Love Is The Death Of Duty • Aemond Targaryen

16.

Under the dimly lit catacombs beneath the Red Keep, the giant skull of Balerion the Black Dread looms. Hundreds of candles encircle the relic, their flames dancing in flickers. The air is thick with the scent of melted wax and incense, and the lights paint eerie, ever-shifting shadows across the walls.

Before the sacred altar of the Conqueror's dragon, two men stand facing each other in solemn silence. A third voice resonates through the chamber, reciting the sacred vows in High Valyrian.

Blood of two

Joined as one

Ghostly flame

And song of shadows

Two hearts as embers

Forged in fourteen fires

A future promised in glass

The stars stand witness

The vow spoken through time

Of darkness and light.

The same old words that had bound countless Targaryens before them, including Maegor's parents. Now they will seal their love in the same manner.

With the officiant's blessing, one of the maesters who schooled them as children and the few remaining in the Red Keep that still have knowledge of old Valyrian customs, Aemond and Maegor each take a piece of dragonglass. They make a small, precise cut on the other's lips, mismatched gaze never looking away from the one violet eye.

Adrenaline and the unquenchable fire roars within both, they were doing this in a rush, in secrecy, wearing their dragon riding armor instead of the traditional wedding robes. There is no time for that now. They are already disregarding the Queen's discovery and disapproval completely. Disregarding everyone, even the start of a new reign.

Who else other than them would have enough audacity and madness?

Above them, Aegon's coronation is unfolding under the Hand's command with or without his younger brother present. Although in less secrecy, the Hightower made sure to be quick to strip Rhaenyra of the rightful claim over the crown and the Iron Throne.

A distant thought gnaws at Maegor's mind. If he was more selfless and less in love he would have definitely tried to stop Otto and prevent the usurping from happening. But he is not.

The warm, wet touch on his forehead quickly reminds him of that, as Aemond marks him with his blood, drawing an old Valyrian symbol.

Fire.

Reminding himself to breathe and not falter from the rush that makes his ears pound, Maegor mimics his uncle, marking the other's forehead as well.

Blood.

The very same words that their house and legacy was built on centuries ago.

Pausing for a moment to suck a silent breath and try to calm himself as best as he can, Maegor nods to his uncle in approval, who in return flashes him a warm smile. Continuing with the ritual, next they make a slice on their palms with the dragonglass, slowly and in synch, allowing the blood that was seeping instantly from the wounds to drip in a silver goblet and mix. With their trembling hands now clasped together, their mingling blood flows from one to the other as they take turns to drink from the goblet. There's no turning back now, no matter the consequences they will face. For all Maegor cares, he'd take on the whole known and unknown world for Aemond.