Salvation - Aemond Targaryen / Aegon Targaryen

Second Sons

Jason Lannister was the firstborn son of Tymond Lannister, elder twin to Lord Tyland Lannister. He was a pompous, proud man that came from a long line of pompous, prideful men. He was a handsome man to most, though Aemond was sure his wealth assuaged those who did not know him, with their typical golden hair and green eyes. Even his sleepwear, Aemond noticed, was thick rich velvet and gold thread trim.

To the world, Jason Lannister was a valiant lord, a good man, and a willing servant to his king.

To those that knew him, they knew he was not worth the mud on his boot. Aemond hadn't been alive during his courting of Aemond's half-sister, but he knew that even then Jason Lannister was a cunt. Aemond resigned himself to the idea that second sons were simply better than their brothers that came before them.

It was certainly true for Martyn. He was the second born son, younger only to the self-righteous Lyonel. He carried himself with dignity, with honor, but most importantly—Martyn kept his word.

He was, Aemond thought, the most like his lady wife—if not in looks most definitely in personality. He had Jeyne's brown eyes, her dark hair that he kept cropped short and near bald on his head. He had been the one to drunkenly duel Aegon, the only one to stay behind in comfort of his sister. He was the only one to give a damn what she had been through, what Jason Lannister had put her through.

Martyn Hightower was, in truth, the mastermind behind their plan. His guards had broken into the Lannister's chambers, had plucked him from the bed and drug him to the Blackwater. He would serve as the perfect alibi—feigning allegiance to Lannister and hatred for Aemond despite the opposite being true. His sword glimmered in his hand, shining silver reflecting the light of the hangnail moon.

"Well done, brother." Aemond shouted, feet digging into the sand of the bay, his hand clasped on his sword's hilt.

Martyn looked up, a similar smirk on his features. "My prince," he yelled, showing no fear to the beast before him. Aemond saw his blade twist. "Right on time."

The man before him who had—days ago—been such a proud lion was little more than a whimpering kitten. His sleep gown was coated with dirt, his feet dug into the sand as he tried, with little success, to stand and flee. Aemond could see the blood splattered on his nose and upper lip. No doubt a sign of Aemond's companion's rage.

He screamed into his gag, muffled by the grunting of Vhagar and the sound of the waves crashing against her form. Aemond could only laugh, closing the distance between them until his feet rest in the sand near his mount.

Vhagar's massive head swung toward him, draping gullet forcing Martyn and his sword shields to crouch for evasion. Her golden eyes swarmed to focus on Aemond, mouth cracking open to release a low moan in her throat.

"Dohaerās, Vhagar." Aemond whispered, reaching his hand out to rub her nose. The beast groaned, opening her mouth. Her long, sword-like teeth had swallowed a thousand men in her prime, her head was covered in scars and wrinkled scales. She had ancientness seeping from her aura.

Beyond her head, Aemond heard Jason Lannister scream.

It was moments like this that Aemond Targaryen knew his eye was a worthy price for her. Her takeoffs and landings were something of the seven-hells, but when she was on the land she was a force, in the air she was unstoppable.

"Jason Lannister!" Aemond shouted, his mount groaning to punctuate his sentence. "A pleasure. As always."

The Lannister scum screamed into his gag. Aemond laughed. "Oh," Aemond smirked. "How foolish of me. Martyn?"