a maid's folly - aemond targaryen.

chapter 3.

Duty. Duty above all else. That is all Aemond has ever known. To be dutiful and upholding— do not indulge, lest you bathe yourself in sin. Walk into the light of the Seven, do not stray in the darkness.

For the most part, he had exemplified those qualities perfectly throughout his life— he was well-read in history and philosophy, a swordsman that even rivals Ser Criston. He prayed at the Keep's Sept every morning, and went to the Sept of Baelor with his mother once a week. He was all-in-all, the perfect son— as said by his mother.

He rode the largest dragon in the world, his dear Vhagar. He loved his old girl, as she was the only thing that he truly took. He coveted her, ramifications be damned, and he had her. He had one flight upon her back while still being whole— when he had two eyes. Just one indulgence— the price to pay was high.

But he still thought it was worth it. None of them that were in the tunnel that day even have a modicum of what Aemond has, what he's strived for and achieved, even as a lesser man in some eyes. He's heard from his mother— who's heard rumors from clubfoot— that Jacaerys cannot even fully speak High Valyrian fully yet. The thought makes Aemond chuckle.

Mayhaps if his father was truly sentient, and not a lily-livered shell since he practically killed his first wife, he wouldn't have held that brown-haired bastard on his lap on the throne and spewed nonsense to him that 'this seat will be yours one day'. He wouldn't tolerate Rhaenyra's nonsense of hiding at Dragonstone, he wouldn't have tolerated Aemond losing his eye—

The thought made his eye socket twinge in pain. He still had it— pain. Quite frequently in fact, and there were some days where it was so debilitating that he had to recuse himself in his room. But never would he ask for milk of the poppy. He wouldn't become an incoherent, barely alive husk like his father. Fuck that.

He has upheld the mantle of duty for years without incident. Until that maid— that bastard girl from the Vale. When she came into his chambers with his tea, not even able to look at him, her head downwards, just a peek of her light blonde hair from under her headwear. She was so nervous, her anxiety almost palpable, he could smell it like a dragon smelled prey.

Gods, she even had the big brown eyes of a plump little sheep, ripe for the taking by a dragon. Rosemary was her name. Rosemary, Rosemary. The name ran through him a thousand times since she first told him— her voice so quiet that it hardly even registered. He was half blind, but the Gods be damned if he didn't have acute hearing; all the better to hear her stupidly soft and almost silent mutterings.

Many a maid have passed through his chambers, old, young, tall, short, skinny, plump, innocent, salacious— every sort of servant under the sun is something he had seen before. And mayhaps he's seen girls that looked like her before, she wasn't wholly unique looking— but something about her heated the fire in him, something that he'd had control over all of this time.

The blood of the dragon runs hot, he's heard it time and time again when his mother would be in tears over something sinful his brother had done. Their blood is so hot and thick, they must find some sort of vice to quell it, to appease it. Aegon's was wine and women. Aemond had managed to keep it simmering for years— until the maid. Those large eyes, her pouty, plump lips and soft-bodied figure was like a ghost in his mind now, lingering.

He knew it would be a bad idea to request her again— and he only meant to request her for one more time, maybe to stare at her a bit and get it out of his system. But in his ways, he somehow conveyed he wanted her always— and maybe subconsciously, he did. He wished to store her in his pocket like a little kitten or mayhaps like one of Helaena's bugs she was so fond of.

She wasn't even a good maid. She couldn't follow simple directions— just eat the fish, damn you— and she bled all over his kerchief.

That was the nail in his coffin. Her blood, trickling from her nose and rimming the dip of her lip. After losing an eye, his other senses had become heightened to compensate— his sense of smell is one of them. He could never stand to be in the lower city of King's Landing for long, the overwhelming scent of shit and despair made him want to retch. When his brother came to dinner stinking of booze and cunt, Aemond had half of a mind to stuff his nostrils with cloth soaked in concentrated flower oil. So when Rosemary started to bleed, the scent went straight through him, making his cock twitch ever so slightly. He had smelled blood countless times, and it never affected him. But her blood smells sweet, saccharine, tooth-rotting sugary, candied sweet.