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Chapter Text

“Wait, my Lord Strong.”

Luke freezes, every bone in his body grinds to a sudden and violent halt. Aemond’s voice echoes through the hall, firm and taunting, and Luke’s already pounding heart thunders up into the back of his throat as fear cracks its way down each of his nerves.

Even so, he holds his chin up high as he turns back to face his uncle. He’s imposing where he stands, the bright glow of his white hair like a beacon in the dark and dank hall. Luke lets it guide him forward as he steps back past the four knights that flank him, trying to hide the tremble in his knees and unsteadiness of his feet.

“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” Aemond asks lightly as he regards him, his arms casually held behind his back, looking for all the world relaxed despite the sudden tension in the room.

Luke isn’t fooled though. He recognises the coil of a snake about to strike, knows that Aemond has an agenda he plans to see out. He doesn’t know what to expect, he dreads to think where Aemond will take this, but he keeps his shoulders back as he narrows his eyes at him.

“I will not fight you,” he responds, gaze flicking briefly to the wicked sword at Aemond’s hip, well aware his own is but a toothpick in comparison. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge.” Aemond huffs as he quirks his head just slightly to the side. Luke feels like he’s being flayed open for his amusement, Aemond’s glare ruthless and unforgiving despite the almost cheerful lilt to his voice. “No.”

He reaches up and in one fluid movement removes his leather eye patch. Luke’s breath hitches, seizing in his lungs as he sees the blue sapphire glinting where Aemond’s eye should be. He’s seen it before, once in Kings Landing before his grandsire died. It had stolen his breath then, albeit for a much different reason than now, and he finds himself unable to look away as Aemond stares at him with a cold fury.

“I want you to put out your eye,” he continues, sounding almost bored as Luke feels a sharp pang of sheer horror rip through him. “As payment for mine.” Aemond reaches for the dagger at his side. “One will serve.”

Luke swallows thickly, his hands shaking by his sides as Aemond throws the dagger at him, the clang of it meeting stone viciously loud as it skids across the stone floor. He stares at it where it lies at his feet, numb to the panic rearing up inside his chest, it’s sharp claws dragging down his sides as his blood starts to rush in his ears.

“I would not blind you,” Aemond drawls, and Luke knows he’s delighting in this. “Mm, plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

The sudden silence is deafening. They’re not alone in the hall, Baratheon is watching intently from his throne and the knights on either side of Luke are silent and still while the rest seem rooted to the spot. Luke glances around, unable to see a single friendly face, a single ally amongst this madness, but then his eyes fall back onto Aemond.

Aemond.

Luke’s heart stutters. It hadn’t always been like this. They’d been friends once, family. But now a giant chasm spans between them that Luke wouldn’t know how to even begin crossing. So many things have happened, so many words spat, blood spilt. He barely recognises the young man that stands across from him now, the anger and hatred all but seeping off him in torrential waves.

The rest of the room falls away as Luke realises this is the first time since that horrible incident on Driftmark the two of them have been alone together. There’s no one to intervene, not Mother or the Queen, not Daemon or that asshole Cole.

It’s just them. Just them and years of vitriol. Two young boys with years of sinister history culminating in this one decisive moment… and Luke doesn’t see any other option but to take a deep steadying breath before picking up the dagger.

“You’re right,” he says, his voice hardly wavering, and it’s deeply satisfying to see the way Aemond’s gleeful expression crumbles into a frown. “An eye for an eye, as your mother demanded.”

It’s pure dumb courage that makes him raise the dagger and hover it above his right eye, vaguely thinking it will be poetic for him to be the opposite of Aemond, though he doubts his uncle would even care. He doesn’t want to do this, he can’t image the pain. He remembers the blood as it’d flowed out from between Aemond’s fingers, his screams of pain as he’d writhed on the ground, every flinch and broken gasp when the maester had stitched him up. He’d crossed to the chair Aemond had sat in the next morning, run his fingers over the grooves left behind in the wood from Aemond’s fingernails.

But he’s not stupid. The storm is wild and violent as it batters down on the castle unrelentingly, the sounds of their dragons crying out only just heard over the din. The storm has them as unsettled as their riders, and Luke knows that were he to leave these halls, he wouldn’t survive.

After all, while Arrax is young and strong, Vhagar is battle hardened from wars he could never dream to know of. The storm is unkind to Arrax but it is pittance to a dragon who was forged in the flames of adversity. Hesitance is not in her nature and neither is benevolence, and Luke will not sacrifice Arrax on her altar.

So it is simple. Does he lose his life, Arrax’s life… or an eye?

Jace always said there is a choice in every situation. Luke isn’t entirely sure this is what he had in mind.

He flinches as he feels a sharp scratch of pain, coming back to himself as his shaking hand presses the tip of his knife into the flesh of his cheek. He pulls it back unintentionally, glancing down to see the blade slick and shining red. His cheek burns as a hot tear of blood slides down over its curve, dripping off his chin to land on his clothes. It’s jarring, enough to make him take in a sharp gasp, but he holds firm to his resolve as he fixes his grip on the blade handle before looking back up at his uncle.

Aemond, who is closer than before, having crossed the hall until he’s nearly within arms reach. It makes Luke panic, worried that he’s coming to do the job himself, and he takes a half-step back.

“I will do it, Uncle,” he stutters, bringing the knife even closer to his eye, trying to draw the courage to push it in. “It is as you are owed.”

“Lucerys,” Aemond calls, his voice surprisingly unsteady, and Luke frowns as he reaches out a hand. “Keligon.”

Luke shakes his head though, refusing to stop. “It’s what you’ve always wanted.”

“Lucerys, no-”

Luke doesn’t wait though as he pulls the knife back and with a choked cry, he thrusts it forward.

Only to scream as someone crashes into him, throwing him to the ground. His head bounces off the stone with a sickening crunch, his vision flickers as the air rips from his lungs, searing pain tears through his cheek and his fingers fall away from the knife’s handle.

He sees glowing white hair, a glint of blue, and then the world goes black.

The first thing he feels when he is wakes, is pure pain.

He feels engulfed by it as it spreads out from a sharp point right on the back of his head, agonising tendrils crawling down his neck and over his shoulders. His head is dense and full, like it’s been stuffed with cotton, and his cheek under his right eye feels like a knife has been driven into it.

Which, if his foggy memory serves him right, it quite possibly has.

He takes a moment to try and orientate himself. While Jace is the hard-headed impulsive one of them, Luke is considerably more cautious, always better at accessing a situation before launching into it. Daemon calls him cagey while his mother praises him for being calculated. Frankly, Luke just doesn’t want to die from being stupid, and he’s vaguely aware that the last time he was conscious he was in the hall of a traitor with his murderous uncle towering over him.

So he pauses, forces back the overwhelming pain to take stock of what he can with his eyes closed. He feels a soft bed under his back with heavy sheets covering his body, hears the crack of the storm still raging outside, and he can smell the scent of burning sandalwood mixing with the pungency of dragon still on his clothes and skin. There’s nothing outwardly threatening that he can tell.

So slowly, Luke blearily drags open his eyes, his eyelids heavy enough for the effort to exhaust him. It’s soon chased away though by the realisation, as he blinks up at an unfamiliar stone ceiling, that he’s in fact looking with both eyes.

A wave of overwhelming relief crashes through him, however he still slowly closes his left eye to make sure he’s not delusional. His right eye is just as it was though, clear and sharp enough to see the details of the grouting between the stones lining the ceiling, able to move freely as he flicks it up and down. He’s drunk on the high, ignoring the aching tug all the movement draws from his cheek, and he feels a grin slowly start to split over his lips.

“What are you doing.”

Aemond’s sudden voice makes Luke’s other eye snap open and he sits bolt upright without thinking. It’s the wrong thing to do. The whole world spins beneath him as nausea burns it way up his throat, his head screaming out in agonising protest at the unexpected movement. He squeezes his eyes shut as he tries not to throw up, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him as he sways on the spot. He can hear a high pitched ringing in his ears, taste bile thick on the back of his tongue, and he wills himself to stay sitting despite the strong urge to fall back down on the bed.

He isn’t sure how long he sits with his head hanged, breathing thinly through his nose. Eventually, once the nausea subsides and the pain draws back to its edges, Luke begins to feel steady and stable once more. Aemond hasn’t spoken again, or if he has then Luke hasn’t heard him, and he reluctantly cracks opens his eyes to search for his uncle.

He finds him at the end of the bed, somehow managing to make the plush armchair he’s sitting in look deeply uncomfortable. He glowers furiously at Luke, arms firmly crossed over his chest and back rigid straight, his imposing eye patch back on. Luke stares back at him for a long moment, taking note how he’s still dressed in his own leathers, his ink black coat lending him a formidable silhouette despite his seated position, but the lack of sword at his side makes the nerves rolling in Luke’s stomach ease.

Aemond’s question, more of a statement really, hangs between them. “I wasn’t sure I’d wake up with both my eyes in tact,” Luke admits quietly, wincing when the drag on his jaw as he speaks antagonises his aching head.

“Despite your best attempts otherwise.” Aemond replies flatly, his glare unwavering.

Unbidden, Luke’s hand strays to his right cheek, wincing as his light touch makes it sting something fierce. There’s a gash there, bring back the hazy memory of a knife driving into his flesh, and while he feels no stitches, there’s still the pucker of torn skin beneath his eye. Aemond watches him the entire time, his gaze burning with something cool and angry even as he stays firmly seated.

Luke has to look away, dropping his hand back to his lap as he does so. He glances around the room, surprised to see that they’re clearly in some sort of guest suite, much like the quarters for traveling guests back on Dragonstone. It’s dark with the endless stone of the walls, floor, and ceiling, and what few windows are covered by heavy grey drapes that add a certain kind of dreariness to the room. However there are plenty of flickering candles dotted around in an attempt to bring a warm glow and the furnishing are a mix of the rich greens and yellows that make up the Baratheon house colours. It’s not quite enough as the crashing sounds of the ongoing storm outside diminishes the few comforts, but Luke can appreciate the attempt.

Although, just why Aemond is in here with him is a question he would like an answer for.

Aemond, who’s unblinking glower leaves Luke feeling strangely vulnerable where he lies in bed, and he drags his knees up to his chest before wrapping his arms around them. It’s painful but tolerable as his head is jostled, but he swallows it all back as he meets Aemond’s stare once more.

“Why are you here?” he asks, and Aemond arches a perfect eyebrow at him in response.

He pauses before answering though, his tone dripping with pure derision. “And just where else should I be?”

Luke’s lip curls up in agitation. “Gone,” he spits, unable to stop his bitterness. “Swallowed up by the storm on Vhagar’s back.”

Aemond watches him impassively for a moment before he sighs, something surprisingly uncharacteristic of the usually stone-like man. “As if I could. Baratheon has us locked in this room until he sees fit to find the key.”

Luke frowns. “We can’t leave?”

“No.” Aemond shakes his head. “Word has already been sent to our mothers that we are staying as his ‘guests’ until such times as a decision has been made on who he intends to support.”

The sarcastic way he calls them guests is distracted by the rest of the sentence. “Decision?” Luke demands, sitting up straighter. “House Baratheon swore an oath to House Targaryen!”

“Yes.” Aemond leans forward in his seat to curl an unkind smile at Luke, his hands falling from his chest to grip the armrests of the chair, “and now there are two Targaryen’s claiming the throne, one of which is the true heir and the other an usurper.”

“One?” Luke scoffs, and Aemond sneers at him.

“Your mother is a whore and half her children are bastards,” he snarls, seething with barely restrained rage. “She deserves nothing short of execution for high treason while you bastards rot in the gutters of Flea Bottom.”

Luke feels sick, a wretched feeling right to his very core. His breathing wavers, hitching in the back of his throat as he squeezes his arms around his legs until it hurts. Aemond’s glare is full of vitriol and hatred, his words hang heavy and vile in the air, and Luke struggles to find his own in response.

“You can’t mean to tell me you intend to stay here until Lord Baratheon decides what to do with us,” he finally settles on, unable to bring himself to address Aemond’s sick insults. He’s surprised though when Aemond huffs at him.

“No,” he responds. “But I can’t leave you behind either.”

That startles Luke and he glances at him in surprise. “What?” He shakes his head, wincing at the pain. “Why? There is no love loss between us. Surely you would feel no regret leaving me at his mercy.”

“Then you are ignorant,” Aemond snaps. “Leaving you at the mercy of an undecided liege lord could spell disaster for either one of our families.” He sniffs derisively and turns his head as if to ignore him. “I have not the time to educate you on why if you are too foolish to know yourself.”

Luke tries not to feel the sting of his words. “I could at least offer some help if you shared your thoughts.”

Aemond snorts. “As if a boy like you would have any helpful ideas.”

Luke glares at him. “We have dragons,” he points out rather obviously. “We get on them, fly away, and forget about this whole ordeal.”

Aemond’s head snaps to him and Luke tries not to reel back at the sudden attention as Aemond’s eye glints sharply. “Forget about it?” Aemond demands. “You tried to put out your eye.”

“For a retribution you demanded six years ago!” Luke’s own anger flares viciously. “Something you seem unable to let go!”

Aemond clenches his teeth, tightly enough that Luke can see the muscles working in his jaw. “You know nothing of what you speak.”

Luke shakes his head, refusing to acknowledge the burning behind his eyes, the wetness he feels gathering in their corners. “I have lived in fear-”

“Fear?” Aemond shouts, making Luke’s mouth snap shut. “Is that what bastards call it?” He leans forward in his chair as his lips curl back into a contemptuous snarl. “You have been nothing but cocky and unrepentant since the moment you took my eye. I’ve felt your vindictive gaze for years upon my back-”

“And your glare upon mine!” Luke interrupts desperately.

“Half of what it should have been!”

Luke throws his hands up in frustration, feeling woozy as the movement nearly sends him sprawling backwards onto the bed. “I offered you my eye,” he cries, “I have tried to give you what you want, and you have refused it. What more can I possibly give?”

Aemond huffs and looks away. The air rings around them, their furious words filing the room uncomfortably, and Luke feels a sob building in the back of his throat he desperately wills away. To break down, to show weakness… he would never forgive himself.

“Why are you so cruel?” he asks meekly, his voice soft in comparison to their previous hateful words. Aemond stares at him as Luke shakes his head slowly, reluctantly meeting his uncle’s eye. “What has twisted and warped you into this… this hateful monster?”

Aemond laughs, sharp and humourless. “Oh come now, my Lord Strong,” he jeers. “You were there. Don’t think you don’t remember.” His splayed fingers are white-knuckled tight on the armrests. “I see the way you smirk whenever a roasted boar is anywhere near.”

Luke’s mind races, memories pouring past. “Because of that prank?” he blurts disgracefully, Aemond flinching at his words. “All because of a meaningless prank we pulled-”

“It wasn’t just a prank,” Aemond interrupts with a snap, and Luke stares at him in disbelief.

“Aemond, we were children-”

“I was dragonless!” Aemond roars, his voice echoing in the room as he launches to his feet, storming forward until he’s towering over Luke with the baleful glare of a thousand suns. “I was the only one of Targaryen blood to be without a dragon! I wasn’t treated as you and your bastard brothers, nor even my brothers or sister.” Aemond’s hand flies out as if to snatch at Luke’s shirt, only for him to curl it into a fist and drop it back to his side. “I wasn’t given an egg in my cradle to hatch and grown with me, nor was I gifted the chance to claim one for my own. For some reason my sire,” he spits the word and Luke flinches, “didn’t see fit do to the same.”

Aemond turns, stalking away from Luke towards one of the windows, his breathing ragged and heavy as his shoulders drag up and down with each one. Luke aches for him despite everything, knowing what it’s like to feel as if your chest is turning against you, what its like for it to contract until not even a single wisp of air can grace your lungs.

“I was dragonless,” Aemond repeats tightly as he leans against the wall, looking for all the world like its the only thing holding him up. “Half a Targaryen, worthless in the eyes of our ancestors….” He glances back at Luke, a glistening sheen to his eye as his voice catches. “Yet you saw it as a joke to play to your fucking pleasure. And when I chose to challenge the lot I’d been dealt, well.”

He gestures at his eye, the one hidden beneath the leather patch, and Luke feels such a phenomenal wave of pure shame crash over him that he has to look away.

In all honesty, Luke has never thought of it that way. He’s spent recent years so wrapped up in himself and his family, barely considering his aunts and uncles as part of that, that he’d forgotten that they are human too with their own history and expectations. Just as he feels the brunt and weight from the expectation of Driftmark, Aemond had felt it too as the only one of their family without a dragon.

Luke tries to imagine himself without Arrax and finds he simply can’t. Arrax hatched in his cradle, has been with him from the very moment he opened his eyes, the two of them had breathed and moved in perfect sync even long after Arrax grew to big to fit inside the walls of Dragonstone. Even now he can feel the pull for Arrax deep in his chest, tucked somewhere between his heart and ribs, an indescribable feeling he will never be able to put words to no matter the language.

To be without that… Luke aches.

For so long he’s been angry that Aemond stole Vhagar from Rhaena, but as he glances up to see Aemond has turned away from him, his trenchcoat casting his back into one long shadow, he realises that perhaps that wasn’t the case after all. Vhagar isn’t a dragon to be trifled with and he doubts that she would accept a rider she would not consider befitting of her. Truthfully, despite his love for her, Luke doesn’t believe that Rhaena carries the fire in her that could match Vhagar’s own.

Aemond though, Aemond’s fire burns fiercest than most. The picture perfect Targaryen, and yet to be without a dragon to complete him? Luke feels the lingering tendrils of those years of anger finally ebb away to be replaced with something he would dread to consider pride.

But then Aemond lets out a shuddering breath and Luke blinks away all thoughts as his uncle curls in on himself, as if the fight has rushed from his body. Suddenly, his coat is too big on him, heavy as if to drag him down, and Luke’s gnawing guilt grows larger as Aemond’s hand clenches into a fist where it’s pressed against the wall while the other comes up to grip his hair tight at his scalp.

For the first time, Luke sees Aemond for who he is, a young man teetering on the edge of war, playing with its fringes as if he has any say in how it will proceed, moulded by years of mockery and grief he’s warped into a rage so thick he wears it as a coat of armour, not understanding it holds him down more than it will ever protect him.

He sees someone wounded and scarred and realises his part to play in it is no small thing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the room, nearly drowned out by the crashing storm outside, and he sees Aemond flinch in front of him. “For the grief I’ve caused you, the harm. I was a child, but I should have known better.” He bites his lip before he lets out a shaky laugh. “I will offer you my eye in retribution again-”

“No.” Aemond cuts him off, and Luke sees the defeated slump to his shoulders. “I will not ask for it any longer.”

“But you were right,” Luke insists, not entirely sure why. “It is what is owed.”

“It is not what I want.” Aemond turns then. His face is ashen and drawn, his eye downcast and dull. “I believed I did. For a long time I have thought of nothing more than watching you rip your eye from your skull and presenting it to my mother.” Luke shrinks away but he doesn’t see even a hint of satisfaction from Aemond. Instead, there’s only a deep tiredness. “As it turns out, it was not as satisfying as I thought it would be.”

Luke frowns. “I did not do it.”

Aemond sighs. “And for that, I am grateful.” Luke opens his mouth, but Aemond holds his hand up with a shake of his head. “Lyka,” he orders, “let us speak of this no more.”

Luke does as he’s instructed, falling quiet without argument, and Aemond gives him a wary look before he crosses back to the armchair. Luke watches him as he sinks down into it, his heart beating timidly in his chest, but Aemond doesn’t look at him again.

He waits though, just for a moment, before he lets the quiet swoop in, filling the air between them, pushing them away from one another once more.

Eventually, the silence drags on for too long.

There’s no way to tell how much time goes by as they sit, stony and still. The candles continue to melt and the storm still rages outside. There’s a crack between the heavy drapes that shows nothing but pitch black darkness, however Luke isn’t entire sure whether it’s day or night. Storms End has never been known for its sunny days and bright skies, and Luke finds himself resting his unwounded cheek on his knees as he watches to see if perhaps maybe this time it will be different.

No one comes to see them and the door remains closed on the other side of the room. Luke strains his ears at one point to see if there is anyone behind it only to hear the muffled sound of the clinking of armour. Guards, most likely, and Luke knows that even if the door were unlocked, they would be hard pressed to get far without weapons of their own.

After all, Aemond’s intimating blade is missing alongside Luke’s own. It appears they’d been frisked before being locked away like damsels. While Aemond is still dressed in his leather ensemble, dark and foreboding, Luke’s red cloak is strewn over a nearby chest of drawers alongside his belts, his boots lie abandoned near the door, his leather gloves on the table beside the bed, and he’s been undressed down to his doublet and leather pants, his father’s golden medallion necklace thankfully still sitting heavy on his chest.

He isn’t entirely sure he’d be quite so calm were he to have lost that.

Tired and restless, he finds himself sighing as he lifts his head to see Aemond hasn’t moved an inch where he sits stiffly in that armchair, staring unseeingly into the middle distance. It’s almost frightening just how motionless he is, only the sight of his chest slowly rising and falling giving away the fact he’s not a statute.

Luke would consider him one too, perfectly sculpted out of flawless white marble, all sharply cut angles… cold.

“This is getting us nowhere,” he says before he can catch himself, his voice much too loud even for his own ears. Aemond doesn’t move, doesn’t even give a sign that he’s heard him, and Luke lets out a frustrated noise. “Like I said, we have dragons-”

That makes Aemond twitch, and he swings his head around to Luke, cutting him off. “They’re gone, Lucerys.”

Luke’s mouth falls open as a frown creases his brow. “Gone?” he repeats, feeling foolish as Aemond simply stares at him. “How?”

Aemond purses his lips. “It appears Baratheon has been preparing for a Targaryen war longer than we have, or at least anticipated an unrest.” He tilts his head towards the windows. “While you were unconscious, his men drove them away with the colossal scorpions he has mounted on the keeps battlements.”

Luke stares at him, his heart thundering in his chest. “No…” he whispers, but Aemond gives him a strangely pitying look.

“They are not dead, Lucerys,” he reassures him gruffly as Luke blinks teary eyes at him. “Can you not still feel Arrax?”

Luke takes a steadying breath and closes his eyes, willing away the fear and terror that’s plaguing him deep in his chest. He seeks out the bond he shares with Arrax, the deep golden glow that surrounds the long thread connecting them, binds them, and as his racing heart starts to slow… he finds it still radiating strongly out from his core.

He nearly crumbles with pure relief before he sends feelings of warmth and love down it, desperate for Arrax to know he’s okay. The roar of anger and concern that comes tearing back is nearly instant despite how far away it feels, and Luke breathes easier when he realises the pain that mingles along their shared bond is solely from his own side.

“He’s okay,” he breathes, opening his eyes to give Aemond a grateful smile. “Worried, but okay.”

Aemond doesn’t respond, just remains as cool and impassive as ever, before he turns away. It seems that’s the end of their conversation, but Luke refuses to let it be so. They have to get out of here, both of them, and he’s aware that if Aemond is not going to leave him behind then it will have to be together.

“Fine,” he says as he lowers his legs back to the bed, ignoring the ache in the backs of his knees from having held his curled up position for so long. “No dragons then. What about horses? We find the stable and ride out of here.”

Aemond lets out a deep sigh as he turns in his chair to face Luke again. “We do not know where the stables are-”

“I do,” Luke cuts him off, satisfied at the way it makes Aemond’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “I saw them when I flew in. They’re just past the main courtyard, halfway between the keep and the front gate.” He glances back over to the door though. “The guards, however.”

“I can deal with the guards.”

Luke scoffs. “Without a weapon?” He gives Aemond a pointed look. “I remember you fight well, uncle, but against armed opponents without your sword?” He shakes his head. “I do not believe you have the odds.”

Aemond glowers at him. “You underestimate me, nephew.”

Luke holds his gaze before he inclines his head. “Fine. You deal with the guards.” He swallows, suddenly nervous even as he tries to remain confident. “I’ll get us to the stables.”

Aemond considers him for a long moment. Luke can see he’s trying to remain as stony as usual, his mouth pursed into a flat line, but he can see the war going on behind his gaze. There’s a doubt there clear as day, and Luke knows Aemond will be weighing up the odds of taking a chance on him. In all fairness, there’s no other option, especially not if they wish to leave together and in one piece. Aemond has the fighting prowess that Luke lacks and Luke has at least a reasonable knowledge of the layout of Storms End.

It seems Aemond comes to the same realisation too as he finally lets out a huff and nods.

“See to it you get us there,” he growls, although it lacks his usual attempts at intimidation. “I don’t want to be stranded in the middle of this forsaken fort with the wrath of the Baratheon’s surrounding us while you dally over your lefts and rights.”

It’s a weak insult but Luke pretends it lands as Aemond clearly intended it. “Of course, uncle,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of leading you astray.”

Aemond’s attempt at rolling his eye would have more effect were he to have both, something that Luke thinks haughtily only to feel a pang of guilt, but he follows it up by swiftly getting to his feet. Luke is wary as Aemond crosses the room to Luke’s side, even more so when he offers a hand down to him.

Luke stares at it for a moment until Aemond lets out an annoyed huff. “Take it,” he grumbles and Luke glances up at him in surprise. “Escape is just a vague concept if you cannot even cross the room without passing out.”

Luke grits his teeth, well aware that the display he put on sitting up earlier must’ve been dramatic enough to warrant such thoughts. Embarrassingly, it’s why he’s not moved from his position this entire time, terrified he’ll stand and drop immediately to the floor. The pain has subsided in the back of his head to a dull roar, but he knows it will come back with a vengeance the moment he attempts to move.

Nevertheless, Aemond is right, and Luke reluctantly reaches out to take his uncles hand. He expects it be cold and smooth, like the marble Aemond so clearly was carved from, but he’s surprised at how warm it is as the rough callouses of years of wielding a sword scratch across his palm. He tries not to focus on how small his hand is as Aemond’s own dwarfs it in comparison, and he swallows down his nerves before using Aemond’s firm grip on his hand to pull himself to the edge of bed.

As predicted, his head protests violently. A sudden bout of nausea rips up his throat and Luke claps his spare hand over his mouth as if to stop it. He freezes where he sits, closing his eyes and willing the pain and sickness back, begging himself to not show this kind of weakness in front of Aemond.

However, Aemond doesn’t let go of his hand, even squeezes it as if to reassure him, and Luke blinks watery eyes up at his uncle to see him looking back with a guarded expression.

“Māzigon va,” Aemond coaxes him, and Luke takes in a thin breath through his nose before he pushes forward again.

He gets his feet on the ground, the stone cold and chilling even through his thick woollen socks, and he takes just a moment to collect himself. Somehow, he knows that Aemond won’t let him fall, and it’s only because of the conviction he feels in that belief that he grits his teeth and stands in one quick flourish.

Agony strikes through his head, driven like a knife burying itself between the plates of his skull, and Luke’s knees buckle as he starts to collapse back down. He dreads the hard floor rushing up to meet him, feeling a sudden flicker of fear that maybe he was wrong to trust Aemond… but then a firm arm wraps around his waist and halts his inevitable fall.

“Careful now, Lucerys.” Aemond’s arm tightens around him. “We wouldn’t want you to crack that pretty little head of yours again.”

Any gratitude immediately vanishes and it’s only the throbbing in his head that stops Luke from shooting Aemond a filthy glare. He ignores him instead before reorienting himself and standing up straight, using Aemond’s arm around his waist to balance against. He still feels wobbly and ill, but his determination is stronger and once the world stops spinning, he takes his first step.

It’s painstaking to cross to the other side of the room, but it grows easier with each step. His head still smarts and the odd jostle has it feeling like an ice pick is driving its way through his skull, making his eyes twitch and his knees falter. He perseveres though, his jaw clenched and his hand tight around Aemond’s, until soon his gait becomes smoother and his strides longer.

Through it all, Aemond stays at his side, his arm unfaltering around his waist, his hand warm and strong as it grips Luke’s back. He doesn’t say a word, even if Luke quietly wishes he would offer some encouragement, but his presence is heartening if not a warning not to fail.

It seems a handful of laps around the room is enough for Aemond, and Luke nearly weeps in relief when his uncle finally brings him to sink down into his vacated armchair. He’s reluctant to let go of Aemond’s hand, confused as to where that urge has come from, but he pushes it to the side as Aemond releases him and steps back with his arms firmly crossed over his chest.

He purses his lips when Luke looks up at him, well aware he’s pale and sweating, but Aemond doesn’t seem moved. If anything, his eye narrows and he gives Luke a sharp nod.

“We may just survive yet,” he mutters, and Luke sinks back into the chair in relief.

Chapter Text

They decide to wait until dark.

However, with Storm’s End’s perpetual violent thunderstorm, it’s harder than usual to judge the time of day. Each time Luke looks out the window its to see nothing but pitch black sky and a courtyard barely illuminated by the strikes of lightning. There isn’t another soul in sight, clearly keeping to the sanity of staying indoors, and Luke finds it frustrating to be left with only various burning candles to vaguely guess at the time passing.

But then the door opens at one point to reveal a guard holding it as a scullery maid shuffles in past him, her head bowed over the tray she’s clutching with shaking hands. She doesn’t speak to them as she deposits it on the table close to the door, although Luke manages to offer her what he hopes is a comforting smile when her eyes flicker to him briefly.

She’s gone as soon as she came though, and the guard regards them with narrowed eyes before he tilts his head towards the food and table. “Breakfast,” he grumbles, and Luke’s feels a jolt of excitement, “courtesy of Lord Baratheon.”

There’s no time for a reply as the guard slams the door shut, but Luke doesn’t much care as he turns to where Aemond is sulking over by one of the windows, having been peering uselessly out of it for quite some time.

“Did you hear that?” he asks and Aemond gives him an irritated look before turning from his spot to walk across to the table and food.

“I still have my ears, Lucerys,” Aemond grumbles. “You did not take those from me.”

Luke barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. It’s been a matter of hours with just the two of them and they seem to flip hazardously between cool indifference and borderline hostility. At least Aemond has fallen away from using any derogatory monikers for him, however Luke would be much more content if Aemond didn’t practically spit his name each time he said it.

Nevertheless, he ignores Aemond’s biting comment, even more so when Aemond turns to him and gestures at the food. “Eat,” he commands, as if he has any say over Luke’s actions. “It will do you good.”

Luke doesn’t argue as he slowly pulls himself up from the armchair he’s been curled up in to shuffle his way across the room. Aemond is polite enough to hold out one of the dining chairs for Luke to slump down on, but he doesn’t linger as Luke helps himself to the gathering of various food collected on the tray, instead taking his own and disappearing back to his spot by the window. Luke isn’t entirely sure what he hopes to accomplish by gazing out into the darkness, but he daren’t ask and leaves his uncle to his own devices.

However, once the meal is over, they are quick to return to discussing their plan of attack. Knowing now that they are at some point of the start of the day means they have a long wait ahead, and Luke doubts very much that they will be allowed out of the room or have visitors in that time. Aemond agrees, albeit with a vicious glare towards the closed door that Luke is happy is not directed at him for once, although Luke hesitates to ask what exactly the plans for getting out of this room is.

Ask he does though, gesturing vaguely at the rather solid oak door, but Aemond just gives him a withering look before shaking his head. “I have it under control, byka āeksio.”

Luke blinks. Little Lord. That’s new. He doesn’t quite hate it.

They pass the day together. Luke makes an effort to continue strengthening himself, taking small walks around the room with breaks in between. He thought perhaps he’d have to do it himself, but Aemond steps forward each time without a single comment, antagonistic or otherwise. Luke finds Aemond’s quiet support to be enough as he gets stronger, his mind growing more steady as his head hurts less with each step. Aemond stays with his arm around his waist and gradually moves until Luke is only gripping his forearm, unwavering even as Luke suspects his uncle dislikes playing the part of nurse.

Eventually, Luke insists that Aemond sleep. Aemond had been clever to notch a few of the candles for keeping track of the time, and Luke becomes aware very quickly as he sees the second candle wick burn down past its first notch that he hasn’t seen Aemond sleep in at least the five hours since being delivered breakfast, let alone the entire night he had spent at Luke’s side or the hours they’d been awake prior to that on their travel to Storm’s End. No wonder his eye looks so sorely red and his skin pale, almost clammy in his pallor, and Luke is quick to point him towards the bed.

Aemond, surprisingly, doesn’t protest. Luke assumes he’s much too tired. He watches as Aemond shrugs the heavy leather coat from his slender shoulders, tugs his boots from his feet, and carefully sets aside his eyepatch before climbing in under the sheets. His pale hair vanishes under the thick green coverlet straight away, and soon Luke is listening to the long even breathing of a deep sleep from a lump that seems much too small to really be his imposing uncle.

He isn’t too sure what to do with himself once Aemond is asleep though. He’s tired and unsettled, and he finds himself carefully navigating the room until he reaches the window where Aemond had been standing. Out of the three, this is the only one he’s looked out of, and Luke leans heavily against the stones around the window ledge as he peers down past the curtains.

Nothing but darkness, as he’d assumed, and he’s just about to pull away when a flash of lightning illuminates the courtyard below.

Illuminates the last spot Luke, and most likely Aemond, had seen Vhagar.

Oh.

Luke isn’t too sure what the feelings swirling their way through him are. There’s a deep mourning, an ache of sorrow, maybe even the slightest tendrils of sympathy. He pulls back from the window and glances over to the bed, sees the crown of pure white hair peaking out from the blankets. He remembers hearing the rumours, the whispers Jace and Baela used to share, that Aemond never quite bonded with Vhagar the way they did with their own dragons. He doesn’t know why, his brother never told him, but he can’t imagine not connecting to Arrax the way he does now.

It’s a hurtful thought, and Luke quickly steps away from the window.

Time continues to pass. Luke carries on with his walks without Aemond and takes comfort in knowing his uncle will be well rested by the time they attempt their escape later. He isn’t foolish, he knows that his skills with any close ranged combat is poorer than it should be considering his station and standing, but he never did quite find himself able to master a sword or mace like his brother. A bow, however, has always been his friend but he highly doubts there will be anything like that in the halls of a Baratheon, known for their war hammers and bloodlust.

Recognising that his role here will be his brain over brawn, Luke sits when he isn’t exercising trying to retrace his way back to the stables. He spent some time here with his grandmother when she visited her kin, playing in and exploring the halls with Rhaena. He never considered he would one day have to use those sweet memories for such desperate means, but he takes comfort in knowing he will be able to get them to the stables as surely as he can.

Then finally, Aemond wakes, stirring slowly before emerging from the bed like a cat, all length and grace as he stretches where he stands. Luke finds himself staring, unable to look away from the arch of Aemond’s back and the subtle strength in his arms as he pulls them up over his head, and he feels his cheeks start to burn as a small strip of pale smooth skin is seen between Aemond’s risen shirt and the taunt leathers of his pants.

He rips his eyes away, forcibly ignoring the thundering in his chest, and he’s relieved at the sudden sharp rap on the door.

Neither have time to respond before it swings opens again, revealing the same guard and scullery maid. Luke stays seated on the armchair, trying to look as unassuming as possible even though he knows he’s not much intimidating in any way, however he’s completely surprised when Aemond lets out a sudden shout just as the maid leaves and he strides towards the guard trying to close the door behind them.

It’s a quick exchange of movements, but Luke’s eyes widen as Aemond slams the guard into the door with a firm hand on his chest-plate, causing the other guard outside the door to let out a sharp cry of outrage. Luke scrambles to his feet, surprised that this is the moment they’re choosing to escape and wondering when the plan changed, but he falters as Aemond starts to talk.

“Enough of this,” Aemond hisses darkly, using his height to tower over the stunned guard, ignoring the other one creeping up to him from behind the door. “I demand to be released from this room.”

The guard seems too terrified to speak, but the other does as he points his unsheathed sword at Aemond, tip inches from Aemond’s shoulder. “Unfortunately that is not possible, my prince,” he starts, sounding relatively composed even as Aemond’s head snaps around to him, his newly adorned eyepatch adding to the viciousness of his glower. “Lord Baratheon has ordered you to remain here until morning.”

“Morning?” Aemond demands icily and the guard does well not to flinch.

“He will address this incident and your concerns over then.” The guard glances over at Luke. “Although, separately.” The guard swallows, the only sign of his nerves. “I believe his intentions are to decide what the future holds for Baratheon and Targaryen relations.”

Aemond lets go of the guard, shoving him ruthlessly back against the door before turning to the guard speaking to him. “And until then, what?” He throws a hand back to point at Luke, his hand shaking slightly. “I am to remain in here with him?” He practically spits the words. “A traitor to the crown? A bastard son of the usurper?” He leans forward until he’s nearly brushing the guard’s  nose with his own, ignoring the sword point that has dropped to press against his thigh. “If I am to be in his presence for a moment more, I will kill him.”

Luke’s stomach drops, his eyes widen, his breath hitches as the world grows unsteady beneath his feet. This wasn’t the plan. This isn’t supposed to happen. The sudden terror that rears in his chest seizes him by the throat and he barely stops himself from sagging to the ground

“Please, my prince,” the guard manages to say as Aemond bares down on him now. “My orders are to ensure you both remain here safely. There is no need-”

Aemond laughs, short and snappy. “You are pathetic,” he sneers as he reaches out to snatch the guard’s arm holding the sword, pulling the sword away from him and surprising the guard. “Tell Lord Baratheon that if he doesn’t see me now, I will string that little bastard boy there up by his entrails and hang him from the rafters.” He grins, dark and cruel. “And then I will call for my dragon and ensure this entire forsaken fort is razed to the ground in a way that makes Harrenhal look fertile.”

He shoves the guard away from him and slams the door shut, the wood shuddering violently with the blow. Luke can vaguely hear the scramble of chainmail and armour from behind it, but it dulls as Aemond slowly turns around to face him, breathing heavily with his fists shaking at his sides.

Luke swallows, knows fear is stricken across his face, and waits.

Only, Aemond lets out a long sigh and reaches up to drag a hand down his face. “Enough,” he grumbles, sounding more weary than furious now. “I have no intention on killing you, Lucerys.”

Luke is unable to help his disbelief though. “What, that was all for show then?”

Aemond shakes his head irritably as he stalks across to the table, and Luke raises his eyebrows as he pulls out a chair pointedly. He doesn’t move though, even as Aemond glares at him. “Yes,” he snaps, “now sit down and eat before I change my mind.”

Despite his renewed distrust, Luke staunchly walks across to settle in the chair. Aemond moves away instantly and Luke tries not to stare as Aemond takes his own chair across from him, instead he begins to pile a selection of bread, cheeses, and grapes onto a plate.

However, when he sees Aemond has taken to pouring wine from a glass decanter into two separate goblets, he reaches for a second plate, deftly piling it up with food before sliding it over in front of his uncle. Never let it be said he was not raised with manners.

If Aemond seems surprised, he doesn’t show it. Instead he accepts the plate and hands Luke a goblet of wine before taking a sip of his own. “I apologise for the display,” he mumbles into the goblets rim, and Luke freezes with a grape pinched between his fingers, held halfway to his mouth. “It was necessary despite its crassness.”

Luke is sure he might choke on the grape were he to eat it now, and he places it back on the plate before reaching for his own goblet. “How?”

“Baratheon won’t see me,” Aemond says simply, and Luke arches his eyebrows in question. “My threats are nothing to him. He knows I will not call Vhagar here with his numerous defences, and were I to kill you it would make this entire ordeal rather seamless for him.”

Luke frowns. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

Aemond sighs before he puts down his goblet and laces his fingers together. “You’re naivety will be your undoing one day.” He glances at Luke. “However you are young and have time to grow, if this plan does in fact succeed.” Luke intends to open his mouth to defend himself, to point out that the only thing he doesn’t understand is Aemond himself, but Aemond doesn’t give him the opportunity. “As it stands, if we are both to make it to sunrise and Borros has his audiences with us, you will be asked if you would like me dead.”

“What?” The word spills from Luke unbidden. “Why?”

“In retribution for attacking you,” Aemond says simply. “Unfortunately, while your own hand wielded the knife that cut your cheek, it was my attempt to stop you that led to your head injury and subsequent unconsciousness.” He shrugs, and Luke doesn’t understand how he can be so calm. “In the law of envoy protection, you are at liberty to demand my head.”

Luke feels sick to his stomach. The Law of Envoy Protection. He’d read about it before Mother had sent him on this quest in the first place, but he never thought about a situation it would be enacted in.

Then again, Luke’s mind has never been one for war or violence. A kindness in this horrid world, Mother had once said, stroking his cheek gently with softness in her violet eyes.  

He clears his throat. “And if I don’t?”

Aemond smiles, a funny quirk of the edges of his lips. “Then Borros will execute me nevertheless. Your wants will not be considered here, they are merely a farce in the hopes that our long acknowledge hatred of one another will win out.” He leans forward. “Although, I am warmed to know that you do not wish that, byka āeksio.”

Luke ignores the way the new title makes his cheeks flush. “Then why threaten to kill me to the guards? Would that not also guarantee your execution at Borros’s hands?” he asks as Aemond pops a grape into his mouth, and he chews thoughtfully before answering.

“It reduces the likelihood.” Aemond drums his fingers on the table top, drawing Luke’s attention. “Your death removes more obstacles for Borros. With it, he is free to choose. He can follow me back to Kings Landing knowing he will be well received for sparing my life, or he can kill me and claim a higher reward from your mother in exchange for enacting vengeance on her behalf.”

In all fairness, Luke can see Baratheon’s plan even if its diabolical. He looks away from Aemond as he picks at his bread, pulling it to pieces on his plate. “That doesn’t explain why you threatened to kill me.”

The silence is heavy, and when Luke risks a glance at Aemond it’s only to see him looking back with an oddly conflicted look. It’s even more unusual when Aemond reaches across to grip Luke’s arm tightly. “It was an empty threat, Lucerys,” he says almost reassuringly. “It is all part of the plan.”

Part of the plan Aemond doesn’t seem to want to let him in on, and Luke glances down at the long fingers that have easily wrapped around his arm. He finds himself reaching up with his other hand and resting it on top of Aemond’s, so much smaller in comparison, before he meets Aemond’s gaze again.

“Trust me,” Aemond murmurs.

Luke swallows as he slowly nods his head.

Unpredictably, the moment the final notched candle burns the last of its wick, Aemond throws a chair at the wall.

It blows apart, splintering into a thousand pieces that scatter through the room, and Luke’s mouth falls open as Aemond tilts his head back and roars.

“Bastard!” His voice reverberates around the room, making Luke nearly jump out of his skin. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

It’s only because Aemond promptly ignores him in favour of scooping up one of the now sharp chair legs that Luke doesn’t believe him. He instead continues to stand by the bed as Aemond falls back to him, twirling the chair leg in hand as he stands in front of Luke, between him and the door.

“Scream,” he mutters to him before raising his voice again. “You wretched little fuck-”

He’s cut off as Luke tilts his head back and lets out a bloodcurdling scream, his throat warbling with the noise and his head pounding with irritation. It’s comes surprisingly easy, and he glances out of the corner of his eye to see Aemond staring at him in shock. It’s quite satisfying, especially now that Luke has realised what just might be Aemond’s plan here. He grins at Aemond who shakes his head with a smirk of his own, but they’re interrupted as the door slams open.

“Stop!” the guard bellows as he hurries in, the one Aemond had spoken to before with a new one at his back. He looks panicked as he hurries to draw his sword.

Aemond is faster though, taking off with only a few steps before launching into the air. His attack is flawless as he brings his knee up to smash it straight into the guard’s face. There’s a sharp crack and a pained scream as the guard drops to the ground clutching his nose, and Aemond spins before slamming the chair leg down on the other guard’s head.

He takes it well though, rolling the blow with a grunt, but Aemond follows it up by flinging himself up onto the guard’s back, fighting to get his arm around the guard’s neck before squeezing tightly. Luke watches in barely restrained horror as the guard’s face starts to turn purple, as he scrabbles at Aemond’s arms, the flesh only just protected by the leather coat covering it, only for the other guard to groan on the ground as he starts to get back up.

Without thinking, Luke leans down to grab another sharp piece of splintered wood before springing forward, stabbing it into the guard’s shoulder with a wailed cry. It does the job of distracting him, but little else as the guard turns around with a vicious glare over his bloodied gory face.

“You little fuck,” he growls as he reaches up to yank the wood out, and Luke swallows thickly as he starts to back away from him. “I’ll kill you myself-”

He cuts himself off with his own gurgle, and Luke gasps at the sudden chair leg protruding out from his throat. The guard drops in a heap, clawing weakly at his neck, and Aemond stands behind him breathing heavily, looking wild and unruly with his hair everywhere and his mouth warped into a disgusted sneer.

He glances at Luke. “Alright?” he asks, and Luke just gives him a weak nod. “Good. Lets go.”

Aemond is quick to pull the sword from the still dying guard lying between them, rotating it in his hand a couple of times before giving it a firm nod. Luke doesn’t wait though as he hurries past, not sure he can stomach looking at the two bodies much longer, and he heads for the door.

