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On a cloudless night, beneath the shimmering light of the moon, the wings of Sunfyre gleamed vast and golden, like the crown of the late King Aenys.
The dragon circled high above the city, his silhouette casting a sweeping shadow over rooftops and towers. Each mighty beat of his wings stirred the air, mingling the cool breath of night with the heat radiating from his own body.
He roared, not loudly, not fury, but long — singing.
“Even when sober, his heart belongs not to the Crown, but to that dragon,” Aemond said, watching the bright shape intently. His voice held neither awe nor reverence. Only a cold mockery.
Jacaerys remained silent, staring up at the night sky. He could have sworn he heard Aegon laughing.
“You do not see a King in him,” Jacaerys said at last. A statement, nothing more.
“And do you?”
Jacaerys did not answer. No man in his right mind saw a King in Aegon.
“No,” Aemond smiled, having read the answer in his eyes. “I thought so.”
He stepped nearer. His voice dropped lower, more thoughtful.
“And in her?”
Jacaerys clenched his jaw. A vein swelled along his cheekbone.
“She is my mother.”
“That is no answer.” Aemond let his gaze slide across the young man’s face. “I know how fiercely you believe in her. How desperately you yearn to live up to her expectations. But if you could look upon her with another man's eyes — would you see a Queen?”
“I would,” Jacaerys replied at once, certain, without hesitation.
“Ah, no. You do not hear me,” Aemond corrected him. “You still see a mother. Yet upon the throne must sit not the one who ought to, but the one who is able.”
For a moment he fell silent, letting his words settle in the air.
“Aegon is too weak. Rhaenyra is a woman. And you…”
Aemond smiled thinly, almost imperceptibly.
“Perhaps you are a Strong, or perhaps a Cole — who can say? I don’t follow the movements of my dear brothers and sisters escapades.” Aemond gave dry chuckle, then looked straight into Jacaerys’s eyes again. Violet, like his own. “First and foremost, you are a Targaryen.”
“Velaryon,” Jacaerys objected, barely restraining himself. “First and foremost, I am a Velaryon, uncle.”
Aemond only waved a hand.
“As soon as you ascend the throne, all shall forget that wretched surname and your wretched father, a lover of squires. You are the son of your mother, and of my sister, Jacaerys. Leave those sea-games to your darling brother.”
At the mention of Lucerys, Aemond bared his teeth in a grin.
“These are not games,” Jacaerys tilted his chin confidently. “The blood of the sea in me is no weaker than the blood of the dragon.”
“Bold words, for one born upon dry land,” Aemond mocked.
“And you?” Jacaerys snapped, irritation sharpening his voice. “What of you?”
Aemond stilled. His smile is fading. He regarded the boy long, with a studying gaze, before leaning in closer.
“I am the son of the dragon,” he whispered. “And so are you.”
Jacaerys knew he ought to pull away, to say something. Anything, but became a statue, when Aemond’s fingers brushed his chin.
“What, cat got your tongue?”
The air between them trembled, stretched taut as a drawn string.
“Why are you here?” Jacaery's voice sounded quieter than he would have liked.
Aemond leaned closer still. His hot breath scorched the tender skin.
“To remind you of what you are.”
He did not let Jacaerys pull back. Left no room for doubt as his hand slid to the boy’s waist.
Aemond leaned in and kissed him.
He sealed his words upon Jacaery's lips — certain and unhesitating.
His thin lips warm and insistent, his fingers gripping Jacaery's red doublet, drawing him nearer.
Jacaerys did not know what he ought to do push Aemond away or clutch him in return. Seize him by the neck, slip his hand into those coveted silver strands, or press him to the wall, run greedy palms along that lithe body, rip at the velvet green trunk-hose…
His own heart beat so loudly, so rapidly, that the roar of Sunfyre in the sky faded.
At last, Jacaerys yielded. When he let his eyes flutter shut, when his breath mingled with Aemond’s in a single exhale, when his pale fingers trembled, tearing the rich ruff from uncle's neck. But Aemond drew back from his lips. Slowly, savoring the moment.
Jacaerys barely swallowed a frustrated groan.
“Good night, nephew,” Aemond murmured. A predatory smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
He ruffled Jacaery's curls mockingly, almost gently, before vanishing into the shadows, leaving the future King alone with Aegon’s carefree laughter echoing somewhere above Rhaenys Hill.