𝙱𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚜 & 𝙵𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 - 𝙰𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚎𝚗

Mother Forgive Me

Aemond had never been good at understanding his feelings, and after claiming Vhagar and what happened at Driftmark, it was like a tub of wildfire was poured onto the anger of fire that burned within him. Anger was the easiest of his emotions to understand and the most common.

Anger at the king and queen. At his brother. His sister. His nephews. Aemond felt as if anger and pain were his true nature.

He could tell himself that the blood of the dragon made him so hot-tempered and resentful, but he knew the truth that the lack of retribution made him such, the torment he faced at the hand of his brother and for the eye that was taken from him.

He had thought that he would spend the rest of his days hating the bastards of House Strong and the rest of that entitled false-nobility house.

But then there was Lyanna.

Kind and sweet, Lyanna. Who loved her flowers. And never showed false interest in the conversations that they shared. Lyanna, who would gift him her personal annotated books and flowers, pressed herself.

He did not know why his anger toward House Strong did not apply to her. She bore the same head of curls as Harwin Strong and Lucerys Velaryon. The same mischievous smile and freckled face as Jacaerys Velaryon.

He did not see those traits as belonging to another whenever he looked at her. They were hers.

He enjoyed being in her company, listening and talking with her. Even the silences he enjoyed. He found himself aching to sit within her presence simply, smell the floral oil she wore, and hear her small snickers and side comments. To merely exist near her. For breathing the same air was enough for him.

Yet he had overstepped. Allowed his ambition and hope to control his actions. He should have simply stayed within their comfortable friendship.

The events that transpired that day kept playing over in his head. How soft her skin felt against his lips. How her breath quickened as he got close to her, the heat from that came off her skin.

The memories often came to him at night, and he was ashamed at how he pleasured himself to them.

He was ashamed of the dreams that would plague him night after night. Of him pleasuring her, her pleasuring him. It was a consistent fact that he would wake up in a cold sweat after a point in his dreams. The same part every time, with his head between her thighs as he feasted on her arousal before the hearttree. Her breast exposed for the night sky to see as she moaned and gripped his hair.

He would not be able to face Lyanna the next day, would turn and walk the other way if he saw her in the corridor, and would stand on the opposite side of the room during court. The two had not spoken to one another, yet Aemond still sought Helaena out to see how Lyanna was doing.

He spent too many hours at the threshold of the Godswood, wanting to join her kneeling figure, but he could never bring himself to. He would feel like a creep as he watched her prey, but it seemed that was all she was doing lately. The few times he could find her outside of the Godswood, she was often in the presence of the hand.

Aemond had found himself seeking the solace of his dragon more often, taking to the skies in the early morning so that he might feel the heat of the rising sun on his face. The wind was like a danger against his exposed skin. It was a way for him to feel something other than shame and guilt.

But now he was not on his dragon. His protector. But beside his mother as she lit her candles. The sept was not a place he wanted to be but there was one sure fact about visiting the sept, Lyanna would not be there. He wanted to see her. Truly, but he did not know what he could do. How he would be able to hold back his desire.