It leads straight out into a corridor that Luke vaguely remembers as the guest wing of the castle. It takes him only a moment to orientate himself, enough time for Aemond to appear right behind him, his chest pressing against Luke’s back, and Luke swallows down his fear as he points to the right.

“This way,” he says, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels. Aemond doesn’t question him though, just falls into step as they start to hurry down the passageway. Luke keeps glancing around as they go, remembering the odd thing or two, recognising portraits and statutes. If he’s correct, there was a large painting of Orys One-Hand, founder of House Baratheon, right before the stairs leading down to the entrance hall. From there, it’s only a quick run down the steps into the main courtyard and the stables just after.

Luckily, Storm’s End isn’t as complicated as the Red Keep or Dragonstone. There’s only a couple of corners to turn down and corridors to navigate in the guest wing. Luke is thankful for that, especially as the wing seems to be empty of anyone else. They haven’t come across any extra guards as yet, although Aemond’s hold on his sword is still tight and Luke can see how tense he is out of the corner of his eye.

And then finally, he sees the painting at the end of the hall. A large stout man with long hair, a bushy beard, and one-hand glowers down at them against a brilliant green background, and Luke feels nearly giddy with relief as he sees just to the left of him is the staircase to the entrance hall.

“That’s it,” he gasps to Aemond, breathless from overexertion, his head spinning and crying out in protest. He doesn’t care though, determined to press on. “That’s the staircase we need!”

Aemond grumbles something beside him but its drowned out by the sudden clanging of armour coming from the approaching staircase. Luke swears under his breath as Aemond’s hand snatches his arm and drags him to the side, pulling him out of the corridor into a small alcove. There’s no way it’s going to actually hide them, and Luke stares at Aemond as he peers around the corner towards where the approaching guards are coming from.

“How many?” Luke whispers, and Aemond’s hold is nearly bruising on his arm as he moves back into the alcove, pushing Luke flush up against the stone wall in the crammed space.

“Too many,” he murmurs back, and Luke blinks up at him in surprise. “I can’t take them all on my own.”

Honestly, he never thought that Aemond would ever concede defeat like this, but perhaps he’s smarter than his arrogance. Luke glances around for any ways to hide, anything they can do, and his eyes catch sight of the candle just outside of the alcove, the one lighting it up.

Quickly, Luke leans around Aemond and blows it out, hoping it will be too dark for the guards to see the wisps of smoke curling up from the wick. He’s quick to squish himself back in front of Aemond. He knows his uncle’s black leathers will do well to hide them, but there is the problem of Aemond’s brilliant white hair, still so bright despite the lack of light.

“Just go with this,” Luke mutters, ignoring Aemond’s frown before he reaches to gather Aemond’s hair up off his back. He drapes it forward over his shoulder before placing his hands on the back of Aemond’s head, pulling him down and tucking him into his chest. There’s no hood on Aemond’s coat but the collars are able to be popped up enough to hide most of the back of Aemond’s head, and Luke bends his head down over him to cover what’s left, knowing his brown hair is lacklustre compared to the white.

It’s a strange position but it will do, and Luke tries to calm his thundering heart as he feels Aemond stiffen beneath him. He fears his uncle’s reaction, only for that fear to slip away as Aemond’s arms move to wrap around his waist, holding him firmly as he feels the sharp blade of the sword run down the expanse of his leg and the pommel dig into his lower back.

There’s nothing else to do but hold their breath as the guards get closer, their voices distinctive enough to pick apart now. Luke is tempted to look up but won’t run the risk, instead he keeps his face pressed into the back of Aemond’s head, his nose buried in those white locks, his mouth barely letting out soft breaths that ghost over the back of Aemond’s neck. He thinks to move, able to feel Aemond letting out a shiver of discomfort at the feeling, but just then the guards appear right outside the alcove.

“-need this many of us?” one is saying, his tone painfully bored. “It’s two noble shits behind a locked door. They’re not a threat.”

“To us,” another answers, “but Elyon said One-Eye was threatening to kill the princeling earlier. He fears he might go through with it since Borros ignored his summons.”

“He wouldn’t,” this time a woman’s voice, annoyed and muttered. “That would start a war.”

A sharp laugh as the voices start to fade with the clanging of armour. “As long we stay on the winning side, I say let the little shits fight it out between them.”

“You know they’re children, Steffon.”

“A war is inevitable, Cassandra, might as well let it start with the blood of a Targary-”

The voices meld back into the warble of white noise but Luke holds still for just a moment longer. It seems Aemond has the same idea, both of them hovering completely unmoving until finally the sound of clanging metal and footsteps disappear entirely.

Aemond shifts and Luke releases him, falling away as far as the wall behind him will take him while Aemond straightens himself out, flicking his hair back over his shoulder and readjusting his sword in his grip. Luke can’t see well in the dark, his eyes barely adjusted, but he can tell that Aemond isn’t looking at him.

“Come on,” Aemond says as he clears his throat, and Luke feels flushed as he tugs at his own jacket and doublet. “We haven’t got much time until they raise the alarm.”

Luke agrees and he stumbles past Aemond out of the alcove. His head is feeling a little light and cottony, his brain not quite working, and there’s the steady creep of pain and exhaustion starting to hound at his ankles. It’s a little overwhelming but he perseveres, stepping back out into the corridor and making his way to the staircase.

Luckily there are no stragglers, although Aemond could easily take them were that the case, and they make quick work of the stairs. Luke struggles a little as each step sends a jolt through his gradually worsening head, but Aemond’s hand rests on his lower back when he stumbles on one and remains there even when they finally reach the last and rush into the entrance hall.

“Fuck,” Aemond swears when they are immediately spotted by two more guards, and somehow it had slipped Luke’s mind that of course there would be some by the front entrance. It seems to have slipped Aemond’s mind too as he drags Luke behind him before pulling up his sword, bringing it around into a fighting stance.

The guards blink at them for a moment before they seem to recognise them. One of them opens his mouth as if to shout, but Aemond breaks away from Luke to fly towards him in a sudden attack, swinging his sword in a high arc with bared teeth and a cut off shout. Its echoed by the high ceiling towering above them, and Luke does his best to stay upright where he sways as both guards converge on Aemond.

It’s strangely beautiful in a way to watch Aemond fight. Luke remembers their training as children but very rarely were they not pit up against one another at the mercy of Sir Cristian Cole. Seeing Aemond now, having long since grown out of his gangly limbs and clearly having trained hard… well, Luke is almost embarrassed to admit its frankly breathtaking.

Each attack is smooth and fluid, flowing from one into the next, laced with a barely retrained strength that teases the edges of brute force. Aemond’s hair fans out around him as he moves, ducking and spinning, dodging one blow just to dart in to land his own. He moves easier unencumbered by the armour the guards wear, however he has to work harder to avoid even the slightest of blows that could render him defeated.

It doesn’t deter him though, and soon enough both guards lie defeated on the ground, Aemond standing over them panting heavily, bleeding from a wound on his forehead that drips down the side of his face and another where the arm of his leather jacket has been torn. He doesn’t seem fazed though as he jerks his head towards the large double main doors, and Luke quickly hurries forward to join him.

“It better not be much further,” Aemond pants, and Luke thinks he might be more injured than he appears. Blood is dribbling into his eye that he wipes furiously at with his sleeve, and Luke swallows thickly as he turns to throw open the doors.

Expecting blustering rain, Luke is stunned to see how silent and still it is. He can hear thunder booming out above but when he glances up its only to see the moon just peaking out from behind the shadows of black clouds, radiating plenty of light to illuminate the slick cobblestone courtyard.

“The storm must’ve passed,” Aemond mumbles beside him, and Luke ignores him in favour of reaching out to grab Aemond’s arm to start tugging him into the courtyard.

Because there, on the other side, is the warm fires flickering within the stable. Luke can almost smell the straw and horses now, a grin spreading over his cheeks as they rush towards it. There’s something clanging above him, some sort of clamouring behind him, possibly even raised voices, he can hear Aemond starting to swear again as he urges Luke to run faster, but he ignores it all as they cross the courtyard and burst through the wooden doors straight into the stables.

Horses, Luke sees with sheer relief, so many horses all staring back at him, munching on hay as they wait out the storm in their warm safety. They’re here, they’re ready for them, and Luke turns to Aemond with a brilliant laugh already forming on his lips.

Only to stop as a sharp searing pain rips through him, white hot and cruel as it lodges somewhere in his side, and Aemond is roaring something wild and horrible as he stares at Luke with pure horror. Luke slowly looks down, his heart pounding brutally in his throat, his head thumping loud enough to drown out all noises… only to see the sharp tip of an arrow sticking out of him.

“Aemond,” he gasps as he drops to the ground, his knees doing little to break his fall. There’s so may noises going on around him, the familiar lilt of battle, yelling and the clashing of metal, but Luke can only stare at the bloodied tip of the thin arrow sticking out of him.

“Lucerys!”

He frowns as he touches the tip of arrow, hissing as it sends pain screaming through him and his vision flickers. He glances up weakly, trying to turn his head to see what is going on around him. He sees bodies out of the corner of his eye, a closed door bludging as the shouts of others try to cave it in, and Luke swallows thickly as he sways on his knees.

Where is Aemond, he wonders vaguely. He hopes he hasn’t been left behind, it would be such a shame. He glances back down at the arrow, considers if he should take it out, but the thought makes him woozy as he starts to crumple forward.

“Lucerys! Take my hand!”

Aemond’s voice again, Luke frowns as he drags his heavy head up. His eye sight is blurry but he can still make out a horse charging towards him, a beautiful creature. He fears it might run straight into him though, that this might be the end. Mother would not be pleased. The future Lord of the Tides meeting the gods under the hooves of a horse. How dreadful.

But then he blinks and there’s an ethereal figure on the back, crowned in a glow of soft white, and Luke sees the hand reaching down to him as a familiar voice cries his name once more.

“Luke!”

With a muffled cry, Luke throws his hand up, feels a strong hand grip it back, and knows no more.

Chapter Text

The rest of the escape passes in flashes.

The pain is constant, gruelling and agonising in his side, pulling cruelly with each movement of the horse beneath him. He can feel the pure solid muscle of it’s back under his legs, the heat of a solid chest against his own, a strong firm arm around his waist. His neck is loose on his shoulders, lolling his head around until it settles into the crook of a neck, and Luke focuses on trying to breathe through every jolt and drag that rips through him.

He can hear Aemond in his ear, muttering things in Valyrian Luke struggles to translate. It doesn’t matter, from what he can understand it sounds more like his uncle is reassuring himself that everything is going to be okay, even if that seems strange. It’s not often he’s ever seen Aemond so worried. It’s a true shame that he’s not coherent enough for it.

But then the rabid noises from around them fade and the furious movements of the horse start to slow. Luke stutters his way back into relative awareness, unable to help how cold he feels as he shudders against Aemond. It’s so dark around them, the forest they’re crashing through oppressive and terrifying, and Luke hides his fear as he tries to lean away from where he’s pressed against his uncle.

The hand around his waist doesn’t budge though. “Keligon,” Aemond mutters, his rough tone surprising to Luke.

He doesn’t want to stop though. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, wincing at how breathless he sounds. “You don’t have to hold me so tight.”

Aemond huffs a humourless laugh. “You cannot be serious, byka āeksio. Your senseless wriggling will send you to the ground.” His hand squeezes him where it grips his hip. “It will do no favour to that arrow lodged in your side.”

The reminder of the arrow sends a pang through Luke and he swallows down the nausea baying at the back of his throat. “Have we escaped?” he manages to ask, desperate for a distraction. He turns his head forward so his forehead is no longer pressed to Aemond’s jaw, taking note of the endless dark forest in front of them. He sees no flickering of torchlight nor hears any thundering horses behind them… surely they haven’t given up?

“We have,” Aemond confirms, and Luke sags in relief, leaning back against Aemond’s chest without much thought. “They have fallen behind but I doubt they will let us go so easily.”

Luke’s relief is dashed away by fear. “You think they will come for us?”

Aemond nods, his breath ghosting across the side of Luke’s neck. “For House Baratheon’s sake, he needs us both dead now. If either of us return to tell our tale, our families will take their revenge on Baratheon and his kin.”

Knowing this isn’t the end, Luke feels his eyes prickle with unshed tears. He’s tired, exhausted to his very bones, in the most incredible pain he’s ever felt, currently stuck on a single horse with his uncle who very much still holds an unbridled resentment for him… and they’re about to be hunted down and killed.

He should never have left Dragonstone.

“We’re not going to outrun them on single horseback,” Luke mutters quietly, trying not to panic. “We should call our dragons-”

“You’re too wounded to fly,” Aemond interrupts him, surprisingly not unkindly. Luke sniffs and Aemond’s arm tightens around him further. “You will fall from Arrax within moments.”

Luke shakes his head. “Why does that matter?” he hisses, well aware he’s letting his panic and anger get the better of him, knows he’s treating Aemond unfairly. “Just call Vhagar yourself and leave. You got me out as you said you would. There’s no reason for you to stay.”

Aemond doesn’t answer for a moment but Luke feels the way his chest rises and falls against his back as he clearly takes in a deep steadying breath. “Idiot,” he finally says. “If I return to Kings Landing and you don’t to Dragonstone, they’re going to assume the worst.” He leans forward until his mouth is close enough that Luke feels his lips on the shell of his ear. “And if you die, it will start a fucking war.”

Luke blames the situation for the way he laughs a little deliriously. “Isn’t that what you want?”

To his credit, Aemond doesn’t even flinch. “A war will kill thousands of the smallfolk, raze the Seven Kingdoms to ash, and destroy the Targaryen dynasty and their dragons, innocent or not.” He pauses and Luke can’t help the shame starting to twist in his gut. “So no, Lucerys, I do not wish for a war.”

“Then why is your brother on the throne?”

The question seems to throw Aemond as he falls silent. Luke isn’t too sure if he’s expecting an answer as it drags on, the sounds of the trees rustling in the wind and the clomping of the horses hooves on the ground growing louder with each second, until finally Aemond sighs and sags against Luke’s back.

“Because, for some reason,” Aemond starts quietly, his voice barely loud enough for Luke to hear, “my mother is convinced our father wanted him on there.”

Luke frowns. “You don’t?”

Perhaps it is too assumptive, but Aemond answers him nonetheless. “My father was many things, but he only ever had one child.” Before Luke can answer, Aemond presses on. “Your mother was declared heir to the Iron Throne and not once after having legitimate sons did he change his mind.”

Luke stares straight ahead, his mind running through a thousand thoughts and barely catching a single one. “Then why support him?”

Aemond sighs. “Because he is family.” He clears his throat. “And I am loyal to my family.”

Luke can’t help it as he drops his hand down to cover Aemond’s on his hip, thumb slipping under Aemond’s until they’re interlocked, his fingers brushing over the delicate bones he can feel in Aemond’s wrist. He hears Aemond’s breath hitch behind him, his hand form into a fist beneath his own, but he doesn’t pull away.

“We’re family,” Luke whispers, and Aemond stills, his arm slackens, and Luke holds his breath.

But then.

“Why do you think I’m still here?”

Aemond’s quiet admission sends Luke’s thoughts scattering even further to the wind, and he finds himself struggling to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. He doesn’t respond, isn’t entirely sure he can, and instead settles for slumping back against his uncle, leaving his hand where it is and denying the way it makes his heart thump perhaps a little oddly.

Aemond doesn’t say anything more either, and the two of them continue on in silence. The forest is alive with plenty of noise for them, and Luke is thankful for Aemond’s steady company and strength as his fear battles the pain aching through him with each tug on the arrow still firmly lodged in his side.

After some time, Luke lost track well before they even left Storm’s End, torchlight up ahead begins to break through the oppressive darkness. Luke blinks his weary eyes, feeling lethargic and slow, wondering if he’s imagining things. Aemond nudges their horse faster forward though, muttering commands under his breath that Luke’s ears are too disconnected to understand. He vaguely realises he’s probably lost too much blood at this stage, but Aemond doesn’t seem worried and Luke decides from that he’s going to at least survive.

The torchlight leads them to a small village, not a soul on the dirt streets with the only building lit up the large tavern sitting just on its edges. Aemond is soon to bring their horse around to the leaning post out front, and Luke nearly falls with him when he quickly dismounts to toss the reins over the notch of the post, but a firm hand on his thigh stops him from toppling over.

“I need to see if they have a room available,” Aemond tells him firmly, his hand squeezing Luke’s thigh. “Will you be fine here with the horse for a moment?”

Luke isn’t entirely sure, but he leans forward over the front of the saddle until he can rest his cheek against the horse’s mane, wincing at the sharp tug the move causes on his wound. It leaves him a little light headed, and he moves his arms up to loop down around the horse’s neck to steady himself.

It seems to be sufficient even if Aemond looks strikingly conflicted for a moment, the gore on his face making him look more fearsome and intimating, before he lets go of Luke to step back. Luke gives him a weak smile, idly wondering if he’s pale enough to match Aemond right now, and Aemond hesitates for only a moment more before he turns and strides to the tavern door.

Luke becomes incredibly aware of just how cold it is as he waits, the wind having picked up enough to find all the gaps in his clothes, brushing frigidly against his skin. His side is slick and wet with blood, his head aches something fierce, and even the slightest of movements sends sharp jolts of pain through him. It’s not exactly a graceful escape, and each moment alone has him beginning to fear irrationally that perhaps Aemond has abandoned him after all.

The tavern door opens eventually though and Luke feels a staggering amount of relief when Aemond appears back at his side, his hand already seeking out Luke as if to reassure him once again.

“They have a room for us,” Aemond murmurs to him as he gently helps to ease Luke down off the horse. Luke manages with little fuss, clenching his teeth so hard they creak in protest, and he leans heavily against Aemond as he guides him towards the tavern. “No questions asked. The landlady seems to know better.”

“It’s just because you’re scary,” Luke grits out as they step inside, thinking about how much of a fright Aemond looks right now. He catches sight of said landlady where she stands beside her bar, the large room empty of any patrons. The broom in her hand suggests they’ve both interrupted her closing up and are incredibly lucky to have done so.

She diverts her eyes though as she sees him, and while Luke had ensured his tired red cloak was hiding the arrow well, he doesn’t believe she is stupid. He’s clearly injured and while he sees a flash of concern when she chances a glance his way, they don’t linger as they pass her to a half-open door at the back of the tavern, coming out into an equally abandoned corridor lined with closed wooden doors.

The room Aemond brings him to is small but cosy. A fire already crackles in the hearth that warms the room and casts it in a soft glow. Luke is relieved when Aemond eases him down onto the bed, following until he’s half-kneeling on the ground in front of him.

Luke realises why when Aemond brushes aside his cloak before peeling away the doublet stuck to his skin, his blood having soaked through the material leaving it sticky and rigid. Luke bites his bottom lip as Aemond works, grateful he seems to be avoiding touching the arrow but wishing that he would leave it alone. Rationally, he knows it has to come out and the wound must be closed, but the knowledge of how much pain, more pain, is yet to come… Luke feels ill.

Both of them jump when there’s a quiet knock at the door. Aemond is on his feet in a moment, his sword held out in warning as he steps in between Luke and whoever is interrupting them. Luke isn’t surprised though when it turns out to be the landlady, carrying a bowl of steaming water and what looks to be some supplies.

“For him,” she says quietly, her Riverlands accent thick as she crosses to place the bowl and supplies down neatly on a nearby table. She straightens up to leave but Luke catches the exact moment she hesitates when she looks at him.

The arrow is obvious now. Her lips thin and her eyes narrow for a moment before she glances briefly between the two of them, her expression carefully blank. Luke is suddenly very aware that there are only two houses that have the distinctive white hair falling over Aemond’s shoulders, both of which are currently caught up in a very public struggle for the throne, but the landlady simply turns to Aemond and reaches into her apron.

Aemond stiffens but surprisingly, she pulls out a folded up hood that she places down beside the bowl. “For you,” she murmurs with a pointed look at Aemond, and Luke is stunned speechless as she gives them an attempt at a curtsy before sweeping out of the room.

She leaves silence in her wake. Aemond doesn’t relax once the door is closed, instead he continues standing rigidly in the middle of the room with his sword hanging stiffly at his side. He’s still enough to be considered as a statue, and Luke takes a deep breath before speaking.

“Aemond,” he calls, his voice not as strong as is should be. He feels woozy and unsteady, and he wishes for nothing more than to be rid of this blasted arrow. The longer it lingers in his side, the more ill he starts to feel.

Thankfully it seems to jar his uncle, and Aemond spins around to him, a frown marring his usually cool expression. It’s gone the moment his eye lands on Luke though, and he quickly sets his sword down before returning to his side.

His ministrations are still as gentle as they were before. The water and supplies are a gods send, and Aemond carefully cleans around the arrow as he helps Luke shed his already ruined clothes. He plucks a sharp knife from the table to cut through the worst of them, minimising his movements, and it leaves Luke shivering from the brush of cool air over his exposed skin. He idly thinks that Mother won’t be happy about having to order a new set of riding gear as he looks at the shredded shirt on the floor and ruined blood soaked cloak, but all thoughts vanish as Aemond clears his throat to draw his attention.

“I have to pull this out,” Aemond says softly as he gestures at the arrow, and Luke can feel his heart starting to quicken at the thought. “It’s going to hurt.”

Luke wants to be snarky but bites down on it, knowing it’s the stress and exhaustion talking. He just nods in response, hoping that Aemond has the grace to do it quickly, but he’s confused when Aemond moves back to unbuckle one of his belts, pulling it from his waist with a flourish.

The confusion slips into horror when Aemond folds it over and offers it out to him. “Bite down on this,” he instructs harshly, “it will muffle any screams.”

Luke feels nauseous, his stomach rolling wildly, his skin clammy and wet with sweat. He shakes his head even as he reaches out with trembling hands to take the belt, the leather pliable from use. He doesn’t want to do this, gods he doesn’t want any of this, but he knows there’s no other option as he slips the belt between his teeth and bites down on it firmly.

There’s no warning when Aemond yanks out the arrow, and Luke screams bloody murder as he bites into the belt, his vision going white and spotted. The world spins around him and he swallows down the bile burning at the back of his throat, tears spill free and unbidden from the corners of his eyes, and he feels like he’s choking on them as he struggles to breath, struggles to stay lucid, struggles not to scream and scream.

“Breathe, Lucerys,” Aemond murmurs, and Luke is faintly aware of a hand where it rests on his thigh, a thumb where it rubs calming circles into his knee. He forces himself to drag a shuddering breath through his nose, his body shaking violently.

But everything feels hazy and far away and Luke feels so fucking terrified.

He focuses on his breathing though, listening to the hard commands Aemond is giving him as he sucks more air into his lungs in steadily slowing breathes. He continues to bite on the belt, his teeth creaking around the leather even more at the first sting of a needle pushing into his flesh, and Luke tilts his head forward until his chin is resting on his chest, his hands fisting into the blankets underneath him.

Quietly, the sound of Aemond’s voice trickles through the blur, and Luke blinks at the tears he can feel dripping down his cheeks as he opens his eyes. Aemond kneels in front of him, still suturing his wound with catgut with even precise movements… but it’s what he’s singing that causes some of the haze to shift.

It’s been years since Luke has heard the lullaby of The Wolf and The Finch, not since his days in the Red Keep before they moved to Dragonstone. It’s not the sweetest of tales, in fact its a warning born from a long since ended conflict between the North and the Reach, but as Aemond mumbles it in a terrible monotone voice that, were he less compromised, Luke would undoubtedly laugh at… it actually brings surprising comfort.

Enough so that by the time Aemond has severed the last suture and wrapped Luke’s belly with long strips of linen, Luke’s tears have stopped and his breathing is slow and regular. He watches Aemond with tired eyes, unsure if his grasp on sanity has perhaps slipped a tad, until his uncle reaches up to pull the belt from his mouth and moves away. Luke sways on the spot, the room foggy and hazy at the edges, the bed rolling beneath his fists.

It’s not until Aemond is washing his hands and face in the bowl of water though that Luke finally finds his words. They’re heavy and clunky, but he says them anyway. “Thank you,” he whispers, voice painfully muted. “For saving my-”

“Don’t.” Aemond’s tone holds no room for argument. “Were it not for my actions, there would never have been a need to do so.”

Luke stares at him, trying desperately to understand this riddle of a man in front of him, wondering where the line of his own delusion ends and the character of Aemond begins. But he’s too tired, too injured, and he simply hangs his head and nods, content to let the silence take over once more.

However, Aemond’s ministrations don’t end there. Luke finds himself being bundled up on the bed, weak and pliant under his uncle’s hands as he’s tucked firmly under the sheets with his head resting on a soft feather-filled pillow. He’s so tired that he feels himself starting to slip into sleep already, the call of a pain-free rest impossible to ignore, but he catches Aemond’s arm just before he pulls away.

“What if they come for us tonight?” he asks softly, blinking up at his uncle’s blurry figure with bleary eyes.

If Aemond’s expression changes, Luke is too blind to see it. However he does reach out to place his hand on Luke’s forehead, warm but damp as he strokes his thumb over Luke’s brow in a soothing motion.

“Shush now, byka āeksio,” he whispers as Luke’s eyes grow too heavy to hold open, as his hand falls down to wrap around the medallion lying on his bare chest instead. “I will protect you.”

Strangely, Luke believes him.

This time, when Luke wakes, he’s alone.

It takes a while to drag himself out of his slumber, the call of unconsciousness nearly stronger than the urge to wake. He stretches languidly in his bed, wincing at the pull in his side and the ache of his head, but he’s pleasantly surprised that the pain isn’t as bad as it had been after his initial head injury.

Sitting up is a struggle though, slow and uneasy as his side protests with each slight movement. He manages though, and Luke rests his bare back against the rickety headboard of the bed as he glances around for any sign of his uncle, drawing the blankets up around his hips to stay warm as the slight chill brings gooseflesh to his exposed chest and arms. The room is still though, the flickering fire in its cradle the only other movement, and Luke feels a lump form in the back of his throat as he realises with utter horror that maybe this is the time Aemond has left him behind.

He wouldn’t blame him. Luke is a liability at best and there’s no way the two of them are going to be able to avoid Borros Baratheon with him slowing them down. Undoubtedly Aemond has gathered his things and returned to Vhagar. He’s probably back in Kings Landing already, sipping wine and laughing at Luke’s misfortune.

Luke winces. Thoughts like that aren’t fair, especially not considering Aemond’s actions since their imprisonment. He’s been helpful, even kind, despite the obvious repulsion he feels for Luke. A repulsion that was once shared, but Luke knows that the resentment that has been curled in his chest for his uncle for years has long since unfurled.

It’s left something else behind, something he doesn’t dare look at too closely, the fear of unraveling something he won’t ever be able to put back too strong. Even so, he can acknowledge the burgeoning fondness he feels for Aemond now, and Luke knows his abandonment won’t change that.

What a silly boy, he scolds himself, a silly silly boy.

All thoughts are broken though when the door suddenly creaks open. Luke freezes, his heart lurches into his ribs, his hands fist into the sheets around him, and his eyes flicker around for some kind of a weapon he might be able to use. The closest thing is a candlestick on the bedside table, the wax burnt down to the metal, and he’s just about to lunge over to grab it when someone slips into the room.

A quick tug on his hood allows white hair to spill out over Aemond’s shoulders, and Luke lets out a relieved breath as he sinks back down against the headboard, heart pounding, side throbbing.

“I thought you’d gone,” Luke says, wincing at the dry rasp of his voice as Aemond crosses the room to drop a large crate down on top of the nearby table in the middle of the room. He glances at Luke over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised, before he turns back around and picks up a clay mug from beside the crate.

Luke’s heart jumps when Aemond comes to his side and offers it to him, and he takes the mug with thankfully still fingers. The clear water inside laps at the rim and Luke has to force back his greed to only take measured sips, its coolness soothing on his raw throat.

“And just where would I go, byka āeksio?” Aemond asks as he watches Luke drink with a small frown. He’s pale and drawn, the sharp cut on his forehead red and angry. “It seems I have replaced one captivity with another.”

Luke isn’t entirely sure if Aemond is joking or not, and his uncle doesn’t give anything else to go on as he steps away to shrug off his coat. The hood he wears is a startling contrast in quality to their fine leathers, but its done the job in hiding his distinct white hair. Luke has never thought of it as anything but beautiful, but it’s becoming apparent now it might just hinder them when it comes to evading Baratheon.

Aemond continues to move about the room as Luke sips at his water. He hangs his coat and the hood over a nearby chair before stoking the fire, nursing the flames against the chill of the room, before starting to pull some things out of the small crate he brought in with him. Luke sees what looks like a loaf of bread amongst the items, making his stomach rumble unwillingly, but he clamps down on his sudden hunger as he finishes his water.

“You know,” he starts up again after some time has ticked by, the words nagging and needing to be said, albeit reluctantly, “you are free to go if you wish.”

Aemond lets out a frustrated noise as he whirls around to glare at Luke, enough so to make Luke shrink back against the bed, clinging to his cup in hand. “We are not having this discussion again, Lucerys,” Aemond grits out through clenched teeth, and Luke blinks at him with shock. “Our fates are intertwined now, whether you like it or not. Either we both make it home, or neither of us do.”

Something in the back of Luke’s head questions the wording, wondering why Aemond seems to think it’s him that has a problem with their sticking together, but he dismisses it in turn of draining the last of his cup and reaching over to set it on the bedside table.

“Okay,” he agrees, catching the way Aemond’s shoulders sag slightly. “Then what’s our plan?”

Aemond doesn’t answer straight away. Luke is content to give him the time to think, however remaining in the bed feels too uncomfortable for any further discussion. Once Aemond’s back is turned to him again, Luke starts to shuffle to the edge, gritting his teeth at the ache dredging out from his side, but he manages to make it to his feet despite the raging discomfort.

The trek to the two chairs in front of the fire is only a few feet, but Luke crosses it as carefully and slowly as he can. He knows Aemond can see him, but he doesn’t move to hinder or help, just keeps a wary eye on him as Luke reaches the closest chair and slumps down into it with a small triumphant noise.

“Here was me thinking you’d be an invalid for days,” Aemond drawls from where he stands back at the table, and Luke tries not to roll his eyes. “You’ve surprised me, byka āeksio.”

Luke narrows his eyes, pretending like he’s not pouting. “I’m not that little, you know.”

Aemond lets out a huff of laughter behind him, and Luke jumps as a heavy coat is dumped over his shoulders. It’s not his own, it’s too big, and Luke ignores the way his cheeks heat red as he tucks himself further into the welcoming warmth of Aemond’s coat before his uncle comes around to sit in the chair beside him.

He offers Luke one of the two plates he holds in hand, and Luke’s stomach lets out another whine as he tries not to salivate over the selection of bread and fruit on the pewter dish. He takes it with glee, resting it down on his knees as he plucks up a raspberry to pop in his mouth, letting out a soft moan at the sweet taste that bursts out over his tongue.

When he glances at Aemond, it’s to see a similar flush over his cheeks. Luke decides they must be from the raging fire in front of them, and he gives his uncle a thankful smile. Aemond glances away, his lips pursed, before he finally speaks.

“We need to return you to Dragonstone,” he says flatly, his tone as impassive as his expression. Luke frowns but doesn’t question the sudden change in mood, coming to expect it in honesty. “Your mother will be growing concerned at your lack of appearance by now, especially with no further correspondence directly from you. Baratheon will not offer her the truth, but there is only so many lies he can tell before she arrives at Storm’s End herself.”

Luke nods slowly as he chews on his bread. “Should I call for Arrax then?”

Aemond gives him an exasperated look. “You’re still too wounded to fly.” Luke opens his mouth, but Aemond holds up a dismissive hand. “Crossing from one side of the room to the other alone is not the same as riding a dragon four hundred miles.”

Luke screws up his nose. “What if Vhagar took us then? Surely she can carry us both, and you would protect me from any fall were I to become unsteady or ill?”

“She could,” Aemond agrees as he nibbles on a rather overripe looking strawberry. He looks thoughtful for a moment before he drops the fruit back to his plate and shakes his head. “It would not be advisable thought. Things between our families are too tense for me to bring Vhagar near Dragonstone.”

“What if we sent Arrax first?”

Aemond lets out a sharp bark of laughter, looking entirely amused as he gives Luke a smile that wavers on the line of scornful. “With no rider? And Vhagar right behind?” He shakes his head as he reaches up to run a hand over his face. “Lucerys, I do not wish for your mother, brother, or Daemon to kill us thinking you already dead.”

Unfortunately, Luke can see the logic there. He could send a raven forward, but trying to find one that’s reliable in the Storm Lands might be difficult, and the likelihood of it being intercepted or killed by Baratheon and his men is probably higher than it should be. Hiring a messenger would be too slow and again poses the question of reliability, so as he picks at the crust of his bread, Luke submits to the idea of traveling to Dragonstone on dragon back as being ill advised.

“We must do this as subtly as possible,” Aemond continues beside him after a moment, and Luke glances over to see him chewing thoughtfully as he stares into the fire. “Without dragons. By horseback is our safest bet. We can go through the Kingswood to the coast and charter a boat from one of the fishing villages.”

“Together?” Luke can’t help but ask in disbelief, and Aemond quirks an eyebrow his way.

“You might be the future Lord of the Tides,” Aemond says sarcastically, and Luke resists the urge to roll his eyes at him, “but even you will struggle with sailing alone.”

Luke frowns, ignoring Aemond’s jab. “Blackwater Bay is treacherous to cross.”

Aemond huffs. “Then pray you have healed enough to travel on Arrax by the time we reach it.”

Luke stares at Aemond for a long moment, the silence stretching out between them. There doesn’t seem to be any hesitance on Aemond’s face, just an impassive sort of acceptance. There hasn’t been a single mention of Kings Landing even though they’re both well aware that it is much easier to reach than Dragonstone. It also wouldn’t come with the added risk of Aemond being burnt alive in the process. While Luke can trust Mother to be rational, Daemon isn’t as forgiving, especially not over this whole succession business. Were Aemond to arrive on Dragonstone, being taken captive might just be the least likely option, even if Luke were to speak in his defence.

But Kings Landing, Aemond would be welcomed back with open arms by his family. More so if he returned with Luke as a hostage. The dispute over the Iron Throne would end, Mother will submit to almost anything asked of her if it is for the safety and freedom of one of her children, and Aemond would be lorded as a saviour and protector of the realm.

Kings Landing is the smartest option for Aemond… and yet.

Luke glares down at his dwindling plate of fruit, rolling an abused raspberry between his fingers. He feels strange sitting here with Aemond beside him. No, sitting with an Aemond he doesn’t understand. He has spent years convinced he knows who he is. Heartless, hostile, ill-tempered and conniving. Each time he thought perhaps there was a moment that Aemond could be redeemed, he has always proven Luke wrong.

But right now? In this moment? Yes, Aemond has been churlish and disgruntled, but Luke thinks of the singing he isn’t sure wasn’t just a figment of his own mind, of the soft touches that have left him feeling soothed and reassured, of the fact that Aemond hasn’t left him despite all other reason to do so… and he wonders if perhaps there is much more to him than Luke has been lead to believe.

And a little part of him is so very desperate to find out.

So the facts are simple. Dragonstone will mean potential death for Aemond, and Kings Landing will mean the end of Luke’s mother and uncertainty for himself, let alone his siblings. Neither is overly an option here, and Luke swallows thickly before he raises his head with a set jaw.

“We could go to Highgarden.”

Aemond snaps around to look at him, his eye wide and his lips slightly parted. He stares at Luke for a moment, apparently speechless, before he clears his throat. “The Tyrells,” he drags the words out slowly, as if unsure that’s what he’s really saying. “You want us to go to the Tyrells?”

Luke shrugs, wincing at the pull it causes on his wound. It catches Aemond’s eye, his attention flickering to Luke’s wrapped side, but it snaps back up as Luke continues talking.

“The Tyrell’s have historically been neutral in all disagreements regarding the crown, and I don’t anticipate them changing their stance now,” Luke says carefully, picking his words with caution. “We would be safe there if we claim refuge.”

Aemond is shaking his head though. “Most disagreements have not included House Hightower. Highgarden is a stones throw away from Oldtown. My cousin, Ormund, and the rest of his kin will turn us both over to my grandsire if they see us.” He leans forward, and if Luke isn’t dreaming, there’s a flicker of concern in Aemond’s gaze. “They will not treat you favourably either.”

Luke swallows back the sharp spike of fear at the thought. “The Tyrell’s are the Hightower liege lords. They will do no such thing under their command.” He weaves his fingers together in his lap to stop them from trembling, forcing himself to feel confident in his thoughts. “Lord Lyonel is still an infant but his mother, Lady Alyssa, was a close friend of my mother’s when they were in their youth.”

“And how long ago was that, Lucerys?” Aemond clearly remains unconvinced as he sinks back against his chair. “We cannot rely on a long since cooled attachment for our own safety, let alone from the liege lords of the current Hand of the King.” His hands fall down to clutch the armrests of their wooden chairs firmly. “In any case, it will take us nearly a week to reach Highgarden, whereas the coast is a few days at most, and trying to justify to our families why we went to Highgarden instead of straight home would be too complicated. No.” He shakes his head again, more forcefully. “We go to Dragonstone.”

Luke’s heart clenches in his chest as he takes Aemond in. The clenched jaw, pursed lips, shoulders rigid. His knuckles are whitening with his taunt grip on the chair, and it reminds Luke vividly of a younger boy sitting stiffly on Driftmark, silent as the glide of a needle had closed up where his eye had once been, accepting of his fate in a manner not even a well-seasoned knight could manage.

And here he sits now, ready to do it again, only this time Luke refuses to be the reason why.

Wary in a way only Aemond has ever been able to bring out in him, Luke reaches across the small space between them, ignoring the pull it creates in the stitches in his side until his hand can rest down over top of Aemond’s own. It makes Aemond jump, his eye wide and surprised as he turns to stare at Luke, but Luke just gives him a small smile in return.

“You might be willing to sacrifice yourself to return me to Dragonstone,” he murmurs softly, silently shocked himself to ever be saying those words, “but I am not.”

Aemond’s mouth falls open slightly, and were the situation not so dire, Luke would’ve taken great satisfaction out of rendering him both speechless and astonished. Alas, it is not the right time to do so, and instead he simply squeezes Aemond’s hand beneath his own before continuing.

“Let us go to Highgarden.” Aemond looks like he’s going to argue again, but Luke doesn’t give him time to speak. “I am convinced Lady Alyssa will welcome us, and we can figure things out once we get there.” His heart hammers against his ribs as he meets Aemond’s eye, unable to help but admire the beauty of its deep sapphire colour, rivalling the stone hidden beneath his patch. “I want you to return home as safely as you wish for me.”

The silence is deafening, heavy and thick with tension. Luke doesn’t look away though, holding Aemond’s intense gaze with his own, determined and refusing to back down. He wonders what Aemond is looking for, what he wants to see, but he must find it as he lets out a sudden ragged laugh and glances away with a slight shake of his head.

“You continue to surprise me, byka āeksio,” Aemond mumbles, and Luke wonders quietly when the nickname stopped sounding like an insult.

He’s distracted though as Aemond stands up, his hand slipping away as Aemond crosses to the fire in front of them, staring down into its flickering flames for a long moment. He’s holding his arms behind his back, not quite turned far enough away for Luke not to catch the way he seems to be flexing the hand Luke had been holding, but he doesn’t get the chance to question what that might be about as Aemond huffs.

“Fine,” he agrees as he turns to give Luke a disbelieving look, as if he can’t believe his own words, “we will go to Highgarden.”

Chapter Text

They agree to leave in the early hours the next day.

Considering the distance they will have to cross to reach Highgarden, Luke is keen to leave even earlier than that, but Aemond gives him an annoyed look before pointedly checking on the wound at his side. Luke hisses his way through the examination, sure that Aemond is actively making an effort to ensure it’s as uncomfortable as possible with his poking and prodding, but despite Luke’s own squirms and discomfort, Aemond declares him suitable to travel after more rest.

Luke tries not to complain. Aemond tells him that he’s lucky the arrow wasn’t barbed and managed to only bury itself in the fleshy part of his side, missing anything relatively important. Merely a flesh wound, were his exact words, and Luke had bit back a plethora of rude insults at it being reduced to only that, however Aemond’s cocky smirk made Luke think he might’ve been better to work on his facial expressions instead.

Nevertheless, while the landlady hasn’t reappeared at any stage, Aemond seems confident that she won’t rat them out to any passing Baratheon’s, deciding that they’re safe to linger another night in the tavern. Luke dreads to know what will happen if they’re caught, but Aemond doesn’t seem particularly fazed as he stands in the middle of the room swinging a sword about that is definitely not the one he stole from Storm’s End.

When Luke asks him about it, Aemond just flashes him a smug grin. “Don’t fear, byka āeksio. I always repay my debts.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t aware I was travelling with a smarmy Lannister.”

Aemond looks outraged at the thin insult but Luke pokes his tongue out at him before he snuggles back down into the surprisingly soft bed. He’s more than content to sleep away the day as instructed while Aemond readies them for travel, which clearly includes flailing about with a sword.

Luke chooses not to question it. After all, Aemond is scarily proficient and dangerous with such a weapon, clearly for good reason.

As it turns out, the crate Aemond had carried in earlier didn’t have just food but also some much needed supplies for traveling. Luke watches through hooded eyes as Aemond packs up saddle bags full of various things, drifting in and out of a lazy doze. Aemond doesn’t ask for help, seemingly quite content to sit on the floor in front of the fire with all the supplies spread out around him, making only the odd comment under his breath in muttered Valyrian.

Luckily, Aemond has also had the good sense to trade their stolen horse in for one more suited to carrying two of them, and while Luke cringes at the thought of sharing a horse all the way to Highgarden, he’s also aware that he might not be capable just yet of riding one alone. Between his butchered side and the odd headache that continues to come and go, he doesn’t have a lot of faith in being able to stay upright on horseback by himself. Perhaps they might find another somewhere along the way when he is better healed, but he’s also aware they’ll need to keep a low profile.

The rest of the day drags by almost sluggishly, but soon it’s night time. They share another meal of left over bread and cheese, neither of them much interested in the food they pick at, until finally Luke crawls back into the bed with drooping eyes and a heavy body. Doing nothing is surprisingly tiring, and he wriggles down under the sheets quite keen for sleep.

Only to pause when he sees Aemond has moved back to his chair in front of the fire, sitting with his fingers laced together where they rest on his stomach, his head tilted slightly sideways with his eye firmly closed.

He frowns. Surely Aemond isn’t going to sleep by the fire in the hard rickety old wooden chair? Luke glances at the bed beside him. There’s plenty of space for two of them, without touching even were either of them concerned about that, but just as Luke opens his mouth to call out to his Aemond… he snaps it back shut.

There must be a reason he isn’t willing to rest beside him. Trust is still clearly an issue for his uncle while Luke is embarrassed to admit it no longer is on his side, especially so soon after staring down Aemond’s dagger. Nevertheless, he won’t press at boundaries unnecessarily, and though it pains him to see the sharp angle of Aemond’s kinked neck, Luke dutifully closes his eyes and tries to think on it no more.

He isn’t sure how long he’s slept for though when he’s jostled back awake. His eyes are a little blurry as he rubs the sleep away from their corners, only to see Aemond leaning over him with a set jaw and thinned lips pressed firmly together.

“What time is it?” Luke asks with a yawn. Aemond moves away from him as Luke slowly sits up, crossing back over to where their packed saddlebags now lie by the door.

“Nearly dawn,” Aemond informs him a little gruffly, and Luke doesn’t mistake the tension over his shoulders. “The sun is only just beginning to crest. If we leave now, the dark should keep us from being sighted by any watchful eyes.”

His logic is infallible. There’s still the overhanging threat of Baratheon and his men who are undoubtedly hunting for them, the idea that they’ve hopefully passed this village by is most likely just wishful thinking. Luke agrees that the less opportunities for being caught, the better.

He climbs out of bed, making a beeline for the clothes he’d set out for himself earlier. With his doublet tattered beyond repair and his cloak soiled with blood, Aemond had found him some replacements. The quality of the brown tunic is nowhere near what Luke is used to, but he belts it neatly around his waist with no complaint, the coarse long sleeves able to batter away some of the cold creeping in past the slowly dying fire. The new cloak is of a similar colour and quality, but the large hood will be useful to hide his face in case anyone might recognise him.

Aemond has adorned his own hood again, his white hair swept back and mostly hidden beneath it. His eye patch is still striking, especially against the blatant high quality leathers he still wears, but they should hide him well in the darkness of dawn as they make their way out of the village. Luke shoves his feet into his boots, tucks his medallion under his tunic, and tugs on his gloves before making his way to his Aemond’s side, well aware the waking pain in his side will only grow worse as they leave.

Nevertheless, when Aemond arches an eyebrow at him, Luke gives him a firm nod, ignoring the headache pushing at the backs of his eyes. “Ready,” he says, determined not to let even a hint of hesitation trickle into his tone or expression.

