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Chapter Text

“A lord must learn that sometimes words can accomplish what swords cannot.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones.

It feels more like the exchange of the prisoners than a family arrangement.

Rhaenyra personally begs her father to not let this happen, tears run down her face as she clutches an infant Joffrey to her chest.

"It will be good for all of you, my dear," her father promises, but Rhaenyra refuses to see the light of it.

"You're stripping me off my children, sending them away to King's Landing, only for me to care for my half-siblings?!"

Her voice rises to a dangerous height, so loud and pinched the glass on the table trembles from the power of it.

"Haven't I suffered enough? I went and was wed as you please, I brought three male heirs into this world, and I recently lost the man I love-"

Rhaenyra doesn't specify on that and Viserys doesn't ask if she means Laenor or Ser Harwin. Despite what the vipers in his court whisper about, Viserys is not blind.

"Your lack of love for your siblings is exactly the reason I'm sending them to live with you," he reasons. "They're your blood, Rhaenyra; and you demanded your little brother to be questioned with the violence."

His daughter chocks on air, indignant in her fury.

"He said-"

"I know what he said," her father cuts out. "This is also why I'm sending him and his siblings to live with you. The boys need to learn to separate vile whispers from the things what can be repeated. I fear your image was tarnished in their eyes, so it would be your duty to restore it."

"And Helaena?" Rhaenyra asks. "She said no vile words of me."

Viserys sighs.

"Helaena is struggling at the court," he admits. "She is more blood of the Dragon than her mother wants her to be. It came to my attention recently what the girl is having Dragon Dreams."

"Dragon Dreams?" Rhaenyra frowns. "This is a serious declaration."

Her father nods.

"And I deem it to be true. I fear Alicent might try to suppress her daughter's abilities, so it's your shoulders, once again, on which the education and raising of the princess deemed worthy of our ancestors falls to."

"But my children-" the princess begins.

"Will be safe with their family," Viserys promises her.

"I am aware of the ire Alicent feels towards your second child and I promise no hurt will come his or his brothers' way. The boys are your heirs; Jacaerys will inherit the throne one day and Lucerys is the future Lord of the Driftmark. It is necessary for both of them to receive the education their status requires, and with Laenor dead and Corlys away at the sea, I see no better place for the both of them to learn and study but the Keep."

"And Joffrey?" Rhaenyra sobs as she holds her youngest for dear life. "Why would you need to rob me of him?"

Viserys sighs.

"This, unfortunately, was my wife's demand," he admits and sees Rhaenyra pale.

"Don't worry, no harm will befall on him too. Alicent's reasoning was what there are three of her children I'm sending away, so the number of the children staying at the Keep should equal that. I fear she is afraid of you hurting her kin."

"I can admit to fear the same," Rhaenyra lets out. "It feels like the captivity more than the living arrangement."

Her father sighs.

"Call it as you like, but know what decision has been made. I trust you and Daemon will take care of your siblings as Alicent and I will ensure my grandchildren are well."

The princess looks away; the way her father adds Daemon to the equation means the king already knows of their secret and quick wedding. The fact what it was not sanctioned by him brings a leverage into Viserys' hands, the one he will not hesitate to use, if needed.

"I trust you care of them well," the king speaks. "And I promise Alicent to do the same."

Rhaenyea doubts it very much, Alicent's dislike of her boys being vocalized more than once.

She fears for their life, with the rumors and accusations spreading wide, with no one to cover their back.

"Go with them," she orders Ser Erryk, the only knight she knows she can truly trust in Alicent's court. "Look after them, protect them from any harm."

"Yes, Your Highness," the knight pledges.

Rhaenyra hopes it will be enough.

It takes them more than eight years to get back together.

Eight years through which all Rhaenyra had of her boys are the letters what went both ways constantly, her sons' writing improving right in front of her eyes.

She knows neither Luke nor Jace wrote of everything what happened, skipping the troubling parts to not worry their mother.

She is aware of the hardships they live through by the words of the spies she installed in the keep through the years.

Rhaenyra is distinctly aware Alicent most likely did the same, and she does her best for the spies to have nothing to report back to the queen.

Her little half-siblings are being raised like the royalty they are; and where Rhaenyra lacks the warmth of familial love, she exceeds in the perfect care her brothers and little sister receive.

Aegon seems to actually love living in Dragonstone; it took him less than a moon to bond with his twin cousins.

Sunfyre is often seen spearing the skies with Moondancer these days.

Helaena is easy to like and to love, being the perfect child, if a bizarre one.

She spends most of her days in the library or exploring the vast fields of the island, her collection of insects growing day by day. She is sometimes seen in the company of Rhaena, both girls taking quietly in some calm and secure corner of the castle.

Aemond, though, is a completely different story.

He is sullen and mistrusting; he prefers the company of the book or the exertion of the training to the person, and Rhaenyra is convinced he is blaming her Luke for losing the eye and his mother both.

Rhaenyra has made attempts to reconcile, but was met with such a ferocious mistrust every time she tried, she ended giving it up whatsoever.

Daemon came to help then; not trying to bond with the boy, but supervising his trainings, teaching him how to fight properly and not in the "flashy useless way the knights of the Keep love to move."

Rhaenyra deems that to be enough.

As the time passes she finds herself being able to chat with Aegon like they're old friends, her half-brother seemingly brewing no resentment towards her.

Rhaenyra learns slowly to let go of her own dislikes and suspicions; Otto Hightower being nowhere close to influence his grandchildren, not around to poison their minds with his greed.

Helaena seems to soak in her company, always meeting her with a gentle smile and a soft look in her lilac eyes. Helaena is the first one to know when Rhaenyra is pregnant with the twins and the first one after their parents to see them.

Aegon is immediately jealous of the attention little ones get and it takes Rhaenyra a lot of convincing to make him believe Aegon the Younger and Viserys' appearance doesn't mean Aegon the Older is not needed anymore.

She isn't sure he believes her in full, but Aegon starts to seek the time with his little nephews after a while.

Children love him and he soaks in their unconditional affection like he was starving.

Rhaenyra realizes he might have as well been.

Aemond is mostly indifferent towards the twins, still spending most of the time in the solitude of his studies.

Rhaenyra has a recollection of that one time then Daemon brought her brothers to the brothel to teach them how to become the men; this being the only time she has ever seen tears on her younger brother's face.

She made a futile attempt to comfort him, but was pushed away harshly.

Very well, see if she tries again.

Rhaenyra turns her attention to her children and the eldest half-siblings instead, trusting Daemon to deal with the boy as he deems necessary.

This way eight years pass.

Even the reason of their union is a grim one: it reaches Rhaenyra's ears what Vaemond Velaryon petitioned for a hearing with the king regarding the succession of the Driftmark.

Seems the world can't simply give her sweet boys a break.

The first time Rhaenyra sees Luke she doesn't recognize him.

He is dressed in dark green with the specks of black, his wavy brown hair grown out a little and put back into a tidy little ponytail.

He stands and holds himself like a little lord, like a child who has too much on his small weary shoulders.

His eyes are different too; gone the eager look in the depths of them, cold calculation clouding the brown of his irises.

He looks nothing like the boy who wrote to her almost every day and everything like the child raised under the Lord Hand's heavy gaze.

Lucerys gives his mother a contemplating look before nodding to himself and stepping forward.

"Mother," he calls out and this single word is enough to open up the floods of Rhaenyra's love and her grief. She moves to the boy she missed so much in one swift motion, bringing him close, wrapping her hands around the child's lean body.

"My sweet boy," she whispers into his hair and feels him relax, melt into embrace.

Scratch the colors he's draped in, forget the serious look in his warm eyes; this boy is her son; she feels it with every fiber of her body.

"Muña," he whispers back just as desperately as she herself feels. 

This is her little boy, and she will tear the world apart for making her leave him.

Meeting with Jacaerys goes easily, her firstborn looking and holding himself as she expected him to.

Jace was always too serious for his own good; her little lording, her baby king in the making.

Eight years of separation made him grow, added a weary dark circles under his eyes, but haven't changed more than that. He steps forward before Rhaenyra has a chance to act, bringing her into embrace on his own volition.

Her little perfect prince, Rhaenyra thinks, overflowing with affection.

Joffrey doesn't recognize her.

Of course he doesn't, being just a babe then they had to separate. He clenches Alicent's hand firmly, sending suspicious looks Rhaenyra's way.

"Is this my muña?" He asks queen Alicent and the woman nods.

"This is princess Rhaenyra Targaryen," introduces the queen. "She's the mother of Jacaerys, Lucerys and you."

"Hello, mother" the boy speaks politely, using the word "mother" as something he has never spoke of before, like the word is foreign to him; uncertainty thick in his high voice. "It's nice to meet you."

Rhaenyra can't hold back the tears.

It takes Aemond a mere moment to recognize the boy in front of him and his suspicions to be confirmed; he still hates the brat.

Years of living with Rhaenyra taught him to not call any of her children bastards; the word being taboo back at the Dragonstone.

But not calling someone a name doesn't diminish the fact what he is, indeed, what the name itself means.

The Strong bastard stands in front of him; dressed in green, Aemond's mother next to him, her hand on the boy's shoulder.

Aemond feels a wave of deep, unadulterated rage take over him.

Some of it had to skip past his mask of indifference, because the bastard in front of him raises an eyebrow and smiles.

"Uncle," Lucerys Velaryon speaks in the smoothest and softest voice Aemond has ever heard; like he is a wild animal his nephew is afraid of spooking, like he needs sweet talking and convincing to behave.

Maybe he does, but that is not bastard's concern.

"How nice it is of you to join us."

"Aemond," his mother calls out.

It's both a warning and a plea; her eyes expressing all the things her words cannot. Her fingers are worrying the rogue strand of Lucerys' hair, prince himself seemingly not minding the gesture.

Aemond breathes out and steps forward.

"Mother," he calls out and closes his eye as she hugs him tightly.

Seems Lucerys Velaryon couldn't rob him of all things yet.

The last part leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

He opens his eye and as he does it he feels a heavy gaze of calculating brown eyes peering into him; Lucerys Velaryon is studying him in a way Helaena would a peculiar insect.

Aemond feels tight in his own skin, scrutinized under the heavy gaze of deep dark eyes.

Gone is the child's naivety what dominated this gaze, gone is the childish conviction what the world is his friend.

The young man in front of Aemond is as cold and calculating as his own grandsire is.

This is not a mystery who partook in overseeing the boy's education; Otto Hightower's influence shining through the sly look Aemond finds himself on the end of.

He feels sorry for the bastard, if only for a moment.

The hearing is not going according to plan.

Whatever Vaemond Velaryon planned to come out of this, a boy of mere ten and five crushing him under the heel of his elaborate speech was not it.

Lucerys volunteers to be the one to defend his claim, receiving a gasp from both his mother and the queen.

He is standing next to Rhaenyra now, her hand clutching the boy's arm in hers for dear life.

Aemond sees Lucerys gently untangle their limbs before stepping forward and producing his own speech of defense.

He doesn't miss the way his own mother tenses, how her hands tremble slightly as she watches the boy she was responsible of for the last several years present his case.

"Honorable Lord Hand," the boy begins, addressing Otto Hightower, completely ignoring Vaemond whatsoever. "It was brought to my attention what my great uncle is throwing a stroll of accusations in my and my mother's way. I would like to address them."

Lord Hand nods slightly, approvingly - as Aemond realizes with the surprise.

"Go on then," he allows and the prince gives him a slight nod before turning to the attending.

He still pretends his great uncle is not in the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the high court," be begins, voice gaining amplitude as he speaks.

"We all were brought today for one simple reason: to decide the fate of the Driftmark once over, for some of my kin," and this is where he gives Vaemond a slight once over. "Are not satisfied with the decision the current Lord of the Tides, the man who is still alive, if at the sea, honorable Lord Corlys Velaryon made. His point is," the prince makes a dramatic pause. "What I am the bastard, as he deems it evident by my simple looks."

He gives his audience a chance to catch up and he seizes the man who threatens his claim with another chilly look.

Aemond isn't sure, but he thinks the boy hesitates briefly, as if wanting to send a single glance back to the lord Hand, but deciding against it.

"But I present you this," the young prince continues. "Whenever I am a bastard or not is irrelevant," he hears gasps and hushed whispers travel up and down the room and lets them.

"You heard me correctly: it is in fact irrelevant. Allow me to explain; it is a wide known fact what my features did not grace me over the night, what the hair I have and the skin I wear are the same coloring as the day I was born. Correct me if I wrong," he sends his mother a fleeting look and receives a firm nod.

Did she help him to set it into the motion? No, Aemond concludes, She had no time.

Which leads the only other opportunity at hand; someone else did.

Aemond steals a glance at his grandsire and finds his attention glued to the bastard prince. There's a faint satisfied glint in Otto's cold scheming eyes.

"What to say, I looked remarkably the way I do now to when I was just born. And my father," he makes a pause. "Honorable Lord Leanor whom we lost to a tragic fate almost eight years ago, the rightful husband of my royal mother, had absolutely no issue with the way I or either of my brothers look. He admitted us as his, and whenever it was or wasn't the case lays on his conscience."

The prince stares the offending him lord down once again.

"To add to that, our grandsire, current Lord of the Tides Corlys Velaryon was overjoyed with my birth and immediately set into motion the schedule of my training, naming me his successor after my lord father. Am I wrong?" Lucerys gives a single look to his royal grandmother, Rhaenys Targaryen, who stands by the side, watching his speech closely.

"You are, in fact, quite correct," the Queen Who Wasn't admits. "It was my husband's decision for you to become the heir of the Driftmark."

"He was wrong in doing so," Vaemond argues and receives a scorching look from both Rhaenyra and Rhaenys.

Lucerys seems to be unbothered.

"So forgive me the surprise I feel over the fact what Lord Vaemond, using the opportunity of his brother being away and the excuse of my supposed bastardry, tries to change the arrangement what is not his to question."

"Lies," the said lord argues. "I simply try to uphold my house's honor-"

"By undermining your lord’s word, it seems," the prince hums and receives a sparse chuckles from the crowd.

"By trying to usurp your brother's throne to sate your own ambitions. The question of succession of Driftmark is not for you to decide, nor it is for you to contradict. My lord," he adds, as if in afterthought.

"What should worry us all is not am I the rightful heir of the Driftmark, for there's only two men to settle it, and both of them - both being my grandfathers - had already settled the issue. No, the question is why would we allow the man such as Vaemond Velaryon to question the decision his king and his lord made? Why would we allow this blatant attempt of usurping the power what is not his to yield to go unpunished?"

"And what would you suggest to deal with the accusations you just brought up?" Otto asks, a careful mask hiding his pleasure.

He orchestrated it, Aemond realizes.

Grandsire wanted Vaemond Velaryon out, so he fed the man some lies and promises and let the petition pass through.

Only for Lucerys Velaryon to go for the man's throat.

"A trial," the young prince smiles. "Let him be questioned by Lord Confessor's men, let the question of his loyalty to be brought up. If he is proven innocent, he can live as he did."

"And if he does not?" Lord Hand asks. "If he is, indeed, proven guilty of the things you accuse him of?"

Prince Lucerys smiles, an expression sharp and violent.

"The punishment for treason is death."

Otto Hightower smiles back.

"So be it," he agrees. "By the power bestowed to me by the king, I order the royal questioning of Vaemond Velaryon to take place. Seize him."

Chapter Text

"Let me give you some counsel, bastard," Lannister said. "Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you."

― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones.

Interlude.

The King's Landing, Eight years ago.

Lucerys stumbles into him as he runs to his chambers, tears streaming down the boys' cheeks.

He wants go to his mother more than anything else in the world.

The man stabilizes him in the unconscious motion, before looking down at the distressed child in front of him.

“Lucerys,” Lord Otto Hightower speak. Then, as he studies the boy’s damp face: “What happened to your face?”

The boy doesn’t respond and moves to escape, but is stopped by the firm hand of his shoulder.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” the man addresses him again, more firmly this time. “I asked you a question."

Luke sniffs.

“What do you think happened to my face?” he retorts. “I was crying.”

It rewards him with a cold calculating look of king Viserys’ Lord Hand.

“And why is that?” the lord asks calmly, seemingly unbothered by the well-being of a very small and very sad child.

“They called me the name,” the boy complains regardless, the scary lord being the only person to even stop him to ask. “The same name Aemond used.”

“The bastard,” Otto Hightower hums and Lucerys winces.

“You can’t say that!” he argues. “Mother says it’s a bad word and it cannot be repeated!”

“Is that so?” the man raises a single eyebrow. “And how exactly are you planning to stop me from doing that? Will you run to your grandfather to tell on me?”

The young boy scoffs. He is not a tattle and he will not hide behind his grandfather, as appealing such idea might be.

“I will fight you,” he informs the lord and the man stiffens a laugh.

“Oh, will you?” he chuckles. “And will you also fight all the others ready to call you a bastard too?”

“I will,” Luke insists. “See if I won’t”

“Then you will lose,” the lord informs him. “And you will accomplish nothing.”

He studies the boy in front of him for such a long time Lucerys grows weary with the impatience.

“Come with me,” the man offers and the boy hesitates. “I was just about to have some cake.”

Cake decides it all.

“The thing is, my dear boy,” lord Hightower speaks as Lucerys is shoving the second piece of cake into his mouth.

The lord himself has barely touched his own piece and Luke is wondering if he can ask Lord Hand if he can have his piece too.

“You are the bastard, the same way your brothers are. You’re the product of your mother’s infidelity and there is nothing you can do about it.”

“But-“ the boy raises to argue and is stopped by the single motion of the hand.

“This is not necessarily a bad thing,” the man informs him. “This is just a defining characteristic of your heritage, but it can be used as a flaw and as an advantage both.”

“But people diminish mother because of that!” Luke complains and sees the lord smile dimly. “The queen spreads rumors what mother is a wanton and a- an indecent woman! How can it be a good thing?!”

“I see your point,” the lord agrees. “And I must admit to be partly to blame for these rumors to spread.”

Lucerys stares at him wide-eyed; eyes huge as a plate, cake forgotten.

“You?!” he bellows. “Why?!”

Otto Hightower seems unbothered.

“To undermine your mother’s claim to the throne,” he admits simply and Luke gapes at him, mouth wide open. “The high lords have hard time accepting a woman as the heir already, so it’s not difficult to turn their loyalties away by some words. I planned to make my grandson the heir to Viserys.”

Luke brinks repeatedly, trying to shed away the uncalled tears. The sheer audacity of this man telling this right to his face is astonishing.

“And why are you telling me this?” he demands. “And what makes you think I won’t write to mother right away to reveal your rotten plans?”

“And who will believe you?” the man smiles, cold and unpleasant.

The boy shivers; he suddenly doesn’t feel safe anymore. He wonders if the cake was poisoned.

“And the reason I’m telling you this is for you to not hear it from someone else,” the lord takes a bite of his cake. “There are plenty of allies of mine around the keep, but just as many of my foes. They would love to turn you against me.”

“And why would I not be turned against you?” the child wonders. “You just admitted to want to steal my mother’s throne.”

“You’re not listening,” the man comments. “You’re hearing the words but you do not understand the meaning behind them. I said I planned to make Aegon the heir, Viserys’ new arrangement distorted these plans.”

“So what now?” Luke peers into the face of the man suspiciously. “You are looking for a new pawn to manipulate?”

Otto Hightower smiles.

“These are big words for a boy as small as you are,” he lets out. “What I am looking is an ally; a friend, if you must. You have to be very lonely here, away from your mother; with no one to run to, no shoulder to cry on. I am offering you that.”

“A shoulder?” Luke asks. “Why?”

“Because,” lord Hand speaks. “I see the potential in you. You’re a clever little thing and you’re capable of great things, if only you learn how to manipulate your heritage for your own gain.”

“But how can I do that?” the boy wonders. “Being bastard is bad.”

“Is it?” the lord asks. “Is being the beloved son of Harwin Strong such a bad thing? The son of the man more than half of the city guard is still loyal to, almost a year after his dispatch and death?”

“I-“ Lucerys hesitates. “It is supposed to be a shameful thing.”

“For the lords, yes,” Otto Hightower agrees. “But for the commoners you’re nothing but the striking image of their bellowed Commander. There is power in that, if only you’re brave enough to wield it.”

“But the lords-“

“As what of the lords,” the Hand continues. “They can do very little but whisper, Laenor Velaryon making sure to admit you as his under the gazes of gods and men. They can speak all they want, but it’s his and his father’s, Corlys Velaryon’s, words what decide your fate. And they have spoken in your favor.”

“Grandfather Corlys wants me to inherit Driftmark,” the boy mumbles. “I don’t want it.”

“And why is that?” Otto inquires.

“If I’m the Lord of the Tides, it means everyone is dead,” the prince confesses, quiet and sad.

“Everyone dies,” the lord agrees. “You know it better than anyone, having lost not one, but two fathers. It is likely Corlys Velaryon will not live forever, which means one day someone else will take this place. All you can do, all you should do is to ensure this someone is you.”

“But why?” Luke asks. “I am no Velaryon, I have no right-“

“This is not about blood,” Otto cuts him out.

“It was never about it, no matter what your family tried to tell you. It is about the capability, the willingness to grab the opportunity by its handles. Are you willing to take what was offered to you or will you hide away crying in the corner as your mother’s legacy, as your father’s legacy is being tarnished and torn apart? Will you disappoint Laenor and Corlys’ trust in you?”

The young prince has tears on his face, water dripping softly from his chin.

But he looks up and Otto Hightower sees a grim determination in his dark eyes.

“I am willing,” he declares. “I will not fail my family.”

The Lord Hand smiles, slow, meaningful and satisfied.

He just found a new pawn for his round; the one who has all the opportunities to become the queen.

“Good,” he comments. “Then the first thing you need to learn is to grow some thick skin. Do not let any harsh words bother you, my boy, for your sensitivity will be your downfall.”

“But how can I do it?” Lucerys wonders. “These words hurt!”

“First things first,” advises the lord.

“Do not let the others see the words hurt you. If they know it bothers you - they will use it against you. Secondly, learn to wield the word “bastard” as a sword; weaponize it and use it at your own volition. I have already told you smallfolk have the perspective of adoring you, if only you give them the chance. Let go of your royal upbringing, mingle with the lowborns, and let them see you’re the prince of the people. Remember, as the Lord of the Driftmark the men you will have under command would be mostly sailors. They are the crude kind, but fiercely loyal to their own. Prove yourself worthy to them, and they will follow you to the end of the world.”

The prince stares at him wide-eyed, half of the words flying right past him.

Otto sighs; he got ahead of himself, the boy is still too young to understand most of it.

It is not an issue, for lord Hightower has all the time he needs to mold the perfect little prince out of Lucerys Velaryon.

And so his work begins.

Chapter Text

 "You make us look bad', complained Toad.
'You looked bad before I ever met you', Jon told him."
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

The hearing is over, ending in the completely different way than anyone - sans two or three people - would ever expect.

The room clears out, leaving only the royal family present.

There are two figures stepping forward to the Velaryon prince; two women who seize each other with a sight what could only be described as competitive.

Queen Alicent hesitates in her steps and lets Rhaenyra move forward, wrapping her hands around Lucerys.

The boy hugs his mother back, but his keen eyes are on the queen.

"I told you, you should trust me more," he speaks, voice firm and very sure of himself. "I had it under control."

"Had you?" Alicent asks, worry and rightful fury merging on her pale face. "Luke, it was dangerous. 'Whenever I am a bastard or not is irrelevant'? Are you out of your mind?"

The rise of her voice makes everyone turn to stare at the queen, who stands in the middle of now empty chamber, hands already picking the sore skin near her nails, the first drops of blood emerging.

Luke gently moves out of his confused mother's embrace and walks to the queen, reaching out to take her hands in his.

"Stop," he speaks softly, voice gentle in a completely different way than Aemond heard before. "You're hurting yourself."

"I will have a word with father," Alicent promises, but Lucerys shakes his head.

"He will not listen. Lord Hightower had this plan brewing in his mind for ages, I figured there no harm in indulging it."

"No harm?" Rhaenyra exclaims. "Luke, you could have died!"

"I rather doubt so," the prince denies. "I haven’t spent eight years of my life playing by the court rules to die such a stupid death. But," he smiles, an expression completely devoid of any warmth. "The question of my rightful succession to the Driftmark is settled now and, hopefully, won't be questioned again."

"And if it will?" Daemon asks, staring this unfamiliar boy of his stepson with wary eyes. Something in the boy must remind the rogue prince of Otto Hightower and he does not like this resemblance at all.

"Then I will deal with it as it comes," the prince shrugs, looking like a boy of his age for the first time since they've seen him. "I believe the celebration is in order? I think I heard some announcement will take place," he sends his older brother a sly smile and receives a wink in return.

"What are you two scheming?" Aegon asks, completely unprepared for the sight in front of him, boys he remembers being a yellow mouthed babes following him around growing into confident and cunning lads.

"That is for us to know," Jacaerys smiles dimly. "And for you to find out."

"Boys," Alicent calls out and three dark haired heads immediately turn her way.

She catches Rhaenyra's questioning stare and looks away, something akin to guilt flashing over her soft features.

"To go your rooms and prepare for the feast. It concerns all of you," she sends her own children a hesitant look. "Your old rooms were left untouched and the maids are getting them ready as we speak."

"Thank you, mother," Aemond nods as he tries to ignore the inquisitive gaze of two brown eyes peering into the side of his head.

Aegon in his turn stares at Jacaerys the way the child would stare at the new toy he desires.

Nothing good will come out of it, Aemond thinks.

Helaena surprises them all, stepping forward and offering her hand for Jacaerys to take. The oldest Velaryon prince smiles, genuinely for the first time for today, and clasps her glowed hand gently in his.

Helaena has grown into this habit of wearing gloves everywhere she goes.

Aemond recalls what is the reason for that; he once heard his sister tell Rhaenyra what she 'sees' visions then she touches things.

"I touched your belly and saw the babes," she confessed to her pregnant half-sister. "But sometimes I touch things and don't like what I see. There is a lot of blood around; I don't want to see blood."

Rhaenyra got her a pair of thin pink gloves; Aemond doesn't know how functional the coloring is, but Helaena seems to love them.

She is wearing the dress the same color, her long wavy hair made into an elaborate hairstyle Rhaenyra spent half of the morning creating.

Aemond often feels forcefully distanced from his sister, with how much time she spends in the company of Daemon's girls or her little twin nephews. There is some secret union brewing between the three of them and Aemond feels left out of it most of the time.

