Driftmark
Aemond POV
Pain sears through my skull, a white-hot agony that drowns out the world. My left eye—or where it used to be—throbs beneath the bandages, the maester's stitches pulling tight against swollen flesh. The air smells of salt and blood, and the distant crash of waves against Driftmark's shores is a faint roar in my ears. I'm lying in a bed, my body heavy, my mind heavier. But it's not just the pain that anchors me. It's the knowing.
I wasn't always Aemond Targaryen. One moment, I was stumbling on a cracked city sidewalk, the screech of tires and a blinding light swallowing me whole. Then darkness. Then… memories. A life not my own flooding in—taunts of "pig-rider," the weight of a dragonless boy's shame, the thrill of claiming Vhagar, her ancient scales warm beneath my hands. And then, the knife. Lucerys Velaryon's trembling hand. My nephew. My blood. My ruin.
I'm Aemond Targaryen. Second son of King Viserys and Queen Alicent. Brother to Aegon, Helaena, and Daeron. Kinslayer, in another life I haven't lived yet. I know this world. I've seen it unfold in flickering images on a screen, read it in pages stained with coffee and time. House of the Dragon. Fire and Blood. I know the dance that's coming, the blood that will soak the realm, the fire that will consume us all. And yet, here I am, reborn into this scarred, one-eyed body, with a sapphire yet to replace the ruin of my face.
The realization doesn't bring peace. It brings rage.
Rhaenyra. My half-sister. The realm's delight, they call her, with her simpering smiles and her bastard sons. Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey—Strong boys, not Velaryons, not Targaryens. Their dark hair and snub noses mock the blood of the dragon, yet Father dotes on them, blind to their illegitimacy as he is to everything else. He gave Rhaenyra the throne, the attention, the love that should have been mine—ours, Aegon's and mine. He stood by her even as her brats took my eye, as if my pain were a trifling thing, a footnote to her perfect story. I hate her. I hate them. And no amount of foreknowledge from another life will change that.
I shift in the bed, wincing as the movement tugs at the stitches. Vhagar is mine now, her ancient power bound to my will. That, at least, is something Rhaenyra can't take. The largest dragon in the world, a relic of Old Valyria, and she chose me. Not Rhaenyra, not her bastards, not Aegon with his drunken lechery. Me. But even Vhagar's might doesn't erase the sting of Father's indifference, or the whispers that follow me—second son, dragonless no more, but eyeless now. They'll pay for those whispers. Lucerys most of all.
I know what's coming. The Dance of the Dragons. The greens, the blacks. Brother against sister, dragon against dragon. I know I'll ride Vhagar into battle, that I'll chase Lucerys and Arrax through the storm above Shipbreaker Bay, that I'll—no. I stop myself. That hasn't happened yet. I'm not that man, not yet. But the thought of it, the memory of a life I haven't lived, burns in my chest. I want it to happen. I want to see the fear in Lucerys's eyes as Vhagar's jaws close around him. I want Rhaenyra to weep, to know the pain of loss as I do now.
But I also know how this ends. The God's Eye. Daemon. Blood and fire. My own death, plummeting into the lake with Vhagar's corpse. Knowing the future doesn't make me feel powerful—it makes me feel trapped. A pawn in a game I've already lost once. Can I change it? Should I change it? The thought is fleeting, drowned by the pulse of anger in my veins. Why should I spare them? Rhaenyra, who parades her bastards as heirs? Father, who sees only her? The blacks, who will tear this family apart to seat her on the Iron Throne?
No. I won't change the story. Not for them. If anything, I'll make it worse. I'll make them suffer. Vhagar is mine, and with her, I'll carve my name into the histories, one-eyed or not. Let Rhaenyra have her throne for now. Let Father fawn over her. The dance is coming, and I'll be ready.