Enigmas | Aemond Targaryen

THIRTY EIGHT

I could watch her like this for hours – no, days, weeks, moons, years, centuries. The retreating sun shed from its downcast eyes the softest golden beams, darting through the scarlet drapery of the canopy, warmly suffusing over the sleeping countenance and recumbent figure of her. The word Spell never personified in a more immaculate picture. Brushing the disheveled silver tresses away from her brows of snow, the pads of my fingertips grazed delicately the infantile heart-shaped face in which all the witcheries of the fairer sex were blended: seductive charm, vivacious playfulness, soul-dissolving tenderness, and celestial purity. How could pretentious and hubristic cunts like Daemon and Rhaenyra make something so good, so magical, so pure and refreshing out of their unholy, sinful union was a mystery to me.

As far as my memories could reach back, she had always been different. Unique. An outlier in Rhaenyra's plain brood. The only one unpolluted by my pampered half-sister's toxic aura of superiority, entitlement, and callous self-absorption not for Rhaenyra's lack of trying. Through all those years being bullied and made a jest of by the stupid coterie founded by Aegon, Jacaerys and Lucerys, her dazzling smile of heart-felt kindness, her gentle fingers which soothed away the pangs of afflictions on my drooping spirit, her soft scent of lilac, tuberose and styrax, her unwavering faith in me to one day ride a mighty dragon, were what kept me striving and not yielding no matter what.

Mother made it explicitly clear in the beginning that she, the most desired heiress with the Iron Throne as a dowry, was intended for Aegon, as were all nice things in life, the first bite of lemon cake, the ripest of fireplum, the beautifully carved toy sword, the exquisitely illustrated manuscript, solely reserved for her coddled firstborn, though he never took half an interest in them. It was then the seed of my ambition was planted, and sent its deep roots down into my heart. Aegon did not deserve her. Nor did I at the time. But I would become the man worthy of her. An accomplished warrior with sword, lance and bow. An intellectual excelling in all subjects. A dragonrider with the grandest dragon as mount.

Whenever I thought of the fateful night Vhagar chose me — yes, chose, much like my loving and beloved wife, she chose me, we chose each other, fuck whoever whispered behind my back I stole her in the dead of night like a craven — a swirling vortex of pride, hatred, anger, and demonic pain drilled in my skull. It was a monstrous pain like no other, the excruciating feeling of sharp Valyrian steel slashing into flesh, shutting down half of my world into pitch black for the rest of my life. I still felt phantom paroxysms of piercing agony every now and then. They woke me up during the late hours past midnight, drenched in cold sweat, heart throbbing with violence, gasping for breath like a pathetic catfish caught on a hook.

And then there was the differential treatment.

Having Father ignoring and neglecting me in private was one thing — at least I was not alone in it, Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, we all lived under Rhaenyra's shadow, more or less — but having him publicly disparage me in favor of the bastards? It was a heavier blow than the one Lucerys landed on the left side of my face. Before I was too young to fully comprehend the animosity between Mother and Rhaenyra, too enamored with her bewitching daughter to even bother to see her true color. But that night, how my high-and-mighty, untouchable half-sister's impunity and entitlement infuriated me. She had the audacity to falsify the truth as "slander", then deploy "high treason" to threaten those who did not comply. And Father, ever the indulgent fool and puny monarch, played along with it, completely disregarding the fact that I, his true born son of the blood of the dragon, was blinded and maimed for good. He was the one who said I could have my choice, "if the lad is bold enough", and yet, when I accomplished what mortal men, what even those with Targaryen heritage, never dared to imagine, he blamed me. Not a shred of compassion and compunction I saw in his eyes that night. Not a shred. It made me feel as worthless as could be.