Aegon has no issue with meddling into the girls' business, always dragging unresistant Baela away to 'have some fun' or 'fly till their breath is shallow'.

Aemond notices the cold calculating look Daemon throws their way every time these two run away to create some mischief.

He has a bad feeling about where it will lead them.

They arrive to the dinner early, the king is yet to join them.

Aemond haven't seen his father for more than eight years and he doubts he wants to see the man now.

The words of accusation are still ringing in his ears, all these years after.

Joffrey, whom Aemond last seen as faceless crying bundle, enters the room and immediately makes a beeline to Alicent; proceeding to raise the brows of everyone at the table.

Luke and Jace, seated by their cousins and their parents' side as Aemond and his brother take a place on the other side, send his brother a wide looks and try to lure him to them.

Joffrey looks at Alicent, confused, and is met with the soft look of her loving eyes and her hand gently tracing his unruly curls.

"Go sit next to your brothers," she tells him, pointedly looking anywhere but Rhaenyra's heartbroken expression.

"But mo-"

"Go sit with your brothers, Joffrey," she repeats more forcefully, cutting him off mid sentence to everyone's relief. Aemond can guess what the little bastard was going to say and he resents the boy for it, as petty as it is.

The boy makes a mournful expression, but obeys, processing to his brothers, Jacaerys immediately scooping him into arms and whispers something into the boy's ear. Joffrey sniffs and sends Alicent a longing look, but otherwise behaves.

Helaena is the last before the father and Lord Hand to join them.

She enters the room and looks around, noticing the empty seat next to Jacaerys.

The reason the seat is empty is because Lucerys Velaryon put his feet on it, successfully blocking anyone's attempt to sit between the two Velaryon princes. He lowers his feet with the flourish and gestures for the princess to join them.

Helaena obliges, much appraised.

So this is how they end up, Aemond sitting next to his grandsire with his brother at his side, Baela is securely next to the prince, already whispering something into his ear and having him stifle a laughter.  Next comes her twin sister, who sends wondering looks Lucerys' way, then the said prince himself, with Helaena huddled safely between him and his older brother, and a little Joffrey, who ends up seated between his brother and his stepfather.

Joffrrey gives Daemon such an open look of apprehension and mistrust it makes Aemond snort into a napkin.

"My beloved family," the king begins, who looks admittedly better than Aemond would expect him to be.

The prince wonders why Viserys missed the hearing then and was it another part of grandsire's plot.

"It warms my old heart to see you all gathered here together. I realize the last time we all gathered was a rather mournful occasion," the king coughs.

"But this time it is not a funeral what brought us all together, and not even the treason of one of our lords, which, as I was informed, was successfully dealt with by my dear grandson," he sends Lucerys a warm look and the boy salutes with his cup in return.

"It is my greatest joy and honor to announce a perfect union to take place. I present you the news, my dears. From now on and forward let it be known what prince Jacaerys, my grandson and the heir to the Iron Throne, is betrothed to his aunt and my daughter, Helaena Targaryen. Stand up, my children."

The couple stands up readily, already hand in hand, and receives a round of applause; everyone seemingly being content with that union taking place.

"Helaena, you sly fox," Aegon comments. "I was wondering whom you were sending all these letters to."

He receives a half-hearted pinch on his shoulder by Baela, who cheers and claps with the others.

Aemond half-expects another announcement to take place, considering how entangled Aegon and Baela seem to be these days; but the dark glint of Daemon's eyes tells him Rhaenys refused to accept this offer.

Good friends or not, Aegon is still widely known for his escapades in every brothel the island has; so it is not a wonder the girl's grandmother denied the offer.

Aemond moves his gaze to his mother, who looks at her daughter and her betrothed with a slight smile on her lips. She catches Jacaerys' look and nods, receiving a slight genuine smile in return.

The dinner proceeds as planned, meals changing and toasts being made. The king toasts for the future heir of the Driftmark and everyone raises a cup.

Helaena and Jacaerys dance and then Jacaerys almost breaks Aegon's nose as the prince makes a lewd comment regarding child making.

His mother and sister exchange veiled apologies and start a hushed conversation; everything seems to be proceeding smoothly.

And then the kitchen staff brings out the roasted pig and puts it right in front of Aemond.

The smell hits his senses and the memories flood his mind; the anticipation, the hope for the dragon of his own, the dreadful realization of the joke being played on him, the shame and humiliation taking place as tears stream down his face.

He looks up and sees Lucerys Velaryon staring straight at him.

The brat holds an eye contact and smirks.

Aemond sees red.

He hits the table, dishes rattling away from the impact, and then he rises.

All eyes are on him; and not the last are the pair of mocking dark pits right in front of him, the eyes what belong to a boy who cost Aemond everything.

"Final tribute," he begins and feels the room still, his own mother rigid next to him. Alicent does not trust her own son and Aemond blames Lucerys for that.

"To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke and Joffrey," he continues and feels Rhaenyra's sharp look peer through him.

'Don't you dare,' her gaze seems to be telling him. 'I fed you, I raised you, and gods know I tried, don't you fucking dare!'

He smirks.

Aemond sees Jace close his brother's ears. Very well, these words are not for him to hear anyway.

"Each of them handsome, wise," he sees a violent glint in his bastard nephew's eyes, a slight tilt of his soft plum lips upwards.

Is the brat actually enjoying it?

"Strong," he hears Rhaenyra hiss through her clenched teeth, sees a murder flowering in Jacaerys' gaze. Lucerys Velaryon stares him down, his eyes two bottomless pits to drown into.

"Let us drain these cups to these three strong boys."

Lucerys Velaryon stares him right in the face and smiles; mouth full of teeth and malice.

He raises his cup in a mocking salute and speaks sweetly, poison creeping through the cracks.

"Thank you, uncle dearest," and if looks could kill, Aemond would be dead. "I am so glad we are able to see eyes...to eye," he grins mockingly and Amond can feel his own hand closing over the cup with the force what would shatter it.

Joffrey, who freed himself from his brother's protective embrace, stiffens a laugh.

The tension what threatens to burst in the room is cut short by the commanding, warning voice of the lord Hand.

"Lucerys," Otto Hightowers speaks and the boy immediately looks away, eyes downcast in a feign obedience. "This is a fine family meeting we have, so let us keep it that way," his grandsire gives Aemond a warning look. "All of us."

"Yes, Lord Hightower," murmurs Lucerys into his cup. Aemond sees the tension slowly leave his mother's body.

"Let us praise the Seven for giving us such an opportunity to gather here together," she speaks, voice forcefully cheerful. Aemond doesn't miss the desperate look the queen sends Rhaenyra's way.

The princess unclenches her jaws and releases her husband's hand, which she was holding hostage in a death grip - Aemond sees Daemon wince and shake it then no one is paying him any attention.

"Yes," Rhaenyra agrees. "Let us not allow any petty scrabbles to ruin the joy of our meeting."

The dinner proceeds.

Aemond stares at his nephew across the table, bile and resentment gathering in his soul, old anger resurfacing like it never left.

The brat stares back; a gaze unwavering, intense, magnetizing, a slight pleased smirk playing on his lips.

Chapter Text

“I made no threats, that was a promise.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

Lucerys finds Joffrey crying in the alcove.

“Hey,” he calls out softly. “Hey Joff, what is wrong?”

“Everyone is upset with me,” his little brother sobs. “Are you upset with me?”

“No,” Luke responds. “Why would I?”

“I called the queen ‘mother’,” Joffrey confesses. “She and the prin-, the other mother got upset.”

Luke can’t even begin to unravel the revelation what Joffrey calls his birth mother 'the other mother' in his mind.

He can’t really blame the boy for it; Joffrey spent his entire life under the queen’s care, he literally has known nothing but this.

And then one day his entire world was put upside down, with the revelation what his real mother, of whom he only heard from her letters, is coming back.

Lucerys himself has hard time adjusting to the change, feeling downright annoyed by his mother’s needless worrying of him. Gods know he is not a babe and queen’s concerns for him are enough as they are.

He tries not to think of the fact what he, himself, started seeing Queen Alicent as the second mother.

He tries not to dwell into the knowledge what Lord Hightower is closer to him than his own grandfather is.

Jace mistrusts Lord Otto and for a good reason; Lord Otto is a schemer and a clever and sly man who only has his own ambitions in mind.

Still, Luke would not become the man he is now if not by the Hand’s guidance.

Still, it is better to have lord Hightower as an ally than to have him on your enemies’ side.

“It’s okay, Joff,” Lucerys tells his brother as he crouches next to him. “Mother will understand. The queen too. The queen loves us.”

“I know she does,” Joffrey agrees. “This is why I call her mother, she raised me! But lately she becomes upset then I call her that, so I try not to, but it’s hard.”

“I know, sweetling,” Luke agrees. “And no one is hating you for a single slip off. You’re a child; you ought to be allowed to make mistakes.”

“Jace makes no mistakes,” his baby brother argues. “And neither do you. You two are just so…perfect. I’m nothing like that.”

The prince feels a familiar warmth flood his body; he reaches to grab his brother in his arms.

“Hey,” Joffrey complains and did he become heaver just by the couple of last days? “I don’t need you to carry me around, I’m not a baby!”

“You will always be a baby to me, little brother,” Luke informs him and hears his brother scoff. “I remember you a tiny red thing, crying your lungs out. You will never outgrow this image in my eyes.”

“Rude,” Joffrey complains, but he has stopped crying, so Lucerys counts it as a win.

“Want to go find Jace?” he asks. “Introduce yourselves to our aunt, who is soon to become our good sister?”

“Yes!” Joffrey jolts, making his brother to drop him down, if carefully. “Helaena seems nice! I heard she likes bugs; do you think we need to catch a bug for her?”

“I can’t see why we can’t,” Luke agrees and they proceed to the inner gardens.

Luke gives Ser Erryk a slight nod, his twin brother no doubt being the one to oversee Jacaerys’ well-being.

The knight smiles back, a slight dimple appearing on his left cheek. Gods, Luke needs to do something with his childish crush on his knight-protector. Possibly to get laid in the brothel at the Flea Bottom, his plain looks being a cover enough for him to travel up and down the city unnoticed.

“I heard this word again,” Joffrey informs him as they kneel in front of the flowers bed, searching for any bug worthy of their attention.

“The bastard?” Luke suggests and his brother nods.

“Not at the hearing,” he specifies. “Though Lord Vaemond definitely tried to use it against you.”

Lucerys smirks.

“You saw where it landed him,” he smiles and his little brother smiles back. He frowns right away though.

“I don’t understand how you can use this word for your gain then Jace stiffens every time he hears it,” Joffrey admits. “Who is right; you or Jace?”

“Both,” Luke shrugs. “And neither. The word ‘bastard’ is a nasty one often used to diminish us, but I find it is better to use it to my advantage. I rob my foes of their weapon and gain a weapon of my own.” He sighs. “But Jace is in his right to be offended by it too.”

“But it’s the truth,” Joffrey frowns. “You told me we are bastards, what lord Laenor is not our real father.”

“He loved us as the real father should,” Luke responds. “But no, I don’t think we are his by blood. There was another man by mother’s side, Ser Harwin Strong. He was our true father.”

“Was he a good man?” his little brother asks and Lucerys sighs once again.

“He was the best man I have ever met. I wish you could remember him. I wish you could remember Laenor too,” he pats Joffrey on his head, soft curls bouncing right up. “He and Laenor loved us so much, they were so happy then you were born.” Luke smiles. “Jace let me choose the egg for you.”

His little brother perks at that.

“You were the one to choose Tyraxes for me?” he exclaims, excited. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, little one,” Luke smiles. “So anyway, we are bastards, but in our case it means only what we had two fathers who loved us very much. They would be so proud of you now, Joff, you have no idea.”

The boy sniffs.

“I wish I could remember them too,” he admits. “But why mother had to fall for someone but her husband? Why couldn’t she love him as the wife should?”

“It’s complicated,” Luke tries. “Mother loved Laenor, they were the best of friends, but it was not that simple.”

“Why?” Joffrey insists.

“Because Laenor was like me,” Lucerys explains plainly and sees the understanding shine in his baby brother’s brown eyes.

“He liked men?” the little prince screams for the entire garden to hear.

Luke looks around and is already sighing in relief upon discovering no spare ears, and then he sees Aemond Targaryen staring down at them.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Luke thinks. Of all people to meet in the garden, why does it have to be him?

“Yes,” he replies to his brother as calmly as he can, while looking back at his uncle, frozen in place, a single violet eye wide with surprise and something akin to triumph.

Is he thinking of using this knowledge against Lucerys? Well, he can certainly try.

The young prince smiles back, languid and promising and sees his uncle’s face to contort.

This was easy, Lucerys is aware he is growing to be a beautiful man, a notion many people have already voiced to him. The fact what his looks affect Aemond is another thing altogether.

I can use this, Luke thinks as he sees a slight blush creep his uncle’s neck, Aemond trying to muster a scoff threatening enough. I can make him all hot and bothered, I can unveil him the way best whores at the Bottom couldn’t.

Some of his thoughts had to sneak up on his face, because if anything, Aemond blushes more, before he finally sends his way a convincing death glare and bolts away.

Virgin, Luke thinks in delight. A repressed, untouched virgin. This can prove a worthy enough distraction from Ser Erryk.

He imagines Otto’s reaction to that.

“You seduced your own uncle?” the man will probably say. “And what did you gain out of it? Besides the plain sating of the flesh. What Aemond Targaryen can be useful for? Think, Lucerys.”

So Lucerys thinks.

He is flying the biggest dragon alive; he hums as he helps his brother to lock the centipede they found in a small container.

Aemond is a skilled fighter, if the rumors and the letters do not lie, he contemplates as he walks the halls to his oldest brother’s chambers, Joffrey excited by his heel.

He is generally a very intimidating presence, if his temper leaves it to wish for the better, he considers as they pass the minor lords and exchange some pleasantries.

With him loyal to me and me alone Driftmark would be secured in the completely different way than I anticipated before, he admits as the younger prince gifts the flowers to the passing maids, the girls sending smiling looks their way.

This would work, he thinks as they climb the stairs, a young knight sending an earning look Lucerys’ way. He is handsome, but not in the way what makes Luke’s heart skip a beat.

Is Aemond handsome in the way what makes my heart skip a beat? He wonders and has to admit what yes, he is.

There is something else here, some old itching Lucerys can’t help but try to scratch; something unsolved from their common past. What is it; the eye? The resentment Aemond holds over Luke’s head because of that incident in their childhood?

There are enough reasons to want him to be by my side, Lucerys concludes, completely disregarding how weak these reasons are and how the entire convincing is concluded in a simple ‘well, I just want it’ argument.

But this is the argument Lord Hightower will not accept, so the prince has to work harder to justify the rush actions he is about to set in motion.

He raises his hand to knock on his brother’s door, but it opens before he can even reach it.

“Lucerys,” Helaena greets him at the same time as she informs Jacaerys of their arrival. “Green dragon on the steps; he is waiting to devour his prey. Little does he know; the prey is a trap in disguise.”

“So,” Luke hums, completely unfazed by her words. He was warned she is a Dragon Dreamer.  “Should the prey play this game? Should he lay the trap for the dragon?”

“I cannot say,” Helaena looks away, into the distance only she can see. “The dragon will not rest until it had his meal. The prey can play along to run away; it is the prey’s choice.”

“The prey is running nowhere,” the prince decides as Joffrey looks between his aunt and his brother in confusion. “The prey will lock the dragon up in his clutches.”

“He will burn,” Helaena informs him. “But he will like it.”

“Um,” Joffrey calls out. “Hello? I am Joffrey, Lucerys said you were expecting us.”

“Yes,” Helaena smiles at him gently. “Little fourth child.”

“I am the third child, actually,” the boy replies hesitantly. Luke smirks.

“I don’t think this is what our aunt means,” he explains. “Come on, let’s go in and show Helaena the gift you got for her.”

“A gift?” the princess perks.

“It’s a centipede!” Joffrey announces, completely ruining the element of surprise. Luke catches Jace’s smiling expression and grins back. “Luke helped me to catch it!”

“Let me see,” Heleana asks as she kneels in front of the container. “Oh my, she is a real beauty, is she not?”

“So,” Luke speaks as the brothers are alone at last. “Helaena; can’t say I’m terribly surprised, can’t say I was expecting it either. It is a good match, if not for love.”

“You know as well as I do the match for love is a luxury I can’t afford,” Jace frowns. “Helaena is a good friend and a kind soul, and she is of our blood.”

“And she is Otto’s granddaughter,” Luke mentions. “Don’t pretend you forgot about it.”

Jacaerys scoffs.

“How could I? With Helaena as my wife, the chances of Otto trying something…unpleasant are quartered, at least.”

“I told you he won’t try to push for Aegon on the throne,” Luke tries.

“What you know of,” his brother parries. “We yet to know it for sure; the moment of revelation will be after grandsire is gone and I fear this time is closing on us.”

“It is,” Lucerys agrees. “Alicent told me they have to feed him milk of the poppy almost constantly. I’m surprised he could join us at the dinner.”

“He wanted to see us together once again,” his brother sighs. “Gods know he is the one to put us all in this position. Joffrey calls Alicent mother and is afraid to come to his actual mother; Alicent spends more time fussing over you than looking at her own children. And Aemond…”

“Don’t you start,” Luke warns him.

“Aemond is obsessed with you and the debt you’re supposedly owe him,” his brother finishes, disregarding Lucerys’ wishes. “The Seven and the gods of Old Valyria know we need all the unity we can muster.”

“Aegon is no use for Otto,” Luke tries again. “He hasn’t seen his grandfather for almost eight years and has to desire to rule.”

“It is so,” Jacaerys admits. “But I’m still not sure our performance and obedience are enough to move the scales. Lords of the small council and the court will have the hard time accepting mother, and we will fail if Lord Hightower does not have our backs.”

“He has my back,” Lucerys mentions and sees his brother roll his eyes.

“He does,” the older prince admits begrudgingly. “If only in the things considering Driftmark. Good performance the other day, by the way. I loved to see the look of feign self-righteousness to be wiped of Vaemond’s face.

Luke snorts.

“Right?” he agrees. “I loved how he came completely unprepared and still failed to see how it will be his downfall. Did he expect me to hide behind my mother and tremble? Who am I, the yellow mouthed babe or the future Lord of the Tides?”

“You do realize Otto is not doing it without a reason though,” Jacaerys speaks. “He will most likely want you to marry one of his distant nieces.”

“Well, this can’t be that bad,” Luke brushes off. “As long as she is nice enough and understand our marriage for what it is.”

“Are you jesting?” Jacaerys scoffs. “I can’t tell with you these days. You can’t do this; grandmother Rhaenys will flip. We need Velaryon’s support as much as we need Hightowers. Who will we be if we betray our own bloodline?”

“There is very little of their blood in our veins and you know that,” Luke frowns. “I can marry Rhaena. Or Baela, whoever grandmother will wed to me.”

“And then Otto Hightower will flip and we will lose his support,” Jacaerys sighs. “This is a stalemate.”

“Or,” Luke tries, a rogue idea breaching his defenses.

“Or what?” Jace asks suspiciously.

“Or I can stay unwed but take one of my uncles to my bed. We can rule Driftmark together, if not officially. I’m sure it will sate Otto’s appetite.”

Jacaerys stares at him for a longest time, eyes wide, face – horrified.

“Is this about Aemond?” he finally asks. “Damn it, I knew you riled him up for a reason. Luke, no!”

“But why?” the younger prince tries. “It is the perfect solution, if the unusual one, you know I don’t fancy women and the duty of the husband would be difficult for me-“

“He will kill you in your sleep,” Jacaerys retorts. “I get it what his lost eye gives him the roguish look and his fame of the best swordsman makes something in your blood boil; but no, you will not put your life and our fates in danger because you were thinking with your cock!”

“I am not,” and Luke can feel himself blushing. Damn it and damn Jace for being the only person in the world being able to make him feel like an inexperienced boy.

“I am not- This is not what this is about! This is strategic thinking, he is flying the biggest dragon alive,” and look, the reasons Luke thought about before came in handy. “With him by my side no one will dare to threaten the Driftmark. And we will get another Targaryen-Hightower union, what else could you possibly need?”

Jace stares him down, disbelief and apprehension clear on his handsome face.

“How did I miss it?” he asks into the air. “They have been in the King’s Landing for two days and already you are wrapped around Aemond’s finger like some common whore.”

“I am not,” Luke hisses. “If anything, it’s the other way around! Helaena says it is a good idea!” he adds for the emphasis.

“Helaena has to right to advice you on that matter,” Jace hisses. “She sees the future, but she does not see every single outcome. Her prophesies are not fully reliable, do not use them as the clear indication what to and not to do!”

“You could trust me a little, you know,” Luke scoffs. “We have been living here for eight years and I had yet to make a fool of myself. And yet all you see is a little babe mother once put in your arms. Why can’t you see I have grown up?"

“You will always be a baby to me, little brother,” Jacaerys says, unknowingly echoing Luke’s own word from before. The younger prince scoffs.

“You will see,” he promises, or threatens, he isn’t sure. “I will bring it to life and I will make it work, and everyone will be pleased; and then you will see!”

“Luke,” his brother calls out but Lucerys is already out of the room and into the halls, his quick steps echoing in the empty corridors.

“You can’t stop him,” Helaena speaks softly as he puts a gentle hand on her betrothed’s shoulder. “So you shouldn’t try.”

“Why did you tell Luke about him and Aemond?” he asks, exasperated.

“Not telling him would be worse,” she explains patiently. “They will crash and burn regardless of what we do; it is their fate. All we can do is prepare them for it. I’ve spent years trying to ease Aemond to the through, but I fear I have failed. Luke is the one we can hope for now.”

“He is just a boy,” Jacaerys murmurs. “He is clever and sly and is very full of himself; he thinks the entire world moves at his command. But he is still just a boy, and I worry about him.”

“Me too,” Helaena agrees quietly. “Hand turns loom; spool of green, spool of black. Dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread. I wish they would not dance. We are trying to make them not to, but the hand is turning things around and the only one who can affect the hand is Luke. He is trying, Jace, do not stop him on that.”

“And why is he the only one who can stop the hand?” Jacaerys wonders.

“Because the Hand trusts him,” she replies simply.

“He tries not to, but it’s hard as you see the child grow; as you see your own traits reflect in the boy you made your hand. Grandfather is not immune to the call of blood. We failed him, all three of us. We are not the heirs he desired, but Lucerys is; in everything but blood. If anyone can turn down the tides and make the hand stop, it is him.”

“But Aemond-“ her betrothed beings.

“Is less of a threat than you think him to be,” she replies calmly. “He is lonely and hasn’t been able to let a single thing in his life go. He will tear his teeth into Luke one way or another; so let it be a mating bite.”

Jace groans and hides his face in his hands.

“I want to trust you but also I hate very word you speak,” he admits.

Helaena laughs softly.

“This is alright,” she consoles him. “Truth usually has this effect on people.”

Chapter Text

“You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones.

It takes Aegon two days to go on the exploration of the brothels the King's Landing can offer.

Of course he decides it is his duty to bring Jacaerys with him.

Luke follows, quietly enjoying the spectacle it will present itself to be. It doesn't take long to ensure Aemond it going too.

Some light taunting and tactically thrown innuendos, and Aemond would follow Lucerys anywhere; if only to kill him.

The young prince smirks to himself as they walk through the narrow streets of the Flea Bottom; Aemond and Aegon wrapped in the cloaks from head to toes, him and Jace sporting uncovered hair and not bothered by it. Perks of looking plain faced, Lucerys muses.

They sneak away from their knights, Luke sending a silent apology Ser Erryk's way; gods know the poor man has suffered enough under the princess' orders to protect the boys.

Lucerys is not blind to who assigned the man to defend them and is grateful for that; if only for his own selfish reasons.

Jace is scoffing the whole road down, arguing what this is the dumb idea and it is disrespectful of his future wife, and what he knows where to put his dick, thank you very much. Aegon smirks at him, but doesn't argue.

Luke watches his brother, knowing quite well the real reason Jacaerys is nervous; he is, just like his brother, just like their lord father once was, a man of peculiar tastes, and he hates the mere thought of his uncles finding it out.

Luke wonders how Jace even managed to hide it through the years, Lucerys himself being the only who seems to know.

The young prince is aware of the whispers what travel around about him; how he might not be Laenor's son by blood, but is by preferences.

He pays them no mind; words being just that - words, a handy weapon for him to discharge and reuse later. And if the lower part of the city is quietly humming with the knowledge their favorite prince is not as untouched as some might think, so be it.

No high lord will have any proof of that, and without that Luke can fight any words what come his way.

"I'm surprised you have decided to come, uncle," he smiles placidly at Aemond and sees the man scoff.

"Someone has to oversee Aegon," the older prince replies begrudgingly.

"And does it have to be you?" Luke inquires. "He can't help but feel curious about Aemond, this sullen faced young man with the eye full of liquid venom, and yet who blushes too easily and looks tight in his skin whenever Lucerys is too close.

How close is too close Luke chooses for himself; brushing his uncle's hand occasionally and accidentally, or so he would claim, batting his eyelids and puffing his lips just so. By the slight smirk and a deep frown of his other uncle and older brother respectively, both young men are aware of what Lucerys is trying to do here.

Aegon gives him a respectful nod stealthily and Luke would be taken aback if he didn't feel strangely honored by this sight of recognition of his fine, fine skills.

Jacaerys, to the contrast, looks like he just ate a sour lemon, only Aemond's permanent scoff rivaling it.

Luke is almost next door to his favorite brothel then someone tugs at his sleeve.

"Nephew," no one but Aegon himself calls out. "We need to talk."

The prince feigns innocence.

"What of, uncle dearest?"

The sharp smile of the man is the answer enough.

"You know what of, you sweet, dangerous thing," Aegon whispers. "I see what you're doing. I approve."

"Oh, do you?" Luke asks, batting his eyes at his other uncle almost incidentally. He can practically hear Aemond scoff. Oh, how easy it truly is.

"Yes," Aegon agrees as he steals a glance behind Luke and then reaches to brush his grown hair off. "I like the way you wear it now by the way. Your hair, I mean."

"Thank you," Luke replies honestly; it's the first time someone has complimented his new look. "Lord Hightower told me to wear it that way. He says my unruly curls give me a wild look of a child lost at the town's market."

Aegon laughs at that, loud and free.

"Yes, I believe grandsire would say that. You two are close, it seems," his uncle tilts his head to the side. "Grandfather and you."

"What makes you think that?"

Aegon hums.

