#ofcrownsandchains

aemond targaryen x male servant oc!

Masterlist Pervious Chapter

synopsis: Prince Aemond Targaryen bestows upon his servant a wish the man finds makes his stomach churn.

cw: desc. of irritated wound

The Early Morning of S1E8 “The Lord of the Tides” — 130 AC

Chapter 1-1. The Servant Without

When the first shrouds of dawn begin to light the sky anew, a young man arrives at the sentient senile being that is the Red Keep. He is situated atop the old back of a brown rouncey horse, calloused hands clenched loosely over each rein as he trots over to the opening of the stables. His dismounting is as quiet as the very air around him, and each noise he makes is as intentional as it is exhausted. His cheeks puff slightly as he walks slowly alongside his horse, guiding the well groomed creature into his respective stall beside the princes though– the Targaryen hardly needs a horse with that great beast he rides into the sky. The man emits another sigh, closing his horse inside the stall. He offers a final few pets to the creature as he mumbles something about seeing him later. With his departure comes the sound of his strained stretching and the smell of animal fresh in his nostrils.

He accesses the internal hallways of the castle with a silent nod to the knight placed outside the stables entrance. Their eyes lock briefly and it is within this exchange that the young man knows not whether he feels animosity or simple acknowledgement from the dull eyed highborn before him but either way, it is of little consequence to a man with no voice beyond the ears of his prince. That, and he thinks it is far too early to be bothered with the distinction.

A yawn unveils itself as his boot covered feet quietly click along the stone floors. The man pulls the leather thong forcefully from the top half of his hair and runs his fingers through the tangled curls before deciding it is not worth the effort to soothe the frizz and disorder. He drags all of the locks into a bun at the back of his head instead. His feet quicken almost immediately after the menial task is done and he soars through the castle halls with long strides and the insignia of House Targaryen attached to his black tunic.

The drawbridge to Maegor’s Holdfast is much more dimly lit than the halls. Banners containing the three headed fire breathing dragon flap lightly with each morning breeze that caresses the sharp curves of the man’s face. It’s quiet here at this time, empty and far from as bustling as the man knows other parts of the castle tend to be, even with such little light and all important life tucked away in their dens. He almost experiences a peace, standing, waiting for the drawbridge to open but the moment is fleeting and his footsteps begin their regular efficient bounce as he crosses into the royal family’s resting space. He is the only presence here besides a few handmaidens and the Kingsguard who all greet him with familiar eyes, tired mutters of good morrow, his name, and a nod or two.

He returns the effort in a similar manner, pulling his shoulders back as he passes by each royal apartment, brown eyes locked on a destination that holds no foreign misconception to him after five years of attendance. Some may refer to him as a senior of sorts, while others hardly regard him with more than a scornful expression. Of both the reactions, he favors neither. But, the former is far more empowering than the latter and he finds nowadays, he accepts the authority with a sort of uneasy grace that, on occasion, evokes a small smile from Prince Aemond in the bed of his left over eye. And a smile is all the young man can hope for when it comes to his dragon prince. The prince who, presently, pulls himself from bed with a low grumble that exits his scratchy throat, scaly from last night's troubles… and the night before that… and the night before that one.

The tall oak door blocking the terrible sight that is the prince is where the young man overhears the discourse between Ser Cerys Oakheart and Ser Seraphis Dayne. Their voices are quiet with discontent. Their words exchanged as whispers, as if speaking any louder may render the castle to collapse and all its attendants to disease. —Perhaps speaking of the prince's nightly troubles was not far from that.

“...all night.”

The young man slows his steps, as if not wishing to disturb an exchange that he knows inevitably will involve him. He clenches the muscle in his jaw, a wave of displeasure tightening his shoulders as the knowledge of Aemond’s trials renters his ears for the… well, he cannot count how many times he's had conversations such as these in the past month. It never settles him to know that the prince festers with a pain he will not admit to and the young man had hoped, like a child does, that the agony would suddenly vanish in the night, and he would return to Kings Landing to find a less vengeful prince. But alas…

“Again?” A sarcastic quip comes from Ser Cerys and it carries a truth that everyone in the hall must swallow. With his next response, unbound sympathy enters the knight's tone. “How bad?”

“I am told that even from halfway across the castle, one could feel the weight of the boys' night.” Ser Seraphis is grave in his speech, his voice a rumbling thing accompanied by a Dornish accent. “He quieted, at times. But I am not sure he managed much rest at all.”

A sigh escapes the young man's chest as a familiar weight settles over him. He surges forth again, pausing before the Kingsguard with an expression that does not betray his stress. “Good morning, Ser Cerys.” He offers a bow that hardly looks like one. “Ser Seraphis.”

“Emrik.” There is a warmness that blooms inside Ser Seraphis at the sight of the servant. But, the alertness of Seraphis’ eyes and the sudden increase in his normally low pitched voice tells the young man that they had not been expecting him, and beyond that, the knight is now probably going to attempt to protect him from a truth that lies just beyond the doors. “You’re back.”

