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little dragon pleading

@theobjectofyourire

Maggie, 27, writer and witch, she/her/hers 💫 mostly screaming about the dragon show. minors DNI
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it's been a year and I cannot stop thinking about this frame:

The hall had fallen silent, an absence of sound so severe, so terribly sharp and equal only to the blade that mere moments ago rested uncertainly on the King's belt, yet to be crimsoned by the righteous wrath of an anguished mother.

"Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?" The aching plea in her voice seemed to grow with every word, her voice trembling not with fear but with a fervency, a fury she had never before allowed herself to possess.

"And now you take my son's eye," she near wept, "and to even that, you feel entitled." It was with a grief she spoke. A mourning for herself, the girl she once was and the woman she might have become had the gods forged a kinder world. A mourning for her children, who were but pawns in a greater game, as she had been, and so fearfully neglected by their father.

A mourning for her son.

Her gentle boy.

Her dearest Aemond, who had clutched her hand and worried at the blood staining the wrists of her dress even as his skin was being threaded back together. As he was told, in no uncertain terms, that his eye was forever lost, and instead of finding comfort in his sire as any boy ought to, he was met with cold commands, alone.

*******

When the princess had stepped back, a slow stream of scarlet flowing from her arm, and the blade frightfully abandoned on the stone, all eyes remained steadfast on the Queen, surrounded and yet entirely isolated. All awaited the word of Viserys, who stood in outraged shock behind her, but not a sound came. 'Twas silence that ruled the night, and mayhaps would have known a longer reign if not for the soft-spoken words of her son, still painted in his own blood.

"Do not mourn me mother." He stepped forward without a measure of hesitancy, and all the great lords and ladies could not hope to remove their gaze from the boy. His voice, despite all, was steadier than any who had come before. "It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Most had looked on with some degree of astonishment, others with the slight flicker of fear, an apprehension of what was undoubtedly to follow in the years to come. Most surprising, mayhaps, was the high regard of an uncle and grandsire. Never had Daemon and Otto so shared, unbeknownst to each other, a look of such pride. Their reasons differed, to be sure, though both could not but admire the boy who had proved himself the true blood of the dragon.

'Twas only one person of note in that hall of many faces who dared not look upon the countenance of the young prince. 'Twas only one who kept his eyes planted firmly at his feet, his head bowed low as though he were not but a servant who feared he was undeserving of such a sight.

In his bones, he knew the fear to be well founded.

Viserys would not look at his son. He could not look at his son, who spoke with a courage and certainty that reminded him so dearly of his brother. He had taken, in no small measure, after his uncle, and it wounded him to see so much of the Rogue Prince, a darkened sort of valiancy in the remaining eye of his child.

It was his fault.

He knew. In his heart of hearts, he knew he had no one but himself to blame. What might the smallest show of care prevented, had he but taken the time to bestow it? How many years had he so desperately prayed for sons, only to treat them with a distanced interest, at best, when the Gods finally saw fit to answer?

At the very least, mightn't he have asked, nay, insisted upon a formal apology from his admittedly beloved grandson, on behalf of his own flesh and blood? For if the injuries had been reversed, had it been Lucerys half-blinded by Aemond...he could not fathom the thought. The truth was far too vile to admit, even unto himself.

"This proceeding is at an end." His voice was firm, unyielding, leaving no room for argument. As he turned, unsteadily limping back to his chambers, he did not spare a glance to his injured son. He could not bare the guilt. He could not shoulder the truth.

The words were those of a King. The actions? Those were of a father, failing, forever unworthy of the title.

*******

#when I say this is my roman empire#i could write essays#i may write the fics#house of the dragon#hotd#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#alicent hightower#hotd episode 7#the object of your ire writes
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