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Chapter Text

There are many places where blame can rest, Aemond thinks. On his father’s shoulders: comatose for fifteen years, his absence in court saw Rhaenyra’s position weaken. In his mother’s hands: for acting on her spiteful zealotry. On the steps of the Starry Sept: the high septon ruling callously and closed-mindedly over the affairs of the Targaryens, when he was no more than a sheep dictating to a dragon. On Rhaenyra herself: for fucking Harwin Strong in the first place and bringing forth unto the world babe after babe with brown hair.

(And even on himself: child that he was, he could never have hoped to stop what was unfolding before him, but he had to try, even if failure was inevitable.)

So, he throws himself at the man looming over his two-year-old nephew's bed. The little boy is still fast asleep, always a heavy sleeper. A shadowy figure who only laughs and shoves him off his body. Seven-year-old Aemond’s hands are soft and scarcely have felt the touch of the hilt of a blade, but he lunges for the dagger at the man’s hip regardless. He is swatted away like a gnat, but on the rebound sinks his teeth into the meat of the shadow’s palm.

It is this that leads to bloodshed. He screams as his left eye is gouged out of his head and it is through the haze of blood and pain that he watches Lucerys’, now awake and wailing, be carried out the window and out into the night.

Aemond is stitched up and questioned sharply. But no matter how many men they send out onto the streets of the capital, Lucerys is gone, spirited away. His mother is wroth at first, believing it to be Rhaenyra’s scheme to keep her bastard omega son with her instead of him being sent to a motherhouse in the Reach as planned.

It increasingly becomes clear that the princess had no hand in this. She is inconsolable. Her eldest is on the Kingsroad with her disgraced lover to be raised as his natural son. Her newborn, Joffrey, is to be safely ensconced in the Vale with her kinswoman, Jeyne Arryn. Rhaenyra herself was to be confined to Dragonstone for her crimes of adultery and was set to depart on the same day that Lucerys was to leave for Oldtown with Aemond’s Hightower kin to be abandoned like some broken toy in a motherhouse with only sour-faced septas to look after him.

And now he is gone. The folly of the Queen has led to this. The guards that should have been posted at Lucerys’ door were absent in anticipation of his departure for surely nothing would happen on the omega’s last night in the Keep. It is something that Aemond will never be able to forgive her for, no matter how many years pass.

But with time, Aemond One-Eye grows into a fearsome young alpha. He wears the moniker with pride for it was earned in defence of the one who he had claimed in his heart for his own. Lucerys’ soul had sung to him and his had sung back. He bides his time and in this biding he trains and studies and discreetly puts out feelers. Lucerys is still out there, somewhere, waiting for him to find him and bring him home. It is towards this end that Aemond dedicates his time and his passions and his hurts and his tempers.

And it pay dividends for, fifteen years after he first closed them to the world, Viserys Targaryen blinks open bloodshot, rheumy eyes, much to the shock of one Grand Maester Orwyle.

But the grand maester’s shock pales in comparison to the King’s as he comes to know what has transpired during his years long sleeping spell. The fury that tears through the holdfast then reminds all what it means to be a dragon. And finally, the rot of the Greens is dispelled inch by inch. Otto is put to the sword. Alicent is sent to the Silent Sisters. A dozen other lords and ladies are also dispatched to the seven hells or stripped of their lands and sent to the wall to freeze their cocks off.

Rhaenyra is welcomed back with much fatherly contrition and tears. And Aemond attends his eldest sister diligently. It draws the eyes of the courtiers, and, of course, those of his father and his sister; no one knows quite what to make of it, but Aemond knows to what end he is aiming. No one will deny him this and if he must smooth the way by being brotherly and obliging, he will do it. Without question, without consideration for his pride. If it is for Lucerys, there is little he would not do.