“Indeed.” Emrik replies, unable to form a kind smile or even unharden his eyes. “My travels were swift.”

Ser Seraphis seems to frown at the sight but he hasn’t the time to form a message of concern nor a lie of good intent before the younger knight standing beside him interrupts the pleasantries.

“You’ve heard our discussion, I gather?” Ser Cerys’ looks at Emrik in knowing, his thin lips pulling a bit tight as Seraphis shoots him a look.

“Yes.” Emrik responds. “How many nights was he in this state while I was gone?”

“All of them.” Cerys again speaks before Seraphis can, cutting the tail end of the older man's inhale off.

Emrik pulls his gaze to the floor then as he tugs the next wretched question from his mind. “And how many nights has he been like this in total?” In truth, the young man knows the answer. He first became aware of the paramounting issue three days before his departure. A faint murmur from the Hand of the King to Queen Alicent about the return of her son’s eye pain had caught his ear after Prince Aegon fell drunkenly onto his shoulder and mumbled on about what he had heard. About his mother’s ensuing discussion with the Maester and how he wished to bring blueberry crumpets to comfort his younger brother.

Emrik had been… discontented with his lack of knowledge on the rising issue and when Aemond woke to find the servant already sitting at his bedside with the stroke of dawn, the prince was forced to either stew in Emrik’s silent disappointment or confess. He chose the latter. Eventually.

“It is hard to be sure.” Cerys responds after a moment of consideration and a brief exchange with Seraphis. “Seventeen, at least.” That's twice what it was last month.

The next breath Emrik releases is far more audible than the last two, he rubs his palms together for an instant before lacing his fingers and stilling the motions. It is another moment before he speaks, his dark eyes flicking to look at the doors behind the two knights. “I was told that the Queen had spoken with the Maester already.” Emrik’s gaze crosses between the two who seem to glance at each other after the pointed observation. When voice comes from neither, Emrik continues, a little more insistent. “Why has the prince’s pain persisted?”

There is another look between the two knights before Seraphis clears his throat and steps forward slightly. “Emrik, perhaps a conversation between you and the prince may offer some clarity on the issue.” Ever the thoughtful, the knight intends to propose grounds for good will and fortune and he delivers the suggestion with a gentle tone that's heavy with implication. But the recommendation only makes the servant's eyes narrow and his suspicion rises beyond his own height.

“I wish to know now.” His voice comes stronger than intended, misplaced in the quiet serene of the halls. Emrik recognizes this fact immediately and feels his throat tighten.“Ser.” He adds. “If it please you.”

A quiet exhale leaves Seraphis, his expression conveying a patient sympathy. No offense. “Prince Aemond,” he starts again, “denied the treatments.” His words are slow and deliberate, as if dealing a blow he does not wish to. “To my knowledge, he has not given anyone a clear reason why.”

A sough like noise escapes Emrik and he turns his head away briefly to stare at the nearby wall. Aemond has never taken kindly to treatments. One time, when they were boys, fourteen, Aemond had taken a nasty fall off his horse and popped his shoulder right out of place. Emrik was made to drag the prince to the Maester where Aemond proceeded to scream curses, thrash, and parade about how he was the prince of the realm, before finally shoving a potion right into the old man's face and storming away. Emrik had to drag him back an hour later and hold him down while the Maester set the bone.

Since then, the prince's aversion to has only grown and as of late, it has reached a point where this has become Emrik's most prominent frustration among all his other, numerous ones. It was only a few months prior to the resurgence of Aemond’s eye pain when the prince refused to rest and allow for proper healing in favor of training with his sword. He’d pushed himself beyond exhaustion. Emrik had seen it. He had been the one to hold the prince's hair while he vomited after. He had been the one to rub the prince's back until he fell asleep. He had been the one to stay up all night, just in case. He had been the one to find him in the training yard the very next morning, sparring with Ser Criston Cole.

The servant’s effort was no use it seemed. He had to take the matter up with the Queen wherein her chambers Ser Criston had cooly reminded Emrik of his place and Emrik reminded Ser Criston that if the prince died from overexertion it would be on all their hands for not stopping him. It was after a long conversation between him, Alicent, Ser Cruston, and Otto that they came to an agreement. Aemond would be restricted from the training yard for a fortnight, and Emrik would be tasked with ensuring he abided. It had been a miserable two weeks, full of brooding and snarling and the occasional moment where Aemond relented. The memory still leaves a sour taste in the servant's mouth, and he thinks with an unrelenting disappointment that the current situation is likely no different.

Emrik’s gaze returns to the knights, and he sees the answers to all his questions reflected in their faces. There is nothing more to be said. The prince’s will is an iron gate, and they are all merely standing outside it, listening to the cries from within.

