Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He tries too fucking hard.

Has the whole world fooled, though.

His nephew’s face is plastered across the concert hall, on every pillar, down the length of the highest wall, along endless rows of stacked CDs and vinyls he’s yet to sign after his encores.

Pin-straight hair, draping down his shoulders without a single out-of-place strand.

Flashy eye prosthetic, made to look like hewn sapphire when it’s little more than plain acrylic.

And his idiotic fans gobble it all up.

None of his reviews have ever been truly scathing, always the same predictable words thrown in every single time—intense, fascinating, mesmerizing, fierce. As yet, he’s only come across one that saw him for what he truly was—if Aemond Targaryen bides his time, he could certainly enjoy the fruits of a long career… but there is still a long way to go for this boy who is so desperate to be a man.

Daemon likes to imagine that that struck a tender little nerve.

His nephew could fool himself into believing that he’s granite all he wants.

But he’s only alabaster.

Supple.

Fragile.

Easy enough to see through.

And he could keep trying to convince the world that he was always a damn prodigy, even the second coming of Paganini himself… But everyone who’s anyone knows.

The Targaryen family shoved its tendrils into every last orchestra and record label to make him happen. An industry plant, desperate to maintain the illusion of his self-made sob story.

Tonight, Daemon turns up to listen out of sheer convenience.

He’s playing Sibelius here in Pentos, a one-night engagement. So might as well. Might even entertain the hell out of him.

… Even more so if tomorrow’s papers come out with another not-man-enough assessment.

He doesn’t bother bringing Laena and the girls along. If he took her but not them, they’d cause a scene in the living room. But if he took the whole damn gang, the twins would cause a scene at the hall itself. The mere sight of Aemond playing their grandfather’s prized Stradivarius is still a sore subject, five years running.

And much as he wouldn’t mind a little public spat to keep the night interesting, he’d never hear the end of it from his brother and that insufferable bitch he chose for a wife.

So Daemon gets himself a lone Price Category 1 ticket, first row above stage right—within the periphery of Aemond’s one good eye.

Damn him for never looking up.

The boy just struts out with the ancient Strad tucked under his arm. Shakes the concertmaster’s hand. Hones in on his job with hard-jawed, dagger-sharp focus.

And he’s only fucking 15.

Relax.

He doesn’t.

As far as the Sibelius violin concerto goes, Daemon’s heard prettier. More refined. Less designed to impress. Not as choked in that Hightower brand of heavily practiced artifice.

But when Aemond loosens his grip on himself, lets that coal seam fire peek through his cracks with every tender, soaring passage…

It’s almost beautiful.

He tries so fucking hard.

When do you sleep, child?

Daemon chuckles, not softly enough.

That draws a few pairs of glares his way.

But they can’t see what he sees. Or hear what he hears.

Himself, at the same raw age—so starved, gnawing at his own bones, begging for just one lick of spare attention. And finding it, everywhere but where he truly wants it most.

You hungry little thing.

And as the coda comes up fast, Aemond refits his granite mask.

He breezes through the most dizzying passages—or, at least, rehearsed enough to pretend to. Harmonics played to the utmost precision. Double-stops attacked like the violin itself is an extension of his arm.

Perfection.

Grueling, thankless, stick-up-his-ass perfection.

Exactly the way he worked so fucking hard to be.

And he’s only 15.

The crowd erupts in thundering applause.

He too claps.

After all, it’s what this pathetic creature so desperately wants.

And fine.

He even deserves it tonight.

Well done, child.

Could still do better, though.

Just don’t crash and burn the way I did—

Turning, hand held out for the concertmaster to shake, Aemond glances up. At last.

Must be Daemon’s own hair catching in the stray spotlight. They’d be the only two people in this three thousand-strong crowd who were born with the exact same shade of golden white.

Got you.

Daemon smiles down at him. Or smirks. Not that he ever bothered to learn the nuances between them.

Whatever speck of a polite smile his nephew had for the concertmaster is gone.

Granite. Pure. Tough.

But even granite shatters if you try hard enough.

There’s no reason to waste another second in the concert hall. He’s already had his fair share of fun for the night. And Laena and her five-months-swollen belly and her sore feet and her aching back are all waiting for him, a 45-minute drive away.

But when has a fair share ever been enough?