He and his siblings are called upon to swear their fealty to Rhaenyra as the lawful heir of King Viserys, and he does so easily, pausing only while on his knees to ask that he be granted leave to set out for Essos to find her missing child. With Jacaerys and Joffrey now returning to her from their exile, Rhaenyra readily agrees. But Aemond has one final request to make: that if he finds Lucerys, he be allowed to wed him for he has never stopped yearning for the echo of his soul.

Shocked but not displeased by this revelation, Rhaenyra acquiesces provided that it be what Lucerys wants as well. And so Aemond takes to the sea, leaving Westeros behind to look for the one to whom he pledged his childish devotion all those years ago.

Chapter Text

The image of the broken sword sigil haunts him still. Aemond remembers it like a shock of lightning seared to his eyelids. He discovered early that it marked the Second Sons, a sellsword company in Essos. He has waited many years to extract justice for what has been taken from him and now he will finally get his chance.

He finds this motley crew on the outskirts of Qohor. When not on campaign they linger on the fringes of one of their early triumphs. Aemond is fully prepared to bargain, bribe and threaten to get the answers he wants, but when he lists the crimes that have been committed the captain blanches. Even here omega stealing is viewed with distaste.

To protect his company’s reputation, he gives up the name of a sellsword, long since let go who now runs with an unsavoury company by the name of the maiden’s men. They loiter near Volantis. Den of iniquity that it is.

The city is oppressive in its heat and its smell. Aemond can barely think. But he grits his teeth and hunts down his quarry. He finds Vargan Nestyris in a pleasure house on his third day in the city. The man is caught in a poppy haze, whore in his lap moving lazily as if bored. He is older now, grizzled and wilting with the years. But Aemond would know his face even at his last exhale of breath.

The glint of his dagger sends the whore running and the man blinks stupidly up at him when he digs it into the soft meat of his throat.

“Remember me?”

Then there is some semblance of a struggle, but Aemond easily quells it. Aemond’s knee digs into a soft gut. His fist threatens to rip hair out at the root as he holds the man’s corpulent neck against the sharp of his blade. This man, a figure of hushed fear from his childhood, who stole so very much from Aemond, is whimpering beneath it.

“Fifteen years ago you came to King’s Landing and you took something that did not belong to you. And I am now giving you the opportunity to tell me where you sold the royal Targaryen omega you stole.”

His eyes are frantic, looking between Aemond’s livid face and the door, as if he could get that far. Even with his considerable bulk it is mostly bulging muscle turned soft and sagging with time and drink and indolence. He is no match for Aemond who has spent more than a decade honing himself to be the blade by which he means to make this man pay.

“Speak, you whoreson,” Aemond snarls, “before I carve you up like the suckling pig you are.”

He blubbers his way through an answer. Lucerys was intended for Yunkai. Any wise master with too much hubris and a taste for fine things would pay through his neck for the chance to train a bed slave out of an omega prince of Valyrian blood. Taught the way of the seven sighs and sixteen seats of pleasure, he would be a jewel in the crown of these flesh slavers.

Horror and rage burns through Aemond, grief so wide and high and deep he cannot take the measure of it at the thought of Lucerys suffering like that.

“But!” Nestyris blurts out. “I was jumped by the bodyguards of that old dragon whore what runs The Sapphire Lotus pleasure house beyond the black wall. She took him, paid a tidy sum for him too and he ain’t been seen on this side of the wall since.”

Recognition rings in Aemond’s bones, but he does not know whether it is good or bad. “Saera Targaryen? He has been with Princess Saera Targaryen this whole time?”

For his cooperation, Vargan Nestyris dies screaming. Aemond carves out his eyes, one and then two, as payment for his, slits his throat for Lucerys. He leaves the room dripping with blood, but the whores flitting around barely dressed do not so much as flinch to see him in all his crimson glory and the proprietress merely sniffs at him in annoyance before barking at a slave to clean up after him. He drops a fat pouch of gold honours in her hands for her trouble and her silence, information and a place to clean up. The last thing he needs now when he is so close is a run in with the tiger cloaks, though he supposes a worthless lowlife sellsword may not be at the top of the list of their priorities. Still. It does not hurt to be safe.

