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almondmilktargaryen · 3 days ago

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Duty & Sacrifice (Part Four)

Summary: Aemond is married with two kids to Floris Baratheon, as it was his duty. But it's when he ventures into Flea Bottom in the night that he faces his sacrifices.

Couple: Aemond Targaryen/Original Female Character

Category: Flangst

Content warnings: None

Word count: 4.2k

Also on my Ao3

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

MONTHS LATER

The first signs of spring bloom from the city with the sun’s warmth—coaxing filth from the stone paths and mingling with the crispness of fresh life. Bright green stems wriggle free from the leftover snow as the Spring Princess does the same in her father’s arms. Aemond pets the fluffy black strands on her head. Her arms navigate out of the swaddle. She reaches up, and the innocence stings more than it soothes. Aemond does not meet her touch, leaving the babe to grasp empty air.

His hands ached beneath her, the bruises dully reminding him of Floris’ record 14-hour labor—fourteen hours of agony for both of them. At the ninth hour, the force of her squeeze shifted the bones in his hand as she abandoned all attempts at demure restraint. He screamed with her then with a shared raw voice, a rare harmony in their otherwise dissonant marriage.

The babe coughs on the capital’s sour air, and Aemond adjusts his hold, cradling her closer as his eye sweeps the cityscape. Exhaustion tugs at him. Yet these basic instincts of fatherhood keep him alert, preventing threats that will never come. It is why he hears boots on the floor and a faint scrape of metal against red stone bricks. “She’s beautiful.” Criston’s tone is low.

“Hmm.” He takes a long breath. “Yes.”

Eventually, Criston passes him. The sun sheens across one of his shoulder plates before he sits by him. His posture is stiff thanks to the armor, but he tries leaning in. “When was the last time you slept, my prince?”

Aemond’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you think this is how my father felt, Cole? When he held Aegon for the first time?”

Criston stills.

His eye drifts down. She is scrawny and pink. Her little fingers stretch and reach for nothing all the same. “Did he feel like he was holding a stranger?”

“That is not fair, Aemond.”

“But it is a genuine question. His love for us went to mourning another. I thought I’d never understand it.”

“You love all your children, sons and daughters alike.”

He did not need to think twice about his sons. He always wanted daughters, but the birth of Baelon and Daeron engulfed him with fatherly pride. Both were a peak that crashed into him without warning; a wave taking him down from behind. Before, his children—all his Targaryen children—reminded him of his purpose, his power, and how those elements together would give them the world. The daughter in his arms, however, he sees it coming. The wave is consumed before it has a chance to wet his boots. It is there when she looks at him, her mother’s eyes deep and blue, but it falls flat when he thinks about it a moment longer.

Aemond wouldn’t be surprised if his father laughed at him now. He was likely with his own Baelon: the infamous Heir for a Day and forever five hours old.

“How could she have chosen that name?”

“It is a political spectacle, Aemond. Nothing more.” He puts a gloved hand on his shoulder and keeps him steady as his fingers dig into the leather. “Names are omens. The people need omens to carry on. With Baelon as heir to the Iron Throne…”

Aemond sniffles.

“It was not the deliberate choice you think it is.”

“No father should compare one child to another.”

The babe reaches out as she fusses.

“How am I supposed to avoid comparing, Cole?”

“You cannot stop yourself. You do your best afterward. But that is tomorrow. Today, you need sleep. Come.”

Aemond hesitates, then stands, cradling the babe with practiced care.

Inside, their bedroom was dim, lit only by slivers of sunlight cutting through the sheer green curtains. Floris lies propped against a mountain of pillows. The labor was three days ago, yet she is just as pale and swollen as she was halfway through pushing the babe out. Floris is also noticeably annoyed. Handmaidens flutter around her like skittish birds. Two massage her feet, and each hard press churns out a grunt from the pillows as others fan her face.

When spotting Aemond, they freeze, all hands mid-motion.

He takes another step closer and some shiver like he is holding a blade instead of a newborn. The reputation of being a fright to the Keep’s staff comes with more privileges than burdens; one of them being minimal communication. So by the time Aemond says, “My wife needs her rest,” the group curtsies in unison and file out the chamber doors.

Floris sighs, her eyes still closed. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate that.”

“May I sit?” He signals to the chair next to her.

She nods weakly.

He walks around the bed. Several bloody rags still hang off the back as Criston stays at the foot. “How are you feeling, princess?”