Slouched, arms crossed, Daemon lingers in the shadow of a pillar. And for the greater part of the next hour, he simply watches his nephew go through the motions of the most boring part of the job—scribbling autographs, indulging selfies, nodding along to his fans and their “you changed my life” stories.

Aemond never spares a glance his way, but Daemon knows.

That one eye sees more than a regular pair ever could.

Once the crowd finally clears out, some nobody in management asks, “Shall we book you a taxi back to the hotel?”

But before his nephew can answer, he speaks up.

“No need. I’ll drive him.”

Obviously, the nobody recognizes him. It’s not for nothing that they—unofficially—own the building.

“Mr. Targaryen! I didn’t see you there!”

“My nephew is in good hands,” he says, sauntering over. And gaze drifting down, waiting for Aemond to do something… anything… “Just ask his mother. Dear old friend of mine, Alicent.”

But the mask is still doing some heavy lifting.

Shame.

“Shall we, nephew?”

Aemond rises from his seat.

… How he’s grown.

Almost too fast, by his reckoning. Very nearly eye-to-eye with him, just a few more inches left, though he’ll never be as wide. And good.

Good.

“Let me fetch my violin.”

No “uncle” at the end.

That bothers him more than he would ever care to admit.

Even Rhaenyra, to this day, still calls him uncle—

With the priceless Strad in its case strapped to his back, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, Aemond follows him to the staff exit like he’s deliberately lagging behind.

You’d think fear were the deterrent.

But when Daemon glances back, all he gets is hard stone. Like he’s trying to be a damn nuisance.

At that, he laughs a little… and, just like that, the stone betrays its master. It softens at the edges, not freezing again fast enough.

Got you.

He shoves the door open, holding it in place. “Where are you staying?”

“The Haratis Hotel, in—”

“Yes, yes, Velvet Hills.”

Aemond splays his hand against the door, pushing it wider as he passes.

His thumb catches on Daemon’s little finger.

Repulsive, what that does to him. The slightest smolder in his gut. The smallest twitch under the seam of his pants.

A half-fucking-Hightower.

Heaven forbid.

Itching to keep himself occupied, Daemon pulls out his key fob and unlocks the car, even when it’s still a good two dozen feet away.

He hops right in as soon as they’re close enough. Just a bare few seconds of relief, without that face in his line of sight.

But it doesn’t last long.

His nephew slides onto the front passenger seat—seatbelt fastened in one smooth motion, violin case stood upright between his spread thighs.

Daemon could kill a Hightower right now.

It could even be this one.

Too pretty, though.

And more than that… Too skilled. More, by far, than all of his useless siblings combined.

Damn him.

“You smoke?” he asks, getting the engine running.

“Occasionally.”

“When did you start?”

“Thirteen.”

“Too young.”

“I’ll live.”

“Famous last words.”

Aemond doesn’t laugh at that, let alone smile.

Most of them do.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Just like that lesser side of him to neglect his social education.

The second they come out onto the highway, Daemon lights himself a cigarette and rolls down the window. Never mind that Laena will beat him up bloody if she catches a whiff of nicotine in here. At least it’s limited to the realm of the metaphorical.

Aemond stares. “Though you were offering me one.”

He holds out the stick. Relishes—disgustingly—the way their fingers twine as his nephew takes it. And drinks up—even worse—the thought of their lips brushing over the same scant length of tipping paper.

Only letting Aemond get two drags in, he snatches the cigarette out of his grasp.

“I’m surprised your mother lets you travel alone,” he says.

“I’m grown enough.”

That makes him snort.

And that makes Aemond bristle, even if only at the very seams.

“She know about the smoking as well?”

“… No.”

“Let me guess… You drink too?”

His nephew turns away. “Of course I do.”

“And do you fuck all the pretty girls in scho—?”

“Yes.”

Too fast.

That’s a no, then.

“Naughty boy,” Daemon murmurs, smirking as he slows at the toll gate. “Not to worry, darling. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“I doubt that.”

He can’t help laughing. Loudly, even.

“You knew about my concert.” Aemond drums his fingertips lightly against the top of his violin case.

Daemon rolls his eyes. “Everyone at the foundation knows about your concert.”

“But there was no need to come.”

“And you’re telling me this now?”

For a moment that goes on stretching, his nephew stays grave-silent.