"You respect him, I think, you listen to his counsel. I see some parts of Otto reflecting in you and others do too." The young man grows serious. "Rhaenyra is worried about you, you know."

"Is she now?" the prince mulls. "She needs not; I have it completely under control."

"No one has it completely under control," Aegon argues. "There always some threads coming lose. I wonder what your threads are."

Luke glances behind.

"This, probably," he admits. "Though I must admit, Aemond doesn't present much resistance."

His uncle almost laughs at that.

"Oh, I doubt he would. You're a sly little thing, nephew. Is this part of grandsire's plan?" he wonders.

Lucerys has to laugh at that.

"Gods, no!" he denies. "Can you imagine it? 'Lucerys, I need you to go and seduce your uncle; prove you're your mother's son and secure, I don't know, the biggest dragon alive."

Aegon groans.

"You better be speaking of Vhagar and not Aemond himself," he warns and Luke chuckles. "But good for you. I love to see my brother messed up like that."

"Why?" the prince asks. "Do you like torturing him?"

Aegon smirks at that.

"Look at who is talking," he comments. "You have been torturing him nonstop since we came to the King's Landing."

Lucerys lovers his gaze.

"I might have," he admits. "But it surprises me you enjoy it."

"Why wouldn't I?" Aegon shrugs. "Gods know, this twat needs to loosen up a little. He had been like he swallowed a stick ever since you took his eye and as sad as it was at the beginning, it wears off with the passage of time."

Lucerys looks away. "He is new to this, is he not?" he asks, not having to specify what 'this' is. Aegon nods.

"Daemon took us to the local brothel one time, but I don't think Aemond enjoyed himself much. I rather recall him actually crying on this one occasion, though you will not be able to prove I told you that if you try."

"So it was bad to him," Luke contemplates, suddenly not feeling that great about the idea. It was actually Aegon's idea, but participation in it was Luke's own choice. "And now we're dragging him into the brothel once again."

Aegon scoffs.

"Do not mistake my brother for a helpless, innocent maiden," he warns his nephew. "If Aemond wanted to avoid it, he would. I rather reckon he is following you down this hole. He would follow you anywhere, if only to tear you apart."

"Lovely," Luke smirks. "Just what I needed, a bloodthirsty relative in the darkness of deepest corners of the most criminal-ridden part of the King's Landing. What could ever go wrong?"

Aegon grins at him.

"Oh, I don't think he'll let anyone else touch the single strand of your hair," he reassures Luke in a voice what sounds not reassuring at all. "Only what he wants to do it himself."

"To touch a single strand of my hair?" Luke asks, sarcastic. "Or to tear me apart?"

"I think he wants to devour you, this fool of my brother," Aegon admits quietly. "And I worry about him for that. But I thought, better a devil you know, right?"

"And am I the devil this scenario?" Luke smirks. "Thank you kindly."

"Oh, you know what I mean," his uncle rolls his eyes and then adds a little hesitantly. "So...Jacaerys."

Luke tenses imperceptibly.

"What about him?" he asks, as carefree as he can master.

"Is he, you know," Aegon makes a weirdest little move of his eyebrows. "The man of unique tastes? Helaena refuses to tell me much, but she implied I might not be completely wrong, so..."

Luke has to laugh at that.

Have him trying to seduce Aegon's brother only for Aegon to have eyes for the brother of his.

"Jacaerys?" Luke asks, eyebrow raised.

He will murder Aegon if he as much as, yes, touches a single strand of the hair on his dear older brother's head. Jace's heart is not to be toyed with.

"Really? He is a stick in the mud."

"Oh, he can't be that bad," his uncle makes the same suggestive wiggle of eyebrows and this time Luke recognizes it for what it is. "I'm sure I can help Jace to find a beast inside of him."

Luke chokes on air.

"Well, I didn't need to know that," he informs his shameless uncle. "Also just so you know, I no one will ever discover your body if you hurt my brother."

Aegon laughs.

"Duly noted," he nods. "This means I have a chance though."

"I haven't said that," Luje argues.

"It was implied!"

"Oi," they turn around and see two young men waiting for them impatiently, Jace being the one to call to them while Aemond just burrows his dark heavy gaze into his younger nephew, fury and something else heavy in the air.

Is he jealous?

The prince of his people smirks.

"Talk to you later," he promises Aegon and moves to join his kin.

"I can't believe I agreed to participate in it," Aemond informs him first thing they're inside.

"No one made you," Luke reminds him as he makes a beeline to the counter. "Hello, Louis. I see it is a busy night today."

"My prince," the man behind the counter smiles widely. "Oh yes, you can say that. With your kin around, it certainly promises to be interesting. Is it the pleasure or the duty today?"

"Duty, I'm afraid," Luke tells him and sees the handsome face fall. "But the night is young and so are we, so we'll see how it goes."

"I do hope you call for me if you choose to indulge," the man calls out softly. "It's been a while."

Luke smiles back; Louis was the first man he had ever laid with and the one who taught him to enjoy the process. He is forever grateful for that.

"I will," he promises as he turns away and immediately hits Aemond's chest face first. Damn it, couldn't he move away?

"Duty?" his uncle asks, indignant.

"Despite what you might think of me, I am not here to lust my night away," he informs the uptight man. "Brothels are the best places to gather some rumors."

Aemond stares him down.

"So you're here to collect the rumors?"

Lucerys shrugs.

"The voice of the people is the force to rule the world," he informs his uncle.

"You were raised by Otto," Aemond comments and the young prince smirks.

"Is she kind to you?" Aegon asks, the uncharacteristic vulnerability creeping up his face.

"Alicent?"

"Yes."

Jacaerys nods.

"She is. She despised Luke at first and it made me worry for him, but things have settled down after a while. Queen Alicent is very good with Joffrey, he adores her."

"I am glad," Aegon nods. "I don't think she was very good to us, not really. I hadn't realized it before we moved to Dragonstone, but I think we were hurting each other."

"She has it hard," the young prince admits. "But so do you, I guess."

Aegon shrugs.

"Not really," he confesses. "Dragonstone is...It's nice. Sparse, there is a lot of space to do what you want. In every sense of it too."

"You get along with mother then?" Jace asks, a genuine interest shining through on his handsome face.

Aegon hums.

"Well, kind of," he agrees. "We argue more than we don't, Daemon called us an old married couple one time because of it," Jacaerys stifles a laugh at that. "She also dragged me through the entire castle by the ear once, but can't say I didn't deserve it."

"Really?" his companion laughs. "What did you do?"

"Trust me; you really don't want to know."

"Trust me, I really do."

"Well, I won't tell."

"Fine," Jacaerys feigns indifference. "I will just ask Helaena."

"No!" the prince exclaims. "Don't do it! It is...embarrassing." he looks almost ashamed.

"Aegon," Jace begins, voice low, moving closer to his uncle. Aegon holds his breath. "I don't know how no one told you that before, but everything you do is embarrassing".

The young prince revels in the dumbfounded look on his uncle's face.

This is easy.

And also surprisingly nice.

Maybe Helaena was right in convincing him to come, especially considering what Luke himself trailed after them and Jacaerys didn't trust the men in this part of the city with his little brother.

"So," Aegon tries after a while. "Lucerys and grandsire. How did that happen?"

Jace groans.

"Don't remind me," he begs.

"I guess Otto saw someone vulnerable and gullible enough to mold whatever the fuck he wants out of him. And Luke...he was lonely, I don't think he had anyone but me and Ser Erryk the first year we stayed here without our mother. Otto paid him attention, fed him cake and talked to him like he was an adult; and just like that Luke's heart was bought."

He frowns.

"I wish I've noticed something back then, but I was too self-absorbed and selfish to. I felt like grandfather pretty much banished us, even though we were the ones to stay at the keep and you left. Still, our mother was far away and we had very little comfort to run to. Grandfather...he has good intentions, but I doubt he really thought it through. Alicent was busy with Joffrey and I was moping around and trying to integrate myself into the court, so Luke was pretty much by himself most of the time. Until he wasn't. One day Viserys just announced what Otto Hightower will oversee Lucerys' studies from now on. I was so pissed off, you have no idea."

"I think I have some idea," Aegon admits. "I was very pissed off then Aemond suddenly became Daemon's prodigal swordfighter. I hardly even care much about the brat of my brother, but the more Aemond trained under Daemon's supervision, the more impossible I became. It took Rhaenyra's intervention to kick me out of it. But I think," Aegon looks away. "If I'm being honest, I think I was jealous. Aemond found something he excels at and what am I good at, sleeping around? What is my defining quality?"

He looks up and meets the attentive gaze of two brown eyes. Aegon didn't think such a simple color can be so rich and full of life before, but he is definitely thinking it now.

"You're good to talk to," the younger prince replies sincerely. "I feel comfortable talking to you and it feels like no matter what I might say, you won't judge. Despite all the flaws you possess, you seem to be rather an honest person. Such quality is a true rarity at the court; it makes you stand out."

The prince quiets off, looking at the man in front of him strangely.

Aegon gulps and sees his nephew trace the movement with his eyes.

The room suddenly feels much warmer than it was before.

"But seriously," Jacaerys opens his mouth once again and the moment is ruined. "Did you drag me to the brothel to talk about our family? Really?"

Aegon smiles helplessly. He really didn't think that through but he also does not regret a thing.

"Maybe," he admits. "You can't really trust the walls of the Keep to not have ears of their own. This seemed like the safest place to speak eye to eye."

"Eyes to eye," Jace snorts. "Gods, I can't believe Luke said that right to Aemond's face. I'm surprised uncle hasn't tried to strangle him yet."

"Oh, I doubt he is into that," Aegon mentions matter of factly.

"What?"

"What?"

"You just said-" Jace begins.

"I know what I just said," Aegon informs him. "Are you aware what your little bratty scheming brother is trying to seduce the moody bloodthirsty younger brother of mine? Because it is the thing what is pretty much happening. As we speak. Right now."

Jacaerys groans.

"I told him it is a dumb idea," he moans. "But it is Luke; he just doesn't listen to the words of reason if he has already made up his mind. And, unfortunately to us all, he decided what he wants Aemond."

"What, like in-"

"In bed," Jace confirms. "Gods save us all."

"Are you telling me," Luke begins as they meet outside in the morning. "What four of us went to the brothel - the best brothel the Flea Bottom has."

"It doesn't speak much for it," Jace murmurs.

"And none of us; not a single one of us got laid?"

"Why didn't you get laid?" Aegon retorts. "You were the one to insist to come with us."

"Yes," Luke admits. "Because I had a job to do!"

"What kind of job could you possibly have in a brothel?" the prince's eyebrows climb up. "Wait, don't tell me..."

"Do not finish that sentence," Jacaerys warns him darkly. "What Luke means is what he was here fishing for the information. Brothels are his favorite place for rumor hunting."

"And it was a fruitful night," his brother nods. "The city is buzzing with the news; everyone is agitated by the hearing. There are bets taking place on whenever Vaemond Velaryon will be found guilty or not."

"So is this the thing you do?" Aegon wonders. "You go brothels and spend time talking to people?"

Luke smirks.

"Forgive me for intruding, uncle dearest, but how did you spend this night?"

"Talking," Jace replies before his uncle has even a chance to open his mouth.

"Traitor," Aegon murmurs softly.

"We are the disgrace of our bloodline," Luke informs them plainly, so serious you would believe him, if you didn't know him the way his brother does. But the oldest Velaryon prince knows his brother, and so he simply rolls his eyes.

They are ambushed the moment they enter the keep; the ambush being of the worst kind. Two twin knights stand by the double door, a mirrored look of exasperation and disappointment on their faces.

Luke stops on his tracks.

"You didn't," he hisses.

"My prince," his knight-protector speaks. "This is only for your own good."

"Funny, but have you noticed what people only use this phrasing then they are lying?"  The boy accuses him.

Ser Erryk sighs.

"Think what you will, your highness, but you're cordially invited to join Queen Alicent and your royal mother Princess Rhaenyra for the morning tea. Attendance is mandatory."

"It feels just like home," Aegon comments and receives a sharp look from his brother.

"You mean Dragonstone," Aemond corrects him.

"Isn't that what I just said?"

Chapter Text

“Keep walking. If I look back I am lost.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons

Interlude.

The King's Landing, two years ago.

There is a soft knock on the door leading to the prince Jacaerys' study, followed by the incoming steps.

"My prince?" the voice calls out and Jacaerys sighs. "Your Hightness."

"Ser Cole," he responds from his seat; a letter gripped tightly in his hands.

The knight comes into the room and observes the surroundings; the curtains falling heavy from the windows' frame, blocking the summer's bright light; the layers of heavy tomes surrounding the oak table with the correspondence on it.

The heir to the Iron Throne, slumping on the massive chair, face an unidentified mask, only corners of his downcast mouth proving to be a hint of the prince's true mood.

Prince Jacaerys is a perfect heir in everything but his looks; his bastardry heritage shining through the tilt of his nose, the sharpness of his cheekbones.

The young prince is lord Harwin Strong's striking image but for the shape of his eyes; that he took from his wanton mother.

Still, Ser Criston Cole has trained the prince for as long as the boy is alive and simply has to admit what where Jacaerys lacks in talent, he takes in persistence. Sometimes Cole sees a shadow of himself in the way the prince holds his sword, in the way he moves to attack and parry. This, at least, Cole can have - Rhaenyra's bastard son for his own.

He will never admit to anyone aloud, but he fantasies of the boy being his bastard; of his, Criston's blood to be the one to merge with Rhaenyra's and flow to the throne.

He knows these fantasies are the vile, corrupt things, and yet he can't seem to make them stop.

Right now the boy Ser Cole has known since he was just a babe is a dark shadow of his usual self; face half-hidden in the shadows, heavy burden circling his weary eyes.

The prince is troubled.

"Are you well, my prince?" Cole tries. "You have missed our morning training session. You're to never miss it if nothing out of the ordinary to happen. Are your brothers well? Do you worry about prince Joffrey's first flight?"

"No, it's not that," Jacaerys shakes his head. "I just recieved the most joyful of news," his face contorts in a way what makes it known he does not, in fact, consider these news joyful.

"And what is the news?" Ser Criston tries, moving further into the room. Gods know, he tried hating Harwin's brat as much as he could, but the boy is miserable at his best, crushed under the weight of the crown he is yet to wear. Prince Jacaerys is too dutiful for his own good.

The young heir smiles ruefully.

"My mother informs me of our family's growth. She is with the child, the one of her and her lord-husband's."

Ah, Cole realizes. This is it.

"Does this news upset you, my prince?" He inquires carefully.

Prince Jacaerys scoffs.

"Upset?" He asks. "Upset?! I am furious, Cole. She went and left us here like we're nothing but a burden to her. She writes us letters convincing us of her love, and yet she barely visited in the whole six years we have been living under the queen's care. And now she informs us of the 'joyful occasion' of her and Daemon bringing up more children, the trueborn Targaryens into this world. Does it feel like a cruel jest to you, Ser Criston? Because it definitely feels like a cruel jest to me."

His face falls, a hurt bleeding over the anger he mustered.

Cole steps closer and puts a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder.

"I am sure she does not forget of you for a single moment," he tries to comfort the prince and feels the words sound wrong on his tongue. Since then he began lying to save the bastard's feelings? Since then the duty of protecting the King's grandson stopped being just that?

Oh, how he hates Rhaenyra for that; for having control over him while not even being around.

"You do not believe the words you say," Jacaerys comments darkly. "And neither do I. It will only take time for Daemon to push for his child on the throne; he is not that different from Lord Hightower in that regard."

"Rhaenyra will not allow this to happen."

"Rhaenyra," Jacaerys begins, his mother's name bitter on his lips. "Has always thought with her heart first and her mind second. She loves this menace of the man."

"You fear she loves him more than she does you," Cole mentions.

"I have every right to do so, have I not?" the prince scoffs. "I am the proof of her gullible heart, me and my brothers. We are the children borne out of love but not out of duty. Mother's other child will be born out of both: they will be both the pureblood Targaryen and the product of love. How can either of us compare?"

"My prince," Cole tries as he sees a single tear run down the boy's cheek. "I urge you to write to your mother and express your concerns. It breaks my heart-"

"You have no authority over my actions!" Jacaerys shouts. "Your duty lies with the queen and the protection of her, I am in wonder over why are you even bothering with me."

"Cause you're just a boy," Cole tells him, honesty coming out of him at the most unexpected of times. "You think yourself as the one to uphold the realm, but in truth you're just a lost and scared child, forgotten by your own kin."

Jacaerys closes his face with his hands, muffled sobs leaking through.

"And you have no one to count on, no shoulder to lean into; the court of the King's Landing being a nest of vipers waiting for your single misstep."

"Is that all?" the prince asks from behind the shield of his palms. "Are you finished diminishing and insulting me?"

"That was not my intention and if this is how it came out, I apologize," Ser Criston hears himself speak, words of apology foreign on his tongue. "But you must know what despite all the hardships you face and all the foes you meet, you have at least one ally you can count on."

Jacaerys raises his hands from his face; eyes puffy and red.

"Who?" He asks.

Ser Criston Cole makes a decision what will define his life from now on.

"Myself," he oaths.

Chapter Text

“Mothers." The man made a word sound like a curse. "I think birthing does something to your minds. You are all mad.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones.

Joffrey perks up from where he is seated between the two women as they enter. His face is covered with a cream from the piece of lemon cake he is chewing on.

"Brothers!" he calls out.

"And uncles," he adds a little uncertainly, upon seeing in which company said brothers arrive. "Join us! We're having a cake!"

"We can see that," Jacaerys chuckles as his second brother, still mad at their knights, is silently fuming. "And we just returned from the walk."

"The walk?" Rhaenyra's voice perks at that. "And where to exactly?"

"You know where to exactly," Aegon murmurs. "Honestly, do we have to do it every time? Is Daemon here somewhere behind the corner to tell me off and send me to my room?"

Alicent's eyebrows climb up at that.

"How often does this happen to you?" She asks to everyone and no one at all.

Aegon huffs and refuses to answer.

"At least once or twice a moon," Aemond, ever a tattle, informs their queen mother.

"Twat," Aegon whispers under his breath and hears Luke snicker.

"Lucerys," Alicent speaks, voice strict. "We talked about this."

"You talked," the prince retorts. "I simply listened and agreed to nothing."

"The Flea Bottom is really no place for a boy of your status-"

"I wasn't there for fun," he argues. "And even if I was, so what? Am I not made of flesh and blood? Do I not have urges and needs?"

The queen frowns.

"And do you really think the Flea Bottom is the best place to sate these...needs?"

"Why not?" He argues. "People know me there, I know them. It is fine."

"It is not, in fact, fine," Rhaenyra contradicts, giving her second son a look Aegon usually finds himself at the end of.

He wonders if Rhaenyra would ever drag her sweet boy by the ear across the keep to his chambers.

Oh, he would love to see it.

"People at the Flea Bottom are not your friends."

Lucerys huffs.

"Well, neither are ones at the keep, and yet I have spent eight years living here, have I not?"

And then the brat makes a misstep; he opens his mouth again and speaks:

"Lord Hightower said-"

"I don't care what my father said," Alicent exclaims, exasperated. "He has no authority to speak for you; I am your guardian at court, me and Viserys, not Lord Hand."

"He oversees my studies," Luke argues.

"I'm thinking of renewing it," the queen murmurs.

"You can't do that! Only the king can do that and he has assigned-"

"I can convince father," either promises or threatens Rhaenyra. By the look of horror on Lucerys' face, it is rather the latter. "If you do not behave yourself."

"I behave!" the second prince argues. "And why am I the only one getting a scolding? Aegon was there too."

Fucking brat.

"Trust me, I did not forget whose idea it was to go to the brothel," Alicent comments darkly. "You both will be punished for that according to the severity of your actions."

"Your Grace," Jacaerys shifts. "Mother. I feel you're misplacing your ire. I was the one this escapade was created for. I am the one who has to bear the blame."

"The fact what you're offering yourself as the martyr is the reason you will not be punished," Rhaenyra informs him. "Same as Aemond. The queen and I are well aware you two were but your brothers' overseers."

"Wait," Aegon gasps. "Aemond is not getting scolded? Again?"

"Again?" Jacaerys asks quietly.

"Rhaenyra never grounds him," the man replies under his breath.

"Because Aemond doesn't live in a brothel," Rhaenyra, who hears his words, replies.

"I do not live in a brothel," Aegon argues.

"Because Daemon drags you away from it every second day."

"I wish I could live in a brothel," Luke murmurs and the queen gasps.

"You do not," she informs him harshly.

"Be glad it were Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk who reported your indecent activities and not an enemy of the throne, who would kidnap you for all you care, hurt you and either demand a random or simply," she shudders. "Dispose of you. And Lucerys, I know you're good with your words and it makes you feel almighty, but you're not a seasoned fighter, and even your brother, who excels at his training," this notion gets a curious tilt of Aemond's head in response and a challenging look thrown Jacaerys' way. "Is still just a boy. You endanger yourself senselessly and for what; a gulp of fresh air outside the keep's walls? For some information to use against the lords you deem your opponents?"

"I do not deem them my opponents," the young prince argues. "I know they are my opponents. They oppose our rule."

"Is it our rule now?" Aegon asks, eyebrow raised.

"Yes," Lucerys nods. "Grandfather's throne, mother's future reign, my brother's and my own claims. We can't let them do as they please!"

"You're too young to play politics," Rhaenyra comments and her second son scoffs.

"You were ten and four then you were named the heir!"

"And I was not ready," she replies. "I am not yet ready now. You're so young, my sweet boy, live a little."

"I'm living a little," he argues begrudgingly. "This is exactly why you're scolding me now. You just don't like the way I chose to 'live a little'."

"The cake," Joffrey reminds the attending, offended no one sees the importance of it. "The lemon cake."

Luke sighs.

"I would love some cake," he admits.

"Sit down," Rhaenyra offers. "All of you."

"Am I so horrid to look at?" Aemond asks once they are alone.

Alicent jerks her head up; eyes wide and fullof horror.

"My love," she murmurs. "My child, of course not."

"When why were you avoiding it?" The one-eyed prince insists.

The notion what his own mother finds it hard to look at him makes Aemond sick.

"Because I failed you," she murmurs softly, restless fingers reaching to tear her own flesh off, nailbeds red with gathering blood.

Aemond reaches to stop her before he realizes he is doing it.

"Mother," he calls out softly and she sighs as she grasps his hand firmly.

"My little boy," she whispers mournfully. "Your own father took you away from me; he punished us for trying to get some justice. If only I didn't charge at Lucerys with the knife, maybe then we would not loose eight years to the separation."

"Don't be absurd," Aemond tells her as he reaches to put his other hand on top of her trembling pair.

"You were the only one to even care; my own father being more concerned with words than the fact what I lost an eye. You were the only one to try to protect me, to avenge me," Aemond brings his mother, who suddenly looks small and frail, into the hug. She falls into embrace like it is the only thing to hold her up. "If anything, I'm the one who failed you."

Alicent reaches out to cup his face in her hands.

"You didn't," she insists. "Oh love, you could never fail me."

"I am not the perfect son," Aemond admits. "I am no Jacaerys."

His queen mother scoffs.

"I don't need you to be Jacaerys," she argues. "I need you to be you. Being you is more than enough."

"Is it?" he asks, a vulnerable note sneaking into his tone. "I have been informed a countless amount of times what who I am is nothing but a rogue sword, my uncle's violent shadow."

He sees his mother's eyes flare, a sigh forgotten yet so familiar; the same liquid flame devouring her look as it was eight years ago at the night he lost his eye.

She still loves him.

He didn't lose her.

The revelation heaves off a huge weight of his shoulders; it's suddenly easier to breathe.

"Whoever told you this lie is a blinded by his own foolishness idiot," she informs him harshly.

Aemond smiles for what feels like the first time since forever.

Chapter Text

“None of us is ever ready.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones.

It takes several days for Luke's entire world to fall apart.

Several days, or nine years, or a lifetime.

He was a fool; a naive overconfident fool.

It took him eight years to put the pieces together.

It took him that long to discover the truth behind the flames of Harrenhal.

Lucerys feels the time freeze, the world - seize; the ground being thrown out of his feet.

Larys Strong.

Lord Larys Strong.

Lord Confessor Larys Strong.

His true father's younger brother.

His father's murderer.

And the worst of it all, the worst part of living almost nine years in the same keep, under the same roof as the man who burned Lucerys' father alive is a creeping suspicion taking its place.

Lord Otto had known.

Of course he did, for lord Hightower knows everything, he has his hands in every jar, his ear - in every rumor. There is literally no way for the Hand of the King to not know that.

This realization burns.

It burns like the tears what threaten to spill from his eyes, like the pain in his painfully clenched throat, like the fire in his lungs, like the grief and fury; hot in the pit of his stomach.

Luke does not know how people survive it; how can they live through betrayal.

And the worst part is, it is not even a betrayal even, for Otto Hightower promised him no loyalty, no protection and no love. All he has ever offered was his knowledge and his time and like a fool, Lucerys mistook it for a care.

Like he could ever be more than just a pawn in a great game.

The depths of his naivety tear him apart.

He feels the treacherous tears run loose and moves to go, to escape, to run to some private place where he can hide and cower and fall apart.

He is eight again, cruel words ringing in his ears; the Queen's cold gaze bracing him like a bucket of ice cold water, nightmares of the blood on his hands and a scream tearing through the night making him fear to fall asleep.

His mother is away, she has left them to the mercy of the queen, and the queen will not show any of it.

She will come in the night, valyrian steel in her hand, and she will take his eye as he took her son's, accident or not.

Luke can feel his entire body tremble; he can hardly see where he is going.

He forgets about his mother being back at the court, the love of the queen seeps through his memory like the water through his fingers.

He is eight again and his father is dead; both of them; the funeral fire rising high into the skies.

He is eight and he sees the needle pierce through Aemond's skin, red marks on its wake. He hears his uncle's sobs and stifles his own.

Lucerys moves through the castle as if in a haze, until two firm hands grab him by the shoulders.

"Nephew?" A familiar voice asks and he wants to scream, he wants to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. 'You were about to hurt Jace, I couldn't let you hurt Jace, please, please, please, don't hate me!'

"Luke," the same voice speaks again, worry plausible in it, panic ringing high. "What happened?"

"He killed them," the boy who thought he was a man sobs. "He burned them!"

The same strong hands circle around him and he is being ushered somewhere; the door closing with a heavy sound, the silence of the chambers covering them in a thick layer.

Lucerys raises his head and stares into a single frantic eye of the man he marked for life.

