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"I want you flat on your back. Helpless, tender, open with only me to help. And then I want you strong again. You're not going to die. You might wish you're going to die, but you're not going to." - Phantom Thread
Aegon wakes on the third day.
No one tells Aemond this. The news carries through the sudden echoing voices in the hallway, their hurried footsteps passing the library toward the infirmary. Aemond glances up from the maps he'd been pouring over, waiting for someone to step foot into the little nook he’s set up for himself - but the stampede passes, leaving behind the ghost of their voices and steps. There are only two likely reasons for the rush to the infirmary: Aegon has awakened. Aegon has died.
Aemond carefully rolls up his maps one by one, sets them aside for later. Regardless of his fate, he must see Aegon. No treachery can abolish that blood-written tie, nor absolve him of his actions. His brother is alive, or he is dead, and Aemond must bear witness.
The hallways have fallen silent by the time Aemond makes his way to the infirmary, his strides calm and sure. If Aegon has stirred from his deep slumber, Aemond recognizes that he may be walking to his own grave. Targaryen prince or not, the punishment for treason is death. If Aegon remembers the details of Rook’s Rest, he will surely tell their mother, and Cole, who has kept Aemond’s secret for now, can verify. But Aemond will not hide and cower; he will stand and face his fate, just as he did that dismal night when he came home from Storm’s End.
This time, he won’t apologize for his transgressions.
When Aemond arrives, the crowd has dispersed aside from a few lords and guards lingering outside the door, discussing amongst themselves in coarse whispers. All fall silent when they see Aemond’s approach, the shadow of the prince regent stiffening their tongues. None rush to arrest Aemond, so he pays them no mind. All focus remains on the room itself, its cloying smell of decay and antiseptic like a noxious perfume, just as it was a mere few weeks ago when his father lay in a ruinous state.
Viserys never permitted Alicent's children to visit him. Not that any of them held such a desire in the first place. Rot begets rot; the whole family festers with it, and Aemond is no exception.
Aemond waits until the last lord exits to step inside, only to find himself standing before Mother and Grand Maester - the latter offering Aemond a tight, grim smile. Mother, however, stares at Aemond with inky-black horror, an empty void of fear and disdain. Aemond steels himself to her dour darkness, ignoring the way his traitorous heart still aches to be cast under such a look from the woman who once soothed him to sleep at night.
And behind them comes the raspy, tell-tale wheeze of Aegon’s breathing. He lives, then.
(relief)
“Why are you here?” Alicent asks, the same as she did when Aegon summoned him to the war council. The days between have passed like years, waves wearing down oceanic rock.
Aemond tilts his head in face of such an unnecessary question - why else would he be here?
Grand Maester beats him to speaking. “His Highness is awake, but he is very groggy from his medicine. He needs rest.”
“I would see him,” Aemond says, short and clipped. When neither moves, he adds in, “alone.”
“No,” Alicent retorts, remnants of her horror leaking in her tone like acid.
Grand Maester glances between the two. He bows his head and excuses himself. Aemond, however, only looks to his Mother, the wildfire of her eyes more scorching than any dragon fire. It’s then that Aemond sees it in her gaze, not just fear but anger, an unspoken accusation. She knows.
Aemond could pull rank, but he can’t find it in himself to do that. She’s always been able to see his soft underbelly.
“He’s my brother,” Aemond tries, quieter now. Behind them, Aegon groans, a rattling sound.
“He is,” Alicent agrees, her brown eyes going glassy. She too knows how to steel herself; Aemond learned it from her, after all. “And you’d do well to remember that.”
She leaves without another word, burning a trail behind her. Like many times in the past, Aemond and Aegon are left alone.
Aegon lies still in his bed, showing no sign of recognizing his surroundings or his brother’s approach. Aemond pauses at Aegon’s bedside, taking stock of his status - the freshly changed bandages clinging to his singed hair, the open and scabbed wounds bubbled across his bare chest, his half-opened right eye listlessly staring forward. He looks so small, is Aemond’s first thought. You did this, is the following thought. Aemond feels no regret (he would make the same choice again), but the pleasure he thought he'd feel at such a sight doesn't bloom as expected. Instead of haughty satisfaction, the kind his inebriated brother taunted him with all of their lives, Aemond only feels a sense of melancholic acceptance.
This is what you brought me to do, and now we both must live with it.
At last Aegon turns his head a fraction to face Aemond, and even such a minor movement seems to aggravate his wounds, based on the resulting sticky hiss between his teeth. Violet eye meets violet eye, a whole world of hurt lying between them.
“You ‘ttacked me,” Aegon accuses, childish in its quiver, syllables slurred by the drugs coursing through his veins.