Come on, now. That was prime real estate for a snappy retort.

Get those social skills working.

Can’t exactly get into any of those girls’—or boys’—pants just by playing the damn violin, can he?

… And there we go.

“You came alone.”

“Concert ended long past my wife’s bedtime. She’s pregnant. Needs all the sleep she can get.”

“… Congratulations.” And after a moment—“Do you know the sex?”

“It’s a boy.”

“Have you decided on a name?”

Daemon glances over, puts on a straight face. “Daemon, just with the D at the end.”

His nephew meets his eyes, a line burrowing into the bridge of his nose.

But it’s too funny a joke. Even Daemon himself can’t resist chuckling.

“Would you like that, nephew?”

No answer.

Impossible child.

That’s what happens to you when you’re part-Hightower. Humorless, insufferable cunts.

“I couldn’t bring my girls either,” he goes on, because clearly he has to sustain the conversation himself. “That violin is dear to them. As you know.”

Of course he fucking knows. That hollow eye socket is a daily reminder.

Daemon extends his hand, half-finished cigarette held out.

Their fingers tangle a little longer this time, now that there’s less to hold onto.

It means nothing.

He’d sooner fuck his unborn child than stick his cock in a Hightower. Even a half-Targaryen one.

“How are you getting along with it?” he asks.

“Her.”

“What?”

Even in the harsh orange glare of the streetlights, he can see the slightest pink in Aemond’s cheeks.

“… Her.”

“Oh, it’s a she?”

“Isn’t yours a he?”

He smiles.

Knew this one had to be a fan of his own short-lived musical career. Probably knows the year his Bergonzi was made, down to the number of uneven lines along its maple backboard. And when he debuted with an orchestra, and where, and which piece. And what his rarest, out-of-print recording was—Albéric Magnard’s sonata, among other virtual unknowns. More than likely, his nephew already has a 30-year-old first pressing on his shelf.

Fanboy.

Obviously, that thrills him.

And obviously, Aemond can stay perfectly oblivious.

“Indeed he is. And he’s a magnificent beast.”

“As is mine,” Aemond says.

“Temperamental, isn’t she?”

A long, hard drag. “I accept her for what she is.”

You naïve romantic.

“You gave her a name?” Daemon asks.

Though his nephew hesitates… He does give in, in the end. “Vhagar.”

Absolute overkill.

He laughs softly, shoulders shaking. “The goddess of war?”

“Well.” The longest pause known to man. “She’s always at war with me.”

“Ah.”

Can’t laugh at that now. Not when he’s the most honest he’s ever been tonight.

“What’s yours called again?” Aemond asks, as if he doesn’t already know.

“Caraxes.”

The god of the sea. Wild, untamable creature. The only reason they work is because he’s exactly the same.

Still waters tonight.

Lucky child.

He insists on drinks at the hotel bar. “Before you go up for bedtime,” he clarifies.

But to even that, his nephew doesn’t grant him so much as an eyeroll.

Oh, he’ll pry that granite off his face.

Just wait.

It was easier with Rhaenyra, even at that age. She goaded him, tried to pry him open… Only to simply spread her legs open for him instead, thanks to the incessant attention that he showered all over her.

Because attention is one hell of a drug.

Even he would overdose on it, given the chance. But he’s only ever granted it in pitifully small doses.

Stands to reason, then, why he chose to drown someone else in it.

If not him, then who?

Rhaenyra knows love now, because of him.

This one will learn too.

… Or he would. If he weren’t half-cunt to begin with.

Daemon murmurs his congratulations when the bartender doesn’t bother asking for Aemond’s age, skipping on ahead to their orders—a vesper martini for him, and the same for the kid.

“Do you even know what’s in it?” he asks under his breath, chin a hair’s breadth above his nephew’s shoulder.

Aemond glares at him. “Gin and vodka.”

“And?”

“You tell me.”

“An apéritif.”

“Noted.”

No. This one is leagues away from Rhaenyra.

She was clay in his hands, molded into perfect beauty.

And he?

Well, tough luck. He’s stone upon stone upon stone, hiding away a coal seam fire a fathom deep. And he only lets it out when he lets loose—which he hasn’t quite yet in Daemon’s presence.

Not like him to back out of a challenge, though.

I’ll wrench you open. If you don’t do it for me yourself.