"That night," he pushes out even though these words hurt, everything hurts and he just wants his mother. "You said we will burn like our true father."

He is too haggard to see Aemond's face still, his eye fill in with inexplicable dread.

"Did you mean it? Would you really want us to burn, like our father did?" the last words are not the words at all but the sobs. "Would you, Aemond?"

The same firm hands hold him down, keep him close; push him into the chest of the man who once promised Luke death in the flames.

"Should we have died with him?" the prince who is just a fatherless boy whispers. "Should we have perished in the flames of Harrenhal?"

"I do not know who caused you this anguish," Aemond replies into the crown of his hair. "But I promise you I will burn them to ashes. I will command Vhagar to roast them like the pig and then have her eat them. Or I will have her eat them alive. I will make the whole world burn."

Luke grasps the leather of his uncle's jacket to press himself closer. He just wants to disappear, he wants for it to stop.

"What can I do?" Aemond asks as he rubs circles on his back. "How can I help?"

"Hold me," Lucerys begs. "Can you please hold me like it matters, like I matter. Can you do that, qybor? Please."

"Of course," he feels a brush of lips on his forehead, an embrace closing him in, making him feel small, hidden, secure.

And then the exhaustion and exertion take over.

He wakes up and it takes him some time to recognize his surroundings.

Or not, chamber in which he is present being a completely unfamiliar territory.

He is lying on the soft mattress, a heavy blanket caringly brought over his weary frame.

"-I don't know," he hears a part of the conversation. "Rhaenyra, I don't- I did nothing! He was already in tears then I found him."

There's a muffled response, words spoken too quietly for him to understand.

"I will," what he thinks is his uncle's voice promises. "I will not harm him. Do you want me to swear?"

"So am I," comes softer after a pause in which some response was received. "I am worried too. Honestly, do you really have to ask?"

He hears Aemond scoff and a soft, urgent voice of his mother to speak a long tirade.

"You're the one to say!" the prince argues. "I did nothing. No, he isn't. You don't know him."

Rhaenyra replies once again and Aemond sighs.

"I will, believe me. The blood will spill. No, I'm not- You can't blame me for acting like him then he was the one to train me for years. This is hypocritical. Rhaenyra, I swear-"

Luke doesn't hear the end of the phrase as the dream takes over him once again.

Next time he wakes up with Jacaerys at his side.

"Hey," his brother whispers softly. "You scared us."

"What...happened?" Luke whispers, his throat raw and soar, his words forced.

"You caught a fever," the older boy explains. "Aemond found you barely responsible and brought to his chambers. Then he called for maester."

Jacaerys is wrong, Luke realizes with the perfect clarity. He remembers the tears and the pain, he remembers the grief and rage fighting for dominance in his body. He thinks he pretty much fell apart right into Aemond's arms.

Luke doesn't remember half of the things he told his uncle and is glad of that.

"I see," he mumbles, his brain searching for a reason why would Aemond lie and cover for him.

Is he planning to use Luke's breakdown to blackmail him later? What is his ulterior motive?

"Aemond was freaking out," Jacaerys admits quietly. "I never saw anyone in such panic as he was. I think he might actually care for you."

"You are delusional," Luke snorts. "He hates me and lusts for me at the same time; but that is all it is. I fear I failed," he confesses. "To seduce him, to wrap him sound my finger. I believe he has an upper hand now."

Jacaerys looks at him like he is something to pity, like there is some fundamental knowledge Luke is missing.

"I doubt this is the case," his optimistic brother speaks. "There might be more to him than meets the eye."

"Who has a fever, you or me?" the young prince laughs and then starts coughing immediately.

Jace brings a cup of water to his chapped lips and he drinks like the man in the desert.

"Thank you," he whispers afterwards. "I'm sorry to make you all worry."

"Don't mention it," his brother brushes a single strand from Luke's damp forehead. "Rest."

"You woke up," Aemond speaks. He is standing in the threshold, looking at Luke with some emotion the young prince can't decipher.

"I did," he agrees plainly. "Thank you."

Aemond looks away.

"You have nothing to thank me for," he speaks quietly. "But what was it?"

"What was what?" Lucerys asks back. Gods forbid he admits to his sudden weakness so easily.

Luke feels weary, a heavy weight on his shoulders, a bile taste in his mouth.

It's funny how little it took to shake him off his pedestal of self-importance, how easy it was to remind the young man he is but flesh and bones; what he is a weak and vulnerable boy in the of the vultures.

Aemond frowns.

"Don't play dumb," his advises. "Before you lost consciousness; what was it you were talking about then?"

Lucerys seizes him with a heavy look full of contemplation. He thought it would be easy earlier; but it was before he has shown Aemond his underbelly, literally fell into his uncle's embrace and cried his eyes out like a babe.

It was before Luke was left with no plan and no benefactor.

Lord Otto has always told him to not bet everything on a single horse.

Lord Otto was likely involved in the fire at Harrenhal, being the one to benefit from Lord Lyonel Strong's death.

Lucerys will need to be extra careful to not let the Hand know he knows.

What a wild game of charades it is promising to be.

"Luke?" Aemond calls to him for what the prince realizes is the second time. "What was it?"

Lucerys Velaryon has no plan and no ally.

He, however, has a desperate need for revenge.

Luke looks at his uncle, who is all sharp edges and deep shadows; a frown crossing his forehead, lips held tightly.

He recalls all the rumors of little Daemon Targaryen's twin, a boy who is just as ruthless and creative in the fight; who beats his opponents with such a vigor as if the entire world is at fault to him.

"How much did you hear of my nonsensical muttering?" He asks in return.

"Enough," Aemond comments. "Quite enough to know it wasn't just the fever what took you out."

"It wasn't," Luke admits; a piece of the truth given freely, a lure the same time as it is a peace offering.

"What do you know of the fire what took Harrenhal nine years ago?" He asks.

"Only what everyone speaks," Aemond speaks slowly, carefully. "What some unknown force set the fire off and it overtook the Castle in a blink."

"Some unknown force is a man," Lucerys informs him plainly. "And the man has a name."

Aemond peers at him as if Luke was some exotic creature; out of this world, entirely incomprehensible.

"And what is his name?"

"Is it so hard to guess?" the tired, heartbroken heir of blood and ashes asks. "Who would benefit from it the most?"

"Grandsire," Aemond breathes out, an understanding dawning on him.

Luke shrugs.

"Perhaps. But he was not the only one to gain something out of it. Think, uncle. Somehow it always comes back to the second sons."

"Lord Confessor," the older prince nods then, after a while. "It...makes sense. So you think Larys Strong caused the death of his own father and older brother."

"I don't think so," Lucerys informs him coldly. "I know it. And I need your help."

He sees his uncle receive the worlds and recognize them for what they are.

A fucking plea.

"What do you want to do?" Aemond asks. "And why do you think I'll agree to be a part of this?"

Why indeed? Luke wonders. A simple call of flesh is not enough.

"Because I'm not just asking for help," Lucerys informs him. "I'm offering you a deal."

"And what can you offer me?" Aemond wonders and Luke holds his breath.

This is a gamble, he knows. This is a wild and dangerous game he is playing, more dangerous than the high game itself, if only for the fact what this is Aemond Targaryen he is playing with.

Still...

He remembers Lord Harwin, a man who couldn't call them his own but who made them feel his love in thousands of ways.

He remembers the first time he saw Jace cry; angry and bitter, longing to be at Harrenhal, to be able to mourn their father in the open.

He recalls a sight of the Lord Confessor, hears the sound of his staff hitting the floor, remembers the rustle of his nondescript voice.

Kinslayer.

"Anything," Lucerys promises and feels like he just fell overboard, tides welcoming him home.

Aemond's intense gaze locks on him, peering into his very soul, tearing him apart.

He looks hungry, Luke suddenly realizes.

He looks starved; wanting, craving, desiring something he was deprived of for his entire life.

"Anything?" he asks.

The prince nods.

"And if I ask for your eye-"

"You will have it."

"And if I ask for your life-"

"It will break your mother's heart," Luke hums. "And my mother's too. I'm afraid this is the one thing I can't give to you."

"Then it is not anything," Aemond scoffs.

"Anything within reason," Luke corrects him. "If you ask for the sun from the sky or to conquer Essos for you to rule, I will fail to deliver. But anything else, anything but my life and my throne," he remembers to mention. "Is yours to have."

"And what do you really have but your life and your throne?" Aemond scoffs.

"Two eyes," Lucerys shrugs and sees Aemond's mouth to mold into a sneer. "You can have one."

"Your dragon?" Aemond asks and suddenly Luke feels nothing but cold dread.

"No," he responds rather forcefully. "Do not ask me of this."

Aemond laughs, the sound is a joyless and a dark echo.

"You promise me anything and yet you keep denying me things," he smirks ruefully. "Make up your mind, my Lord Strong."

Lucerys blinks and sees Aemond register the wrongness of these words himself.

Lord Larys Strong.

My lord Strong.

The mantle is just another bitter reminder.

Luke could handle it if it was about his illegitimacy, about his rumored status of a bastard.

But the revelation brings the new pain.

He sees something akin to regret and guilt flash across his uncle's face, but it is gone as quickly as it came.

"Anything within the reason," Lucerys reminds him. "For your help."

Aemond stares him for the very long time, single eye not blinking the entire time.

His nephew tries to hold his gaze and feels his own eyes watering.

Damn it.

"Swear by it," the one-eyed prince demands.

Lucerys swears.

Chapter Text

“A bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones.

Aemond walks to the training yard before the sun is up.

His body is full with unspent tension, his mind - a knot of entangled thoughts.

"Anything," Lucerys said and his heart skipped a beat.

Aemond imagines taking everything from him, his eye, his freedom, his soul. He remembers the way these dark eyes stared at him across the table, gaze heavy with emotions.

He remembers the feeling of his nephew's body beneath his fingertips, the taste of his skin on his lips as Aemond pressed what he hoped was a chaste kiss to the boy's forehead.

He remembers Lucerys clinging to him like to a lifeline, hands coming to circle around Aemond's waist, face in his uncle's neck.

He remembers the wetness of tears and the desperation what overtook the young prince's voice.

Aemond realizes with a startle he dislikes seeing his nephew like this: broken and vulnerable, sad.

He wants the cruel smirk and taunting words, he wants a heavy-loaded, lewd look across the garden grounds then Joffreys' loud exclaim: "He liked men?" was still ringing in the air.

Aemond remembers the way the prostitute in the brothel looked at his nephew, like he was a ripe fruit for the tasting.

How he wanted to break this man in half for the sheer audacity, how he wanted to hurt Luke for sending a promising smile back.

Gods must have left him, for all Aemond can think about is his nephew and all the ways Aemond would be undoing him if only he was brave enough, bold enough, reckless enough.

He remembers the way Lucerys' skin darkened under his touch, Aemond's grip on the boy as he carried him to his chambers tight enough to leave a marking.

For all the talks about the boy's father, he clearly inherited his mother's soft skin.

Aegon once had thrown a tantrum over the dark blue bruises on Rhaenyra's hands, an ugly violet flowers blooming on her neck. He claimed Daemon was hurting her and swore to stop him.

Rhaenyra has laughed at him then.

"Give me your hand," she commanded and Aegon obeyed. "Now hold my wrist," he followed. "A little bit tighter," the prince tightened his grip. "That's enough, let go."

Aegon did and stared in horror at the dark trace of his fingers appearing on his sister's skin.

"I didn't grab you too strongly!" he exclaimed, eyes full of horror.

"No," Rhaenyra shook her head. "This is just how my skin is. We are the blood of the dragon, little brother, but it seems my skin is made of silk. Daemon doesn't hurt me; he simply loves to hold what is his firmly."

And now there's no doubt similar blue fingerprints are blooming on Lucerys' shoulders, on his legs: the sight itself has to be enough to send Aemond into the catharsis. He looked away pointedly when the maester undressed the boy and was afraid Rhaenyra recognized these marks for what they truly are.

Aemond holding what is his tightly.

Aemond crosses the yard and collects the training sword, cheap metal singing in the air wrong, but balance of the handle is good enough.

He will be damned if he'll use his valyrian steel sword for the training.

It comes to his surprise then, but Aemond is not the only man on the training ground.

There is another person present; clad in black, moving in short, sharp movements.

Attack, block, parry; attack, block, parry.

Aemond almost mistakes him for his brother; but Lucerys is no fighter the way Jacaerys clearly is.

The prince stops as he hears the footsteps and turns around.

"Uncle," he acknowledges. "You're up early."

"So are you," Aemond comments, looking his nephew up and down.

He is yet to make a decision about Jacaerys Velaryon. The boy has clearly changed in the similar way Lucerys did; gone is the innocence of the youth, the entire Realm seems to be laying on his tense shoulders these days.

Aemond noticed the hungry looks of the man starved for life his own brother is throwing the bastard's way; he is surprised Aegon hasn't tried anything in the brothel. But how he is to know, maybe he did.

"Sleep is the privilege I don't have much of," the prince comments simply. "Care to join me for the sparring match?"

This is the good idea, Aemond thinks. This will help me to get Lucerys out of my mind.

He nods and they took their places.

The first attack comes from the younger prince; gone is his uncertainty, gone are the nerves of his younger self.

Jacaerys proceeds to throw a row of attacks Aemond's way, quick and sharp in a way Aemond did not anticipate.

He has grown arrogant of his skills of a fighter; he bested all the knights back at Dragonstone, only Daemon proves to be a challenge yet.

But now, against his nephew, Aemond doesn't feel superior. He feels equal, he fights with all his skills and his might; Jacaerys meeting him with just the same amount of training and force.

The young prince fights like he needs it to survive; ragged, violent thrusts of the movement, quick pace what leaves no time for Aemond to recover. He finds himself pushing back soon, fighting with just as much vigor, moving just as quickly.

But not quick enough.

It takes a half of the blink for it to make a difference and for him to lose.

Aemond is convinced he made no mistakes, he fought at the best of his abilities and is proud of that.

And yet he was bested by his bastard of a nephew; the boy staring down at him, brows furrowed, the edge of his blade just under Aemond's chin.

"You seem to be cross with me," Aemond informs him plainly.

Jacaerys scoffs.

"My brother," he spits out. "Is brought into your orbit."

"And you don't like it," his uncle comments.

"And I will slice your stomach and let the insides for the crows to feast if you use his own emotions to hurt him," Jacarys promises grimly.

"You can't hurt the prince of the Realm," Aemond notices. "It will sabotage your succession."

Jacaerys's eyes glint violently in the dim light.

"I will find a way."

"My prince," they hear a call and both turn to it. There is a man approaching the training grounds, the man in whom Aemond recognizes his mother's knight-protector Ser Criston Cole. He takes a second look as the knight sees not one, but two princes attending, Aemond's presence a clear surprise for the man. "You two are up early."

Ser Cole sends the silent heavy look Aemond's way. If Aemond didn't know better, he would say Cole looks almost protective of Jacaerys, with the way he moves and stands next to the prince.

"I couldn't sleep," Jacaerys confesses. "Seems like my uncle shared the same issue."

"So you came here," Cole comments calmly. "And you sparred."

Aemond can't help but notice a short once-over the knight sends across the prince's frame, as if making sure he is in one piece.

The sight of it confuses him; the one eyed prince could've sworn Ser Criston hated the bastard boys the last time he saw the man.

But, he guesses, eight years have passed.

Many things have changed and it seems to be just one of them.

They're slightly alike, two dark haired men of the similar stature; Jacaerys holding himself in a way what is clear now was influenced by Ser Cole.

The knight asks something quietly and the prince shakes his head, replying to the inquiry Aemond wasn't allowed to hear.

The sight of it makes Aemond's heart ache and his thought travel, unyielding, back to the Dragonstone.

He wonders if Daemon would have been disappointed in him if he knew Aemond lost to his nephew.

Aemond still doesn't understand how he could lose.

The men part their ways, Cole insisting the prince is needed elsewhere.

Aemond looks at them as they leave; the way Ser Criston's hand comes to rest on the prince's shoulder, the way Jacaerys comes to life, agitated, explaining something to his mentor.

Things have changed alright.

Aemond is almost back to his training then he notices Aegon.

His brother is standing in the shadow of the wall, eyes wide and full of something; is it awe, desire, earning?

Aemond doesn't want to know.

"What are you doing here?" He asks but his brother does not listen to him.

"Have you seen him?" Aegon exclaims, his breath caught and heavy. "For the fucks sake, Aemond, he just kicked you ass!"

There's something dangerous brewing in his brother's gaze, something primal, something strong.

This is the moment, Aemond realizes, what seals prince Jacaerys' fate. For there is no chance Aegon will leave him alone now.

"He didn't kick my ass," Aemond argues and his brother laughs in disbelief.

"Yes, he did," Aegon replies. "I saw it all from the beginning; he handled it to you like you haven't been beating people into submission for years."

His brother is positively shining at this revelation.

Aemond scoffs.

"He is Rhaenyra's son," he reminds his reckless brother. "She will never forgive you for that. Besides, you don't even know if he is like you."

Aegon spins around to give him a venomous look at that.

"Like me," he comments, poison creeping into his voice. "Do not fool yourself, brother; you're not that different yourself. I see the way to seem to devour Lucerys with your stares every single moment your eye lands on him."

"I do not-" but Aegon's cruel laugh cuts him off.

"Lie to yourself, if you want to. Lie to the world, lie to the gods. But gods forbid you from trying to lie to me, brother dearest," the older man smirks. "For I am your flesh and blood and I know all your deepest, darkest secrets. Including this one."

Aemond doesn't even think as he lands the first punch.

"What came into you?" Rhaenyra demands later as she stares at her brothers; one is sporting a bruised and swollen eye, another's lip is splintered, blood pouring down his chin and neck. "I expect an answer from the both of you."

"Aemond lost to Jace in the fight," Aegon comments pettily. "He didn't like that."

Daemon snaps his attention to his youngest nephew then.

"Is this true?" he asks and Aemond has to look down.

"It is true," he confesses. "Jacaerys and I met in the training grounds in the morning. We had a sparring match and he bested me."

Now it's Rhaenyra's turn to stare at him.

"He bested you?" She asks, unbelieving. "My Jace?"

Aemond scoffs.

"Yes, your Jace. He is an admittedly remarkable fighter."

"Who trained him?" Daemon demands, immediately territorial, and Aemond has to fight a smile.

"I believe it was Ser Criston Cole," he replies and sees Rhaenyra face contort.

"Cole?" She repeats. "But why?"

"Alicent has probably ordered him to," Daemon comforts her.

His wife shakes her head.

"You don't understand," she speaks. "Cole would never train my boys as he should; he hates them."

"It didn't look like he hates Jace," Aegon interferes. "If anything, Ser Cole looked worried of my nephew, yet proud he beat Aemond's ass."

Honestly, how many more times Aegon will bring it up?

"And Jace," Aegon shrugs. "I'm not sure, but I think he felt at ease in the knight's company."

Rhaenyra stares her brother down, her eyes big and worried.

"This is...strange," she admits. "Unexpected."

"So," Daemon hums. "Jace is he now?"

Aemond sees Aegon's cheek turn red and snorts.

Leave it to Daemon to always even the scales.

"You will be overjoyed to know," Lord Otto speaks. "What Vaemond Velaryon was proved guilty of treason the other night."

Luke sips from his cup of tea absentmindedly.

"Yes, thank you," he replies softly. It would indeed overjoyed him if the news only came out a day or two earlier.

Lord Hightower sends his way an inquisitive look.

"Lucerys," he says. "Is everything alright with you?"

"Yes, thank you," the boy repeats his previous answer word by word. Then he adds. "I'm just tired; the fever caught my unguarded."

"I would expect it to," Otto agrees. "Do you know what caused it?"

You, Luke wants to reply.

Instead he says:

"I fear I overdone it the other night, but it was very hard not to follow my brother and uncles down into the city."

His mentor nods.

"If anything, it was a good opportunity to hear what people talk of. Anything good you want to share with me?"

Yes, the prince thinks bitterly. My father is dead and it is Lord Larys Strong's fault. But I'm sure you already know it.

"Nothing worth your attention, I'm afraid." he tells lord Hand. "People mostly support my claim. There is an agitation about my mother's and uncles' return to the court. Smallfolk whisper the king is on his deathbed. That's all," he shrugs.

"You're right, none of it I didn't know before," the lord agrees and peers into Lucerys' face in contemplation. "You look haggard, my boy, make sure to rest then you can."

"Thank you," Luke replies, a silent knife turning in his abdomen. "I will."

It physically hurts him to sit across that man and pretend like nothing happened.

He finds himself playing along just the same.

Luke walks out from lord Hand's study and is immediately joined by Aemond.

"How did it go?" His uncle asks quietly.

The younger prince shrugs.

"It went," he simply replies. "I don't think he is aware I know; he told me to rest."

Aemond studies him for a while.

"You should rest," he agrees. "You look awful."

Luke scoffs.

"I am a beauty and you know it."

He almost misses the slight blush tint his uncle's cheeks.

"You care," the man suddenly mentions.

"About?" Lucerys asks even though he knows what about.

"About grandsire. You wouldn't be so hurt if you didn't."

"I am not hurt," Lucerys denies a hazy memory of his own crying fresh in his mind.

Aemond frowns at him.

"Don't try to lie to me, my sweet lord," he replies. He took the habit of calling his nephew that name instead of 'my Lord Strong' he favored before. Luke tries to not let this feign care affect him and fails.

The mantle sounds strangely endearing too, and rather possessive. Lucerys saw his brother to double take at that, sending him a look full of unspoken question. Aegon for his part simply grinned in approval.

"Why not?" Luke asks. "And have you decided what is it you want from me?"

"Not yet," Aemond reaches out to tug Lucerys out of the way of the passing lord; his nephew feeling surprisingly delighted in being manhandled in such a small way. "I will inform you then I do."

And a reason unknown for him, Luke can't wait for it.

Chapter Text

“And when you have it, what then? Some secrets are safer kept hidden.

Some secrets are too dangerous to share, even with those you love and trust.”

― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones.

"Say that again," Baela demands.

Aegon shrugs.

"I have a crush on Jacaerys Velaryon."

"Understandable," his partner in crime nods. "Have a good day."

"I'm serious!"

"So am I," she smirks. "Have you seen him? This boy is fine."

"Fuck off to the Wall, Ela," Aegon scoffs. "Find yourself your own handsome prince, this one is mine."

"Possessive much?" Baela smirks. "But this is not the part I'm having trouble with. What is it you have said after that?"

"What I'm going to annoy Jace into liking me back," her friend confesses.

Baela rolls her eyes so hard Aegon is half-convinced they will stay that way forever.

"See?" She says. "This is the part I have issues with. Aegon, are you daft?"

"He is," Rhaena chimes from her place and her sister nods.

"Yes, true. Aegon, you are daft."

"Thank you, cousin dearest," he scoffs. "I didn't come here to be insulted, I came for the advice."

"This is the advice," Rhaena cuts in again. "Take it or leave it."

"I'm sorry," Aegon scoffs. "But who invited you?"

"You have never been sorry in your entire life," Baela mentions. "And this is her room too, we're sharing."

"And why are you sharing again? You're not five."

"Well, you clearly are," remarks Rhaena. "Also what the fuck happened to your face?"

Aegon winces.

"My brother happened to my face," he admits.

"And what did you do for him to resolve it with violence?" Baela asks.

"Called him out on his bullshit."

"Ouch," Rhaena comments. "Do not do that. This boy is dense, almost as much as you are."

"Rhae, I will bite you," Aegon promises and it affects his cousin in the way it usually does: it does not. At. All.

She laughs.

"And I thought you wanted to bite Jace," she comments smugly. "But really, why are you asking us for the advice when Helaena exists?"

Aegon rolls his eyes.

"Helaena's advice is just 'be yourself.' I have hard time imagining it actually working."

"Oh hells, no," Baela exclaims. "Do not be yourself; you get beaten up when you are yourself."

"And it seems Jacaerys is a skillful fighter too," Rhaena snickers. "I heard he kicked Aemond's petty ass."

Aegon brightens at the mention of that.

"He did kick Aemond's petty ass," he agrees. "And it was glorious."

The twin girls giggle at that; Aegon can always count on these two on making fun of his twat of a brother.

Aemond's sees the blink in which both his mother and Lucerys register the bruises on his face.

His mother is quicker to react at that.

"What happened to your face?" She asks, worry and concern plausible on her pale face.

Aemond smirks.

"It all started eight years ago when a certain Velaryon prince took a knife and-"

"She means the bruises, you ass," Luke comments plainly. "We all know what happened to the eye."

"Do you?" Aemond looks at his nephew over his mother's head.

The brat has the audacity to smirk back.

"Though I am sorry it ended up in the way it did, I will not apologize for protecting Jace's life."

"I wasn't going to kill him," Aemond argues and sees the bastard roll his deep dark eyes in annoyance.

"A likely story," the brat retorts.

"Boys," queen Alicent cuts them off and both of them immediately still. "Not now and not ever. Behave, both of you."

"Yes, mother," Aemond replies the same time Lucerys murmurs:

"Yes, Your Grace."

Alicent brightens at that slightly.

"Now," she demands to know. "Who did it to you?"

"I believe it was Aegon," the bastard chimes in before Aemond has even a chance to open his mouth. "Ser Arryk saw them having a fight at the training grounds."

The prince successfully avoids the notion what Ser Arryk was there to oversee his prince's training, as stealthy as he can be.

Luke worries about Jace these days more than he doesn't; the shadow of the crown leaving deeper and deeper marks on him with every passing day.

He is ridiculously glad for the existence of Ser Cole; gods know the man was resentful of them in their childhood, but has grown weirdly attached to Jacaerys in the past several years.

They look almost alike, Luke's older brother and his mentor; the notion what makes the young prince frown and dip into the rumors deeper.

They say Princess Rhaenyra took two lovers into her bed.

They whisper one of them was Ser Criston Cole.

People think Jacaerys is actually rather Cole's son than Harwin's and the idea makes Luke clench his jaws tightly.

He wouldn't care less whose son Jacaerys is; all that matters is what Jace is Princess Rhaenyra's firstborn.

But he also knows about Jace's tender feelings towards Harwin Strong and how hard the man's death was on him. Luke doesn't think his brother will take kindly to the notion what he is not only not Harwin's son, but very possibly the son of the man who indirectly, but caused their father's death.

Jacaerys would be crushed if he finds out.

So Lucerys does everything in his power he doesn't, but it's growing harder with every passing day.

If there was some miraculous solution, some secret to how to make his beloved older brother's life less of...a pile of shit, Luke would take it, and screw the consequences.