“Thank you, Ser Seraphis. Ser Cerys.” Emrik’s tone is clipped. He straightens his back, a gesture of finality, and without further word, he turns and pushes open the heavy oak door.

The inside of Aemond's chambers is a sharp contrast to the vacant halls. There is a flood of tasked servants about the room. Some clean, returning order. Others reset the fire. More are gathered around the large tub, just beginning to pour flagons of steaming hot water into the porcelain. Their faces are familiar, the same women Emik has coordinated with over the years. They hardly look up from their tasks but some manage a surprised greeting more than others. No line of questioning ensues, not with the current matter at hands.

Emrik closes the door softly behind him before stepping further inside. The air is in disarray and the scent of agony floods his senses the deeper into the apartments he enters. His steps are slowed considerably as his gaze sweeps over the space, as if looking for any indicator of the prior night. He takes note of the chair near the hearth, slightly out of place, pushed farther back than usual. There is a tapestry, askew and presently being straightened by a young woman. A book on the left cushion of the sofa that looks as though it simply slipped down from the armrest. Nothing grand or even necessarily violent, but these modest inconsistencies are enough to make Emrik’s shoulders grow tighter.

When he lets his eyes fall forward he spots the long black hair of a brown skinned woman tied loosely behind her. She is halfway tucked inside the prince's large wardrobe but her movements have paused in favor of acknowledging his presence. Emrik’s legs, long strides once more, don’t hesitate or halt or even give a suggestion of rest as he passes by her, but his hand does come out and he squeezes the upper portion of her arm in concurrence. There are many things to be said. Things left unattended in his absence, another courtier proposing a whipping, a new stage in King Viserys fractured health, some incident he is sure to hear of– but their exchange remains brief because through the threshold is a far more pressing matter and it is sitting slumped on the foot of the bed.

Emrik pauses at the doorless archway, this area of Aemond’s chambers is no less vast than the one prior. A bed, too large for the large prince, sits to the left, headboard pressed to the wall, red canopies dripping elegantly down the sides. His desk is on the right, closer to the threshold, scrolls and loose ink sit atop it. The balcony is straight ahead, the drapes drawn closed, allowing no light inside. In fact, the only thing making the room visible are a few candles scattered around and burning close to their end.

For a moment, Emrik does not move from his spot at the threshold, he simply listens to the faint creaking of the castle and the stifled groans of his prince. Aemond is faced away, arched like a taut bowstring as he leans in on himself. His silver hair is frizzed and sticky, draping a barrier between himself and the rest of the world as his head remains lowered. Behind him, the silk sheets of red and black are pulled and crumpled, stretched and disregarded. One of his pillows hangs halfway off the edge, another sits at foot of the bed, the rest are smashed into the headboard or embedded into the mattress itself.

Emrik inhales, tension radiating throughout his jaw as he moves straight for the balcony. Words don’t come. Not immediately. Not easily. His feet feel heavier against the ground, disrupting the quiet misery of the space.

Aemond stirs slightly, but he doesn’t look up. Can’t. His brow furrows, more than it already is, and when he speaks his words sound dry and irritated. “I said to leave me.”

Emrik pulls the curtains apart carefully, the smallest crack of light enters the room. “It is me, My Prince.” His voice carries none of the onus he feels. “I have returned.”

The servant’s voice is enough to draw Aemond's attention, albeit slowly, agonizingly. He lifts his head, a small, pained noise escaping him. His good eye is a slash of lilac in the gloom, fixed on Emrik with a mixture of surprise and weary resignation. His sapphire glints, catching the new sliver of light, a cold star in a weary sky. The sight of the prince’s face, pinched and pale, makes something sharp and unpleasant lodge itself in Emrik’s throat.

“You were to be gone for the rest of the day.” Aemond rasps, lowering his head again as the effort of holding it up proves to be too much.

“The roads were clear.”

Aemond makes a noise that could be a laugh or a sob, it’s difficult to tell in the dim light. An acknowledgement of sorts.

Emrik sighs, openly this time, and closes the distance between himself and the prince. Aemond’s skin looks dewy underneath the faint light flooding through the glass balcony doors and if it were any other day, Emrik may have thought this to be nothing but his Targaryen beauty. But Aemond’s skin did not glisten in the way a bird's tweet brought solace. Rather, it shone like the greasy foods the prince so often turned his lip up at, as if the gardens had nothing better of substance to offer.

His words are a quiet rumble. "You need to bathe, My Prince."

Aemond’s shoulders tense. “I do not require a bath. I require to be left alone.” The words are brittle and pointless but the only defense he has left. “You are dismissed.”

Emrik doesn’t move. He stands there, a silent pillar to match the prince. Aemond doesn't look at him again, focusing instead on a loose thread on the duvet. He begins to pick at it with a trembling finger, a small, repetitive motion that speaks volumes of his frayed nerves. The silence is thick with stubborn refusal and the scent of unwashed prince and stale pain. Emrik lets it settle. He knows Aemond. Knows that this unspoken knowledge of his strategy breaks his will more than any words can.