He lifts his glass, clinks the edge against Aemond’s.

“To you,” Daemon says, smiling.

To that warmth, Aemond shoots back coldness. “What for?”

“A good concert.”

“You still think your Sibelius was better.”

“I know it is. Now fucking drink. Cheers.”

With a shake of his head, Aemond brings the glass to his lips.

Daemon watches his first gulp. The pout as the bitterness passes through his lips. The jaw growing all the sharper as he wrestles with it in his mouth. The thick swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing between curtains of golden white. The lips parting again—that thin, pink cupid’s bow breaking apart.

Disgusting.

Crossing one leg over the other, concealing the growing ache between his thighs, Daemon takes a sip of his own and hisses at its sharp, dusty sweetness.

“Fuck…” Aemond says under his breath.

He grins. “Strong, isn’t she? Take your time with her.”

His nephew glances up, lingering on his eyes.

Daemon’s never noticed before just how blue that eye is. Never truly gotten this close enough to look.

Not like the sky, no.

Richer.

The sea.

Aemond’s gaze lowers, fraction by fraction… until it settles on his lips.

And Daemon can only grin wider.

Got you.

“There are no girls, are there?” he says, taking care to lick his lips before he gets himself another sip. “In school. Or anywhere.”

His nephew bites back a sigh, nostrils flaring. “None of your business.”

“That just pleads an even weaker case.”

“And what’s it to you?”

Oh?

He bites.

It’s like staring in a fucking mirror. Just fewer wrinkles. One less eye. More stress on the jawline. A prettier mouth.

Fuck.

Maybe he can look past the lesser half of this creature.

He so wants to.

In fact, he already has, ever since that first ridiculous brush of their fingers.

Can’t even remember the last night he had this much fun.

… And they’re not even fucking.

“As it happens,” Daemon says, leaning back against the bar stool, “I’m quite the teacher.”

Consciously or not, Aemond draws gentle circles along the rim of his glass. Over. And over. And over.

“Which subject?”

“Plenty… Smoke tricks, if that’s what you’re into.” He leans in… “Or how to make better cocktails than this one.” … and leans back again, this time with his shoe atop Aemond’s footrest. Right there, in the little gap between his own feet. “Or the violin. I’m sure that’s what you’d go for. We could master your intonation. Build up your stamina. Improve your fingering.”

“Is that all?” His nephew’s voice is a mere whisper now, low and guttural. Purring.

So much I could teach you…

So much potential.

The only one of that Hightower bitch’s brood who’s worth his salt.

It’d be a waste to let him keep going on like this—buried under dead stone, when he could set himself ablaze. He might even surpass him.

Not quite yet.

But maybe.

“What else would you like to know?” he asks.

“What will it cost me?”

So fucking practical.

“Your time. Your effort. Your dedication.”

Aemond takes a sip. Frowns. “You’re forgetting to take one thing into account… Uncle.”

Call me that at your peril.

“And what’s that?”

“We live a literal sea apart.”

He smirks. “That’s what the Internet is for… What, you don’t think Mommy will approve?”

“Why would she? I have no reason to trust you.”

“But you already do.” Lifting his foot, pressing it against the back of Aemond’s seat, he tugs him closer.

His reward for that is a big damn crack on that wall. Eye going wide. Lips parting. Chest heaving.

See?

Not so tough after all.

“And if I end up dead in my bed?” Aemond asks.

He makes it too easy. “You’d let me join you in bed?”

“You know what I mean, Daemon.” And the granite is back, with a vengeance.

Call me uncle again—

Fine.

He wants the truth? Then here it is.

“I have no reason to kill you. Not yet.”

“When will you?”

“Have a reason?”

“Yes.”

“When you get in my way. But as of now…” He lifts the glass to his mouth. “You’re nothing more than my brother’s second son, wasting away his youth for fame and glory.”

He takes a sip—

“It must be like looking in the mirror.”

—and brings down the glass with a sharp thud.

Only he can say such things.

Not you, whelp.

Fucking child.

Halfway between forceful and tender, teetering closer to rough, Daemon drapes his hand around his nephew’s jaw. Forcing up his face with a sharp shove of the thumb under his chin. Running his thumb across those deliciously parted lips.

Every now and again, his skin catches on Aemond’s teeth. And with each new stroke, that sea-blue withers away into black.

