#I’m trying to finish the small thing where Baelor is born (in the modern universe)

[dulcewrites]

Mauled Hearts

Aemond has lost an eye, but gained a dragon. He is sure he is slowly losing much of his sanity, but he has gained an equally nutty friend.

I had this small little au idea for what would happen if Myrah came to King’s Landing sooner than she did in Finding Common Cause. It sort of spiraled into me writing this because I’m super curious about that time jump after the driftmark incident. So much happened and it’s a shame we didn’t get it in the show imo. This picks up right after Driftmark. I see Aemond being 11/12 and Myrah is 13

Aemond is late for dinner… again.

Alicent tries not to fixate on the empty seat on the other side of the table. She often had to tell herself nothing was wrong, even when she could feel the eventual doom in the pit of her stomach.

When he didn’t arrive with his sibling, she sent Criston out to find him. She made the rules clear very to all of them. No flying right before or right after dinner. Always, always, tell a guard where you are going to be. She reminds Aemond of this the most. Doing it every morning while she watches the maesters repatch his eye bandages. He grows restless with them by the day. The bandages and the maesters. Opting to redo them as soon as they leave the room.

Alicent just watches. Tongue tingling to say something. Fingers itching as well. She doesn’t know if that is the urge to help her son feel better or the urge to peel her skin from her body. Starting with the fingers till is freyed and left open.

Aemond hates the help he receives. He was always far too precocious for his age. She often thinks he came out of the womb with the world on his shoulders. A difficult birth on her part leading to a haughty attitude passed to him. It’s only compounded since the indecent. He insist on doing things himself as much as possible, despite looking miserable some of the time.

Aegon loudly blows air out of his lips, staring at the meat pies that have yet to be touched. Alicent raises a brow at him, and he raises one back. Defiance and annoyance written on his face.

She can’t help but wonder if that is how she looks everyday. Same melancholy, detached eyes.

It makes her plaster a fake smile on her as the kitchen maids continue to cart out food. The meal was not to start till everyone had arrived; another rule of hers.

The seat next to her is also empty, but she is far more grateful for that. Viserys had locked himself in his room since receiving the raven a week ago.

Rhaenyra and Daemon. Married. Celebrating their newlywed bliss.

He had bitched and moan about it while Alicent tried to hold back a bile helping him change. The nauseous feeling was for serveral different reasons. She always noticed the way Daemon’s eyes trailed people. Daemon Targaryen was a simple man, or at the very least his stunted mind only allowed him to register few emotions on his face. His eyes only computed hatred and toleration; within those two camps came a spectrum of other things under the surface. Anyone less used to watching and observing as Alicent would miss it.

She saw the looks of wanting enacted on Rhaenyra from her uncle.

“I swear it! On the memory of my mother!” Rhaenyra said, and silly Alicent belived it. No wonder everyone lies to her; she makes it so easy for them.

It was only a matter of time before Rhaenyra was another fly in his web. Alicent recognized the lust like she did the hatred.

You don’t hate me because of my father. You hate me because I married your brother. Do you wish you were in my place? Do you wish Rhaenyra was him? Can’t get the acceptance you want from your big brother so you patiently wait for the day that years of gifts and lurking comes to fruition.

Targaryens were terribly funny like that. It would not the most far fetched idea in theory. Daemon viewing Rhaenyra as an extension of Viserys. The way Alicent is always viewed as an extension of her father.

Another no show at dinner. He had the same disgusted response to Rhaenyra and Daemon’s marriage but for different reasons. Otto never hid his distain for Daemon and vice versa. Alicent was envious of them in that regard. Daemon especially. How his emotions were able to ebb and flow freely. No one to tell him he wasn’t valid in them.

She had one moment of anger. A flash of something that burned underneath the surface from the day her mother was buried in the ground, from the moment her stay of King’s Landing became permanent, from the moment she had to lay on her back and have Viserys on top of her. Night after night. Put her body on the line to bear him four children.

She defends herself once, tries to avenge what happened to her son, and she gets whispers of 'mad queen' in court. Somedays, she wants to prove those people right and have their tongues cut out.