The trek from the tavern down to the nearby stables is uneventful. There’s not a soul in sight, and Luke stays close to Aemond as a small feeling of apprehension starts to grow beneath his ribs. The sun teases at the edge of the horizon, not quite able to bring more than a touch of light, but it’s clear that the day is ready to begin. He’d have expected to see at least a few people, farmers and bakers, even stablehands or the butcher, but the village is eerily quiet.

As they turn around the last corner to the stables, it becomes very apparent why.

Luke nearly crashes straight into Aemond as he suddenly comes to a halt, an arm snapping out to push Luke behind him. He peeks around him, his eyes widening when he sees a group of shadows hovering in front of the stables, silhouetted against the side of the building by the torch one of them is holding. They’re imposing as is though, and Luke swallows back his spike of fear when he sees sharp swords hanging at their sides.

“Fuck,” Aemond starts to take slow steps backwards, nudging Luke as he goes with a hand on his arm, “Baratheon’s men. We need to-”

“Well well well!”

Aemond’s cut off as a loud shout comes from the group, and Luke’s dread grows as they all turn to face them. The torchlight casts them in a warm glow, revealing battle-hardened men with sneers stricken across their faces… the only outlier amongst them a familiar face.

Luke swallows as he sees the landlady cowering at the back of the group, one of the men gripping her in a hold Luke knows must be painful. She looks horrified to see them, and Luke gathers she’s not there willingly if the bleeding cut on her swollen lip and blackened bruise around her widening eye is anything to go by.

“The lost Targaryen princes,” the man that originally spoke continues into the tense silence, and Luke’s attention snaps to him as he steps forward from amongst the group. He’s holding his arms out, a smirk spread over his face, and Luke hates him already. “We’ve been sent to bring you back to Storm’s End. Lord Borros is concerned for your welfare.”

“Unlikely,” Aemond responds tersely, and the man lets out a bark of laughter in response.

“You doubt our lord’s propriety?” he asks lightly, his words barely hiding the warning in them.

“No.” Aemond’s hand tightens around Luke’s arm. “I deny its existence.”

The ensuing silence is somehow more tense, and Luke can feel his heart starting to pound furiously in his chest. His eyes slip past the leader to the rest of the group, nervously counting four more standing behind him with their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. They’re clearly anticipating a fight, and Luke is painfully aware of the absence of a weapon at his own hip.

“You will come with us, Prince Aemond,” the leader speaks up again after a long moment, and Luke glances back in time to see him draw his sword with a flourish. “Willing or not, it does not matter.” He grins, gold teeth glint at them. “Lord Borros isn’t partial on your conditions upon return.”

The threat is loud and clear, and Luke’s eyes widen as suddenly the leader charges forward with a loud battle cry, his sword coming up in a deadly arch as he aims it straight for them.

Only for the sound of metal meeting metal to clang out over the lane as Aemond brings his own up to stop him, staggering under the sheer force of the attack, and Luke stares in horror as Aemond falters briefly before shooting him a wild look.

“Dakogon!” he yells, and Luke doesn’t have time to respond as a canopy of cries rise from the rest of the men as they surge forward. He can’t run though, he can’t leave Aemond, but suddenly the leader is pushing away from Aemond and swinging directly for him with a malicious laugh.

Luke shrieks as he falls back, barely avoiding the sword as it glances over his head. Aemond lets out a roar as he turns his attention back forward, throwing himself into a responding attack that clearly takes the leader off guard. Luke’s unable to help the fear that threatens to swallow him whole, thrumming through his body as he clumsily scrambles his way back from the advancing soldiers.

Suddenly, a hand grabs his arm, and Luke gets a glimpse of the landlady’s terrified battered face before she starts to run, dragging him along behind her. He doesn’t fight her as he takes chase, running over the beaten dirt with an ungainly gait that pulls heavily on his side, fright taking over as the urge to escape overruns him. They circle around the thatch houses, weaving through the streets as they leave the fight behind them, the crash of swords cracking out over the rooftops.

But as the sounds start to fade… Luke’s thoughts finally scream back into action.

“Wait,” he calls to the landlady, pulling back on her hold as hard as he can, and she gives him a disbelieving look as he tries to stop their flight. “Wait, I can’t leave him!”

The landlady shakes her head. “You will die if you go back.”

“No,” Luke denies, and he tugs on her hand until she lets go, both of them coming to a reluctant stop. “No, I just need a weapon.” He looks at her imploringly. “Please, I need a weapon.”

She’s clearly torn as she glances behind them, likely more terrified than Luke feels, but as his heart thuds in his throat and his mind runs rampant with dreadful thoughts… she gives him a grim nod.

“This way,” she says with a jerk of her head, and Luke feels a rush of hope as he follows her once more, this time away from the tavern they were heading towards.

It turns out the smithy is close. The landlady throws open the door into the forge without much thought, Luke hurrying in behind her, eyes already looking for a weapon he can use. He sees them strewn everywhere, maces, glaives, and spears, but he heads straight for the collection of swords in a nearby barrel. He’s not the greatest with one, although he’s a lot better than he’d be with any of the other weapons, however just as his hand closes around the hilt of one of the swords, Luke spots what’s sitting just on the bench behind them.

Ser Harwin Strong had always tried to teach them how to swing a sword, his proficiency with one a startling legend, but when Luke had fallen far behind Jace’s own prowess… well, Ser Harwin had pivoted instead of pushing.

The bow is light and comfortable in his hand as Luke picks it up, testing its draw weight with a few quick plucks on its string. It’s decently made, the recurve style making it short enough for him to wield with ease, and Luke doesn’t hesitate in snatching up the quiver from where it had been lying beside the bow, the wooden arrows clacking in their holder.

He turns to the landlady. “I will ensure payment reaches the blacksmith,” he tells her, determined to follow through despite the look of doubt on her face. She doesn’t flinch though, just nods her head in return before Luke starts to stride out past her.

“Be careful, my prince.” Luke glances back to see the landlady watching him with a worried frown. “The realm cannot afford to lose you. Either of you.”

He gets the implication, and it suddenly makes sense why she’s been more accommodating than she truly has any reason to be. After all, the Riverlands has spent hundreds of year in a bloody endless war. To see one break out between all seven kingdoms now… well, Aemond had been truthful when he’d listed the destruction it would wrought.

Luke smiles gratefully at her. “Thank you… for everything.”

Her battered face twists up into something resembling her own smile before Luke turns to rush from the smithy. It’s easy to navigate the streets back towards the stables now that it’s started to brighten outside, the sun cresting and bathing the twists and turns around the buildings in swaths of light, and Luke ignores the uncomfortable pull in his side as he hitches the quiver over his shoulder and drags an arrow out to nock.

It’s good that he has as he flies around the last corner to stumble to a stop, eyes widening when he sees Aemond surrounded by the Baratheon men. All five have their swords out, three lingering back as Aemond takes on two at once. He’s moving gracefully between them, parrying and deflecting, striking when he can, but Luke sees his foot slip when it shouldn’t, his leg falter to duck where he should have blocked.

He’s tiring, rapidly, and Luke swallows back his fear and hesitance as he lifts his bow, drags back on the string, and looses the arrow.

And holds his breath.

But then there’s a loud gurgle as one of the three men drops to his knees, his body limp and flailing as he scrabbles at his neck. Luke’s heart leaps with a sick feeling of relief when he sees he’s aimed true, his arrow protruding through and through the man’s neck. He lets out his shaky breath as he pulls another arrow into nock just as the other two turn to him with shouts of outrage.

He doesn’t pause, loosing the arrow straight at them. It hits one in the shoulder, sending him reeling backwards, but the other remains unhindered as he starts to sprint at Luke. Luke’s eyes widen as he scrabbles for a third arrow, Harwin’s ghost guiding him to nock it to the right instead of the left this time, allowing him to fire it more rapidly.

It saves him, barely, and he takes a single step to the side to avoid the final arc of a sword as the third man slumps to the ground at his feet, the arrow gorily jutting out of his eye. Luke stares at his body for scarcely a moment before turning back to the fight, his hands steady as he grips the bow tightly and starts to advance, nocking another arrow.

Aemond has succeeded in felling one of the men, duelling confidently with the leader of the group as the clang of swords meeting ricochets through the still air. The second man with the arrow in his shoulder has struggled back to his feet, and Luke regards him cooly when he glances back at his leader before letting out a roar as he charges straight at Luke.

He’s fast, and Luke lets loose his next arrow to disappointment, the arrow slicing neatly over the man’s shoulder to thunk into the stable behind him. He swears under his breath, darting backwards as he gropes for another, not quick enough as the man reaches him with his sword already flying towards him.

Luke manages to dodge, his muscles tightening as he springs to avoid the first swing. His side screams out in protest though, causing him to stagger as he hunches over, the wind knocked out of him, and he hears a sharp bark of laughter from in front of him.

“So the pretty prince is wounded.” Luke glances up to see the man twirling his sword as he bares crooked teeth at him. “Seems my aim was better than I’d thought.”

A moment of realisation flickers through Luke’s mind but it’s gone in a flash as the man lets out a shattering roar. Luke just has time to yank his bow up to catch the sword as it swings down at him, the wood creaking pitifully under the strain of the blade, and Luke’s breath hitches painfully as he coils his body with the memories of Harwin’s training.

With one fluid movement, he lets go of his bow, the sword following through in its arc as Luke shifts to the side, draws an arrow from his quiver, and thrusts it straight into the man’s fleshy underbelly.

The sharp intake of breath as the man crumples to the ground, his sword clattering beside him, is all Luke needs to hear to know he’s won.

His hand falls away from the arrow as he steps back, the man slumping further into a twitching mess, but he ignores him in favour of scooping his bow up and turning back to Aemond, his heart in his throat as his body shakes and pulls with the rush of battle.

But Aemond is standing alone, panting heavily with two bodies on either side of him, and Luke feels the fire burning in him extinguish with a single gust as he realises it’s over, it’s done, they’re done.

Only Aemond drops to his knees.

Ignorant to the ache in his side, Luke stumbles forward. “Aemond,” he calls when he reaches him, his heart thundering rapidly in his chest, his hands trembling where they clench around his bow.

Aemond is slumped over his sword, his shoulders heaving with drastic breaths, and Luke can’t help the sheer fear that takes root in his lungs. Aemond tilts his head back though, blood stricken over his cheek from a new cut under his eye and the reopened one on his forehead, and he lets out a shaky attempt at a laugh that sounds more like a gasp for breath.

“I’m fine, byka āeksio,” he says breathlessly, and Luke swallows back the swell of relief, staying on his feet only from a deep muscle-memory than anything else, his side screeching something fierce and his head pounding furiously.

They stay looking at one another for a moment, both hurt and aching, tired and bone-weary, until Luke takes a shuddering breath in and reaches out a hand to Aemond.

“Come on.” Luke pauses as Aemond’s eye flickers down to stare at his proffered hand. “I think it’s time we left here.”

Aemond’s expression is unreadable. Luke can feel his heart beat ticking along with every moment that passes, a twisted mix of nervous apprehension and doubt swirling beneath his skin, until Aemond gives him a half-smile and lets out a small huff.

“Lead the way,” he says, voice husky and raw as he takes Luke’s hand, his long fingers curling gently around Luke’s own, and Luke hauls him back to his feet with a strong pull.

It’s well into the middle of the day before they even consider stopping, the thought of more Baratheon men following them enough to drive them forward.

The draft horse is strong and sturdy, faltering not once as Luke guides her out of the village towards the west, avoiding following the Kingsroad even if it’s the main route to Highgarden. It leads too close to Kings Landing and Aemond had been vehement that they avoid the capital at all costs. The beaten path through the Kingswood will shave more time off their travel to Highgarden. Luke had seen no reason to argue, again more than content to let Aemond take the lead.

Aemond, who sits behind him, bracketing Luke with his thighs as his arms wrap securely around Luke’s waist, and Luke tries desperately not to think of the heat of Aemond’s chest where it presses along the lines of his back as they ride. Aemond doesn’t say much once they leave the village behind, and it becomes obvious why when Luke feels Aemond’s head fall to pillow on his shoulder, his chest rising and falling slowly with each breath, his hold loosening so much that Luke drops one hand from the reins to grip Aemond’s arm securely.

It makes him smile, just to himself, unable to begrudge Aemond for sleeping while he can. Luke can’t imagine just how exhausted he must truly be, not entirely sure that Aemond has actually had a decent rest since Storm’s End. He’s been on high alert this entire time, and Luke wishes he would share the load instead.

Nevertheless, Luke keeps the horse on track as Aemond rests, ensuring their travel is as smooth as possible. Horseback is uncomfortable at the best of times, and Luke finds himself brushing his fingers up and down Aemond’s arm each time he begins to stir, pleased when it’s enough to soothe him back to sleep.

It takes the bubbling sound of a nearby brook for Luke to finally decide they should stop though. They’re both still covered in the blood and grime of battle, and his stomach has started to rumble with the beginnings of a gnawing hunger while his tongue is dry from thirst. The call of fresh water to drink and clean themselves with is too much to resist, and Luke carefully coaxes their horse off the dirt path into the towering ash tree forest surrounding them.

“Aemond,” he murmurs quietly when they’ve come to a halt, squeezing Aemond’s wrist as he turns his head, his nose accidentally brushing into soft white tresses. “Wake up.”

Aemond lets out a small groan, his arms tightening around Luke as he rubs his face into his shoulder. Luke would hesitate to call it sweet, but it makes his heart pound and his lips twitch as Aemond grumbles something under his breath before finally dragging himself away from Luke.

He doesn’t say anything though as Luke slides down off the horse first, mindful of his side as it twinges uncomfortably with the movement. It’d dulled into an unpleasant throb a while back, his headache faded mostly with it, but the wound still makes itself known as he moves to the saddlebags to pull out some supplies, stuffing a rag into his pocket and pulling out a small bowl. Aemond swings down off the horse himself as Luke crosses to the babbling brook and by the time he returns, it’s to see Aemond has sunk down onto a large nearby tree stump, eye closed as he rests his elbows wearily on his knees.

Luke’s chest twinges with sympathy and he chooses to perch beside Aemond, nudging him gently into giving him some room. The water sloshes over the sides of the bowl as Luke places it down between them and he pulls the rag from his pocket to wet it slightly before reaching out to press it to Aemond’s cheek.

Aemond’s eye flashes open as he flinches away from the touch, his hand snapping up to snatch Luke’s wrist in a vice-like grip. Luke freezes, his eyes widen with a touch of fear as Aemond turns a furious glower his way, made worse by the blood streaked over his face from the rough untended cuts. They hold each other’s gaze, Luke sure Aemond must hear the pounding of his heart as it thunders in his chest, but then he swallows his fright and juts out his chin.

“Let me,” he says, aware it comes out as more of a command, and from the way Aemond’s expression flickers it’s clear it’s not lost on him. There’s a pause where Luke is sure Aemond will shove him away, but then his shoulders sag and his hand falls from Luke’s wrist.

He hadn’t expected Aemond to cave so quickly, but Luke shoves those thoughts away as he continues his ministrations. There’s more blood on Aemond’s face than the cuts had any right to leave, but Luke carefully wipes away the crusted gore with a gentle touch. The older one on Aemond’s forehead isn’t as sensitive as the one on his cheek, and Luke bites his lip when Aemond winces at the rag running over it, his eye fluttering shut as if to hide while his hands clench into fists where they rest on his knees.

Luke can’t blame him. An inch higher and Aemond may have lost his remaining eye. Guilt gnaws at Luke’s bones, hollow and aching, an uneasy reminder of his part to play in it all.

Unfortunately, Aemond’s eyepatch has been drenched in blood too, and Luke is surprised when his uncle allows him to take it off for him, leaving behind sore red marks pressed into the pale skin of his forehead and temple. His eye remains closed, hiding the sapphire beneath his eyelid, and Luke’s hands finely tremor as he wipes the rag down the still red bisecting scar left from the years old injury.

Regret pools in Luke’s gut, swirling to make him feel ill, and he bites down on the drivel of apologies desperate to make themselves known. Aemond will not appreciate it, not now at least, and Luke finishes cleaning the cuts with deft thorough strokes, deciding neither are deep enough for stitches, before he finally pulls away.

While still pale and drawn, Aemond looks better with not an inch of blood coating his face. The cleaned cuts are less cruel, but Luke doesn’t doubt they must sting as the wind around them brushes over the split skin, Aemond’s eyes crinkling at the edges with a barely-there grimace.

He looks away, focusing on the eyepatch in his lap. He isn’t sure that he’ll be able to clean it properly, not with how dark and rigid the leather is, but he wants to try as he starts to scrub at it with the rag. He wishes he had some leather oil like he uses on Arrax’s saddle and his riding gear, just the thought of the smell enough to make him remember the warmth of home, to make him reach out to feel that golden connection between himself and Arrax.

It’s still there. Warm and bright. Arrax is somewhere nearby, confused and worried even as he still heads Luke’s commands to stay away, and Luke tries to send reassurances to him even as he feels them sit like lead in the pit of his stomach.

“Who taught you to use a bow?”

Aemond’s voice makes him jump, and Luke’s head snaps up to see Aemond watching him carefully, his eye only half-open and his lips pressed into a thin line. Luke pauses, his hands stilling on the eye patch he’s half-heartedly trying to clean in his lap, before he clears his throat.

“Ser Harwin Strong."

Aemond’s expression remains carefully neutral, betraying not even a flicker of emotion. Luke holds his gaze for a moment more before returning to the eye patch, his hands steady as he continues to scrub at the ruined leather, properly now. His shoulders remain hunched to his ears though, dreading to know just what Aemond might say. Never has there been a moment where Aemond has not taken an opportunity to scornfully remind Luke of his rumoured parentage.

A rumour with an astounding amount of truth to it, not that Mother would ever dare say it aloud.

But Aemond surprises him. “He was a good teacher then,” he says quietly, and Luke sees his hands unclench on his lap out of the corner of his eye. “Your skills with a bow are better than I would have thought. It certainly makes up for your lacking in swordsmanship.”

Luke knows he should take the thinly-veiled compliment, but there’s a strange anger brewing in the pits of his lungs, bubbling up his throat until words spill out he cannot catch. “What?” he snaps, flicking a glare at Aemond. “No comment about the rumours of my siring then?”

Aemond stares at him, his mask still flawless and unbroken. He glances away though and Luke sees the muscles in his jaw working tautly. “I am not in the mood for that today.”

That surprises Luke. He sits up straight, his brows pulling into a deep furrow, and he turns to face Aemond properly. “You’ve never once not been in the mood,” he demands, irritated beyond reason when Aemond doesn’t turn to him in kind. “You have brought it up constantly, in whatever creative fashion you could.”

Aemond huffs, hands back into fists. “Fine, my Lord Strong.”

But it’s strained and wrong and Luke has a startling realisation as he sits there staring at an uncomfortable Aemond, his mind rushing through every single moment since they left that blasted cage of a room at Storm’s End until this very present, this very second here on this tree stump where Aemond’s words sound foreign and far away.

“No,” Luke murmurs, his voice softer this time. “No it’s not. Not once have you referred to me as a bastard since Storms End.”

Aemond stands, stiff and staunch. “Let us not start this, Lucerys.”

Luke catches his wrist though before he can move away, tugging him back despite his resistance. “I want to know why, Aemond.”

“And I do not want to discuss it,” Aemond snaps, ripping his arm from Luke’s grip. “Just… let it be.”

Silence hangs heavy between them, filled with history so deep and painful that it could swallow them whole were they too linger in it. Luke worries at his bottom lip, a silly habit from his youth that Daemon had tried so hard to break, but right now thats all he has, all he is… memories of a shared youth turned rotten from events long since grown twisted and cool.

Aemond doesn’t move though, seemingly rooted to the spot as his shoulders rise and fall with ragged breaths. Luke reaches out again to slide his fingers around Aemond’s wrist, as gentle as he can, and Aemond surprisingly doesn’t resist as Luke pulls him back down until he’s seated beside him once more.

“Would it really have been that bad?” Luke asks, fragile and unsure, clinging to Aemond’s arm like a child to their mother’s skirts. “Were he my father?”

“Lucerys…”

“No,” Luke says again, his fingers must be bruising on the inside of Aemond’s wrist yet he doesn’t shake him off. “Would it? Would it be wrong enough to destroy the lives of three innocent boys? Would it justify it?”

Aemond turns to him, his eye bitter and cold even as he stays warm under Luke’s hold. “Your mother would have committed treason against the crown-”

“No more than your own father,” Luke interrupts, and Aemond’s mouth snaps shut, “or his fathers before him, even your own brother. The amount of bastard Targaryen’s in the streets of Flea Bottom is notorious even to those above hearing such rumours.”

“It’s different.”

“How?” Luke feels his anger flaring, spilling out of him unbridled. “Because she is a woman? What sort of argument is that?”

Aemond’s glower is icy, and were Luke not burning with a fire to compete he may have frozen beneath it. “Women are held to a higher standard, Lucerys. You know this. It has always been that way."

Luke scoffs. “And yet, from what rumours I’ve heard of Daeron’s parentage, your mother is not held to the same as my own.”

He gasps as Aemond’s hand flies out to fist the front of his tunic, hauling him up to his feet roughly, making his side pang with a deep discomfort. His hand stays on Aemond’s wrist, pulling down in a bid to be released even as Aemond towers over him with a vicious look on his face, teeth bared with rage, his shaking grip forceful enough that his knuckles strain against the taunt bone-white skin over them.

“You go too far,” he hisses, his face scarily close to Luke’s own, and Luke rams back the fear that spikes through him, tempering it with his own anger.

“Do I?” he demands and he uses his other hand to shove at Aemond’s chest, barely making him even sway. “Then tell me, dear uncle, why you condemn my mother and her children for a supposed crime your own mother may have committed in siring your younger brother?”

“Because she was to be queen!”

Aemond throws him away with his shout, Luke’s hold on his arm the only thing that stops him from falling to the ground. Luke must be insane to think that Aemond waits for him to steady before he rips his arm from him, but it seems he does as he shakes Luke off and storms away, kicking out at the underbrush around them in fury.

“Her entanglements with Harwin Strong were treason against the very crown she was sworn to inherit, their bastards a living testament to the indignities she would bring with her rule!” Luke feels a shiver run down his spine at the sheer vitriol pouring from Aemond as he whirls around, wild and seething, and Luke feels pinned in place by his furious stare. “A bastard cannot rule, a bastard cannot inherit. Even if the disgusting rumours about my mother are true, she is not so brazen to parade a bastard around as heir to the entire fucking kingdom as yours does!”

Luke shakes his head, his eyes teary and his body shaken. “How can you speak of her so cruelly?” he asks, voice soft enough that it nearly gets swallowed up in the echo of Aemond’s own. “She has been kind and loving to you as her own sibling, and you repay her with nothing but contempt.”

“That’s what you call kind and loving?” Aemond demands, sweeping out his arms. “We have lived with the threat of what she might do to us once she ascended the crown our entire lives-”

“What she might do?” Luke cries with pure disbelief, throwing his hands up in the air. “What was she ever going to do, Aemond?”

Aemond laughs, resentful and dark with not a shred of humour in it. “Do not think us fools, dear nephew. We are nothing but obstacles to her, claims to a throne she so desperately desires. Our very births are as your own, inconveniences to the realm’s future under Rhaeneyra Targaryen, first of her name, queen of the bastards, bane of the seven kingdoms, and protector of nothing.”

He hasn’t answered the question though, and Luke clenches his hands into fists as he ignores Aemond’s spitted words. “What was she going to do, Aemond?"

Aemond sneers at him. “What else you do to threats, Lucerys?” He leans forward, the space between them an endless chasm. “You eradicate them.”

Luke flinches at what he hopes is an ill attempt at a jest, feeling sick to his very core at the thought. But Aemond doesn’t laugh, his face doesn’t even slightly ease from that poised cold anger, and Luke realises… he’s completely serious.

He slumps back down onto the tree stump, his heart hurting enough to rival the wound in his side, his head swollen and full with thoughts he can’t even begin to pull apart. Mother would never execute her siblings, she’s never even dreamt of it. After years of listening to her speak to her advisors, of drafting plans of a future following the death of his grandsire, of her ideals for the kingdom she wishes to create with her family at her side, all of her family.

Not once did the thought cross any of their minds that there was a future without Aegon, Helena, Aemond, or Daeron in it.

“Who told you this?” Luke asks quietly, his fingers gripping his pants where they’ve pulled taut over his knees. He glances up to see Aemond has subdued, the tension run out of his body until he looks spent and drained, curling in on himself as he seems to wither where he stands.

“It was decided long before either of us were born,” Aemond murmurs, his voice hollow. “Carved into the stone of our family’s foundation. There was never a way to survive unless we became the threats we were hinted to be.”

Luke stares at Aemond, holding his tired gaze even as it pains him to see the truth in it. Whatever he’s saying, while spoken with the lilt of them being someone else’s words, Aemond genuinely believes each one.

But Luke cannot. He cannot even begin to fathom where this all went wrong. This was never how it was supposed to be.

“You’re wrong,” he tries again, flinching when Aemond does in return. “I don’t understand. Say what you will about my mother, but family means more to her than anything else.”

Aemond’s lip curls up in a humourless smile. “Yet not enough to spare the lives of her siblings.”

“It never crossed her mind to do otherwise, not once.” Luke grits his teeth when Aemond scoffs, “You may huff and jest all you like, Aemond, but she never intended to have any of you executed.”

“How would you know?”

Luke takes in a deep breath, willing it to steady himself. “Because I saw her plans.” He stands up, crossing over until he’s an arms-width away from Aemond. “She already had places for you in her court. All of you.” He tries to smile, aware it must look wrong, enough to make Aemond recoil. “Aegon and Helena with their children. Daeron, should he wish to return from Oldtown, or an advantageous match within the Reach.” He’s brave to step forward, placing the palm of his hand against Aemond’s chest, curling his fingers against the worn-leather lapels of his coat. “Even you, appointed to the kingsguard were you to turn down a marriage and title.” He meets Aemond’s gaze, determined to hold it. “It was all decided, delivered to the Hand the last time we were in the capital.”

The silence is deafening.

Aemond is trembling beneath his hand, his breathing coming out in ragged pants. His eye is wide and wild again, like a cornered animal desperate to escape, and Luke pushes his hand firmly against him, feels him sway uneasily beneath his touch.

“You lie,” Aemond gasps, haggard and desperate. “Tell me you are lying.”

But Luke shakes his head. “Aemond,” he murmurs, and Aemond lets out a choked noise that shatters Luke’s heart into a thousand tiny pieces.

Never has there been a silence such as the one that follows.

It’s hollow and echoing, edged with cruel claws that sink into his flesh, suffocating him with each passing moment. It’s toxic and venomous, insipid yet loathsome, and Luke wishes for nothing more than its end, a single word or a solitary sound to break through the malignant fog it brings with it.

But it’s end doesn’t come.

The day passes in a wasted blur. What ice had begun to thaw between them is frozen once more, and Luke finds his jaw starts to ache from being clenched, his shoulders stiffen from being hunched. He dreads to think how Aemond must feel where he remains straddled behind him, the only sound the clopping of the horses hooves on the beaten dirt tracks, the rustle of leaves, the faraway whistles of the birds and the chirping of crickets in the surrounding trees.

They move through the motions, stopping regularly to rest their horse and themselves. They eat beside one another but don’t touch, the chasm between them stretching out far wider than it would appear. They drink from the same waterskin, passing it to each other without a moment of eye contact, their stares skipping over one another without hesitation. They say nothing even as a thousand empty words fill the spaces around them, pockets of thoughts and feelings that linger far beyond reason.

Luke hates it down to his very core, but he knows there’s nothing to be done. Not alone, not while Aemond looks beaten down and haggard, like the world has just been wrenched out beneath him and he’s left floating with no tether or knowledge of which way is up or down. He supposes that might have been what has happened, but he wishes desperately that Aemond would just tell him so.

But Aemond has always been the type to suffer in silence. Even as a child, he bore his wounds from Luke’s attack with a staunch dignity, barely showing any hints of pain or weakness. He’d been only young when that cool mask of indifference had graced his face, never to be lifted, perhaps only for bitter comments and humourless smiles.

Luke misses who Aemond used to be. The pudgy faced boy with hair too unruly to keep in a single tie, his smiles small but sweet in the most unassuming of ways, filled with honour and a sense of duty so strong it could rival even the most noblest of knights. He misses that Aemond, the one that used to mumble scathing comments about the lords and ladies of the Red Keep and make Luke giggle and snort into his goblets. The Aemond that used to guide his hand on silly wooden sticks under Ser Harwin’s watchful gaze, patient and calm as Luke would whinge about how much he hated fighting with swords. The Aemond that had wrapped his arms around Luke so tightly the day his first horse died, murmured calm words and spun a soft tale about the endless plains in one of the seven heavens while Luke had sobbed into his shoulder.

That Aemond, who even still he can see traces of in the one that is with him now, the one that hides behind a slowly cracking facade.

Eventually, the sun begins its decent back down to the horizon. It casts dark shadows through the forest, bringing with it a frigidness that sends shivers down Luke’s spine. His cheeks grow cold and windswept, the tip of his nose almost numb to touch, and soon even Aemond’s presence against his back does little to ward off the chill of the approaching night. He thinks to say something, to break this nauseating silence dragging on between them, but he doesn’t have to as Aemond’s hands move from their hesitant place on his waist to take the reins from him.

He guides the horse off the track for a reasonable amount of time, enough that the main path is left far behind them. Luke would be fearful were he not certain that Aemond, despite their current predicament, still has nothing but honourable intentions towards him. After all, leaving Luke for dead now in the middle of the woods would be less than clever after what they’ve been through, and would be nothing but counterproductive towards their goals of preventing a war.

Luke is thankful when they finally stop, eager to be rid of such heinous thoughts. Aemond dismounts before he does, not even pausing once his feet hit the ground before he strides off towards the other side of the small clearing they’ve come across. Luke lingers for a moment, watching Aemond with a frown before he sees him start to rummage through the underbrush, coming up with an armful of twigs and fallen branches before moving to find more.

Luke is embarrassed to admit that he doesn’t have the faintest clue on how to start a fire. Still, he dismounts and sets about to help, mindful of his side as he scrounges around to come up with some twigs himself. He adds them to the small pile Aemond has started in the middle of the clearing, and as soon as Aemond hunches down beside it with one of the saddlebags, Luke takes that as his cue to tend to the horse.

Grooming is something he can do, and he can do it well. He’s always loved horses, loved riding and spending time with the beautiful creatures. His father, Ser Laenor, used to take him out past the walls of Kings Landing, tucked in front of him on a shared saddle when he was too young for his own, gifting him his own foal as he grew older. His father always looked so carefree, his laughter loud and contagious, even when Ser Qarl had unsuccessfully tried to turn them back to the capital so many times. It’s a pity that Dragonstone has never had need for horses, not for the royal family anyway, and Luke has missed them terribly since they left the mainland.

Dragons are incredible in their own right, but there was something different about a horse that had made his father glow… or perhaps, were Lucerys to think on it deeper, it may have been who he could share their riding with, who could join him on the endless gallops through grassy plains.

After all, riding a dragon is limited to only few chosen whereas a horse, well, a horse is not.

The mare is used to his touch now, nosing against Luke’s proffered hand gently as he ties her loosely to a nearby tree, restraining her but with slack to graze the mossy grass at his feet. He finds a brush stored away in the other saddlebags before he unstraps the saddle, just a simple strapped cloth of curved leather, from her back to rest her overnight, running the brush over the sweat-stained fur left behind. She seems to enjoy it, rolling her back flank as she leans against him, and Luke can’t hide his smile as he scratches at her ears and whispers pretty praise under his breath.

By the time he returns to Aemond, it’s to a crackling fire where it spits and pops the wood on top of it. Luke is drawn to the flame like a moth, the heat instant as it radiates through his clothes to warm his skin. Aemond doesn’t look at him as he approaches, but once Luke is seated beside him on a displaced fallen log, he offers him a small wooden plate with strips of dried meat, a wedge of cheese, and a handful of toasted slices of bread on it.

Luke opens his mouth, a thank you on the tip of his tongue, but closes it as Aemond’s hand snatches away from him as if burnt.

Oh. He looks down at the plate, swallows around the lump in his throat. The space between them widens.

It unfortunately grows larger still when it turns out Aemond only brought one bedroll. Luke had seen it tied to the back of the saddle but thought nothing of it until Aemond rolls it out beside the fire. He pauses where he stands over it, hands flexing at his sides, the muscles in his jaw working over and over, until finally he turns to look at Luke.

Luke’s breath hitches. Aemond’s face is mostly shadowed, the flames flicker behind him. He swallows, unsure what Aemond is going to say after so long silent… but instead he just gestures flippantly at the bed roll before turning and striding away into the trees.

Luke hangs his head, weaves his fingers amongst his hair and grips it tight, chews his bottom lip anxiously. He can’t break whatever this is, can’t cross the invisible line that Aemond has drawn for them, but gods does he want to. He wants to run after him into the trees, demand to know what he’s thinking, grab his arm and swing him around until he has no choice but to meet Luke’s eyes and just fucking speak.

He kicks out at the dirt before he stands to move to the bedroll. There’s no point in sitting miserably waiting for Aemond’s return, and frankly he’s tired once more, all the way down to his bones. The events of their morning, their fight during the day, the endless riding and the insidious silence have all taken their toll.

He’s nearly asleep, soothed by the fire and tucked under heavy woollen blankets that scratch at his chin when he moves, his hand firmly wrapped around the medallion that still hangs from his neck for some attempt at comfort, when he hears Aemond’s boots snapping nearby twigs. He expects him to maybe sit back on the log, keep the distance between them… so he’s completely thrown when he feels him settle down behind him.

Luke forces himself to keep his eyes closed despite the urge for them to open, tries to keep his breathing calm and regular even as his heart thunders violently in his chest and nerves prickle unpleasantly under his skin. Aemond doesn’t move much, just a handful of small adjustments until he stills behind Luke, not touching even though Luke can feel the line of his side down his back.

Time drags on, the tension is thick and coiled, and then.

“My grandsire.”

Luke’s eyes fly open, his entire body freezes. It’s the first words said in too many hours and Aemond’s voice sounds hoarse and croaky from disuse. He takes a slow breath, makes sure he’s not dreaming with a slight pinch to the back of his hand, before he rolls onto his back.

Aemond lies on his own, his arms crossed over his stomach as he stares up at the sky above, the stars that glimmering between the towering trees. His eyepatch is missing, once more leaving behind those angry red lines over his pale skin, the glinting sapphire the only eye that Luke can see as he chances a glance at him out of the corner of his own.

He’s just about to ask what he means when Aemond continues, clearing his throat before speaking. “He was the one who convinced my mother of our fate. Of what my sister would do to us.”

Luke’s eyes widen. Ser Otto Hightower. The Hand of the King. His great-grandsire through marriage. Closest friend and confidant to King Viserys.

That Otto Hightower. The one whom Mother had delivered her plans to personally at the end of that fateful dinner in Kings Landing, given with a smile of reassurance, a thankful nod and a murmured agreement.

The implication lies heavy between them.

Luke understands the silence now, understands Aemond’s need for it. It pains him to think that this is what he has been thinking of all day, trying to understand it himself, even rationalise it in a way that could mean anything but the obvious, and Luke blinks back the stinging feeling in the corners of his eyes as he slowly reaches out to place a hand overtop of Aemond’s own.

He flinches at first, his hands starting to move away from under Luke’s touch, but then they still and Luke fingers grip Aemond’s own as tightly as he dares.

“I hate to be the reasonable one of the two of us,” Luke murmurs, “but perhaps we’ve spent all our childhoods at the mercy of adults who let their personal vendettas and ambitions out through the children they were meant to protect.” He hears Aemond’s breathing stutter, and he squeezes his hands. “All they taught us was to hate and fear one another.”

Aemond huffs, and Luke turns his head to the side, catching the way the fire flickers over Aemond’s sharp profile. “Who is to say we didn’t learn that ourselves?”

Luke doesn’t answer for a moment, just runs his eyes over the straight line of his nose, the full plump of his lips, his jutted chin before lingering on the deep scar he can see so plainly and the glittering sapphire where it remains in place of an eye that had been coloured just as deep.

“We weren’t always like this.” Luke smiles softly when Aemond turns his own head, meeting Luke’s gaze with a raised eyebrow and a disbelieving look. “We used to be friends once.”

“Friends?”

“Friends.” Luke nods, tapping his fingers on top of Aemond’s own. “Like when we used to sneak into the gardens in the middle of the night and chop the heads off all of Otto’s precious roses?” He sighs, their high-pitched giggles so real even now. “Just because he yelled at us for dragging dragon dung through the throne room.”

“Carnations,” Aemond murmurs, and Luke feels a swoop in the bottom of his stomach as he sees a ghost of a smile on Aemond’s lips. “They were carnations.”

Luke’s grin hurts his cheeks as he shuffles a little closer to Aemond, mindful that it twinges his side. “And then we hid in the cook’s pantry when he found out.” He huffs. “He was so mad I thought we’d have to stay there for weeks.”

“We could’ve survived too with how many fruit biscuits the scullery maid snuck us,” Aemond points out and Luke can’t help but giggle.

“What about when we used to spy on our older brothers?” Aemond’s lips twitch and Luke continues eagerly. “I still remember Aegon’s first attempts at sneaking whores into his room.”

Aemond’s laugh is more of a bark but he looks clearly amused, his eyes starting to crinkle at their edges. “I had to hold my hand over your mouth to stop your snickering giving us away.”

Luke shakes his head. “He didn’t even dress them differently, Aemond. It was beyond obvious who they were.” He laughs again, feeling giddy. “And then my father found him before he could close the door.”

Aemond snorts. “I didn’t expect Ser Laenor to try and give him advice.” He sighs, a hand reaching up to cover his face as if embarrassed. “Use the tunnels, lad, they’re much more subtle.”

Luke sees flashes of his father’s amused face, the laughter at the edges of his smile, the disappointment on Aegon’s face and relief on Jace’s when Laenor had simply escorted the whores away with a few pennies for their troubles.

“Or what about when we would use those secret passages between each others rooms?” Luke remembers, and Aemond hand falls away to show a soft look on his face. “My mother was always surprised to find us all sleeping in the same room when she had bedded us down on the other side of the castle.”

The memory of being squished between Helena and Aemond is a fond one, of hearing Jace and Aegon whispering secrets of the court at the end of the bed while the rest of them slumbered. It makes Luke’s insides glow honey warm.

“Helena still kicks in her sleep,” Aemond muses, and Luke ducks his head to press to his shoulder, his own shaking with barely repressed laughter. “Aegon never stops whinging about it.” His hand suddenly flips, gripping Luke’s back. “At least the two of them don’t cling as you used to. I felt like I couldn’t breathe some nights.”

Luke shoves him gently. “Says you who used to mutter in High Valyrian all night long.” One of Aemond’s hands falls down to pinch at his hip, and Luke bats him away.

“Careful, byka āeksio,” Aemond scolds him lightly, and Luke feels a weight fall off his chest at hearing that terrible nickname again. “I could call Vhagar down to smite you where you sleep tonight.”

Luke raises his head to meet Aemond’s eye, his heart jumping when he sees a fond smile has curled over his lips. There’s a long pause where they look at one another, noses almost touching, their hands linked and the air thick with a new kind of tension. Aemond swallows, Luke’s eyes drawn to movement of his throat bobbing, before he meets Aemond’s intense gaze again.

But then Luke blinks and the moment is gone. Aemond turns his head away and Luke feels like he takes all the air with him as a strange feeling he isn’t sure he’s felt before curls its way into the space between his heart and ribs.

“That’s all in the past,” Aemond murmurs, and Luke frowns when he lets go of his hand. “Memories from a different time.”

“They don’t have to be.” Luke can’t help but feel like he’s grasping at straws, his voice breathy with a lilt of desperation. “Aemond-”

“Lucerys.” Aemond’s voice is sharp, and Luke’s mouth snaps shut. “Go to sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

He rolls over, Luke’s hand falling down into the sudden gap between them, his fingers curling around empty space. Luke stares at Aemond’s back, a lump in his throat, his eyes burning, his heart weak and slow as he feels he might choke on the roar of emotions swelling in his chest.

He opens his mouth, Aemond’s name on the tip of his tongue… before he slowly closes it again.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs instead, not surprised when Aemond remains silent.

Chapter Text

Despite how they left one another the evening before, the next day passes with less uncomfortableness than the first.

They don’t talk much besides the odd comment here and there. Luke wakes alone only to see Aemond saddling their horse with their packed bags at his feet. A small meal has been left out for him that he dutifully eats, and Aemond murmurs a quiet morning greeting to him when he joins him at the mare’s side before they’re well on their way, the sun casting shadows through the trees that lead them back to the main path.

They plod along at a genial pace, Aemond sometimes walking alongside their horse instead of riding her with Luke. It’s only fair, after all horses aren’t meant to carry two people for a long period of time, however Aemond’s contemptuous face when Luke had offered to walk as well had closed the door on that idea, and he feels a little self-conscious riding alone until one of his dismounts leaves a horrible cramp in his side that has him clinging to the mare until it subsides.

Aemond looks a little triumphant when Luke begrudgingly agrees perhaps walking is a bad idea. It makes Luke roll his eyes and pout, although where he can’t be seen.

Their almost leisurely speed is influenced greatly by the knowledge their shortcut through the Kingswood will take them only a handful of days to reach Highgarden. There’s a certain sense of urgency of course, especially with the threat of Borros Baratheon still lingering in the air, but Luke has a feeling he’s not alone in thinking maybe the world and their families can wait for just a while longer before hearing from them.

Thankfully though it seems that each step they take, the tension begins to slowly slip from Aemond’s shoulders. Luke wouldn’t dream to imagine that they’re more than just reluctant allies, not on Aemond’s side at the very least, but he wishes that they were. He wasn’t jesting last night when he said the memories didn’t have to stay as such, that they could be friends at the very least… if not more.

His traitorous heart lets out a stutter at the thought that Luke has to force himself to ignore.

Because what in the name of the gods is he thinking?

He’s distracted though when he feels a pull in his bond from Arrax, a tug deep down in his core that nearly leaves him breathless. It makes his grip his chest, drawing Aemond’s attention as he pulls the mare to a halt, but Luke doesn’t have time to explain before he hears the faraway cry of a dragon above.

He looks up just in time to see a brief flash of pearlescent white between the early morning clouds, a glimpse of a golden chest glinting over the rising sun, and he smiles knowing his dragon is near. He doesn’t call for him, just sends swells of fondness down their bond and a gentle nudge for him to fly on. Arrax will draw attention to their position and though it pains him to send him away once more, how he imagines losing a limb might be like… he knows it’s a necessity.

“That was reckless,” Aemond scolds him, and Luke glances over to see him frowning up at the sky, his lips pressed into a tense line. He opens his mouth but Aemond starts walking again before he can say anything, his expression shuttering back into something more like his usual passiveness as he pulls their horse along with him.

It makes Luke wonder whether Aemond can feel Vhagar the same as he feels Arrax. He doesn’t know if there is much of a difference between a birthed bond and a bond claimed, perhaps it makes sense for there to be so, but Aemond doesn’t look like he’s willing to discuss it and Luke allows the moment to pass without much more attention.

Eventually, when the sun finally reaches its height in the sky, Luke lets out a deep sigh and sags forward to rest his aching head down against the mare’s mane. She lets out a snort and tosses her head, almost dislodging him, but Aemond’s hand presses against her neck to soothe her quietly. Luke eyes trail along his arm, noting the part of his coat sleeve where the sword from their escape had sliced it in half, now neatly stitched with matching black cotton, and he wonders how the wound is beneath it. Aemond probably wouldn’t tell him even if he asked, so Luke shifts instead to watch the way those long pale fingers scratch blunt nails through the horse’s short brown hair.

He thinks of his own, dirt stuck under the nails and streaked across his palms. They match the rest of him, the dust from travel no doubt thick behind his ears and stricken through his greasy hair. He wrinkles his nose at the thought of what he must smell like, how filthy Aemond must think he is, enough so that he feels brave enough to voice his concerns aloud.

“If we come across a river or something,” he murmurs, his voice slightly muffled by the tough hairs of the horse’s mane scratching against his cheek, “may we stop? I could use a bath.”

He turns his head just slightly to see Aemond looking back at him with an amused look, smug and sarcastic in a way that makes Luke’s chest tighten. “A bath?” he asks, and Luke refuses to get excited when he hears the slight teasing lilt in his uncle’s tone. “Apologies, byka āeksio, are the traveling conditions not up to your standards?”

Well aware that he could lose this Aemond if he is to say the wrong thing, Luke just arches his eyebrows at him and lets out an overly sanctimonious sigh. “Not at all,” he says. “I expected better from a Prince of the Realm. Truly appalling.”

Aemond shakes his head but his lips have twitched up slightly at their edges into something resembling a smile. “A terrible oversight on my part.” He pats the mare’s neck, his hand moving dangerously close to Luke’s head, fingertips just brushing the ends of Luke’s hair. “I’m sure something can be arranged.” His hand stills. “Your wound should be tended to also.”