“Offer revoked.” A part of him yearns to spit the words into his nephew’s mouth…

And that part of him wins.

The kiss doesn’t last. Just one stolen breath. One gasp. One shuddering moment of peace.

And he doesn’t miss how the whelp almost instantaneously melts.

Daemon lets go before he slips past the point of no return.

Without another word, he downs the rest of his drink. And head spinning from one ounce of vodka and three of gin, he stands and slams too many dollar bills atop the counter.

His fingers glide over Aemond’s thumb as he walks away and never looks back—

Except he does.

A far enough distance away, behind the safety of a massive potted palm, he glances over his shoulder.

His nephew’s face is schooled granite again.

But the pads of his fingers are glued to his lips.

Before he drives up the main road to their neighborhood, Daemon takes a detour. He parks the car behind a high-enough bush, away from the glow of the streetlights. And taking in the lingering stench of nicotine, he pulls out his painfully hard cock and starts pumping.

The child sank into his kiss.

Sank.

And that child is still Alicent Hightower’s spawn.

A fucking curse on this family.

But he can’t fucking stop seeing it—that eye the color of the sea.

Wild.

Untamable.

Exactly the same creature that he is.

Daemon leans back, stroking faster and ever faster, his skull colliding hard against the headrest.

He won’t say his name.

He won’t.

But he can remember.

His fingertips.

His mouth.

The sounds he coaxed out of his temperamental old bitch.

And how good they were.

“You still think your Sibelius was better.” That insufferable voice echoes around him.

His was good, though.

Good.

It was—

Fucking. Good.

He moans like a damn whore as he comes, making a white mess of his fingers.

It’s utter humiliation.

Daemon slams his fist against the wheel.

Chapter Text

“Daemon…”

“No.”

“Oh, Daemon…”

“I said no.”

“… Uncle.”

“That’s it.”

“Uncle. Fuck.”

Good boy.

He presses a kiss to Aemond’s sweat-beaded nape and thrusts all the harder.

This is how Daemon likes to take him best. Bent over the worn workbench in his studio. Scrunched alabaster face pressed against sawdust shavings. Ankles quaking as he miserably fails to keep his feet on the ground. Helpless hands reaching for something—anything—as a makeshift anchor.

Like he’s his own handiwork.

Made from scratch.

Honed until he’s beauty itself.

Moaning with abandon, drool seeping into that battered hardwood, Aemond reaches back and grabs a fistful of his ass.

Insufferable child.

He knows full well that Daemon can’t last long with little more than a desperate brush of his fingertips.

Daemon yanks that curse of a hand off of him, slamming it against the workbench. And purely out of spite, so this is a lesson he’ll remember, he yanks up the whelp’s head by his ponytail too.

He feels more than a few roots losing their foothold in his grip.

Threads of golden white scatter across the table, twining around his hammers and chisels, lazily drifting down to blanket the sawdust.

“Fuck… you…” is all his nephew can manage through gritted teeth.

More.

Give me more of that fire you keep hiding.

But when Aemond lifts his hand again, in another stubborn attempt to undo him, his palm comes up bloody.

Fuck—

It landed on his sculpting knife, steeping the tempered steel in dripping red.

Daemon leans in and licks up a stripe across the gnarly wound.

For that, his nephew grants him a whimper—between one fuck you and another.

So he steals himself another lick.

And a few more, for good measure.

One lick for every tiny sound that runs electric torrents down his spine.

Flowing iron.

Stray sawdust.

Raw, hideous lust.

Not even the headiest vesper could compare.

“Uncle—”

He dives in for one last lick.

“Uncle.”

Aemond convulses around his cock, sucking him in ever deeper—all pain-laced moans and jittery thighs and sloppy, greedy hips chasing for more.

Now, that.

That undoes him.

The last color he sees is red threading down his nephew’s lifeline.

And then… It’s blissful white.

For ages on end.

Daemon wrenches his cock free, letting his own white lifeline trickle down Aemond’s thigh.

“Sorry about the cut,” he murmurs, punctuating his breathless apology with a kiss on the shoulder.

“Like hell you are.”

He smiles against Aemond’s skin. “I’ll patch you up… Would you like that?”

Of course he fucking would.