But Alicent cannot even pretend to be that cruel. The way others around her cannot pretend to not be that cruel. She immediately apologizes with white hot guilt and shame burning her body while members of her so called family just literally burn everything in their wake. People included.

Lady Rhea dead, Laena dead, then Laenor shortly after. A titled lady and two dragon riders in their own right, all gone. What is to say she and her children will not be next?

"You are not foolish enough to think they have nothing to do with his death, right," her father looked exasperated by her wide eyed look of shock when she learned about Laenor.

Now you see her what she is. What the king's stubbornness has wrought.

She had no comeback when Otto reiterated that same sentiment days ago. No argument for what is the truth. At times, she just wanted to scream at Viserys to wake up. To realize that he is the fucking king; if he does not want his precious daughter in harm's way, he could stop it easily. If he does not want Rhaenyra and Daemon married, he could make it so. If he wanted his daughter to not have bastards or have no one whisper about their parentage, he could have told her to watch herself after the first boy came out just as plain featured as his father. What is stopping Viserys from wielding that power other than his own cowardice? He could have stopped it all the moment before he decided to remarry.

The Mad Queen and the Cowardly King, what a horrid pair they make.

But Alicent has quickly learned that the only time Viserys feels comfortable reminding everyone he is king is often at her expense. And now at the expense of the children he had with her.

On cue, Criston and Aemond stroll into the dining hall.

Aemond cheeks are a bit pink when he finally plops down. Alicent opens her mouth to ask him where the seven hells he’s been, but out of the corner of her eye she sees Criston shake his head slightly. As if to say, we can talk about this later.

They had gotten good at that. Shared looks of communication.

Alicent tries to read between the lines as dinner goes on, but it to no veil as Aemond won’t meet her gaze. Helaena whimsically makes her way through a story about Dreamfyre. By the time dinner is done, Alicent’s interest is far too piqued in what Criston will tell her to even move from her spot.

The kids all give her a kiss goodnight as the evening turns. Before he leans to kiss her on the cheek, Alicent grabs Aemond’s arm softly.

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

His face scrunches in a way that Alicent assumes may be painful because of the healing stitches. He looks over at Criston for a moment then back at his mother.

“You look pretty today.”

Alicent almost laughs at the gall of her second boy. Almost.

“Thanks,” she says dryly as he pecks her. The last of the guards take him away to his room.

Alicent by passes the small goblet in front of her, and goes straight for just the wine jug itself. Criston takes a seat at the table, watching as Alicent downs the wine. She knows when she leaves, she will have to go visit Viserys. Make sure is isn’t slumped over his stupid model, like she found him a couple nights ago.

Or gods willing choked on his own vomit.

“So,” Alicent waits for an explanation.

Criston opens his mouth, then closes it. She can tell he is trying to think of the words to say.

“I do not want you to be upset, your grace.”

Alicent rolls her eyes. He’s always brought would the formalities when he had to tell something bad. She wonders what trouble her children have gotten into now.

“Aemond has a friend.”

She blinks surprised. That was not what she was expecting.

“A friend?”

“Hmm,” he chews on lips. “A friend… that is a young lady.”

“What,” she says it far louder than she intended to. Startling even the kitchen help that come to pick up the plates. She lowers her voice once they are alone again. “What?”

“She is innocent and harmless,” Criston warns. “Well, mostly harmless.”

“Mostly,” Alicent voices gets a bit high.

“They read together. One time I caught them collecting butterflies for Helaena which was nice and -“

“Helaena knew too?”

Criston grimaces. It is a look he has been giving her a lot lately. This look of horrible pity but also cautiousness. Like he is expecting another knife related incident to take place at any moment. Had she reach such lows that Criston of all people was worried about another rage filled outburst?

Alicent slumps in her chair. Even while being painfully attentive, she still manages to never get her children. The kids did always have a knack for sneaking around. From the moment they could stand and walk on both legs, they managed to evade her. On one hand, she could chalk it up to childlike curiosity and recklessness. Something was squeezed out of her at a young age. But the other hand, she could not help think it was a omen for her relationship with her kids. No matter how hard she tries, there will always be parts of them out of her reach. Literally and figuratively.

