Duty. Duty above all else. That is all Aemond has ever known. To be dutiful and upholding— do not indulge, lest you bathe yourself in sin. Walk into the light of the Seven, do not stray in the darkness.

For the most part, he had exemplified those qualities perfectly throughout his life— he was well-read in history and philosophy, a swordsman that even rivals Ser Criston. He prayed at the Keep's Sept every morning, and went to the Sept of Baelor with his mother once a week. He was all-in-all, the perfect son— as said by his mother.

He rode the largest dragon in the world, his dear Vhagar. He loved his old girl, as she was the only thing that he truly took. He coveted her, ramifications be damned, and he had her. He had one flight upon her back while still being whole— when he had two eyes. Just one indulgence— the price to pay was high.

But he still thought it was worth it. None of them that were in the tunnel that day even have a modicum of what Aemond has, what he's strived for and achieved, even as a lesser man in some eyes. He's heard from his mother— who's heard rumors from clubfoot— that Jacaerys cannot even fully speak High Valyrian fully yet. The thought makes Aemond chuckle.

Mayhaps if his father was truly sentient, and not a lily-livered shell since he practically killed his first wife, he wouldn't have held that brown-haired bastard on his lap on the throne and spewed nonsense to him that 'this seat will be yours one day'. He wouldn't tolerate Rhaenyra's nonsense of hiding at Dragonstone, he wouldn't have tolerated Aemond losing his eye—

The thought made his eye socket twinge in pain. He still had it— pain. Quite frequently in fact, and there were some days where it was so debilitating that he had to recuse himself in his room. But never would he ask for milk of the poppy. He wouldn't become an incoherent, barely alive husk like his father. Fuck that.

He has upheld the mantle of duty for years without incident. Until that maid— that bastard girl from the Vale. When she came into his chambers with his tea, not even able to look at him, her head downwards, just a peek of her light blonde hair from under her headwear. She was so nervous, her anxiety almost palpable, he could smell it like a dragon smelled prey.

Gods, she even had the big brown eyes of a plump little sheep, ripe for the taking by a dragon. Rosemary was her name. Rosemary, Rosemary. The name ran through him a thousand times since she first told him— her voice so quiet that it hardly even registered. He was half blind, but the Gods be damned if he didn't have acute hearing; all the better to hear her stupidly soft and almost silent mutterings.

Many a maid have passed through his chambers, old, young, tall, short, skinny, plump, innocent, salacious— every sort of servant under the sun is something he had seen before. And mayhaps he's seen girls that looked like her before, she wasn't wholly unique looking— but something about her heated the fire in him, something that he'd had control over all of this time.

The blood of the dragon runs hot, he's heard it time and time again when his mother would be in tears over something sinful his brother had done. Their blood is so hot and thick, they must find some sort of vice to quell it, to appease it. Aegon's was wine and women. Aemond had managed to keep it simmering for years— until the maid. Those large eyes, her pouty, plump lips and soft-bodied figure was like a ghost in his mind now, lingering.

He knew it would be a bad idea to request her again— and he only meant to request her for one more time, maybe to stare at her a bit and get it out of his system. But in his ways, he somehow conveyed he wanted her always— and maybe subconsciously, he did. He wished to store her in his pocket like a little kitten or mayhaps like one of Helaena's bugs she was so fond of.

She wasn't even a good maid. She couldn't follow simple directions— just eat the fish, damn you— and she bled all over his kerchief.

That was the nail in his coffin. Her blood, trickling from her nose and rimming the dip of her lip. After losing an eye, his other senses had become heightened to compensate— his sense of smell is one of them. He could never stand to be in the lower city of King's Landing for long, the overwhelming scent of shit and despair made him want to retch. When his brother came to dinner stinking of booze and cunt, Aemond had half of a mind to stuff his nostrils with cloth soaked in concentrated flower oil. So when Rosemary started to bleed, the scent went straight through him, making his cock twitch ever so slightly. He had smelled blood countless times, and it never affected him. But her blood smells sweet, saccharine, tooth-rotting sugary, candied sweet.

He was done for, truly. After almost two decades of never coveting for his own, he finally wanted something. Something he wanted almost as much as he had wanted Vhagar all those years ago.