Illuminated only by the distant lamp out in the corridor and the barest streaks of moonlight through the floor-length windows, Daemon sits back and tends to the poor thing’s wound. It’s deeper than he expected—a pity and a blessing.

Aemond gazes on in a half-asleep haze, still bare thighs on either side of him, hair slipping out of his useless ponytail.

“If this doesn’t heal fast,” Daemon says under his breath, spritzing water along that narrow chasm, “someone has to cancel that big concert of theirs on Saturday.”

“Asshole.”

That makes him laugh.

With a sigh, Aemond nestles his head against his. “They won’t cancel if it means getting four thousand complaints in their inbox… Aeron Bracken’s filling in for me. I’ll vouch for him, anyway.”

He snorts. “Does the White Harbor Philharmonic only ever invite pretty boys to play with them?”

Oh, but his nephew bristles at that.

“You’re prettier, I promise.” Smirking hard, Daemon rolls his eyes.

“I play better too.”

Never quite been able to shake the sheer insecurity off his shoulders, this one. Even as he’s inching closer to a full decade in this business. Record-breaking album sales and Grammy nominations be damned.

It’s almost endearing.

“Don’t be this rough next time,” Aemond says. “I can’t afford any injuries on the tour.”

“Fuck the tour.”

Five months without him.

Outrageous.

Might as well just hack off his hand and be done with it. Call it a freak accident. Force an early retirement.

“You know, you can fly out and meet me anytime. Thought you said Yi Ti was especially beautiful—”

“Yes, well.” He grabs the gauze from his kit, drapes it tight around Aemond’s hand. “You’re not the only one with a full schedule here.”

“As if you’re not the type to cancel things on a fucking whim.”

Daemon gives the gauze one last forceful tug.

That pulls a wince out of his nephew.

Good.

Insolent child.

Half-Hightower until the bitter end.

Aemond lifts his patched-up hand, tracing a loose shape around Daemon’s lips with his thumb. “My blood’s still on your mouth.”

“Maybe I want to keep it there.”

“Yi Ti. In summer.”

“Are you deaf? Or dumb?”

“… I’m taking a bath.”

“Don’t use my wife’s bath bombs.”

“I won’t.”

Daemon watches him stalk off in all his buck-naked glory, taking in the minute details of how his glutes and hamstrings and calves work with each heavy step. As he waits for the sound of trickling water upstairs to blot out the townhouse’s deathly silence, his gaze wanders out to the secret courtyard beyond the massive windows.

It’s a scant lightwell at most, offering the only sunlight his sequestered studio ever gets. But better this than a view of the street and all its distractions.

In daytime, there’s only him. And his creations. And that sunlight bearing silent witness.

Tonight, though, the courtyard’s emptiness is loud.

Just a potted ficus in the corner. Ferns along the wall. A lonely chair by the door. A shallow pool with no reflection.

No presence about it.

… It needs a statue.

He can already see it, right there.

Six feet minus a head, but a plinth could make up for its absence just as well. Narrow shoulders. Dehydrated arms. Six fenced-in hills along the stomach. Cum gutters for days. A pretty cock he needs no reference images for. Solid granite—a memory of what Daemon had to shatter when they began.

Perfection.

The undoing kind.

Two stories above, the water in the master bath starts running.

Daemon tosses on the sweatpants his nephew tore off an hour ago. And grabbing a pencil and the pocket sketchbook he keeps locked away in the bottommost drawer, he heads upstairs.

By now, seven years into this, Aemond would be used to having his likeness sketched. Doesn’t mean he ever outgrows the thrill of being stared at, though.

And this one relishes being stared at.

Preening little cunt.

Crouched on a stool by the bathtub, soldiering through his knees whining about the bad angle, Daemon breezes through page after page of sketches already half-drawn from memory. The delicate fingers on that bandaged hand, propped up on the rim of the tub. The veins along that forearm, salt water dripping down its lines. The notch between those collarbones where the tip of Daemon’s tongue can fit just right. That Adam’s apple that he can watch bobbing day in and day out.

Everything but that face, because his immortalized granite version will be decapitated by design.

And when he’s had his fill, Daemon drops the sketchbook and inches closer. Dips his arm into the bathwater. Runs his fingers down Aemond’s drowned thigh.

Slowly, his nephew’s eye flutters open.

“Is that final?” Daemon asks.

“What is?”

“That pretty boy replacing you on Saturday.”

