aemond meets gwyn mormont when both boys are 8 years old. gwyn, a squire for ser criston, quickly becomes the only true friend aemond has.
years growing together make them as close as men can be, and even after gwyn is sent back to his home on bear...
content warning[s]: brief violence + gore in a nightmare scene
As Aemond had thought; shame stuck to him like a cloying perfume, haunting him in every waking moment.
Morning found him abed, carefully laid among the blankets, and changed into sleep clothes by an unseen but appreciated Gwyn. Saying his prayers never left such a bitter taste on his tongue, and looking at Gwyn never brought such sweetness to his mind.
Thank the gods, Gwyn knew better than to bring up the previous night, not when it hung so delicately in the balance between them. Instead, they settled for soft glances and barely-there touches like lovestruck fools.
Distraction came in the form of the ironborn fleet, a crowd of wood and canvas bobbing in the bay. Most of the ironmen stayed on their ships, thankfully, Aemond wasn't entirely sure if the island was big enough to house them all.
"Got friends in low places, hm?" He asked Gwyn, standing upon the wall of Mormont Keep. A few groups of ironborn trickled in, sea-weary and hungry.
"They were my father's friends." Gwyn corrected, scratching behind Bear's ears. The hound faithfully sat at his side, tongue lolling. "Some years back, he helped a few crews stranded on the island in winter. Ironborn may have some... questionable customs, but they remember favors and goodwill well enough." He chuckled to himself. "And there's no one Qarl Blacktyde hates more than Corlys Velaryon, besides maybe the Red Kraken himself. He'll do whatever it takes to spit in the eye of both."
"As long as he keeps his spit out of our eyes, he's welcome," Aemond grumbled.
"Aye, after all, can't be marching south with a blind king, can we?" Gwyn gave him a sly grin, only laughing when Aemond drove an elbow into his side.
"Prince Regent," He corrected with a huff. "They don't think I'm king, do they? Aegon is their king. And if..." 'If he doesn't make it' stuck in his throat like a barb, but he coughed up around it. "Maelor is next in line."
"Don't get your royal breeches all in a twist, Aem." Gwyn's hand, warm and heavy, came to rest on the back of Aemond's neck. "Do the semantics matter?"
Yes! Aemond wanted to scream. Yes yes yes! Without the semantics and nitty-gritty of inheritance and law, none of them would be in this war in the first place. If the semantics didn't matter, then he abandoned his family for nothing, killed Lucerys for nothing, lost an eye for nothing.
He didn't say any of that, though, and simply ground his teeth as the ironmen filed in.
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Qarl Blacktyde was everything Aemond thought an ironborn would be. Tall, grizzled, with ruddy brown hair tied into a braid down one shoulder. When he grinned, golden caps in his teeth sparkled in the torchlight.
"My lord, Your Grace," He said first, and Aemond was swiftly cut off from correcting him by Gwyn's elbow to his ribs. Revenge. "I've brought with me a thousand men, spread across several ships and crews, all sympathetic to your cause, or, at least— unsympathetic to Rhaenyra's and the Sea Snake. " Qarl met Aemond's gaze and smiled like the shark who smelled blood, gold teeth shining. "We march at your word, Prince Aemond."