"I see," Alicent speaks as she frowns deeply. "And what was the reason of your fight?"

Aemond looks uncomfortable at that; a nice change from his usual stoic expression or his scold.

"Tis just a petty scramble between brothers, mother," he replies and Luke knows instantly what he is lying. "You need not worry about it."

"I'll decide for myself what I need to worry about," the queen huffs and Lucerys can feel his eyebrows climb up. The words what were just spoken are so distinctly Rhaenyra it's not even subtle.

He smiles stealthily; it seems like the queen and mother have been spending some more time together.

Joffrey is very likely the reason for that, and Joffrey, no doubt, can bring these two together.

Good.

Aemond doesn't react to the unexpected phrasing, probably used to Rhaenyra responding to him and his siblings in the same matter.

The thought of mother scolding her little siblings like children brings a smile to Luke's lips.

Mother can surely parent even the most unruly of children; surely she had no trouble dealing with that lot.

"It's really nothing," Aemond tries again, pointedly not looking at Luke.

Would you just look at that, the young prince thinks. The fight involved me. Glorious.

He reminds himself to tear the truth out of the Hightower brothers; either of them, though Aegon will prove to be the easy target.

"I will have to believe you this time," queen Alicent sighs as she cups her youngest son’s cheek. "You're invited for the family meal with the king."

"Again?" Aemond asks as Lucerys smiles slyly.

"Cordially?" he asks.

The queen nods.

"Your attendance is mandatory."

"I wonder what the cause of it is," Luke murmurs as he and Aemond walk through the narrow halls. They're going to the Dragonpit to fly around, spread their wings both metaphorically and physically.

It will be the first time Luke will see Vhagar for years; he hasn’t had a glimpse on the enormous dragon since the night Aemond claimed her.

The memory of that night leaves a taste of salt and copper on his tongue.

"Probably just wants to see you last time before he dies," Aemond comments idly.

The phrasing of it irks Lucerys for several reasons.

"How do you know he is dying?" He asks and sees his uncle scoff.

"Everyone knows he is dying," Aemond replies. "One look at him is enough to understand that. It is not long till your mother becomes the queen."

"And will you support her?" Luke wonders. "When she becomes the queen."

Aemond sends him a brief look the meaning of that the boy doesn't catch.

"Will I have a choice?"He asks quietly. "Everyone knows Rhaenyra will become the queen; father named her his heir long before either of us was born and never changed it."

There is an undertone of bitterness in his cold voice.

Luke fights the urge to reach for his hand and squeeze it.

"It is her birthright," he mentions instead. "She was born to rule."

"So she was," Aemond admits, though the young prince isn't sure he actually means it.

"You said 'to see you'," he mentions carefully. "Not 'to see us'. Do you think the king will not care if you're there?"

"And how do you yourself think?" His uncle scoffs. "I had my eye cut out and he wanted to question me for the treason; does it scream 'loving father behavior' to you?"

And this time Luke does reach out and hold Aemond's hand. He looks away pointedly, feeling his uncle's heavy gaze on his face, but does not acknowledge the gesture, just intertwine their fingers together.

There is something in Aemond what makes Lucerys wants to be genuine, honest, and open.

He knows these traits will be his doom at the High Court.

Aemond is less a person than an open, bleeding wound; it surprises Luke what no one has noticed or tried to mend it before.

He wonders when have this wound first appeared; he fears he knows when.

"It does not," he admits and gives Aemond's hand a gentle squeeze. His uncle almost stumbles on the clear road at that and Luke has to fight the smile.

Easy.

Maybe he didn't ruin just everything with his pathetic breakdown the other day.

"If it is of any consolation, your mother loves you for the both of them."

"So she does," Aemond agrees and Luke sees some rigid tension to leave his body. "But again, she also loves you."

And the prince doesn't even try to deny the obvious truth.

"She does," he admits. "Joffrey more than anything, but she loves us too. And we love her," he adds quietly.

"And grandfather?" Aemond's asks carefully, gently, and Luke wants to kiss him for that. He ends up giving the hand another gentle squeeze.

"He became...someone rather important," the prince admits. "Despite my better judgment. First years at the Keep without mother...They were hard, harder than either of us could imagine. Lord Otto took me under his wing, metaphorically speaking; he taught me almost everything I know now."

"You do understand he is doing it not without some hidden reasons," Aemond informs him and the boy scoffs. "He plans to use you in his schemes, is he already using you in the High Game."

"And do you think I'm a complete idiot?" Luke retorts. "Do you think I've spend eight years at the court learning from him, to be a completely blind buffoon? Is what the expression I leave?"

"No," Aemond admits hesitantly. "You look...shrewd. You act shrewd. You changed so much sometimes I don't recognize the boy I knew in you."

"As if you ever cared about this boy," Luke murmurs. "You wanted us to burn."

He hears Aemond's breath hitch.

"I did not...truly mean that," he admits begrudgingly. "I was angry and resentful and maybe just a little bit scared and I...acted out."

"We all acted out," Luke admits, accepting the crumbles of the peace offering. "And look where it lead us."

"To the stranger's home," Aemond muses.

"To the stranger's court," Luke admits. "A piece of advice, qȳbor. I do not know how much you recall from your life at the King's Landing, but I know you were - as we all were - just the child to truly understand its inner workings. Dragonstone is...different from what the King's Landing is; more honest and more peaceful."

"I am yet to hear the advice, Luke," his uncle mentions and the sound of Luke's own name on Aemond's lips makes him feel dizzy.

This is very bad.

"My advice to you is that," he lets out breathlessly. "Do not let anyone get under your skin, do not let anyone see into your soul. The Red Keep is a nest of vipers and they would love to abuse every single insecurity and weakness you show. So show nothing and trust no one," he smiles ruefully. "And especially not me."

Aemond stops and reaches to grasp him by the shoulders. His single eye peers into Luke's own, into his very own soul, and the prince feels himself failing his own advice.

He has no power to lock the gates to his soul tight; to push Aemond Targaryen away and never let him in.

It is already too late for that.

"Is this something grandsire taught you?" His uncle asks as the silence becomes unbearable.

Lucerys nods.

"And I fear I disregarded the last part," he replies and frees himself from Aemond's hold.

He walks quickly the last several steps to the Dragonpit and feels Arrax chirp in the distance; their bound is singling with mutual joy.

At last Lucerys can breathe.

Chapter Text

" Wealthy, proud, and solitary, there have been Hightowers who wouldn't come down from their great lighthouse for decades.

Its name, fittingly, the Hightower." - Margaery Tyrell.

“My dear family,” Viserys begins as they all gather together by the table. He looks even worse than before. “This is, unfortunately, a sad occasion we all are gathered here today for.”

“Who died?” Aegon asks and immediately gets shushed by both Rhaenyra and Alicent.

By the frown of the king’s remaining side of the face Luke understands that someone indeed has died.

“We were informed just this morning of the tragic fate what befell one of our most loyal supporters and the blood of some of you,” Viserys continues. He and Otto lock eyes and the Hand nods slightly.

Lucerys’ senses are alight.

“Father?” Alicent asks quietly and her father gives her a thin smile.

“I received a letter from Oldtown; your uncle Hobert met the Stranger two nights ago.”

Alicent nods shakily, though no grief shows on her face; just plain complying acceptance.

“Are we to attend the funeral?” Lucerys questions aloud because he already knows they are.

“You are,” the king nods. “I myself is too weak to make such a long journey to show my respect to one of my most loyal supporters, but you will go in my stead.”

“And we – as in-?“ Jacaerys rises an eyebrow.

“Not you,” Lord Hightower cuts out. “You’re to stay at the capital and continue your studies. The future king if the realm has better things to do than to swim across the continent to pay respects to a dead man he saw twice.”

The young prince nods stiffly.

“Understood, Lord Hand,” he acknowledges. “Am I correct in guessing Lucerys will go to pay respects in my stead?”

“You are,” Otto agrees. “Lucerys is due visit to the Oldtown. I believe him and Ormund will have a lot to discuss.”

“You’re sending my son,” Rhaenyra says, disbelieving. “To the Oldtown to commune with your nephew?”

“Not your son, Rhaenyra,” Viserys intersects. “Lucerys is coming as the ward of the House Hightower.”

“A ward?” Rhaenyra practically shouts.

“Who do you think he has been all these years, princess?” Otto replies evenly.

“Prince Jacaerys is here as the future heir of the Kingdom, but prince’s Lucerys obligations lay elsewhere. And yet it came to your father’s attention following the incident at the Driftmark what the boy is dangerously closed-minded. Rising him and his siblings in the different environment than they used to was to his and his brother’s advantage. It is important for the prospective heirs learn the customs of other regions of Westeros as part of their education, is it not?”

The king nods.

“Just so. I feel like it’s time to take the next step in Lucerys’ education; I believe the time spent in Oldtown will be of a great value.”

“You’re essentially sending the son of the future queen into the viper’s nest,” Daemon comments darkly.

He was keeping his thoughts for himself till that moment; a notion what in no doubt got the attention of all the attending.

It felt safer to see and hear Daemon argue and scrabble than to be presented with silence, which, in turn, meant the prince is planning something unseemly.

“Heed your words then you speak of the Hightowers, prince Daemon,” Otto replies coldly. “Don’t forget you’re talking of the young princess and princes’ relatives.”

“How could I,” Daemon sneers. “If you never let anyone forget about it. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to install that oaf Gwayne to the court.”

“You will think twice before you speak of my son in that way. Unlike of your disrespect to your own blood, some of us actually value their kin and especially their heirs. It is of utmost flippancy-“

"Big words for such a small man-"

“Enough!” Viserys roars, the sound of it surprising all attending.

“I can’t say I missed you two arguing and I will not tolerate this childish behavior now. My grandson is to visit Oldtown as the part of his duties as the ward of the House Hightower. Aemond,” the king graces his youngest child with a look for the first time since the dinner began. “You’re to accompany prince Lucerys to the Hightower. I believe it will be the most beneficial for you to visit your ancestral home as well. Pay your respects to your relatives and attend the funeral of the former Lord of Oldtown. I’m sure Ormund and his uncle will meet you two accordingly.”

“Yes, father,” his youngest child nods, playing the role of the dutiful son by the note.

“I will go as well,” Daemon chimes in.

“Daemon-“ Viserys begins, but his brother shakes his head.

“This is not proposition. I am not leaving my stepson alone at the Hightower court, it is enough what you’ve apparently allowed Otto to oversee the boy’s training, despite Lucerys clearly being the Velaryon heir; he should have been a ward at his grandmother’s court.”

“And yet she failed to come and claim him,” Otto comments idly. “Leaving a boy at utmost loss, without the guidance and the education. It is a blessing I agreed to overtake his studies.”

“It is just one of your vile plots, you foul-mouthed-“

“Daemon,” presses the king. “Heed your tongue then addressing the Hand of the King and the father of the queen at that.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Daemon seethes through clenched teeth.

You do realize Otto is not doing it without a reason though, echoes a memory in Luke’s mind. He will most likely want you to marry one of his distant nieces.

Besides his oldest child, Hobert Hightower also sired, if much later in life, a daughter named Cassiope.

She is around ten and five namedays and unwed.

Luke understands all too well why he is being sent to Oldtown.

He doesn’t like it one bit.

She is rumored to be a sweet girl - Hobert’s daughter - sheltered from the court by her overprotective mother, a woman who gave birth to her so late in life she could be her grandmother rather than mother.

If there is any redeeming quality Lynesse Hightower possesses, it is the love for her daughter; she made her very best to make sure the girl wasn’t poisoned by the power and politics alike.

Which makes Cassiope perfect candidate for the simple little pawn of Otto’s grandiose game, and the prospective wife for Otto’s greatest investment – Lucerys Velaryon.

Luke tries very hard not to sigh exasperatedly aloud; the desire to do so is immense.

"Ah, here he comes," lady Cassiope of House Hightower calls out as Lucerys approaches. "The sweet Velaryon prince, uncle's little prodigal."

Luke winces.

He doesn't know what exactly Lord Hobert Hightower told his daughter about him before the lord passed, but the knowledge Lady Cassiope has in her hands seems to be enough.

"Lady Cassiope," he nods respectfully. "It is my highest honor to meet you."

She laughs at him, a slight blush creeping her sun-kissed cheeks, and waves the prince away.

"Such a charmer," she giggles. "One might almost think you actually desire this union."

That pulls the smile off Luke's face right away.

"My lady," he replies carefully, evenly. "I thought we had an understanding."

She gazes at him; tense as he is, nerves hidden behind the perfect mask, before snorting. Cassiope gestures for the prince to walk with her and he obliges, offering his hand.

She clasps it eagerly as they walk awhile in the companionable silence.

"I must admit," young lady finally breaks it off. "You are good, better than I even expected. Your letters gave me a glimpse of your persona - it's remarkable how much a simple ink on paper can tell about the person - but the real thing is much more than I anticipated," she gives him an accessing look from under her lashes. "Uncle really taught you out, did he not?"

"He did," Luke admits; face a carefully constructed image of polite interest.

Good thing Hightower is surrounded with vast and flush gardens, the ones what make it so easy to get away from the public view.

He does not know where lady Hightower is guiding him, but Lucerys trusts her enough to let it be.

"And haven't you, yourself, received a peculiar education, my lady?" the young prince asks nonchalantly and Cassiope smiles sharply.

"Something my father would disapprove a great deal, if only he knew," she shrugs. "It's good thing mother decided to keep this a secret from him."

Lucerys hums in a thought.

"I take it your father was not in favor of you living independently," he guesses.

"You would be correct," Cassiope sights dramatically. "The only reason father dearest hadn't sold me out like a broodmare the day I flowered is because of my lady mother," she bites her plump pink lips.

In another life, Luke thinks, if he wasn't him and she wasn't her, they could actually be happily married; birth a dozen of unruly children and annoy each other till the Stranger part their ways.

In another life, not this one.

In this one they work desperately to ensure the wedding would never take place.

"Your lady mother has my deepest respect," he acknowledges and she nods.

"And yours - mine," Cassiope sighs again. "Gods know it must not be easy to be the King's heir, a woman at that, with much beloved sons whose heritage is being questioned at every step and turn." She gives a light squeeze on his arm. "I've heard about the petition your grand uncle made to the king; a foolish attempt, but which could turn deadly for you and your kin. I was rejoiced to hear of its conclusion."

"Thank you, my lady," Lucerys allows himself a fleeting honest smile. "I believe lord Hand was preparing me for something like that for my entire life."

"Yes," little lady Hightower nods, in a thought. "And I believe dear uncle was the one to make the petition go through. He wanted you to deal with the competition for the Driftmark throne, did he not?"

"He did," Luke nods wearily. "And here comes the second part of his grandiose plan. This," he gestures at them. "The betrothal."

"Something you're remarkably opposed of," Cassiope notices. "Tell me, am I not the beauty? Do I not please your eyes? Do my words offend your hearing?"

"You are the beauty," the young prince admits. "And a remarkably eloquent one at that. But I fear your kind is not what soothes my appetites."

"Ah," she clasps her palms together. "A kindred soul! How novel," the lady smiles and that smile brings much more warmth on her face than all the previous ones combined. "So the rumors are true, then, you are Lord Laenor's son."

Luke can't help but roll his eyes at that.

"In a way, yes," he admits. "Though it's not the resemblance you could bring up in a court."

"No, I suppose not," the young lady nods and bites into her lower lip once again. It is somewhat of a habit of hers, Luke has noticed. "Although I find your honesty refreshing; I have expected you to lie to me though and though."

"And why would I do that?" He raises an eyebrow. "We are allies, are we not? Neither of us wants this marriage."

"Yes," she hums. "In that we agree. I must admit I have no desire to be the lady of the Tides, no matter what arrangement we could work out to make our marriage work. And I believe your relatives wouldn't want anything less than to see a Hightower on the Driftmark throne."

"You are correct," he tilts his head in recognition. "Neither my grandmother nor grandfather will tolerate Otto's bloodline anywhere near Driftmark."

"Grandfather," Cassiope's eyebrows come climbing up. "Has he not perished in the sea?"

Luke feels his jaw tense involuntarily and tries his very damn best to relax it.

"He has not," the young prince denies. "Grandfather was - is - at the sea, but there is no reason to think he will not return."

"Is there not?" Lady Hightower implores. "He has been away for so long and there were hardly any news. Do you think he is coming back?"

"He has to."

Cassiope comes to a halt then; she turns to Lucerys face first and peers into his face.

"Do you dream of him sailing in and saving you, little prince of the Tides?" She asks in contemplation.

"Has life not taught you yet what no one is coming to a rescue?"

Luke closes his eyes; he hears the murmur of the court, the clank of the steel in the training yard, the whispering behind his back.

'Is this him? The second bastard? He truly looks nothing like Laenor.'

'Who dropped this child there? The court will eat him alive.'

'What a pitiful thing, can't fight to save his life; it's a wonder how he managed to cut his uncle's eye out.'

'Rhaenyra sleeps around right under the kings nose and still expects to get the throne? Foolish girl, I knew we can't trust a woman. Too emotional, their kind; think with their wombs.'

Lucerys opens his eyes and meets Cassiope's patient gaze.

"No," he speaks. "I know no one is saving us but ourselves."

The young lady nods at that grimly.

"Just so," she agrees. "And even that they try to tear away from us. Very well, let us plan our diversion."

Luke smiles and sees her mirror the gesture.

"Let's."

"You want me to do what?" Aemond asks for what feels like the tenth time. With every time repeated his voice grows more exasperated, his look - more wild.

Luke sighs.

"I want you to be seen with Lady Cassiope in the compromising situation," he explains for the tenth time. "And for the endless time, you're out of danger of marrying her; her mother is stoically against any kind of interbreeding taking place.

You being her uncle's grandson puts you out of the harm's way."

"Lady Hightower's dislike of interfamilial marriage will only make her loathe me more," his uncle grumbles and Lucerys smiles.

The fact what Aemond is arguing with the idea and has not yet downright denied it is a sigh he can be convinced.

"Do that and you have another of my favors," Luke suggests.

"I'm yet to figure out what to do with the first one," his uncle scoffs. "Besides, your 'first favor' is basically anything. Why would I need anything else from you if I already practically have all of you for myself?"

The young prince sighs.

"I'm sure you can figure something out atop of the first thing you ask of me," he breathes out. "I would ask anyone else if, say, anyone else was there. But since it's just you, me and my stepfather - and asking Daemon for that equals starting a war with Oldtown, so this is out of question - you're the only one I can really ask."

"Why don't you want to marry Lady Cassiope?" Aemond wonders. "Besides the obvious reasons."

"Would you like me to marry Lady Cassiope?" His nephew retorts. "You know this is what Otto wants to happen; so I can't let this happen. A Hightower on the Driftmark throne will be pretty much the end of Velaryon dynasty, especially considering," he gestures at himself. "Who they are already getting for the lord of the Tides."

Aemond scoffs.

"And what does that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think that means?" Luke hisses. "You and your brother are the ones to call us bastards. Gods know, I might not be Laenor's blood, but I will not betray his trust in me. Not his and not Corlys'. They believed me worthy to be the next lord of the Tides, I will not disappoint them."

"But they're dead," Aemond voices out and immediately Luke thinks what one seeing eye is a luxury, considering how fucking blind Aemond is regardless.

He thinks he could stab him in the remaining one and deal with the problem at hand in the most dramatic way; no one will betroth their daughters to a man who cut his uncle's eye twice.

"Grandfather is not dead," he hisses, low and angry and very, very dangerous.

Aemond seems to sense it, for he tries to soften the blow.

"Luke, he went into the sea eight years ago and still hasn't-"

"He is not dead," the young prince insists as he feels anger burning in his eyes.

This would be the astonishingly bad time to start crying, he thinks.

"He is at the sea, he is a sailor - this is what they do."

Aemond looks at him with something what seems dangerously close to pity.

Then he sighs.

"How do you want it to happen?"

"What?"

"The compromising situation," his uncle explains. "How do you want it to go? And I'm assuming Lady Cassiope is into this roguish plan as well, because if she isn’t - I'm out."

Luke breaths out loudly with something what simply cannot be relief.

"She is," he assures. "The plan is hers to begin with."

Chapter Text

“All I wanted was for someone to say that they were sorry for what happened to me.” – Alicent Hightower.

Interlude.

The King's Landing, Seven years ago.

Luke finds himself alone once again.

He doesn't cry anymore; he is too old for that and bawling one's eyes out is unfitting of the prince.

At least thing is what Lord Otto says.

Lucerys doesn't bawl his eyes out anymore but he still feels lonely as he did the first day mother left them there.

Jace has grown distant even though Luke knows he tried his best not to; but there's too much of Jacaerys' shoulders, there is too much the heir has to learn, and all the studies and lessons leave very little time to commune with one's younger brother.

Luke doesn't think he is neglected, not intentionally at least, but it doesn't stop him missing his brother like a madman.

Queen Alicent is still giving the second prince a cold shoulder and somehow Luke is even glad for that; for he is rightfully frightened of her still.

The boy remembers how the queen lurched forward, how his mother's blood was dripping to the floor, a soft tap tap tap sound signifying the changes to come.

Rather morbid ones.

Luke still doesn't know what grandfather was thinking of when devising the wicked plan of his; if the king is even aware for much pain the separation brought to them.

The young prince tries to visit his younger brother as often as he can in his mother's stead and tries to write of every little detail about Joffrey's days to mother.

His handwriting is admittedly a pitiful thing yet, though lord Otto assigned a scribe to teach him how to write properly.

Luke thinks he hates this scribe actually, but this is not something he can openly admit; definitely not to the Lord Hand.

Like it or not, but the only person who has time for him these days is Otto Hightower.

He is actually less scary than the young prince has originally thought, and yet stern to a fault. Luke doesn't think he has missed a single lesson lord Hand assigned to him since the day lord Hightower was officially announced to oversee his studies.

He called it "being a ward", explaining what Lucerys is now under the patronage of another High House; what he is ought to learn well and get accustomed to many things what were foreign to him before.

Surprisingly, Lord Otto also insisted on intense Hight Valyrian language studies.

"You are at disadvantage because of your looks and the accusations they beings," he explained it even without Luke asking.

"The ruling house of the Seven Kingdoms is the House Targaryen, and yet your foes will try to undermine you based on the other blood what flows in your veins. You have to look and act the part of the perfect Targaryen; making all the ill-wishers unable to shake your hold on the claim. Is that clear?"

Luke nodded hastily back then even though he wasn't completely sure he understood it correctly. Still, he would not be the one to admit he didn’t get something from the first try.

There is a vile little worm biting into his very soul, it doesn't let Luke admit to his mistakes easily.

Some fragile pride took place in the depths of his mind and it whispers what he needs to be flawless, or at least appear that way.

So he tries for as best as he can, as he knows Jace tries on his own; as he knows Joffrey will once he grows up.

For they are born with the disadvantage of their heritage, even if the plain look can be often used as a perk as well.

So it is not that unusual actually for Luke's legs to lead him into the lord's study; for him to seek a harbor behind the heavy wooden doors of the Tower of Hand.

Lucerys crosses the garden, flush with exotic flowers from all over the world, before he sneaks inside the tower and moves up the endless stairs.

Otto Hightower's private study is located at the very top of the building and the boy has to climb for a while before he reaches his destination.

He deems this journey to be a much needed exercise, for the prince should not only have a fit mind, but a fit body as well.

Luke is quietly relieved no one has tried to train him in the art of sword fighting much; lord Hightower paying more attention to the steel of heart than the actual one.

The young prince isn't sure he is ready to wield the blade yet; the memory of the valyrian steel cutting through the flesh and Aemond's howl fresh in his mind.

He is too much of a craven to ask mother how Aemond fares these days.

The nightmares has stopped, thanks for the strange herb brew lord Hightower ordered to be made for him, but Lucerys still can't help the slight shaking of his limbs whenever he comes in contact with the sword.

Traitorous reactions of a guilty frame, even though logically the boy knows he did the right thing.

He protected his brother, the very brother who is burying himself in the tight schedule to avoid actually feeling things.

Luke knows his brother all too well to believe his self-righteous studious behavior is a completely selfless act; he is aware Jace would rather overwork himself than let the thoughts and feelings roam freely in his mind.

Leaving Luke alone with the feelings of his own.

And this is where it leads him, to the very top of the Tower of Hand, to the heavy door behind that his teacher resides.

Lucerys knocks firmly and receives an order to come in; so he does.

Lord Otto is sitting by his table, papers sprayed in front of him, quill in hand.

Something is different, there is a slight unfamiliar shift of lord's shoulders, a miniscule change Luke notices regardless and is proud of that.

"Lucerys," lord Otto calls out as he hesitates at the threshold. "Do come in."

"Good morrow, Lord Hand," the boy calls out. "Is there something troubling you?"

Otto's hand stills and a heavy silence covers the room.

"Why would you think that?" The lord finally speaks, as he raises his eyes from the parchment to look the young prince in the eyes. Luke tries to avoid the eye contact. "Lucerys."

"I don't know," the boy shrugs. "You just look different, that's it."

"Different how?" the lord inquires.

"More tense. A little bit sad too maybe?" The prince looks away, not being able to bear the shrewd look of his mentor.

"Do I?" Lord Hightower chuckles softly. "You have a keen eye, my prince."

Luke perks up at that.

"I do?!"

"Yes," Lord Hand agrees. "You've noticed what other failed to before. I am a little sad."

The young prince moves closer, coming to stands next to the big oak table.

"Why are you sad?" he asks hesitantly. "Did something bad happen?" An awful thought breeches his defenses. "Is grandsire alright?!"

"He is well," the man chuckles. "But I'll give him your regards. My troubles are nothing for you to concern yourself with."

"Why?" Luke asks, persistent in his curiosity because he knows if he pushes just long enough, the answer will be his.

Queen Alicent called him a spoiled brat the other day they were breaking the fast and Luke could see Jacaerys' jaws clench at that, hands coming into fists.

He moved his hand quickly atop his brother's to quench the fire; unexpectedly it helped, Jace sending a worried look his way, but slowly relaxing his posture.

Luke knows he is a spoiled brat, but it only means he was loved by his parents enough to spoil him.

He thinks about Aegon's endless complains about his mother, about Aemond's sulking, about how the king didn't seem to pay his children any attention even then they were here.

Luke wonders if sending his children away to live at Dragonstone was more a banishment than a lesson to learn, if grandfather is cruel enough to toss his own flesh and blood aside.

Lucerys would love to not think these vile things of his grandsire and the king, but without Rhaenyra around, the king hardly pays them any attention beyond necessary.