“The only help I’ll take now is from a maester with a jug of milk of the poppy.” Her laugh is brittle. It bleeds into huffs as she pushes herself up onto her elbows. “Which might be sooner than I wish.”

“You don’t have to sit up,” Aemond tells her. “She’s tired as well.”

Floris doesn’t listen. She shimmies herself upward at her own pace.

“I can help you.”

“You are not a maester.” She winces and braces herself upright. As a reward, she extends her arms, saying their daughter’s name like it is a numbing balm, following it with, “Come here.”

Aemond follows her command, unwrapping the swaddle first to place her on Floris’ chest. She murmured the babe’s name, tender. “Who’s eyes does she have?”

“Yours.”

She frowns, brushing her fingers over her head. “A shame. She won’t look like the boys at all.”

“Eye color can change over time.”

“Really?”

“Possibly.”

Criston clears his throat. “Princess, your husband needs sleep. With your leave, I was going to let him rest in the Tower of the Hand.”

Floris studies her husband. The pinkish whites of her eyes somehow make the blue more prominent. “You haven’t slept at all?”

He shakes his head.

“He’s right then. You need rest.”

“Yes.”

“She’s quiet, but I’ll try to feed her anyway.” She pulls at the edge of her robe while Criston politely makes way for the door.

Aemond shifts his weight and stands. “Do you want me to—”

“We’ve touched enough for some time.” Her voice is calm when she says it. Her eyes remain fixed on their daughter. She opens her robe, and the babe latches without fuss. Silence follows as Aemond departs.

Aemond no longer avoids sleep the way he once had. Each night had been a battle of will: laying his head down only to succumb to silence, closing his eye, and reliving the night he lost Alyssa. The memories turned rest into torment. He awoke so often from stirring in his sleep that a full night’s rest seemed like an impossible dream. Then, the stirrings happened to Floris.

The City Watch had uncovered little after finding Royce’s body. Witness testimonies were scarce. The lords at Chataya’s hid from the Gold Cloaks as if they carried a plague. The only accounts they had were from Chataya and Alayaya, who claimed Royce had staggered out of the building drunk and harassing a young girl. “She clearly escaped,” they both said.

Aemond paid rent early after that.

Floris rarely spoke of Royce. Her tears, once frequent, hardened into a stoic mask as days morphed into weeks. Though Aemond slept better that first night after justice was served, Floris grieved during the dark hours. She trembled in her sleep, whimpering. Each time Aemond reached for her, she jolted awake, eventually seeking Daeron instead.

Their youngest son became her solace during her pregnancy. Barely five, Daeron seemed to sense her unspoken need, much like Aemond did with his own mother. He clung to her in the gardens, holding a finger as they walked or nestled in her lap whenever he could. With Aemond, the boy grew distant. He spoke less, but he never mentioned his dreams when he did. Nor did he cry for his father when awakened by nightmares.

If Aemond dreamt, he forgot by the time he rose from bed. But some dreams lingered in fragments: blood-soaked screams, his father’s dagger, the reminder of what forever means. The worst were cruel illusions where both his daughters lived and he still felt loved. Over time, his heart became unresponsive to all but the craving for sleep alone.

Their boots echo faintly as Aemond and Criston climb the stairs to the Tower of the Hand. Aemond moves deliberately, his eye fixed on the steps, his posture upright and projecting the composure of a well-rested man. Criston, always watching, is ready to catch him at the slightest stumble.

The door swings open, revealing a room steeped in shadow. A faint scent of parchment and dust lingered in the air, perfect for rest.

Once inside, Aemond sinks into the couch between Criston’s (Otto’s) bookshelves, piled high with scrolls and tomes. Stretching out his legs, he runs a hand through his hair, pulling the tie loose. The front strands fall to frame his face as he looks up, finding Criston standing nearby, a hand extended.

Aemond hands him the tie without a word, but Criston doesn’t retreat.

Aemond sighs. “I can sleep fine with it on, Cole.”

“But you’ll sleep better without it.”

Aemond hesitates, glancing at the door.

“No one will come in. You have my word.”

Finally, Aemond unties and hands his eyepatch over. Criston closes his hand around it and places them both on his cluttered desk, the only truly occupied space in the room. Scrolls and documents covered every corner, spilling to the floor in haphazard stacks. Sriston sits, unmoved by the disarray. He glances at Aemond, his brows raising with his command. “Sleep,” he tells him, a tone that brooked no argument.