And eventually, Aemond speaks again. His voice so low it is almost a whisper. "It burns, Emrik." The admission is raw, torn from him without true permission. "It burns as if the wound was stitched only moments ago."

Emrik’s rigidly proper stance falters, not drastically or loudly, but enough that he feels compelled to kneel before his prince. "Let me see." He does not hear the seepage of his Northern accent, does not even seem to register how heavy his voice sounds, how quietly demanding. He only feels the thrum of his own blood and the sting of Aemond's pain as if it were a living thing in the room. When Aemond does not immediately move, Emrik reaches out, his movements slow and deliberate, giving the prince every chance to pull away. His fingers gently touch the prince’s chin, urging him to lift his face. For a moment, Aemond resists, a small, almost imperceptible stiffening. Then, with a frustrated exhale, he allows it.

The sapphire is a cold, hard jewel in a sea of inflamed, reddened skin. The flesh around it is swollen and puffy, stretched taut over the curve of the stone. The skin is so irritated it looks almost translucent, the veins beneath standing out in a faint, angry web. It is a sight Emrik has seen before, but never this bad. Never for this long. Seventeen nights of this. The thought is a leaden weight in his stomach.

“The maester has preparations,” Emrik says, his thumb hovering just shy of the inflamed skin. “Cooling balms. Milk of the poppy. They can help you rest.” His mind jumps, from option to option. One solution to another. He will remedy this.

Aemond flinches as if struck, pulling his face from Emrik’s fingers. “No,” he snarls, the sound ragged. The brief moment of pliancy has vanished, replaced by a familiar, brittle armor of pride. "No potions. No balms." He pushes himself to stand, swaying slightly as he does. The effort makes him dizzy. He stumbles, catching himself on one of the bedposts, his knuckles white as he grips the dark wood. "I will not be laid low by this." He looks around the room, his gaze a chaotic sweep. "Where is my sword belt?"

"You are not going to the training yard, My Prince." Emrik says, rising to his feet with a fluid grace that belies the knot in his stomach. "You are in no state to hold a wooden sword, let alone a steel one." His voice is demanding and his throat feels tight and shaky with the knowledge.

Aemond spins on him, his good eye blazing with a furious, desperate fire. "And you will be the one to stop me?" The words are a challenge, a taunt. "A servant?" He spits the word out like a curse.

A thick swallow passes through Emrik’s body. His hands pull his tunic straight as his eyes fixate on the threshold, a point just beyond Aemond’s gaze. He folds his hands behind his back, silent for a pause too long to be comfortable. “I am your servant, My Prince.” Emrik concludes. “It is my job to take care of you. It has been my job since we were thirteen.” His mind is empty, resounding only facts.

His eyes hold nothing now. That same look of a corpse that Aemond has witnessed taking hold of his expression for the past few months. The look that makes something in his Valyrian blood tick.

“Emrik…” Aemond calls for the attention of his servant but his tongue is a loose creature, unable to form words. He has no strategy here. His eye shifts away. His anger dies as quickly as it flared, leaving behind a hollow, aching emptiness. He looks at Emrik then away again, toward the dark balcony doors, his posture slumping. "You do not understand," he mutters. "This is not a pain to be soothed. It is a flaw to be burned away."

"Then you will burn yourself to ash," Emrik replies, the words blunt and unforgiving. "What good is fire if you cannot even mount your own dragon?" He closes the distance once more, his tone shifting but not rising, not again. "The water is ready, My Prince. You will bathe. You will eat. Then you will rest. If you refuse my services again it will be my obligation to inform the Queen."

The firmness in Emrik’s tone, the quiet, unwavering resolve, seems to finally break through Aemond's wall of suffering. He looks at the man, his face tight. He wants to argue, to rail against the suffocating care, but he is exhausted, bone-deep. The pain is a constant, gnawing companion, and Emrik's presence, for all its infuriating persistence, is the only thing that feels tangible. Solid. Aemond doesn't breathe, doesn't sigh, doesn't groan. He only gives a curt, tiny nod. It is not surrender, not entirely, but it is a concession. That he does not wish for his mother to know the extent of his suffering, that his father's pain is enough of a burden to be managed.

Emrik walks past the prince without another glance at this confirmation. As he crosses back into the adjoining chamber where the other servants still attend to their duties, he registers that there is a dull ache lingering in his throat. One he does not understand and cannot place. It’s not the usual frustration that is felt in this position nor the familiar sympathy that comes for the prince’s pain. This is different. A deeper, more profound sense of weariness that seems to have settled into his very bones. It is a knot of something that cannot be undone with words alone and yet he dismisses it with a clearing of his throat.

He catches the eye of the brown skinned woman almost immediately after he steps back into the common area. He meets her gaze with a slight tilt of his head, glances back at the threshold that Prince Aemond has yet to emerge from and then approaches her.

