SEE HOW IT SHINES

viii

It brings Aemond no joy when he learns that his father may lose an eye. Orwyle whispers his findings solemnly after examining the king's rotted face, his voice soft as the wisps of incense that fill the chamber. Aemond nearly chokes on the smoke, on the news, on the thick scent of healing herbs and dreamwine and old age.

It brings him no joy, but... when the Grand Maester returns to the king's side, pressing a damp cloth over the eye that has been weakening and clouding for moons, Aemond turns his back on them and laughs into his hand. He passes it off as a cough hears his mother suck in an incredulous breath behind him, never one to be fooled by his display.

"Aemond," she warns in a low tone. "It's not funny. He is your father, your king."

"Yes." Yes, he's my father and my king. Yes, it's a little funny. Yes, he will match me now, though he's always been twice as blind, even when his eyes were at their full strength.

Mother sighs her weary, put-upon sigh and leaves the room, her forest-green skirts brushing over her son's boots as she departs. He joins his father by the fire and inspects his face as carefully as he can without touching it. Mottled, paper-thin skin stretched tight over dying bones with broken sores and angry welts scattered across the surface. The cloth covering his eye smells of lavender and mustard seed, and he's tempted to lift it, to see if the decaying flesh around his father's eye looks anything like his own.

It brings him no joy, but it tastes a bit like justice.

They sit in silence for a moment, the chamber air growing hot and stiff in the afternoon heat. Aemond feels his momentary victory fade into guilt, into sadness. He notices a tear gathering in the king's good eye and his heart grows tight. Slowly, as though someone else is controlling his limb, he reaches for the old man's hand. They both look down when their skin meets, and he hates that the touch makes him wish they'd ever shared this fondness before.

"The irony is not lost on me, my son," Viserys wheezes, voice gravelly and tired. "But I'm afraid I am not half as strong as you, and have no desire to fight to overcome this–this..."

Weakness. Aemond winces. "It is only a weakness if you allow it to be."

What a strange world it is, to find himself here, holding his father's hand and comforting him over his loss. If only the same kindness had been shown to him eight years ago. If only Viserys ever held Aemond, and not the other way around.

"I'm not a young man anymore, and I never was a brave one. That was for my father. Baelon the Brave, they called him. You know he rode Vhagar. Hm, and my brother was always brave, too. I see quite a bit of them both in you," his tone grows wistful and he drifts away, no longer sitting with his son but in another time, one where he's a boy still happy in the shadow of greater men.

Aemond nods slowly, allowing his father to float elsewhere, rambling quietly about childhood memories, all thoughts of eyes long forgotten. He half-listens and lets Viserys hold his hand a moment longer, and nearly forgets the reason he came to see him in the first place. His first stop had been the training yard, of course. He'd needed to hit something. In truth, he'd been angry since dawn, his usual simmer stirred into something more vicious from the moment he woke. Mother's little speech had only made it worse. He sighs in frustration, willing himself to remain calm and leaning back in his chair next to Father.

"Your father and I have come to a decision," she'd said with the sour tone and pinched lips that always betrayed that the decision was all Father's, and she had no choice but to carry out the king's will. "The three of you have been afforded a great luxury in remaining unmarried for this long, but it is high time you wed and start families of your own, to strengthen and continue House Targaryen. To that end, your father plans to host a tourney in two moons' time to celebrate the 30th anniversary of his ascension to the throne. He will invite all of the eligible nobles across the realm, and it is his–our–great hope that each of you will find a suitable spouse; one that will make a prosperous match for the crown but that also pleases your hearts."