And Aemond didn’t try arguing. His eye is already closed.

It was a dreamless sleep, but exhaustion still clung to him. The candles light the room as the moon reveals itself outside of the Tower’s thin windows. Aemond blinks the blur away slowly, degrading the candlelight from fuzzy circles to singular, pointed flames. He spots a raven on Criston’s desk as well. It caws at his side. That and the occasional rustle of parchment are the only sounds in the room. He’s focused, sifting through papers and unaware that Aemond is awake. He makes himself known, pushing aside the fatigue and standing. “I’m going to check on Floris.”

I checked on her. She’s resting.” Criston did not look up, quill in hand.

Aemond grabs his eyepatch first, then his hair tie. “Then I need to attend to at least some duties today.” He heads for the door.

“Aemond, stop.”

Aemond’s fingers brush the iron handle. It wasn’t his name, but the tone. Nothing firm, but paternal; something only he has the power to do now. Aemond straightened, and then turned, meeting Criston where he set his stack of papers aside.

“You asked earlier if your father felt the way you felt when you held your daughter.”

Aemond’s jaw shifts.

“I don’t think you are your father.”

“My father longed for a dead babe over the children who came after him. I don’t deny I feel the same.” Every word makes his throat tighter.

“Your father killed his wife for that babe. He made a choice, one that cost him more than he could ever gain.”

“And I nearly did the same.”

“Nearly,” Criston repeated with a nod. “But you didn’t. And that is the difference.”

The silence hangs heavy. Aemond does not see the difference, or Criston’s point. He does not explain, busy picking through his papers again and counting them under his breath until he pulls out the small scroll lost in between, still curled in from its travel.

Aemond glances at the raven. It caws at him when Criston hands over the paper.

He stretches out the scroll, flattening the ends with his thumbs. His eye trails across the messy handwriting; crooked letters and uncertain strokes. He clears his throat. “Sh-she can write now?”

Criston gave a small nod. “I hired a teacher through Chataya. Her penmanship is far from perfect, but improves with every scroll.”

“Every scroll? You’ve been communicating with her all this time?”

“Now and then. For her practice. And proof of life.”

Aemond returned his attention to the scroll. His head buzzes. He reads every word again and again. Not because of the handwriting itself, but because they are her words. He could see where the quill was pressed too hard into the paper, making the ink leak from certain letters and unintentionally connecting them to others, but he could still read them. The way she spells his name, Aemund, is an honor he did not know he desired. But he reads the final two sentences again, his name and all: As my dater gets older, I think it wuld be good for her to see her fater. Pleese tell Aemund as soon as you can.

Aemond gingerly handles the scroll, preserving the work. Then folds it gently before slipping it into his tunic. The buzzing has spread to the rest of his body. The joy, nerves, and fear all wreaking havoc inside him at once. Yet he stands still when Criston rises from his seat and hands over a cloak.

“You are not your father, Aemond. Because you have a chance at forgiveness. And I know you will take it.”

Winter’s bite clings to the capital after the sun disappears. The wind is sharp as it dives under Aemond’s cloak, but he barely feels it. He keeps his hood up, but the blood coursing through him makes him move swiftly. His breath curls in on itself before grazing his face, moist and warm before dissipating just as quickly. His heart pounds against the raven scroll in his breast pocket—the rolled paper scratching against itself with every beat. The sound zips up to his ears as he slides through small crowds and alleyways while finding his footing before slipping onto the frost-kissed streets.

The foyer is modest and warm; larger than most with extra couches for (particular) guests, and on top of heavy Dornish rugs. Days-old incense lingered in the air, thick and smokey with the hearth in the next room divided by a beaded curtain. Flickering candlelight softens the room and eases the ache in Aemond’s eye as the servants’ liquid shadows coordinate from one terracotta wall to the next. They do not meet his gaze, but they bow when he passes. Even here, he was still the One-Eyed Prince: the war hero whose name (and face) was the source of gasps and wary looks.

He walks through the curtains as the servants silently suggest. The tension coiled in him like a tight spring from the moment he read the misspelled name, making his heartbeat drumroll for this occasion he’d dreaded and longed for at the same time. He eagerly awaited spring’s jump upon seeing her splendor. Because he missed her. How could he not?