"He is not well, is he?" She speaks when the man is at her side, voice hushed as their faces disappear into the darkness of the depthful wardrobe. She passes the gathered clothing to Emrik and he accepts it just as absentmindedly.

There is a pause before there is a reply. “No." His brow furrows as his hand moves down to the knob drawer containing small clothes. “It is worse than last month.“

"The prince has been…resistant." Tania chooses her words carefully. Her fingers come out to squeeze Emrik’s arm in the same gesture he had given her moments ago. Her touch is warm and steady, a small anchor in the turmoil of the morning. She has known him long enough to recognize the lines of tension etched around his eyes, the subtle set of his jaw. "And you have only just returned."

"The roads were clear." The answer is an echo of the one he gave to Aemond, a simple fact that he offers as if it explains everything. As if it explains the heavy feeling in his chest and the strange, unyielding urge to make everything right again.

Tania doesn't press him further, but her silence is a knowing one. She has seen him like this before, after long journeys and longer nights spent tending to the prince's whims— whichever prince that may be. It is a fine line he walks in this den of dragons.

The skin between her brows crinkle again and she glances toward the threshold. She has been in the presence of Prince Aemond for a long time. Before the incident. Yet, she finds herself lost on words when it comes to the vitality and wellness of the second son. It is Emrik's job, after all, not hers. She belongs to the kitchens. But, today, as most other days, she has been called to the royal apartments to assist in some matter or another. She is not a stranger to these rooms, to the prince's discomfort. He has not been the same. He was always a brooding thing, miserable without a dragon to call his own. But before, he had a spark, a flicker of determination in his lilac eyes. Now, there is only the cold glint of the remaining one and a deep well of something that looks a lot like grief.

It is the same look she sees in Emrik whenever he thinks no one is looking at him.

Tania finally pulls her gaze from the threshold and back to Emrik, who has begun to organize Aemond's clothes across his arm. A simple black tunic, dark leather trousers, a fresh set of small clothes. His movements are precise, economical. There is no wasted energy, no unnecessary motion. He is a man who knows his job and does it with a quiet, unassuming competence that has, over the years, earned him a strange sort of respect in the Red Keep.

It is then, the woman exhales a deep sigh indicative of an unclear dread. Emrik does not ask —there would be too many answers— though, he does glance towards her.

“I must go.“ She tells him and she looks toilworn already. “Eat something, Emrik.” Her voice drops to a serious cadence that would have made the man gulp were he still a boy in her ever knowing presence. But Emrik is not a boy, and Tania is no longer a watcher of his every move.

The man's lip tugs faintly and he nods. “I will.”

That seems to be enough, for now. She steps away from the wardrobe, offering one last squeeze to Emrik's arm and a look that conveys something close to a bid for good fortune. Luck, after all, is the closest thing a servant can have to a weapon.

He lets out a quiet sigh as he watches her go. And then he himself is turning away from the wardrobe with the same quickened efficiency. He ignores the creak of his bones as he passes through the threshold once more. The room is as he left it. Messy and dark. Littered in with turmoil, the faint scent of brute force still lingering.

Aemond is standing near his desk, his finger tracing over the words on a scroll that he is unable to process with the haze in his mind and the ache of skull. His eye patch has returned to its place across his face. He is still, quiet. But the tension in his back is a visible thing. A rope pulled taut, ready to snap.

Emrik stands behind for a long moment, watching the prince, taking in the details of the room, the sag of Aemond's body, the way his silver hair clings to the sweat at the nape of his neck. He can almost feel the prince's pain radiating off of him, a palpable force that makes the air in the room thick and heavy. He takes a deep breath. Then, he speaks.

"My Prince." His tone is neutral. Aemond lifts his gaze from the scroll, turning his body just as slowly. He says nothing, simply waiting for his servant to continue. "Come." The man beckons him, his head tilting slightly in gesture to the bath that awaits him in the adjoining chamber.

Aemond stares at him, for a moment saying nothing and doing nothing. This morning feels far too vast to conquer.

With a sigh, the prince begins a new route. He does not speak as he follows Emrik into the other room, and the walk is one of a man who has been vanquished. Emrik does not turn to check if the prince follows. He knows he will. He can hear it in the shuffle of bare feet on stone, the soft rustle of silk, the quiet tension of a defeated Targaryen.

The tub is a large, ornate thing, a gift from some lord or other, and it is now filled with steaming water, the scent of lavender and rosemary rising from the surface. The other servants have already begun to file out at the sight of their prince. They needn't verbal dismissal. This is routine. Aemond has not bathed in front of another since he was fourteen.

The prince stops at the edge of the tub, looking down into the water as if it is a chasm he is being asked to cross. Emrik moves to stand behind him, his hands resting in a fold behind his back. He is a shadow, a silent attendant, a fixture in the room.