Luke purses his lips, dreading being poked and prodded again even if Aemond is surprisingly gentle about it. He doesn’t argue though, reluctantly ready to acquiesce to that particular torture if it means being able to scrub the grime from his body, and he gives Aemond a nod of agreement.

The Blueburn river runs right through the Kingswood, a branch of the Mander river that starts back at the Mouth of the Mander in Highgarden and runs straight north to Tumbleton. Luke vaguely remembers from his teachings in his youth that Grassy Vale, home of House Meadows, is located on the riverside, and he doesn’t doubt that is the way they are heading. After all, the path they currently walk is more of a beaten down track, formed from thousands of people in the past taking this same shortcut. However, while this route is rustic and overgrown, the path from Grassy Vale down to Highgarden is a proper road for travel between vassal houses in the Reach, a trip of barely a day and a half if in their favour.

He makes a note to ask Aemond about it more later, deciding it’s not that important at the moment as they finally stumble upon the Blueburn. They’ve heard the occasional brook babbling alongside the path, a zig-zag of creaks and streams running in and out of the towering trees on either side of them, but none of them have been quite large enough for them to properly bathe in. Luke wouldn’t mind, if he’s honest, more than content with some sort of running water, but Aemond hasn’t seemed happy to settle for anything less than an actual river.

Luke grins as the the babbling brooks finally give way to a steady rush as they cross over a small hill, the large ribbon of water stretching out alongside the path on the other side, and he’s quite unable to help his excited laughter. He turns to share it with Aemond, only to see he’s already looking up at him, a strange expression on his face that Luke isn’t too sure he recognises or understands.

Not that it matters right now. “Can we?” Luke asks with delight, already starting to dismount. Aemond lets out a huff as he moves to help, guiding Luke with his hands on either side of his hips, and Luke’s stomach flips at the gentle touch, his cheeks burning.

“Like I can stop you,” Aemond mutters but Luke doesn’t pick up on any actual annoyance. He pats Aemond’s hands with a smile before he turns to the river, carefully crossing the slippery green grass and mossy rocks that spread over its banks. He’s sure Aemond wouldn’t let him live it down if he were to fall, but he manages to make it to the river’s edges with his dignity intact.

It doesn’t take long to shed his clothes, shucking them down to drape over the nearby rocks until he’s left in naught but his braies. He pauses with his hand on the waist drawstring, suddenly nervous at the thought of being naked in front of Aemond, but he quickly shrugs off the thought as he drops them before plunging straight into the river.

Only to hiss. “Shit,” he swears loudly, eyes widening at the sudden depth as water laps up around his hips and waist, “it’s fucking cold.”

He hears a bark of laughter behind him and he whirls around to see Aemond standing on the bank, looking much too gleeful of Luke’s misery. He barely resists the urge to throw him one of the rude gestures Jace taught him, instead settling for a foul glare but Aemond just seems delighted as he crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows at him.

“I would have thought the future Lord of the Tides would appreciate water no matter its state.” Aemond shakes his head when Luke pokes his tongue out at him, still looking amused. “How juvenile, byka āeksio. Did your mother not teach you manners?”

“No,” Luke snaps, and Aemond looks positively gleeful.

Annoyed, Luke narrows his eyes before he takes a step closer. He pauses for just a second, wondering whether Aemond is going to kill him for this, before he decides he doesn’t care as he crouches down in the river, only to drag up as much water as he can with his hands to splash Aemond.

With impressive aim.

The water hits Aemond’s legs and Luke all out cackles at Aemond’s undignified yelp as he scrambles back to try and avoid it. He nearly falls flat on his ass, slipping over the mossy rocks ungracefully, and Luke’s side hurts something fierce as he shakes with his laughter, deciding it’s worth it as Aemond gives him a most affronted glower.

“Brat,” he yells, and Luke just grins at him before he ducks down until he’s fully submerged, coming back up when he’s further out into river far away from Aemond’s fury.

At first he thinks he might be bathing alone as he scrubs at his greasy hair and dirty skin, wishing he had some soap or something to actually feel clean. He doesn’t hear Aemond moving to join him and tries not to get uncomfortable at the idea he might just be sitting and watching him, but his fears are alleviated when he hears a small splash nearby followed by the thunk of something hitting him in the back.

Luke turns around to see a snapped off piece of yellow soap bar floating in the water, and he glances up to see Aemond with one of his own where he’s standing not far from him. He’s removed his eyepatch and clothes, and Luke’s eyes catch on the endless expanse of pale skin, of the lean muscular curves to his body, the curtain of pure white hair that falls over his shoulder, the water that laps at the sharp angles of his hips. He pauses when he sees the cut on Aemond’s arm, the one from their escape, angry and red against the pallidness of his skin. There’s no stitches though, the wound mustn’t be deep enough to have needed them, and Luke is only interrupted from staring when Aemond clears his throat, raising his eyebrow when Luke’s gaze jumps to his.

Luke swallows, grabs the bar of soap, and promptly spins around again.

He scrubs himself with maybe a little more force than necessary, vigorously scratching the bar and his nails over his skin to an almost painful degree. A part of him is willing to acknowledge why, to admit that he’s trying to scour away these strange new thoughts that fill his mind, but the rest of him is determined to see it only as cleaning the days of fighting and travel from his body. He vehemently refuses to look back at Aemond despite his traitorous mind trying to convince him otherwise, determined not to give into that small part of him that’s growing impossibly louder.

To think these kind of thoughts… Luke just can’t.

The cold water soothes away the ache that had built in the back of his head, the hair there no longer matted from the blood and muck of Baratheon’s halls. He hadn’t thought to remove the bandages wrapped around his torso to protect his wound before he got into the river though, and the heavy weight as they soak up the water starts to get uncomfortable. Luke is unsure about taking them off himself though, wound care now one of the many things he’s making a note to read up on once he’s home, and he begrudgingly realises it means he’ll need Aemond’s help.

As reluctant as ever, Luke nervously rolls what’s left of the soap bar between his hands as he turns to trudge back towards the shoreline. Aemond is still in the river although he’s moved to recline half-submerged on a large rock, eyes closed and head tilted up towards the sun, and Luke can’t help but feel nervous as he wades through the water to him.

Aemond cracks open his eye as Luke approaches, his expression still carefully neutral. “Finished?”

Luke clears his throat and nods. “Thank you.” He holds up the sliver of soap when Aemond raises his eyebrows. “There’s only so much water can do alone.”

Aemond doesn’t respond to that, just inclines his head towards Luke’s side. “Ready for me to look at your wound?”

Not at all, but Luke won’t dare say it. He just mumbles a hesitant agreement before Aemond stands, clearly not sharing Luke’s own insecurities as he leads the way out of the river. Luke flushes and averts his eyes, rolling the soap even more frantically between his hands as he awkwardly follows along at a much more sedate pace, trying not to groan as Aemond’s back is reflected behind him on the stunning clear water.

Gods help him.

Surprisingly, Aemond hands him a blanket before he is even out of the water, and Luke is quick to wrap it around himself. He hopes Aemond doesn’t notice the blush over his cheeks and he ducks his head as he scurries forward to sit on the rock Aemond gestures at, waiting until he’s seated before dropping the blanket down to pool modestly over his lap. 

If he does, he doesn’t comment, and Luke is thankful Aemond might just have some tact after all as he crouches down beside Luke. He’s at least pulled his own pants back on and Luke finds it’s much easier to focus now, even if it’s just in time to wince and grind his teeth through Aemond carefully peeling off his bandages.

He doesn’t really know what he’s looking at when he glances down to see his wound. It’s jagged and ugly, the mottled bruising around the stitches not something he would consider to be good, but Aemond doesn’t seem fazed as he gently prods around the stitches and wipes away the small amount bloody seepage for a moment before sitting back on his heels.

“It’s healing well,” he says, and Luke feels a rush of relief. “There doesn’t seem to be any sign of infection.” Aemond looks up, his sapphire glinting brightly in the sun yet paling in comparison to the deep blue of his eye. “You will still scar though. There’s not much that can be done for it in field medicine.”

Luke expected it. Truthfully, he’s already thinking about showing it off to Jace, cockily pointing out that he’s the first of the two to get a real battle scar. He knows he’s compensating, the fear of what the scar represents still sitting just below his skin, but having foolish thoughts is a welcome distraction from it.

Aemond disappears for a moment back to where he’s tied their mare up to a nearby tree, coming back soon enough with a small sack that reveals a collection of medical supplies. Luke can’t help the pang of inadequacy he feels for a moment, thinking of how while he languished in a silly tavern bed, Aemond was actually out preparing for their journey, but it’s soon washed away as Aemond pulls out a small glass jar and starts to carefully smear an ointment over his wound.

The odour of animal grease mixed with the too-sweet tang of honey is particularly unsavoury, and Luke isn’t sure how Aemond can be so close to it without pulling a face. He remains as impassive as always though, perfectly composed as he finishes with the ointment before wrapping Luke’s side once more with clean bandages, his fingers deft and measured as they grace over the sensitive skin of Luke’s stomach. Luke feels another swoop, his heart stutters, and he has to look elsewhere as Aemond pulls back with a satisfied look.

“Thank you,” he murmurs quietly, a hot flush on his cheeks as Aemond’s expression softens for a moment before he gives Luke a small nod.

Luke shuffles about getting dressed as Aemond packs the supplies away, hoping his blush hasn’t travelled down his neck and over his shoulders. Jace always used to laugh at him for it, and Baela would giggle even when Rhaena would scold them and tell him it was cute. It’s embarrassing, if Luke is completely honest, and he quickly shoves his scratchy tunic back on it hopes it will hide it.

By the time he’s finished and hung the wet blanket up to dry over a large enough branch, Aemond has fully dressed himself and found a perch on the largest rock in the small cluster nearby Luke pauses when he turns around, surprised to see Aemond has at some stage acquired a comb and now carefully runs it through his wet hair, straightening out the long white tresses with a practiced ease.

Luke’s own curls are wild and unruly, never once having been tamed by a brush. Mother used to try and Luke’s head smarts at the memory of her annoyed tugs and pulls. She gave up when Ser Harwin had kindly told her that it was no use, his amused smile infectious enough to calm Mother’s irritation into a laugh as she’d soothed Luke’s abused head with gentle hands. Luke’s eyes had lingered on Ser Harwin’s own curls, even more so when he’d gifted Luke a wooden wide-tooth comb, the symbol of a small hand under three joined rivers carved into its shaft.

He still has it, locked away in a small chest back on Dragonstone. He knows if he is to be caught with it, it will only spur on the rumours. To hold a symbol of House Strong… Luke must be insane.

He sinks down on a rock across from Aemond, drawing his legs up to sit cross-legged as he watches Aemond work the knots out of his hair with those clever fingers of his, undoubtedly formed from their few days of fighting and travel. It’s captivating how easily the comb glides through the fine straight hair, not even a sign of a wrinkle or bump down its long length. Luke envies him, admires him, and he fidgets with the medallion hanging back around his neck for a moment before dropping it against his chest with a sigh.

“This path,” he says, gathering Aemond’s attention, “won’t it lead us to Grassy Vale?” He shrugs a shoulder. “Is that a wise decision?”

Aemond stares at him for a moment before returning to his hair, sectioning off another handful to carefully work the knots out of. “House Meadows’ allegiance is to House Tyrell. If you are correct and the Tyrell’s are neutral, we should have no quarrel with them.” He combs the section of hair, the wet tips curling up just slightly at the movement. “In any case, I intend for us to skirt the towns. As long as we remain unseen, we should be able to pass through the Reach without much issue.”

Luke can’t help but huff, earning an indignant scowl from Aemond. “Says the one with white hair and a sapphire eye.” He leans forward when Aemond glances briefly at the hair draped over his shoulder. “Baratheon’s men could be anywhere, and you’re not exactly inconspicuous.”

Aemond crosses his arms over his chest with defiant glare. “I will not shave it.”

The thought of Aemond bald is an unpleasant one. Luke wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t say you should.” Aemond’s shoulders sag a little as if in relief. Luke stares at him as he tries to think of an alternative. Dying it won’t be easy without the proper materials, and getting Essos dye in the middle of Kingswood is clearly not an option. He doubts very much that Aemond would consider running dirt through it either to muddy its colour, however. “What about braiding it?”

“Braiding it,” Aemond repeats flatly, and Luke smiles.

“Yes, braiding it.” He mimes the hand movements in the air in front of him. “It will pull it back off your face so when you wear your hood it can’t be seen at all.” He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s a thought worth considering.”

Aemond looks like he’s doing just that as he moves onto the last few strands of hair to unknot. He doesn’t answer as he finishes, gathering all his hair to twist around his finger before letting it unwind as he drapes it over one shoulder. He fidgets with his comb for a moment, a nervous tick that looks strange on him, before he sighs.

“I wouldn’t know how.”

It takes Luke a second to understand. He frowns, but then he gathers that while Helena would have been taught braiding by her handmaidens as his own mother had, Aemond wouldn’t have had the same lessons. Braiding ones hair or fighting in the yard? Even a halfwit could see what a prince must do.

“I do,” Luke says, a little reluctantly. He doesn’t want Aemond to think any less of him than he already does, and when Aemond shoots him a frown of his own, Luke winces. “Baela and Rhaena taught us when we were children. I’m used to their curls but I’m sure straight hair is much easier to work with.” Luke reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “I never thought it would be a useful skill but… if you’d like…”

He trails off, feeling more of a fool than ever as Aemond just stares at him. He wishes he hadn’t spoken. Clearly Aemond is going to say no, if not ridicule him for being so girlish… so he’s completely floored when Aemond slowly nods his head.

“Okay.”

Luke’s mouth falls open then snaps shut again. “Okay.” He clears his throat before unfolding his legs. “I’ll just, uh, come to-”

But Aemond is already standing up and crossing towards him, his comb held tightly in hand that he thrusts out to Luke. Luke takes it with nerves rolling in his stomach, and Aemond stands staring at him for a breath-stealing minute before turning and sitting down on the ground in front of him.

Luke stares at the back of Aemond’s hair and wonders what the fuck he just agreed to.

Nevertheless, he shakes away his uncertainty as he shuffles forward on the rock until he’s bracketing Aemond in with his knees. He feels Aemond stiffen for a moment, the line of his back completely rigid, and it doesn’t ease as Luke starts to gently comb Aemond’s hair back from his face.

He only has a rough idea on what to do. Rhaena has always loved the braids she called a fish tail although Luke doesn’t really see the resemblance. It’s functional though and will easily be hidden down Aemond’s back so he sets to work, starting up at the the crown of Aemond’s head to ensure he gets all the slightly smaller hairs around his face.

They don’t speak for some time. Luke doesn’t mind as he focuses on the task at hand. Aemond’s hair is soft and silky, slipping between his fingers if his grip isn’t tight enough. He keeps getting the odd waft of lavender too, the lingering smell from the soap, and he finds himself resisting the urge to bury his face in Aemond’s hair and inhale the intoxicating scent.

“Do you miss them?”

Aemond’s quiet question drags Luke from his thoughts. He pauses for a moment, wondering who Aemond is talking about, only to smile as he braids the next strand across.

“Terribly,” he admits, thinking of Baela and Rhaena, wondering what they are doing, if they’re thinking of him too. He dreads to know what they must all think has happened to you. “They are like sisters to me.”

By marriage they are, even if Luke has always struggled to think of Daemon as another father. It’s not that he doesn’t love him, Daemon can be as caring as he is cruel, but Luke thinks that maybe one can have a few too many fathers after a while.

“Do you miss Helena?” Luke asks quietly. He thinks of his aunt, strange and mystical, always with a small smile on her lips and a faraway look in her eye. She has never been anything but kind to him, genuinely sweet in a way he’s doesn’t believe Alicent Hightower to be capable of. Out of the four siblings, he knows that Helena and Aemond were the closest.

“My sister most likely hasn’t noticed my absence,” Aemond murmurs, his voice surprisingly soft. “It has never been known how much of a grip on the present she has, so lost in her own world of garbled words and odd premonitions.” His shoulders sag forward. “Or perhaps she is distracted by her strange collection of bugs again. She has many of them.”

Luke’s lips tug upwards at the edges with fondness, not quite a smile but near enough. “I remember her bugs well. She loved showing us each new addition.”

“Aegon hates it.” Aemond huffs and Luke keeps a tight grip on his hair even as he shakes his head. “He never has been able to understand her peculiarities. He sees them as more of an obstacle or nuisance than anything else.”

Luke frowns. “But they are married.”

“Marriage does not have to mean more than a political arrangement, Lucerys,” Aemond scolds him, and Luke bites his lip in embarrassment. “My mother married them to prevent Helena from a betrothal to Jacaerys, to strengthen our line, and further ensure Aegon’s eligibility for the crown.” He says it so quickly, so matter of fact, that Luke nearly misses the first part about Jace. “There was never any consideration for either of their opinions of one another.”

Luke doesn’t pause his braiding even as his thoughts run a mile a minute. Jace and Helena? He vaguely remembers such chatter between Mother and Father when Joffrey was born. Why would Alicent be against such a solid match? It would have proven fruitful both politically and to strengthen the gaps between them?

“It’s a shame,” Luke mumbles, wrinkling his nose at the memory of Aegon’s dishevelled appearance and his wine-sour breath, if Helena’s terrible attempt at a speech at that last fateful dinner. “She might have been happier with Jace.”

“With Jacaerys?” Aemond snorts and shakes his head. “She would have been happier with anyone besides Aegon. Even a bastard from Flea Bottom.”

Luke purses his lips as he tries to hold onto the strands of hair as Aemond shifts about. “What about you?”

Aemond freezes beneath his hands once more, and Luke wonders how he manages to be so completely statute-like. It seems Aemond doesn’t even breath, his shoulders remain still, and Luke nearly pauses in braiding to see if he’s alright when Aemond lets out a huff of breath, shoulders sagging as he hangs his head slightly.

“I would have done my duty,” he says, the words almost wrenched from him, “but that is all it would have been. I love my sister, but she is not the one who has-”

He cuts himself off abruptly. “Aemond?” Luke prods, but Aemond just shakes his head once more.

“This conversation is pointless.” Aemond starts to pull away and Luke tugs him back by his hair, surprised when Aemond lets him do so without a response. He doesn’t continue though and Luke finds he’s growing tiresome of the sudden ends to all their talks. He knows that Aemond is a private man with a less than favourable opinion of him… but even so, surely they have begin to trust one another enough to finish a conversation. 

However, the silence just drags on and Luke eventually ties off the end of the braid with the leather tie Aemond passes him. It’s not as neat as it would be were one of Mother’s handmaidens to have done it, but it’s passable enough and will keep his hair off his face. He pats Aemond’s shoulders to let him know he’s done, and Aemond is up off the ground within moments, reaching back to smooth a hand down the fresh braid, pulling it forward to lie over his shoulder.

Admittedly, he looks different with a braid... but it’s a good different. Luke is afraid to acknowledge the way something warm and sweet swirls in his chest as he looks at Aemond, distinguished yet somber in his beauty, and he clasps his hands together as he nods at the braid on display.

“Happy?” he asks.

Aemond seems more focused on running his fingers over and over the fish tail braid, perhaps interested in the strange texture it must feel compared to the straight silk he’s used too. “It’ll do,” he says, and Luke tries not to smile.

There’s another pause, this one lengthier, before Luke clears his throat. “You know,” he says when Aemond looks up at him, blue eye bright in the sun, “you didn’t answer my question.” Aemond arches an eyebrow and Luke nearly shrinks away. “Do you miss Helena?”

Aemond stares at him, a strange conflicted look on his face. Luke wonders what he’s thinking, what could be running through his brilliant mind, until Aemond smiles.

It’s not a big one, just a twitch of the corners of his lips, but his eye crinkles just slightly and there’s something genuine and fond there.

“Terribly,” he says.

Making camp that night is much easier than it was the first time.

Luke knows what to expect at least. As before, Aemond directs them off the beaten path, leading their horse on foot as they weave through the trees to find somewhere a little more appropriate. Luke wouldn’t have a clue what exactly he’s looking for, but apparently a small space between the dense trees is good enough as he pulls their mare to a stop and hangs her reins over a nearby tree branch.

After a growing-easier dismount, Luke is quick to help find stray bits of twigs to hand off to Aemond, a warm glow in the pit of his stomach when his uncle gives him something close to a grateful smile. After it seems he’s retrieved enough, Luke returns back to their horse to brush her down and remove her saddle, scratching her behind the ears and offering a few handfuls of leaves he rips off from some of the nearby trees.

She’s beautiful, her chocolate brown fur darkened from the sweat of the saddle, her long black hair dramatic as it drapes down her neck. He makes sure to brush up over her withers, especially where the saddle might have rubbed against her, scratching her with his blunt nails as she lets out a delighted huff and leans into him.

Luke smiles as he runs a hand down the length of her white nose, brown eyes blink back at him, and Luke nearly doesn’t want to leave her side as he heads over to join Aemond’s.

But another plate of food awaits him, and Luke sinks down onto the blanket Aemond is sitting on with a sigh.

“We should name her.”

Aemond glances at him out of the corner of his eye, his mouth full of the dried meat he’s set out for them. He swallows, the bob of his throat slow and hypnotising, and Luke looks away a little guiltily.

“Why?”

Luke tears a piece of meat in half. “Why not?”

“She’s a horse.” Luke raises his eyebrows and gives Aemond a disbelieving look. “She doesn’t need a name.”

“And Vhagar is just a dragon,” Luke muses, and Aemond lets out a huff beside him, “yet she has a name all the same.”

Aemond shakes his head. “That’s different, byka āeksio, and you know it.”

Luke doesn’t argue, just chews thoughtfully on his piece of dried meat. Of course comparing a horse and a dragon isn’t fair but the principle remains the same. He remembers his father, his fondness for horses, and he can’t help but feel inspired.

“You know, my father’s first horse was a gelding,” Luke starts after a few moments have gone past, once their plates are half empty and the fire has grown to cast them in a warm flickering light. “He was a dapple grey that he found in one of the markets on Driftmark.” He looks at Aemond. “Father said he saved him from being shipped off to Kings Landing, not that my grandsire was too impressed. He isn’t terribly interested in much that isn’t ships.”

It seems like Aemond isn’t listening to him, but he’s turned his body slightly towards him despite facing the fire and Luke knows his attention is on him. He prods a finger at the slices of apple on the edge of his plate before continuing.

“He rode Seasmoke more but he loved his horse just as much.” Luke’s smile is wistful, wondering about a time when his father was young and carefree, where he used to ride across the short plains of Driftmark without a thought to his future. “He named him ‘Jelmys’.”

“Wind,” Aemond translates softly.

Luke nods. “Swifter than the wind, he said. He told me he never had a horse like him again.” He glances over at the mare where she grazes, all grace and power yet faster than she looks. “Maybe we could call her ‘Jelmera’.”

Aemond shifts to look at him. Impassive as usual as he stares at Luke, and Luke offers him a small shrug. He can’t read the look in Aemond’s eye but his uncle slowly shakes his head again.

“Jelmera.”

Luke grins. “It’s no Vhagar or Arrax, but it suits, no?”

Aemond’s gaze slips past him to look at the mare, staring at her a moment before he sighs. “As you wish, Lucerys.”

They fall back into silence, strangely comfortable now. Luke finishes the food on his plate before placing it down on top of Aemond’s own. He thinks about putting them away but doesn’t want to break the companionable moment, relieved that maybe… just maybe they’ve finally found a fragile balance.

Then.

“What is it like?” Aemond asks, voice oddly soft and restrained. “Your bond with Arrax.”

Luke frowns, surprise making his heart leap as he glances over at Aemond. He’s not looking back though, his attention firmly fixed on the fire and his jaw clenched tightly enough that Luke can see the muscles working. He opens his mouth, ready to respond, but then closes it straight away.

Because… shouldn’t he know?

Luke isn’t entirely sure why Aemond would ask such a thing. Vhagar is his bonded dragon, would that not mean that they share a bond such as the one Luke has with Arrax? But then again, Luke himself had wondered quite recently if there was a different between a birthed bond and a bond claimed… if Aemond didn’t feel Vhagar.

Perhaps now is the time to find out?

“It’s like…” Luke trails off, trying to put his thoughts into words. He reaches out briefly, feels the bond where it’s tethered between himself and Arrax, the rush of yearning and confusion that flows back, the whisper of mourning that weaves through that unique tie. He tries to sooth Arrax from this far but knows there’s only so much that can be done for their separation. “It’s as if we are two sides of the same coin.”

There’s a pause. “Poetic,” Aemond murmurs, and Luke thinks he hears something dangerously close to envy in his tone.

He continues nevertheless. “Arrax hatched only nine months after my birth, faster than Vermax and Tyraxes.” Luke shrugs a little helplessly, struggling. “I don’t recall a time without him… he’s just always been there.” He purses his lips and reaches up to twiddle with the medallion around his neck, rolling it between his fingers. “I feel everything he does, and he feels everything I do. Even now as I sit here I can hear him calling to me, wondering why I’m keeping us seperate. If I send even the slightest hint that I want him here, he will be at my side within moments.”

Aemond doesn’t say anything, and Luke hesitates when he sees how taunt his fists are where they rest on his knees, the whites of his knuckles standing out against his skin.

“He’s a part of me,” he finishes quietly though, and he doesn’t mistake Aemond’s flinch, “as I am a part of him.”

The air is thick with a tension Luke couldn’t dream to cut, viscous and suffocating as it surrounds them. He swallows around the lump in his throat, unable to tear his eyes away from Aemond, over the tense hold to his shoulders, that set jaw and those tight fists… the cracks in his impassive mask.

“Is…” Luke’s hand clenches around the medallion until the edges bite into his palm. “Is it not the same for you and Vhagar?”

The laugh that spills from Aemond’s lips is jagged and rough. “No,” he says, sounding agonised and amused all at once. “Not in the slightest.”

Luke’s mouth falls open with shock. He didn’t think, hadn’t thought to think that it would be so different for Aemond. Surely it is odd for it to be so? Surely a bond should be forged no matter the kind of claiming?

“I don’t understand,” Luke murmurs, worried every word might be the one to make Aemond’s jaw snap. “How?”

Aemond surprises him by drawing his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them firmly as his hands grip his thighs. For a man so tall and intimidating, he can twist himself into being so surprisingly small. It makes Luke’s chest ache, the urge to reach out and draw Aemond into his arms nearly strong enough to bring action.

“I am Vhagar’s fourth rider,” Aemond mutters into his knees as he rests his chin on them, “that we know of. She was fifty at the time of Aegon’s Conquest, she may very well have had a rider before Visenya Targaryen.” He pauses briefly. “I believe at this point, Vhagar would not notice if I perished.”

“Of course she would.”

Aemond huffs. “Your optimism is endearing, Lucerys, although misguided.” He turns his head slightly until Luke can meet his gaze. “She is a dragon born of fire and blood, even named after the Valyrian God of War. I offer her nothing of the life she yearns for.”

Luke narrows his eyes. “And my aunt did?” Aemond’s mouth opens but Luke persists. “What of the twenty-nine years between Visenya’s death and Baelon claiming Vhagar?” At Aemond’s taken aback look, Luke sighs. “I have learnt our history well, Aemond. Vhagar has spent many of her years at peace, more than content with it too. Do not think she will only care for you if you bring her naught but war.”

Aemond’s mask is long gone, replaced by something Luke can’t begin to understand. There’s too much happening, too many emotions raging through that single blue eye, stricken across the lines of his face, that Luke’s chest aches in sympathy for what must be thundering in Aemond’s own.

“Our bond is not as yours and Arrax,” he whispers, almost distraught. “I cannot feel her emotions so clearly. She is but a shadow lurking at the edges of my mind.”

Luke doesn’t stop himself as he reaches out to place a hand over Aemond’s. “And yet, if you call, she will answer.”

Aemond stares at him, his eye glinting too much and his bottom lip trembles just once, his usual facade shattered by pure doubt. It breaks Luke’s heart, something he never thought would happen in sympathy with Aemond of all people… and yet here they are. It would be all so surreal were Aemond not warm and solid beneath his hand, were they not grounded in this moment together.

And then suddenly Aemond laughs, bright and loud, his shoulders shaking as he throws his head back, and Luke stares at him utterly bewildered until he hears it.

Vhagar’s roar.

Luke’s on his feet in a second, unsure what to do as he tilts his head back for any sign of her. The roar wasn’t close, just a faint sound swallowed up by the echo of the night above, but then he sees her… a dark form high in the sky, blocking out the patches of stars as she glides along above them.

She’s here. Vhagar is here.

Luke swallows as he looks back down to see Aemond looking up too, his laughter so carefree and joyous, bubbling out of him to match the beautiful grin that’s stretching out over his lips, his glinting eye so brilliant in the glow of the campfire as it casts him in the softest of lights.

He’s breathtaking.

And Luke is fucked.

Chapter Text

They manage to slip through Grassy Vale unnoticed.

The return to a semblance of civilisation is jarring. Luke feels uncomfortable at the sight of the approaching outer villages, the memory of battle fresh in his mind and the ring of clashing swords mixes with the sounds of living. His wound twinges even as its better now, enough so that he rolls his eyes when Aemond attempts to help him down off Jelmera like a dame. He manages on his own now, choosing to ignore the pull in his side whenever he swings his leg over Jelmera’s side.

Truthfully, the thought of Aemond’s hands on either side of his waist sends his heart into a tizzy, his cheeks run hot with a flush that spreads down his neck, and he doesn’t think he wants to know his reaction were they to actually hold him once more.

However, they enter Grassy Vale both astride Jelmera, mutually agreeing that it would be better if they are in need of a quick getaway. Luke tries not to focus on the hot expanse of Aemond’s chest where it presses against his back, nor his arms where they wrap so easily around him to hold the reins. It’s embarrassing how it makes him feel, made worse when Aemond leans his head forward to speak, his breath ghosting across the shell of Luke’s ear.

“We shouldn’t need to stop,” he murmurs, and Luke fights the chills that roll down his spine, “Grassy Vale offers little.”

“Not even a night in a proper bed?” Luke asks teasingly, only to resist the urge to strike himself across the face. He’d struggled the night before lying so close to Aemond, feeling the length of his body beside his… to add a bed into it?

He needs to get a grip of himself.

Luckily, Aemond takes it as the joke he was aiming for. Luke can’t see much of his face with his hood drawn up, but he can feel the slight rumble against his back as Aemond lets out a deep chuckle before pulling away from him. It gives him room to breathe again, and Luke focuses in front of him as the road changes from the half-overgrown track into a more maintained path.

The inhabitants of the town barely give them even passing looks as they travel around its outskirts. Grassfield Keep looms high up over top of the vale, poking out above the town with a quaintness one wouldn’t associate with such a castle, a stark contrast to the imposing Eyrie in The Vale. The Reach has always been known for its stunning landscapes, endless fields, and luscious greenery. The wildlife that roams its plains have called the attention of Kings Landing and its courts for years. Luke remembers many a trip hunting with his father and his entourage, even if he and Jace were too young to participate.

The town is sprawled out enough that it takes a bit of time to pass through. Luke can’t help his uneasiness from growing, sure that this is all too simple. House Meadows is in no way in league with House Baratheon, but even so there must be some of Baratheon’s men up this way if they’d passed them while they rested after leaving Storms End. Luke knows for a fact that Borros wouldn’t send only the handful of men they’d encountered, he has too much at stake to warrant only a half-hearted attempt to recapture them, so surely some of his men would have made their way here by now.

Yet nothing sinister stirs and soon they’re striding out the other side of Grassy Vale. Luke turns slightly in the saddle to look back, unable to help his puzzled frown, and he glances up to see Aemond watching him with an amused look.

“What?” Luke demands, although Aemond just shakes his head before he reaches up and turns Luke’s head back forward with two gentle fingers pressed to his jaw.

“I can feel how tense you are, byka āeksio.” His hand lingers for a second before falling back down to the reins. “We are not being followed.”

Luke sighs and leans back into Aemond’s chest. “You cannot tell me you don’t think this is all a little too… easy.”

Aemond huffs. “No, it is. However I doubt that there are any of Baratheon’s men waiting to attack us in broad daylight in the middle of a congested city. No.” He spurs Jelmera forward with a nudge of his heels, easing her into a slow trot. “If they are here, they will be lying in wait somewhere inevitable and isolated.”

Luke doesn’t like how calm Aemond is about it, but then again what use is there worrying about something that, as he said, could very well just be inevitable. While the Reach is not know for its bandits, there are still a hundred different places where one could hide and wait for some unsuspecting prey to come along. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he wishes he was holding his bow in hand instead of having left it hanging off the back of Jelmera’s saddle.

The thick forest they’d passed through prior to the town has given way to the rocky hills of the vale, slate grey and lush green spreading out far and wide through moss-covered craggy rocks. The path they now follow leads down to the rolling plains below, scattered with a smatterings of trees while the widening Blueburn river flows freely. It’s beautiful, the envy of Westeros, but all Luke can think is that it’s rather exposed. There’s not much cover, no real place to hide… it leaves them unsettlingly vulnerable.

However it’s just a day’s ride to Longtable though, and another to Cider Hall. After that, Highgarden will be barely a stones throw away. Surely there is not much left to hide from.

He’s so lost in thought that he misses the upcoming bridge at the bottom of the vale, only brought back to the moment when he feels Aemond’s arms tighten around him as he slows Jelmera down to a languid walk. Luke blinks around, turning to try and get a look at Aemond in confusion, but he only succeeds in catching the set of his jaw before Aemond nudges him back around.

“Be still,” he commands, and Luke starts to open his mouth in protest but Aemond continues. “Look ahead.”

He does as he’s told, his mouth snapping shut when he sees there’s a gathering of men around the bridge they’re approaching. Armed men, wearing colours of green and yellow.

Baratheons.

“Shit,” Luke swears, and Aemond lets out a scoff behind him. “What do we… what do we do?”

He glances around as subtly as he can, not surprised to see there isn’t another alternative route. The valley they’re in leads only to the bridge, the single connection between the vale and the plains on the other side of the ravine the bridge covers. If there was time, they might have been able to scale the walls of the valley and tried to find another way to cross, but that would require leaving Jelmera behind and it would be much too obvious now.

No. The bridge is their only way to leave the vale, and Luke swallows anxiously as his hands fall to cover Aemond’s, seeking comfort.

“We approach as normal,” Aemond mutters, his thumb brushing against Luke’s wrist. “If they recognise us, we fight. If not, we pass.”

He makes it sound so simple and it does nothing to quell Luke’s nerves. He knows that he is plain enough to blend in with his common colouring and peasant clothing, unassuming and easy to ignore. However while Aemond’s hair is well hidden by the braid and hood, if the Baratheon’s take notice of Aemond’s finer riding leathers or catch a glimpse of his eyepatch… it could be the end of them.

As they near the bridge though, he feels Aemond shift behind him, and Luke shivers when he feels Aemond’s breath tickle the back of his neck. He almost laughs at the thought that Aemond simply tilting his head will be enough to hide his identity, but it’s the best chance they’ve got as Luke switches their hands on the reins until he’s the one guiding Jelmera down the rocky slope towards the bridge.

The Baratheon soldiers aren’t exactly standing as if to halt them. Luke counts six of them, two sparring with each other using discarded sticks while four sit on rocks behind them jeering away, drinking cheerfully from wineskins. Their horses stand to the side, all grazing on whatever strips of grass they can find between the rocky gaps. The men don’t seem overly interested in Luke and Aemond as they approach, all too busy focused on the two sparring, and Luke hopes it will continue as Jelmera’s hooves leave the craggy path to clop over the rounded stone of the bridge.

But then.

“Oi oi.”

Luke stiffens as Aemond does, both of them rigid in the saddle as they reach the halfway point on the bridge, the ravine dark and endless beneath them. The call comes from behind, a jovial noise laced with a lilt of warning, and Luke’s hands begin to tremble.

“Aemond,” he hisses in question, and Aemond’s arms tighten around him.

“I said, oi.” The sound of swords being drawn from their scabbards rings through the air. “Halt.”

“Aemond.”

Aemond swears before he suddenly nudges Jelmera sharply in the sides, cracking the reins out from under Luke’s hands with a barked command. She lets out a loud whinny, rearing up slightly before surging forward, her hooves clattering over the rocks as she speeds up into a furious canter, leaving the shouting Baratheons behind them.

Luke’s eyes widen as he tightens his thighs on Jelmera’s sides, gripping on for dear life. “What the hell?” he cries as the wind whips around their faces, nearly swallowing his words. “What happened to fighting?”

Aemond’s chin presses sharply against the side of his head. “There’s too many of them!” he yells in Luke’s ear, nearly deafening him. “We can’t win on foot!”

“We can’t outrun them either!” Already he can hear the thundering of hooves behind them. Jelmera won’t be able to sustain the bruising pace Aemond is spurring her into, not with two of them on her back, and the Baratheons are sure to overtake them once they gain speed.

Suddenly, Aemond leans back from him, and Luke fists his hands tightly in the reins as Aemond abandons them. His legs remain behind Luke’s but the warm weight of his chest vanishes from against Luke’s back, and he can hear the jangling of their saddlebags. Whatever Aemond is trying to do, Luke hasn’t a clue, so he instead concentrates solely on keeping Jelmera on the path in front of them.

But then Aemond returns, a firm hand settles on Luke’s thigh, and his eyes widen when Aemond thrusts his bow out in front of him.

“Shoot them.” Luke stares in horror before turning his head back to see Aemond looking wild and unruly, his hood having fallen back with escaped white hair whipping about his face, his gaze determined and hard. “I need you to shoot them, Lucerys.”

Luke’s mouth falls open. “You cannot be ser-”

A horrendous roar from behind cuts him off, a reminder that the Baratheons are fast approaching, and Luke forces back his protests as his shaking hands accept the offered bow, Aemond taking the reins from him once more. He shakes his head as he stares at the weapon. He’s a decent shot but he’s not that decent, and Luke can’t help the overwhelming fear that bays at his heels.

“I can’t shoot behind us,” Luke points out even as he finds himself starting to twist around in the saddle, looking for an easy way to find a vantage point. Aemond’s other hand is still steady on his thigh, and he uses it to anchor himself as he shifts, ignoring the twinge it causes in his side, but there’s no way he’ll be able to shoot past Aemond. “Not from here.”

“Then get behind me,” Aemond orders and Luke’s eyes flicker up to see the tense set of his jaw. “I will not let you fall.”

Luke doesn’t doubt that, gods he doesn’t, but the thought of moving around on a galloping horse is genuinely terrifying. One slip and he will fall beneath her hooves, trodden into the dirt and left for the Baratheons to scrape up. He can feel his breaths start to quicken, his heart begin to race, his hands shake on the bow and he finds his sight starts to blur.

“Lucerys.”

He blinks and drags in a ragged breath. “Okay,” he gasps. “Okay. Okay.”

His legs feel heavy as he pulls his left one up over Jelmera’s neck to sling it over her side, thankful for the terrible excuse for a saddle they are riding on. There’s nothing to catch himself on as he balances entirely on Jelmera’s withers, Aemond’s firm grip now on his waist to keep him from falling, before he hooks his right leg around Aemond’s where it’s held fast by the stirrups.

Refusing to acknowledge the screaming doubt in his stomach, Luke wraps his right arm around Aemond’s belly, taking the bow with him before twisting to bring his left hand around to grip his other behind Aemond’s back. Aemond doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, the perfect anchor, and with a deep breath and a grunt, Luke throws himself sideways, twisting his right leg as he uses the steady momentum of his left to drag himself around behind Aemond.

It works, somehow it fucking works, and Luke pants furiously into the back of Aemond’s neck, the tip of the bow pressing painfully into his cheek, his side aching violently but he doesn’t care because it fucking worked.

“Holy shit,” he breathes and he lets out a giddy laugh.

He moves around again, letting go of Aemond with his bow as he easily shifts until he’s facing backwards, Aemond’s back rubbing against his own with each sway of Jelmera beneath them. He jumps when he feels Aemond’s arm snake around his stomach, holding him tightly as his arm twists awkwardly behind his back to do so. Luke feels more secure with Aemond’s hand bunched up in the waist of his shirt, and he steels himself as he reaches for the quiver banging against Jelmera’s haunches.

It’s easy to notch an arrow as Luke finally looks up to see the approaching Baratheons. They’re getting closer but are still far enough away that there’s a bit more time before they’re upon them. Not too far to be outside of Luke’s range though. Ser Harwin Strong trained him well.

Luke lifts his bow, drawing the string back to his cheek as he aims with a steady breath. The closest Baratheon is ahead of the others by some distance, maybe a hundred yards away. He’s moving, which makes it difficult, but Luke calms himself, slowing the rise and fall of his chest as he narrows his focus to just the one Baratheon.

He lets loose, the thwip of the arrow slipping free drowned out by the rushing wind. Luke watches with wide eyes as the arrow splits through the air… before the sharp cry signifying a target hit cracks out followed by the fall as the Baratheon slips from his horse’s back, crashing to the ground.

Luke lets out a whoop. “Got one!” he yells to Aemond, hoping he can hear him. Aemond’s hand squeezes his side and Luke’s laugh turns breathless for a moment. Elation fills his bones and Luke is quick to notch a second arrow, dragging it up and drawing back the string as he looks for his next target.

Shouts of alarm go out as the other’s ride past their fallen man, nearly trampling him in their haste. None pause though, and Luke drags in another bracing breath as he aims for the next one, the Baratheon on the left of their group. They’re close enough now that he can start to see their features, and he lets loose once more.

It misses, barely, streaking past the Baratheon as he narrowly ducks away. Luke swears and snatches for another arrow, quick drawing as he’d been taught, loosing it immediately. It strikes the Baratheon in the shoulder but doesn’t knock him from his horse, and Luke grits his teeth as he notches another arrow, his hands steady on the bow.

He keeps up the volley, aiming as best he can, taking in the strength of the wind and Jelmera’s movements. She starts to falter beneath him, slowing down with each step, her frantic huffing shaking her sides. The Baratheons ride dangerously closer, and Luke manages to knock two more from their horses and injure a second before they’re almost upon them.

“Aemond!” Luke calls, leaning back into him as one of the Baratheons urges his horse forward with a spittle-flying roar. Luke can almost see the whites of his eyes, track the curve of the sword he’s holding up in hand, and he hurriedly notches another arrow as the Baratheons horse reaches the back of Jelmera.

He lets loose just as the Baratheon draws up alongside them. His arrow only skims the Baratheon’s cheek though, and he brings his sword down at him is a cutting slice. Luke shrieks, throws his bow up to try and stop it, but metal rings out as another sword catches it before it can land.

Aemond pants heavily in his ear, and Luke’s eyes widen as suddenly he’s gone, seamlessly throwing himself off Jelmera to tackle the Baratheon soldier. Luke leans forward to try and stay on Jelmera’s back, Aemond’s support now gone as he clings to her rump. She doesn’t stop running and neither do the Baratheons. Luke eyes are caught on where Aemond is wrestling with the Baratheon soldier on horseback, the horse nickering with distress at the unexpected weight, while the other three Baratheons are almost right on top of them, pulling on the reins of their horses to slow them down.

“Shit,” Luke hisses as he reaches back blindly to grope for Jelmera’s reins. He finds them and hauls on them, calling out to her as she whines in protest. “Whoa, girl!”

Jelmera throws her head, nearly sending Luke off, but she stumbles into enough of a slower pace for him to spin on her back and straddle her properly. He turns her around with a nudge to her ribs and a yank on her reins, and soon they’re hurtling back towards the others.

Aemond is on the ground now, locked into a duel with two of the Baratheons while the last stays on his horse circling them. He’s fighting well, one of the Baratheon’s already injured from an arrow where it juts out of his thigh, and Luke spots an arrow buried in the shoulder of the one on his horse.

He reaches backwards for another, clinging desperately to Jelmera with only his knees as she canters below him. He draws back his bow as he aims for the circling Baratheon. One more hit should at the least knock him from his horse, and Luke lets out a long breath before letting loose.

It strikes him straight through the neck. Luke holds back another whoop as the Baratheon slumps straight over the side of the horse, his foot catching in his stirrup and leaving him hanging. It’s a gruesome sight, but Luke doesn’t care as he hurriedly grabs Jelmera’s reins and drags back on them to bring her to a halt.

They skid to a stop just as they reach Aemond. Luke dismounts as gracefully as possible, mindful of Jelmera’s stomping hooves. Aemond has dispatched one of the Baratheons, the wounded one now lying dead on the ground, but he’s still locked in combat with the other, their swords catching the sunlight as they clash over and over. Luke thinks to help, but it appears his uncle doesn’t need it as Aemond effortlessly spins around the Baratheon with a wild near excited look on his face.

Luke stares, unable to help himself. Aemond is flawless in his form, fluid and perfect as he anticipates each move his enemy makes before he does so. It’s obvious the reason Aemond is one of the best swordsmen in the kingdom, and Luke feels a flutter in his stomach as Aemond spins, his hair unruly and spilling from it’s braid, his eye glinting dangerously, his lips twisted up into a half-snarl, and he catches the Baratheon’s sword, twists.