Luke wonders if this is how the Hightowers' life has always been.

He misses the breakfasts his family had together; mother and father at the head of the table, Lord Harwin often joining in; them, the children, splattered around the table as they please, tiny cups and tiny plates for them to eat from.

Jace has declared he is old enough to eat from the adult cutlery and was granted his wish, but Luke was content in his small plates. He often fed Arrax bits of his food under the table then no one was looking.

The queen denied the dragons leaving Dragonpit, even back then they were still small enough to crawl around the castle with their future riders.

Sometimes Luke thinks the queen hates the dragons and everything they represent; he wonders why would she marry into their house then.

Otto Hightower doesn't call him spoiled brat; he hasn't called him a bad name once, even though Luke is still expecting him to.

Everyone in this Keep has called him names, into his face or behind his back, lord Otto can't be an exception.

Only he seems to be an exception.

"Because some troubles are not for the child to bear," he responds patiently where Luke knows Alicent would brush him off like the annoying insect.

"But I want to know," Luke knows, weaponizing his well known spoiled status. "I promise to keep it a secret!"

Otto's hand comes brushing his hair off the boy's face gently, and the man is actually smiling.

"Do you?" He asks and there is a sly glint in his eyes. "Very well. My brother wrote to me."

Luke's eyes budge at that.

He wasn't even aware Lord Otto had a brother.

"You have a brother?" he asks and by the way lord Hightower smirks it is clear Luke just made a fool of himself.

"Yes, boy, I have a brother," the lord responds. "An older one. He is the current Lord of Oldtown."

"Oh," the prince contemplates it for a moment. "Is he nice?"

"Not at all," Otto responds. "But he is my flesh and blood. Family is something of the utmost importance, you can never forget it."

"I won't," Lucerys promises. It is strange, but the words the lord is speaking are the words Luke heard so often from the lips of his own mother.

"Family is important, Luke," she has said, cupping his face gently. "One must always protect it."

It has his mother's words what made him raise a knife that damned night.

Only he forgot Aemond is supposed to be the family too; and they all have paid greatly for that.

"But what if by protecting family I harm someone else?" He asks because he just has to know and he wasn't able to talk about it with anyone.

In days like these he misses his father the most; Lord Laenor would know what to say, he always did. He listened to Luke's every concern and never made him feel bad or weak for feeling what he felt.

Lucerys misses his family so much his lungs hurt.

"You mean your uncle," Otto comments and the young prince nods. "And you speak of him as if he is not. Had it ever occurred to you what by protecting the family you hurt your family?"

"He was going to murder Jace!" Luke argues because he knows what happened that night. He knows Aemond wasn't innocent and he is sick of Queen Alicent acting like he was.

"That he was," Lord Hand admits and it brings Luke's bubbling fury to a halt.

"Wait," he asks, eyes wide. "You believe me?!"

The old lord chuckles.

"I believe I know my grandson well enough to recognize his actions. The boy was longing for a dragon of his own since his egg didn't hatch; he would kill for that."

"He almost did," Luke nods eagerly. "And he said we will burn like," he feels something get caught in his throat. "Like Lord Harwin."

Otto shakes his head.

"Of course he did," he man replies and he sounds disappointed with Aemond. A refreshing take for a change; the queen would never. "And yet, your following actions put us all in a very difficult position."

"I am sorry," Luke mumbles. "I didn't want to complicate anything."

Lord Hightower looks at him for what feels like the longest time ever.

"It doesn't matter," he brushes off finally, not the acceptance of the boy's apology, but the dismissal of the whole ordeal. "We will work with what we have, you and I, what will you say to that?"

"What I agree," Luke nods eagerly. He knew coming here was a wise decision; Lord Hightower always listens and he never tries to sweeten the truth.

"But what did your brother write to you about?" He can't help but ask.

"Hobert wrote to me about his youngest daughter," lord Otto speaks when Luke is sure no answer will come.

"She is a late child: her eighth nameday is approaching. My brother was asking my advice concerning raising a daughter," a slight shadow crosses the Hand's face but it is gone as quickly as it appeared. "Since I raised mine without the help of my late wife."

"She has died, has she not?" Luke asks, compassion flooding his soul. "I'm sure it was very hard, my lord. I'm sure your wife would be proud of you if she saw you now."

Otto whips his head to stare at the young prince.

He is looking with such an intensity and is hardly blinking, which makes Luke uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze.

"Have I said something wrong, my lord?" He asks carefully.

Otto Hightower shakes his head.

"Not at all, my boy." He denies. "This topic, actually, is something the king and I find common ground upon. He lost his first wife, your grandmother Aemma, to a very difficult childbirth."

"I know," Luke nods. "Mother always says I look a lot like grandmother."

Lord Hand gives him another searching look.

"You do," he agrees. "And I'm sure this resemble hurts his grace, so don't blame him for neglecting you and your brother, if it happens.

"But," Luke mules at the words, thinking of how to best voice them. "Grandsire is married to the queen Alicent now. Doesn't he love her?"

"Out of duty, he may try," Otto responds plainly. "But there was no love in their union then it took place; only political obligations for the throne."

Luke takes a step back, horrified.

"This is awful!" He exclaims. "No wonder the queen looks so sullen all the time; she hates it!"

"My daughter knows her duties and is obliging them for the greater good," Lord Hightower replies firmly and for a moment the prince sees him for who he truly is; a man who married his daughter to a man twice her age for politics.

But then another shadow clouds the lord's face and Luke sees with the perfect clarity something no one saw before.

Regret.

There is just a fleeting glimpse of it, but Lucerys is confident in what he saw.

"Grandfather doesn't seem to care about his children from the second marriage," he lets out, a piece offering more than anything else.

Lord Hightower's face steels.

"He doesn't," Lord Hand confirms. "All your grandsire cares about is Rhaenyra. And you," he gives Lucerys a slight nod. "My grandchildren never even had a chance."

And Luke hurts for that, for them, his unfortunate uncles and the aunt, the product of politics, robbed of love what should have been their from the moment they were born.

No wonder Aegon was always so bitter, no wonder Aemond lashed out.

"They're with mother now," he speaks the words of reassurance, unaware they're anything but. "She will take care of them."

"Yes," Lord Hightower nods. "I imagine she and her...new husband will. And I will take care of you."

Luke almost misses a slight ominous note in his mentor's voice.

Almost.

Chapter Text

"Jaehaerys called the Great Council to prevent a war being fought over his succession.

For he knew the cold truth: the only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon was itself."

- Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Daemon is fuming on their way back.

"Good work, nephew," he comments brazenly once they board the ship what will sail them back to the Keep.

The roads are horrible this time of the year, so the sea road was chosen as the most suitable way of traveling.

Both Daemon and Aemond wanted to simply fly to the Oldtown, but Luke knew this notion will be denied; for they needed to make not a grand, but respectful entrance, and appearing atop fire-breathing beasts to the center of the Faith of Seven and one of the oldest cities to ever exist in Westeros would be a bad taste and would cause a rift in the alliances.

So they sailed, the three princes and their entourage of honor guard, even though Luke knew neither Aemond or Daemon needed any guarding.

"You managed to get us kicked out of the Oldtown with your notoriously bad flirting. I will not be surprised if lady Cassiope takes in liking of women after that."

"It wasn't flirting," Aemond scoffs. "And it wasn't bad."

"Which one of these is it?" Daemon raises an eyebrow at that. "Either it wasn't flirting or it wasn't bad; it can't be both."

"Yes, it can," Aemond retorts, clearly embarassed.

"It was a favor for me, actually," Luke decides to interfere, even though seeing Aemond backed into a corner brings him immense joy. "I asked him to be caught in some compromising position with the young lady."

The rogue prince's attention immediately snaps to him.

"Did you now?" Daemon asks, accessing him in the way he did at the court when Lord Vaemond Velaryon made his petition; sizing a threat, Luke can't help but think. "And why is that?"

"To avoid a betrothal," the young prince shrugs calmly. "Or would you prefer me to tie myself up with the marriage vows to the sweet lady Cassiope, stepfather?"

Daemon scoffs, leaving no doubt on where his thoughts lie on the matter.

"Over my dead body," he still voices out. "You will not be married to a Hightower anytime soon."

The young prince sees Aemond scoff at that, but keep his mouth shut; he is a Hightower himself, a Targaryen half-breed the same way Lucerys is.

Luke has tried to convince himself it's only Dragon blood what matters, but his insistence came in vain every time he saw a glimpse of lord Confessor, or heard anything about Harrenhal or as much as caught a whisper of the word 'strong'.

How can parentage be the source of the greatest joy and the biggest sorrow simultaneously Luke does not know, and yet it is.

"I will not be married to any of your daughters either," he informs his stepfather instead of diving head deep into his troubling thoughts.

Daemon is immediately offended by that.

"And why is that?" He demands to know. "Are my girls not good enough for you?"

Luke simply has to breath a ghost of a laugh at that.

"That's not it," he argues. "I would love to join our family branches with Rhaena at my side. However, I fear I will lose the support of Hightowers then."

"And what does it matter, their support?" Daemon argues. "Or Otto Hightower support for that matter; I am not blind, boy, I know who you're referring to."

"I never implied you were," Lucerys brushes it off. "And Lord Otto has been the Lord Hand for as long as some of us live, even if there was a break from his duties for the time Lord Lyonel Strong took the position," he carefully avoids the mention of his  grandfather's demise and the following re-establishment of Otto Hightower as the Lord Hand.

The simple reminder of that is still a painfull topic and a sore spot.

"He is a skilled and powerful man with many alliances in his sleeve and the uncle of the current Lord of Oldtown. This is the ally we  can not allow ourselves to lose."

"Is it 'we' now, boy?" Daemon asks. "It was only 'you' just before. And why, pray tell, we need this cunt so much?"

Luke's annoyance flares at the way Daemon adresses his mentor, but he keeps his anger at bay.

"You're not blind, but are you, perhaps, dumb?" Or not.

Lucerys is poking the beast with the stick, as it is evident by Aemond's wide eyed look and frantic shake of his head, but he could not care less. He did not endure nine years at court for his stepfather to deminish all of his accomplishments.

"Lord Hightower and, essentially, the House Hightower, were graceful enough to offer me their patronage, something what should not be taken lightly. As you could see from the way Ormund acted at his own father's funeral, it seems Hightowers believe I owe them something for the gift of protection they bestowed on me. Neither of them will take me turning their offers away to pursue my own blood with understanding. And Hightowers," Luke insists, seeing his stepfather open a mouth to argue. "Have a hold on the center of the Faith of Seven, with Oldtown harboring the Citadel of maesters. So I ask you; what will happen if I turn my face away from them to favor my own cousin? The Faith has been barely tolerating the ways our our House since the king Jaehaerys made peace with it, but all they need is a slight push. Do you fancy yourself Maegor the Cruel maybe, father? Do you wish to go on another war with Faith Militant? Because this is what will happen if I don't play it wise and keep both sides pleased. Ormund is a fool, but he lacks no ambitions, just like his father did before him. He will not hesitate to push for his blood on the throne, be it Iron or the Driftmark. And with Jacaerys being already betrothed to Helaena and lady Lynesse's prominent hatred of interfamiliar unions, my person is the next obvious candidature. And yet-"

"If you marry Cassiope, Velaryons will revolt. If you marry Rhaena, Hightowers will," Aemond concludes, a sudden glint appearing in his eye.

If Luke didn't know better, he would think his uncle was actually...pleased.

"Just so," he admits. "I have yet found a way to get out of this stalemate, but trust me, I am trying."

Daemon, who was uncharacteristically quiet for the entity of Luke's heated speech, looks at him with an apprehension, but a slight respect as well.

"You picked up a lot at the Red Keep," he comments idly. "A lot of politicking bullshit your beloved 'lord Otto' s favors so much."

"I did it to survive," Luke snarls back, unable to keep his temper under control, furious by the fact what he has to defend himself before this stranger of a man who married his mother, not understanding why he even feels like he has to.

Lucerys Velaryon had two fathers in his life and both of them died and left him to fight his own battles.

He is in no need of the third one.

"After you and mother left me at the mercy of the nest of actual vipers," he adds with venom in his voice. "Do not fault me for defending myself and what's mine; do not blame me for looking after our family in the only way I know how."

"You could have picked up the sword," Daemon comments. "The sword is just as good."

Luke shakes his head; he doesn't understand how this man lived at the King's Landing and did not realize such a simple truth.

"Swordsfight does not win council meetings. Words do."

They don't speak again for the rest of the day.

"A great show earlier," Aemond comments just then Luke is sure he is alone on the deck. Damn it, he just wanted some piece and quiet; is that too much to ask for?"

"Don't remember when I asked for your opinion," he replies briskly, but quickly corrects himself. "Sorry. It was a tiring day, I am not fully myself."

"I can see that," Aemond hums as he moves to join Lucerys by the rails. "But I mean it when I say it; good work. I haven't seen anyone confront Daemon's beliefs and walk out it in one piece at the same time."

"It's hardly my accomplishment," Luke has to smirk at that. "I believe mother would cut his cock of if he as much as left a bruise on me."

Amond laughs quietly and the sound of it does something to Luke's intestines. He tries not to stare at his uncle too obviously, but by the way said uncle smiles at him, sly and knowing, he has failed.

"The Oldtown is truly an astonishing place," Aemond admits. "And the Hightower...It is a piece of some serious craftsmanship, this lighthouse."

"It really is," Luke smiles softly. "It reminds me of the Tower of Hand back home, only ten times bigger. It is rather fitting what a Hightower sits in the Tower of Hand, don't you think?"

Aemond siezes him with a searching look.

"You are loyal to grandsire," he decides. "Almost to a fault. However he managed to do that, I wonder."

"He was there," Luke shrugs, embarrassed. "And others didn't. I needed some...guidance, I think, some support. People at the high court can be unbearable, you know," he smiles bitterly.

"I'm sure you thought youself clever taunting us with your 'strong boys' speech at the feast, but truth is I am used to much harsher things said behind my back and occasionally - right into my face. One learns to bare teeth if cornered; one learns to plot if this is what it takes to survive."

Aemond's hand comes resting upon his nephew's, warm even through the glove.

Luke tries not to show how much it affects him; he clasps the hand with his own and blinks away uncalled tears.

"Is it really as morbid as you speak?" His uncle asks. "You warned me against trusting anyone at the keep; do you really trust no one?"

"I try not to," the young prince shrugs. "It will only come to hurt me later. Jace and Joffrey are the only ones I could ever trust."

"This is bullshit," Aemond exclaims with more anger than Luke would expect. "You locked yourself in a cage of your own making. This is no way to live."

Prince Lucerys scoffs.

"The cage was built around me as I slept," he retorts. "You can not blame me for holding the keys. I will never allow anyone else to hold the keys."

Aemond turns away from him and stares into the vastness of the sea for the longest time.

Finally he speaks.

"I know what favor I want of you in return. The first one."

"Alright," the young prince replies. "Do tell."

Aemond's piercing, scorching gaze comes back to him and Lucerys feels like it's hard to breathe, like there is a liquid fire sliding down his throat.

It is such a lovely torture.

"Leave the King's Landing," Aemond demands. "Forever. Move to Driftmark to recide with your grandmother until it's time to take your place on the Driftmark throne. Leave the court life behind."

"Aemond," Luke argues. "I can't do that; grandfather is growing weak with every day and Larys Strong-"

"Later," his uncle suggests. "After the question of succession is settled and we have dealt with Larys; after father has died. Move to the Driftmark then and never look back. Stop living in chains; you're the dragon, the chains are beneath you."

"I'll come with you if this is needed," he adds much quieter, as if unsure if his company would even be welcomed.

Luke does something incredibly idiotic then.

He kisses Aemond.

The kiss is an innocent and a brief thing, or it is until Aemond deepens it, biting into his nephew's lip, grasping his body in his hold.

Mine, mine, mine, mine, keeps chanting in his feverish mind as he brings their bodies closer, as he brushes his palm over the helm of Lucerys' tunic before abandoning all sense and sneaking a hand under it, caressing the skin, recieving a breathy exhale in return.

Aemond has contained himself from doing something he could regret later for the entire day; and yet his resolve crumpled the moment Luke's lips met his own.

Oh, how he wants to devour everything his sweet nephew is; how drunk he is on a simple sight, how overwhelming it is to actually touch the reason his own skin feels so tight around his frame.

He wishes he could declare his nephew for his own for the entire court and realm to see; there will be no lords' daughers trying to marry his Lucerys, not if he could help it.

Aemond can't pinpoint the moment these feelings came, there is no definitive beginning for his new obsession taking place; all he knows is what the boy in front of him is his, what he will claim him as such, with fire and blood, if needed.

But by the way Luke melts into his touch, by the way he wraps his legs around Aemond's waist in such a wanton way it makes the older prince's head spin with heat and lust and such immence desire it hurts, his nephew is not actually opposed to the idea.

Rather the contrary.

"Not here," Aemond whispers into the luring heat of Luke's mouth. "My cabin."

The young prince moans, low and throaty and entirely enticing sound.

Aemond's body grows so weak from it he almost drops the bane of his existence and his sweetest prize.

Lucerys Velaryon will never touch another man again if Aemond can help it.

They make a haste way to his cabin, stumbling on the way; Luke has to untangle his limbs and actually walk on his own, and Aemond immediately mourns the warmth of his thighs pressed tightly to his torso.

Such the strong legs his nephew has.

"Wait," Lucerys murmurs as they're almost in the cabin. "My room. It has...oil."

Aemond almost asks what would they need the oil for then he underarstands and this understanding brings another wave of heat over his body.

"Anywhere," he murmurs as he sucks hard on his nephew's neck. Luke moans. "You want. Anything- You need."

His desire in the flesh exhales shakily.

"Damn it; you, only you, I need-" he is cut off with another passionate kiss as Aemond pushes him into the cabin.

It is a small and uncomfortable thing, the way Aemond's own cabin is; but it has bed and this is all the prince is seeking now.

"Gods," he whispers into his nephew's sweet lips. "May not forgive me, but I can't pretend to care," he kisses Luke roughly and receives just as heated response.

"There are no gods in this room," Lucerys murmurs as he moves to take Aemond's leather coat off. "Only us."
Yes, Aemond thinks as he reaches to unfasten the young prince's breeches. Only you.

May The Seven forgive him, for Aemond would kill and die to touch his nephew like that again.

He spends the entire night embedding every single touch into his mind.

From the moment they step on a solid ground of the King's Landing the princes are aware of one drastic thing.

Something is wrong.

The king has fallen ill.

"Baelon," Viserys whispers as his hand comes cupping Lucerys' face. "My sweet boy...It's so lovely to finally see you."

"Grandfather?" Luke asks, confused and a little frightened. The king looks very ill and frail, life leaving him by the seconds.

Lucerys looks behind.

"Queen Alicent!" the boy calls out. "I think the king is in delirium. He called me-"

"Baelon," Viserys murmurs again, his grip on the prince's face growing stronger, nails clawing into soft skin. Alicent comes rushing in but freezes uncertainly near the bed, hands raised in a stopped attempt to reach for the prince, or the king - or both. "Forgive me...Tell your mother I am sorry."

"Grandfather," Luke calls out even though he knows it is fruitless. "It's me, Lucerys, Rhaenyra’s son. Remember?"

"Rhaenyra," the dying man whispers then. "Remember...the vision. Aegon..."

"Aegon?" Luke and Alicent exchange looks. "Our Aegon?"

"The Conqueror," the king lets out, as if responding to them, but in truth very much lost to his visions. "Absolute darkness...a Targaryen must be seated on the iron throne, a king or queen strong enough to unite the realm..."

And with that the king grows quiet forever, for the remaining life what was holding him afloat leaves his body with a visible heavy sigh of his weary lungs.

Luke feels himself tremble and immediately two warm hands come ghosting over his shoulders, the queen hugging him closely.

"He is dead," the young prince murmurs, staring widely at his now diseased ancestor. "Isn't he?"

"He is, my love," Alicent whispers into his hair, voice low and heavy with sorrow. "The Seven protect us all."

"The words he was speaking," Luke can't help but say. "Were they a prophesy?"

"Your grandsire was in delirium, just as you said," the queen sighs into his hair. "He didn't know where he was and I worry he didn't know what he was taking about either. We shouldn't take his words for anything but what they were."

"But he-" the prince starts and trails off. "What if it was a warning? He was talking about absolute darkness..."

"There is no such thing as absolute darkness, my heart," Alicent hugs him tigher. "Where is darkness, there is the light."

"We light the way," Luke murmurs and feels more than hears his step-grandmother exhale.

"Yes," she agrees softly. "I only hope the way is a peaceful one."

"Mother should know," Luke moves to stand up and the queen reluctantly allows him to. "He was her father. She is to become the queen."

"I fear it is not that simple," Alicent comes reaching for his hands, making the prince turn her way. "Luke, you know my father better than many, you know he will not tolerate Rhaenyra on the throne, not when she is wed to Daemon."

"Will not tolerate?" Luke scoffs. "He has no say in that! He is not the king to decide who is to rule and who isn't."

"No," the queen agrees. "He is only the Lord Hand of the late King Viserys the same way he was the Lord Hand of the King Jahaerys. Do you really think he will allow your mother to ascend?"

Luke flowns so deep it hurts his face, but the truth is he knows Otto Hightower will not let that happen.

He has known it for a very long time, and so has Jace.

They have been preparing for that.

"Aegon is not suited to rule," Luke mentions casually then in truth he wants to scream with the most guttural sound and let all of his anger and frustration out. "He can't ascend."

Alicent looks appaled at that. "Of course not," she agrees. "But Jacaerys-"

"Is a bastard," Luke cuts off sharply, cruelly, not caring for the way the queen winces. She called them that first. "And not even Lord Harwin Strong's, if my suspicions are to be correct."

The young prince has to give it to her, Alicent recovers in no time.

"He was accepted by his late father," she argues, face a firmly set determination. "Lord Leanor called Jacaerys his. He is of the Targaryen blood and, most importantly, he is a man."

Luke winces at that, as if slapped; he tries not to think of the power imbalance between the women and men in the Seven Kingdoms, but sometimes the truth is glaringly obvious.

The High Lords will not accept the queen, no matter what they swore to her all these years ago.

They are, however, are convincable to accept the king, doubtful heritage or not; as long as Lord Hand backs him up.

"Will lord Otto accept that?" he asks, trying to work his own mind around accepting it; knowing very well how crushing the weight of the crown will be to Jace.

Luke hates this damn crown for what it already did, keeps doing and will in no doubt do in the future.

It will bury Jacaerys under its weight if Luke doesn't do something about it.

The queen hesitates.

"Perhaps," she finally concludes. "Jacaerys has spent a long nine years under the roof of the keep and my father's keen eye. Father personally ensured his edication to be adequate. I think he can be...convinced Jacaerys is a suitable role for the king."

"He is more than suitable!" Luke riles up. "Jacaerys has spent his entire life preparing for that moment!"

Even if he hoped it would never come, he adds silently.

The family council is being summoned.

They gather there, around the table; faces painted with worry and curiousity, Aegon pointedly taking a place next to Jacaerys, with Helaena taking a seat on the other side of her betrothed.

He looks surrounded like that, Luke's brother, but Luke has a growing suspicion it is more for his protection than for anything else.

Good, Jacaerys will need all the support what is given.

The queen dowager sits at the head of the table, face pale beyond reasoning; eyes red from the tears and the restless night.

"Alicent?" Rhaenyra asks as she reaches for the queen's hand and clasps it in hers, frowning at the sight of the picked up nails and fresh raw redness of the nail beds. "What is wrong?"

By the ghost of the mysery over her beautiful face, she already knows what is wrong.

Ser Otto Hightower peers at his daugher, hardly ever blinking; his intense gaze rivaled only by the stare of the rogue prince.

"Mother?" Aegon asks quietly, hands growing restless in the way Alicent's own often are.

Jace raises his hand and pins Aegon's palms to the table, successfully repressing the nervous motion.

Luke tries not to think about the way his older uncle obviously relaxes under Jacaerys' touch, of the way tension seems to leave his body the moment his nephew's skin brushes his own.

Aegon is not subtle and the young prince only hopes others have not noticed.

Alicent Hightower takes a deep breath.

"The king is dead," she breathes out, looking nowhere but Luke; their eyes locked in a mutual understanding, the grief and knowledge of the significance of it cutting them both like the blade.

Rhaenyra lets out a muffled sob and moves to hide her face into the hem of the queen's colar; this, too, a new thing, Luke was not aware of women being that close before he left for the Oldtown.

He sees the way Daemon's face is contorted with pain and grief, and fury-

"He didn't suffer," Lucerys lies because he knows lies are what is needed right now. And then, because he can't overcome his own grief, adds much quieter: "He called me Baelon."

It immediately brings his mother's gaze snapping to him, her eyes wet with tears, gaze aching and so, so loving.

"My brother," she breathes out a confession into the room full of her family members. "If he lived...He could have looked just like you."

Luke nods, trying to blink away his own tears.

King Viserys was in no way a good grandfather, and he certainly wasn't a good father, not to his second family; but he was their kin, and he tried occasionally, when he could.

He arranged this wild exchange of children to take place, and now, nine years later, Luke can't help but think it was truly for the best.

Would they sit in a family council together if not for it?

Some deep, cruel part of his mind speaks what no, they would not.

"The king is dead," breaks the silence Lord Hand. "Long live the king."

"You mean 'the queen'," Daemon intersects. "Unless my ears do not deceive me and you did just admit to a treason."

Otto stares Daemon down as if the prince is just a mere insect; the man snarls in return.

"My father means Jacaerys," the dowager queen voices in, her palms trembling behind where they are hidden under Rhaenyra's touch.

Everyone comes to look at her then, Jacaerys' very own face whiter than the snow.

"No," he denies. "The crown belongs to my mother, I will not-"

"You might have no choice," Lord Hand replies evenly. "For the past nine years people of the King's Landing and the High Court met you repeatedly, got to know and love the king you will become. They will support you eagerly, which cannot be said about your mother," his heavy gaze comes to rest on the princess, provoking. Rhaenyra tilts her chin up defiantly and stares back, unblinking.

"What in seven hells is that supposed to mean?" Daemon all but roars and Rhaenyra's hand leaves the queen's to grasp his own.

"Nothing we didn't know about," the urges, trying to catch her husband's frantic, furious gaze.

"You were made heir apparent then you were just ten and four," he snarls. "High Lords all over the Seven Kingdoms kneeled before you!"

