Chapter Text
Aemond Targaryen has been angry all his life.
He quietly raged at the taunts of his brother and Rhaenyra’s Strong bastards. His mother’s meekness. His father’s willful blindness.
Silent, he seethed beside an undeserving Aegon at his coronation.
Furiously - but ever dutifully - he defended his brother’s claim. Fought his brother’s battles even as his resentment grew.
The Dance was merely an outlet for his pent-up anger, and the Black faction was its target.
No one hates more fiercely than Aemond Targaryen.
In the end, his wrath burned the Riverlands and brought Daemon and Caraxes down into the waters of the God’s Eye.
But Aemond’s anger was not quenched.
It has simmered in these months since Aegon reclaimed the throne.
And it bursts into a frenzy when Larys Strong summons him to the Tower of the Hand to demand that he take Aegon’s new wife into his bed.
“Gwendolyn Hightower is fair, they say,” Larys tells Aemond with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if the girl’s beauty is sufficient to surmount any objections.
Aemond sits across from his brother’s Hand with a clenched jaw, the knuckles of his long-fingered hands white on the carved arms of the wingback chair. “Does Aegon know about this?”
Larys gives him a withering look. “It is the king’s command.”
Aemond stiffens in shock. He can hardly imagine Aegon contemplating his brother taking his place in a marriage bed, much less commanding it. But things had changed. Aegon’s injuries at Rook’s Rest ensured he would sire no more children. And Helaena… Aemond swallows hard, wrenching his mind away from the memory of her death that still throbs like a fresh wound.
Larys leans forward and lowers his voice. “Naturally, His Grace was not pleased by the prospect. But given his,” - a meaningful pause - “limitations, the king understands the necessity of this arrangement. You alone can continue the Targaryen line, and the heir to the throne must share the king’s blood. It will remain a matter of utmost secrecy, of course. Only Aegon, Maester Orwyle, myself, and you will know.”
“And the queen,” Aemond adds coldly, fixing Larys with his single eye. “The queen would know.”
“Yes, yes,” Larys agrees with another dismissive wave, as if Gwendolyn Hightower’s consent was a mere afterthought.
“And has she been informed of this… arrangement?” Aemond hums even though he knows the answer. He needs Larys to say it.
Larys looks scandalized. “Certainly not!” Then, a greasy smile pools at the corner of the Hand’s lips, and Aemond’s stomach lurches. He knows about the reluctant favors this snake once coaxed from Alicent, and how it must please Larys to wield any measure of power over a woman who could never desire him. “Gwendolyn Hightower will do as she’s told.”
A flare of Aemond’s nostrils is the only indication that in the space behind his ribs is a conflagration of rage like stoked dragonfire. The towering arrogance of this scheme should no longer astound, but somehow it does. He stews in inarticulate fury.
How easily Aegon takes the girl’s silence and Aemond’s loyalty for granted. How readily he and Larys expect to be able to move others like chess pieces on the most degrading of boards to serve selfish ends.
Aemond grinds his teeth. He has done everything he has been asked to do. He has borne all of the indignities without objection. He has been the devoted scholar, the tireless soldier, the dutiful son, the winged avenger – and for what? Alicent is dead, but not before she was flung from the pedestal Aemond had placed her on all his life. Helaena – whose only misstep had been to strive for some kind of happiness - and her hapless children: gone, too. The only family left for Aemond to defend is a callous brother who presumes to reduce him to a substitute appendage, command even his…
No more.
“I refuse,” Aemond spits.
Larys has the audacity to be surprised.
“Come, now, Prince Aemond,” Larys coaxes, then pauses with a quiet chuckle as the double entendre belatedly dawns on him. His gaze cuts to Aemond, then he wisely swallows his mirth and continues. “Think of it this way. One day, your son will sit on the Iron Throne.”
Aemond recoils, imagining himself relegated to the same role Harwin Strong had once played in this very castle. “A son who would never know his true father.” A bastard.
“A small concession, surely,” Larys counters, his voice wheedling. “You can raise Floris Baratheon’s brood,” he adds brightly. Aemond’s betrothal is an unwanted reminder: a diplomatic match made before the Dance to strengthen Aegon’s claim to the throne. Another shackle forged by duty.
Larys is studying Aemond’s face intently. “Surely you can do this small thing for your dear brother,” he sings. “And, need I remind you, for your king. It is an honor to stand in his stead.” Larys fights a brief internal battle and loses spectacularly. “Well, not stand, exactly…”
Aemond’s rage is almost palpable.
Quickly, Larys collects himself. “Of course, if you do not comply willingly, the Black Cells and the practiced hands of any number of kitchen maids await,” the Hand adds with deadly calm. “King Aegon requests your loyal service, but he can take what he needs without it.” Before Aemond can explode across the table and throttle him, Larys adds, “Compliance is the most dignified option for all involved.”
Except perhaps Gwendolyn Hightower, Aemond thinks darkly.
But she has no more choice in the matter than he does.