Aemond reaches over and runs damp fingers through his hair. “No thanks to you.”

“Stay with me longer.”

Does he know how much courage it takes—even now—to ask that? How many layers of well-honed pride he’s had to pry apart for his sake?

Be grateful.

“Rhaenyra?” Aemond whispers.

“Her boys want to milk the rest of Spring Break for what it’s worth… She called earlier, before you came. They’ll be in Braavos until Sunday.”

“The injury was calculated, then.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

Sighing, Aemond withdraws his hand… if only to let it sink under the water so he could lace their fingers together.

“You can’t stand the Tchaikovsky, anyway,” Daemon points out, the corners of his lips easing higher and higher.

“Too cheerful.”

“See? I did you a favor.”

“Show me around Yi Ti in July.”

Shut up about fucking Yi Ti already—

“No,” he says simply.

Aemond yanks his fingers out of his grasp, shoves Daemon’s hand off his thigh.

Pity that does nothing.

In record time, Daemon steals a greedy chunk of his thigh again anyway. Altogether useless to fend him off now. So his nephew no longer bothers.

“Why?” Aemond asks.

“Can’t stand the summer heat in those parts.”

“We’ll stay indoors.”

“Oh? What happened to ‘show me around, Uncle?’”

“I’ll settle for a good fuck.”

You hungry little thing.

Fine.

The truth, then.

“I can’t leave King’s Landing. In summer. Or in autumn.”

“Because?”

“… She’s pregnant.”

That’s no true frown on Aemond’s face—lips never forming a downward curve, brows never wrinkling. But it’s cold. Glacial, even.

You could stab someone through the heart with that shard of ice for a face.

“Do you know what a condom is?”

He scoffs, even as the accusation delivers a gut punch. “Doesn’t feel as good.”

“Well. Congratulations… That’ll be, what? Child Number Eight?”

Two for him. Three for her. And two and this one made from both of them.

What of it?

“You’re practically 60, Daemon.”

Hightowers and their utter lack of manners.

What did I say about calling me Daemon?

“54,” he corrects.

“And when that kid gets to my age now, you’ll probably be dead.”

Thank fuck for that.

Aemond rises and climbs out of the bath, no regard in the way he splatters salt water all over his uncle-lover as he passes. If he were anyone else, Daemon’s hands would have long found their way around his neck.

“You object like you’ll be raising the damn kid.” Half-groaning, half-laughing, he props up his elbows on the rim of the tub and tangles weary hands in his hair. “That’s my job. Not yours—”

Behind him, the shower starts raining down at full blast.

For fuck’s sake.

“Don’t ruin the fucking dressing,” he warns over his shoulder.

“Redo it, then.”

Enough of this.

Never mind the sudden movement’s assault on his already crying knees. Daemon shoots up from the stool and lets the water pelt down his head, wrenching the shower tap down before this idiot drenches through the gauze.

Their eyes meet, every shade of unspoken anger swimming between them.

What is there to say, anyway?

Well.

In truth?

Plenty.

What the fuck is your problem?

Or keep your damn nose out of my marriage.

Or yes, yet another cousin for you, keep crying like it’ll make a difference.

Or look at you, jealous of a fucking fetus.

Or stick your cock in a woman one of these days so you’ll know what the hell you’re missing.

Or no, you’re not as good and no, you never will be and no, I’m not taking back what I just said.

Or can’t you see, it’s the third kid and there’s always a fucking curse on the third kid, which is why my Laena died and took our third child to the grave, and why Rhaenyra’s bonebreaker of a first husband bit it a mere week after she gave birth to their third, and why you yourself are a curse on me… You. Alicent Fucking Hightower’s third fucking child—

Instead, he seizes Aemond by the nape and slams his mouth over his.

There.

To shut you up.

The whelp doesn’t.

“This family…” he mumbles, between short breaths between dragged-out kisses. “It’s… in dire need of… good fathers.”

I said shut up.

He knows precisely what he’s getting at. What he leaves in near silence, only audible if you know the exact lines to listen between.

“Say one word against my brother,” Daemon murmurs against his lips. “I dare you.”

“I don’t need… to say… anything.”

Viserys had no hand in this pathetic creature. This is all Hightower blood.

Fucking virus.

Fucking plague.

Half-breed.

You’re lucky I love you.