Chapter Text
The priests of Old Valyria say that the best way to preserve a memory is to not remember it at all.
For every time a person remembers, they forge the memory from the embers of their mind, sometimes adding details that were not there to begin with, unbeknownst to the mind itself.
This is Lucerys’ memory. He’s five years old at the time. A tense encounter, within the caves of Driftmark.
The other children are there: Jacerys, Baela, Rhaena - not Aegon, and perhaps, if Aegon were there, things may have ended up differently - and Aemond.
Aemond stands, his chest puffed out, his white hair tinted orange in the flicker of torchlight.
“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon,” Baela says, teeth bared. “She was mine to claim.”
“Then you should have claimed her,” Aemond says. “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride.”
Lucerys doesn’t remember much else within those caves. There are screams, shoves, a fistful of sand, the pulling of hair. He doesn’t remember how he ends up with his brother’s knife, clutched in his shaky fingers, and with one swift backhand slice, the tip of the blade draws a line over Aemond’s left eye, bottom to top.
More screams.
Lucerys remembers how he feels the rest of that night. That tight-chested, sinking feeling of guilt as he cowers behind his mother, with all the most powerful men and women in Westeros in attendance.
In the middle of the room, Aemond grips the arms of his chair as a maester stitches his bloodied eye socket, top to bottom, as King Viserys circles around him like a vulture.
“We are a family!” King Viserys’ voice strains as he clutches his walking stick. “Now make your apologies and show goodwill to one another.”
Everyone’s eyes are downcast. Everyone except for Aemond, who meets the King’s gaze with the same intensity.
“Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it!” King Viserys says.
There’s a long silence. And then:
“That is insufficient,” Alicent says. “Aemond has been damaged, permanently. My King, goodwill cannot make him whole.”
“I know, Alicent,” the King says. “But I cannot restore his eye-”
“No, because it’s been taken.”
“What would you have me do?”
An uncomfortable silence.
“There is a debt to be paid,” Alicent says. “I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.”
Lucerys remembers his stomach turning inside-out. He knew it would have to be his eye.
“My dear wife-”
“He is your son, Viserys,” Alicent says, voice shaking. “Your blood.”
“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgement.”
The King turns to leave.
“If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will,” Alicent says. “Sir Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”
“Alicent-”
“He can choose what eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son.”
Lucerys doesn’t remember much else of that night. There’s an argument, then Queen Alicent draws the King’s Valyrian steel dagger, charging at his mother, more screams, steel and scabbards, shouts and shoves whispers, until it finally ends in silence.
This is all my fault. Lucerys covers his ears with his hands, his fingers pulling on the locks of his strong, brown hair.
Everything’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.
I’m sorry.
His last memory of that night is the least clear of them all.
Lucerys remembers the taste of leather. A gag, covered in his spit, which also runs down the corners of his mouth. He sees nothing. Only darkness, and the muffled whispers of a woman, a man, and a boy.
“Remove the hood.” It’s Alicent’s voice, cold and spiteful, and it takes a moment for Lucerys’ eyes to adjust to the torchlight.
They’re in another room. A dungeon. Lucerys tries to move, but soon discovers that his wrists are bound to the arms of a chair. He twists in his seat. His ankles are bound too, and three belts wrap around his forehead, chest, and waist.
“Nnnnghh! Nnnnn!” More drool soaks into the leather gag, and dribbles down his chin.
He looks around. There are three others in the room.
Alicent, with the same hateful look in her eyes.
Ser Criston Cole, who stands at the door, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
And Aemond. The stitches over Aemond’s left eye are dark brown with dried, clotted blood, and his right eye is wide open, and shaking.
“Do it, Aemond,” Alicent says. “You must be the one to do it.”
Alicent offers the handle of that same Valyrian steel dagger.
Aemond takes it. He points the tip towards Lucerys’ face, the tip wavering, out of focus, as Lucerys tries to plead with his eyes.
There’s another long, uncomfortable silence.
“I can’t, mother,” Aemond breathes. “It’s not right - he didn’t mean to-”
“He maimed you!” Alicent says. “You must do it. Show that bastard - what it means to cross our family - an eye for an eye.”
Lucerys shakes his head. He’s crying now. “Mnnpph! Mnnn…”
Aemond gulps, and takes a step towards Lucerys.
“I… I…” he stutters.
Lucerys and Aemond’s eyes meet.
Please, Aemond!
I’m sorry!
“If you don’t,” Alicent says, “I’ll have Ser Criston do it.”
Aemond turns to look at the white-cloaked Ser Criston, who remains at the door, watching with a neutral expression.
Aemond gulps. He takes the dagger and brings it carefully to Lucerys’ right eye, then shifts the tip to his left.
“Which one…d-do you want me to take?” Aemond whispers.
“Nnnnghhh! Nnnnn!” More tears run down Lucerys’ face. He tries to shake his head, but the belt around his head keeps him still.
Neither!
Uncle, please!
Aemond stops. He’s crying too, now. He backs away from Lucerys.
“I… I’d like to do this alone,” Aemond says.
“What’s that?” Alicent looks at him, arms folded across her chest.
“I… I’ll remove his eye. But… I’d like to be alone,” Aemond says, a little more firmly.
Alicent and Criston look at each other. Then, with a curt nod, Criston opens the door. They step outside, leaving the two boys staring at each other, flickering in the orange light.
Lucerys looks at Aemond, two eyes to one, his vision blurred and shaky.
Aemond sits down on Lucerys’ knees, straddling his legs, facing the smaller boy. He slowly puts his hands around Lucerys’ head, and removes the leather gag. Strings of spittle still connect Lucerys’ lips to the leather as Aemond tosses it away.
“Aemond, please!” Lucerys begs. “Please!”
“I have to,” Aemond says.
“No! No!!!” with all his energy, Lucerys tries once more to twist and turn in his bindings, mustering all his energy at once. It’s useless. The chair is too heavy. The bindings are too tight.
“I’m sorry, Aemond, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to - I didn’t, please!”
Aemond brings his lips to Lucerys’ ear. “I’m sorry too,” he whispers.
“I… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Lucerys keeps twisting, then he slows to a stop, chest heaving, tears rolling down his face.
“I know you didn’t,” Aemond whispers.
“Please…”
“Can you promise me something?” Aemond says.
Lucerys looks up at him.
“Promise me,” Aemond says, “when it’s all over, we’ll forgive each other?”
Lucerys shakes his head frantically. “Please don’t…”
Aemond gently slides his fingers into the back of Lucerys’ head, grabbing onto Lucerys’ curly, brown hair - but not too tightly.
“Left eye? Or right?” Aemond asks.
“P-please…”
In the end, Aemond removes Lucerys’ left eye.
Aemond’s thinking is simple. If they were to meet again, later in life, and look at each other, they would see eye to eye, as strange mirror opposites of one another.
Lucerys doesn’t remember much else from that night. He’d blocked most of it from his memory. He remembers screaming, both eyes sealed shut as the cold Valyrian steel brushes against his eyelid, then pain, and warm blood running down one side of his face.
All the while, Aemond whispers, “I’m sorry, Luke. I’m sorry.”