"Twenty years is a long time," she hushes. "Most of the lords who swore for me are dead or frail; their heirs will be kneeling to no queen. This is," she sends her sweet firstborn a gentle look. "Acceptable. Jacaerys is my blood as much as he is the blood of Old Valyria. And," she speaks, not looking at anyone in the room. "It might help to close the rift between us and Rhaenys to have her grandson on the throne."

"And what about his future wife?" Daemon tries and receives such a heated look in response he actually recoils.

"Are you really opposing Helaena as the queen?" Rhaenyra demands, indignant. "Our sweet Helaena?"

The said princess raises her gaze in the silent question, head tilted to the side.

Jacaerys' free hand comes resting next her own, palm up; and she lays her gloved hand in his.

Luke doesn't miss the apprehensive look Aegon gives their joined hands; like the kid who was made to share his toy.

It would be almost funny, if the toy in question wasn't Luke's very own older brother.

Daemon looks away, and Lucerys can almost swear he looks regretful of his words.

"No, I suppose not," he grumble. "Our Helaena is sufficient."

"My daugher is more than sufficient," queen Alicent scoffs. "She will make a great queen."

The future queen gives her mother a look full of doubt, before exchanging a glance with her betrothed. Jacaerys squeezes her hand gently and nods.

"Fucking love what I have no part in this bullshit," Aegon murmurs under his breath, but Luke catches it, if just barely.

Lord Hand, who was watching it unfold with a keen eye of the hawk, opens his mouth.

"I am glad years of marriage to the princess mellowed you down," he informs Daemon matter of factly. "I was rather worried about what influence you would bring on your young wife, but I see my worries were rootless," he gives Rhaenyra an aknowledging nod and the princess nods back, if begrudgingly.

"It is of my utmost belief what all of us gathered in this room have only the kingdom's best interests at heart," she replies evenly. "And I am willing to sacrifice my ambitions for the greater good of our family. My father," she stops as if the air gets stuck in her throat.

"He once told me of the prophecy Aegon the Conqueror had. He has said we need to stay united, together as one, for there always should be Targaryen on the throne. Most of us," she looks around the table and in this moment she looks truly regal.

Luke mourns the queen she could have been, and by the tense expression on Jacaerys' face, so does he.

"Are of valyrian ancestry, we are the blood and the fire of the Dragons, and this legacy brings special weight upon our shoulders. I believe," she breathes our and both Daemon and Alicent move to cup her hands in their. She squeezes their palms gratefully. "What we are meant to be the Realm's protectors rather then destroyers. This, I know, is our higher destiny."

"Cheers," Aegon exclaims, successfully ruining the atmosphere. Baela and Rhaena snicker as Alicent gives her eldest the warning look. "I'll drink to that."

"Of course you'll drink to that," Luke hears Aemond whisper under his breath. "You will drink to anything."

Chapter Text

“Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”

“That is the only time a man can be brave.”

- Eddard Stark. 

Alicent finds Rhaenyra sitting under the Weirwood tree, her knees brought to her chest, her head lowered.

The princess looks tired and defeated, the unusual sight; and Alicent's first impulse is to reach out.

Unlike in the past many years, she does not repress it.

"Rhaenyra?" the dowager queen asks as she treads carefully, each soft step bringing her just a blink closer to the one person Alicent has ever truly loved. "Are you alright?"

The princess whips her head to stare at the queen; for a moment Alicent thinks Rhaenyra doesn't see her, for her gaze is unfocused.

But then the woman jolts in place and shakes her head, attention coming back to her keen violent eyes.

"I have never even stood a chance, have I?" she asks softly.

Alicent mourns what she knows what Rhaenyra is talking about.

"You...had a favor of the court," she tries gently. "For a while."

"But then Aegon was born," Rhaenyra adds ruefully. "I am lucky he has not usurped the throne."

Alicent moves gently to sit next to her oldest friend, the one time and politics stole from her.

"They would always favor men over us," she admits sadly. "Look at what happened to Rhaenys."

Rhaenyra scoffs.

"She was denied her birthright twice," the second queen who wasn't murmurs. "Despite the fact what Queen Alysanne favored her, despite the fact what by the Westerosi laws of inheritance the firstborn of the heir comes before the brother of said heir. And yet," she sighs. "Jaehaerys chose Baelon over Rhaenys and then, once again, the council chose my own father over her. I should have gotten the idea then."

"You were promised the throne," Alicent speaks as her head comes resting on Rhaenyra shoulder.

Rhaenyra scoffs.

"Only after father cut my mother open to get himself a male heir," she seethes. "Only after it killed her and the babe both; only then I became worthy."

"Your father was a flawed man," the queen dowager says, trying to ignore all the memories of these flaws of his. The memories are vast and haunting and hurt Alicent's very self. They ought to stop letting men hurt them, she thinks. They ought to do it now. "But he favored you, I know, as much as he can."

"It was favoritism borne out of guilt," Rhaenyra sighs. "He knew he killed my mother with what he did and it haunted him for the rest of his life. I was a bittersweet reminder of what Aemma was, the only thing left of her. He saw his mistake in me and forgave me everything for that. It was not," she sobs. "I think, pure love."

"Don't say that," Alicent whispers into the temple of her most beloved companion. "Never doubt what he loved you more than anything."

More than every single one of his other children combined, she thinks bitterly and forces the poisonous thought down.

It is the truth, but it is not something Rhaenyra needs to hear now.

"If that was the truth, then he would not make me leave my children behind for you to raise," Rhaenyra sobs. "He would not have torn my infant son from my arms. Tell me, if he loved me that much, did he take care of my boys as he promised? Or has he neglected them the very same way he did yours?"

She raises her damp face.

"It was a harsh realization to me, in the first several years your children stayed with us; how much unloved father made them feel. If the issue with the eye wasn't the proof enough," she looks away.

"I regret demanding Aemond to be tortured for his words. I was playing a nasty game; out of fear, out of feelings of being alone. My husband wasn't much around just like your never was. Laenor," she sighs. "He has grown restless in this cage my father locked us in. And even as he loved our children, he still suffered and longed to get away. It often left me alone, utterly so, especially after-"

"The Harrenhal," Alicent breathes out. "I am sorry too, for lashing out at you when you tried to make the best out of situation you were in. Your marriage, just as mine, was a loveless one; and I despised you for daring to find love elsewhere. For that I am," she gulps. "Deeply sorry. Your boys," the queen sighs. "I haven't known them, not truly, not before they ended up under my care. I didn't expect to love them so much, I didn't expect them to be so... you. They're brave and loyal and will fight for each other no matter what."

Alicent blinks away uncalled tears.

"I fear what would happen if things stayed as they were, if I never got to know our boys, if I was to marry Aegon and Helaena. I fear they would loathe it; what they would find themselves in the loveless marriage just as we did. Jacaerys...he might not desire Helaena the way the husband ought, but he has been her most loyal friend and supporter through all these years."

Rhaenyre smiles dimly.

"She showed me the letters they exchanged," the princess admits. "Helaena wanted me to see the gentle soul what hides behind my son's stoic persona. He is...lovely, our boy. Thank you for being by his side throughout the worst of it. By the side of all of them."

Alicent nods.

"And thank you for being the mother for Helaena I was failing to be. She found a kindred soul in you. I love the gloves," she smiles gently. "I love how she can't stop talking about baby Aegon and Viserys, and how Daemon's girls surrounded her with the thick layer of love and belonging. She was lonely at the Keep," Alicent admits. "I fear she inherited it from me."

"I tried," Rhaenyra admits. "Helaena is...easy, despite her oddities. It's the boys I really struggled with. Aegon is...manageable, he reminds me of a younger myself, but Aemond... I fear I failed to connect with him; Daemon holds some keys to the boy's soul, but I hold none."

"He looks up at Daemon," Alicent acknowledges.

"A great deal," Rhaenyra nods. "Daemon trained him, taught him to fly as the true Targaryen should. I am forever grateful for his support."

"You're happy then?" Alicent asks. "With him. I though the years together would tone down the novelty," she moves to retrieve her hand, but Rhaenyra grasps it firmly, bringing even closer.

"My feelings for him stayed the same," she speaks surely and something inside Alicent breaks once again. "As they did for you," the princess suddenly adds, much quieter.

As did mine for you, Alicent allows herself to think.

Aegon finds Jacaerys sulking at the training grounds. It is remarkably ironic how the future king is alike to Aegon’s very own younger brother; how they both run to grab the sword the moment something troubles their souls.

“Are you sulking?” he asks head first because Aegon was never the one to circle around the issue.

“No,” the young heir replies as he moves to attack the training dummy once again. By the look of the dummy, it had enough.

“You’re an awful liar for someone so repressed,” the older prince comments idly. “Your movements give you away. They’re rush, angry.”

“Maybe I am rush and angry in general,” the other prince huffs. “Maybe this is no king’s material right here. Maybe the Great Council can be summoned and another heir chosen. “

Aegon actually laughs at that.

“You know they would choose you regardless, right? You’re everyone’s favorite golden boy, the High Court loves you.”

“Or they could chose you,” Jacaerys retorts. “The king’s firstborn son against the king’s bastard grandson; I believe a lot of lords would support your claim.”

“I have no claim,” Aegon denies. “You won’t catch me anywhere near this damned throne. The thing is made of the blades of Aegon the Conqueror’s enemies: I am not sitting on it.”

“But I am, apparently,” the prince scoffs.

“Seems like it,” Aegon shrugs. “But again, worst things could have happened.”

“Give me one good example,” the future king grumbles.

“We could have killed each other over the damn succession,” Aegon voices lightheartedly.

“My mother once told me what I am a challenge to my sister simply by living and breathing. I am glad things seemed to change.” He moves closer to grasp Jacaerys’ hand.

“For all what is worth, I am sorry; it must be awful to usurp your own mother’s throne, regardless of what she is saying on the matter. I would not wish it on anyone. But if this is the price we all have to pay for the peace, then please, Jace, I beg of you, pay it.”

“It is a lot you’re asking of me,” the younger prince frowns, his gaze trained on the place where their hands touch. “And I fear I will be a bad king, a weak one. Your grandsire’s influence is a poison I resisted all these years, but with Luke away...” he looks down.

“I am selfish for wanting to keep my brother by my side forever. He has his own duties, his own throne to sit. And yet here I am, utterly lost without his support. We had no one, you know,” he rises to meet Aegon’s peering gaze. “Not a single soul but each other at this damned court. And now it will eat me alive as I scramble to rule, a pathetic fraud you always known me to be.”

He smiles sadly, ruefully.

“A bastard, right? A bastard on the throne, what a joke. My single existence is a jest in the eyes of the gods, and yet- And I might not even be the Strong bastard.”

Aegon’s breath hitches.

“You…know?” he asks, more careful than he ever was in his entire life.

Jacaerys laughs darkly.

“How can I not? I am not deaf and people, they whisper. We look the same and, apparently, we move the same. Who am I to tell if it is because of my trainings or because of my blood?”

“You’re taking it…surprisingly well.”

“I am on the break of a nervous breakdown, Egg,” Jace breathes out hotly and Aegon, the fool he is, wants nothing more than to kiss the prince of his dreams.

He controls himself, if barely.

“My own swordsmaster might as well be my real father. What am I to do? If I send him away, people will talk. If I do not, people will talk. No matter what I do, these damn loose tongues will run as they please. And this is someone mother deems suited to take her throne away from her? Me? The mess of the man I am? I am not worthy.”

And there are tears in his eyes now, unshed but clearly there, hold down by the sheer willpower of the prince himself.

Oh, how Aegon loves him in this moment; he didn’t think he could love anyone the way he loves Jacaerys now.

He would never pose a threat to this lovely man’s reign; he would end his own life before he challenges his succession.

“I will tell you something your mother told me once,” Aegon begins, daring to cup Jacaerys’ face with his hand. Daring to finally touch the man he had dreams about, the one his own sister will marry soon; even if Helaena insists their marriage is of a practical kind.

“Oh boy,” the prince laughs despite himself. “This cannot be good.”

Aegon joins in.

“Trust me, this is exactly what I was thinking when Rhaenyra cornered me down to ‘have a talk’. I was convinced she would scold me out of my body as my own mother often did. And yet…You know what she said to me?”

“No,” Jace responds, curiosity shining through his sorrow. “What?”

“She told me I am enough. Who I am, all I am and all I’ll ever be, this is enough. Just...in general. What I have nothing to prove, not to her and not to my siblings. What existing is a reason enough to be cared for and to be loved. And this,” Aegon leans in to rest his forehead against Jacaerys’. “Is something I want you to know. Because if I of all people am enough, then your single existence should be celebrated, the gift to Realm you are,” he closes his eyes, unable to bear the peering gaze of two deep brown eyes, what seem to see into his very soul.

Aegon’s soul is not the best place to see into, he is well aware of his many flaws.

“You deem yourself not being worthy, but I have yet met a man more worthy than you,” he continues, voice barely a whisper.

“More worthy of love and more worthy of everything else; even the damned Iron Throne. You think you will fail, what you will get stuck in the politics and my grandsire’s plot, but this is where you’re wrong once again. For you have survived everything the court had already thrown at you and you will survive much more. Not just that, you will thrive and you will bring the Kingdom to the prosperity the age of Jaehaerys the Wise didn’t know. You’re everything we need, Jace, the king we hoped for; you are our future. So be it, be our future, show us the way.”

“You speak such words,” Jacaerys murmurs in return and Aegon fights the urge to open his eyes. His fear is stronger still. “It is as if you truly care of me.”

“I truly care of you,” his uncle admits and is glad he hadn’t opened his eyes.

“Like a lover,” Jace specifies and Aegon feels the wave of panic hit him right into the chest.

“Maybe,” he admits and doing so is the hardest thing he has ever done.

He can feel a ghost of a breath on his lips and when the future king speaks again, Aegon can feel a smile in his voice.

“Damn it, Egg,” the prince complains. “You just had to complicate everything.”

And then Jacaerys kisses him.

Chapter Text

“Either it’s my daughter or someone else’s, your father will remarry, sooner than late. His new wife will produce new heirs; and chances are better than not what one of those were male. And when that boy comes of age and your father has passed, the men of the Realm will expect him to be heir, not you. Because that is the order of things.”

“When I am queen, I will create a new order."

“How I wish that could be, Rhaenyra. But the men of the Realm already had their opportunity to appoint a Ruling Queen at the Great Council and they denied it.”

“They denied you, Princess Rhaenys, The Queen Who Never Was. But they bent the knee to me and called me heir to the throne.”

“Do you remind your father’s men of that as you carry their cups? Here is the hard truth which no one else has the heart to tell you. Men would sooner put the Realm to the torch than see a woman ascend the Iron Throne.”

 Rhaenyra and Rhaenys, The Rogue Prince (House of the Dragon 1x02).

Luke stands in the shadow watching the procession move; lords of old and young age ready to kneel in front of their king anew.

He wonders how many of them swore to Rhaenyra twenty years prior and how much their word is worth.

Pathetic excuses of the lords they are, every single one of them.

The knows silently cursing his brother's subjects is a bad tone, but there is very little he can do with his mood.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" He hears and turns around to meet the gaze of the single violet eye. "I am only grateful it is not Aegon they're kneeling before."

"They would," Lure admits ruefully. "If only Aegon had any use for Lord Hand and the small council, they would drag him up into the throne and crown him forcibly, only to play the puppeteers behind his back."

"Is this what you’re worried about? Of Jacaerys being a puppet in grandsire's hands?"

"If this is what Lord Hand expects, he will be greatly disappointed," Luke sneers. "My brother will not listen to his single word after the embarrassment to our mother this ceremony was."

"He might not have a choice," Aemond unwillingly echoes his own grandsire’s words. "They're pathetic, these lords. Every single one of them knows Rhaenyra would make a great queen. And yet they deny it for her, only to crown her very own son. They pretend it's because she is woman, when in truth it is because they fear her."

"Is this what you truly think it is?" Luke raises an eyebrow. "What they fear her?"

Aemond scoffs.

"How could they not? She is a formidable force to be met with. With her as the queen they would have no chance. You know who rules over Dragonstone?"

"Officially?"

"Actually. Officially it's Daemon, for what reason I do not know, since my sister is the heir apparent. I, however, found it is a rare occasion he actually pays attention to the Castle's and it's people's needs. You know who handles everything?"

"Mother," Luke breathes because of course it would be her.

"Rhaenyra," his uncle admits. "She is a born and raised leader impossible to trick or flail on your side if your cause aren't right. They would hate her as their queen. Especially these ones," Aemond gestures at the pair of men kneeling in front of the throne. They have golden hair and identical feign expressions of utter loyalty. "Lannisters. Hear me roar. Heed my words, it will not pass the year and they will already try to start some shit."

Luke peers at two men next to the throne; they're his mother's age, maybe a year or two older. Jason and Tyland Lannister, Luke has heard they were his mother's prospective suitors in the days of her youth.

Hypocrites.

"They smile into Jace's face but dream of nothing but putting a sword into his back," he agrees. "But look, here comes someone I don't actually despise."

Cregan Stark walks to the throne like he owns the room, like he is the one being crowned; Luke sees his brother smile dimly but genuinely for the first time since the entire parade started.

"A possible ally," he comments. "Maybe even a friend."

"Not for long, if Aegon keeps staring daggers at him," Aemond sighs. "My brother is not subtle."

Luke reaches his hand to give it a gentle squeeze.

"As opposed to whom?" He asks slyly, surprised to find comfort even in such a small gesture.

"Me," his uncle responds plainly. "You. We have been entangled since last moon and anyone is yet to know."

Luke smirks at that.

"Oh, trust me, plenty of people know."

"Such as?" Aemond is immediately on high alert.

"Your mother," the young prince shrugs and sees his lover blush deep crimson. So much for subtlety. "She tried to advice me on the air of making it...comformable. It was a torturing conversation for the both of us and gave me the insight into her and grandsire's life I never needed to know about."

"Oh gods," Aemond murmurs and Luke finds himself agreeing with him.

"Then Jace, of course."

"Of course?" His lover's eyebrows climb up. "Do you always inform your king of your paramours?"

"No, but I share things with my brother. Then Otto-"

"Grandsire knows?!"

"Trust me, I am just as mortified as you are, but of course he knows. He tried to question me on the nature of our relationship and I pretty much run away. Politics I can deal with everyday, but this shit? Save me."

"I crave death," Aemond murmurs. "And I thought we were subtle."

"Right," Luke grins. Now, who did you tell?"

"Well," Aemond looks away. "Helaena, of course."

"Of course."

"Rhaenyra already knew-"

"Mother knew?!"

"She cornered me after that time you had a breakdown and I brought you to my room. Apparently, I looked like 'a fool dying from a love fever' to her and she wanted to know of my intentions and the seriousness of them."

"What is it you said about death?" Luke moans. "I think I'm ready."

Aemond smirks.

"It's cute you think death with free you from me," he comments. "Also Daemon."

"Daemon?!"

"I needed some advice."

"And you asked advice from Daemon of all people?"

"Well," his uncle smiles at him slyly. "He did successfully seduce and marry his niece."

"I think mother was doing seducing that one time," Luke grumbles. "Or any other time. Aegon?"

Aemond scoffs.

"I told him nothing."

"But he knows?"

"Yes."

Luke grins widely.

"So much for being subtle; only Joffrey and the twins are in some ignorance. Oh, and Baela with Rhaena, but I suspect Aegon has told them already.”

"Of course Aegon has told them, he tells them everything."

"My sweet dear princes," a familiar voice cuts out. "If I could only humbly request a glimpse of your attention."

Luke smiles as he turns around.

"Cassiope," he speaks.

The young lady grins.

"Hello, Luke. Cheer up, Aemond, you look like you just ate a dozen of lemons."

"This is my usual face," the prince grumbles and Cassiope laughs.

"My condolences to whoever decided to bring you to their bed. Oh, wait-"

"I thought you liked me," Luke laughs. "I thought we were friends."

"We are friends," Cassiope smiles slyly. "You better never find out how I treat my foes."

She sobers up right away.

"I believe there is someone who is looking for you," she comments, an unusual discovery clouding her bright gaze. "The lady said you were expecting her."

"The lady?" Luke asks at the same time as Aemond demands:

"Who?"

They exchange some brief glances, meaningful as they could be; a conversation of

their own taking place where are no words being exchanged.

"I believe she is seeking an audience with me," Luke finally speaks up, eyes set firmly on his uncle.

Aemond frowns, but nods slightly.

"She is," Cassiope agrees. "The woman said her name is Alys."

"How does she look like?" The young prince asks as he forces his limbs to not shake.

She has come.

"Plain, I guess," Lady Cassiope shrugs. "But for her eyes; they're of such a vivid green color."

"Luke," Aemond warns his lover.

"You found her, remember?" Lucerys replies. "You promised to help and your found her, even though she made it the damn sure it would not be easy. And now she came here, to the castle. Aemond," Luke cups his face gently, secure in the safety of the shadows and by Cassiope's close presence. She would tell no one if he would tell no one; a strange equilibrium of trust befell on them since this travel to Oldtown. "Please, this cannot be naught. You helped to bring her there."

"It doesn't mean I trust that woman," his beloved scoffs.

"She is a witch."

Luke laughs at the openly, though he tries to keep the mocking out of his voice.

"I wouldn’t take you for spiritual soul," he comments idly. "Alys Rivers will not harm me; this is not why she is here."

"You cannot know that."

"And yet," he smiles gently. "You promised," Luke whispers to Aemond softly, having a damn good suspicion what this intimate whisper does to his uncle. "You made a promise what the threat of Larys Strong will be dealt with."

"This is not about self-preservation," his belovee shakes his head. "But about revenge. I fear-"

"Don't," Luke cuts him off sharply.  "Fear not and let me have this, please. I really need it."

"Very well," Aemond agrees begrudgingly. "But if any harm comes your way-"

"It won't," the prince denies as some deep, dark part of him laughs at his naivete.

Of course it will.

"I will be fine, I promise."

Liar.

Lucerys moves through the halls and the crossroads; steps hurried, gaze searching.

Where is she? She couldn't have left, not yet, not after she came all the way from Harrenhal by her own volition.

And sure here she is, the woman who is known to be the witch; rich brown curls falling over her naked shoulders, light and fair skin covered in the dusting of freckles.

Crystal bright emerald eyes.

"Hello, nephew," Alys Rivers greets. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

They sit next to each other on the sofa in some distant guest room, the woman's hand resting on Lucerys' forearm in the way what is distinctly familiar.

"I saw it," Alys finally speaks. "The fire. Both in a dream and while wide awake. Harwin-" she cuts off and it dawns on Luke then what she had lost someone too. "He pushed me out of the room," the woman, his aunt, finishes, having successfully dealt with the wave of uncalled emotions.

"I heard their screams, both of my father and my brother's. They were the Strong men, formidable, but death stripes us of all our merits. In the end you're just flesh and blood and you burn and bleed just like anyone else," she looks up at her nephew. "Even dragons bleed."

"Yes," he agrees. "Even they do."

She nods, satisfied.

"Do you know why I am here?" Alys asks.

Luke smiles dimly and ruthlessly.

"To become a kinslayer," he comments and his aunt nods.

"Yes. Now, who are you willing to become?"

"A retribution," the bastard prince replies. "The hand what brings justice. Everything you need me to be."

Distant stars glisten slyly in the greenness what is his aunt's gaze.

"Let's get over with it," the woman decides. "It's time for it to backfire. My vile little brother will know not what hit him."

Luke smiles, all tears and fears he shed, all the pain and anguish, all the fire.

Something snaps inside him, leaving a pleased feeling of anticipation on its place.

It's the aftermath and Lucerys' hands are covered with soot and ash to elbows.

He was digging in the dirt in order to take a simple token with him; the little golden firefly previously encrusting Larys' cane.

He plans to make it a gift to his aunt.

Otto is standing in front of him, face a crusted mask upon his real anguish.

He is in anguish and the sight of it surprises Luke out of his rueful fit.

He feels a bitter taste of ashes on his tongue and swallows the feeling of wrongness.

He has won; the prince tries to convince himself. The kinslayer is dead.

All greet the new kinslayer.

There is blood on his hands, deep cuts crossing forearms under all the dirt of the fire; some of it crept to the floor and mixed with the soot, dusty-red blotches of it forming on the floor.

"What have you done?" Otto asks and by asking it he brings Lucerys back.

"What have I done if not what was demanded of me?" He hisses in return, painfully aware of the mad look he has to be sporting now.

Bloodied, covered in ashes, in a dungeon what is more of a burial ground now.

Starting a fire in the closed quarters seemed like a very bad idea; but again, so is burning your relatives in your own ancestral home.

Tragically, if anyone would be proud of his actions now, it would be Larys himself.

And Alys, an aunt who shared his hunger for blood.

Alys Rivers, who just ended up the only child of Ser Lyonel Strong alive.

Alys Strong, a future Lady of Harrenhal.

Luke wonders if she even cared to think about it now, about how the entire Harrenhal would fall to her as the only remaining member of the House Strong.

The prince wonders if his grandfather and father's ghosts haunt the halls of it now as it is rumored many other ghosts do; if he is destined to hear his father's voice only as an echo of his last screams as the memory of the fire consumes his specter over and over again.

"Lucerys," Lord Hand begins, careful as if the young man in front of him is a wild untamed animal. "This is a murder."

"Oh, is it?" The prince scoffs. "I would rather describe it as the execution, but go on."

"The Lord Confessor-"

"Was a cunning man," Luke interrupts. "A clever and a vile one. And now he is dead. Do you have any ideas on why?"

Something in Otto's posture shifts, his hand moving as if to come to rest on Lucerys' shoulder.

The prince recoils.

"You know," Lord Hand speaks.

"And not from you, do I? Of all the secrets you have kept from me through the years, this one ought to be the worst one."

"I was protecting you."

"You made me live under the same roof with the man responsible for my father's death," Luke explodes. "You let me live in the ignorance all the while you profited from Larys' treacherous actions!"

"I was not responsible for the death of-"

"I know you weren't," Luke cuts off. "Trust me, if you would, you would be lying next to the remains of my uncle. But you have known it was Larys, all these years. Have it not dawned on you I might want to know it, I might decide to take some action against this man? And yet you said nothing, because without this knowledge I was easier to control. Was I not?"

"You were never easy to control," Lord Hand comments. "Even when you were a lonely child in a stranger's court."

Luke scoffs.

"Should I take it for a compliment, my lord?" He asks indignantly. "Be grateful you see me a pawn strong enough to be moved over the chessboard? This is how you see us, even your own daughter and grandchildren; as the means to achieve whatever you desire. Without our use we are worthless to you."

