Chapter Text
This is no cultivated haven. This is the earth riddled with a brother. The furrows are mountains. Waves of sands and we are ships wrecked. What's left of a fleet of one hundred shadows shattered and bleached. A crop gone to sticks. The honeysuckle sags with bright sour power. We have followed the flames followed him here where all the black birds in the world have fallen like a shotgun blast into the faded ground. The vines have hardened to worms baking in the desert heat. We are at the gate shaking the gate climbing the gate clanging our cups against the gate. This is no garden. This is my brother and I need a shovel to love him.
excerpt from A Brother Named Gethsemane, by Natalie Diaz
Aemond tries to be a good man. Truly, he does. It’s his thirteenth nameday, and he tries to quell his ever-present rage for the sake of his mother. The ladies at the banquet, young and old, refuse to look at him, while the young lords’ gazes skitter away when he meets them.
He knows the scar is ugly, the eyepatch unseemly. He just wishes someone would look beyond it. Of course, the vain, preening peacocks of King’s Landing are incapable of such a thing. It angers Aemond, their impious conceit, because he refuses to feel hurt by it. Now, with the bastards gone from the Keep, his world has narrowed to his brother and sister.
Helaena is, as she has always been, an oasis of respite from tumultuous courtly life. Aegon, as always, is irritating.
More than that, Aegon is a lighthouse, warning Aemond away from any habit which would make him an overindulgent hedonist.
Aegon drinks at least three bottles of wine a day; Aemond does not. Aegon leers at the maids; Aemond does not. Aegon slacks off training, both in the tiltyard and the library; Aemond does not.
Aegon makes Mother despair; Aemond does not.
Aemond tries to be a good son, a good man. So, he cannot explain why Aegon is currently dragging him to a brothel.
A nameday surprise, Aegon had said fiendishly, to make a man of you.
Even though he knows a man who lays with women outside of marriage is no man at all, Aemond put up no more argument than what was expected of him. He let Aegon corral him into peasant clothes and push him into the warren of tunnels snaking under the castle.
It excites him slightly, an outing with his brother. A happy, if grotesque, reflection of what he wants – his playful, high-spirited Aegon back instead of whatever cruel, melancholic creature emerged when he was in his cups. It happened often, these days.
Aemond does not experience the sin of lust – it’s one of the few virtues the Gods graced him with – so perhaps it was arrogance that allowed Aegon to pull him along so easily. Arrogance which was quickly cowed once they reach the House of Kisses.
Sweet incense wafted through the building, along with the moans and pants of patrons and harlots alike. Greedy eyes raked over him and Aegon as they were shown through to their rooms, each scene they pass more lascivious than the last. Aemond kept his eye fixed on a point on Aegon’s back. The sound of slapping flesh made his skin itch uncomfortably.
Once they were in a room – more spacious and finely decorated than the rest of the brothel, but still leagues below what Aemond was used to – Aegon turns to him, the Lady of Kisses hovering at his elbow.
“I’ve taken the liberty of selecting two for you, but you can choose which you prefer. ’Tis your nameday, after all.” Aegon clicks his fingers, and two girls emerge from the silk drapery adorning the room. Their hips swing and their breasts jiggle as they come to stand before them.
Aegon plasters himself to Aemond’s back, hooking his chin over his shoulder to speak into his ear. His hands feel like a weight dragging Aemond down to the ocean floor.
“Now,” came Aegon’s voice close to his ear, deeper than normal. Aemond suppresses a shiver. “This lovely lady,” he motions to the girl with a pleasant, freckled face and full, rolling curves, “is an expert. I’ve had her many a time, and she always delights.” There is a bland, vacant smile on her face. Aemond wonders if Aegon noticed. If he ever notices. “She can teach you what you like. Or,” he waves a hand at the other, “this one still has her maidenhead.”
“Yes, my prince,” the girl says, though no one was speaking to her, looking at him from under her blonde eyelashes. “Though I know how to use my hands, and my mouth.”
“Really.” Aemond doesn’t have to look at his brother to know there was a lazy, cat-like smile on his face. “Well, which do you want, my lucky little brother?”
Aemond doesn’t feel lucky. He imagines this is what having to pick between the gallows and the sword feels like.
His eye flits between them. Both are beautiful enough, but nothing stirs in his breeches. In fact, he feels faintly sick.
He cannot stand the thought of being the one to deflower, to defile, a maiden. To take what only her husband is owed – he cannot bring himself so low. For the other whores it is too late, but perhaps she will be released into whatever street Aegon surely stole her off, safe and whole.
He shifts slightly, and Aegon takes his motion for what it is.
“Good!” Aegon exclaims, shaking him by the shoulders in his delight. “Perhaps you are not so boring after all, Aemond.” To the Lady of Kisses, he says, “show him and Sandia to the other room.”
Aemond looks at him in alarm, he had thought that they…
Whatever he had thought, it didn’t matter. Sandia takes him by the hand and gently draws him into another room. Just before the heavy, wooden door closes, Aemond turns and catches a glimpse of Aegon, mouth already pressed against the maiden-whore’s breast and her leg hoicked up around his waist. The door shuts with a resolute thud.