Aemond could lie. He could claim that Meleys did this to Aegon instead, and that Aemond killed both dragon and rider for it. It wouldn’t be hard to convince Aegon of this, especially when he’s in such a drug-addled state. That’s the official story told to the council members, too. Whether or not they believe it is another matter, but none will dare question him or cast doubt.
But Aemond looks down at his little big brother, the purple and blue bruises mottling the intact portions of his skin, the pain in his gaze that belies a far deeper wound than any physical injury, and instead chooses honesty. Vulnerability begets vulnerability.
“I did,” he agrees, a gentle murmur. He doesn’t offer an apology, but neither does he crow in victory. Only the clinical truth, following a long line of other such undeniable truths: Aemond is the second son. Aemond rides the largest dragon. Aemond attacked Aegon. These make for the foundation of his bones, his very being. He cannot deny one any more than the other.
Aegon blinks wildly, cracked lips parting on a silent, surprised sound. He didn’t expect such an easy confession.
“You admit it,” Aegon mumbles in disbelief.
Aemond knows Aegon says that more for his own benefit than Aemond’s, but the incredulity prompts him to reply all the same. “Yes.”
Aegon’s confused countenance shatters, revealing a bitter, broken core. His eye is wide and glassy with unshed moisture, muscles twitching in agitation.
“Why?” Aegon demands - not the way a king commands their subject, but the way a child questions a previously unthinkable hurt, unable to accept that the world could contain such cruelty.
It’s Aemond’s turn to be surprised. Does Aegon truly not know? Can he not even fathom a guess as to why Aemond did what he did that day in the skies? Sedation or not, Aemond expected Aegon to piece things together, if only a little. Aemond’s heart flutters again in pain, in frustration - he's ten years old again, wondering why his brother cannot see him and the hurt he causes.
Oh, Aegon.
Aemond looks down at his brother and can feel nothing but pity. What a pathetic, beautiful little fool. They never had a chance, did they?
“Because you were in the way,” Aemond says, another quiet, simple fact.
Aegon’s face screws up in deeper confusion, a questioning sound of protest punched out from somewhere in his core. Aemond says nothing more and allows Aegon to sit with this new reality, even if he can’t seem to understand it.
Aegon has always been in the way - of Meleys, of the throne, of his own self. When the gods gifted him an opportunity to change the status quo, to finally remove the hindrances to his destiny, Aemond seized it without a second thought. In a way, he's freed them both from the chains they've worn since they were born.
Perhaps in time, Aegon will come to understand as well. Maybe he'll thank Aemond for it.
For now, Aemond turns to the bedside table and picks up a cloth sitting in still warm water. He wrings the rag of excess water, and turns to place it on the burns on Aegon’s chest. Aegon twitches at the contact, an unbecoming whimper ringing in the air as Aemond presses the cloth along the patchwork of his wounds. Maybe he presses a little harder than necessary, but no one has ever taught Aemond or his brother how to be gentle. The sounds Aegon makes when Aemond digs the cloth against one particularly nasty burn is lovely, not unlike the moans Aegon always fails to suppress when Aemond bites his shoulders and neck in the throes of passion.
“You look good like this,” Aemond remarks, dipping the rag back into the water, which has started to turn pink from old blood. He wrings the water once more, and when he dabs Aegon’s neck, his brother trembles.
“But you’ve always looked best on your back in bed,” Aemond muses, a trace of humor brightening his voice for the first time since the attack. “Underneath me.”
Aegon’s lips curl in a mean sneer, and Aemond allows himself the barest pleased smile in response. They have not coupled since the days following Jaehaerys’ death, but Aemond lingers on the memories of his lips and teeth on each patch of now wounded skin that he tends to. Aemond will never say it, but he likes fucking face to face most, if only to catalogue each minute change in expression as Aegon took his pleasure. Aegon always prefers it from the back (Aegon may call Aemond a hound, but it’s not Aemond who kneels on all fours in bed and begs for it like a bitch in heat), better to hide away, but Aemond wants to take all of Aegon when they come together in the night. He wants him in his entirety even now, charred and woozy as he is.
Placing the rag aside, Aemond tucks wayward strands of Aegon’s hair from his face, allowing his hand to linger longer than necessary in an indulgent, affectionate touch. Aegon’s still looking up at Aemond with a sense of righteous fury, helpless to do anything other than let his would-be killer pet him like a lapdog. Aemond trails his knuckles along the burnt side of Aegon’s face, ignores the way Aegon tries to resist squirming away with more puppy-like whines, sharp and pained.
“We’ll match now,” Aemond murmurs thoughtfully, tracing the brow over Aegon's closed, scarred left eye. “You and I.”
The positions of Aegon’s injuries were unintentional, but somehow, Aemond finds it all the more fitting. He’s always found the intimacy of violence to be romantic. Aegon doesn’t protest; Aemond wonders if he agrees.
“Don’t worry about the crown. I’ll wear it well and win the war for Mother,” Aemond says.