And then it’s over.

Luke drags in an unsure breath as Aemond rips his sword from the Baratheon’s belly, the soldier slumping to the ground beside the others. Aemond stands over him, his shoulders heaving with his heavy breathes. Baratheon bodies litter the path in a mess of green, yellow, and red, and Luke winces at the chaos they’ve left in their wake.

He’s distracted though as suddenly Aemond snaps around. Luke nearly stumbles backwards as his uncle strides towards him, the dripping sword at his side and the hard set of his jaw intimidating enough to rival the fierce look in his eyes.

His hand is gentle though as he takes Luke’s chin, and Luke swallows as Aemond tips his head back until their eyes meet. “Are you alright?” Aemond asks him, and there’s a soft edge to the harshly spoken words that makes Luke’s cheeks flush.

“I’m fine.” He offers a smile that manages to ease some of the tension in the lines of Aemond’s face. He wraps his hand around Aemond’s wrist, his fingers pressing into the delicate skin of it’s underside. “Are you?”

Aemond’s lips twitch. “Fine.” His thumb runs over the angle of Luke’s jaw, Luke’s breath hitches at the movement. “They didn’t land a hit.”

Luke laughs. “Show off.”

They stay staring at one another for a moment before Aemond abruptly lets go, stepping back as he turns away from Luke. Not fast enough that Luke doesn’t see what he thinks might be a flush across Aemond’s cheeks… but surely it’s just from the exertion of battle?

Luke stays by Jelmera’s side as Aemond moves about between the Baratheon’s, poking at their bodies with his sword before crouching down and rifling through their pockets. Luke turns his nose up, not entirely sure he could bring himself to do the same, but Aemond doesn’t seem to share his concerns about desecration.

Then again, they did just try to kill them.

He turns to Jelmera. “Good girl,” Luke murmurs to her as he smoothes down the sweaty hair at her neck, scratching his fingers along the ridge of her mane. She leans into the touch and he smiles. “You did such an amazing job.” He leans forward to push his forehead against her jaw. “You could be a war horse if you wanted. No more dragging old men on wagons for you.”

He holds his hand out flat as she drops her mouth into it, nibbling her lips over his palm. Luke grins and presses a brief kiss to her cheek before pulling away, already deciding that when this is all over, there is no way he’s going to be rid of her. Wherever he goes, Jelmera is coming too.

He turns back around to see Aemond standing nearby watching him, an unreadable look on his face. Luke offers him a one-armed shrug with a sheepish smile, and Aemond shakes his head before he comes over and surprises Luke by scratching Jelmera up between her ears.

“She did well,” Aemond admits, and Luke lets out a delighted laugh.

Despite the gory scene around them, the two of them agree to take a short rest before continuing on. There’s no one in sight and the bridge has long since disappeared behind them. Luke hadn’t realised how far they’ve travelled past it, the whole ride clearly a bit of a blur, and as he slumps down on the side of the road beside Aemond, he’s thankful for the rest.

He lies flat on his back in the grass, staring up at the endless blue sky above him, while Aemond sits beside him and cleans his sword with a torn piece of Baratheon cloak. It’s peaceful and quiet as the wind whips around them. Luke starts slowly unwind, even as he feels the aches and pains starting to creep back in. His side in particular smarts something fierce, but he doesn’t need to look to know that the stitches haven’t burst, and there’s a slight headache pulsing between his eyes, the reoccurring soreness he’s felt since Storm’s End back with a creeping vengeance.

He glances at Aemond out of the corner of his eye, wondering how he’s faring. The two cuts on his face, forehead and cheek, are smaller than they looked at first. They’re just tiny fading scabs now. He hasn’t made any comment at all about any of the injuries he’s sustained since Storm’s End besides the occasional wince or falter. He’s strong, impressively so, and Luke hopes that one day he will be the same.

“If it will suit you better,” Aemond says suddenly, and Luke quickly looks away, hoping he hasn’t been caught staring, “we can take one of their horses from here.”

Luke frowns. “We can’t leave Jelmera.”

Aemond glances down at him with an amused look. “I didn’t suggest it. Merely that we take one of theirs as a second.” Aemond looks conflicted for a second before he returns to his sword, hair falling to hide his face. “It will quicken our pace to Highgarden.”

Luke doesn’t expect the lump that forms in his throat. Aemond is right, taking another horse will definitely shorten their travel and it will give Jelmera a rest from carrying them both. It’s also fairly obvious that he doesn’t need Aemond’s assistance anymore after this last battle. Luke’s wounds, while not fully healed, are no longer a hindrance.

Truthfully, he could call for Arrax. He could return to Dragonstone.

And yet.

“If that is what you wish,” Luke murmurs, his heart quickening and beating against its cage. “It is entirely your decision.”

The silence is thick with tension and Luke can’t bring himself to look at Aemond again. He just stares at the sky, watches the clouds drifting above, waits with a bundle of rampant nerves in the pit of his stomach for Aemond’s answer. He’s well aware of the implication here, of what this decision might just represent.

After all, Luke might play the fool, but he’s not as blind as he pretends to be.

“Jelmera is strong,” Aemond sighs, and Luke feels him shift until their thighs are pressed together where they sit. “I’m sure she is capable of carrying us all the way to Highgarden without need of another.”

Luke’s heart stutters. He fights to keep a grin from spreading over his lips as the warmth of Aemond’s thigh against his burns through him.

“I’m sure she is,” he agrees, glowing as Aemond hums beside him.

They make camp that night in the remains of an old one.

It’s a charm of the Reach, the many pre-made campfire sites for any weary traveller needing a place to rest. Luke has seen a fair few since they left Grassy Vale behind, simple patches of beaten dirt off the main road with a single circle of stones in the middle, often with the burnt left overs of a previous campfire.

The one they find when the road is growing too dark to follow is a few yards off the main road, just past the outskirts of Longtable. There’s already a couple of ashy logs sitting in the stone circle but there’s conveniently a small thicket of trees nearby that Aemond makes a beeline for. Luke is more than happy to let him tend to the firewood himself, turning his attention instead to Jelmera who is in well need of a decent groom.

The salt from the dried sweat on her coat comes off in little clouds as Luke brushes it out, rubbing her furiously in some of the denser spots and drawing out some head throws that remind him of when a dog kicks their feet. He takes special care this time, making sure to groom every inch of her, brushing her mane and tail carefully, picking out the packed dirt and debris from her hooves. Had he any oils, he would’ve wiped one on her hooves and brushed another through her mane, but such luxuries will have to wait for when they get to Highgarden.

As usual, by the time he’s finish, Aemond has set up their camp and readied their food. There’s some fresh fruit on the wooden plate that Luke is handed as he settles down beside Aemond, closer than he normally would as their knees bump, and he can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable knowing that Aemond pilfered it from the Baratheon saddlebags.

Although he had given a pillaged apple to Jelmera before they’d left the site of their battle, so Luke doesn’t begrudge him too much.

They eat in silence, listening to the crackle and pop of wood burning in front of them and watching the flickering flames. It’s comfortable, peaceful. Aemond’s elbow bumps against Luke’s arm and Luke’s knee digs into Aemond’s thigh. Neither of them move to put any space between them.

Luke thinks he wouldn’t mind lingering in this moment forever.

He pauses, the thought not exactly new but definitely stronger than it has been before. Were Luke in the habit of fooling himself, he might try to deny these thoughts that keep rearing up inside him. He might try to rationalise them into something else, or even pretend like they don’t exist.

But they do, they’re here, and they’re not going anywhere.

It wasn’t on the cards, these burgeoning feelings for Aemond. Luke doesn’t think he’s ever looked at him once and thought anything more than perhaps a begrudging respect. But things have changed, things have been changing since the moment he woke up in Storm’s End. Aemond has been different, honest, and Luke… Luke admires that.

But it leaves him sitting here now, knowing he might not be alone in these feelings but too terrified to maybe breach the idea. After all, he’s already betrothed and Aemond is too, even if he doubts the betrothal agreement with Borros Baratheon still stands. Marriage contracts aside though, they are both men, and while Aemond may not be indentured to the duty of producing heirs, as the future Lord of the Tides, Luke is.

Already the thoughts are too overwhelming, duty clashing with… Luke hesitates to say it.

“Did that belong to someone?”

Luke is jarred from his thoughts by Aemond, and he blinks them away as he turns to see Aemond watching him with a curious expression. It takes him a moment to realise what he’s talking about, assisted by Aemond’s pointed look at the medallion around Luke’s neck.

The medallion he’s been turning over and over in hand, a habit he doesn’t often lean into anymore, not after Daemon forbid him from wearing it. Mother hadn’t protested, even if she knew the significance of it.

Perhaps that’s why she didn’t.

He hesitates for a moment. There’s an easy answer here, a dismissal that it’s just a piece of jewellery his mother bequeathed him. Aemond would ask no more questions and the night would go on with him none-the-wiser. Luke knows thats the smarter option here, knows that he should be safe no matter how he feels towards Aemond, no matter how much blind trust and faith he wants to put in him.

But there’s also the true answer, and Luke is tired of lying.

So he lets go of the medallion for it to swing back down onto his chest and clears his throat. “It was my father’s.”

Aemond frowns and Luke’s heart thunders as he reaches out to pick it up. He holds it carefully in his hand, long thin fingers running over the jagged edges of the twists of metal. It’s not a beautiful piece of jewellery, in fact quite the plain and lacklustre representation of the class it came from, but it holds great sentimental value.

“It doesn’t look very Velaryon.”

Luke swallows. “It’s not.” Aemond raises his head and Luke steels himself, jutting out his chin with a shallow confidence. “It’s Ser Harwin Strong’s.”

Aemond freezes, his eye widens as it locks with Luke’s own. They hold each other’s gazes for a tense moment before Aemond rests the medallion back down on Luke’s chest and pulls away, crossing his arms over his chest as his expression shutters into that perfect impassiveness.

“So you do acknowledge him as your sire,” he says, his voice carefully measured, betraying nothing.

Luke nods slowly, holding Aemond’s gaze. “To myself. Sometimes with Jace.” He smiles slightly, fondly. “He was to us as Ser Laenor, after all. I feel lucky to have been graced with two fathers when some are unfortunate to have none.” He huffs. “Three, if I consider Daemon, which he most certainly does.”

The joke falls flat. Aemond’s mouth is a hard line, his stare becomes almost uneasy to hold. “To recognise him as such is treason. You know this.”

Luke shrugs. “I do. But he is gone now.” He touches the medallion, still warm from his grip. “What more can be done to him?”

Something in Aemond’s expression shifts, and Luke is surprised when his gaze softens. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, words Luke never thought to hear Aemond utter. “To lose them both so close together. It must have been hard.”

It was. Luke still feels the hole in his chest that will never close. “My mother tells me loss is the terrible price to pay for being loved.” His voice trips on the last word, his eyes flicker away from Aemond for just a moment before he continues. “I believe she misses Ser Harwin more than she leads us to believe.”

Aemond frowns. “But not Ser Laenor?”

Luke laughs, a strange sound mixed of genuine joy and heartache. “Oh. He’s not dead.” At Aemond’s stunned expression, Luke smiles. “Well, I don’t believe so anyway.”

He doesn’t expect Aemond to take his hand in both of his, cupping it gently as Aemond leans in with concern written in his eye and the lines of his face. It’s a gentle look, one that makes Luke’s heart quicken as he thinks that Aemond looks so… beautiful like this.

“Lucerys,” Aemond murmurs, voice carefully measured. “He was killed by Ser Qarl Correy. His body was shown to us-”

“As a burnt husk beyond recognition,” Luke interrupts, and Aemond’s mouth closes with a snap. “Hardly proof, isn’t it?” When Aemond just stares at him in disbelief, Luke just squeezes his hands and continues. “I could be delusional, it is entirely possible, but my father always spoke of freedom far away from the crown and its duties. He never wanted to be king.” He’s hit with a wave of grief, shocking and sudden. “He tired to teach me of the call to the ocean, but I don’t think he could ever ignore it himself.”

“Lucerys…”

“Besides.” Luke gestures vaguely with his other hand. “Seasmoke doesn’t appear to mourn him. He often disappears for weeks at a time. Perhaps he knows where my father really is.” He smiles at Aemond, aware that it’s tinged with maybe too much sadness. “I hope he is happy, wherever that might be.”

Aemond stares at him for a long moment before he lets go of Luke’s hand, pulling his own back into his lap. Luke mourns the loss, his fingers curling in on themselves as he fights the urge to reach out to take Aemond’s back. It vanishes though when he sees a sudden flash of betrayal flicker over Aemond’s face.

“Why would you tell me this?” he demands, almost angry. Aemond glances away, his jaw clenched as he shakes his head. “Were I to tell my family, you would all be hung for treason.”

Luke sighs. “But you won’t.”

Aemond turns a glare on him. “Be careful not to blur the lines here, byka āeksio.” His voice wavers, just slightly. “I am still loyal to my family and their cause.”

Luke smiles as he leans forward, brave enough to retake Aemond’s hands in his. He can feel the slight tremor in them, those slender elegant hands that fit perfectly in his, and he trails his thumbs across Aemond’s knuckles in a soothing motion.

“And yet not once have you attempted to steer us to Oldtown,” Luke points out softly, seeing the flicker of what he thinks might just be fear in Aemond’s eye. “Nor have you called on the banners of the Hightowers or abandoned me on Vhagar’s back.” He takes a steadying breath before he squeezes Aemond’s hands. “I trust you, Aemond Targaryen. I know you will do me no harm.”

Aemond swallows, the bobbing of his throat drawing Luke’s eye. It’s such a nervous movement, so uncharacteristic of him, but Luke can’t help but think it is just a sign that the boy Aemond tries so hide to smother is still a bigger part of him than he dares let on.

“How?” Aemond shakes his head. “After all this time, after all that has happened, how could you begin to… to trust me?”

Luke knows without even a shred of doubt that Aemond is talking about more than just trust, more than the faith that Luke is choosing to put in him. He looks into Aemond’s eye and sees himself reflected there, the thoughts that have been racing through his mind, the precipice they’re balancing on.

“Easily,” he says.

“Lucerys-”

“Luke,” Luke interrupts, and Aemond’s eye flashes. “You used to call me Luke.”

There’s a beat, a pause, and then Aemond lets out a deep sigh, his shoulders slumping with the movement as a crooked smile plays out over his lips, his eye twinkling with something akin to disbelief.

“Luke,” he murmurs, and Luke grins. “You truly are delusional.”

Luke huffs as he ducks his head, the seriousness of the moment broken with just those words. “You could be nicer,” he says. “Mother at least calls me a dreamer.”

Aemond’s hands remain in his and Luke hears the humour in his voice. “Perhaps my sister is too kind after all.”

Luke’s eyes snap up in surprise, but the realisation that its the first thing Aemond has said about Mother that isn’t an insult vanishes when he sees the sheer softness on Aemond’s face as he looks back at him, the upward curl of the edges of his lips and the slight crinkle of his eye.

Luke’s breath hitches in his throat, he swallows nervously, his eyes flicker to Aemond’s lips.

“Maybe you are right,” he breathes, unsure just what he’s saying, so swept up in Aemond’s open gaze. “But dreams are free.” He smiles as he leans forward just slightly. “You cannot begrudge me that.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Something shutters over Aemond’s face, and his smile suddenly turns sad as he pulls away. He takes all the air with him. The world sways underfoot as Luke feels lightheaded and uneasy, more so when Aemond gently places Luke’s hands back on his own lap before letting go of him entirely.

“No, Luke,” he says, and Luke’s heart thunders in his ears at how utterly resigned Aemond sounds. “I cannot.”

Luke’s mouth falls open but it’s pointless as Aemond turns from him, his shoulders hunched to his ears, and as he focuses instead on tending to the fire, adding another log as it crackles and spits at them… Luke tucks his shaking hands between his thighs.

Oh, he thinks to himself.

Perhaps not.

Chapter Text

Their last day before reaching Highgarden is the perhaps the most uneventful of them all.

Living up to its reputation of no bandits, the Reach passes by in an easy blur of rolling hills and colourful countryside. Luke doesn’t grow tired of the fields of wildflowers and the dramatic willow trees that litter the hills, taken in by the sheer beauty of it. Years of living on the craggy windy island of Dragonstone has deprived him of such, and even Kings Landing is just endless bustling city with nary a plant in sight. The well maintained Red Keep gardens were the only thing similar, and they pale in comparison to the Reach.

He imagines what it would be like to see Arrax flying over the plains. The light would catch his pearlescent scales and cast rainbows on the grass below. His reflection would be crystal clear on the water of the Mander river that winds through the land beside them.

It would be breathtaking.

The road is busying now as they get closer to Cider Hall, the track between it and Longtable more developed with a solid rock foundation beneath the dirt. Tired farmers in ox-pulled wagons pass, straw hanging from their lips as their farmhands usher sheep or cattle on foot behind them. Gaggles of women with flax-woven baskets on their hips and red flushes from the sun step aside for them with small smiles and cheery waves. Armoured knights baring the Tyrell’s rose sigil trot past on the backs of proud horses with their heads held high, regal and dramatic in all their glory.

They’re not recognised. Luke managed to convince Aemond into letting him braid his hair back again that morning and it’s once more hidden beneath his hood. Even still he remains behind Luke on Jelmera, tucking his face down each time someone approaches, and Luke doubts it would do much to stop any recognition were anyone truly interested. However the people in the Reach are far removed from the conflict of the crown and Borros Baratheon’s influence ended back at the border.

No one is looking for two lost Targaryen princes here.

They stop for a break and food when the sun has reached its peak. Cider Hall isn’t far away, the last town before they set out on the final stretch for Highgarden. They’ve reached more farmland now, small stone walls popping up alongside the road and further into the plains to mark out paddocks, the sheep inside grazing around wooden lean-tos and the willow trees the Reach seems to boast.

Luke perches up on top of one of the stone walls as he eats the pear Aemond handed him, his back to the road as he watches two billy goats where they line up to butt into each other amongst the sheep ignoring them, soaking in the warm bright sun. Aemond leans back against the wall beside him although facing the other way, his elbows resting on the stone, always watching, always weary. Luke wonders if he even sees the beauty in the Reach.

The goats clash, the sounds of their horns meeting cracking out over the paddocks. Luke shakes his head as they step away shaking theirs. “It would be a wonder of a place to live, don’t you think?” he muses aloud.

Aemond huffs beside him. “You only say that because you are a visitor, byka āeksio.”

Luke nudges him with his elbow, grinning when Aemond gives him an irritated look. “You are too cynical.” He gestures out at the scene in front of him, the goats rearing up again, the miles of green grass, the twinkling Mander at the foothills. “Surely you see the beauty in it.”

“I do,” Aemond agrees, and Luke grins at him. “You wouldn’t if you were to live here though.” He shrugs a shoulder. “It would become common. Something you see every day.” Aemond pauses before he lowers his head. “You would begin to notice its faults, see the cracks in its facade.”

Luke frowns. The words seem too heavy for such a moment, but just as he turns to get a better look at Aemond, he pushes away from wall and strides off towards Jelmera. Luke watches him go, unable to help the feeling that Aemond isn’t talking about the Reach at all.

Nevertheless, he doesn’t push the matter any further. Jelmera carries them on at a genial pace, although now both Luke and Aemond dismount to walk alongside her. Aemond hadn’t been too thrilled at first but when Luke had pointed out that he’d been more than content to allow Luke’s acrobatics yesterday, he’d conceded. After all, Luke’s side doesn’t ache and pull as much any more and he’s perfectly content to scratch at Jelmera’s neck and ears as they rest her.

Cider Hall looms quicker than expected, greeting them on the horizon in the late afternoon sun. Luke anticipates they’ll make it to Highgarden in the morning with the pace they’ve set, and as they pass through the sprawling town wth its bustlings streets and faint haze, he can’t help but feel a little worried.

Because while he may have told Aemond that Lady Alyssa will welcome them… he’s not entirely sure.

Aemond hadn’t been wrong when he’d said that they shouldn’t rely on a long since cooled attachment. The last time Luke had seen Lady Alyssa had been when she’d visited them before they’d left the Red Keep for some political negotiation Luke had been too young to understand. She’d dined with their family on her last day, her smile had been kind when Jace had asked her to dance and she’d winked at Luke as she’d slipped an extra apple tart onto his plate when Mother wasn’t looking. She’d held Mother in her arms and murmured something in her ear that made her giggle like a young girl.

That had been five years ago. Luke doesn’t recall seeing Lady Alyssa since, nor has Mother unless it was on one of her visits to the mainland. In any case, he doubts she will recognise him now that he has grown, having lost his pudgy cheeks and sticky fingers. To expect her to welcome two lost prince’s from opposing sides of a burgeoning war into her home based on memories… perhaps Luke truly is delusional.

But everything rides on Luke being able to gain them entrance to Highgarden, this whole sordid trip through the Storm Lands and the Reach that could have been avoided had Luke simply followed Aemond’s original plan of returning him to Dragonstone via the coast. It will all be for naught if they reach Highgarden only to have the doors shut in their faces and be cast out into the streets. It’s a terrifying thought.

Although he doesn’t share his fears with Aemond, not entirely sure he could deal with seeing disappointment stricken across his face. It would hurt more than he dreads to admit, and it leaves him alone in trying to decide how best to approach Lady Alyssa, something he must work out before they arrive in the morrow.

However, time appears to be on his side. They’ve not long left Cider Hall when the world suddenly grows dark, clouds merging together to form one giant grey sky above them, blocking out the bright sun and cooling the air around them.

And then the heavens open up.

The rain is bitter and cold. Luke hisses as he’s drenched within moments. Aemond swears behind him on Jelmera, his arms tightening around Luke as he pulls him back into his chest as if to try shield him. It’s an onslaught though, unrelenting water hammering down around them, and Jelmera lets out an unimpressed whiny.

But then Aemond spurs Jelmera into action and Luke’s eyes widen as Aemond nudges her into a furious gallop. He clings to Aemond’s arms as they fly down the road, mud flicking up around them thats immediately washed away by the rain. He’s not even sure how Aemond can see where they’re going through the thick downpour. Somehow he does, however Luke isn’t sure he knows exactly where they’re going when Aemond turns Jelmera sharply off the road to tear across a nearby paddock.

Surprisingly though, Aemond eases them into a gentle trot just as one of the many lean-toes they’ve seen dotted about the Reach pops up in front of them, and Luke lets out a laugh of relief as Aemond nudges Jelmera in just under the eves, immediately sheltering them from the rain.

“How did you even see this?” Luke asks in disbelief. Aemond huffs behind him as he dismounts, holding a hand out to help Luke down with a smug look on his face.

“If you pay attention to your surroundings, Luke, you see many things.”

The almost criticism is ignored in favour of the way Luke heart leaps at hearing Aemond call him by his name. He grins happily and he squeezes Aemond’s hand before stepping away to shake the water from his sodden hair, ignoring Aemond’s grunt of annoyance when he obviously splatters him with some.

The lean-to isn’t that big, just tall enough for Jelmera to tuck in under if she lowers her head slightly. It’s empty besides a few stacks of hay and left overs of fallen-apart bales, a collection of old rusty farming tools mounted on the back wall, and a small pile of dry firewood beneath them. Luke’s eyes light up when he sees it, already excited at the prospect of a fire to dry beside.

Aemond shifts past him straight towards the firewood, their saddlebags in hand, and Luke falls easily back into their roles. Jelmera is soaked to the bone as he removes her saddle, revealing only the slightest patch of dry hair. There’s no point in brushing her down while she’s wet though, and instead Luke makes sure to leave some of the left-over hay in front of her, patting her neck when she lowers her head to bury her nose in the small pile.

He smiles before a sudden chill runs down his spine, making him shudder. His clothes are cold where they cling to his skin and Luke can’t help his shivers as he grips his arms, futilely trying to rub some warmth into them. He can hear the crackle of the fire behind him and he turns around with intentions to hurry towards it.

Only for his eyes to widen when he sees Aemond standing beside it, cast in a beautiful orange glow as he slowly shrugs his leather doublet from his shoulders, revealing the pale expanse of his bare chest beneath.

The flush that spreads across Luke’s cheeks is nearly enough to warm him alone. He can’t help but feel coy as he bashfully stares at Aemond, watches from under his eyelashes the way he stretches to hang his doublet up over the eves of the lean-to beside his discarded coat, and Luke’s eyes trail down the lean body twisting and turning with the movement.

He swallows around the strange lump in his throat, freezing when Aemond turns around and spots him. Luke’s mouth falls open even as he draws a blank on an excuse for his staring, but it doesn’t seem to matter as Aemond arches an eyebrow at him.

“You will catch your death if you stay in your wet clothes,” he says. “I suggest removing them.”

Luke quickly looks away, taking the ready excuse Aemond has given him. The thought of removing his clothes around Aemond is terrifying, more so now than when they bathed a couple of days ago. It’s a much smaller space here, more intimate, and things have.. well, shifted since.

Right?

His fingers shake as he reaches for the knot holding his cloak over his shoulders, from the cold he tells himself. They slip clumsily on the wet cords though, Luke struggles to get a decent grip on them, and he’s about two seconds away from just wrenching the cloak over his head, damn it all, when a pair of cold hands take his.

“Let me,” Aemond murmurs, standing impossibly close as he moves Luke’s hands to the side before pulling at the sodden cord with deft fingers.

Luke finds breathing to be too hard as Aemond takes up all the air between them. His hands fall limply to his sides as Aemond’s own pluck apart the knot easily, and he unties the the cloak before pulling it from Luke’s shoulders in faster time than Luke would have. He drapes it over his bare arm, and Luke forces himself to meet Aemond’s gaze instead of running his eyes over the sharply defined muscles of his forearms.

“Think you can manage the tunic yourself?” Aemond asks, almost smugly, and Luke’s cheeks burn at the thought of Aemond’s fingers against his bare sides.

He answers by undoing the belt around his waist and shucking his tunic, dragging it up over his head and hoping it briefly covers the embarrassment on his face. Aemond has moved away to hang up his cloak when he finally tugs it free, his medallion flopping down to rest coolly against his damp skin, and Luke shuffles over to pass Aemond his tunic to add to the display of clothes he’s begun.

However, as he stares in horror when Aemond promptly leans down to pull his pants off, Luke realises he’ll be expected to do the same.

He has to take a deep breath, averting his eyes as Aemond stands in just his braies, the wet grey white of the cotton undergarment dark in comparison to Aemond’s skin. Aemond doesn’t look at all flustered despite his nakedness, and Luke silently wills himself to be the same as he begrudgingly sheds his boots and drops his pants, stepping out of them with as much dignity as he can.

Thankfully, Aemond swaps him his pants for one of their large woollen blankets, and Luke is quick to wrap it around himself tightly. It immediately shuts out the cold, the blanket scratchy against his damp skin, and it makes him feel less ridiculous rather than standing in just his braies and socks.

He settles down on a hay bale beside the fire while Aemond finishes hanging their clothes up to dry, the air already warming from the flickering flames. He’s frozen to the bone though, his body shivering as chills start to wrack his body, and he pulls his knees to his chest to curl up as much as he can under the blanket.

“I can hear your teeth chattering from here.”

Luke screws his nose up as Aemond comes to join him, wrapped up in his own blanket. “My apologies,” he says sarcastically, and Aemond gives him a strange look as he takes off his eye patch to place down beside him, rubbing his fingers up over the red indented lines it leaves behind. “I will endeavour to freeze quieter.”

Aemond huffs and shakes his head. Luke doesn’t expect him to respond, so he’s surprised when Aemond shuffles a little closer before opening his blanket up and dragging Luke into his arms.

Luke goes with a squeak, his eyes widening as he’s enveloped by Aemond’s blanket over his own. Aemond’s arms are strong and firm though as they wrap around him, squashing Luke up against his chest, and Luke’s cheek comes to rest against the cold clammy skin of Aemond’s collarbone, his knees tucking up to rest in Aemond’s lap.

“It would render this entire ordeal rather redundant were that to happen,” Aemond murmurs, his chin coming down to rest on the crown of Luke’s head. Luke’s breath hitches in his lungs as he feels Aemond’s hand start to rub up and down his arm.

Words escape him. Luke’s fingers hold his blanket in a near death grip as he tries to drag air back into his lungs, finding it impossible to do so. This close he can feel all the ridges of Aemond’s muscles that hold him tight, can smell the damp rain on his skin, can hear his steady breaths as they ruffle Luke’s wet hair.

It’s intoxicating. Luke feels he might just go insane.

He manages not too though, by the skin of his teeth. They don’t talk as they huddle together, letting a calm silence settle between them. Luke eventually finds himself being gently lulled by the slow rise and fall of Aemond’s chest and the gentle rhythmic movements of his hand on his arm. The rain is heavy and unrelenting outside, but the quiet crackle of the fire in front of them is soothing and Luke doesn’t believe he’s ever felt warmer than he does now in this tender cocoon.

Eventually it grows too dark outside to see much past the eves, a few stars starting to peak out in the darkening sky. It’s obvious that they won’t be traveling for the rest of the day. Luke can’t help the relief at that, though whether it’s because it gives him more time before they reach Highgarden or because it gives him more time with… well, he decides not to think on it too heavily.

The sudden grumble of his tummy stirs him from the peaceful stupor he’d found himself falling into though, and he feels the rumble of Aemond’s laugh against him as his arms tighten briefly around Luke.

“Hungry, byka āeksio?” he asks almost teasingly, and Luke purses his lips as he wriggles in Aemond’s grip, enough to pull back to see Aemond’s face but not to break his hold.

“Are you not?” Aemond opens his mouth but a perfectly timed groan from his own stomach has Luke grinning fiendishly. “Ah ha. Not so high and mighty after all.”

Aemond narrows his eye but his lips twitch at the edges with amusement. There’s a moment where they stare at one another, Luke well aware of just how close they are, their noses nearly brushing as he tilts his head back to look up at Aemond, before Aemond abruptly clears his throat and lets him go.

Luke can’t help his rush of disappointment, and he curls back up into his blanket as Aemond stands from the hay bale to cross over to their saddle bags.

A fine supper of cheese and staling bread is enough to ease the hunger pangs. They share a water skin between them to wash away the dryness left on their tongues. Luke regrets opening his blanket up to accept it however, the cold rushing in like a tidal wave, causing gooseflesh to break out over his skin. Their clothes don’t look nearly dry enough at all to wear, and Luke regrets not having packed spares at any stage in their journey.

However their bedroll has been drying nicely where Aemond had unrolled it by the fire, and Luke wants nothing more than to sink onto it for a pleasantly long sleep. He feels exhausted now, the rain having sapped more than just the warmth from his bones, and Aemond doesn’t look any better as he sags forward on the hay bale, barely holding his head up.

Luke smiles slightly. Tired is a surprisingly good look on Aemond. It softens his sharp features, makes him look as young as he really is, and Luke slowly unfurls himself before standing up and offering his hand out to him.

Aemond blinks at it for a moment before tilting his head back to give Luke a confused look, blinking up at him with that beautiful blue gaze.

“Come on,” Luke murmurs, wiggling his fingers at him. “Bed awaits.”

Something conflicted passes over Aemond’s face and for a moment Luke thinks he’s going to be rejected. But then Aemond lets out a sigh and takes Luke’s hand, allowing Luke to tug him to his feet and lead him to their bedroll.

It’s almost a little awkward as they shuffle into their places, Aemond as always insisting Luke is closest to the fire. They lie side by side, Aemond’s body pressed up against him in a way that sends his heart into a stuttering beat, and Luke stares up at the roof suddenly wide awake, unable to help but feel like the silence is a little too heavy, a little too tense.

“We reach Highgarden tomorrow,” he mumbles, the thought slipping out before he can catch it. Beside him, Aemond stiffens, and Luke chances a glance only to see Aemond staring at the roof the same as he is.

“Indeed,” Aemond agrees noncommittally. “I hope you have decided how best to frame our arrival to Lady Alyssa.”

Luke hasn’t, but he won’t tell Aemond that. “Of course,” he lies, and Aemond gives him a look that makes Luke think he doesn’t believe him. “She will welcome us with open arms.”

“And then what?”

Luke blinks, the question throwing him off. Aemond is staring at him though, waiting for an answer. “What do you mean?”

Aemond shifts, raising up slightly on his elbows, his blanket slipping halfway down his chest. “And then what?” he repeats, and Luke frowns as Aemond huffs. “You cannot tell me you have not thought on what comes after we reach Highgarden.”

The truth is, Luke hasn’t, and he feels a flush of embarrassment spread over his cheeks. “I…” he trails off, glancing away from Aemond as he runs his hand up his chest to grip his medallion. “I haven’t really…”

Aemond lets out an irritated noise beside him. “Luke,” he grinds out through clenched teeth, and Luke glances over to see he’s covered his face with his hand. “I assumed you had at least given it some consideration.”

A flare of anger makes Luke rise up on his elbows to match Aemond. “Well, what about you?” he demands, and Aemond raises his eyebrows at him from behind his fingers. “I am not alone in this, Aemond. Surely you would have thought upon it.”

Aemond sits up, glaring down at Luke. “You forget that I wished to take you straight to Dragonstone. You were the one that wanted to go to Highgarden.”

“To protect you.” Luke’s voice is slightly shrill, the words catching on his tongue. “Taking me to Dragonstone could have meant any number of things.” He sits up as well, facing Aemond as his blanket falls down to pool in his lap, ignoring the cold that hounds his shoulders. “I trust my mother with your life, but Daemon is no stranger to eliminating threats as he perceives them.”

“So what?” Aemond snaps. “We reach Highgarden and just make it up as we go?” Aemond shakes his head. “We are on the brink of a war, Luke. Our families are at each other’s throats and our disappearances will have done little to ease the tension. Our reappearance in Highgarden will not go unnoticed and the reaction could mean a matter of things if we are not the ones to control the narrative.” He lets out a strange laugh, strangled and disbelieving. “I cannot believe I have been so foolish to have allowed this-”

“Allowed?” Luke cuts him off angrily, the medallion cutting into his hand as he grips it for dear life. “Do not treat me as if I am a child for you to control. Highgarden was the only option to ensure that neither of us became pawns in this ridiculous squabble over the throne.”

“It is not a squabble,” Aemond spits, and Luke flinches. “Your mother is attempting to usurp the throne from my brother, Lucerys.”

“You cannot be serious!” Luke shouts, throwing his hands in the air, the use of his full name not forgotten on him. “Aegon is a drunk and a cur, the prince of flea bottom. He wouldn’t know the first thing about running a kingdom!” He shakes his head, his eyes starting to burn and sting with unshed tears. “How long are you going to continue parroting your mother’s words when I know you don’t believe them?”

Aemond’s glares at him. “And what would you have me do?” His words are steel. “Denounce my brother in favour of supporting your mother’s claim? You know my grandsire and mother would allow no such thing.”

Luke feels like tearing his hair out from its very roots. “Your grandsire and mother have done little else but destroy our family for the sake of their own political gains.” He swallows, shaking his head again. “You cannot tell me you still feel you owe them your loyalty.”

Aemond looks away, his jaw firmly clenched. “To go against them now is impossible.”

“Nothing is ever impossible.” Luke can’t help but feel like he’s pleading as he reaches forward to take one of Aemond’s hands in both of his, desperate for him to understand. “I will not ask you to support my mother if you are truly against it. But please, do not stand in her way.” He brings Aemond’s knuckles to his lips, eyes wide and imploring as Aemond glances at him in surprise. “Not for her… but for me.”

His hand twitches in Luke’s, and Aemond’s glare softens. “Luke…” He purses his lips before pulling his hand away. “Were it that simple.”

Luke feels a sting at the rejection. “Is it not?”

“This is bigger than us,” Aemond mutters, hanging his head and scrubbing his hands over his face. “Even were my sister to take the throne, the realm will not allow a bastard to inherit.” His hands fall into his lap, gripping each other tightly. “No matter what she does, when the time comes for Jacerys succession, another war will break out. History will repeat itself.” Luke hears him grinding his teeth together as Aemond clenches his jaw. “Aegon might be unworthy, but at least he has an eligible heir to take his place. The realm is safer with that guarantee.”

Despite how he feels about it, Aemond is right. Luke knows deep down that even were they to somehow avoid a war now, there will always be another looming on the horizon. Had Mother been successful in wedding Jace and Helena then things might have been different. The hand they’ve been dealt is more difficult than it ever needed to be.

But Luke is nothing if not pragmatic. Cagey as Daemon had once called him, calculated Mother had corrected.

“Not all of us are bastards,” Luke says, his hesitation slipping away as his mind spins together all the other interwoven webs, the simplicity of the answer not as scary as he thinks perhaps it should be. “Aegon and Viserys are the true born sons of King Viserys first and second heir.” He pauses just briefly, knowing if he says the words aloud… it makes them all the more real, makes them no longer an idea but now a possibility. “Should that not make them more eligible than any other?”

Aemond’s head snaps up, his eye wide and surprised in a way Luke has never seen before. He seems completely speechless for a long moment, his mouth opening and closing slightly over and over, and Luke starts to doubt himself before Aemond finally speaks.

“Doing so would remove your own brother from the line of succession.”

Luke holds Aemond’s stunned gaze, determination blazing in his own. His mind is spinning, thoughts twisting up in one another. It’s all so simple and yet so dangerously complicated. He knows he can’t have been the first to think it… but he might just be the first to say it.

“Jace will stand to inherit Driftmark instead. He is already betrothed to Baela. Their claim to the driftwood throne will be stronger than to the iron.” He smiles just slightly, thinking of Jace sitting with Baela at his side, the halls of High Tide alight with their rule. “He would be fair and just, and my grandsire would be content with an heir more willing and suitable to rule.”

But Aemond doesn’t look as calm as Luke feels. “How can you so easily hand over your birthright?” he demands, and Luke blinks at the anger he sees creeping around the corners of his mouth, the edges of his eyes. “Your future?”

He keeps his head high though. “I am more than willing to sacrifice my future for even a chance at peace.” He thinks of his brother, Jace’s fire and determination, tempered by his honour and loyalty. “I know Jace will too. If that is what it costs, then so be it.”

“You would renounce your place in this world?”

The sheer desperation in Aemond’s words makes Luke pause, makes his own die on the tip of his tongue as he sees a wild unrest in Aemond’s gaze. There’s so much disbelief written over his face that Luke can’t understand, as if Aemond himself is distressed over Luke losing his claim to Driftmark, and for a moment he’s furious that Aemond would see fit to be so angry on his behalf.

Until he realises… this is not about Luke at all.

It’s about Aemond.

It’s about how, in another life where Mother hadn’t fought tooth and nail for his title, hadn’t secured his inheritance every step of the way, hadn’t ensured his role and future for his life time, guaranteed his name to be written in the history books to come…  Luke could have been him.

Because in another life, his mother could have been Alicent Hightower.

Luke does not begrudge the woman, not after years of Baela and Rhaena reminding him of the horrors she faced at being sacrificed so young for a title her father clearly wanted more than she did, but where his own mother nurtured himself and his brothers… Alicent has only crafted children who have grown lost and unsure of their place in the world.

Luke looks at Aemond and knows he should see nothing but cold indifference, the careful mask of impassiveness cusped with twisted anger at its fringes that Aemond has worked so hard to craft. But when he looks deeper, he sees more, sees the pain, the longing, the yearning for something he’s never been given, acceptance and love without catches or ties. He sees desperation for a claim to something to tether him, to keep him grounded.

Aemond is not angry Luke is willing to give up Driftmark.

He simply cannot understand it.

Luke leans forward, his heart in his throat as he reaches up to carefully cup Aemond’s cheeks, his thumb resting on the bottom of the scar he caused, meeting Aemond’s wide frightened eye with a soft smile and a gentle touch.

“Gladly,” he murmurs, “and for my family, for all of my family, without hesitation.”

Aemond’s breath hitches, his mouth falls open silently, and Luke moves further forward until his arms slip around Aemond’s shoulders, their bare bodies press together, and he pushes his face against Aemond’s chest as he holds him in a warm embrace.

Aemond stiffens, rigid in his arms and against his cheek. It makes something swoop in the pit of Luke’s stomach, even more so when Aemond’s large hands come to rest on either side of his waist, and Luke’s arms tighten when Aemond starts to try ease him back, holding firm.

“Don’t,” Luke pleads, and Aemond stills against him. “Don’t pull away. Not this time.”

There’s a moment, a beat, where Luke thinks Aemond won’t listen… but then Aemond sinks into him, draws his arms around Luke as he crushes him to his chest, and Luke gasps as Aemond presses his nose into the crook of Luke’s neck, his breath warm as it ghosts over his skin.

It won’t last, Luke knows it won’t. But just for tonight, as they slowly lie down together, curled up around one another that it’s unsure where one ends and the other begins, skin pressed to skin under scratchy blankets, warm and safe in their own sweet cocoon.

Just for tonight, Luke can pretend it might.

Chapter Text

Highgarden looms in the distance long before they reach it.

The castle is a monstrosity in itself, perched high up on a verdant hill overlooking the Mander, shining like a white beacon all across the plains surrounding it. It is a mix of old and new, short squat towers dating back to the coming of the Andals while the tall and slender towers are newer and brighter. Its beauty is nearly breathtaking, a stark contrast to the intimidating Red Keep where it looms over the strewn streets of Kings Landing.

Highgarden’s own are heaving with people as Luke and Aemond travel through them, both on foot as they guide Jelmera past the strange briar labyrinth between the outer and middle walls into the busy markets. Shopkeepers line the streets with wares tucked under sun-faded awnings, still colourful against the endless white brick cast in an orange glow from the late afternoon sun, their calls loud and demanding over the sound of the singers and pipers that flit between the crowd while the smell of fresh flowers and fruits is sweet, masking the pungency of human and animal muck. It’s strikingly beautiful, a calm place despite all the ruckus, the smiles on the people’s faces bright and genuine.

Luke can’t help but feel nervous the closer they get to the castle gates though. Aemond walks staunchly beside him, his hand rests on Luke’s lower back while his other remains firmly on the hilt of his sword at his side. He’s tense and on alert, scanning the crowd for any sign of a threat, any glimpse of a single Hightower sigil.

He’d been firm about it earlier as they had set out on the last stretch to Highgarden, reminding Luke that while the Tyrell’s might be the lords of Highgarden, it doesn’t mean that there won’t be any Hightower’s lurking in their midst.

“Any sign of them,” Aemond had said, his hands cupping either side of Luke’s face, more serious than Luke has ever seen him before, “you run. You understand me?”

Luke had reached up, wrapped his hands around Aemond’s wrists and press his thumbs into their soft undersides. “I understand.”

Now though, Luke isn’t so sure he could leave Aemond behind. He knows it would infuriate him were he to disobey, but the thought of abandoning him to the Hightowers, of separating them like that?

It’s silly. He knows he’s being ridiculous. He’d woken up that morning still wrapped in Aemond’s arms, warmer than he’s ever been before, feeling so lazy and content that he would’ve happily stayed there forever… only for Aemond to pull away with a quiet murmur and an embarrassed flush he’d done well to hide.

They haven’t spoken about it since, and while Luke knows it should be the last thing on this mind, he can’t help but let it flood his thoughts.

Eventually they manage to make it to the front gates of the castle without any sign of attack. Aemond doesn’t relax an inch though, remaining stiff against Luke’s side, and Luke swallows back his doubts and fears as they cross over the drawbridge into the large courtyard behind the innermost wall.

There’s not as many people within the castle walls, most of the courtyard is deserted, and the clopping of Jelmera’s hooves rebounds off the white brick as they cross straight towards the two guards at the bottom of the stairs leading up into the castle. There’s two more at the top right beside the large open wooden doors, and Luke can feel their eyes on them as they come to a halt at the bottom of the stairs.

There’s a beat of silence.

“State your business.”

The guard sounds more curious than hostile. Luke takes a deep breath before stepping forward, holding Jelmera’s reins in a clenched fist as he straightens his back and holds himself as regally as possible, letting years of court ettiequte and royal standing stiffen his shoulders.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” he says, his voice strong and determined as he meets the guards widening eyes, “second born son of Rhaenyra Targaryen. I have come to seek an audience with Lady Alyssa Tyrell.”

The guard exchanges a brief look with his co-guard before he inclines his head to Aemond. “And your companion?” he asks uncertainly, as if he’s not entirely sure he believes him.

Luke’s eyes narrow, disliking being doubted, but Aemond suddenly moves up beside him, flipping his hood back so his white hair spills out over his shoulders, striking and intimidating as he draws himself up to his full height.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen,” he drawls, cocky as he smirks at the spluttering guard, “son of the late king, Viserys Targareyn.”

The clattering of the guards armour as both of them scramble to drop into haphazard bows is almost amusing. Luke doesn’t pay them much attention though as he sees one of the other guards at the top of the stairs turn around to rush off inside, undoubtedly to find Lady Alyssa. He’s thankful it’s this easy so far, and as the guards straighten up he turns back to them.

“Apologies, my lords,” the first guard rushes out, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. “We were not informed of your coming.”