Both at the time and in his memory, the acts he and Sandia did in that room all blurred together. Aemond did not like to think on it, but surely it was proof of his piety, of his resolve, that his cock did not harden as the whore suckled at him before sliding atop. She bounced fruitlessly for a few minutes before giving up and allowing him to leave. He remembers feeling a sick flush of shame and pride, pride at not having given in to the baser urges of lesser men. A nauseated feeling had churned in his gut, nonetheless.
As he waits outside the brothel room Aegon was in, listening to the moans of the whore and a rhythmic thudding, the churning turned violent and bile crawls up his throat.
His depravity knows no bounds, Aemond thinks to himself, pressing against the door as inconspicuously as he could. He lays with them as he should only do with his wife. Aegon and Helaena’s wedding day is fast approaching. Did Aegon kiss the whores? Did he whisper sweet things to them? Or was he mean, did he tease them as he did Aemond…
He could imagine it now, Aegon looming above with a wicked glint in his eye. He would grip the woman’s long hair, tilting her head… she appeared to have blonde hair, but perhaps it was more silver, like his own…
The door he was pressed against slams open. Aemond jerks back, suddenly nervous. Aegon blinks in surprise at coming face to face with his brother, before grinning slyly. They were of a height now, though Aegon is still much stronger, nearing seven-and-ten to Aemond’s three-and-ten.
“Still peeping through keyholes?” Aegon’s cheeks are flushed and his hair messy, but he is relaxed in a way Aemond never sees anymore. How is it that Aegon could enjoy fucking while Aemond could not?
“No.” He notices dark marks on the base of Aegon’s throat. Abruptly he feels annoyed. “I want no part in this. I want to go.”
Aegon had said something back, but Aemond couldn’t hear it. Suddenly he feels dizzy – the incense and animal smell of sex melds together overwhelmingly, and a migraine pulses in his empty eye socket. His vision blurs, the low candlelight no longer easy on his eye as the points of light all swirl together. He feels hot, his throat dry and tight. A hand brushes across his arm – his left arm, his blind side – and he flinches. His heart had started hammering in his throat.
“I want to go,” he grits out. Aegon’s face swims in front of him, a slight crease to his brow the only thing betraying his concern.
The next thing Aemond knows he is in an alley, surrounded by cold and nothingness and the stinking refuse of Flea Bottom. He’s alone. No Aegon. He’s abandoned me, Aemond thinks, shaking. He sits on the ground, uncaring of the mud and worse filth besides, then scrambles back to press against the cool stone wall.
He’s gone back to his whores and whorehouses and left me here. He has never been alone in the city before. Aemond’s breath rattles in his chest. He hides his head between his knees. He fears what the inhabitants of Flea Bottom would do if they found a small prince cowering in the mud.
He’s left me, he’s left me… it echoes in Aemond’s mind like a chant in a Sept. He had thought, by now, that he had no expectations left for Aegon to disappoint, no more hopes that Aegon would protect him, yet he surprised himself. Aegon could sink lower in his estimation still.
Aemond tries to summon his fury, but all he finds is an empty hollowness. Aegon has dumped him outside before returning to further wet his cock. Aemond remembers the weight of the whore atop him, pinning him down, and a faint wet squelch; he remembers feeling frozen and overly conscious about his face, his scar, his nose, his eyepatch. His only relief was that the girl seemed as unhappy as he was, her face blank and distant as they were forced to fuck each other.
He blinks rapidly, trying to halt his tears. He wishes he’d never left the Keep.
There’s a slight commotion at the mouth of the alley. A man in a hood spins in a circle, clearly looking for something.
Aemond presses himself back into the wall, hoping he is obscured by the mounds of rubbish. He feels a sharp stab of disgust at himself – here he is, a prince of the realm, hiding in between bins in the city his ancestors built. He glares at the man, who was now digging through the rubbish, likely looking for food.
Wastrel, Aemond spits mentally. When I am older, I’ll be so feared I’ll never be in this position again. I’d kill you and the city would thank me for it.
Yet cold fear crawls up his throat as the figure neared. It storms down the alley, peering round the other corner. The man paced back up the street, ire in the set of his shoulders.
Aemond heard the man muttering to himself. Clearly insane. But as he passes, words drift out from under the hood.
“Fucking hells, where did you fucking go.” The voice is deep and familiar.
Aemond’s head jerks up, his whole body following in an ungainly scramble to his feet. Aegon catches him.
Aemond leans into the familiarity of his brother. But Aegon shoves him back against the wall, hand coming up to grip at his face.
Ah, Aemond thinks, looking at the clench of Aegon’s jaw. Angry.
“What’s your fucking problem,” Aegon hisses. “I told you to wait, not to loll about in the mud like a fucking pig. Couldn’t even do that, could you?”
“You left me,” Aemond gasps.
Aegon rolls his eyes. “I told you I needed to speak to the Lady, smooth over any problems just because you had another fucking episode–”
“Not now. Inside. With the girls.”
