Salvation - Aemond Targaryen / Aegon Targaryen

Repercussions

Aemond Targaryen had a wife.

The words rolled around in his head with surprising ease. He stood before her in the sept, before the only brother he could trust and a Septon he had found beyond the keep, and he found himself utterly enchanted by her.

The gods she worshipped meant nothing to him, he would have been happy to bed her and just tell the others they had wed. But Jeyne needed more, he promised more and he was happy to oblige. He knew—even if she had forsaken them—the gods had a hold on her.

He saw that when she emptied her stomach on his floor, when she squirmed beneath the gaze of stone eyes and towering statues. Aemond wouldn't admit the wound to his pride that caused him, the guilt that rolled off him, or the unnatural urge that overcame him to protect her.

Daeron had served as the perfect witness, the perfect being to give her away for their treasonous activities. It would not do for one prince to be executed for treason; it was unheard of for two. His brother came with little question, securing only that the marriage was willing of both parties and a cask of dornish red before he followed Aemond across the courtyards to the faintly glowing sept.

He wasn't sure if he loved Jeyne. He didn't suppose he knew what love was. He knew that he liked her well enough, he knew that he liked her in a way different to his mother, to Helaena. He knew that he would fall on his sword if she asked him.

He also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Jason Lannister had done a number on her. Now that his mind was clear, his wife was on his arm and he could touch her freely, his mind went from her to him. More importantly, how to rid them of him.

If Aemond Targaryen was to live his life in peace, to see the woman before him grow old and frail as he ached to see her do with him by her side, Jason Lannister had to die.

He wondered how he would do it. Would he stab his heart at close range, relishing in the feeling of finally ending his miserable cunt life? Or would he frame him for treason... take his life in the way his ancestors did, burning him on Rhaenys's Hill with the maw of his terrifying dragon?

He could poison the bitch, though that was little fun.

And the whipping boy, Qarl. Aemond didn't particularly care what happened to the peasant. But Jeyne's bleeding heart ached for him and it pained him to see her sad. There were places in the city they could send him, orphanages for young boys. Ser Criston needed a squire... it was more than the boy could ever have asked for in his pathetic life.

There was so much to do, so little time.

The Septon had decided to leave them when the ceremony ended, thankfully forgoing the dreadful hymnals they oft sang. It left only them—the unholy triune.

"I am to suppose your father does not know?" Daeron and Jeyne sat at the base of the Father's alter, Aemond had chosen to examine the statue of the stranger—a craven, genderless beast with a veil covering its forehead. Those who followed the faith made him to be the worst god, the one to fear. He felt a strange sort of comfort within his blank state. His lady wife hung her head in her hands, fighting tears as she shook her head. "Am I to suppose he would not approve?" She shook her head again.

"Jason Lannister did not deserve you, my lady." Aemond spoke softly, turning from his statue to gaze at her beauty. Even in her state of shame and sin, he couldn't stop noticing how lovely she was. And she's all mine. "Such a horrid man."

"My father will be furious." She whimpered. Aemond watched her freeze, eyes widening. "Oh, gods. Your father!"

"Our father has not remembered a single thing for a decade." Daeron's hand went up to sooth her back. Aemond fought the urge to rip his hand from her.