"Mayhaps... I will come see you fight later." she said softly, their hands brushing as she gave him back the kerchief.

"Hm," he hummed, "Draw my bath— then you may leave."

He needed a moment, something to quell his blood. It was past boiling inside of him, bubbling and brewing like the depths of the Fourteen Flames, coursing through him right into his cock.

When she left, he practically huffed the kerchief, savoring the sweet smell. It was like a perfume.

Finally, she filled his tub and left. He looked at least three times to make sure before he descended to the washroom and stripped from his sleeping robe. It was stifling— when did he start sweating?

Dipping into the water, he settled in only for a few moments before his hand went between his legs, tugging at his length. Some pious part of him inside was screaming— while the feral, animalistic part of him beat the pious part into silence.

One hand on his shaft, the other white knuckling the kerchief. He imagined her taking her hair down— how long would it be? Was it straight or curly? Her plump lips parted ever so slightly as he slid the head of his cock between them, stifling her little whimpers. He wanted her to want him, look up at him with those stupid brown eyes and have them be filled with need and want and everything in between.

He wondered about her body, he knew she was soft-cored. Not bony like some ladies, but plush— how plush though? Would he be able to grip her hips, his hands sinking into her flesh like a lifeline. The water rippled as he continued to fist himself, thinking of her hips and mayhaps her stomach, plump and filled with children. His children, little dragonlings— she would continue his legacy, the little lamb a perfect vessel for dragon seed.

His peak hurdled at him from the last thought, ropes of his seed shooting from him and landing on the lip of the tub. He stroked himself into a little bit of overstimulation, gritting his teeth before letting go.

Blinking profusely, Aemond ran his hand down his face, half wiping away sweat and half admonishing himself in shame.

Fucking hell. Is this how it felt to be Aegon? Was he doomed to become a lecher like his brother?

He bathed quickly and dressed, heading straight for the Keep's sept. Aemond descended to his knees, clasping his hands together.

"May the Crone provide me wisdom to... see what I may be blind to," he began, his voice quiet, so he was only speaking to himself, "Lift the fog from mine eye and guide me to a path better suited for a prince," he paused for a moment, "The Mother— have mercy upon me for my transgressions, my thoughts impure."

He never really had to pray for forgiveness— was this supposed to help? He didn't feel absolved, nor less guilty. Slowly, he rose to his feet and straightened his doublet. Mayhaps sparring would help— to get his blood boiling about something else.

He made his way to the training yard, plucking his sword of choice; a shortsword. He was an agile fighter, preferring to bob and weave through his opponents rather than face them through brute strength.

Ser Criston was already there, chatting with a few other knights. The Dornishman's face lit up as he looked at Aemond, "Ah— my prince, you're here early. I wasn't expecting you until the next turn of the hour."

Aemond grunted, twisting the sword around to warm up his joints, "I don't wish to dally today, Cole. I need to put in more hours of training, anyhow."

"Very well," Criston acquiesced, bowing slightly as he retrieved his weapon. Ser Criston Cole was a master of many weapons, and Aemond put that expertise to good use; he wished to know how to fell any sort of foe with any sort of weapon. Criston picked up a two-handed hammer, swinging it once or twice, then nodding to himself.

As per usual when the prince trained, a small crowd formed. He didn't pay any attention to the onlookers— he could care less.

Supplanting his feet, he waited for Ser Cole to charge, hammer in hand. The knight swung in a wide arc, to which Aemond dodged to the side, the slam of the hammer leaving a divot in the dirt. One thing that Aemond appreciated about his teacher is that he didn't take it easy on him, not anymore at least. He treated him as not a prince, nor a man with one eye, but as a true opponent or foe.

Smirking, Aemond used the opportunity with Criston's posture being hunched, sweeping the knight at the legs. He landed on the handle of the hammer, but quickly recovered, sweeping it back behind him in a similar attempt to sweep Aemond at the ankles.

Seeing the choreographed attack, he jumped backwards and made some room between him and Ser Cole, waiting for his next strike. His muscles were taut and poised, his blood on fire. This is exactly what he needed, another way to purge the fire from his blood. This would do quite nicely— he just needed to put his focus into his training more and not waste his time thinking of the lamb.