Aemond opens his mouth but Luke cuts in, not liking the way Aemond’s eye glints dangerously. “We did not send word.” He gives the guard a reassuring smile when he glances up at him. “It should be us apologising for our lack of manners in not doing so.”

He hears Aemond huff beside him but he ignores it in favour of watching the guards both relax a little, enough at least to stop looking like he’s about to faint, and he straightens up alongside the other guard.

“Lady Alyssa should be with you shortly,” he continues as if he hadn’t been moments away from grovelling at their feet, something Aemond might very well have encouraged to Luke’s chagrin. “If it pleases you, allow one of our stablehands to take your horse to the stables.”

As soon as he says it, a stableboy appears beside Jelmera. He’s young with floppy brown hair and a toothy  nervous smile, and Luke smiles back at him as he offers Jelmera’s reins out to him. “Take good care of her,” he says, adding a touch of warning to his tone that makes the stableboy’s eyes widen. “She is very dear to me.”

The stableboy’s eyes flicker over to the guards before he gives a hurried nod and starts to lead Jelmera away. She goes with a toss of her head, nearly knocking the poor boy over, and Luke sighs as Aemond stifles a laugh beside him. He gives him a withering glare, wondering when Daemon turned up and Aemond left, but it seems to be enough to wipe the smirk off Aemond’s face… even if the humour lingers in his eye.

“Lucerys Velaryon.”

Luke’s head snaps away from Aemond at the call of his name. Its come from the woman standing at the top of the stairs, dressed in an elegant gold-lined emerald gown with long curly brown hair tumbling down her back. She’s watching them with a guarded gaze, her hands carefully clasped in front of her, showing neither hostility nor familiarity with a handful of curious people from her court gathered behind her.

Luke bows, not too deep but enough to show respect. After all, he is still her prince.

“Lady Alyssa,” he responds as he raises his head to see her slowly coming down the steps towards him, leaving the others behind. “I apologise for our unexpected interruption. It was not our intention to catch you unawares.”

She doesn’t respond straight away as she reaches them, remaining on a step above as she carefully regards him and Aemond. “Indeed.” Her eyes flitter back to Luke. “Pray tell what this interruption is for?” Her gaze sharpens. “I gather with you both here, it is to discuss the ongoing… disagreement between your families.” She shakes her head slightly, mouth downturned with distaste. “I regret to inform you that the Tyrell’s have no intention of taking sides in this dispute.”

Luke expected this. He shakes his head. “Good,” he says, catching the disbelief that flickers over her face. “Because our presence here is in fact for quite the opposite.” He glances over at Aemond, takes a steadying breath. “We humbly seek refuge here at Highgarden.”

He could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. Alyssa looks stunned for a moment, and Luke is quietly satisfied to have had that affect on her. It doesn’t last though. Soon enough she regains her poise and neutrality.

“There have been rumours from the borders,” she starts abruptly, “of an incident at Storms End. One that involved both of you.” Alyssa’s eyes narrow. “I did not believe them. Such idle gossip. However…” She gestures at them and Luke is very aware of how odd they must look in their mismatched clothes, fine leathers and peasant wool, not to mention the dirt and grime covering them from their travel. “Considering your appearances, I must wonder if there is some truth to them after all.”

Luke takes a moment before he responds, debating what way he wants to address it. Deny it all happened and come up with some other excuse? Just blur the lines? Or perhaps he should tell her the truth?

He aims for the middle. “To say Lord Baratheon was unaccommodating would be generous,” he decides with an easy smile, and he sees the edges of Alyssa’s lips twitch. “We were better off leaving such hostilities behind.” Luke gestures down at his dirty clothes. “It has been a long and tenuous journey here, Lady Alyssa, as I am sure you can imagine.”

She glances back at Aemond again, who has remained thankfully silent the whole time. Luke hadn’t really believed him when he’d said he would let Luke do the talking, clearly he’d been doubtful when Luke had pointed out he was much better prepared for negotiating the politics ahead, but he’s proven himself to stay true to his word. He looks at him to see he’s regarding Alyssa with his usual impassiveness, still somehow regal and elegant himself despite how travel-weary he appears.

“In truth, I have never found Lord Borros to be all that agreeable,” Alyssa muses as Luke turns back to her, a small smile playing over her lips, perhaps over what is a blinding historical understatement. “Although I am surprised you have chosen to come here instead of returning to Dragonstone or Kings Landing. Even Oldtown” She quirks her head to the side. “After all, Highgarden is much further than any of them.”

Luke swallows, nerves rushing under his skin. This is it, the part he’s thought of but not spoken to Aemond about. He’d only decided it on their approach to Highgarden, knowing full well that there has to be an excuse for why they came here, one that Alyssa will be sympathetic too. Simply choosing to weather out the storm of the fight of the crown is not enough for her to invite them into her home, not with the risks it will come with.

But he knows she’s a romantic, a trait she shared with his mother, and that’s what moves him to reach out and take Aemond’s hand in his own.

“You’re right,” he says as he hears Aemond’s breath hitch beside him, resolutely keeping his eyes on Alyssa’s widening own as he laces his and Aemond’s fingers together. “But neither of our homes are safe for us, Lady Alyssa. Not right now.”

He isn’t sure he can bring himself to see how Aemond might be looking at him, and it’s the only reason he refuses to look away from Alyssa. She’s staring at their entwined hands, her shocked eyes betraying her composure, and Luke waits with bated breath and a thundering heart as she glances between the two of them, clearly thinking a hundred thoughts of her own.

And then. “Do either of your families know?”

Luke shakes his head. “No.” He raises his chin defiantly. “As I am sure you can understand why.”

She frowns but doesn’t deny it, her lips slightly pursed as if not too sure what to think. She clasps her hands together again in front of her, Luke can see the way she’s twisting them together in a habit so similar to the badly kept secret of Queen Alicent’s own, and Luke dreads for a moment that perhaps he was wrong in thinking this might appeal to her.

He’s distracted though as Aemond suddenly squeezes his hand, drawing his attention. That mask of impassiveness is still there, not even a single crack in the exterior, but when Luke meets his gaze, he softens for a brief moment and his lips twitch at the edges… enough to make Luke’s heart stutter.

“Oh.” Luke blinks, ripping his gaze away as he turns to see Alyssa reaching up to cover her mouth. She’s looking between them again, her eyes glittering with surprise. “I see.”

Luke frowns but all words are stopped as she drops her hand and inclines her head slightly before giving them a bright smile, her expression shifting into something warm and kind.

“You are more than welcome here,” she says sweetly, “for as long as you need.”

Luke barely restrains himself from letting out a relieved laugh, tempering it to a brilliant smile of his own. “Thank you, Lady Alyssa.”

She waves him off though as she turns to start climbing the stairs. “Come, I will have you shown to your quarters and baths drawn for you both.” She glances back at them briefly, wrinkling her nose. “Perhaps some new clothes would be in order as well.”

Luke feels a blush spread over his cheeks as he follows her up the stairs, not letting go of Aemond’s hand as he tugs him along behind. “Ah yes. There weren’t exactly a great many options on the road, I’m afraid.”

Alyssa lets out a pleasant trill behind her hand, her laughter as elegant as herself. “Oh dear.” She waves a hand at the people still gathered at the top of the stairs and they all vanish with moments. “You will have to tell me all about it at dinner tonight.”

He inclines his head. “It would be my pleasure.”

She gives him another small smile before she beckons forward a servant as they enter the castle. “My steward, Orville, will take care of you. If you need anything, please call on him.”

Luke gives the Orville a smile as he drops into a deep bow, murmuring a greeting under his breath. He pulls Aemond up alongside him, his hand holding his so tightly at this point it’s starting to ache, but he dares not let go as Orville gestures for them to follow him.

“Until tonight,” he says to Alyssa as they pass her, and she gives him a pleased smile in return.

There are not a lot of opportunities to talk before dinner that evening.

The afternoon passes in a blur. Luke is surprised when he and Aemond are separated, Orville calling on two different servants who lead them away to different rooms. Luke’s nerves vanish though when he sees its to a bathing room that smells like calm lavender and is warm from the steam that rises from the tub. They’re not very common, most people bathe in their own chambers, but Luke guesses that a family like the Tyrell’s would pride themselves on certain luxuries.

Washing the grime of the road off himself for the first time in what feels like forever does plenty to sooth his worries. He sends the lingering servants away, more comfortable without watching eyes or even the odd attempt at a helpful hand. He’s been bathing himself for far too many years now to accept such opulence, and the moment the door swings shut behind them, Luke lets himself sink down into the warm water, his muscles finally starting to unwind.

He stays until the water cools, until even the slightest of movements makes him cringe at the sudden cold lapping against his skin. There’s linen nearby that he wraps tightly around himself to dry, realising very quickly that he probably shouldn’t have dismissed the servants as he stands naked in a room of a very unfamiliar castle.

Luckily, Luke spots an archway behind one of the drapes hanging from the ceiling, and pushing it aside reveals a little antechamber where a maester awaits him, patiently sitting by the fire with a box of herbs and bandages beside him. He’s kind and gentle as he tends to Luke, praising the care given to the healing wound on his side while he snips the stitches Aemond had so carefully sewn in. Luke glances down at the fresh pink puckered skin, the little dots on either side from the stitches, the only blemish on his smooth stomach.

“Will it scar?” he asks quietly.

The maester shakes his head. “Not noticeably enough to worry.” The maester takes his chin, tilting his head just slightly as he peers at Luke’s cheek. “This one, however, has. It will not fade.”

Luke swallows as he feels the flickering ghost of pain from the blade that had cut into his cheek, far below its intended target. It seems so long ago now, a lifetime even, that he had stood across from Aemond in the hall of Storms End.

Once content, the maester packs his things and leaves, only to be replaced by another servant who slips in holding a pile of folded up clothes. Luke doesn’t need to see them properly to know they’re made from the finest of silks, and he gives the servant a small smile as he hurries behind the changing screen.

The golden doublet the servant manages to wrestle him into feels strangely restricting once on, especially compared to the dirty brown tunic he sees get carried out of the room, no doubt never to be seen again along with the rest of his ruined clothes. It sits too high on his neck, feels weirdly puffy yet tight around his arms, and Luke wonders how such an expensive piece of clothing can be so wildly uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, when he pauses to look at himself in the full-length mirror, a grotesque yet unseen sign of the Tyrell’s wealth, he must admit it does look good on him. Gone are the blacks and reds he’s grown used to wearing, instead replaced by the Tyrell’s blues and endless golds that brings out the sun-kissed strands in his hair. His medallion sits on display on his chest, the only thing he’s kept, and it looks almost tarnished against the rich doublet. Even so, he looks noble and well-kept, like the prince he’s supposed to be, even the new scar that leaves a thin red line on his right cheek lends a worldly appeal to his youthful face.

Luke stares into the mirror… Lucerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to Driftmark stares back.

Orville greets him when he steps out into the corridor. He’s an older gentleman, his skin leathery and wrinkled, the crows feet at his eyes and laugh lines around his mouth give him a kind face. He inclines his head respectfully as Luke stands in front of him, his hands held behind his bowed back.

“My prince,” he murmurs, voice gravelly. “Lady Alyssa has requested your attendance in the dining hall once you are ready.”

“Of course.” Luke glances around to see they’re alone. “And what of Prince Aemond?”

Orville gives him a smile. “He is currently in your quarters, which we shall pass on our way to the dining hall.”

Luke just nods before falling into step behind Orville, following him through the castle. It’s just as beautiful inside, pristine white brick lined with elegant intriguing carvings that curl around the arches and doorways. They pass down corridors with large windows looking out into stunning gardens, lush green shrubs with enough colourful flowers to rival a rainbow, maintained by gardeners that look just as picturesque where they kneel amongst the flowerbeds. Everyone they pass, no matter their station, are immaculately presented, wearing refined clothes made of the highest quality of materials, adding a grandeur and class that the Red Keep has never quite managed.

It’s breathtaking.

Just not as much as Aemond Targaryen.

He stands waiting in corridor when they turn the corner towards their quarters, and Luke stumbles at the sight of him, not prepared at all for the sheer beauty that awaits. Dressed in a fine form-fitting midnight blue doublet and leggings, all pipped with glittering gold, Aemond looks striking with his sleek white hair tied half-back in it’s usual way. He has forgone his tired eye patch, revealing the glinting sapphire that is rivalled by his own deep-blue eye, both made even the richer against the colours he wears. He looks flawless, perfect… a true Targaryen in every sense of the word.

It makes Luke’s heart race.

“Byka āeksio,” Aemond greets him with his arms held behind his back, his chin raised as he watches them approach. “You took your time.”

Luke swallows nervously, Aemond’s tone not as warm as it could be. “My apologies,” he murmurs, dipping his head just slightly. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

Aemond doesn’t respond besides a small smile, but Luke can see it’s not genuine. There’s anger simmering in his eye, something Luke has truthfully expected after his display earlier, but there’s no time for either of them to address it as Orville clears his throat and begins to lead the way towards the dining hall.

With no other option, Luke falls in beside Aemond as they follow. They walk close enough to brush their shoulders but Luke doesn’t dare reach out to touch, knowing its might just be the breaking point of the tension between them. Instead, he just stays silent and catches glimpses of Aemond out of the corner of his eye when he thinks he won’t be looking back.

Which he doesn’t. Not once.

Luke steels himself as they turn the final corner to see the dining hall at the end of the corridor, the twin giant wooden doors open enough to see Alyssa walking past with a babe on her hip, a smile on her face as she talks to someone just out of sight.

“Orville.”

Luke’s eyes widen as Aemond suddenly takes his arm and pulls them both to a stop. Orville carries on a few more steps before turning to them, his eyebrows raised as he looks at Aemond with polite curiosity.

Aemond just inclines his head to him slightly, his grip on Luke surprisingly gentle. “Please inform Lady Alyssa we will join her shortly.”

Orville’s eyes drop to Aemond’s hand before a knowing smile passes over his face. “Of course, my princes,” he says with a bow, “dinner will be served upon your arrival.”

The implication that they’ll be making Alyssa wait is strong, nevertheless Orville doesn’t seem to object as he hurries down to the dining hall. Luke wants to go with him, especially when Aemond’s grip tightens the moment Orville reaches the door and disappears inside, and he lets out a gasp as he’s abruptly yanked out of the hallway and shoved into a side alcove.

He doesn’t even get a moment to drag a breath into his tense lungs before Aemond is on him, shoving him back into the brick wall with a hand fisted in Luke’s doublet, pulling back only just enough at the last minute to stop his head cracking against the stone. It doesn’t stop him frown crowding Luke though, his larger frame intimidating as he towers over and boxes him in.

“Mind telling me what the fuck is going through your head, Lucerys?” Aemond hisses, and Luke’s eyes flit up to see Aemond glaring at him, enraged enough that Luke can feel it crackling off of him, the air around them hissing with his intensity.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, stiffening when Aemond lets out a warning growl and pushes him back against the wall even harder, clearly demanding an answer.

“It was the only way I could think of Lady Alyssa allowing us refuge,” Luke confesses hurriedly, wincing when the fury in Aemond’s eye doesn’t ease. “There’s no way she would have accepted us otherwise. We carry too great of a risk.”

Aemond leans in, baleful and tense. “We did not have to come here. We could have easily-”

“Gotten you killed instead?” Luke feels a flare of his own anger rush out of him as he stands up straighter, meeting Aemond’s glower with his own burning one. “Daemon wants you dead, Aemond, you and the rest of of your siblings. Taking me to Dragonstone would have ordered your death sentence and Kings Landing spelt mine.” He reaches up to fist his own hand in Aemond’s doublet, pulling him closer to a flicker of his uncle’s surprise. “Tell me how either of those were ever options.”

Aemond clenches his jaw as he stares Luke down. Luke doesn’t buckle though, rising to meet the challenge. He will not back down on this matter.

“Instead you, what, expect me to play along with this farce?” Aemond demands, and Luke’s stomach flips and his heart stutters at the bitterness in those words, as Aemond scowls down his nose at him. “To play pretend with you?”

A surge of pure anger rips through Luke and he shoves Aemond away from him with a strength he didn’t know he possessed. “I don’t expect you to pretend anything,” he hisses, barely staying hushed enough to not be overheard. “In fact, I want nothing more than for you to stop pretending, Aemond!”

The sudden silence is suffocating. Aemond looks as if he’s been slapped, eye wide and cheeks flushed red, his mouth slightly open in shock. Luke doesn’t care though as he seethes, his chest rising and falling rapidly as it’s his turn to glare at Aemond. His hands fall to fists at his sides, trembling with how hard he clenches them, and Luke shakes his head minutely as he grits his teeth together.

“You will do what you want, as you always have,” he mutters, unable to help the feeling of grief curling in the pit of his stomach. “But for once, stop lying to yourself.” He hesitates, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Stop lying to me.”

His voice breaks, catching on the last word, and Luke finds it unbearable to stand here a moment longer. He rips his gaze away as he brushes past Aemond, not caring to wait for him to catch up or even follow at all as he carries on down to the dining room.

Damn him, he thinks.

Damn him.

“Lucerys!”

Alyssa calls out to him the moment he steps through the hall doors, a smile plastered on his face that feels completely wrong. She turns to him with a delighted look on her own, sweeping away from the table with her babe still on her hip. “I was wondering where you had gotten too.”

“My sincerest apologies, Lady Alyssa,” Luke says with a small bow. “I did not intend to keep you waiting.”

Alyssa waves a dismissive hand though. “Please, no more formalities.” She jostles the babe on her hip, the little boy giggling as he grips her dress with small sticky hands. “This is my son, Lyonel.”

Luke turns his smile to him, taking in the brown curls that would rival Jace’s own and the pair of big hazel eyes that blink at him with curiosity. He’s pudgy but healthy, reminds Luke of tiny Viserys back on Dragonstone. They must be about the same age, young but still troublesome, and Luke offers Lyonel his finger to shake.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Lyonel,” he greets as the babe grabs his finger in return. He gives it a tight squeeze, enough to make Luke wince, and Alyssa lets out a sweet peal of laughter as she reaches up to try and pry Lyonel away.

“I am so sorry,” she apologises as Luke finger just gets twisted in the process, “he is very covetous at this stage. My mother tells me I was quite the same.” Her lips thin as she tries to get Lyonel to let go. “I daren’t believe her.”

“It’s alright. My brother, Viserys, is much the same.” Luke manages to pull his finger free, screwing up his nose when Lyonel lets out a displeased squawk. “Mother says that he’ll grow out of it soon enough.”

He glances over to see Alyssa’s face has softened into something more fond, if a little far away. “Your mother never wished for children, and yet she now has five she loves and adores, with another on the way.” She reaches out to cup Luke’s cheek. “I see much of her in you, Lucerys.”

Luke swallows. “Luke.”

She smiles. “Luke.” She lets go, her eyes slipping past Luke just as he feels someone step up beside him. “Prince Aemond.”

“Lady Alyssa,” Aemond murmurs, and Luke barely stops himself from turning to look at him, resolutely staring at Lyonel who’s attention has also shifted to the new arrival.

“Please, only Alyssa,” Alyssa scolds him gently. “We are in each others company, I do not want to spend the evening getting wrapped up in civilities.”

“Of course.” Aemond shuffles beside Luke, and Luke risks a glance to see him smiling at Alyssa, strangely genuine. “Then it is Aemond.” He inclines his head towards Lyonel. “Am I right in assuming this is your son, Lyonel?”

Alyssa doesn’t get a word in as Lyonel lets out a squeal, grinning toothlessly at Aemond as he makes grabby hands at him. Alyssa looks surprised as he wriggles furiously in her arms, moving with him as Lyonel struggles to lean towards Aemond.

“Yes,” she mutters distractedly, trying to keep a hold on him, “He is not normally so-”

She’s cut off as Lyonel launches himself off her hip, barely clutching his little legs. Not that it matters as Aemond swoops forward to catch him, Lyonel letting out a crow of delight as he kicks away from his mother and his hand immediately slaps up onto Aemond’s face, his fingers brushing the sapphire where it lies in his socket.

Alyssa goes stone still, a look of horror crossing her face. “Oh,” she gasps, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “I am so sorry, my prince, I…”

She trails off as Aemond simply hitches the babe onto his own hip, tilting his head down so that Lyonel can reach the sapphire better. The little boy is surprisingly gentle, only touching the stone once before pulling his hands back to his mouth with a giggle, his eyes wide as he stares at the glittering gem.

“It is the first time it has gotten this kind of a reaction,” Aemond muses, not seeming at all fazed, if anything more amused as he holds Lyonel comfortably in his arms. “My own niece and nephew are not nearly as enamoured by it.”

It breaks the tension. Alyssa lets out a visible sigh of relief and glances briefly at Luke before smiling with gratitude. “I am sure they are not as afraid as you think.”

Something flickers over Aemond’s face before he straightens up and hands Lyonel back to Alyssa, the babe letting out a displeased noise at the jostling. “You are kind,” he murmurs, and Luke stomps down on the urge to comfort him when he hears the wistfulness in his tone. “However there is not much this,” he gestures at his pronounced scar and the sapphire, “can do but inspire fear and repulsion.”

His words are full of such self-loathing that Luke feels a wave of anger at himself. To know this is what he has caused… it sits barbed and sharp in his chest.

Alyssa shakes her head, her eyes soft at their corners. “You are too hard on yourself.” She clears her throat before stepping away from them both, motioning for them to follow her. “Come, let us have dinner and turn to happier thoughts.”

As it turns out, they are not dining alone. The people that Luke had assumed she’d been speaking to before their arrival now wait for them on the other side of the room, lingering around a beautifully set table. The sight of red roses and numerous flickering candles is distracted by the woman that swiftly moves forward to greet them, her hair hidden by a golden headdress that accentuates the wrinkles on her old face and a heavy blue dowager gown. She has cunning eyes and a wicked smile though, and Luke takes her hand the moment she offers it.

She turns out to be Alyssa’s mother, Lady Elenna, and she takes over the moment Alyssa is distracted by Lyonel’s fussing, introducing the small gathering of people. There’s an Uncle Harlan with a sharp nose and even sharper eyes, a niece called Seara who giggles when Luke kisses her knuckles, identical twins Edmund and Edward that look at Aemond in wide-eyed admiration, the castellan of the castle Darrick Beesbury with his slightly upturned nose and strangely cropped pitch-black hair, and finally a boy maybe a year younger than Luke himself.

Lady Elenna doesn’t get to announce him though. Aemond beats her to it as he stiffens beside Luke, surprisingly stepping just in front of him as if to shield him from the boy.

“Cousin,” he greets with no fondness. Luke peeks around him to see the young boy staring back, slightly panicked if anything, his wide brown eyes flickering between Aemond and Lady Elenna.

“Cousin Aemond,” he responds, his voice wavering. “I did not expect-”

“Now now,” Lady Elenna scolds, drawing all of their attention. She gives Aemond a disapproving look, hard enough to make even Luke feel chastened. “Garmund is here as a page and companion to House Tyrell, not House Hightower. We will have no incidents under this roof.”

It isn’t enough to make Aemond relax, but Garmund visibly sags with relief. Realising who he is, Luke shifts out from behind Aemond to move around to the boy, smiling pleasantly as he holds out his hand to shake.

“Luke Velaryon,” he introduces himself, Garmund glancing between his hand and Aemond for a moment before taking it. “You must be Garmund Hightower, Ormund’s youngest son.”

Garmund swallows nervously. “That’s correct, my prince.” He bows his head. “I must insist that I do no intend either of you any ill will.” His eyes flicker back to Aemond briefly. “House Tyrell has chosen to remain neutral in the conflict between our families, and I with them.”

Luke squeezes his hand and claps his shoulder. “Of course,” he says. “Aemond has told me little of your home in Oldtown. Perhaps you could regale me with some tales?”

That seems to ease away the edges of the moment and Garmund gives him a grateful smile before Lady Elenna interrupts, ordering them all in a way only a dowager can to the table. Luke doesn’t protest, his stomach already starting to grumble with hunger, and he allows Alyssa to pull him down beside her as Aemond settles on his other side.

Servants appear very quickly with plates of decadent food piled high, placing them up and down the table as others fill their cups with deep red wines. It seems the grandeur of Highgarden includes its cuisine, and Luke’s mouth falls open just a little at the peacock thats settled in front of him, its plume creating a dramatic presentation.

Dinner passes uneventfully despite it’s lead up. Music plays from the small band in the corner as Luke is pulled into different conversations, especially with Harlan who it turns out was a knight alongside his father back in their youth. He seems wistful when he speaks of Laenor, enough to make Luke’s eyebrows raise, but it’s easy and safe to talk to the man… more so than any of Lady Elenna’s pointed questions about their family’s conflict that both Alyssa and Darrick quickly silence her on. Just the once, Alyssa asks about the business with Baratheon, and the table falls silent when Luke gives them a watered-down version of the events that occurred at Storms End… well aware that the sharpness in Alyssa’s eyes shows she’s understands more than just what he’s say, a calculating look on her face when he mentions what happened outside of Grassy Vale.

Throughout it all however, Aemond remains quiet beside him. It’s not unnatural, Aemond has always been the staunch type, but Luke spots the glares he throws Garmund, his white knuckled grips around his utensils, and knows it’s about more than just being his usual self.

“Boys,” Alyssa murmurs under her breath once they’re well on their way through dessert, Luke’s choice of a pear custard pie half-demolished on his plate. “A moment please?”

Luke looks at her in surprise, Aemond stiffening beside him. He lowers his fork. “Of course.”

Alyssa eyes dart around the table, as if to make sure no one else is listening, before she shuffles just slightly closer to him. “You must know that you are safe here,” she whispers, glancing at Aemond who Luke can feel leaning closer behind him to hear her better. “But I have to warn you now, your families will soon find out about your presence.”

Luke hears Aemond’s sharp intake of breath, and he drops a hand back to grip his knee, a warning to stay quiet. They already knew this would happen, and Alyssa looks pale enough that he knows Aemond’s expression must be intimidating.

Nevertheless, she continues. “No matter what control I have over what goes in and out of this castle, there are always cracks that it tends to slip between.” She gives Luke a grim smile. “Already, there will be rumours swirling back to your families. You must be prepared for what the repercussions might just be, but be assured we will do what we can to ensure your presence is kept quiet.” She looks hesitant for a moment. “I’m afraid that must include keeping your dragons away for now. I assume they are nearby?”

Arrax is. Luke can feel him where he lingers in the Kingswood, long since grown used to Luke keeping him away. He’s still frustrated and confused but Luke sends what love he can down their bond, assuring him he has not been forgotten.

However, while Luke wishes otherwise, it makes sense to keep their dragons away for now. Their presence would be a shining beacon for all to know of Luke and Aemond’s own. Just a while longer, Luke promises himself, promises Arrax.

He swallows though as he glances back at Aemond, hoping he is thinking the same. He just meets a cool blue gaze, a taunt jaw and slightly pursed lips. “We understand,” he says for them both, squeezing Aemond’s knee pointedly. “We are indebted to you for your support and solace.” Luke purses his lips. “However we do not want to bring-”

“Luke.” Alyssa sounds exasperated and Luke turns to see her smile is more genuine. “Enough with these formalities already.” She reaches out to take his other hand. “War will not come to the Reach, no matter what either of your families choose to do, and Baratheon will not get away with attempting to do it himself. You are safe here, and I will protect you as long as I can.” Her gaze slips past to Aemond. “I knew both of your mother’s well as children, and even though we have not seen each other in many years, there is still enough respect between us for them to know that the Reach will not tolerate any attempts to be turned into a battlefield.”

“You seem confident,” Aemond mutters, startling Luke. He keeps his hand firmly on his knee though, unwilling to admit its grounding for himself.

Alyssa’s smile remains even as her eyes harden. “I am.”

There’s a long moment where Luke glances between Aemond and Alyssa, both of them identical in their steeliness as they hold one another’s gaze. It surprises him then when he sees something in Aemond’s stare flicker before he gives her a rigid nod.

It breaks the tension though, and Alyssa lets go of Luke’s hand as she sits straighter. “Join me in the gardens tomorrow morning for tea,” she says a little louder now, gaining Lady Elenna’s attention from the end of the table. “I wish to show you the beauty of Highgarden.”

Lady Elenna huffs. “Boys have never appreciated gardens, Alyssa.”

“Oh hush, Mother.” Alyssa rolls her eyes rather unladylike as she flaps a dismissive hand towards her, earning an indignant squawk. “It may not compare to their dragons, but Targaryen’s have always been able to recognise true beauty.”

Luke feels a pang in his chest at the thought of their dragons, of Arrax where he lingers near the fringes of the Reach, but he pushes it back as he gives Lady Elenna a hopefully charming smile. “We have much experience tending to gardens from our youth, Lady Elenna.” Aemond lets out a strangled noise beside him, hidden behind a cough. “It will be a treat to see them no doubt pale in comparison to Highgarden’s own.”

Lady Elenna doesn’t look impressed though. “I shall join you then,” she says even as Alyssa sighs into her hand, “to ensure you understand just how much of a rarity the gardens at Highgarden are.”

“I look forward to it even more now with your presence,” Luke answers, matching her word for word.

He sees a brief flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Indeed.”

With their repartee coming to an end, Luke finally takes his hand off of Aemond’s knee as he pushes his chair back from the table. “However I must apologise, Alyssa,” he says as he stands, “but I believe it may be time to retire. The weariness of our travel has begun to set in.”

She gives him a knowing look as she rises too. “I have no doubts.” She leans forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “Rest well, Luke. You have both had such an unnecessary ordeal.”

There’s a scrape behind him as Aemond stands as well, and Luke steps back for Alyssa to kiss to his cheek too. Aemond doesn’t even flinch, and Luke waits as he pulls away from Alyssa to come to his side.

“Until tomorrow,” Luke says to the table at large. Harlan raises his goblet in a toast while Seara wiggles her fingers in a little wave. The twins seem to be too interested in their discussion to notice them leaving, but Garmund and Darrick give them bright smiles in farewell.

In turn, Luke twines his hand with Aemond’s, and pulls him from the hall.

They’re almost to their quarters before Luke lets him go.

His hand burns and aches as he does so, as Aemond’s falls back to fist at his side immediately. Luke tries not to think about it, tries not to let it sit heavy in the pit of his stomach. Instead he clenches and unclenches his hand over and over as they walk, hoping it might just rid the feeling of Aemond’s fingers between his own, of the warm callouses that had scratched over his palm.

A strange though that the day before, Luke had longed for nothing more simple than to hold Aemond’s hand… now the thought of it chokes him.

The silence is smothering as Luke makes sure to put space between them, thankful the corridors are empty with even Orville long since dismissed back at the doors of the dining hall. There’s no one around to witness them, no curious eyes to pander too, no reason to try play this charade that Aemond so clearly wants no part of.

Not that it matters what he wants. Luke made a decision for them both, for their lives, and he expects Aemond to respect it despite whatever it is that sits on his conscience.

However, Luke waits until they’re back in their quarters, the door firmly shut and bolted behind them, before he lets out a long exhale, his shoulders sagging with the effort, and turns around to confront Aemond.

Aemond, who looks as radiant as he did when Luke first saw him this evening. He stands illuminated by the moonlight at the large window, the midnight blue of his clothes and the glowing white of his hair making him look near ethereal. He’s as rigid and still as ever, the perfect statute of a Targaryen prince, although his fingers twisting together where his hands are clasped behind his back is the only sign that perhaps he is just as nervous as Luke feels.

Luke pushes back his own nerves though as he steps up behind his uncle, leaving enough space between them to breathe, to not crowd him. “I understand this is hard for you, that it is not what you wished,” Luke says quietly, Aemond’s back somehow stiffening even more as he speaks. “But you must try harder for both of our sakes.”

Aemond’s jaw clenches even as he remains staring out the window. “You mistake me.”

“Aemond.” Luke’s voice is fragile. He wishes it wasn’t so. “Please.”

Nothing. Not a response. There is so much tension in Aemond’s body as he stays where he stands, even his hands falling still from their twisting. Luke wishes nothing more than to step forward and soothe his hands across Aemond’s shoulders, to try ease away some of the ache that must be felt there. He clenches his hands at his sides instead though, stomping back the urge stronger than he has any other, allowing instead the anger to build as he realises that pleading is not going to work.

Only to pause, his anger extinguishing like a flickering candle when Aemond sighs deeply, bows his head as his hands move to clutch the windowsill in a white-knuckled grip, a fine tremor ripples down the lines of his back.

“Do you have any idea,” Aemond murmurs, “how easy it would be to play into this game?”

Luke blinks, his mouth falling open slightly, but it doesn’t matter as Aemond lets out a sudden desperate sounding laugh and shakes his head.

“Do you know how easy it would be to take you into my arms and claim you as my own?” Aemond sounds raw, pained. He turns around and there’s sheer despair stricken across his face. “How desperately I wish to do so despite all the screaming thoughts in my mind telling me how wrong it would be?”

Luke’s eyes are wide as he feels a thick lump form in his throat. All of his own thoughts fall silent, empty, echoing… none matter as Aemond stalks towards him looking for all the world like a complete mad man.

“Do you understand, Lucerys Velaryon,” he demands, “that I have craved you since we were boys? That I feel an obsession for you that I have never felt for any other?” He reaches Luke, towers over him as he steals all the air from the room, leaving Luke breathless. “That everything in this forsaken land pales in comparison to the sheer insanity I feel when I am with you, let alone when I am without you?”

Luke struggles to swallow down the emotions screaming up from his chest. His hands tremble at his sides, he’s unable to look away from the blazing blue eye holding his captive, Aemond’s words blind him and stifle his mind. “Aemond, I don’t think-”

“Of course you don’t,” Aemond interrupts him, sounding almost delirious. He makes an aborted move as if to touch Luke before his hands fall back to his sides in taunt fists. “You do not think. For all the Gods, why do you not think?”

Luke feels like he’s suffocating. The room spins around him, tilting violently enough that his legs feel like they may give out. He reaches out to grip the front of Aemond’s doublet, hands twisting into the lavish cloth, using it to hold himself still as he shakes his head with desperation clawing at his throat.

“Why then?” he asks, the words catching on the end of his tongue. “Why have you not done so?”

Because thats it, that’s the question. While Luke’s mind churns with Aemond’s new declarations… he cannot even pretend to be surprised. He would be a fool to not have seen there is something more to how Aemond looks at him. Every moment since Storm’s End has been nothing but proof that Aemond has felt more for Luke than he could possibly imagine, more so than the anger and distrust that has linger on the long since cooled surface of their feud.

He has seen his looks, he has heard his words, he has felt his touch… and yet.

“Why have you lied to me?”

Luke’s words are broken and unbidden, ending on a hitched sob. Aemond’s hands come up to wrap around Luke’s wrists, gentle as his fingers press into their soft undersides. Luke’s heart thunders so violently in his chest he fears his ribs might shatter, and he shakes his head just the slightest as Aemond’s gaze softens into something so utterly fucking heartbreaking.

“It is cruel to love you, Lucerys,” Aemond whispers. “Nothing good will come of it.”

The words slice into Luke like one of his arrows, hot and sharp as they cut a bleeding path straight through him. He feels his knees weaken, held up only by Aemond’s grip on his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes closed as they burn with unshed tears.

“How do you know?” he gasps. “How can you know?”

Aemond lets go of one of his wrists and Luke feels warm fingers tuck under his chin, tilting his head back. He opens his eyes again as a gentle thumb runs over his cheekbone, meets that deep blue sapphire eye, sees a sad smile curling up the edges of Aemond’s lips.

“It was written into our futures long before we knew what they could even be.” Aemond shakes his head just slightly, not looking away from Luke. “A history made but yet to come.” He lets go completely, both hands falling back to his sides, his absence leaving Luke cold and aching. “It is as certain as the coming and going of the tides, of the burning fire in our dragon’s maws.”

Luke shakes his head again, refusing to loosen his hold of Aemond even as he tries to move away. “But what if we changed it?” He grasps for words, his stomach swirling and his mind racing with thoughts, theories, ideas… forming so quickly he feels breathless once more. “What if we could-”

“Luke.”

Aemond sounds so final.

It does nothing but harden Luke’s resolve.

He straightens his shoulders and steels his gaze, his hands twist up further in Aemond’s doublet as he steps closer, shoving himself into Aemond’s space. A flicker of surprise crosses Aemond’s face as he stumbles backwards, his hands coming up to hold Luke’s arms to steady himself, his mouth falling open just slightly.

“I refuse to accept that,” Luke says firmly. “I won’t. I can’t.”

Aemond lets out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. “You must.”

“No.” Aemond flinches as Luke denies him. “No I do not.” Luke lets go of the doublet to cup Aemond’s cheeks, Aemond’s eye widening at the soft touch. “And I will not.”

And with that, Lucerys Velyaron kisses Aemond Targaryen.

Chapter Text

When Luke wakes in the morning, he wakes feeling warm.

It takes a moment to realise why, to feel the rise and fall of the chest pressed against his back and the solid lean arms wrapped around his midriff. It’s all so familiar and yet foreign all at once, and Luke finds a content smile spreads over his lips as he wriggles backwards even further into the comforting embrace.

Only. “Stop it.”

Aemond’s terse words are softened by the sleepiness woven into his tone. Luke pauses, his eyes fluttering open to see their room lit up by the mellow morning sun peering through the window, casting soft shadows along the walls and creating a perfect sleepy hollow. It adds to the comfort building in his chest, and Luke looks down to see those pale arms tighten around his waist as Aemond lets out a quiet muffled yawn behind him.

“Morning,” Luke murmurs quietly, reaching up to run his fingers up and down the expanse of Aemond’s forearm, shivering when Aemond suddenly presses his cool nose against the back of Luke’s neck, almost as if to nuzzle him. “Did you sleep well?”

“Shush, byka āeksio,” Aemond grumbles, his lips ghosting over Luke’s shoulder. “It’s too early for prattle.”

With a start, Luke realises it’s the first time that Aemond has called him by the gentle nickname since they reached Highgarden. Surprisingly, he’s found he’s missed it, and the Valeryian words settle under his skin with a pleasant glow.

Aemond’s breathing has steadied out behind him again, and Luke contends with himself for a moment before he starts to shift around in Aemond’s hold. He’s as slow and quiet as he can be, trying carefully not to disrupt the still moment, until finally he’s facing Aemond, their heads resting on the same pillow as Luke’s arms squish in between both of their chests.

Lying the way he wishes, Luke relaxes back into the bed, his lips twitching up into a smile as he takes a moment to admire Aemond. He looks so calm and content, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, each breath fanning across Luke’s cheeks. Were Luke’s hands not pinned, he would reach up to run them down the slope of Aemond’s nose, over the arches of his cheekbones, along that sharp jawline and the slight pout of his lips. The soft morning glow has turned his white hair into an orange fire, reminiscent of the flames that burst out from Arrax and Vhagar’s roars, a molten flow that trails over his shoulder in a soft cascade.

“You’re staring.”

Luke jumps as Aemond speaks, not quite as asleep as he thought. He feels his cheeks flush a burning red and he gives Aemond a sheepish grin when his eye flickers open to pin Luke with an unimpressed stare.

“Am I not allowed to?” Luke asks, and Aemond huffs as he shifts his legs, his knees bumping and slotting between Luke’s own.

“Depends,” he says as one of his hands starts to knead the small of Luke’s back, a pleasant and reassuring touch. “Is the favour allowed to be returned?”

Luke ducks his head, unable to continue holding Aemond’s intense gaze. He fidgets his hands for a moment, brushing them against the cottons of their sleeping shirts. “I’m sure there is not much to look at,” he mumbles, unable to help the embarrassment teasing into his words. “I’m more plain than anything else. Strong’s aren’t known for their striking looks.”

The casual admission of his parentage is ignored as Aemond’s fingers slip under his chin to tilt his head up, a habit he seems to be growing into. Luke swallows as Aemond makes him meet his gaze, a strange look on his face, a mix of fondness and exasperation.

“A Targaryen is never plain,” Aemond murmurs. His thumb caresses Luke’s cheek, making him shiver. “And you have the deepest brown eyes I have ever seen. I would let the world burn around me if it meant lingering in them a moment more.”

Luke’s flush blazes its way across his cheeks and down his neck. “How can you just say things like that?” he gasps, but Aemond’s smile is soft as he clearly shows no shame.

It’s startling how different Aemond is here in their bed, the glimpses that Luke has seen over the past days now coming out in an astonishing yet welcome way. Luke leans into Aemond’s hand, the way his fingers have knotted slightly into his hair as his palm cups Luke’s jawline, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to lean forward and press a chaste kiss to the corner of Aemond’s lips.

He pulls back to see Aemond’s shocked face, his eye wide as he stares at Luke. “What?” Luke asks coyly, giving him a teasing smile. “Am I not allowed to do that either?”

Something flashes over Aemond’s face and Luke yelps when he suddenly surges forward, crashing their lips together as he crushes Luke to his chest. Luke’s eyes widen briefly before he lets them close, slipping his hands free to wind them up around Aemond’s neck, burying his fingers in the silky hair at his nape.

And Gods.

It’s intoxicating to have Aemond this close, to feel their lips moving together, to breath the same air as he’s pulled up against him, their legs entwining until it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. Luke lets out a gasp when Aemond coaxes his mouth open, deepening the kiss with ease, drawing a breathy moan from out of Luke’s chest as he lets Aemond roll him onto his back and settle between his thighs.

“Aemond,” Luke pants when they break apart, Aemond pressing one more fleeting kiss to his lips before resting their foreheads together, sharing the heated air between them. Luke heart throws itself violently against his ribs, he’s sure Aemond can feel it where their chests are pressed together, and he swallows as he meets Aemond’s very blue gaze.

“Luke,” he purrs, and Luke’s tummy flutters.

He drops his face to hide in Aemond’s shoulder, knowing he must be a terrible sight all red-faced and disheveled. He hears the rumble of Aemond’s chest as he chuckles though, nudging his nose in against Luke’s ear.

“Stop hiding.” Aemond nips his earlobe, making Luke squeak. “Let me see you.”

“It’s not fair,” Luke whines, twisting a strand of Aemond’s hair between his fingers. “I don’t see you blushing like a lady.”

Aemond leans away from him, shifting up on his knees between Luke’s legs with his arms extended on either side of Luke’s waist, his hair falling over his shoulder like a curtain. Luke sprawls beneath him, feeling very vulnerable as he lets go of Aemond to throw his hands over his face, peeking out between his fingers to see Aemond huff as he grins smugly.

“Come now, byka āeksio,” he says, reaching up with one hand to peel Luke’s hands away, Luke reluctantly letting him as the thrill of the nickname shivers through him. “Your blush is one of my favourite things about you.”

Luke screws his nose up even as his heart beats happily, letting his hands fall to rest on his stomach, bunching the fabric of his shirt in loose fists. Aemond’s smile softens as he brushes the hair off Luke’s face, following the movement with his eye, before cupping Luke’s neck with a warm hand, his thumb running over and over the angle of Luke’s jaw.

They lock gazes, Luke’s breath stolen away by the stunning blue of Aemond’s own. He bites his bottom lip though as he runs his eyes over that glinting sapphire, regret pooling heavily in the pit of his stomach, the moment he took Aemond’s eye suddenly so vivid in the back of his mind that it breaks through the sweetness of the moment.

“You know,” he says quietly, words barely loud enough to be heard by Aemond. “I once asked my mother if I could take out my own eye and send it to you.”

A brief look of horror passes over Aemond’s face. “Whatever for?”

Luke smiles. “I thought you might able to use it to see again.” He shrugs awkwardly. “She tried to explain to me that it would not work like that, but I was too young to really understand her. It took a long time before I was convinced it would do more harm than good.”

Aemond’s expression is unreadable, but soon enough he lets out a soft sigh as his thumb brushes over Luke’s cheekbone, just slightly pulling down his bottom eyelid. “I am glad that you did not do it.” He shakes his head. “Seeing you hold that dagger to your eye… it is perhaps the only action I have ever regretted.”

Luke’s heart jumps. “Does…” he trails off, sudden nerves tingling under his skin. “Does this mean you… don’t regret last night?”

Last night. Their long heated kiss, heartbreaking confessions turned into stolen and murmured words, Aemond curling around him as he’d fallen asleep, chaste yet burning with something more… Luke remembers it in hurried flashes.

“Regret… no,” Aemond says after a doubtfully long moment, looking thoughtful as he still holds Luke’s gaze intensely. “I could never regret you, Luke.”

Luke hesitates. “But our actions?”

Aemond’s thumb stills and a shadow crosses his face. “You have to understand things might not be like this outside of these rooms.” He lets go of Luke’s neck to drop his hand down to cover Luke’s where they still rest on his stomach. “Who I am behind closed doors will not be the same person on the other side of them.”

“I know.” Luke means it. Truthfully, he never even expected Aemond to be how he is now. It’s a welcome and delightful surprise to have more than Prince Aemond Targaryen, to have…

Just Aemond.

Aemond sighs almost fondly. “I do not. Regret them, that is.” He squeezes Luke’s hands. “Although our fates have never been less clear than right now.”

Luke frowns. “Were they ever clear to begin with?”

