The cold and dampness of the dragonpit clings to Aemond's skin and bones, clenching his fists to the point where his knuckles turn white and his fingers tingle.

He can hear the roars and other noises that the dragons make down there, and yet all his attention is drawn to the pig in front of him, dressed as a majestic creature. It makes him want to vomit.

With his pride wounded and while he resists the urge to cry, Aemond watches as the pig lets out a filthy cry; accompanied by the laughter of his brother Aegon and his nephews.

He looks at them, wanting to slam his fist into each of their faces as they walk away. And biting the inside of his cheek so hard he can taste the metal of his blood, Aemond ducks his head so he doesn't see you, wanting to scream at you to go back to your strong brothers.

You are the only person in the family —or were you— who could get along with the strange and quiet Aemond. But didn't you know how desperate your uncle is to have a dragon? How he yearns every day to be able to fly through the air and be a true Targaryen.

But Aemond had seen it. He had seen you cover your mouth to keep from laughing when your brother had pulled the disgusting pig out of the dragonpit to mock him. Although you are a bastard, he had considered you a friend; but now you have proven to be just like your brothers. He would not be surprised if you had put that costume on the pig.

“Go away,” Aemond mutters, starting to walk down the dragonpit towards the dragon stables, rubbing his teary eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “Go laugh with your brothers and your uncle Aegon,” he says wearily, not looking at you.

And, above all, trying to hide how hurt he is. Not because of the pig dressed as a dragon, but because of you.

Because of that damned pretty smile that had mocked him too. A smile that he believed he could trust.