“So? The whores are a good time. You need to relax more; it’d do you well. Seven hells, you’re wound up. We can share next time, take one from both ends…” Aegon’s eyes glaze over, but Aemond shakes his head, quivering like a blade of grass in a gale.
“A good time for you,” Aemond spits. “I will never be in such a den of sin again.”
“You’re a hypocrite. Spent your seed in a cunt once and– why did you make that face?” Aegon interrupts himself. Aemond belatedly realises he had flinched slightly. He thought he had grown past giving Aegon a reaction.
“You didn’t finish?” There’s a malicious smile on Aegon’s face. “Is that why you’re in a mood? A little dramatic, even for you. We’ll go back in–”
“No!” Aemond snaps. He was finding it difficult to take full breaths again. “I don’t want to. Aegon– I don’t– I.” He shakes his head. “Don’t make me.”
Now Aegon was watching him carefully, a look in his eyes Aemond couldn’t decipher. “You didn’t like it?” he asks lowly.
For one stupid moment, Aemond thought his brother was concerned for his wellbeing. Then he sees a suppressed grin lurking at the corner of Aegon’s mouth.
“Fuck you, you insipid philanderer!” He brought his hands to Aegon’s shoulders, trying to force him off.
Aegon took the opportunity to drive a knee into his stomach. “Poor Aemond,” he coos, “so religious the gods took away his cock. Or was it his eye? I always forget.” His delirious laughter echoes off the flagstones. “Aemond One-Eye, the little freak. Or perhaps you are like Ser Laenor.”
Aemond punches him in the throat, then tackles Aegon to the floor. They grapple. Aemond cursed that Aegon was still older and stronger despite his recent slacking during their training. One day, Aemond swears to himself, one day.
“No dragon, no inheritance, no cock. How the gods made you, eh?” Aegon still taunts. “You ought to have been a woman. I’d have taken you to wife.”
“I have Vhagar,” Aemond rasps in between hits. His eyepatch slips off, fluttering to the floor.
Aegon just laughs at that. Aemond hates him, hates how he knew exactly where to hit to make it hurt. Even after claiming the oldest, most dangerous dragon in the world, even after sacrificing his eye for her, Aegon still thinks of him as lacking.
Finally, fuelled by rage and anguish, Aemond had Aegon on his back.
“No women, no wine. Is there anything you do enjoy?”
Aemond struggled to pin down Aegon’s legs, who was squirming like a fish. “Fighting.”
“You may have convinced the others, but not me. You’re still the same studious little maester twat in training, no matter how many dummies you slay. Such opponents, straw-stuffed men!” Aegon makes a hacking sound deep in his throat, then spits at Aemond. It splatters across his cheek.
Aemond reels back, disgusted. Aegon sits up, grasps the back of Aemond’s head, and drives two fingers into his dead eye.
Aemond freezes, the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh of anger and fear. He could feel Aegon’s fingertips grazing against the fleshy scar at the back of his socket.
“Get off of me, or I’ll tell Mother you came to a brothel.”
Aemond withdrew.
-
Aemond procures a replacement for his eye, something to keep the space filled. A large sapphire arrives, though neither Mother nor Grandsire will admit to where it came from. A maester chisels and smooths away at the surface until it can pop into his skull, heavy and present.
He still wears the eyepatch. The sapphire is not for aesthetic purposes – it is to keep whatever adversary he may face from targeting the vulnerable spot, from twisting a knife or arrow or fingers into it.
When he had raised the issue with Ser Criston, surprise had briefly taken over the knight’s face, before he commended Aemond’s foresight and knowledge of fighting tactics.
Aegon had the idea of it first. The thought is a bitter one.
-
Aemond is fifteen when he starts to notice his brother. Of course, he’s always known Aegon, but now he feels it take a sinister turn.
Against his will, he finds his eye dipping down to Aegon’s chest whenever he wore a loose, unfastened chemise. He notices Aegon’s long, ringed fingers tap against his goblets. He feels dirty during the rare moments Aegon would carelessly place a hand on his arm or around his shoulders.
He particularly hates the way Aegon sprawls, his legs spread wide. The burning sensation in his stomach must be hate, must be the reason Aemond cannot pull his gaze away.
Aegon is cruel. Aemond knows this. And he hates himself, more than a little bit, because he doesn’t care.
There were too many instances to count of Aemond seeking him in his rooms, only to find Aegon bent over a girl. Several times Aemond had stumbled upon him in a long-forgotten corridor or alcove, his cock buried in some sobbing maid’s throat. The way the shadows danced on Aegon’s face made him look like a god, sequestered in the darkness and taking what he was owed. Aemond quietly left each time, and said nothing to anyone.
Aegon after being retrieved from King’s Landing’s brothels was always the worst – his brother was always furious or miserable when the vitriol of their mother chased him from the Keep. Of course, Mother would not be so vitriolic if Aegon were less a cause of shame. But he isn’t, and so their days are marked by arguments and tears.