Aemond hums, his expression shifting into something more serious. “We had our places, byka āeksio. We still do.” Luke’s mouth falls open but Aemond speaks over him. “Whether that is to remain, I am unsure.”

Luke understands, the imminent threat of their impending families sits heavy on his mind as well. For now though, for this moment, he decides they shall be the least of their worries as he slips a hand out from under Aemond’s to loop it up around his neck.

“Then perhaps you should kiss me more,” he says sweetly, fluttering his eyelashes, “until you can think of nothing else but my lips on yours.”

There’s a pause… before Aemond bursts out laughing.

“Oh no,” he huffs, his shoulders shaking as Luke’s cheeks burst back into flames and he bites his lip in embarrassment. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

Luke harrumphs as he lets go of Aemond, crossing his arms over his chest as he tries not to pout. “Oh, so when you say something romantic, it’s fine. But when I-”

He’s cut off as Aemond swoops in, taking Luke in a searing kiss. “You might be right,” Aemond mumbles against him, their lips brushing with each word, “after all, you taste like-”

Luke nips Aemond’s bottom lip, drawing a surprised whine from him. “Do shut up,” he growls before throwing both arms around Aemond’s neck, surging up to meet him as he drags him down.

Aemond’s eye simply twinkles with amusement. “Of course, byka āeksio.”

Eventually, they manage to untangle themselves long enough to make it down to the gardens.

Orville greets them outside their quarters. Luke has no idea how long he’s been waiting but Orville doesn’t seem bothered as he gives them a warm greeting and a polite bow before he starts to lead them down the corridors.

Luke and Aemond walk together behind him, close enough their arms brush but even so it still seems too far for Luke. He’s greedy now, having known what it’s like to be in Aemond’s arms, to be wrapped up tight against him, to know his touch so intimately. The odd glancing touch of their hands and elbows does little to temper the yearning roar in his chest.

But Aemond had warned him, and Luke had seen the carefully constructed impassive mask belonging to Prince Aemond slip into place the moment their door had closed behind them, his eyepatch a stark intimidating black against his skin. Even though he wishes to reach out and twine their fingers together, to feel Aemond’s palm press against his own, Luke thinks it might not be welcome.

All thoughts vanish though as they step out into a beautiful garden, taking Luke’s breath away.

It’s stunning.

White shell-crushed pathways cut perfectly through small hedged gardens, luscious green stretching out around them littered with golden roses and bright flowers, the colours of so many Luke couldn’t dream to name spreading out the further into the gardens they walk. They pass a small stone-lined pond, bringing with it the sound and sight of ducks quacking as they clamour for grapes a maid is feeding them, Lord Lyonel giggling happily as they nibble at his little fingers, white lilies blooming on the water surface as wildflowers tease its edges. There’s gardeners everywhere, crouched in the flowerbeds or tending to the many fruit trees, the scent of apples and pears sweet in the air, and their wooden wheelbarrows filled with plucked fruits gives the garden a quaint feel.

But in the centre, a white gazebo stands covered in blossoming purple wisteria, the vines twining around the posts intricately, and inside it sitting at a well-ladened table is Lady Elenna and Alyssa, the latter standing as they approach.

“Luke, Aemond,” she calls as they step up into the gazebo, coming forward to hug Luke tightly and squeeze Aemond’s arm. “I am so pleased to see you. I hope that you had a quiet night?”

It’s a strange question but Luke gathers that it might be a normal greeting in the Reach. “We did, thank you,” he says with a smile, puzzled when Alyssa looks relieved. “The bed was a welcome treat after so long on the road.”

“Oh, I am sure it was,” Lady Elenna muses pointedly as they join her at the table, not looking up from the cross stitch in her hand.

“Mother,” Alyssa scolds as Luke’s cheeks burn at the implication in Lady Elenna’s tone.

However he still smiles, having expected some sort of barbed comment from the older woman. “My mother always said jealousy is an undesirable trait, Lady Elenna,” he teases, and she glances up to give him a withering look, her eyes however twinkling in amusement.

Alyssa clears her throat, drawing their attention. “I am glad you were uninterrupted,” she continues as if the two of them hadn’t spoken. “You both look well rested.” Lady Elenna’s mouth predictably opens, but Alyssa speaks over whatever tart comment she was about to say. “Unfortunately there was a bit of unease in the castle last night.”

Luke pauses with his hand hovering over some sliced pear, his eyebrow arching at Alyssa. It’s Aemond that beats him to it though, shifting forward in his chair to pin Alyssa with that dark stare of his.

“Unease?” he asks, and Alyssa holds his stare with her own, pursing her lips as she taps her fingers on the tabletop.

“Indeed.” She glances at Lady Elenna before continuing. “It is good that it did not reach you in your rooms. We were worried-”

“Oh Alyssa,” Lady Elenna cuts in, slapping her cross stitch down on the table as she glares at her daughter. “Let us not drag this out.” She turns that glare to Luke and Aemond. “An assassin was caught in the corridors last night. Wearing the colours of House Baratheon.”

Luke freezes, his heart lurching up to into his throat as his blood rushes in his ears. He glances at Aemond to see that while he’s is still impassive as ever, his jaw has snapped taunt and his eye narrows as he meets Lady Elenna’s stare.

“You are sure he was a Baratheon?”

Lady Elenna’s nostrils flare. “I remember colours of House’s you will never know, boy,” she snaps tersely, “and I assure you that none bar the Baratheon’s have ever worn that awful gaudy yellow.”

Aemond huffs, a flicker of irritation crossing his face, and Luke reaches out under the table to rest a hand on his knee. Whether to calm Aemond or to assure himself, it doesn’t matter, not when Aemond’s hand comes up to settle over his as if without thought. Alyssa looks like she’s bitten into a lemon, her eyes jumping between Aemond and Lady Elenna as if she can’t decide who to reprimand, and Luke takes it upon himself to move along the conversation.

“We have to apologise profusely for bringing such danger to your household,” he murmurs to Alyssa, who looks at him in surprise. “We did not intend to-”

“Oh hush, little prince,” Lady Elanna scolds, and Luke feels Aemond bristling at her continuing curtness, his fingers digging into Luke’s own. “Assassination attempts are no foreign concept to us. There are many in the Reach who do not accept a woman as their ruler. Since my son-in-law passed a year ago, several attempts on my daughter’s life have been made in an effort to ensure my grandson rules through a different regency.”

Alyssa’s lips twitch as she gives her mother an exasperated smile. “You are right as always, Mother,” she sighs, sounding fond nevertheless. “Although I must say at least assassins in the Reach have the class of poison or causing a supposed accident. Not sending a lumbering barbarian to trounce through the halls.”

Lady Elenna sniffs, turning her nose up. “The Storm Lands is a wretched place of brawny brainless oafs. The Baratheon’s have always been uncouth, and their woman are particularly tacky.”

Alyssa lets out a delighted giggle behind her hand and Luke takes the moment to lean forward, his eyes wide as they jump between the two women. “I don’t understand how you are so calm about all this.”

Were it not unladylike, Luke doesn’t doubt that Lady Elenna would have rolled her eyes at him. “Have you not been listening, Lucerys?” She flaps a dismissive hand at him. “Nevertheless, Baratheon is no longer a concern for you. He will be dealt with accordingly.”

At Luke’s baffled look, Alyssa gives him a sweet smile and pours him a cup of steaming tea from the teapot in front of her. “Borros has violated the treaty between the Storm Lands and the Reach by sending his men into our lands without seeking our permission.” She barely blinks. “Retaliation will be swift and merciless.”

She pushes the teacup towards Luke and he picks it up without thought, his other hand remaining in Aemond’s loosened hold. “It is not right for us to be the cause of such a grievous disagreement between your houses.”

“Nonsense.” Alyssa pushes a second cup towards Aemond who takes it with nimble fingers, regarding her with interest over its thin rim “Regardless of who you are, you are guests of House Tyrell and as such under our protection.” Her smile sharpens, becoming almost menacing. “Borros has tried his luck with us once too often before that it would be unbecoming to allow such a blatant slight go without recognition. It is about time he understands just why House Tyrell is not to be trifled with.”

Luke feels a flicker of fear deep in his chest when he sees the glance Alyssa and Lady Elenna exchange. He’s rather glad to be on their side in this matter, not entirely sure if he would like to experience what it would be like to face their wrath. After all, what little of the Tyrell’s dispute history he has read has been both bloody and vicious.

Unsure what more to say, Luke instead takes a bracing sip of his tea as he leans back in his seat, his hand slipping away from Aemond’s knee to sit still unseen however further up on his thigh. He thinks to move it, but Aemond seems unbothered as he lets go of Luke to start adding slices of bread and different fruits to their plates.

It reminds Luke of being on the road again, of just the two of them sitting side by side in front of a fire with wooden plates of meagre meals, and he feels his shoulders sag just the slightest as the sight relaxes him.

“Nevertheless,” Alyssa says, drawing Luke’s attention, and he doesn’t miss how her sharp eyes catch just where his hand is resting, “that is not why I asked you here for tea this morning. I do hope that you have noticed the beauty of just one of Highgarden’s many gardens?”

The turn to a more superficial topic nearly throws Luke, but he recovers quickly. “It puts the Red Keep to shame, let alone Dragonstone.”

“Indeed.” Alyssa hums as she spoons honey onto a slice of bread, smiling to herself. “Your mother wrote to me of how dreary that island can be when she first moved there. Tell me, has she managed to brighten it up some or is it still all slate and misery?”

Surprisingly, it’s easy for Luke to fall into telling stories of Dragonstone. Alyssa is a captive audience, listening intently and asking questions at all the right times, spurring Luke into spinning wilder tales. Lady Elenna falls silent as she returns to her cross stitch, only pausing to take sips of her tea or to offer the odd cutting remark. Luke doesn’t mind, she reminds him in a way of his own grandmother, even if Princess Rhaenys is a lot less tart with her tongue… well, obviously anyway.

Through it all, Luke feels Aemond’s gaze on him. Each time he glances over it’s to see a strange considering look on Aemond’s face, as if he’s trying to decide just what to think of Luke’s silly stories. It makes Luke wonder if Aemond has had any silly moments with his siblings as Luke does with his own, but Luke doesn’t really need to think much on the matter to know that even were there to be such memories, Aemond would not be inclined to share them with the ladies.

Eventually though, Alyssa finally lets them free to wander amongst the gardens at their own leisure, only after extracting a promise that they will attend dinner again with her, just her, tonight.

“Of course,” Luke says with a brilliant smile as Alyssa presses a kiss to his cheek. “We would be delighted.”

Aemond is given a kiss of his own before they step down out of the gazebo into the gardens. Frankly Luke is thankful for the time alone with Aemond again as they take to walking the carefully kept paths, the crushed-shells crunching beneath their boots.

“I feel terrible,” Luke confesses once they’re far enough away from the gazebo that neither of the ladies will hear them.

Aemond glances over at him briefly, his sapphire glittering in the bright sun. “How so, byka āeksio?”

Luke shrugs, his hands opening and closing at his sides. He wishes to reach out and take Aemond’s again, but they’re clasped firmly behind his back and Luke hesitates to close the small gap between them. “To cause such a disturbance within Highgarden…” He pauses, the words taste sour on his tongue. “Perhaps we should not have come here after all.”

They pass a maid where she cuts fresh roses to add to the basket hanging from her arm, and Luke gives her a pleasant smile when she glances at them. A sweet blush spreads over her cheeks in response and she ducks her gaze.

“Would you have rather we hadn’t?”

Luke blinks and turns his attention back to Aemond, his eyes widening as he hears the slight edge in Aemond’s tone. Aemond doesn’t look at him though, very much focused on where they’re walking, eyes forward and shoulders stiff.

“I…” Luke bites his lip. “It would have prevented causing a rift between the Tyrell’s and Baratheon’s had we gone to the coast as you suggested…”

He trails off, unsure whether to continue, wondering if perhaps he’s pressed into a topic he maybe should not have. But Aemond lets out a deep sigh before shifting slightly sideways until their shoulders bump, brushing against each other with each step.

“The relations between the two houses has been tempestuous for years, Luke,” Aemond says. “Borros has been careless in his desperation towards us, and it has led to him making a mistake he and his people will suffer for.”

Luke hates it. “We are the reason the assassin was sent. We are the reason a Baratheon was even in these halls.”

Aemond shakes his head though. “It was him that chose to imprison us and go against the throne. It was him that underestimated us and overestimated himself.” He glances down at Luke, mouth set firmly, eye hard. “It is Borros alone who is to blame for what comes next, not us.” He gives Luke a tense smile, just a flicker of the edges of his lips. “Alyssa may come across as a kind woman, but even you must have seen the glimpse of the snake that lies beneath.”

Luke would never say it so harshly, but he cannot deny Aemond. “I worry that in an effort to prevent one war, we may have caused another.”

Surprisingly, Aemond laughs, a clear beautiful sound that makes Luke’s heart skip. “Oh, byka āeksio,” he sighs, coming to a stop as he reaches out to grip Luke’s shoulders, squeezing them tightly. “Tyrell’s are known for their neutrality in most matters unless it benefits them.” He shakes his head as he smirks. “We are but a convenient excuse for the Tyrell’s to push their agenda against the Storm Lands. This has nothing to do with us.”

Luke hesitates. “You are sure?”

Aemond reaches up and gently pinches Luke’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I am,” he assures him, his smirk softening. “So let us put this to rest.”

Tentatively, Luke slowly nods his head. It’s the right thing to do as Aemond nods back before he lets go of Luke, putting the space back between them. Luke nearly follows him, wanting nothing more than to have Aemond touching him once more, but he stifles the need as he lets a smile spread over his lips, feeling a little lighter knowing that at the very least, Borros Baratheon is no longer a threat.

“Come on then,” he says as he starts to lead the way out of the garden, a new bounce to his step. “I want to see how Jelmera is.”

Behind him, Aemond lets out a noise dangerously close to a groan.

The stables in Highgarden are much fancier than the ones in Kings Landing.

Luke’s eyes widen at the towering wrought iron gates that greet them, opening up to oaken bays and the strong smell of barely, hay, and freshly oiled leather. He can hear the sound of horse hooves clacking across the cobblestones as stablehands move them in and out, each horse in perfect condition with shiny coats and high quality gear on their backs and faces. Luke admires a stunning palomino gelding as it passes him, no doubt for the lady waiting in the courtyard behind them in her riding gears, tossing his beautiful white mane as he goes.

“My father would have loved this,” he muses aloud. From what Harlan had said last night, Ser Leanor had spent plenty of time in Highgarden when he was younger. Luke can imagine him in these stables, grooming the horses and teasing the stablehands, returning to his quarters covered in mud and hay, charming the maids with sweet words and that brilliant smile.

Aemond hums in acknowledgement beside him. Luke glances up to give him a smile before pressing on, glancing in every bay they walk by in the hopes of spotting Jelmera. He knows she’s in here, Orville had reassured them of such, but he isn’t sure just which bay she’ll be tucked in.

Near the very back, as it turns out, and Luke grins when he reaches her bay before rising up onto his tippy-toes to hang over it’s half-door.

“Hello, girl,” he greets, sticking a hand out to wiggle at her, laughing with delight when she drops her nose straight into it, huffing wetly into his palm. “You’re looking very comfortable here.”

She certainly does. The bay is incredibly spacious, there’s a fresh pile of hay in the corner, the bucket hanging off the wall is filled with crystal clear water, and she’s been groomed to match the the other horses. Her hooves are trimmed and oiled, her mane and tail unknotted and brushed, her coat gleaming and silky looking. She’s never looked better, not even when they first got her, and Luke is glad she’s being treated well after everything she’d done for them.

“When we figure out where we’re going,” Luke murmurs to her, scratching under her chin as her eyes close happily, leaning into his hand, “we will take you with us. You deserve to be treated this well all the time.”

He sees Aemond move out of the corner of his eye, stepping up to lean against the half-door himself, his arms folded on top of it as he watches Jelmera. He’s quiet though, his expression thoughtful, and Luke waits for him to broach the silence first as he starts to scratch his fingers up Jelmera’s neck.

Eventually, he does. “You said ‘we’.”

Luke very purposefully continues stroking Jelmera’s mane. “Yes.” He pauses, but Aemond doesn’t respond. “Should I not have?”

“It holds a heavy implication.”

Luke glances at Aemond to see his stance is stiff and taunt beside him. “Whatever future I have, Aemond, you are in it.” He smiles, wishing Aemond would look his way to see it. “That is non-negotiable.”

Aemond shakes his head minutely. “It may not be up to you, byka āeksio.”

“Of course it is.” Luke twists his fingers into Jelmera’s mane. “Who else’s decision would it be?”

That seems to break the tense hold over Aemond as he lets out a scoff and turns to look at Luke, fond and exasperated all at once, his lips twitching up at the edges as his eye softens. “You are a dreamer, Lucerys Velaryon.”

Luke just smiles again, raising one shoulder in a half-shrug before turning back to Jelmera. Aemond isn’t wrong, neither is Mother every time she calls him the same. Dreams have led him to this point though and that can’t be denied.

He’s thrown from his thoughts suddenly as Aemond shuffles closer, and Luke falls stone still as Aemond slips both arms low around his hips, pulling him sideways slightly as his chin comes down to nestle in amongst Luke’s curls, resting on the crown of his head.

Luke swallows, his mind racing, nerves teasing under his skin. “What happened to being different outside of our rooms?”

Aemond huffs, ruffling Luke’s hair. “There is no one around,” he blatantly lies, and Luke’s heart does a funny little skip. “Not that I can see.”

Luke doesn’t say anything as he drops a hand down to grip Aemond’s arm, especially not as Aemond relaxes, his chest pressing against Luke’s shoulder, and Luke smiles as he continues scratching along Jelmera’s neck, feeling more content than he has in a long time.

However, while Luke is loathed to break the moment, soon enough a nervous stablehand appears with intentions on tending to Jelmera, and while the young boy wilts under Aemond’s irritated glare for interrupting them, Luke takes the moment to say farewell to Jelmera before tugging Aemond from the stables.

After all, there is more of Highgarden to explore, especially since Luke has never been here before. The castle is inviting in all its beauty and Luke is more than content to wanders the endless twisting halls and blooming gardens, Aemond patiently following along beside him.

“Did you ever visit Highgarden when you traveled to Oldtown?” Luke asks as they wander, trailing his fingers over the smooth stone of the wall beside him, running them up and down the edges of each brick. His other hand itches for Aemond’s own, but instead he lets it hang in a loose fist at his side.

“Once or twice,” Aemond answers from where he walks on the other side of the corridor, his hands clasped behind his back, carefully restrained as usual. “Although the times we went to Oldtown were often for a reason, not for idle visits.”

Luke nods his head slowly. “Like when Daeron was taken in as your uncle’s ward?”

There’s a pause. “Indeed.”

Aemond sounds strange and Luke glances over just in time to see a conflicted look pass over Aemond’s face before its smoothed away by that perfect impassive mask. It makes him frown, wishing that Aemond wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t hide away.

“What was that like?” he asks, and Aemond’s eye flickers to him briefly. “Sending your little brother away?” He pauses, thinks of Joff and Jace, how his heart aches for them. “I don’t think I can even imagine being apart from Joff, let alone for most of his life.”

There’s a long silence, stretching out between them enough for Luke to wonder if he’s crossed a line. They haven’t spoken about Aemond’s siblings much, not really, and perhaps speaking about Daeron is something that shouldn’t be done.

But then. “Difficult, at first,” Aemond murmurs quietly. “At the time I was too young to understand the politics of court and the accusations that would be laid at her feet, primarily because of his stronger Hightower traits.” He sighs, heavy and sad. “I simply thought she was sending him away to be cruel.”

Luke quirks his head to the side. “Cruel?”

Aemond nods, looking far away as his steps slow to a dawdle, Luke following suit. “My siblings and I have never been close.” Aemond’s lips purse. “Helena has always been absent even when present. Aegon is… Aegon, and Daeron was sent to ward at Old Town before he could walk.” He huffs. “Our ties to one another have always been frayed.” He clears his throat. “I used to be envious of the relationship between you and your brothers.”

Luke’s mouth falls open in surprise, the admission not something he was expecting. He thinks back to Aemond when they were younger. Prim and proper, duty and honour bound. He doesn’t remember ever seeing even a hint of jealousy.

“Daeron was…” Aemond hesitates uncharacteristically, making Luke’s heart squeeze. “I believed he was my chance to have the kinship as you shared with Jace.” He glances briefly at Luke, showing the ache etched into his face. “After he was taken to Oldtown, I realised I was foolish in hoping that would ever be.”

“Not foolish.” Luke moves away from the wall towards Aemond, halting them both as he reaches out to take his elbow gently. “You and Daeron should have had that chance. It was unfair for it to be taken from you.”

Aemond looks resigned. “It does not matter now, Luke. Daeron is long since grown and the opportunity has passed.” He reaches up to take Luke’s hand, pulling it away from his elbow but allowing their hands to remain loosely linked at their sides. “In truth, I am glad he was raised away from the Red Keep.”

Luke blinks up at him. “You are?”

Aemond starts to walk again, Luke falling in beside him as they continue down the empty corridor. “He is different. Gentler. The poison of the politics in our family has never tainted him.” Aemond’s hand tightens around Luke’s. “If only we were so lucky to have been raised the same.”

If only. Luke wonders what that would have been like, to not have been pitted against Aegon and Aemond by the adults around them, to have been allowed to grow up without the constant threat and prejudice of their opposing parents and courts.

“I remember Jace saying once,” Luke says quietly, “that we are just chess pieces to be moved about the board.” Aemond hums in acknowledgement, and Luke sighs. “Perhaps Daeron is lucky to have been removed from the game before he became an unwilling pawn.”

“Perhaps.” Aemond doesn’t sound convinced. “Although I doubt it will be much longer before he is drawn into it. The conflict between our families will not spare him and Tessarion, no matter how far from it all he is.”

Tessarion, the Blue Queen. Beautiful azure wings with glinting copper scales. Luke has only heard tales of the she-dragon, rumours of her beauty. He does not wish for his first glimpse of her to be on the field of battle.

“It does not have to be like that.” Luke glances over to see Aemond looking back, his eyebrows raised. “There is no need for this conflict to go any further than it already has. You know this.”

Aemond sighs as he shakes his head. “It is unwise to think it is up to us to decide that, Luke.”

Luke doesn’t like the way Aemond already sounds resigned, as if he truly believes that a war is inevitable. He thought they’d already discussed it, what could be done to prevent it, back in that small lean-to in the thundering rain. It’s simple enough in Luke’s eyes. A betrothal between one of his younger brothers and Jaehaera, Jace to inherit Driftmark with Baela instead… he frowns.

Did Aemond not take him seriously?

The moment passes though as the silence drags on. Aemond seems to think the conversation has ended and Luke doesn’t see reason to break the peace that settles in its place. Their hands are still loosely linked between them, their fingers entwined together, and Luke worries Aemond will pull away once more if he presses the subject.

Instead they continue through Highgarden. The beautiful twisting halls with the sweet scent of blooming flowers in the air starts to fade for Luke though as the silence between the two of them begins to stretch out longer and longer. He can’t help it, too many thoughts start to drift through his mind, ideas and concepts picking up in their hurry to be noticed, plans for how best to solve this fuming conflict between their families.

A quick glance up at Aemond makes Luke wonder if Aemond is thinking the same. He’s staring straight ahead, as if lost in his own mind, not quite taking in the castle around them, but Luke is realistic. Aemond has the mind for war, much like his dragon. Battles and campaigns are nothing for him to plan, but peace?

No, Luke is alone in these thoughts.

Which is fine. Aemond seems in a world of his own and Luke is more than content for now to dwell on plans for the future. A dreamer, he’s been called, so he is more than happy to dream.

Of course, when it comes to this dreadful conflict, he must start with the obvious question that the entire realm is currently discussing, even those that say they aren’t.

Who should sit upon the Iron Throne… Aegon, or Rhaenyra.

Luke dreads asking that question of himself. Without a doubt he is on Mother’s side, but he must ask the question of why there is the support for Aegon? Even Aemond himself has acknowledged that Aegon is less suited for the throne, and while the discussion over gender is undoubtedly critical, it is not something that can be changed.

Luke scrunches his nose up. He looks over at Aemond again, wondering if he should draw him into a discussion on the question, but he doesn’t want to start another argument. Aemond is loyal to a fault, and even though they have come a long way in their time together, he knows that he truly cannot guarantee that Aemond will necessarily agree with him.

So he’s on his own still. Aegon over Rhaenyra. The only reason in the eyes of everyone outside of the power hungry Hightowers is that Aegon has heirs with unquestionable heritage. Luke knows that his perspective of lineage is different due to the circumstances of his birth, and he is well aware that while he cannot understand why the realm will not accept that Laenor chose him and his brothers and raised them as his own… he can begrudgingly accept that it is an issue that will follow them past this current conflict even were they to resolve it.

So Mother needs an heir, a legitimate heir. It’s simple, really. As Luke has already said, who could be more legitimate than the children from the first and second heirs to King Viserys. Aegon and Viserys could be raised to take the throne, a marriage to Jaehaera would strengthen their claim even further still. Luke isn’t sure he can even imagine broaching the topic with Jace, to discuss his removal from the line of succession, but nevertheless he knows his brother is a man of honour and integrity.

If it will prevent a war, Jace will step down.

Which leaves him without a place though. Luke sighs and fights the urge to run a hand over his face, not wanting to draw any attention to himself as they slowly meander through Highgarden’s quiet halls. It’s truly a shame that Alicent prevented Jace’s betrothal to Heleana. It would have been the perfect answer, to bond their separate families through marriage with children born to unite them in their future. No matter his father, Jace is still the son of Rhaenyra Targaryen. But the Hightowers foiled that for their own gain and now here they sit on the cusp of a preventable war all because Otto Hightower locked his greedy eyes on the throne that is not his to take.

Anger does nothing to help the situation though. Luke already knows that if Jace is convinced to step down, he will do the same for Driftmark in a heartbeat. Jace has always been the leader of them, the one to hold his head high and carry the weight of command with dignity. Luke was not made for such a role, never wanted it nor craved it. His father tried so hard to pass on his love of the ocean to Luke, but the sea has done little more than churn his stomach and Luke has never once heard the siren call Ser Laenor spoke of.

In truth, he has a feeling deep down in his bones that no matter what happens… he was never truly destined to lead Driftmark.

But with Baela as Jace’s wife, his grandsire will be satisfied having two heirs to succeed him. Laenor’s chosen son and Corlys true blooded granddaughter on the throne of Driftmark. Their children will be both Targaryen and Velaryon, their ancient blood will carry their heritage into further generations.

If all this was the case, if it could all be arranged… Luke is sure that Mother’s claim would be stronger than Aegon’s own. Being the only heir King Viserys ever acknowledged, having two legitimate heirs, as well as the full support of Driftmark and the second greatest ancient house behind her for years to come.

It could work.

Of course there are other players to take into account. The Hightower’s would need to be removed, Aegon’s fate is something that Luke knows isn’t his place to decide upon, but at the very least Helena would not be uplifted from court were she to relinquish her throne. Mother is merciful and kind despite her tough exterior, and Luke has not forgotten her original plan for her estranged family once she had ascended the throne. There is a future there for them all if they are willing to take the first steps forward to just simply take it.

But there is one catch that Luke can see. After all, his younger brothers and Jaehaera are only children, and while they could be betrothed they would not marry for years. That leaves too much time for insidious schemes and sinister plots to intervene with the pact, to undermine Mother’s throne, to even overthrow her if left unchecked. The Hightowers are plotters and greedy, Ser Otto will stop at nothing if there is even an inkling he may succeed, and Queen Alicent is a devious woman who’s hatred for his family runs deep enough to flow through her very own lifeblood.

So there must be another guarantee, something to hold the families together until such times as the children are old enough to bind them once more… and as Aemond shifts beside him, catching Luke’s eye and pulling on is heart, Luke has a thought.

But it’s just a thought, all a vague plan that Luke doesn’t dare put to spoken words, and it doesn’t matter a moment more as suddenly Aemond brings them to a halt as he calls to him, breaking through the swirling fog he’s fallen into.

“Byka āeksio,” he says softly, squeezing Luke’s hand, and Luke blinks back into focus as he turns to see Aemond frowning down at him. “You have been quiet for some time.”

Luke quirks his head to the side as he meets Aemond’s gaze. “Oh dear, am I worrying you?”

Aemond pauses for a moment before he huffs and glances away, red dusting settling over his cheeks. “I worry only that your tongue may have fallen from your head.” A smirk tugs at the edges of his lips. “It would be an awful shame were that so.”

Luke rolls his eyes even as he can’t help the smile that crosses his face. “Idiot,” he says, terribly fond. “I hate to disappoint but my tongue is very much still in place.”

He pokes it out as if to prove a point, well aware how childish he must look but not very bothered by it. Aemond just gives him an unimpressed scowl in response but when Luke starts to move forward again, Aemond tugs him back by his hand.

It makes Luke stumble, and he raises his eyebrows in question as he turns back only to see Aemond staring at him intensely.

“Luke,” he says slow, measured. “You would tell me if something was bothering you, would you not?”

Luke swallows as he struggles to hold Aemond’s heavy gaze. He thinks of his plans, his thoughts, wonders if perhaps he should share them. But what could come of it? Aemond already thinks they’re doomed to a war and he doubts that he would be able to change his mind. Aemond’s pure disbelief in the lean-too before when Luke had only mentioned the ideas had been enough for him to know that maybe Aemond is not going to be receptive.

But then again, he won’t know unless he tells him.

“Of course,” he says with a bright smile. “I keep no secrets from you.”

Something deep in Luke’s stomach pangs as Aemond’s eye narrows. “Indeed,” he drawls, and Luke knows he doesn’t believe him.

The silence between them hangs thick and awkward. Luke wants to ignore it, press on into the corridors and get lost in Highgarden. He wishes Aemond wasn’t so astute, didn’t know him the way he does… but he does, and Luke knows that if he doesn’t say something now then this silence will drag on as it once had.

So he steps forward, lets go of Aemond’s hand to instead cup his cheeks. “What if there was something we could do?” he asks quietly. “What if we could fix things, Aemond? For us and our families?”

Aemond holds his gaze for a long moment before suddenly he sighs, his shoulders slumping as he hangs his head. His hands come up to wrap around Luke’s wrists, thumbs pressing into their soft undersides.

“How?” Aemond sounds defeated, tired, and Luke feels as exhausted as Aemond looks. “Tell me how, Lucerys.”

Luke swallows his nerves even as he rolls his shoulders back and juts out his chin. He tilts Aemond’s head back, makes him meet his eyes, holds his gaze even when he sees that Aemond wants nothing more than to look away.

“Together.”

Aemond lets out a bark of a laugh, shaking his head as a disbelieving grin crosses over his face. “Luke,” he starts to say, his voice lilted as if speaking to a mad man, but Luke narrows his eyes as he drops his hands down to fist into Aemond’s shirt, clenching the fabric between his fingers.

“I’m not crazy, Aemond,” he interrupts him, and Aemond’s mouth closes with a click. “And I’m not joking. Our families will find us here eventually, that is certain. But the Reach is neutral ground. We can use that-”

“Lucerys,” Aemond cuts him off, the smile vanishing from his face to be replaced with a hard glare. “You cannot possibly be thinking of trying to negotiate a peace treaty.” His gaze hardens. “Tell me it is not because of those silly ideas you had.”

“And what if they are?” Luke demands, all those thoughts and plans starting to solidify in his mind. “Am I so wrong to want to take the opportunity to at the very least explore the possibilities?”

“To get all our family to agree to those kind of terms will be harder than you can even dream to imagine,” Aemond argues but Luke is already shaking his head.

“But there is a still a chance,” he points out, “and with us united, we stand as an example that both sides can come together despite what our pasts may have been.” He feels delirious, nigh insane. “Aemond, I want us to avoid bloodshed, I want our families to survive whatever is happening here, and so help me but I want us to survive as well.”

Aemond’s eye softens. His hand comes up to cup Luke’s jaw gently, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “We both know that might not-”

Luke surges forward, dragging Aemond down by his shirt as he slams their lips together, swallowing whatever words Aemond was about to say and his surprised noise. Luke doesn’t care, not as their lips slot together as if made to fit, not as Aemond tilts his head back to deepen the kiss, not as he clings to Aemond and feels him cling back in return.

They break apart with heaving breaths, Aemond’s eye dark and wide as Luke holds his gaze.

“I will have you, Aemond Targaryen,” he declares, every single word flickering with the passion and fire that burns in his chest. “No one decides our future, but us.”

Aemond stares at him silently for a moment before he lets out a sudden breathless laugh, delirious and surprised, and he leans forward to press their foreheads together, the ghost of each breath fluttering over Luke’s warm cheeks.

“You continue to surprise me, byka āeksio,” he murmurs. Luke swallows around the nerves building up in his chest, pushing them down as he lets go of Aemond’s hand to reach up and cup his cheek once more.

“Fight for me,” Luke whispers, and something flickers over Aemond’s face that he doesn’t quite recognise. “Fight for me like I will fight for you.”

There’s a long earth-shattering beat… before Aemond’s eye steels even as his touch remains soft and deliberate.

“Together, then,” he says.

Chapter Text

“Byka āeksio.”

Luke groans into his pillow, still half-asleep, warm where he’s wrapped up in the soft plush blankets around him. He can vaguely feel a hand pressing between his shoulder blades, gentle but firm as the nickname is whispered softly somewhere above him.

“Lucerys.”

Luke screws up his nose, pressing his face further into his pillow. He recognises Aemond’s voice, surprisingly humoured if a tinge exasperated. He jumps slightly though when he feels familiar lips pressing against the shell of his ear, a sweet caress as the slope of Aemond’s noise trails down the curve of his neck, sending a bolt of shock down his spine as he bites back a muffled moan.

“Luke, wake up.”

Luke sighs. “Just a little longer,” he grumbles, voice muffled by the pillow, and he hears Aemond’s annoyed huff as the expelled air ruffles his hair. Aemond moves away though, mattress moving beneath him as Aemond’s weight shifts from beside his hips, and Luke thinks for a delusional moment that Aemond has listened to him.

Only for Aemond’s hands to sudden grip his shoulder and hip, and Luke’s eyes flash open and a startled yelp leaves his mouth as Aemond flips him over roughly, slamming him on his back hard enough to make Luke’s breath stutter in his chest. He stares with wide eyes as Aemond hovers over him, blue eye twinkling as his lips curl up at their edges into a satisfied smirk.

“No,” Aemond drawls, stopping Luke from rolling back onto his front by shoving his hands flat to Luke’s chest, holding him down against the mattress in a way that makes Luke’s mouth run dry. “Get up.”

Luke sticks his tongue out, satisfied when Aemond rolls his eye and pushes away from him, striding over to the other side of their room. Luke begrudgingly sits up as he goes, the blankets falling to pool around his hips, and he takes the time to languidly stretch out his arms, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn as he tries to slow the thundering of his heart.

Only Aemond seems uninterested in letting that happen as he throws Luke something from across the room, and Luke barely manages to catch the item before it slaps him in the face. He raises his eyebrows as he brings a pair of pants down to his lap, fingers toying with the supple brown leather, clearly well-worn and undoubtedly comfortable. It’s a change from the finery he’s been presented with so far, and he looks up to see Aemond watching him expectantly.

“Get changed,” Aemond instructs, and Luke wants to roll his eyes this time. “We’re already late.”

“Late for what?” Luke mutters, but he’s quick to scramble to his feet as Aemond starts to hurl more clothing at him from the neat stack at the end of their bed, item by item smacking Luke in the face.

Late for the stables, as it turns out. Luke gathered they might be riding as he’d pulled on the leather jodhpurs and his boots, the smell of saddle oil sticking to the clearly borrowed riding clothes, and there had been a bounce in his step as he’d followed an unimpressed Aemond through the halls down to the main courtyard.

Of course, at this point, Luke wonders if Aemond is ever impressed. He’s started to find it rather charming at this point.

Not that it matters as they reach the stables on the other side of the courtyard, and Luke grins brightly when he sees a stablehand with Jelmera and another horse, both haltered and saddled. He immediately strides past Aemond to go to her, calling out a greeting to the stablehand before he reaches Jelmera’s side and presses his forehead to hers.

“Hello, girl,” he coos, scratching her cheek affectionately, screwing up his nose when she snorts onto his shirt. “I’ve missed you.”

“You’ve barely been apart,” Aemond drawls and Luke flicks him an irritated look in return. It doesn’t seem to phase him though as he shakes his head before taking the reins of the other horse from the stablehand. “Sometimes I think you like that horse more than you like me.”

Luke’s lips twitch. “Well,” he mock-whispers to Jelmera as he takes her reins too, the stablehand scarpering quickly away, “we shan’t let him know.”

Aemond reaches out to pinch his side and Luke bats him away with a laugh. Luckily Aemond doesn’t seem offended at all as he instead jerks his head towards the gate, and Luke dutifully pulls Jelmera into step beside him as they start to make their way across the cobbled courtyard. Aemond pauses before they cross over the drawbridge, turning instead to help Luke up onto Jelmera’s back, offering his cupped hands to boost him up to her saddle.

He doesn’t say why but Luke doesn’t doubt its for safety as Aemond easily swings up onto his own mount, a stunning dapple grey mare that tosses her head when Aemond nudges her forward. Luke thinks to ask where they’re going but decides against it, choosing to just trust whatever Aemond’s plans are before Jelmera falls in behind Aemond as he leads them over the drawbridge and into the twisting streets.

Highgarden is a hive of activity as they ride down through her levels. The streets are full of movement and noise, merchants call out from under colourful canvas awnings, ladies walk by with woven baskets full of bundles of fabric balanced on their hips, small children dart past the horse’s legs with sticky fingers and mischievous laughter. The smell of freshly baked bread wafts around the corners, mixing with the familiar musk of old hay and mud, and Luke can hear the tolling bells where they ring further up at the towering sept. The hustle and bustle reminds him of Kings Landing, only the people here look happy, rosy-cheeked with bright smiles, some even give them small waves while others peer up at them in awe.

Luke knows its Aemond that catches their eye. Once more he looks the perfect part of a Targaryen Prince. White hair that glows in the sun, the intimidating cut of his deep black clothes, his silhouette regal and dramatic with the dapple mare only adding to the striking sight. He rides with a straight back but a careless one-handed hold on the reins, the just-right mix of power and ease.

It’s truly a striking sight… a noticeable and memorable one.

He wonders as they ride if Aemond not hiding his blatant heritage is the right choice, after all he’s an obvious beacon and the rumours of their presence in Highgarden will undoubtedly spread. Even if Alyssa had confirmed last night that already the whisperings have left the castle, they shouldn’t really be tempting fate.

However all thoughts vanish as they finally arrive at the main gates of Highgarden, the sprawling green countryside on the other side of them, and Aemond turns in his saddle to give Luke a challenging smirk before suddenly he’s urging his mare forward with a loud shout and firm nudge to her sides.

Luke’s eyes widen as Aemond takes off, galloping over the draw bridge, people stumbling out of his path as he barrels through them, and Luke can’t help but let out a brilliant laugh.

“Go, Jelmera!” he cries, nudging her flanks, and Jelmera lets out a sharp ninny before throwing herself into a furious gallop and taking chase.

The wind is strong as it rips through Luke’s hair, pushing against him as he clings to Jelmera’s back and reins, delighted laughter bubbling out of his chest that leaves him breathless. Jelmera’s hooves thunder on the dirt, the impact crashing through him as he rolls with her movements, his eyes trained on Aemond just ahead of him as they cover the ground to reach his side. The horizon is endless as they spirit towards it, trees flash by while the warm sun beams down on them, cloudless sky stretches out infinitely above them as the Mander flows in the distance. They pass a group of farmers, their dogs taking chase with shrill barks as they tear away from them, but they soon leave them behind as Luke finally reaches Aemond’s side, their horses falling into perfect step.

It’s so freeing. Luke feels delirious, light-headed. He can’t stop grinning, the sheer rush of joy rips through him as he throws one arm out, leaning back in the saddle to tilt his head up to the blue blue sky.

He bellows an excited cry at the top of his lungs, the sounds swallowed up by the wind, but when he glances over it’s to see Aemond looking straight back, his usually impassive face so handsome with an exciting smile, his hair fanning out behind him and catching the sun, eye sparkling with barely contained excitement.

Luke suddenly understands why his father used to ride with Ser Qarl so often.

He leans forward in the saddle, gripping Jelmera’s flanks with his thighs tightly as he steers her closer to Aemond, close enough until they’re near enough to touch, their horses matching every step as they breeze across the plains. It’s exhilarating, the connection between Luke and Aemond flowing between the horses and earth, sharing the same breath taking air, riding in perfect sync… together.

Eventually though the horses start to falter, their steps stalling, flanks heaving and nostrils flaring. Luke eases Jelmera down into a fast canter, an easy trot, before slowing into a steady brisk walk. Aemond follows suit, his mare not exactly pleased as she tosses her head about, but Aemond soothes her until she’s striding out alongside Jelmera, so close that Luke and Aemond’s legs brush with the odd step.

It makes Luke’s stomach swoop, rivalling the winded feeling in the middle of his chest, and he isn’t sure he can blame the wind for the burning in his cheeks.

Beside him, Aemond is more windswept now, disheveled yet still somehow so perfectly regal. Luke is sure he must look an absolute mess himself, his hair sticking up at all angles, red-cheeked and out of breath, but the soft look in Aemond’s eye when their gazes meet makes all the embarrassment just seep out of his body, replaced by a warm glow as Aemond reaches out to knock their knees before jerking his head for Luke to follow him.

Follow he does, he finds he’s getting used to it, and soon enough they’re trotting their sweaty tired horses into one of the little farming villages that dot the plains outside of Highgarden. It’s a collection of ramshackle huts, thatched roofs and wooden walls, and they meander towards what looks like the local tavern with its horse hitching post right in front of a huge trough of water.

Jelmera and the mare are already drinking from it greedily before Luke and Aemond tie their reins loosely to the hitching post, and Luke scratches Jelmera’s neck as they step away from them. They’ll both need a good groom after this, he can already see the sweat drying on their coat.

There’s a small market just a little further down from them. Not quite as dramatic and stunning as the streets of Highgarden, but quaint and cheerful all the same. Luke and Aemond wordlessly head towards a stall ladened with breads and sweets, the baker handing out wax paper-wrapped loaves to a group of young girls who giggle and trill behind their hands, their eyes on a younger boy further down the lane.

Luke can’t help but smile, glancing up to see Aemond is watching them too, although clearly in a nose-turned annoyance. He nudges him with his elbow, drawing Aemond’s attention. “They’re young,” he scolds him, not caring to point out that they themselves are barely older, however Aemond just shakes his head.

“Irritating,” he grumbles, and Luke holds back a scoff that may have been fond just as they arrive at the stall.

Luke isn’t sure quite where Aemond found the coins, but he has enough to buy them some sweet bread from the awestruck baker and a few small rolls of cheese from another stall a few tables away. The younger lady throws in a couple of apples with a wink Luke’s way, commenting on his beautiful curls, and Luke bites back a laugh when Aemond’s possessive hand falls on his lower back to guide him away from her. He doesn’t comment though, content with the firm press of Aemond’s fingers against his side, leaning into the touch even after Aemond steals his hand back under the curious eyes of the villagers.

They take their spoils just slightly out of town, unhitching the horses and leading them on foot down the packed dirt lane that trails back towards Highgarden. It’s nice to be outside of the towering city, welcoming though not home, and Luke oddly finds it more comfortable out in the country once more with Aemond. It’s a strange thought, something that Luke would never have dreamt of even a mere week ago, yet here he now walks close enough to Aemond for the backs of their hands to brush, and he unashamedly catches Aemond’s little and ring fingers to twine with his own.

Aemond lets him, giving him an indulgent look. Luke grins back, heart swelling.

Eventually, they choose to settle under a giant oak tree, tucking themselves around the back of it so as not to be seen. The horses are content to graze nearby, and Luke flops down on the ground between the oak’s roots beside Aemond, pressed shoulder to hip to knee.

“Tell me,” he finally says once they’ve eaten most of the sweet bread, both rolling green apples in their hands, “does Alyssa know we are out here? From what she said last night, she was insistent we were not to leave Highgarden’s walls.”

And she had been, as she’d watched them seriously over the rim over her wine glass, only the three of them crowded around a small table in her own quarters. It had been pleasant and intimate, a sharp comparison to the party she intends to throw them this evening. He’d understood her reasoning the moment she’d begrudgingly informed them that it was only a matter of time before their families would come to the Reach. Luke hadn’t been surprised, neither had Aemond, and he’d understood the fear beneath Alyssa’s calm exterior.

Aemond just leans back into the solid trunk behind them, twirling his apple around by its stem. “I spoke to her this morning,” he explains. “She supplied your clothes, albeit reluctantly, when I mentioned that our family is not used to going so long without dragon riding. I made it clear that horse riding is the only suitable alternative, considering the circumstances.” At Luke’s confused frown, because what on earth is he talking about, Aemond sighs, surprising him by dropping a hand down to rest above Luke’s knee, heavy and warm through his leather jodhpurs. “Luke, how else do you expect to turn the Reach into a place of negotiation if our families are unsure just where we are?”

