The Morningstar had been untouched since Aemond could remember—a large, thick metal handle with a spiked iron ball attached by a chain was not an honorable man's first choice.

It was a weapon that favored its master considerably. The wielder had only to master the swing, arc of the ball and its rebound. The intended victim had to dodge the initial blow, the residual swinging, the spikes and the chain. All while finding a way in to defeat his opponent.

Aemond smirked. "Perfect. Grab it, will you?"

Cole frowned. "My prince," he started. "Perhaps you should train—"

"I'd rather counter it, Cole." Aemond knew the pain of the Morningstar would hurt far less than returning to the Keep and seeing Jeyne with that Lannister lord, so consumed in the idea of her impending nuptials that she had seemingly forgotten about him.

You're winging like a woman, Aemond. He told himself. Pull yourself together.

"Get it." Aemond commanded, narrowing his eye. The dornishman did as he was bid, placing his sword and sheath in place of the large Morningstar. Aemond eyed its deadly metal with excitement. "Ready, Cole?"