And for Aemond’s generosity, an omega bed slave is sent in with a change of clothes and an urn of cool water for his washbasin. He lingers coyly, dimpling sweetly beneath the teardrop tattoo under his eye while the alpha strips himself of his bloody clothes, scampering out with a giggle when Aemond snarls in his direction.

He has not touched anyone since his presentation as an alpha at thirteen. Could never imagine being with anyone except the soft promise of a dream, denied to him for so long by the sellsword of whom Aemond made a corpse and by his own blood who has kept Lucerys hidden in this loathsome stinking muggy city.

As the water in the washbasin turns pink, he clutches the rim, bows over the blood he spilled, weakened by the thought of everything that may have transpired in the years since Lucerys was taken from him.

For what purpose could Saera Targaryen have saved his nephew from a fate worse than death in Yunkai only to hide him in her pleasure house beyond the black wall? What has she made of the little boy who Aemond cherished and adored? Does he even know who he is?

The thought of Lucerys, still and dull eyed beneath faceless men who take of him what they desire, makes Aemond dry heave over the basin. So wretched with fear and self-recrimination is he that he can barely breathe.

For years Lucerys has been alone, with only a dried-up old whore to keep him safe, if indeed that was even her intention. Could she protect him from being marked with a teardrop tattoo? Did she even care to?

He has failed his omega in so many ways over the years and this is just another failure to add to the list.

But there will be no further tallies to this score. He will see its end before nightfall.

From the proprietress of this less than stellar pleasure house, he learns that The Sapphire Lotus is an exclusive establishment, catering only to a select clientele, that being those of old blood, ensconced in their palaces and manses within the old city of Volantis and the whores in service all boast Valyrian blood of their own. But no one without Valyrian ancestry nor those who are considered foreigners are permitted entry into the great oval hewn of black stone wherein these illustrious scions live.

The madam chews salted and dried beet slivers while eyeing his fine cloak with the Targaryen clasp about the throat and expensive leather boots he wears with his new clothing, seems to judge that much worthy.

He will also need to travel by palanquin or hathay or his chances of gaining entry may dwindle to nothing on account of the poor impression he makes. The madam widens her eyes meaningfully and Aemond rolls his own before dropping a few extra honours in her palm to hire appropriate transportation for him. He hunted Nestyris to this whorehouse on foot, but this already seedy establishment clearly does not place too much stock in such things. However, the gates of the black wall surrounding the old city and The Sapphire Lotus surely would.

And he must get in so he will do as he is instructed.

The soft silks of his fresh clothes suit the clime of this humid region far better than what he wore when he bled Nestyris dry and it is in this modicum of comfort that he is borne across the city to the black walls.

He alights and peers up at the imposing edifice of black dragonstone, its surface shining slickly of wet, a black so deep it seems eager to swallow all light around it. As he approaches, a cluster of tiger cloaks appear, their green tiger stripe tattoos marking them for what they are. They demand to know his business in appalling bastard Valyrian.

“Iksan Aemond Targārien, hen Valyrio Uēpo ānogār iksan. Nyke epan naejot sagon ivestragī isse.” "I am Aemond Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. I ask to be let in."

The tiger cloaks look at each other in hesitant confusion, murmuring amongst themselves in low Valyrian, their consonants clipped and harsh sounding in the Volantene dialect, some of their syllables lazily dropped. He can make out most of what they say. They are debating whether to get someone to deal with him or push him off and deny him entry. He remembers what the brothel madam said: as a Valyrian, he would ordinarily be permitted entry, but as a foreigner to these parts, he still requires an invitation by one of the old blood. And he has one, but not the other.

“Jiōran mēre hen aōha āeksia,”"Fetch one of your masters," he barks. “Kesan sagon ivestragī isse.”"I will be let in."