"Undress, My Prince." Emrik says.

Aemond turns his head to look at him, his purple eye a hard point of light in the dimness of the room. "I am not a child, Emrik." He says. The words are a reminder, a boundary being drawn.

"I am aware, My Prince." Emrik responds. "But you also have not slept.” Aemond did not tell him this, of course. But Emrik knew all the same, of course. “And you are shaking." This observation is quieter. Not a sharpened edge but drawn steel no less.

Aemond looks down at his hands, and for the first time, he seems to notice the tremor that runs through them. He clenches them into fists, but the shaking does not stop. With another sigh, he begins to undress, his movements slow and stiff. Emrik does not turn away. He does not flinch. He watches, his expression unreadable as the prince removes the tunic, the trousers, the eye patch, until he is standing before him, pale and exposed.

The prince looks at Emrik again, brow furrowed, lips pursed in petulance but he says nothing and when Emrik gestures for him to enter the tub, he does just that. He slides into the hot water with a low groan, the sound a mix of pain and relief as the heat begins to seep into his aching muscles.

Emrik kneels by the side of the tub, taking up a soft cloth and a bar of soap. But when the man begins to dip the cloth into the water, Aemond waves his hand in a short dismissal. There is a protest on Emrik’s tongue that he denies voice to. Instead, he drapes the cloth over the tub's edge, places the soap back down, and leans onto his calves, eyes fixating on Aemond. The prince sinks lower into the water, until it is up to his chin. He closes his good eye, and the room falls into a quiet stillness, punctuated only by the gentle lapping of the water and the distant sounds of the castle waking up. For a few minutes, Aemond is still, the tension in his shoulders beginning to ease, the hard lines of his face softening just a little.

Emrik’s gaze drifts to the ruined socket. The skin around the sapphire is still raw, the edges of the gemstone seeming to bite into the inflamed flesh. He imagines the pain, a constant, burning presence surrounding that cold, blue eye. A pain that has no name, no cure, only the long, slow passage of time. He thinks of the King and how closely Aemond seems to resemble his father now. The last time Emrik visited Viserys was not a recent endeavor, the King had sunk beneath the steam of a hot bath just as Aemond is presently. His mind drifted away by the middle of the conversation. Addled on milk of the poppy he began to mumble a string of half coherent sentences about Princess Rhaenyra. Queen Alicent dismissed the servant soon after.

Aemond’s eye opens, catching Emrik’s attention. The prince turns his head to look at Emrik, and there is something in his expression that is not anger or pride, but a deep pain. "Tell me about your journey." He says. His voice is quiet, almost casual.

Emrik blinks. He thinks for a moment, trying to recall the details of the ride back, the landscapes he passed through, the people he saw, the peace he found in simply being. Just him and his mothers old horse. "It was fine, My Prince." He says. "The weather was favorable. The roads were... clear." He repeats the same phrase he has already used twice, and he hears the emptiness of it now. His voice is dull, uneventful with no emotion or vigor.

Aemond seems to hear it too. He looks away, his gaze drifting to the far wall of the room, to a tapestry depicting a dragon setting a fleet of ships ablaze. "That is all you have to say?" He asks. "Fine? Favorable? Clear?"

Emrik's brow furrows. "What else might I say, My Prince?" He asks, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone.

"You might say," Aemond begins, his eye still on the tapestry, not truthfully knowing how to respond or how to begin to explain. "...More." He settles on. He turns back to Emrik, his good eye sharp, searching. "You might say that you felt… freedom."

The word hangs in the air between them, a heavy, loaded thing. Emrik feels a strange tightening in his chest, a sudden, sharp awareness of the walls around him, of the prince's presence, of the life he has chosen, or that has been chosen for him. He looks down at his hands, at the calluses on his palms, at the dirt still under his fingernails. “You sent me away, My Prince, and so I went." He finally answers and he is not even sure the words make sense but they find passage anyway. The sentence has no real direction but Aemond seems to understand.

The prince's sharp-edged curiosity recedes. "I did," he says, his voice losing its intensity. He lets his head fall a little lower into the water, the steam rising around him like a shroud. "And I should have sent you away for longer." The admission is quiet, firm, almost lost in the fog.

Emrik’s gaze lifts, a flicker of something unreadable in his brown eyes. "Why?" He questions carefully.

"Because you should not have come back to this," Aemond says, gesturing vaguely at himself, at the room. "You should have had more days of... clear roads." The phrase, spoken back to him, takes a different path.

"It is my duty to return, My Prince." The words are a quiet assertion, a reminder to himself as much as Aemond.

"...Yes," Aemond says, muffled. The water sloshes lightly as he shifts and his eye falls closed again but it lasts a mere three seconds before he is peeking up at Emrik through a weighted lid. "You are filthy." The observation is a respite.

Emrik looks down at his clothes, at the dust of the road still clinging to the fabric. A new wave of exhaustion courses through him. "I have not had the opportunity to cleanse myself."