His eye caught a flash of red at the top of the steps of the training yard, where the spectators usually sat and watched. Glancing over, he saw her. Rosemary. The damned lamb. His throat went dry and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton— all of his emotions from earlier in the day resurfaced; guilt, lust, sinfulness, lechery. She came to watch him fight, like she had said she would. Of all the times to actually follow directions, this would be her worst timing. His train of thought was broken when Criston's hammer was almost brought down upon him. He saw the flash of silver and instinctively rolled to the side— but it was ungraceful, hurried, and slightly panicked.

Criston picked up on this immediately, noting his distraction. "Let's take a break for a moment," he said, offering Aemond a hand up. Upon taking it, Ser Cole leaned in, "Something distracting you, my prince? Mayhaps the imminent arrival of your betrothed?"

Aemond blinked once, twice. His face must've been blank and was snapped back into reality by a clap on his back from Criston, earning a slightly irritated hum from Aemond, "Hardly. Her arrival will just be another day at the Keep— she will learn quickly I'm not one to put on airs and blow smoke up someone's ass."

Part of what Aemond said was true— he wasn't enthused about the ceremony and pomp and frills involved with a betrothal, he could care less. And it wasn't Floris' and her natural disasters of sisters arriving that was his distraction; to be frank, he had almost forgotten about it completely with the way that Rosemary had eclipsed his mind.

He glanced up at the stairs once more, seeing if she'd seen him fall on his ass. She wasn't there— instead, Larys Strong was looking back at him, his hands on his gnarled cane. Aemond didn't care much for the ratmaster that was Larys— something about him made him feel ill.

Larys nodded at Aemond as they made eye contact in some form of greeting. Instinctively, Aemond dipped his head in return.

Mayhaps Rosemary hadn't come, and she was haunting him like some sort of specter in his mind's eye, seeing things that weren't there. Gods, if he told anyone, he would be called mad.

He did know that there was one person he could speak to— someone who would understand. Aemond would make it a priority to speak to Helaena as soon as possible. Talking to the Gods wasn't enough, he needed his sister. She of all people might understand what it felt like to be haunted.

"I'm done for now, Ser Criston," he said, wiping the dirt from his blade, "I have some tasks to see to this morn, and I do not have much time to loiter."

"A good spar, my prince," Criston nodded, "And good luck."

Aemond hummed in response and ascended up the steps into the corridors with haste.  the corridor, bee-lining to Maegor's Holdfast, up the Serpentine steps. He was within sight of Helaena's chambers when he heard raucous laughter to his right, none that he recognized. The denizens of Maegor's Holdfast and the royal apartments weren't usually privy to such outbursts, unless it was drunk Aegon– to which, this was most definitely not.

Peering over, he saw four women– brown haired, blued eyed, dressed in fine silks with their hair up in intricate braids, laughing and chittering like hens. His presence was noticed and they all fell silent for a moment, before whispering between one another.

The shortest one came forward, "My prince," she mused softly, "I... did not expect us to meet yet." she held out her hand, apparently wanting for something.

Aemond blinked, his face schooling back into a neutral expression. Who the hell– it hit him like a ton of bricks, or as if Vhagar sat atop him. The four storms had arrived– and this was Floris. He took a small inward breath, taking her hand and kissing it chastely, "My lady," he said, mustering his best manners that he could, when he was in no situation to be meeting his betrothed, "It is... a pleasure to meet you at last. You must forgive me, I've just come back from the training yard."

Floris' cheeks warmed into a rosy blush and she giggled. It wasn't an unpleasant noise by any means– mayhaps a bit grating and annoying to Aemond. "I do not mind, my prince. Sweat and musk is a good sign of a morning's hard work." she purred.

Musk? Did she imply that he smelled? He hadn't overexerted himself quite too much during training– mayhaps all his fretting over that damn lamb has caused him to perspire more than usual. His mind drifted back to earlier in the morn, when he was in the bath. A minute smile crept onto his lips, "Hard work indeed, my lady."