More fire and fury in his brother’s dissonant gaze - he is their mother’s firstborn, cut from her jagged edges.
Aemond turns his attention to the cup behind the now murky water bowl. He picks it up, lifts it to his nose for a light sniff. Milk of the poppy, brewed stronger than usual. Very little of the liquid has been consumed, just enough to keep Aegon relatively pain free while retaining his senses. The whole dosage would surely be enough to send Aegon into a far deeper sedation than they’ve permitted him thus far.
The gears turn in Aemond’s mind. The Grand Maester has denied Aegon true relief - relief Aemond can provide. From the pain, the crown, all of it.
Aemond hums in thought. When he shifts his gaze to Aegon, his brother looks almost fearful, like he knows what Aemond is thinking.
“You never wanted the throne, and now you don’t have to carry its burden,” Aemond says, leaning in closer to Aegon, holding the cup of medicine between them. “I will take care of everything. You need only to rest now, brother. Wouldn't that be nice? To sleep through this nightmare?”
Aegon glances at the cup, then back up at Aemond, hesitant. It’s not a refusal.
“You didn’t tell Mother what happened,” Aemond says, a question hidden within the statement.
Aegon tries to shake his head but winces at the effort. “Needed t’ be sure.”
“And now?” Aemond presses.
Seconds pass as they stare at each other, once more ensnared by the gravitational pull that’s always existed between them, now perhaps more than ever. Eventually, Aegon looks away. It’s all the answer Aemond needs.
“Why didn’t you finish me off?” Aegon manages to say instead, the clumsiness of his tongue unable to conceal his bitterness.
It’s a question Aemond has asked himself. He didn’t know the answer before, but now, sitting alone with his battered, broken beloved, the answer comes easily. It’s the same reason why Aegon didn’t tell Mother about Aemond’s crime. The same explanation for so many of the things they do, to each other and to others, the most important, undeniable truth of all.
“Because you’re my brother.”
The weight that settles over them is far heavier than any crown they wear, more everlasting than any sword-clad throne. When Aegon looks up at Aemond again, he looks far more sober than he has in ages. Understanding, at last.
Aemond offers Aegon the cup again, too twisted to be an olive branch, but far kinder than either of them deserve. Trust me. Aegon heaves a silent sigh, chest quaking from the force of it as he seemingly weighs his options - and relents. Aemond helps Aegon as he struggles to sit up, supporting his brother’s back so he can shakily take hold of the cup with his good hand. Aegon doesn’t break eye contact as he gulps down the concoction, resilient fire replaced by a somber acceptance as he submits himself to Aemond. The power rush from Aegon's surrender is headier than any wine, and Aemond's head swims as if he's the one willingly incapacitating himself.
When the last of it is down, Aegon splutters on a cough, and Aemond hushes him the way their mother would when they’d fuss as children. Aegon goes limp in the bed, sinking deeper into the sheets as the medicine begins its paralyzing work. Aemond places the cup aside and leans in, brushes his lips to the burned crown of Aegon’s forehead, tasting blood and ash. Out of all the touches he’s received, this is the one that breaks Aegon, who erupts in a sobbing gasp, a tear springing past his eye. Aemond’s wiping it away with a swipe of his calloused thumb when he notices a drop of medicine dotted on Aegon’s chapped lips. He bows his head again, presses a warm kiss to Aegon’s lips and laps at the bead, sharing in the poison between them as he always has and always will. Aegon’s too weak to kiss back, but he shudders in contentment all the same.
The medicine works swiftly, and Aegon’s asleep within a minute. Aemond adjusts Aegon's blankets before leaving him to his numbing slumber. He closes the door behind him and makes his way to the library once more, retaining the same air of unaffected confidence he held when he arrived, his own personal armor against the world. No sooner has he turned a corner does he hear the sound of the guards rushing into Aegon's room, inevitably checking to make sure Aemond didn't suffocate him with a pillow.
The library is as silent as Aemond left it. Rather than returning to his maps, Aemond scours the bookshelves with renewed vigor. He scans the titles on the old, leather-bound books, seeking one in particular. When he finds his prize, he carefully takes it off the shelf, blows off the dust that's accumulated on the book’s surface.
Medicinal Properties and Their Uses.
He perches on his preferred chair, opens the chapter on sedatives, and begins to read.
—
The next day, Aemond visits the infirmary again to check on Aegon’s status before the upcoming council meeting. He pauses outside the door when he hears their mother’s voice inside, urgently asking Aegon what happened at Rook’s Rest. There’s a tired sound from Aegon, and then Aemond can just make out the dream-hazy words, speech slurred worse than the day prior - I a’ready said. Meleys. Meleys did it.
Aemond smiles, teeth bared like a dragon. He adjusts Aegon’s crown on his head and continues his way to the council room.
Good boy.