Aemond straightened his back when the strings finally slid off his shoulders, clicking together behind him. He took down his hood for a better scope of the place: hearth, more couches, pillows, rugs, a balcony supported by white columns, and a view of the fields outside of the city limits.

But she is not here.

The spring twists in on itself somehow even tighter in his core, like it was hunkering down and preparing for an ambush. But the soft squeak of iron hinges to his right releases it from hold and launches itself into Aemond’s throat; leaving him speechless upon hearing his name.

She strolls into the hallway with a slight correction in her posture, hands collected at her front when stepping more in view. She had replaced the dirty cotton nightgown with a thinly cut pink silk dress. It flows around her body rather than clinging to it. It is held up by a gold collar around her neck. Her copper curls pour down her back. Rebellious strands had long escaped to the front, framing her face, despite the way she tied it. Each one is shiny and defined, like her dress.

And Aemond knows he is staring. (He is still a man in some ways.) He eventually mumbles her name with a swallow, testing to see if the world did not still just now. She did not help with his guesses, as neither of them moved. It was like the room itself also held its breath, limiting the air around them. Aemond searches for words, remembering Westerosi and High Valyrian, but nothing that could form a sentence. But the sound of her bracelets dangling when she lifts her arm flushes them away too.

“Alisha’s in her room.”

Aemond’s mouth is still dry. He swallows again before following her. Aemond swears they are meandering. He cannot see much, but her body sways under the silk. She leans on the door with effortless grace, despite still being in pain from that damn cot.

Orange light spills into the dark room, illuminating the intricate wood carvings along the rim of the cradle. Aemond follows the slender path, hesitant to step on any of her toys. (She better have toys.) Inside the cradle, Alisha stirs in her sleep, her body nestled under a cloth clumsily embroidered with flowers. She is smaller than he imagined. But her features are delicate, and her breaths are soft and even. He doesn’t want to wake her, but the need for touch—the proof of life—is imperative. Gently, he places a hand on her plump belly. Yet even in the joy, his eye searches for the traces himself—white strands amidst her fiery ginger curls.

“She’s growing into your nose.” Her voice comes from behind him, just as gentle. She lingers in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the torchlight.

“Indeed, she is,” Aemond murmurs. His lip quivers into a faint smile. There’s no bump on the bridge like her mother’s. “Is she grabbing yet?”

“Books, mainly.”

Aemond looks over his shoulder. “She’s reading already?”

“We learn together.”

Smiling, genuinely smiling, is something he hasn’t remembered doing in so long. Its natural form comes with his children, and it makes things almost feel normal. “Will she know me?” He asks aloud.

“Perhaps.”

“That’s something only you can answer.” Aemond’s gaze shifts back to her. She doesn’t respond but speaks volumes as she turns and walks out of the room.

Alone with Alisha, he watches her sleep. Her tiny chest still rises and falls in a peaceful rhythm. He aches to stay, to pull up a chair and spend the night memorizing every detail of her face, every wispy inhale. But he cannot. With one last touch, he presses his hand to her side, imprinting the feel of her to his memory. Then, reluctantly, he steps away, closing the door softly behind him.

In the light, he finds her on the balcony, her silhouette outlined against the city’s darkness. The faint glow catches the ripples of her dress and the peachy undertones of her skin. She looks out at the fields of King’s Landing, the ones Aemond wanted to take them to once (forever ago.)

He steps closer, lingering behind the columns. “Your letter,” he begins, “said you wanted me here for Alisha.”

She doesn’t turn. Her fingers only tighten on the wood banister as the wind tousles her hair. She flicks it back.

“You care to share the real reason?”

Her laugh is bitter, though barely more than a breath. “Your Prince Aemond. The Targaryen war hero who commanded hundreds of men and a dragon to fight for you.”

“Yes.”

“You killed thousands in the war. Some of them your own family. I know it haunted you once.”

“It still does.”

Her head spins and her eyes narrow. “Does it?”

“Darling—”

“Just explain it to me.” Her body pivots with her interruption, facing him fully. She leans back, but her fingers still dig into the banister. The wood creaks under her grip. “When did you stop caring about Alyssa?”

“I never stopped.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me her name, Aemond.”

“I’m not saying it.”

“She’s the Spring Princess. The world will remember her. You might as well get used to the taste of it.”

“My wife named her.”

“And you couldn’t bring yourself to disagree.”