His tone brooks no argument, sends one scuttling off for his superior. The natural entitlement of a prince it seems is all that is required to convince them that he belongs there. Before long, a handsome olive-skinned man with dark hair shot through with silver and garbed in silver mail arrives. He carries his polished tiger mask helm tucked under his arm, but is without the tiger marks distinguishing him as a slave. He looks Aemond over, takes in the palanquin at his back and seems satisfied with what he sees because he nods and asks: “Vestriā Targārien?”"You said Targaryen?"

“Kessa. Aemond hen Targārien Lentor.” "Yes. Aemond of House Targaryen."

“Sagon jiōrin, Aemond hen Targārien Lentor.” "Be welcome, Aemond of House Targaryen."

They pass through the narrow tunnel through the thick black stone; this gate appears not to have the room for palanquins and hathays, seems for the use of the tiger cloaks alone. This captain is clearly not one of many words, which suits Aemond just fine for neither is he. But it is when they part that the older man looks down at him and asks seriously: “Gaoma ajorrāela baelilā rhaenagon aōha ñuhoso?”"Do you require assistance to find your way?"

He has only one destination in mind. “Skoriot iksis se zāeres kasta rūklon iedar?”"Where is The Sapphire Lotus?"

A long heartbeat in which the man seems to assess him carefully and then waves down a stationary palanquin and gives his orders. A pause. He is stared at for a beat longer and then the captain bends his head, brings it close to Aemond’s ear.

“Gūrō volpe bona gaomā daor mazverdilā qrinuntyssy skori iksā kesīr.”"Take caution that you do not make enemies while you are here."

Before Aemond can wonder where this is coming from, the palanquin is off with a smile and a flick of the captain’s hand.

Disquiet settles in his belly and he scarcely notices the labyrinthine old city as he passes by. The Volantenes have had him on edge since he arrived, but he cannot say what disturbs him so. A voice in his head that sounds like his mother tells him that perhaps it is the filth of the soul that creeps in when flesh trading is involved. Aemond digs his nails into his thigh to banish her and any thoughts beyond what lies in wait for him at the end of this ride.

The Sapphire Lotus is nestled behind an open public courtyard, the mosaicked floor a treasure trail of royal blue tiles that lead the way. He steps down, follows the path glimmering in the late afternoon sun.

In his unfortunate youth, he was Aegon’s minder, his mother’s reluctant right hand when it came to wrangling his delinquent older brother. So he has seen his fair share of pleasure houses.

But The Sapphire Lotus seems to have earned its reputation among the Volantene for a reason. The space is dimly lit but its opulence can be seen in the plush fabrics of the divans and settees where talented whores make use of their mouths and cunts to please demanding lordlings who claim Valyrian blood. Overhead spins a nude tumbler upon a pair of long silks, her slick glistening down her thighs as she twirls out of reach of several lords and ladies who watch her appreciatively. The air is thick with sex, but it is cut through with something green and fragrant so it is not overwhelming. There are multiple doors leading out of this main room, private spaces for the shyer clients. But in this richly decorated foyer some couples move in shadowy passion behind drawn gossamer curtains while others fuck shamelessly out in the open, their eyes lingering on those who pass by, an invitation for some if they were so inclined. Aemond’s lip curls.

There is no one here that he can see that he would call authority, but before he is required to push through the debauchery to find the brothel madam for whom he searches, he is gently touched on the elbow. Aemond looks down to see a short omega slave, teardrop beneath her right eye, her body thick, but strong. To some eyes, entirely alluring. She folds her arms behind her back when she has his attention.

“Skorkydoso kostinna nyke baelan ao, āeksio ñuhys?” "How may I help you, my lord?"

There is no seduction about her, despite her beauty and she seems to be all business. Aemond tilts his head. Perhaps some kind of whorish acolyte of Saera Targaryen’s then.

“Eman daor ajorrāelan syt ñelly,”"I have no need for skin." he says firmly. “Jaelan naejot ȳdran lēda se Targārien dārilaros.”"I want to speak with the Targaryen princess."

