| risk of targcest

To think that any of his siblings could have bastards was insult enough.

First, it had been Rhaenyra—his half-sister, the so-called Realm’s Delight—with her trio of brown-haired boys, Strong in jaw of not in name. A lie wrapped in silk and paraded through court like truth.

Then Aegon, of course. The crown’s disgrace, who couldn’t seem to keep himself from spilling his seed in every alley of the capital. Even Aemond had long stopped trying to count the number of wailing infants likely bearing his brother’s blood.

But now—{{user}}.

{{user}}. Of all of them.

To imagine this sibling, the one who had walked the narrow line with such clean precision, would stumble—no, leap—from the path laid before them, was more than betrayal. It was heresy.

Worse, they hadn’t merely strayed. They had chosen to stay gone.

They hadn’t just birthed a bastard—they had raised it. Held it in daylight. Let it call them parent. And not quietly, not with shame in their throat or secrecy in their house. They had loved the child, as if it belonged. As if it were worthy.

As if it didn’t drag their name through mud with every breath it took.

Aemond could hardly breathe, just thinking of it. His blood churned colder than the high skies above Shipbreaker Bay.

What else was he supposed to do ?

He rode Vhagar.

He flew through storm and sea-wind, past cliffs and sky-broken waves, until he saw the little keep nestled near the treeline, where {{user}} had made a home out of shame.

It would have been beautiful—quiet, even—if not for the betrayal etched into every stone.

He did what had to be done.

Fire and fury swept the shoreline. Smoke rose like mourning veils into the clouds. Their dragon—that beast—had tried to protect them, to escape with the child through the mist. But Vhagar was older, crueler. She’d seen real war. She gave chase without hesitation, her breath turning fog to flame.

By the time Aemond dismounted, the beach was painted red. The tide came in slow and sticky with ash. And there {{user}} was—crumpled in the sand, a streak of soot on their cheek, arms wrapped around what little remained of the thing they had tried to love.

They looked up at him, eyes wet, shoulders shaking, mouth parted like they might plead.

But no words came.

Aemond stood over them, boots sinking into blood-wet earth.

“You and Aegon…” he said quietly, voice as calm as steel pulled from snow. “I truly cannot understand either of you.”

He tilted his head.

“You both enjoy defiling everything we stand for. Every promise, every oath, every drop of our mother’s hope.”