Led By Fiery Passion (currently being revised)

Part 72

One month later: Aemond

It had been one month since his escape attempt had nearly succeeded, only to end in failure. He couldn't fathom why he was moved, under the cover of night, to the dreaded Storm's End of all places. As if his brother hadn't made him suffer enough, he had sent him to be imprisoned by the Baratheon brute. The man utterly disgusted Aemond; if he thought Borros was bad before, he was sorely mistaken. Since being trapped there, the man had made it his mission to piss Aemond off in every conceivable way. Just so when Aemond retaliated back, a guard would be summoned to rough him up. It made it worse because he remained bound in ropes unable to fight back.

"What's wrong, Prince Aemond? Still sore from your last beating?" one of the guards taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. Aemond winced at the memory of his injuries—a black eye, a busted lip, and bruised ribs—but he knew better than to show weakness. He realized that provoking them might only invite more punishment, yet defiance was woven into his very nature. With a smirk on his face, he prepared to retaliate with a sharp retort.

Aemond leaned back, adopting an air of nonchalance as he looked up at the guard who had delivered his brutal beating the night before. "Not really. You hit like a little bitch."

The guard's expression darkened. "What did you say?" He swung open the cell door and seized Aemond by the collar of his black leather tunic. His nostrils flared in rage as Aemond, unfazed, spat in his face and let out a deep, menacing laugh.

The guard drew a knife and scraped the tip down Aemond's scar, dragging it slow to the line of his jaw. His laughter stopped cold.
"Not so fucking funny now, is it?" the guard spat, pressing harder until the blade split skin.

Aemond hissed as fire tore through the cut, warm blood sliding down his neck, soaking into his shirt. His composure wavered but held, rage flashing in his eye. He glared straight at the bastard, refusing to flinch.
"You think this scares me? You'll need more than a scratch to break someone who's already lived through hell."

The guard sneered, yanking Aemond's collar tight, his foul breath choking the air.
"Keep talking. I'll show you what real fear tastes like."

Footsteps cracked down the corridor.

"Ah, it's been too long, brother! How've you been?" Aegon's voice rang out, annoyingly cheerful in the dungeon's dark.

Aemond rolled his eye, unimpressed. He glanced back at the guard, who stood stiff now, suddenly unsure.
"Aegon," Aemond drawled, smirking, "maybe tell your little bitch to back the fuck off. He's already cut my face."

The guard's jaw tightened, anger twitching in his features. Aemond chuckled low, enjoying the crack in his armor.

"I told you to rough him up," Aegon snapped, his smile gone, "not to touch his fucking face. Which one of you idiots thought it was smart to disobey me?"

"Go on," Aemond taunted quietly for only the guard to hear. "Admit it. Maybe you'll get a reward for your bravery."

The guard stiffened as Aegon closed in, Kingsguard looming at his back.

"Lord Borros said—" he began turning to Aegon.

"WHO IS YOUR KING?" Aegon bellowed, his voice slamming off the stone walls.

Aemond burst out laughing, the sound savage and mocking, that even unshed tears began stinging his good eye as he watched a dog of a guard nearly piss himself at his drunk brother's rage.

"You are, your grace!" the guard replied instantly, keeping his gaze locked on Aegon.

Aegon snapped his fingers, and a lower-ranked guard stepped forward. "Cut his jaw where he did my brothers, but make it deeper and longer. Better yet, why not go along his entire jawline, both sides!" The guard nodded in agreement, while two other guards moved in closer to flank the Baratheon guard.