Her eyes widen in confusion, likely wondering what use a young alpha such as he could possibly have with an old dried-up cunt. “Usōven, yn bisa iksis daor kōttas. Yn konīr ēdruta sagon mirros tolī jaelā?”"I apologise, but this is not possible. But there must be something else you want?"

She waves in the direction of the heaving flesh and delicate moans and grunts without batting an eye. Aemond’s sneer is a withering thing and he grits out: “Daor. Mērī bona.”"No. Only that."

“Ñuha ābrāzme iksis jorilare,”"My lady is resting," she says flatly, daring him to argue. “Nyke daor jenin zirȳla.” "I cannot disturb her."

He frowns, but will not be dissuaded by the finality in her tone. “Qilōni kostan nyke ȳdran naejot pār?”"Who can I speak to then?"

The slave girl tilts her head imperiously at him and his persistence. Very much the prince that he is, he rankles to see it but he squashes the feeling. Not now. Not when Lucerys is in reach.

“Se āeksio ābrītsos iksis boten. Kostā māzīlā arlī tolī.”"The young master is working. You can come back later."

His head snaps up at her words. Could it be?

In his heart of hearts Aemond knows it is.

“Skoriot iksis ziry?”"Where is he?" he asks softly, tone belying the tremble of his body, the anticipatory coil of readiness.

She does not intend to say, he knows that much. But she cannot help the flicker of her eyes towards a set of ornately carved double doors to his right, handles inlaid with mother of pearl.

He is gone before the girl can even think to raise the alarm.

“Daor! Daor!” "Stop! Stop!"

She yells after him, anklets chiming as she gives chase, but she is a small thing and he is alpha and determination and fire. He wrenches the door open and almost falls inside, ignoring the shocked whisperings of the patrons who have all turned to watch, cocks and cunts and teats suddenly less interesting than the scene he has wrought.

“Mīsiar!”"Guards!" the little omega slave screams. “Mīsiar!”"Guards!"

“Lykirī, Nesera,”"Be calm, Nesera," a soft lilting voice sounds from beyond the curtains that flutter in the evening breeze. “Kesan joverdon bisa. Jikon zirȳla isse.”"I will handle this. Send him in."

The slave girl glares at him but backs out of the room before shutting the doors behind her. Aemond moves forward as if pulled along an invisible thread. His heart is a solid weight in his throat, every breath is felt to the last inch.

The gossamer curtains dance with the warm breeze, half-obscuring the figure within. Aemond sees a thick stack of paper and bottles of ink and quills on a desk of pine, a soft divan before it and the fall of dark hair down an almost bare back. The figure stands, the diaphanous sheath he wears pulling taut to hug a lithe frame before rippling loose around his body like water. Bangles clink together like bells. He is barefoot, intricate silver jewellery draped over his feet and ankles, singing with each step.

As he moves toward him, Aemond catches the glimpse of a flat stomach, navel and soft pink nipples pierced through with silver and draped over with soft translucent dove grey fabric that may as well not be there for all that it hides, a suckled bruise at the throat, a shallow claiming worn like a badge of honour, slender shoulders that purple with violent kisses, teardrop shaped pearls that bounce with the movement and a thick rope of pearls around the neck.

Sunset spills into the room from behind him, making him appear as if he is aflame, bathed in dragonfire. Just as Aemond is.

“Iksā tolmiot hen lenton, Targārien dārilaros.”"You are far from home, Targaryen prince."

The omega tilts his head, lilac eyes glittering with wicked amusement. It peels Aemond back to his core, leaves him flayed open and helpless before it.

“Iā kostilus daor. Valyria iksis vamiot, tolīuni.”"Or perhaps not. Valyria is near, after all."

The name, when it comes, is a shocked exhale. Twined through is relief and despair and they tell another story of the aches of years past and the long painful journey to this moment and how, even now, impossibly, there is still further to go.

“Lucerys.”