Lord Hightower firstly steps forward, ash mudding his pristine clear boots.

"This is where you're wrong. All I do, all I ever did was for a single reason; my family."

"You don't care about your family," the prince all but screams. "You practically ignore Aegon and Aemond since the day they ca-"

"You are my family," Ser Otto seethes. "You and that blasted prideful fool of your brother. I've spent years ensuring your safety and education only for you both to be upset at me now over not supporting Rhaenyra's claim."

"You made my brother steal his own mother's throne!"

"I made sure we avoided the war," Lord Hand cuts off. "If Rhaenyra would succeed her father, war would follow and to secure her claim she would have to put my grandchildren to the sword."

"Mother would never-"

"She would have no choice. You know it, you’re no fool and yet you choose not to see it. The Realm would never accept her; do you know how many lords changed their minds since Aegon was born? Or how many of them would choose just about any man over the whore princess? She made her fate herself; she tainted her name with the accusations of infidelity and illegitimate children."

"None of that would matter if she was a man,” Luke argues.  “King Maegor married three women at once, all of whom he widowed first-"

“Do you fancy your mother King Maegor with teats?” Otto Hightower scoffs.

“Maegor did all these things and worse, and mind I remind you; he killed himself on his own throne as everything was stripped away from him. Maegor, perhaps, is a bad example to follow. And Rhaenyra...” he sighs. “She is no man, rules of leniency appertaining them do not regard her. Being the Ruling Queen is a feat yet to be achieved in the history of our Kingdom and Rhaenyra did everything in her power to weaken her claim. She did what she wanted instead of what was required of her; instead of following the rules like the obedient daughter of the king. Her husband was not interested in providing the heirs, was not as dutiful as he ought to be; so what, should she had done as she pleased too?"

Lord Hand scoffs.

"Viserys made her the heir, against all odds, against the prejudice all and every man in the Realm had against the woman in power. And yet what did she do with the power what was granted to her? She tossed it away in favor of flaunting around and birthing bastards. It is not your fault," he stops Luke's attempt to respond. "You were simply born from the man you were, but it was her conscious decision. I believe she was warned, though and though, of the difficulties her position brings, and yet she made sure smallfolk address her as the The whore of Dragonstone. Whose fault it is but her own?"

Luke blinks rapidly as he feels the tears clouding his gaze.

Bawling one's eyes out is unfitting of the prince, he thinks as he feels the tears stream down.

“This is unfair,” he mumbles quietly, desperately, because it is. This is not how it was supposed to be.

The prince can hardly see Lord Otto in front of him, but soon he feels him, as the man walks closed and brings the young man into a hug.

“Everything I do,” Otto whispers into his hair. “I do for your very own good. Never question that.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” Luke murmurs. “You put your own daughter under the man twice her age for her own good?”

Lucerys can practically feel the frown of his mentor.

“There are many men ready to hurt a woman,” Lord Hightower comments calmly. “I have no illusions about that. And even more of them would take advantage of a weak one. But there is only one man who can truly hurt the queen.”

“The king,” the young prince murmurs. “You had married Alicent to grandsire to protect her from-“

“Everyone,” the lord nods. “And everything. Better one devil kept close than thousand of monsters around. There is a reason everyone is so desperate to rule; there is a safety in that.”

“There is a great deal of danger of that too,” Luke disagrees.

“There is a great deal of danger everywhere,” Otto sighs. “But at least with the power comes the ability to strike back. Or first, if needed.”

“Well,” Luke chokes on his own sob in the pitiful attempt to laugh. “I have stricken back.”

“Yes, you did,” Lord Tower agrees wearily. “Now let’s make sure no one can trace this...execution back to you.”

Leave it to Ser Otto Hightower to always cover the tracks.

Chapter Text

"History does not remember blood. It remembers names."

- Corlys Velaryon.

Never before Ser Criston Cole threaded so carefully.

"My king," he calls out and Jacaerys raises his head from the table it was resting on; the corners of the King's lips are mournfully drawn down and his eyes are red.

Cole has a strangest feeling he was there before.

"I hate it." King Jacaerys, First of his name, declares. "And every single person who bent a knee for me."

"I did just that," Cole reminds him and sees his boy seethe.

"When I hate you too."

"I can bear that," Criston replies as he moves closer to the boy.

He is the king to many, but to him, to the man who saw him grow up, to the one who trained them, he is just a boy.

His boy.

No matter what, blood bonds might say.

"There is a disheveled prince looking for you," he informs his little king plainly. "And I believe he is drunk."

"Aegon," the kings sighs deeply and Criston might be imagining things, but does Jacaerys' face just light up at the mention of his uncle?

Ser Cole doesn't like that even a bit.

"I'm afraid he is in no state to commune with the king," the cuts off and sees the angry defiant look overtake Jacaerys' face.

"And I am afraid it is not something for you to decide," the young man scoffs. "Let him come."

"My king," the knight tries.

"Let him come, Ser Criston," Jace stamps down. "His presence is welcome, which I can't say about yours."

Criston can feel his face freeze.

"At once, Your Grace," he breathes out and moves to leave.

"Wait!" Jacaerys' voice calls after him and he turns around. The king looks ashamed. "I am sorry. I am upset; but it doesn't give me the right to let it out on you."

Ser Cole moves back in wide, quick strides and in a moment he is in front of the table his king sits behind.

"It is alright to feel angry, you know that, right?" He asks as he moves behind the table to stay by Jahaerys' left hand.

"Is it?" the boy asks. "I feel like I'm ruining everything with my temper. Emotions I can't express keep bubbling inside me with no way to come out. I fear one day I will lose it and someone wil get turn.

Criston remembers Joffrey Lonmouth's dead body under his hands, he remembers hit after hit Harwin planted on his face, blood pouring from his nose and mouth.

For one sad, fleeting moment Criston thought it would end there; he would die from the same violence he once took a life with.

But Harwin was pulled off him and then sent away, and the next thing Ser Cole knew of, Harrenhal was on fire.

And Lord Harwin Strong was dead.

He looks at this boy, with brown curls and brown eyes; violence inherited from his father.

He looks at him and then does the unspeakable.

Ser Criston Cole takes a step back and hugs him, king Jacaerys Targaryen, first of his name.

He hugs him, the boy he tortured with his indifference and anger for his mother before his words sent a man the boy regarded as father to his death.

You're mine, Cole thinks, deep, dark, possessive love seeping in. You're my son, not Rhaenyra's, not Harwin's - mine.

It doesn’t take long for the first tears to fall.

Jacaerys Targaryen sobs loudly, fingers grasping his mentor's hands, loud sobs crawling their way out of his throat.

He cries and Criston lets him.

And if he is crying himself, no one needs to know of that.

The news of Corlys Velaryon's return reach them in no time.

One moment Luke and Jace are arguing over some minor matter of the court, the second - they're racing against each other and the time itself as the rush to get to the Great Hall as fast as they can.

Gone is the weary look the king has been wearing since the day of his coronation, gone are deep wrinkles what are fighting their way into the corners of Lucerys' eyes: they're once again who they are meant to be, just boys, just two brothers racing to see the grandfather neither of them thought would see again.

Corlys was the only one - before his infamous disappearance in the sea somewhere near Stepstones as just another outbreak of dimly lit embers of never-ending war let themselves be known - who has not abandoned them in the times of turmoil and uncertainty.

Stubbornly unbothered by rumors and his grandchildren obviously not-Velaryon looks, he has always been the one to catch them as they fell; making as many travels to the King's Landing as needed, to the point where Lord Hand was thinking of introducing some kind of a ban preventing him from doing so.

It was futile, of course, any attempt of tearing Corlys Velaryon from his grandchildren. He showed himself at court almost as often as when he sat at the small council as the master of ships, he peppered his grandsons with attention and hard lessons. He dragged Luke to the dock to finally teach him to swim; the feat Laenor promised to do, but didn't manage before his death.

It was there, in the feign calm waters of the bay, sea salt in his hair and mouth, Corlys' hand on his shoulder, when Luke finally accepted his role.

It seemed the Driftmark throne would claim him as his regardless of Luke's desires, and so, looking at pale eyes of his great father, Lucerys promised himself and every god that would hear what he would become worthy. Of the trust bestowed on his weak shoulders, of the great honor to be the one The Tides belongs to.

That was the day Lucerys Velaryon accepted himself for who he was meant to be; the future lord of the Tides and Corlys Velaryon's grandson.

So now he runs, he moves between the people, he rushes past the guests and the keep inhabitants alike and for the first time in a very long time he doesn't give a damn about what any of them might think, of any new rumors bubbling on the surface, of the plots created and orchestrated to trouble their days.

In that moment, as he pushes past the guards through the side door to the throne room, as Jacaerys hastily fixes the crown on his head before climbing the throne, miraculously avoiding cutting himself in the process, what he finally feels free.

It appears if he would not go to the tides; the tides would come for him.

It's time to go home.

Chapter Text

"The crown was yours until those fools at the Great Council plucked it from your head. Is it such a terrible thing to wish to win it back?"

-Corlys Velaryon to Rhaenys Targaryen.

"Mother," the king speaks. "I ask of you to stay."

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow; a practiced motion Jace saw so often in his childhood.

Yet she stays; a stoic figure by the side of his throne.

This is soon to change, Jace thinks. I am about to fix it.

His heart sings with the joy of the plot he and his brother so carefully constructed, with the pain and tears and headaches it brought. This is a risky business, a shake of the fundamental ways by which the Realm has been ruled long before King Aegon Conquered the land.

This is an absolutely mad scheme pulled by reckless youth Jacaerys considers himself to be a part of.

The idea, originally, came from the Lord of Winterfell Cregan Stark.

"I heard of the struggle of the power at court," he commented plainly as Jacaerys visited Winterfell on dragonback. "Of Hightower's hold on you and your family. I believe there is a way out of it."

"If there was, don't you think we would already act on it?" Jace fears he responded too harshly, with too much bitterness behind his words.

Lord Stark only smirked.

"I, myself, know very well what the usurping of the power is," he admitted. "My own uncle held it over my head like a sword I was destined to fall from."

"And yet you preserved," Jacaerys mentioned. "Now?"

"The voice of the people."

"The voice of the peope?" The king repeated. "You mean 'rebellion'."

"Not necessarily," the lord shook his head. "I mean what when the people made their choice, my uncle had very little chance to oppose them. There is power in numbers."

"There is," the king agreed. "Only numbers were not on our side this time."

"Not on Princess Rhaenyra's side; you are, however, a remarkably easy to love ruler. You respect our customs and you play by our rules," Cregan tilted his head to the side. "If you were to ask...Let's say, a small favor, to show our respects to the woman who brought you into this world, do you think we would refuse? Do you truly think Greyjoys who look into your mouth or Tyrells who praise you for the second Jaehaerys, or Arryns, who see nothing but the blood of your grandmother in you; would either of them refuse you a simple little favor?"

"It's all about favors these days," the king frowned. "My own brother is neck deep in them."

"He is a busy man then," Cregan agreed. "The man who takes his Kingdom's welfare close to his very heart. Take it from him; collect the favors high lords owed you through the years. Convince them to bring a petition to the king."

"Concerning?"

"Your queen mother," Lord Stark smiled. "For it must pain high lords to see the rightful queen being robbed of her birthright, must it not?"

It indeed pained them, after very long negotiations, occasional threats, remembrance of old debts what will be forgiven or old favors what are in time to be paid.

It helped to have Alys Rivers - Strong, Jacaerys corrects himself - as the mistress of whispers. The entire King's Landing loathes having a woman as a spymaster, but what can they really do, the fools? Lady Alys proved to be a formidable foe and a trustworthy ally and is fiercely loyal to the House of the Dragon; or at least three very specific sons of it. Jacaerys is honestly considering to allow Alys take Joffrey as a ward of her house, to let him live in Harrenhal for a while.

He imagines the fuss both the queen dowager and his own mother would create at that and smiles.

His mother will have much more important things to worry about soon.

Jacaerys is wearing the crown of the old king Jaehaerys on his head, the notorious crown of the Conqueror safely tucked away.

It's time will come soon, he thinks.

Jace can't wait to see Lord Hand's face when he realizes what his two most attentive students have pulled.

He can't really blame them; they learned from the best.

And Ser Otto Hightower really showed them how the royal petition can be manipulated for one's own gain.

And what the people want, the people get, don't they?

They come in then, as herald announces their entrance; the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms, marching with their faces drawn into the expression of determination. Only Cregan and Cassiope let their eyes wander to the king; Lord Stark gives him a subtle nod while newly appointed Lady of Oldtown winks at him shamelessly.

What happened to her predecessor is nothing anyone can prove, but Jace suspects Lady Lynesse herself had something to do with it.

"What is the meaning of this?" Jacaerys asks in his best commanding voice as he suppresses his desire to giggle.

They are here, all of them, all the lords he tried too hard to convince; they are actually here.

"Your Grace," Lord Arryn begins, a chosen leader of their merry band of the rulers. "We are humbly asking you to review our petition."

Jace sees from the corner of his eye a slight movement, Lord Hightower has joined the room, and by the look of him, he did it in a hurry.

He was informed, of cause he was, but it is already too late.

"Very well," Jace has never thought he would revel in it, but now, almost half of the year since the coronation, he can actually see the joy of it, of the high game, of overpaying your opponents and seeing thoughtfully gamble finally come into place.

He doesn't see Luke in the crowd, but it is to be expected; his brother is too prominent figure at the court to include himself in this scheme. People would know if he saw him where, they would realize it is but the clever plot.

He sees Lord Baratheon standing with the expression of absolute suffering and smiles; grandmother Rhaenys can be extremely persistent then need arises.

She heard of the plot and Jace saw the moment the idea reached her heart, her very soul. He saw it alight her from the inside with immense, sly joy.

"They will hate you for that," she smiled at him regardless, more proud than she ever was.

"Let them," he grinned in return. "I feel it the Realm had enough queens who weren't for a lifetime. It's time to make some things right."

"Viserys was right," she suddenly commented. "To leave you at the King's Landing at the mercy of the court. It could have broken and killed you, only it didn't. And what doesn't kill us..."

"Makes our foes wish it did," Jacaerys smiled in the roguish way he knew Laenor used to. It is in the small details, the upbringing embedded in you. It comes at the least expected times.

Blood or not, he is Laenor's son.

"Let us hear your petition."

Lord Arryn clears his throat.

"The great injustice was brought to our attention," he begins. "The awful play at hands; something, I am sure, you are aware of. The true heir we were promised, the princess we bent a knee before more than twenty years ago. Where is she?" the lord raises his head to look at Rhaenyra and she, confused, stares back. "The blood of my blood," Lord Arryn continues and Jacaerys finally understands why he was chosen to represent the lords and ladies. "Our sweet Aemma's firstborn. Your right was torn from you by the cruel fate and hateful men. These young lords, these children who hasn't yet tasted real right claimed they would kneel for no queen."

"I fail to see your point, my lord," Jacaerys interrupts him coldly; while everything in him is practically dancing.

He sees Aegon and Helaena on the side of the room, Aegon's eyes wide as saucers, Helaena sporting a knowing smile.

They would support him if they knew, but sadly, this was something Jacaerys had to do himself.

"Your mother, Your Grace," Lord Cregan speaks. "She was stepped over in order to crown you. We find it to be an act of the most flippancy."

"I am not the one who desired to step over my own mother," the king denies. "You just said how exactly my hand was forced. Too many lords claimed for me as their king, completely disregarding my grandfather’s wish."

"This is what we are talking about, Your Grace," Lord Arryn voices again. "This is not the way of our fathers and grandfathers. This is a breaking of our very traditions. We beg you to fix this injustice."

"And how you expect me to do that?" Jace asks, carefully not looking to the side where Lord Hightower is standing. "Should I lay my crown and forfeit my claim? Should I let the Kingdom fall into struggle over the succession? This is exactly what my great ancestor King Jaehaerys tried to prevend."

"There is no need for you to bare your head, my king," Cassiope couldn't help herself, she just had to speak out. "There are two crowns present, are there not? Where is the crown of the greatest king ever lived, the one who united us all? Where is the crown of Aegon the Conqueror?"

"It is here," the voice calls out and this, Jace knows, is the moment Lord Hand realizes it was staged.

For the queen dowager herself walks to the throne with a soft green pillow in her hands; the black crown of Aegon Conqueror sitting placidly on it. "It is yet to be worn by the rightful heir."

"So it is," Lord Arryn agrees and turns back to the king. "Your Grace, you're an honorable man, but you're still young. I fear you lack experience and require counsel. Your royal mother, Princess Rhaenyra, was named an heir when she was just ten and four years. She has more than twenty years of experience and preparation behind her back and, more importantly, she is your very own flesh and blood, the reason you exist. We beg you, your faithful loyal subject; name your mother the Queen Regnant, let her rule alongside with you and guide your hand; and may the Seven bless your shared reign."

"The Queen Regnant," Jacarys repeats. "To rule with me as she should have ruled from the beginning. Is what you're asking of me, all of you, the high and minor lord alike?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Lord Arryn lowers his head respectfully. "This is what we humbly beg of you, for we all have fear the dark times will come if you don't."

Jace almost laughs at the clear threat sewn into these words; he would be troubled if he wasn't the one orchestrating all these lords and ladies to come here with this petition.

"Very well," he decides. "Let it be known what your king is a man of a great hearing and hears your every word. Is everyone present in favor of this petition?"

"Yes," roar the storm of voice over the throne room.

Jace finally allows himself to smile.

"So be it," he degrees. "Queen Dowager, would you be so kind to bring my mother her crown."

Alicent positively shines, bright and mischievous.

"Of course, Your Grace," she speaks. "Your Grace," she addresses her queen as Rhaenyra stares between her son and her childhood love in wonder. "Lower your head just a little; it is finally time to wear your crown."

The entire room erupts into cheers the moment dark heavy metal meets the silver of Rhaenyra's hair.

"Jace," the Queen Regnant exclaims, dark crown heavy on her head. "You can't just crown your mother because you want to."

"Says the said mother who was just crowned," her son shrugs. "Admit it was grand."

His mother's eyes shine in a way they hadn't in a long time. Half of a year, if he is being precise.

"It was a wild and dangerous and foolish gambit," she scolds him but her lips are smiling. "I can't believe it worked."

"I can," Aegon snorts into his cup. There is a dark tea brew in it, to everyone's surprise. "I knew he was plotting something."

"You didn't know what it would be," his not so secret lover argues.

"I knew it would be worth waiting for," Aegon shrugs. "And it was. Have you seen grandsire's face? He looked like he just swallowed a frog.”

Alicent laughs, loud and unabashed.

"He taught you boys well," she manages through her joy. "He truly did! The student outdone the teacher; I rather expected Luke to pull a stunt like this. You, my dear, are a wild horse."

"No, he isn't," Aegon argues. "He is a dragon. Grandsire just made a mistake of forgetting it."

"Daemon laughed so hard he almost fell from the stairs," Rhaenyra comments. "He doesn't even seem to be upset my new position is not shared with him, only delighted in Otto's misery."

"It's not that much of a misery but great disappointment," Luke hums. "Dear Lord Hand worked his entire life to ensure he has an upper hand and his puppet is on the throne; only for the very same puppet to bit his strings off and proclaim his mother the queen."

"I still can't believe it worked," Jace breathes out. "It was so intense, the planning of it. I am never scheming anything again."

“Don’t worry,” his brother consoles him. “I can scheme for the both of us.”

And he never fails to deliver.

Chapter Text

"You're mine. Mine as I'm yours. And if we die, we die. But first we'll live."

– Ygritte

"Don't suppose you'll tell me what's going on in this head of yours," Lord Hand mentions casually as they stand on the sidelines, the second crowning celebration of the year filling up the Great Hall.

"No," Luke shakes his head. "Don't think so."

"Don't think I do not respect your brother's game, my boy," Ser Otto sighs. "I only hope his decision won't come haunting him later."

"What?" the young prince scoffs. "You expect Queen Regnant to try and overpower him? She is our mother."

"Visenya Targaryen was a mother too," the lord mentions plainly. "And yet she fed her son all kind of poisonous lies. Everyone remembers the horrors Maegor brought, but many forget it was his mother who put him on this path."

"Mother is not Visenya," Lucerys argues. "And despite Visenya's latter actions, it was clear all she cared about was the prosperity of her House."

"She had," Lord Hightower smiles dimly. "A funny way of showing it."

Luke watches as his mother - the crown of Aegon the Conqueror gleaming with blood red rubies on her head - dances first with her husband and then, after a moment of hesitation, brings the Dowager Queen into a dance as well.

He smiles.

"If anyone can be called Visenya," he mentions plainly. "It is you."

He feels a heavy gaze of his mentor to land on his face, searching.

"Me," Ser Otto repeats. "And why is that?"

Lucerys sighs.

"I believe you, as Visenya before, fell into the trap of 'wishing the best but causing the worst'," he gives Otto a sneaky look from the corner of his eye.

"It is no great secret what you always had the best for the Realm in your heart," he sees his mentor nod. "And yet, as years passed by, as you saw king Jaehaerys die and my grandfather ascend the throne..." Luke looks away for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

"You locked yourself in the compendium of your own outlived beliefs. Jaehaerys believed what no woman could sit on the throne, and so you believed him. People whispered the king needs to marry again and produce the heir, and so you pushed for your own blood on the throne. What is more stable for the realm than the union between one of the oldest and wealthiest Houses in Westeros and the Crown? Not to mention the Crown immediately gets the support of the Citadel then, preventing the Second Faith Militant from looming over all of our heads. And if you managed to secure one of the most favorable positions at the court for your own daughter, well, who can blame you? Other than grandsire Corlys, I mean," he smiles keenly. "I am aware he pushed for aunt Laena on the throne. And yet..."

"Alicent became the queen," Lord Hand finishes for him. "She was suited..Alicent lived her entire life at the court; she knew better than anyone the inner workings of the Kingdom."

"And so she secured her status," Luke hums. "With your help, of course. Only when things went spiraling out of your control. The young heir to the throne acted as she wished, the king refused to name his firstborn son as his heir," the young prince sighs.

"I can see where you were coming from, even if I do not approve of your actions. She's rather happier now, don't you think?" He nods to where the Queen Dowager and Queen Regnant are finishing the second dance in a row. "With her own agency, with her friends and children by her side...Maybe you should have trusted Queen Alicent more."

"Maybe I should have," Lord Hand admits begrudgingly. "And yet...They would never accept a woman, Luke. They only accepted Rhaenyra now because Jacaerys appointed her as the queen."

Lucerys scoffs.

"You haven't even tried!" He hisses. "You're one of the most powerful men the Kingdom has, you were the one to suggest Viserys should name mother as his heir even when everyone else argued against it. And you didn't even try to make her the queen, to gain her support. You have three sons and yet never have you ever suggested to betroth Rhaenyra to either of them. Just-"he stops to catch her breath. "Why?!"

"There are some questions even I have no answers for," the man replies evenly. "I was blinded by one line of thought and forgot of the possible alternatives, I suppose. I was too focused in Alicent to pay my male heirs any mind, a flaw, I believe, both the late king and I shared. Some mistakes were made, and yet I can't say I regret much."

"Do they even talk to you?" Luke asks out of sudden. "I haven't seen Ser Gwayne anywhere near the Red Keep for at least five years."

"I believe my sons are mostly keeping to themselves," the Hand replies. "They have taken in a habit very familiar to our House."

"Did they lock themselves in the Hightower?" Luke asks.

Lord Otto looks away and the young prince sighs.

"You're lucky you have us," he comments. "Not many would tolerate you as we do."

"You hardly tolerate me," Otto smirks. "Rather oppose me at every step and turn."

"Still," Luke hums. "We, at least, interact with you."

A strange silence befalls between them, almost companionable. The young prince finds himself drawing comfort from it.

"I am leaving for the Driftmark soon," he comments plainly and sees his mentor nod.

"Am I correct in assuming Aemond will come with you?"

Luke feels himself blush despite his better judgment.

"You're correct," he admits quietly and ignores the pensive look his teacher gives him.

"Such unexpected allies you've found for yourself," the lord comments. "And so fiercely loyal to you."

"Aemond is not-" Luke starts and is cut off with one sharp look.

"Do not take me for a fool, boy," Otto warns him. "I see the way you and my grandson are looking at each other."

Lucerys looks away."This is nothing grand," he murmurs.

"I used to think that too, once upon a time," lord Hand comments, watching with a rather melancholic expression as young Joffrey dances between the two women he calls his mothers, as they smile and clasp his - and each other's - hands.

"I used to think it too shall pass. And yet," he gestures at his daughter, hand in hand with the newly crowned Queen. "Did it really?"

Luke looks at his mother, beautiful in her regal glory, black valerian steel bringing out the color of her eyes out; and at Alicent Hightower, hair loose on her shoulders, a free dress of black and red intervening together, laughing openly for the first time since forever.

"No," he agrees. "It did not pass."

Aemond asks Lucerys to meet him in the godswood; an unexpected place for a meeting, but rather memorable for them.

Luke walks into the yard and sees him, the man he came to love, his greatest treasure and his biggest headache.

Aemond stands with his back to the young prince, but the moment Luke gets closer, he begins to speak.

"When I agreed to your offer," he begins; his voice a smooth river underneath which the wild currents run. "You offered me anything. Twice, actually. One offering I've already took, but the other," he turns around and the wild, manic glint in his single eye makes Luke tremble. "The other one remains."

"What do you want?" He asks and hears his own voice tremble.

"What do I want?" Aemond smirks. "It's far past beyond the simple want, my sweet prince. This," he takes a step closer and Luke can't help but to meet him in the middle, coming to rest his hands on Aemond's chest. "Is the need."

"When," the young prince breathes out, trembling, anticipating something he isn't aware of. "What is it you need?"

The harsh, hot wave of hunger in Aemond's eye makes his knees weak.

"You," his uncle whispers on their mother tongue, like a confession, like a prayer. "I ask for you. Wed me. I'll take you as you are, and wed you in the tradition of our house."

"Aemond,"  Luke breathes out like a litany, not believing his ears, no daring to. "We both are-"

"It doesn't matter," his beloved interrupts.

"It is not unheard in Old Valyria for two men to join as one. Marry me, Lucerys, under the eyes of our gods, in the secrecy Driftmark can provide. Marry me with only the maester and our family as the witnesses and I will swear I will never leave your side nor I will ever stop burning for you. Marry me, my heart, for we have always meant to burn together."

And what else choice Lucerys truly has but to agree?