“I also might have heard them chanting things in a language I did not understand. Then damning a girl named Becca.”

Alicent’s face shifts to mortification.

“But she’s a nice girl. A little strange but no one is forcing Aemond to be around her, so he must enjoy her company,” Criston comforts. “I would not let anything happen to him. Not again.”

Alicent swallows thickly. It was a shared guilt that ran through them. She goes over that night daily, sometimes multiple times a day. How she could’ve stopped it from happening the way it did. She knew how much Aemond wanted a dragon. She should’ve been down there with him. It may the Targaryen blood that gives him the ability to fly that behemoth he loves so much, but he is hers. All of them are hers. The fault of that night was lies at the adults’ feet, including Alicent’s

Her, Viserys, Daemon, Rhaenyra, Laenor.

So overcome with humiliation after Viserys called her Aemma, she retreated to her chambers and stayed there with little care for how it may look. That was till she got a frantic knock from Ser Westerling. Before that horrible knock, Criston watched her cry for a moment before leaving her to her own devices. She could tell he wanted to say something in that moment, but did not risk overstepping a boundary.

A boundary that was frankly overstepped the moment she found him in the Godswood with a blade pointed towards his chest. It was overstepped when she overrode her father’s pleas not to, and had Criston sworn to her.

Alicent, an avid reader in her girlhood, read about the bone rattling allegiance knights have to their queens. She often she fears she got the worst of the bunch. Steeped in honor and attentiveness as he is in violence.

To be fair, she is sure she would be prone to burst of vision blurring anger if she had to protect a family like this one.

At least it was something they could understand on a fundamental level - the utter macabre of a lifetime of servitude.

“Who even is this girl?”

Criston’s lips tilt up in a half smile. “Myrah. Myrah Everlane.”

Alicent tries to rack her brain for any memories of meeting people with the last name Everlane. She bustles around so many people daily, it is hard to keep up at times. It sounds vaguely familiar but not a house that she would keep on her radar.

“Well, maybe he can invite her to dinner one night?”

Alicent tries not feel hurt about Aemond not telling her.

“…. Sure you grace…. maybe,” Criston doesn’t look convinced.

How different can this girl be? She’s what? Ten and three at the most.

But then Alicent thinks about herself at that age. Anxious, unsure, and clinging to the only lifeline she had at the time…. A Targaryen of her own. It pains her to think about how her girlhood feels like a distant memory; how court changes young ladies. Suddenly her reservations for Aemond melt away.

Gods help whoever this Myrah is.

———

In a way, Aemond knew it would not work.

Despite all the books he had read about the magic of Old Valyria, and the how Targaryen blood is special, it would be a bust. He could not feel any less god like waking up each morning, and was no skill of ancestors of bloogmages that came before him here to guide.

But it was admittly wildly entertaining watching Myrah take it as seriously as possible. Right down to outfit she decided to wear. Wrapped in deep red, oversized silks she said she took from her mother. Half her of long hair pulled up with various gold hair accessories. Rogue smeared on her lips.

To be honest, she reminded more of the Braavosi and Lysene dancers that would be brought in for special occasions as the castle. More whimsical with girlish frolic than like a powerful maegi ready to do blood sacrifices. Not even the fire in front of them helping her cause.

Though completely in character, Myrah still insisted he be the one to work with the pig’s blood.

“If I get anything on this, my mother will use me as a blood sacrifice. She got this fabric the last time she was in Dorne,” she sniffed, large book in hand. “I still don’t understand why we had to use a pig and not something smaller like the last time.”

Aemond shifted uncomfortably. “Because I said so.”

“Because I said so,” she mocks under her breath. Sighing, she holds out her hand. Do you have your list?”

Aemond fiddles with his pocket before pulling out writing parchment and handing it to Myrah. Her brows shoot up towards her hairline.

“This is quite the list. You added punishments to the names?”

“Many people deserve to suffer and I want to be thorough,” he shrugs. Myrah nods slowly before reading the list outloud.

“Lucerys Rivers - ,” she stops herself tentively. “There was a rumor I heard that their father was… awfully strong.”