“It wasn’t that simple. The maesters saw an omen. Something for the people to cling to, a symbol of hope alongside my son.”

“Don’t explain omens to me as if I wouldn’t understand.” Her voice cracks as it rises. “The truth is simple enough. You took our daughter’s name for yourself.”

“I would’ve never.”

“Then you let your wife take the last piece of her I had left without a fight.”

“What was I supposed to do then? Refuse and risk raising questions? Risk someone discovering you and Alisha? She would have looked into why I objected. She would have dug until she found you.”

“You fought bastards to be slaughtered, and you got what you wanted.”

“That’s not fair.”

“And this is where you gave up. Settling for a replacement.”

Aemond’s hands clench to his side. “You think I don’t carry the weight of my actions every day?”

“Claiming guilt and carrying it are not the same.”

“You haven’t seen me carry it!” The heat in his face picks up with his voice. “You’ve spoken to my Hand, but not once have you asked about me. You didn’t see how I mourned her, how I cried every night. The pyre Cole built for her. How I reached for her in my dreams.”

Her lips pressed together, disappearing behind her teeth.

He breathes, he swallows. “I won’t ask you what I can do to make it right. The answer is nothing. She’s gone. But don’t think for a moment that I didn’t want to refuse Floris when she named her. I thought of all three of you. The last thing I was going to do was draw suspicion. I tried to protect all of you before, and I failed. I refuse to lose you again.”

She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling as she stares at the sky. The torchlight catches the tears clinging to her lashes like morning dew, and for a moment, Aemond wonders if she’s looking for her up there.

“You know I loved her.”

“I do.” Her voice is softer as she admits it, but no less pained. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

Aemond doesn’t move, his breath caught somewhere between hope and despair.

“The way you speak of her… the dark shadows under your eye. They weren’t there before. And Ser Criston told me about the pyre. Now she’s up there without me.” She shudders as her body folds.

Then Aemond catches her just in time. He doesn’t have the strength to hold both up, so he eases them down to the limestone, submitting to the weight together. Aemond holds her as she sobs into his chest. “She’ll never be within reach.”

“I know,” he whispers, voice croaking. “I know.”

“And I didn’t want to see you then. I blamed you for it all.”

“You were right to.”

“But when I heard her name at the Sept… I thought you were letting us go.”

“How could I do that?”

She doesn’t reply, gripping his tunic and weeping into the leather.

“No.” Aemond pulls her back, holding her red, wet face in his hands. “How could I possibly let you go? The woman who healed me, loved me, all of me? Gave me beautiful children on top of it all. I tried paying you back and I only destroyed us. You’d still have her if it weren’t for me.”

“I wouldn’t have either of them at all. I’d still be alone.”

“Oh, darling.”

She tries catching her breath, opening her mouth to speak more, but wraps a hand around his bare wrist, carefully. Aemond’s pulse quickens under it, her willing touch. He looks at her lips briefly, but plants a kiss on her cheek instead, fearing that he will not hold himself back if he seals them so close.

“I’m sorry,” she splutters out.

“I’m sorry,” he says back. He brushes back the stray curls as he lets out a breathless “And I love you.”

“I love you.” It’s choked out of her. Like she had been holding it down. She’s still overwhelmed, the calluses inside now tethered above her opened wounds. But she blesses Aemond by cupping his face with her other hand. He had been crying along with her. He just didn’t realize how much until her fingers stroked his chin, smearing the cooling single streak. “Don’t leave me here,” she tells him. “Don’t leave me alone.”

“Never.”

“Stay with me tonight.”

“I will.”

Her thumb rubs under the dark circle. “You need sleep.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

“Aemond.”

“Not yet.” He slips a hand to the back of her neck and pulls her in. He holds everything back and focuses on kissing alone, like their first days together only a year ago (yet somehow decades at the same time.) Except now, he worries he’s too much when she falls back into the balusters. But she brings him with her, sealing both their fates for the night; enveloped in hope and each other, finally.

Taglist: @paprikaquinn @immyowndefender @teal-anchor @dixie-elocin

A/N: Holy shit, we're finally done. It took soo long to get to this point. People died so we could get here. (People being Alyssa, Royce Baratheon, my cat, my dog, and my dad.) (Yeah, I'm serious 🤣🤣) Thank you so much to everyone who encouraged me to write a part two and enjoyed this little series while enduring the choices I made. I appreciate all of you and promise to write happier stories in the future 🤎

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