"The blood of Lucerys will be repaid tenfold. A brother for a brother."
In which Daenys Velaryon, the oldest child of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, must come to terms with the fact that the man she loves has committed an unforgivable crime...
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"You're my family and I love you. But you're terrible, you're all terrible."
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The morning sun began its slow ascent beyond the horizon, casting its faint light through the shattered remnants of the Red Keep's window. Its feeble rays danced upon the dishevelled figure of Aemond, whose once proud stature now slumped against the cold stone floor. His breath came in ragged gasps, as he ignored the splinters that dug into his flesh. His chambers lay in disarray, debris littering the floor, a chaotic mosaic of broken furniture and shattered glass.
With trembling hands, he examined the remnants of his misdeed. Blood, still wet and sticky, clung to his skin like a macabre badge of dishonour, nestled into the creases of his palms and beneath his nails. His fingers trembled as they traced the contours of the unseeing eye that lay nestled within his grasp, although it was no longer that brilliant shade. Discolouration had begun to set in, its surface wrinkled and cloudy, a relic of his own making.
Aemond's heart constricted with every beat as he beheld the ruin he had wrought, the weight of his sins pressing down upon him like a leaden shroud. He knew he should wash away the evidence, but no amount of scrubbing would rid him of the stain that marked him as a pariah in the eyes of gods and men alike.
Kinslayer.
Murderer.
He could not bring himself to move, could not muster the strength to rise from his pitiful perch upon the floor. His limbs felt heavy as lead, his eyelids drooping with the weight of his weariness. It seemed fitting, a poetic justice of sorts. He had the blood of his nephew on his hands, he had killed him after all, and yet his hands had remained untainted of the incriminating stains. Now he was covered in the blood of the one he loved most. He laughed self-depreciatingly, knowing that before this war was finished, he would be covered with a lot more blood. Perhaps even with the blood of his family. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had sparked the first flame and now his family was under even more threat. His mother, Helaena, the children. Even his brother, his stupid drunk fool of a brother, but a brother nonetheless.
Aemond took a deep breath, willing himself to clear his mind, but his thoughts kept returning to the events of the previous hours. He should have been faster, more reactive. He wished he had gotten there earlier, had somehow managed to knock the knife out of his wife's hands before she carved up her own face. Instead, he had just stood there and watched like some shell-shocked fool.
If he was being honest with himself, he didn't think she'd do it, didn't think she had it in her. It was too horrific a curse to incur upon oneself, and it took a certain measure of loathing to carry it out to completion. This final act of hers made him realize just how much her brother's death had affected her, unhinged her in some way. Looking at the blood under his fingernails again, he abruptly stood. Seized with the manic urge to scrub his hands until they bled, he could not stand the idea of having her blood on him for even an instant longer. He might as well have killed her, for the version of her he used to recognize was dead. It was the same as if he had wrapped his fingers around her pretty throat and squeezed until the life left her eyes, transforming her into whatever she was now.