Myrah was a lot of things, Aemond thought. Brash was one of them. But brash in the way he appreciated. Not afraid to say the obvious outloud while keeping what she needed to close to the chest. When he tentively brought up wanting to curse those a little closer to him, Myrah nodded, good natured and understanding. Families are tough, and I’ve never cursed a king. It will prove my power.

“Strong and dead.”

“Lucerys Rivers - nothing but eternal suffering and haunted by the ghost of actual Velaryons till his eventual death... being fed to Vhagar. Jacaerys Rivers - burned alive. Rhaenyra Targaryen -,” she pauses again, holding the paper out. “What is that word.”

Aemond squints, even his own handwriting tricking him. “Umm, sharply.”

“Rhaenyra Targaryen - sharply put to question, eyes plucked out one by one. Viserys Targaryen - guilted, tongue chopped off, then pushed down the stairs.”

The last part made Myrah giggle as she handed the paper back to him.

“Alright, let’s do this,” she flips some pages in the book before straightening her book regally. Letting her large eyed flutter shut she begins speaking in Qohorik. Myrah had picked the Low Valyrian dialect quickly. It makes Aemond wonder how she would fair with High Valyrian. It rolls of her tongue smooth like silk. He had noticed how entrance he was till she opened her eyes expectantly, eyes darting to the blood then to the fire.

“Oh,” he realized it was his turned.

He crumbled his enemies list and threw it into the fire. Followed by blood of the pig. It was an ordeal of itself getting it. Sneaking into the kitchen with one of his Valyrian steel blades. Myrah was of course a terrible lookout. Eyes wandering to the tarts sitting out versus the door. Luckily enough, they were only caught by Criston, who gave them a strange look then a resigned sigh before walking Aemond back to his room then Myrah back to hers.

They sit there in silence watching it all get mangled in the fireplace.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Aemond snorts. “Just like the last time.”

Myrah closes the book. “These things take time.”

“Has Becca from back in the Vale been damned to enternal sadness yet,” he challenges.

“No,” she narrows her eyes. Deep pools of amber darkening. “But I expect for my friends to write me any day now about how miserable she is.”

Aemond shrugs, not convinced as his vision was trained on the fire. He used to think something was wrong with him. Guiltily blaming the Hightower in him. That is must’ve done something to the Targaryen blood. But really, he is just unlucky.

He is not God like his ancestors said Targaryens were. He is terribly mortal. A one-eyed mortal. Fake blood magic or not.

“I need to make sure I’m not late for dinner again,” he says abruptly, suddently feeling that familiar pit of sadness in his gut

Myrah frowns a bit. “What’s wrong?”

“Who said anything was wrong?”

“You have that dopey, awful look on your face.”

Aemond looks over at her with the best glare he can muster. Myrah’s face doesn’t change, a serene calmness marrying her face. He hates how everyone looks at him these days. Sympathy or… disgust. It makes him hate leaving his room. But Myrah just looks through him, as if she never notices the bandages that cover have his face.

“I overheard some people speaking about my eye,” he mutters, embarrassed.

Something flashes behind Myrah’s eyes. “Fuck them. Fuck court and fuck King’s Landing too.”

Aemond is a bit taken a back by her choice of words, but he had heard the sentiment before. The luster of the Red Keep worn off quickly with Myrah. Finding the politicking and fakeness nauseating.

“I was so excited to come here, and now I’d take the Vale with all its sheep and mountains and windchill over this place. There’s no Lady Tyrell asking my parents where they are really from or stuffy old people who have nothing better to do than talk about other’s wealth or lack thereof.” She takes a deep breath after her spiel. “Whether you have one eye, or both. Or you’re missing any other limbs, you’re still Aemond Targaryen. Prince of the realm and rider of the largest dragon in the world. If anyone makes fun of you, that says more about them than it ever will about you.”

She pauses for a moment.

“And when in doubt you can just feed them to Vhagar.”

Well… she’s not wrong about that.

Myrah leaves him with the pep talk, and then a squeeze of the hand. He hopes it wasn’t sweaty when she did. He tries not to meet Criston’s gaze as they walk to dinner.

“Did you have fun?”

All Aemond can do is hum nonchalantly. Not trusting his voice, or the uneven way his heart beats.