Work Text:
Why won’t you look at me, father?
Everyone said that Viserys wanted a son all his life. The man desperately wanted a male heir to the point he cut open his first wife to try to save the baby boy. It was something that was just known— Viserys always wanted a son, that’s one of the reasons why he remarried.
His mother was the one that provided with not only one son, but several. So, why did it feel like Viserys never wanted more children?
How was it possible that Viserys wanted more children, when all his time and love was poured into Rhaenyra? Aemond was often confused as a little kid; it never felt like his father wanted sons since he was often irritated by them.
When Aemond was very young, he simply didn’t know what to do, or how to act to get his father’s attention. Rhaenyra was a woman, almost the same age as his mother, then why was he still so attentive of her?
He was little, Aegon and Helaena too. Why didn’t they get attention from him?
Was there something wrong with them?
Aemond tried many things to get his father to look at him. He tried behaving, and doing as he was told to do so, but that never got him more than a half-smile. He tried talking to Viserys and ask him questions, that always worked with mother. Not now Aemond, was all he usually got.
He tried learning really quick; he was very good at studying. He read and read until his eyes hurt, yet father never even acknowledged his efforts. He tried acting out; sometimes father looked at Aegon when he was behaving badly. Behave boy! His father screamed to his face and Aemond realized he didn’t like when father yelled at him. He may be looking at him when he yells, but it didn’t feel good.
Maybe it was something in his face? His appearance?
He stood in front of the mirror for such a long time that he didn’t realize how much time passed.
He was analyzing his face; Rhaenyra’s eyes were a bit more closed than his. Could it be that his father didn’t like his eyes? His eyes were similar to mother’s, and father didn’t look at her that much as well. Maybe it was that. Could it be his nose? No. Maybe his cheeks? Rhaenyra’s face was sharper than his, and he had big cheeks. He pinched his own cheeks until they hurt. Then, he opened his mouth and looked at his teeth, was it that? Some of his teeth had fallen out, they will grow back, mother said. Maybe that was it! Rhaenyra had all of her teeth, maybe father couldn’t stand the look of a face with missing teeth. He looked at his hair, it was blond and straight like Rhaenyra’s, but that didn’t seem to help him.
He was so confused; he just wanted to understand what was wrong with him so he could fix it.
When they dined together, father never asked him about his day. Mother always did, and she almost always listened. He always narrated his day in detail to his mother while glancing to his father; maybe he would say something that will catch Viserys’ attention someday.
When he failed again to claim a Dragon, it suddenly hit him—he was dragonless, that was why father wanted nothing to do with him.
What kind of Targaryen was he without a dragon?
What kind of son to his father, the King, was he? All his siblings and even his nephew had a dragon, but him. He never felt so ashamed, all those years trying to get his father’s attention, and he didn’t realize what the problem was. He should have known that in his father’s eyes he was no son of him without a dragon. How could he be?
He started to frequent the unclaimed Dragons; it was very dangerous everybody that saw him always said, and they always tried to stop him. He learned how to be unseen and get close to the dragons, but it never worked. Most of the times he avoided getting burnt by a second. It scared him, but he needed to keep trying; he was nothing without a dragon.
One of those visits, the dragon threw flames in his direction and he miscalculated.
He covered his face with his arms and screamed in pain when flames liked his forearms. He landed hard on his back, and struggled to get away from the chained dragon. When he was far enough, he stood up and started running away with his cheeks full of tears. His forearms hurt so bad. He ran as quickly as his short legs allowed him to, and he entered the first bathroom he could find and submerged his forearms in a bucket of water. He could feel his heart on his ears, on his head, to the point that he was so deafened by it that he didn’t realize guards were following him.
He jumped when an arm landed on his back, and he recoiled quickly drying his tears from his face. My Prince, let me see. He shook his head, and he couldn’t stop more tears from coming. He couldn’t lift his arms from the bucket, the pain was too unbearable. Someone must had alerted a maestre and his mother because they were there when he lifted his head again from the bucket.
What happened?! His mother was alarmed and he didn’t like to alarm her. He tried to make his crying stop, but he just couldn’t. The maestres got a hold of his arms, and they pulled his sleeves up revealing angry looking red scars. I’m sorry mother, I’m sorry. Please don’t tell father, please, please. Was all he could say, the least he needed was his father finding out he had failed yet again to be a worthy son—a son deserving of attention.
That night, they were dinning, and both his arms were covered by bandages; it felt humiliating. He didn’t know if he should be relieved or angry that his father didn’t seem to care much. He should be relieved his father didn’t scold him on his failure, but why didn’t he care that he was hurt? For a moment he felt like he wasn’t even there. Was he transparent? Was he even real in that moment?
I need you to see me, father.
He felt like he was floating, and the only think that could anchor him was his father eyes finally seeing him.