Aemond hums.

Emrik watches the prince. The candlelight catches the silver strands of his hair, the sapphire eye holds a universe of its own in the blackness of the room. A star in the orbit of a divine planet.

Aemond's eye holds for a moment longer before he looks away, his vision fixing on a point on the wall, as if he is seeing something that is not there. He is silent for a long time. "You still call me that." He says. "My Prince." His words seem to echo Emrik’s from before. Aimless and misplaced with no clear purpose but having come anyway.

"It is your name." The servant replies. There is nothing else to be said.

"I have other names." Aemond insists, a faint, almost wistful note in his voice. "You used to use them." He lets his body loosen again underneath the water and it seems to take the tension from him. His words come slower. “You used to call me Aemond.”

The name hangs in the air between them, a ghost of a boy who was once a friend. A boy who would sneak extra pastries from the kitchen. A boy who would practice in the training yard until his arms ached. A boy who would lay against Emrik’s shoulder and mumble about what plagued him. Emrik’s gaze drifts to the prince’s hands, which are resting on the edge of the tub, the water dripping from his long, pale fingers. He remembers them when they were smaller and more clumsy, trying to grip the weight of a real sword. He remembers the feel of them, grabbing onto his arm, desperate for a foothold in a world that was twice their size put together. “Are you going to bring up that request again?” His voice is quietly amused, a rock in the shifting currents of the prince's pain.

Aemond's eye narrows. "I am."

Emrik sighs lightly, shifting his resting hands to grab the cloth and the soap once more. He starts with Aemond’s arm nearest to him. "Go on then."

"My name." The prince says. "Call me by it as you once did."

Emrik’s hands move, slow and precise, over the prince’s skin. He washes away the sweat and the grime, the evidence of a long night of pain. He does not look at the prince, focusing instead on the task at hand. "I cannot, My Prince."

"You can." Aemond insists, his voice a low, stubborn thing. "You simply will not."

"I am your servant." Emrik replies, the words as unyielding as Aemond’s pressure on this matter.

"You are my personal attendant." Aemond corrects, as if it makes much of a difference at all. As if the distinction between the two terms shall grant Emrik leave from everything that may come to harm his lowborn flesh.

"They are one in the same, My Prince."

"They are not." Aemond retorts, speaking with the same strategic survey that the formation of a plan of action for battle requires. "A servant fetches and carries. A personal attendant sees. They know. They are constant. They are– trusted."

Emrik pauses, the cloth stilling on the prince's skin. Trust. It is a fragile thing in the Red Keep, a currency that is as likely to be counterfeit as not. He looks up, and Aemond’s good eye is fixed on him, the purple is darkened but not in the shade it takes when he is pained or angry or exhausted. There is no demand in it, only a quiet that makes Emrik’s body ache. He looks away, his gaze falling to the water, to the way the candlelight dances on the surface. He huffs softly, hand resuming its motions. "It is improper." He feels the usual point of argument free itself. The shortened version of a disagreement they keep falling upon.

The prince scoffs. It is a quiet, breathy thing, but it is there. "We have not been proper in a long time." He says, tone steel, face stiff. "There is a reason for the talk, Emrik."

"Yes, and we needn't give more." Emrik says, a bit more curtly than he intended, hands resuming.

"It will never matter." Aemond counters, a hint of impatience in his voice. "They will talk, regardless. Whether you call me by my given name or not. They will look, and they will whisper. They always have."

"Your name is a gift, My Prince. It is not mine to take." A variation of another line the servant oft repeats.

"I am giving it to you." Aemond says, quiet but also firm. A command that is not a command at all. "I am giving you permission."

Emrik shakes his head, a small motion. He has to push this away. This little game. "You are not in your right mind." He asserts. "The pain. The lack of sleep. You are not thinking clearly."

"You are the one unclear." Aemond declares. "You are so focused on the lines of the world, you cannot see that we are standing on the same side of them." He slumps slightly but it is not visible under the water. "Or perhaps you are simply afraid."

The accusation lingers in the air between them, a sudden thing. Emrik feels a prickle of something, a hot, sudden flush of anger, or of fear, or of something else entirely. His hands still, meeting the prince silently. Aemond's gaze is unwavering, not quite cold but far from anything that could be considered patience or warmth. There is no triumph in the tense purse of his mouth, just a gnawing frustration that has lingered between them for years. Emrik takes a slow, deliberate breath, forcing the sudden surge of emotion back down. He is tired. He is tired and the prince is trying to outmanuver him. He knows this. He has seen it before. Prince Aegon has done it plenty. "You are baiting me, My Prince." He says. "It is unbecoming."

"It is the truth." Aemond does not falter.

"Do you blame me for caution?" Emrik's brow crinkles and the vein on his neck becomes thicker.

"No." Aemond responds immediately, his voice un-raised, his obligation here moored. Emrik’s face, his voice, it has begun to blur with the rest of the servants and the prince finds this matter to be deeply unpleasant. It is a problem that must be fixed or it shall be a war waged. Either option is as pliable as his own ability to explain to Emrik what he thinks he sees. As puny as sending the servant away for a fortnight was. But it only feels all the more necessary.

Aemond sighs, the ache in his head increasing with the force of his own will. This settles him for a moment and he lifts his hand to press lightly at the left side of his forehead. He looks away from Emrik, his eye drifting to the far corner of the room, to a small toy that sits on a shelf. A wooden dragon, a gift from his father, years ago. He had forgotten it was there. He looks at it for a long moment, as if it holds the answer to a question he has not yet learned to ask.

He thinks of the boy he was, the boy who played with that dragon, the boy who cried for his mother when his brother was cruel. He thinks of the man he has become, the man with a sapphire for an eye, a wandering apparition. He thinks of the long, dark road that lies between him and this servant, this kneeling man.

"I am tired, Emrik." Aemond says, his voice a mumble. He closes his eye, a fresh onset of pain making his temple throb. "My head hurts." The words are slightly slurred, pulled from him. "...I wish to share boyhood with you once more." The sentence is a quiet admission in the sea of ache. Something deeper resides in the waves of agony, something that the prince himself may not fully understand. It is a longing for a simpler time, a time he has not ever been truly granted.

Emrik grits his teeth. He forgets this boyhood often. He forgets when things were... happier. They were younger. He did not think much of the court politics then. He was unruly with disregard. Not bounded by the South and its pleasantries. The Red Keep and its demands were but shelter. The prince was not a prince, then. He was just Aemond. Emrik knew his job clearly. His purpose. What the Queen and King asked of him. Now, he is not so sure.

The prince’s request has become more a plea than an ask. A desperate grasp at a past that is gone, a past that can never be reclaimed. But Emrik knows that to deny him now, in this moment of vulnerability, would be a cruelty he is not capable of. A cruelty that he would never wish upon himself, let alone Aemond.

The prince lets out a stifled groan, unable to suppress it any longer. The pain is a living thing now, a beast that has been roused from its slumber. Emrik moves towards it, his body sliding behind the head of the tub where Aemond’s back rests. His hands come up, pressing against Aemond’s temples. "Where is the pain? Is it here?" His voice is a gentle murmur, a low, staunch hum that seems to cut through the fog in Aemond’s mind.

Aemond nods, his forehead leaning into Emrik's touch. "Behind the eye," he mutters.

Emrik’s thumbs begin to work small, slow circles into the prince's skin. He applies firm pressure, trying to ease the tension that has coiled itself into a tight knot. He is careful to avoid the inflamed area around the sapphire, but his touch is close enough to offer a semblance of comfort. "I want you to try to relax, My Prince," he says, his voice a quiet command. "Let your body go slack."

Aemond tries, he really does. He takes a deep breath, attempting to release the tension that has him in its grip. He focuses on the feeling of Emrik's hands on his skin, on the warmth of the water, on the scent of lavender and rosemary. He tries to let go of the pain, to let it wash away with the steam. But it is a stubborn thing, a relentless opponent.

Emrik's hand trails down, pressing along the prince's jaw on the troubled side while the other travels in a restless pattern against his unmarred cheek. His violet eye is shut tight and Emrik prods there too. Aemond’s breath hitches throughout, small, strangled sounds. Emrik can feel the flutter of the prince's pulse beneath his fingertips, a frantic, bird-like beat that speaks of a body in distress. He is not sure how long he sits there, his hands working, but he does not stop. He cannot.

“It's better.” Aemond murmurs a few minutes after his heart calms and his features have already dulled, as if testing the truth of his relief. The pain lingers, a throbbing beyond even Emrik’s reach, but it has flattened like boiling water being taken from the flame. This servant has learned the landscape of his pain, the topography of his suffering. He knows where to press, where to soothe, where to simply be still.

Emrik’s hands shift toward the rag and the soap once more, breaking the stillness after the agony as soon as it arrived. “Let us finish this, My Prince.”

“Aemond.” The dragon grumbles from his half slumped positioning within the steam.

A pause. A bracing.

“Let us finish this, Aemond.”

AEMOND TARGARYEN X MALE SERVANT OC!

TIMELINE

The One Eyed Noble

Chapter Number: 0-1

Date: The Night Before the Morning of S1E8 “The Lord of the Tides” HOTD — 130 AC

PRINCE AEMOND TARGARYEN STRUGGLES TO FIND SOLACE IN THE NIGHT. HIS BLANK EYE SOCKET SEARS HIS SOUL WITH SOMETHING MORE THAN JUST PAIN–VENGEANCE.

DISCLAIMER + IMPORTANT INFO

TIMELINE

CHAPTER 0-1. The One Eyed Noble

Chapter 1-1. The Servant Without