Luke’s eyes widen, his mouth falls open just slightly. “You mean this is intentional?”

Aemond gives him a smug look. “I may not have the same mind for tactics as you do, but that does not mean I do not have one at all.” He gives a half-shrug. “With luck, it will be my siblings that arrive, although I will not hold my breath. They are more likely to send delegates.” Aemond glances away. “There are few I would trust however.”

Luke stares for a long moment, unable to help his scepticism… even as its slowly eased away by excitement.

“You want to do this,” he says bluntly, more of a statement, and Aemond huffs as he squeezes Luke’s leg, his lips quirked up at the edges.

“I said together, byka āeksio. I meant it.”

Luke’s breath hitches before he suddenly throws himself at Aemond, looping his arms around his shoulders as he climbs into his lap, burying his face into the crook of Aemond’s neck as he lets out a short laugh of disbelief. “Thank you,” he gasps, shaking his head, rubbing his nose against Aemond’s collar bone, and Aemond lets out an annoyed huff even as his arms come up to encircle Luke loosely.

“Honestly, Lucerys, its not-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as Luke leans up on his knees, fists his hands in Aemond’s hair, tilts his head back, and crashes their lips together.

Aemond’s surprised noise is muffled between them, swallowed up as Luke coaxes open his mouth greedily, deepening the kiss and drawing a heady moan out of Aemond. It shudders through Luke, setting his skin on fire, burning too hot as Aemond’s arms tighten and he crushes Luke to his chest, surging into Luke with reckless abandon.

It feels good, so fucking good. “Aemond,” Luke pants breathlessly, pulling back just for Aemond to chase him, bringing his knees up to bracket Luke in before his lips press wet open mouth kisses to the hollow of his throat. Luke lets him, twisting his fingers in Aemond’s hair, feeling the sparks zipping down his body with each brush of Aemond’s lips. Aemond’s hands slip under his shirt, running warm fingers over his skin, making him shudder.

He hauls Aemond back, slots their lips together, light-headed and dizzy. Aemond’s fingers slip below his waistband, gripping the mound of his ass, and Luke moans, breaks away, Aemond’s teeth nip his neck and Luke rolls his hips down…

His eyes snap open at the jolt that rips through his body, lurching back from Aemond with a gasp. It’s not new, of course it’s not. He’s spent two days with Aemond in his bed, between his legs, touching him, sending shivers down his spine and thrills down even lower.

But they haven’t gone this far, not yet, it’s not right, it’s not proper. But somehow this is different, feels different, for whatever fucking reason… and Aemond is red-cheeked and flushed beneath him, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, hair messy from Luke’s hands tugging on it, his hips flush against Luke’s own where he can feel heat and hardness and gods he can’t help but roll his hips down again, more forceful this time.

Aemond lets out an intoxicating noise, throwing his head back as his hand grips Luke’s ass tight enough to bruise. “Luke,” he moans, the noise coiling in Luke’s stomach, making him shudder as he grinds against Aemond again and again, panting at the thrills that sizzle through him.

But then Aemond’s hands grip his hips, holding him in place, and Luke lets out a whine as Aemond takes a deep breath before lowering his head, meeting Luke’s eyes, his pupil blown wide, eye nearly black as he slowly shakes his head. “We should stop,” he murmurs, dragged out of him as if pains him.

And Luke knows he’s right, he is, of course he bloody is.

He swallows, sees Aemond’s eye follow the movement hungrily, his gaze darkening even more when it snaps back to meet Luke’s own, and his hands tighten on Luke’s hips, fingers pressing into the divots of his spine.

Luke’s heart beats, skips.

“Fuck it,” he swears before he leans back in, Aemond’s groan rumbling through him as their lips meet again.

They stay hidden from everyone when they return.

Luke is more than happy to be pressed into small alcoves and behind the open doors of Highgarden’s halls, to feel Aemond’s lips burn lines down the curve of his neck, to muffle his gasps into the back of his hand when Aemond’s hands trail over his hips, to laugh as Aemond’s cheeks turn a brilliant red when Orville catches them once with wide eyes and hurried apologies.

It doesn’t matter. Luke wouldn’t care if even his mother caught them like that right now.

Soon enough though, they finally stray back to their quarters, the evening sun dipping down past the castle walls and laying the corridors with a golden glow. Dinner will be ready soon and while Luke would prefer to stay tucked away with Aemond in their quarters forever, he knows that tonight isn’t going to be about surviving another evening of Lady Elenna’s sharp tongue.

No. It’s about so much more now. Alyssa may have welcomed them into her home, but turning Highgarden and the Reach into a moral battleground between their opposing families has to be something so far outside of the realm of possibilities she must have considered in those fateful few moments on the castle steps.

Nevertheless, Luke is determined, and he steals himself for whatever will come from tonight.

They clean up their mess from earlier, Luke trying not to think about the poor servant who has to deal with his jodhpurs, before changing into clothes that have been left out for them. This time, Aemond is in a darkly hued green ensemble that rivals the black he normally prefers while Luke dresses himself in soft blues that remind him of Driftmark. His father used to wear similar colours when he was younger, embroidered with a silver seahorse, the same colours Luke would wear whenever he would visit his grandsire. He toys with the edges of his doublet, the fine fabric silken as it slips across his fingers… wondering if he will ever wear the sigil of Driftmark again.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as Aemond turns to him, his eye running down the bare sliver of Luke’s chest on display from the undone buttons, and Luke shivers as pale fingers reach out to trail across the sensitive skin of his midriff.

“It looks fine,” Aemond murmurs, pushing aside the doublet to look at Luke’s old wound, and Luke’s cheeks flush warmly as Aemond gently caresses the jagged line the arrow left behind on his body. It’s red and raised, new skin knitted into old, and Aemond’s touch makes him tremble. “Does it still pain you?”

“No.” Luke’s answer is quick, and Aemond glances up at him, his sapphire glowing in the low light. “Not anymore.” Aemond fingers spread out to cover the expanse of Luke’s stomach, his breath hitching at the brazen touch.” The maester said it has healed better than he would have expected considering how limited we were on the road.” He smiles, his tummy rolling at the fascinated look on Aemond’s face. “Although he was impressed by how well you tended to me.”

Aemond looks surprised before glancing away, but Luke catches the curl of his slightly satisfied smile before it’s gone. “It was nothing. A good warrior should know how to tend to the wounds they inflict.”

Luke huffs and bats Aemond’s hand away. “You are utterly ridiculous,” he scolds. “But I’m glad you are such a warrior.” He moves to start buttoning up his doublet, but Aemond suddenly grips both his wrists, holding him still firmly but gently.

And Luke’s breath leaves him in one fell swoop as Aemond kneels slightly, just enough to be able to press a gentle kiss to the jagged scar cut over his abdomen.

“And I am glad,” Aemond murmurs, the wisps of his breath leaving raised gooseflesh on Luke’s sensitive skin, “that you were not taken from me.”

Luke’s eyes are wide as his heart pounds in his throat, and he feels almost like he’s outside of his own body as Aemond lets go, standing to move back. He catches him before he manages too though, fisting a hand in Aemond’s own doublet and reeling him back, and he gets a glimpse of Aemond’s stunned expression before he drags him down into a heated kiss.

Which Aemond heartily returns, walking Luke backwards until he presses him up against the table in the middle of the room, and Luke laughs deliriously as Aemond lifts him onto it with hardly any effort, nudging open Luke’s knees as he shoves forward into the vee of his legs.

“Wait,” he gasps as Aemond’s hands slip under his open doublet, his mouth caressing over the line of Luke’s collarbone, unable to help but tip his head back to give Aemond better access. “We can’t, Aemond, we’ll be late.”

“And what of it?” Aemond growls, and Luke laughs as Aemond pushes him down on the table, clinging to Aemond’s shoulders to bring him with him, finding himself pinned between the solid expanse of the wooden table and warmth of Aemond’s hard body.

“And it will not do us any good to upset Alyssa now,” Luke continues even as Aemond tries his very best to convince him otherwise, and Luke is so tempted to give in, squeezing his thighs on either side of Aemond’s hips. “Later, Aemond, later.”

Aemond lets out an annoyed noise but nevertheless pulls back, and Luke heaves heavy breaths into his lungs as Aemond towers over him for a moment, panting just enough to look utterly debauched. It makes Luke feel heady, wanton, and he thinks the best thing for him is to get Aemond very much out from between his legs.

Not that Aemond seems to share the same thought, and Luke barely holds back the wave of pure desire that crashes over him as Aemond reaches down and starts to do up each individual button on his doublet. He accompanies each one with a brush of his fingers against Luke’s stomach, slipping lower and lower as he follows the line of buttons until Luke is squirming under his touch as he wraps his legs around the backs of Aemond’s, more than ready to ignore dinner altogether.

But Aemond just leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “Of course, byka āeksio,” he murmurs, and Luke lets out an unbidden whine as he pulls away entirely with a much too smug smirk.

With a groan, Luke runs his hands over his face as he wills his body to settle. He swears he can hear Aemond laugh, but he ignores him as he shifts off the table to stand on his shaky feet, refusing to even glance Aemond’s way as he straightens himself back out.

With his doublet helpfully done up for him, he quickly shoves his feet into his boots nearby before turning to snag his father’s medallion off the table, a wave of seriousness settling over his shoulders as he rests it on his chest. It feels fitting to wear something that reminds him of both his father’s tonight, as if they are lending him the courage to take the first steps in bringing peace to their houses.

He’s told Aemond the majority of his plan already, lying under that oak tree together feeling blissed out, Aemond’s fingers running up and down Luke’s side beneath his tunic, fingers trailing over goose-bumped skin. Mostly it was what he thinks could happen for their families to co-exist and the proposals he intends to set forward. Aemond hadn’t said much, just listened and asked the odd question, but he still seems content to let Luke take the lead.

Luke tries to ignore the way that makes his heart flutter, his stomach roll. He’s determined to make sure that Aemond’s trust in him has not been misplaced.

The walk to dinner is short as they pass through the busy halls, Luke for once content with the distance that Aemond keeps between them, letting it cool the feverish rush under his skin. There’s servants everywhere, the castle alive with chitter and action. Luke catches the odd looks thrown at them, as if it’s surprising to see them in the corridors, but Luke ignores the growing unease they cause in the pit of his stomach in favour of striding to the dining hall with purpose, Aemond just as determined beside him.

Perhaps he should have listened to it though, especially when they reach the dining hall door to see Orville rushing towards them, frazzled and uneasy as he awkwardly ushers them back out into the corridor towards the alcove that Aemond had pulled Luke into on their first night here.

“My princes,” he hurriedly greets, clearly flustered as his eyes jump between the two of them, almost as if he’s being hunted. “I apologise profusely, I sent a servant to inform you that Lady Alyssa bids you to dine alone tonight.”

“What?” Luke frowns, startled as he feels Aemond bristle beside him. There’s a bark of laughter behind Orville in the dining room, and Luke frowns, wondering why they’re being excluded.

Orville throws a glance over his shoulder into the room though before shuffling forward, dropping his voice lower. “We have had an unexpected guest arrive and it would be best that they did not know of your presence just yet.”

Luke looks over to see Aemond glaring at Orville. “Best they didn’t…” Luke shakes his head. “Orville, who is it?”

Orville shuffles uncomfortably as he opens his mouth. “I assure you-“

“Nephew!”

Orville is interrupted by a new voice, one that Luke doesn’t recognise, and he shifts slightly to look past Orville to see a man approaching them from within the dining room. He’s vaguely familiar, sharp aristocratic features beneath a wild mop of curly red-brown hair, maybe the same age or near enough as their mothers. His grey doublet boasts the sigil of the Hightowers, a white tower with green flames, and while his smile looks genial and welcoming, Luke can see the set of his shoulders is taunt and the fingers holding a golden goblet are whitening from the sheer grip.

He’s clearly not friendly, and just as Luke is about to ask Aemond who he is, he’s prevented from doing so when Aemond moves forward to step in front of him, shielding Luke from view as the other man nears.

“Gwayne,” Aemond responds tersely, not even a slither of warmth in his tone. Luke blinks in surprise, trying to wrack his brain along the Hightower family tree. Gwayne… younger brother to Alicent Hightower. Luke lets a hand stray out to press into the dip of Aemond’s back, needing something to ground him.

He peeks out around the side of Aemond to see Gwayne has stopped at the door, leaning casually against the arch of the doorway as he regards Aemond with an amused look. “So hostile,” he muses cheerfully, taking a long sip from his goblet, shrewd eyes watching them over its rim. “I would have thought I’d have been deserving of at least some warmth. I am your favourite uncle, am I not?”

Aemond stiffens, Luke’s hand feels like it’s pressed against hard rock. “Why are you here?”

Luke’s eyes widen as Gwayne’s own suddenly snap to him. He regards him with interest and a hint of surprise. “Your mother is deeply concerned and bids you return to Kings Landing immediately. Queen’s orders.” A sharp smirk crosses over his face, bordering on fiendish as he holds Luke’s gaze. “Although I see that might be somewhat difficult.”

“My mother sent you,” Aemond deadpans, and Gwayne’s attention returns to him, leaving Luke feeling cold and bare. He hears the implication in Aemond’s tone though. You, of all people.

“Indeed.” Gwayne takes another sip, this one unnecessarily longer. “Tales of an incident at Storms End reached the capital and when you did not return, she sent me a raven to find you.” He sighs dramatically, swirling his goblet as he looks into it. “Of course, I assumed you would naturally be on route to Kings Landing, perhaps injured, so you can imagine my shock when I received news of a sighting of you on the road outside of Cider Hall. I left as soon as I heard you had arrived here at Highgarden.” He laughs abruptly, shaking his head. “I heard other rumours too, salacious ones at that, but I did not dare believe them.” He leers wolfishly at Luke, enough that Aemond growls lowly. “Perhaps they were not rumours after all.”

“It is no business of yours.”

Gwayne snorts derisively and he smirks, pure arrogance dripping from its curve. “On that, you are wrong, dear nephew.” He looks between the two of them pointedly. “In fact I do believe this is the business of the entire realm. How interesting. I am sure your mother’s will be delighted to hear of this particular   development, granted if they have not already.”

Aemond’s muscles are coiled under Luke’s palm, and he swallows down his uncertainty as he steps out from behind him, ignoring Aemond’s hiss to get back. “Ser Gwayne,” he calls, and Gwayne lazily shifts his gaze back to him. “I do not believe we have formally met.”

Gwayne raises his eyebrows. He huffs a laugh as he pushes off the door before striding towards Luke. “You are quite right, where are my manners.” He reaches Luke and holds out a hand, one Luke doesn’t hesitate to take, trying not to flinch away from the cold fingers that wrap around his. “Ser Gwayne Hightower, Aemond’s uncle.”

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” Luke would normally bow his head slightly in politeness, but instead he holds Gwayne’s gaze. “Son of Queen Rhaeneyra.”

He sees a flicker of surprise in Gwayne’s eyes but it’s quickly masked by a cocky grin. “Bold. However I do believe that King Aegon the Second is our current ruler.”

Gwayne starts to move his hand away but Luke doesn’t let go, gripping him tight as he tilts his head slightly to the side to fix Gwayne with a cool stare. “We will see.” He grins, letting Gwayne go suddenly before he turns to link his arm with Aemond. “Nevertheless we are being terribly rude ignoring our host. Shall we?”

He tugs Aemond along and tries not to let his nerves show, forcing himself to stay calm and casual as they brush past a stunned Gwayne to cross into the dining hall. He’s not surprised to see Alyssa is closer to the door than the others where they linger at the back of the room, her eyes wide as she hurries towards them, a vision in flowing soft blues and golds.

“I am so sorry,” she whispers as soon as she reaches them. “He arrived only moments ago. I had hoped Orville had been able to reach you.”

“It is fine, Alyssa,” Luke murmurs, taking her hand to press a brief kiss to the back of it, ignoring Aemond’s mutterings beside him. “It is as you said, they were going to find us at some point.”

A fleeting look of sadness passes over Alyssa’s face. “I wish it had been longer.”

Luke squeezes her hand before he steps away from her to guide Aemond over to where the others stand. Harlan offers a jaunty wave from beside Darrick, the two of them in deep conversation about something by the fire while Edward looks bored beside them. Seara and Edmund are badgering the nearby band where they’re playing in the corner, the lutist looking rather frazzled under their attention, while Lady Elenna stands alone watching them with hawkish eyes over the rim of her goblet.

Garmund, however, steps away from the fireplace, wringing his hands as glances between the two of them with a fearful gaze. “I promise you,” he stutters out in greeting, shaking his head frantically, eyes wide as Aemond levels him with a angry glare. “It was not me that told him. I swear it.”

Aemond’s mouth is open but Luke cuts in, giving Garmund a soft smile. “I believe you,” he says softly, reaching out to pat Garmund’s arm. “We trust you, Garmund.”

Aemond makes a huffing noise beside him but Garmund’s shoulders sag anyway. He looks relieved and Luke inclines his head towards the fire. Garmund gets the hint and falls in along side them as they move to the others. Edward immediately turns to them, muttering away about boring old men, and Luke laughs as some of his own tension eases.

It isn’t long before Alyssa and Gwayne join them. Gwayne doesn’t say much even as his eyes follow Luke and Aemond. Luke would usually feel unsettled under the attention, but Alyssa is brutal and confident as she keeps Gwayne focused mostly on her, not allowing him a moment to even speak to them. Luke is thankful for it.

However when Orville calls for them to be seated, Gwayne intercepts them. “Nephew,” he says, and Aemond’s eye narrows as he glowers back at Gwayne, his sapphire only adding to his anger as it burns brightly in the candlelight. “A moment alone, would you.”

It’s not a question, but before Aemond can reply, Alyssa appears beside Gwayne to neatly take his arm. “After dinner,” she says sweetly even with steely eyes. “Orville prepared such a wonderful feast. We simply cannot let it go to waste.”

Gwayne looks like he’s about to argue but Alyssa sweeps him away before he has the chance. Luke lets out a held breath, his grip on Aemond’s arm no doubt bruising, but Aemond doesn’t shake him off as they cross over to the table to take their seats. Luke hides a wince when Garmund sits beside Aemond, even more so when Gwayne settles across from them, a loathsome grin on his face.

There’s no more opportunities for him to speak though as Garmund surprisingly pulls Aemond into a quiet conversation, one that Luke would have half a mind to listen into if Harlan didn’t thunk down beside him messily, spilling wine all over himself as he gives Luke a beaming smile before launching straight into another tale of his wild adventures with a young Laenor Velayron.

Dinner passes. Luke is aware of Gwayne’s gaze on him, but he ignores it in favour of laughing at Harlan’s drunken tales and sharing exasperated looks with Lady Elenna across the table. Aemond remains beside him talking to Garmund, almost as if they’ve found common ground in Gwayne’s abrupt appearance, but Luke barely has time to focus on them as Harlan barrels down memory lane at an appallingly fast rate.

It’s why, when Edward pulls Seara to her feet to whisk her off to dance, Harlan and Alyssa close behind while Darrick offers his arm to Lady Elenna, Luke grips Aemond’s own as he stands.

“Dance with me,” he says, well aware that its more of a command. Aemond looks ready to protest but Luke doesn’t let him, already pulling him after the others, Gwayne’s gaze heavy on his back as it follows them across the room.

The music is a gentle lull to sway along to, and Luke places his hand on Aemond’s shoulder as he links their fingers together with his other one. Aemond is still clearly reluctant but nevertheless takes Luke’s waist, his hand nearly large enough to encompass Luke’s side entirely, and Luke feels a lump form in his throat as the two of them start to move in time with the others.

“Is everything okay?” he asks quietly.

Aemond holds his gaze for a moment, blue eye twinkling in the warm candlelight as they sway together. The others are far enough away not to overhear them and Luke leans in just that little bit closer as Aemond sighs.

“Of all people, to send him,” he eventually says, and Luke hates the lilt of defeat in Aemond’s tone. “It will be my grandsire’s doing, not my mother’s. Gwayne is not one to accept no as an answer. He will speak to me whether I like it or not.”

“What will he say?”

Aemond twirls him, spinning Luke out and under his arm before pulling him back into his chest, holding him closer than before. “If Garmund is to be believed, he will attempt to convince me to bring you back to Kings Landing as a hostage.” Luke’s heart quickens, his eyes widen, but Aemond shakes his head. “He will be foolish to do so.”

Luke swallows around that lump in his throat. “Perhaps he will make a good point or two.”

Aemond huffs. “I have no intention on returning to Kings Landing,” he says sternly. “Not until this matter between our families has been set to rest.” He leans forward, gaze intense. “You asked me to fight for you, and I have every intention on winning each battle that comes our way.”

That gets a startled noise out of Luke. He shakes his head, a grin splitting across his lips, and he squeezes Aemond’s hand when he sees a gentle smile curling over Aemond’s own.

“You say such silly things,” he laughs, and Aemond dips his head down to press his forehead to Luke’s shoulder, turning slightly to brush his lips against Luke’s neck. It sends tingles down his spine, makes his heart stutter and his breath catch.

Such a blatant display… Luke’s grin eases into something softer.

They dance for a few more songs, swirling around the floor gracefully. Aemond is a natural lead, easily guiding Luke through their slow turn and a surprising quick step before joining the others for a handful of group dances. Edward and Seara easily keep up with the two of them, Seara’s beautiful bell laugh bouncing off the walls as Aemond spins her in rapid twirls that leaves them both breathless, and Edward palms Luke off to Alyssa as he whirls Lady Elenna off across the floor despite her screeches of protest. Even with her insistence on having old knees, the dowager manages to keep Edward scrambling while Luke and Alyssa giggle around them.

After a brief spin with a tipsy left-footed Harlan and a giddy skip with a stunned Garmund, Luke finds himself swung back into Aemond’s arms, and he lets himself be whirled away by him.

There’s nothing quite like it, and Luke falls so easily into his welcoming embrace. They dance face to face, and Luke finds himself grinning as Aemond twirls him around one last time before dropping him into a gentle dip, one strong hand cupping his waist while the other rests firmly between his shoulder-blades, and Luke lets himself lean back as Aemond smiles down at him, his own hands slipping up to loop around Aemond’s neck.

He holds Aemond’s gaze, his beautiful blue eye and that glinting sapphire, and he starts to close his own as Aemond’s begins to lean further in…

“Ahem.”

Luke’s eyes snap back open, and he’s back on his feet before he can blink, unceremoniously pulled slightly behind Aemond as they turn to see Gwayne standing beside them, arms crossed with an annoyed look on his face.

“Apologies for interrupting,” he drawls unashamedly, and Aemond’s hand tightens around Luke’s wrist, “but I do believe I am owed an audience.”

“I never agreed to one,” Aemond bites back and Gwayne huffs, shaking his head as his eyes narrow dangerously.

“You mistake me for asking.”

There’s no room for argument in Gwayne’s tone, and Luke recognises he has no intention on backing down. It worries him that he knows Aemond won’t either, and he glances away to see the others watching them nearby, Alyssa half-stepped forward as if to interrupt with only Darrick’s hand on her shoulder holding her back.

“Ser Gwayne,” he starts to say, but Gwayne holds his hand up and shoots him a withering glare, cutting him off effectively.

“That is enough out of you.” Gwayne’s eyes snap back to Aemond. He bristles, letting go of Luke as he takes a warning step towards his uncle. “Your blatant control of my nephew is abhorrent enough, I will not allow you to spit more of your poison at me.”

Luke pauses in shock, only for Aemond to snatch out and fist his hand into Gwayne’s doublet, hauling him forwards with a sharp tug that has his uncle yelp as he stumbles between them.

“You do not get to speak to him like that,” Aemond hisses, towering over his uncle balefully as Gwayne blinks up at him with pure surprise. “I recommend you choose your next words wisely.”

Gwayne stares at him for a long moment before his hand comes up slowly to wrap around Aemond’s wrist. “He is the son of the Pretender, and as such a treasonous bastard.” Aemond’s hand visibly tightens as Gwayne winces. “You would choose him over your own blood, Aemond?”

Aemond leans forward until their noses nearly touch. “Gladly.”

Luke’s breath hitches as his eyes widen. Gwayne looks just as taken aback as Luke feels, and he can’t help but feel a thrill of excitement alongside the sudden dread that twists up his stomach. He wants to reach out and stop Aemond, try to temper the barely restrained fury clearly brewing under his skin, but Gwayne’s face shutters into something cold and vicious as he steps even closer to Aemond.

“You disgrace yourself,” he snarls, shaking his head. “Your mother assured me that loyalty to your family was more important to you, even if the disturbing rumours of your… entanglement with this bastard was true.” His eyes flash dangerously. “She will be most disappointed in you, let alone how your grandsire will feel. My father is not known for his forgiving nature.”

Aemond shoves him away roughly, a sudden noise of protest from Alyssa nearby not halting either of them. “You think I care what Otto feels?” Aemond laughs with not a shred of humour. “He has done nothing but plot the demise of the Targaryen dynasty long before I was even born.” He looks down his nose at Gwayne, drawing himself to his full height. “I am loyal to my family, Gwayne, not the Hightowers.”

Gwayne looks outraged and for a moment Luke can’t help but admire Aemond, his glowing white hair, endless pale skin, searing blue eye with his sharp features drawn into a ferocious scowl… blindingly Targaryen with not a single trace of Hightower in him.

Luke swallows. “Wait,” he calls, wanting to stop whatever this is could be about to spiral into. Aemond stiffens at his voice before he rips his gaze away from Gwayne, softening just slightly as he turns to meet Luke’s.

“Luke-” he starts to call back, only to be cut off as Gwayne’s fist meets his jaw.

The punch is explosive, worsened by the sudden eruption of the others around them as the music comes to an abrupt stop. Aemond’s head snaps down with the blow, his hair tumbling over his face as he stands rooted to the spot, and Luke’s mouth falls open as he hurries to his side, ignoring Alyssa’s cries and Harlan’s shouting as they run towards them.

“Aemond,” he gasps, reaching out to take Aemond’s elbow.

Slowly, Aemond lifts his head, his hair falling away to reveal his murderous expression, eye piercing cold and jaw painfully set, a sliver of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He meets Luke’s gaze, waits just long enough for Luke to shake his head minutely with a pleading look, before he rips out of his hold to lunge at Gwayne.

“No!” Alyssa shrieks as Gwayne shouts with surprise. He stumbles backwards as Aemond throws a punch right where his head had been, unable to dodge the second one as Aemond’s knuckles graze his cheek to send him reeling.

Luke swears under his breath, darting after them while the others swarm forward. They’re not fast enough to stop them though as Aemond manages to snap out with a kick, sending Gwayne staggering to a kneel with a vicious snarl. Harlan and Darrick reach him in time to stop his next attack, bodily hauling him back as the twins drag Gwayne back to his feet.

“Let me go,” Aemond spits over Harlan’s shoulder, cold fury dripping from words as he struggles in their tight grips, face twisted in rage while Gwayne rebels against the twins. “He’s a fucking coward.”

Gwayne snaps his teeth at him. “At least I’m not the blood traitor!”

Aemond roars as he surges against the others, nearly sending Darrick sprawling to the ground. Alyssa steps smoothly between the two of them though, holding her hands out on either side as she levels them with a furious glare.

“Enough!” she demands, voice echoing through the room. “There will be no bloodshed within the Reach!”

Luke scrambles to step in front of Aemond, pressing his hands to his chest. “This is madness, Aemond,” he hisses, beating a curled fist against his collarbone when Aemond just bares his teeth at Gwayne. “Stop.”

Aemond’s eye flickers to him and Luke nearly flinches back at the vitriol in his cool gaze. He pushes past the strike of fear that ripples down his spine though, meeting Aemond’s glower head on with earnest eyes.

“Stop,” he pleads. “Please.”

Aemond falters, just once, just enough… and Luke sucks in a relieved breath.

Only for the hall doors to slam open.

He turns, eyes widening as a tall figure strides through them, adorned in intimidating pitch black armour, and as he removes the winged-helm on his head, familiar striking white hair tumbles down over his shoulders.

“Well well,” Daemon Targaryen drawls, arching an amused eyebrow at them, “what do we have here?”

Chapter Text

The tension that Daemon Targaryen brings with him is thick enough to stifle the whole room.

Luke swallows, eyes locked on his step-father, the sudden realisation that this is all happening much sooner than he expected settling into his bones.

“Well,” he mumbles, Aemond stiffening under his hands where he’s still pressed against his chest, “shit.”

Aemond huffs but doesn’t say a word as he steps back, placing some space between them, but Luke sees Daemon tracking the movement with hawk-eyed intensity, a small frown creasing his forehead before it smooths back out as his eyes snap back to Luke.

He arches one sharp eyebrow at him, and Luke knows he’s fucked.

“Another unexpected guest,” Lady Elenna suddenly pipes up, breaking the strained silence, interrupting the glower that Daemon is boring into Luke. “My my, it seems the Hightower’s are not the only ones who have lost all manners.”

“My deepest apologies,” Daemon drawls, sounding completely unrepentant as he fixes Lady Elenna with what could be a charming smile if it weren’t so shark-like. “I would have announced my impending arrival, but I must have forgotten in my rush to find my son.” His stare drags slowly back to Luke. “You can understand how terribly worried we have been.”

Luke fights down the urge to turn and bolt, damn his plan. Daemon’s stare is promising more than just a simple telling off or a slap on the wrist, neither of which his stepfather has ever done particularly well. Undoubtedly, if Daemon has his way, Luke will be confined to Dragonstone for the inevitable future and well into the afterlife. However, with the tension in the corners of Daemon’s mouth and his twitchy hand near the sword at his hip… Luke thinks imprisonment will be getting off lightly.

He needs to do damage control now, before his entire plan goes up in a giant ball of fiery flames.

Before he has a chance to say a word though, not that he has any idea what to say, Alyssa sweeps forward all blue-gowned grace, her eyes hard as she steps in between Daemon, Luke, and Aemond. She holds out her hand expectantly, distracting Daemon who takes it almost without thinking, and gives him a glittery smile thats sharply edged.

“Daemon,” she says sweetly, and he quirks his eyebrows at her as he presses a kiss to the back of his hand, looking barely tolerant of her. “It has been much too long.”

“Alyssa.” He releases her hand, dropping his back down to the sword on his hip, resting it on the pommel. “I must thank you for looking after my wayward son and nephew. You have been too kind.”

“Nonsense.” Alyssa waves her hand dismissively. “It has been an honour to tend to them following their hideous ordeal with the Baratheon’s.” She shakes her head, glancing back to give Luke a soft smile before returning to Daemon. “Borros has always been a heinous man, but to lower himself to threatening children is truly appalling. I am glad they felt safe coming to Highgarden.”

The implication that anywhere else wasn’t is strong, enough to make Daemon flinch as his eyes flicker to Luke briefly, and Luke bites down on the urge to reach out to Aemond. He desperately wants too, to ground himself, to find some sort of solace… but Aemond is at least an arms width away and to do so would only draw further scrutiny.

That doesn’t stop him from looking for him, unsurprised to see Aemond’s expression carefully impassive once more, the trail of blood from Gwayne’s punch on his chin the only falter in his facade. His eye is fixed on Daemon, watching him with a strange intensely, and Luke wishes he knew what he was thinking.

He doesn’t though, and that unnerves him.

“I could not agree more,” Daemon is saying, drawing Luke’s attention again, wincing when he sees Daemon is back to glowering at him. “Although I am surprised they did not feel the need to reach out to their families to let us know they were… safe.”

“Are you?” Alyssa is quick, her words terse enough to make Daemon’s glower snap back to her.

“I’m unsure just what you are implying-”

Gwayne suddenly snorts loudly from the other side of the room, everyone immediately turning their heads to where he still stands between the twins, Edmund and Edward both taking large steps back at the unexpected attention. Gwayne doesn’t care though, pointing a mocking grin right at Daemon as he waves a vague hand towards Luke and Aemond.

“The rumours are true, Daemon,” he laughs, not a shred of humour in it. “Turns out your little bastard has sunk his claws into Aemond after all.” Aemond lets out a low growl beside Luke, and Daemon’s eyes narrow as Gwayne shakes his head with a mirthless laugh. “A whore just like his mother, content to spread his legs for a Targaryen Prince-”

The sound of Dark Sister being drawn from her scabbard rings through the room, and Luke’s eyes widen as Daemon’s own flash with wrath before he starts to stride forward, sword held dangerously aloft, crossing the room before any of them can so much as blink.

Images of Vaemond Velayron’s end flash through Luke’s mind, half a head slipping to the floor with a wet splat, and it’s only Aemond’s sudden grip on his forearm that has him from rushing to stop Daemon from doing the same thing to Gwayne fucking Hightower.

“Don’t,” Aemond hisses, hauling Luke back, and Luke struggles against his hold as Daemon presses the tip of Dark Sister to Gwayne’s throat, towering over him, radiating pure rage.

“Say that again,” Daemon orders, eyes glinting menacingly, “but slowly.”

Gwayne’s chest heaves with ragged breathes, his eyes edged with terror. It doesn’t seem to quell him though as he meets Daemon’s glower head on. “And give you the satisfaction of cutting out my tongue?”

Daemon grins wickedly, it reminds Luke suddenly of Aemond. “Interesting you think I would stop there.”

Gwayne flinches. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” Daemon laughs, menacing and sinister as he presses against Dark Sister until a bead of blood swells on Gwayne’s neck. “I would take your head to Otto, Ser. Oh how sweet the look on his face would be-”

“Enough.” 

Alyssa’s sharp command slices through the tension, and Luke stops trying to tug his arm from Aemond’s grip as the room falls silent. She sweeps towards Gwayne and Daemon, her dress billowing out behind her from the speed of her walk. She hesitates not even a moment as she steps right up between them and fixes Daemon with an unimpressed scowl that could rival even Aemond’s.

At the thought, Luke turns slightly just as Aemond lets go of his arm, catching his hand to hold in his. Aemond frowns at him as he flexes his fingers around Luke’s, but Luke couldn’t care less whether Aemond wants this or not. Having their poorly-hidden secret thrown about the room and being called a whore changes Luke’s stance on letting Aemond hide away from whatever this is between them.

It seems Aemond gets the hint as he entwines their fingers together and lets their hands fall to their sides.

“You will cease this immediately,” Alyssa snaps almost shrilly across from them, both Gwayne and Daemon frozen in front of her. “Put your weapon away. To think you believe you have the right to carry it within my halls in the first place is impudent and disdainful. You have no power here.”

Daemon looks infuriated. “I am the king-”

“You are not king consort yet, not until this debacle over the throne is finished.” Alyssa gives him a withering look. “And you are not welcome to bring it to my courts without my permission. Neither,” she flashes a vicious glare at Gwayne, “are you.”

Despite her cutting words, neither of them look ready to back down. Luke fears a fight truly will begin to break out, one he’s entirely certain that Gwayne will not win, and the thought of being the cause of more bloodshed is truly horrifying. A lump forms in his throat, the fear of a war beginning despite everything they’ve done heavy in the pit of his stomach, and Luke feels his lungs seize as he tries to drag a breath into them.

Only for Aemond to squeeze his hand, and when Luke glances up, it’s to see Aemond looking straight back expectantly.

Oh. Right.

“Daemon,” Luke says, his voice carrying across the room. Alyssa, Daemon, and Gwayne all snap their heads towards him, and Luke can understand why the twins backed away so quickly under their scrutiny. “Sheath your sword.”

Daemon stares at him for a long hard moment, his face carefully impassive despite the anger brewing in his eyes. Luke hopes he finds what he’s looking for, even as Daemon’s attention slips to where Aemond and Luke’s hands still remain entwined, and Luke bites down on the urge to hide them. He won’t, he refuses too, and evidently Daemon seems to decide on something as he straightens up and slowly slips Dark Sister back into her scabbard. Luke’s shoulders sag slightly with relief before he gives Daemon a small smile.

Gwayne, however, laughs wickedly, clearly not having learnt Daemon isn’t too be trifled with. “Cowed by a child, Daemon, truly-“

Daemon feigns a lunge at him, hardly moving from his spot, but it’s enough to make Gwayne pale and flounder back a step. Daemon smirks, not saying a word as he settles his hands on Dark Sister’s pommel and leans back on one leg, the perfect picture of a viper just coiling to strike when the time is right. Gwayne gives him an uneasy look before turning away with an angry flush on his cheeks.

Luke swallows around that lump in his throat as he shifts his attention to Alyssa. “Lady Alyssa,” he calls, and she arches a sculpted eyebrow back at him, “would you allow us a moment? My step father and I have much to discuss.”

Alyssa narrows her eyes briefly. “I am sure you do,” she replies.

She turns sharply on her heel as she snaps her fingers twice, the sound cracking through the room, and Luke isn’t surprised at all as Orville comes sweeping in through the open doors out into the hall, looking calmer than them all as he bows to Alyssa.

“Orville, please escort Ser Gwayne to one of guest chambers,” Alyssa instructs, ignoring Gwayne’s noise of protest as she turns to address the others where they’re all huddled back by the grandiose fireplace, watching the events with curious and wary looks, only Lady Elenna looking a cross of bored and irritated. “Unfortunately, our evening has been quite unexpectedly cut short, so I must insist we all return to our quarters. I am sure things will be settled by morning.”

She gives a pointed look at Daemon but says nothing more as there’s hushed whisperings before Darrick steps forward, gesturing for the others to follow him. Luke watches them all leave with an awful sensation swirling in the pit of his stomach, unable to help feel he’s let them down in some way. It doesn’t matter though, he realises when Orville guides a resentful Gwayne from the room, leaving Aemond and himself very much alone with a stony-faced Daemon.

He squeezes Aemond’s hand again as Daemon’s cold violet eyes snap to him.

There’s a long pause before. “You have a lot of explaining to do,” Daemon growls, and Luke can’t help the nerves that erupt under his skin as his step-father promptly storms over to the long abandoned dining table, pulls out a chair, and flops into without any of the regal grace he usually has.

Luke bites the inside of his cheek. “Daemon-” he starts, but Daemon holds up a hand to stop him, instead focussing on acquiring an empty goblet and filling it near to the brim with red wine from one of the half-full carafes.

“Sit,” he demands after he’s sculled most of the goblet, and when only Luke starts to move forward, he glares at Aemond with a frankly terrifying look. “Both of you.”

Luke tugs on Aemond’s hand to pull him over to the table, reluctantly sinking down into chairs side-by-side. Daemon’s eyes follow them the entire time, narrowed and shrewd as he leans forward in interest, lingering on where their joined hands remain in Luke’s lap.

Luke doesn’t let go. Instead, he lifts his chin defiantly and meets Daemon head on.

Daemon’s lips twitch with poorly concealed amusement. “So it is true then.” He looks between the two of them. “Not just a rumour.”

Luke doesn’t say a word. Let Daemon draw his own conclusions. He’s too busy mulling over the words he needs to say as soon as he finds his tongue. He’s only got one chance here to get his plan across, and while he wishes he could speak to Mother direct, he knows that Daemon has and always will be the one to actually convince.

In a way, it’s better to get it over and done with with Daemon first.

Silence doesn’t suit Daemon though as he huffs before leaning back in his chair, practically lounging in it as he rests his arm over the back and dangles his goblet of wine precariously over the floor. Effortless as usual, but Luke knows him well enough to see the tautness of his shoulders and the tight strain in the edges of his teasing smile.

“You are lucky I chose to leave Caraxes in the Kingswood,” Daemon starts after a moment, looking anything but benevolent. “Conveniently with your own two.”

The mention of Arrax has Luke’s eyes widen, the bond deep in his chest twinges. Oh how he misses him, his soul bonded partner, and as he reaches out to Arrax it for a sharp rush of relief and concern coming flowing back. He feels a moment of anger at himself for how long its been since he’s seen Arrax, the stolen moments he’s shared each night to send waves of care down their bond nothing in comparison to actually seeing and being with him… but as a cool feeling of forgiveness soothes its way into his chest, Luke hardens himself before he focuses back on a furious Daemon. 

“I had thought to bring him right to Highgarden’s gates. He would have burnt them down without much encouragement.” Daemon narrows his eyes at Luke. “After all, as you have seen fit to keep your family in the dark over your whereabouts, your mother believes this one,” he flicks a dismissive finger at Aemond, “has kidnapped you.”

“Come, Lucerys. We have only been witnesses to your feud but you have very much been a willing participant.” Daemon shakes his head. “Up until this morning, we all thought you lost in the kingswood at his mercy, yet I have come here to see that perhaps that may not be the case.”

Before Luke has time to say anything, Daemon shifts his full attention to Aemond, all traces of anything resembling mercy leaving his face as a cold glare replaces it.

“Tell me, nephew,” he sneers, and Aemond stiffens beside Luke, “has Lucerys ripped your tongue from your throat or has he left such a pleasure for me?”

How Aemond stays silent, Luke doesn’t know. He’s speechless himself for a moment, but the disbelief is soon washed away by pure outrage as he stands in a sudden burst, slamming his hands down on the table, the noise echoing through the empty room.

“You do not get to speak him that way,” he snarls, Daemon’s eyes widening barely a fraction to show his surprise, “neither of us that way.”

Daemon slowly stands. “You forget yourself-”

“I do not.” Luke rolls back his shoulders, ignoring the fear licking up his spine as he holds Daemon’s unwavering glower, worsening at being cut off. “We came to Highgarden for a reason. Kings Landing was too dangerous for myself and I could not trust you to not cut Aemond’s head from his shoulders the moment you saw him were we to head to Dragonstone.”

“A justified fear,” Daemon snaps sarcastically, throwing Aemond a reproachful look, and Luke steps slightly sideways to block Daemon’s line of sight.

“Your chaos and thoughtlessness has no place here, Daemon,” he continues, well aware that the only reason his head remains on his shoulders right now is a mix of being his mother’s son and the fact Daemon looks utterly shocked at Luke’s boldness. “We did not survive Borros Baratheon for you to take your turn upon us.”

Daemon’s nose flares, his mouth sets into a hard line. “Borros Baratheon will be dealt with accordingly. Your mother has plans for him I am sure Alyssa will be most interested in.” He shakes his head. “But what happened at Storm’s End does not give you permission to take matters into your own hands. You should not have come to Highgarden.”

Luke scoffs sharply. “And where else should we have gone?” he demands. “Highgarden offered us refuge at a time where neither of our family’s could. I would not and will not jeopardise all that we have achieved simply because our family’s are impulsive and reactive.”

Daemon lets out a sharp unamused laugh. “And what is it, pray tell, that you hope to achieve here, Lucerys?”

Luke stands up straighter. “Peace,” he says calmly, catching Daemon’s flinch. “Before we start a battle none of us can possibly win.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow dangerously. “You underestimate your mother,” he hisses, his hand having fallen back to Dark Sister’s pommel. Were Luke not brimming with a strange self-righteousness, he thinks he would be worried.

“I underestimate nothing besides the wrath of the realm should we plunge into a war.” Luke falters for just a moment, glancing back to see Aemond watching him with a look closely resembling awe. It gives him more confidence than he expected as he turns back to his stepfather. “Aemond has made me understand that the ones who suffer most from our fight over the throne is the people of the realm.”

“Aemond did?” Visible surprise flashes over Daemon’s face. “You jest.” He tries to get a glimpse of Aemond again, but Luke stands resolute between them. “Lucerys, you have been manipulated by whatever this is you think is between you-”

“It was me that pursued this,” Luke interrupts, hearing Aemond’s sharp inhale behind him. “Aemond refused me for as long as he could. Were it not for my insistence, he would have followed his ill-fated propriety until the very end.”

Daemon looks unconvinced, even if there is a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “He loathes you. We have all seen how much he despises you.”

“As it turns out, we were all wrong.” Luke reaches out a hand behind him blindly, his heart skipping when Aemond takes it, warm strong fingers wrapping around his own. “Myself most of all.”

The sudden silence is heavy, suffocating. Luke’s legs feel unsteady beneath him and its only the still burning anger roaring in his chest that keeps him standing. Daemon stares at him with those cold purple eyes, looking torn between his own rage and a strange sort of disbelief, and Luke is terrified at the uncertainty of which way he will go.

But then Daemon sighs and sinks down into his chair, reaching for his discarded goblet to pour another brim-filled cup, and Luke shakily collapses in his own as Daemon turns his attention very much onto downing his drink in one long laborious go.

Beside him, Aemond shifts forward, and Luke decides to throw all caution to the wind as he turns his back on his stepfather to instead lean into Aemond’s waiting shoulder. He braces himself there, resting his forehead against Aemond’s neck, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against his shoulder, and Aemond thumb strokes  slowly but reassuringly along the side of Luke’s index finger.

“I hope I have not overstepped,” Luke murmurs, and Aemond lets out a small huff as he brushes his nose into Luke’s unruly hair.

“Never,” Aemond utters, and Luke can’t help but smile slightly. “You are a sight to behold, byka āeksio.”

Luke wants nothing more to tilt his head back and capture Aemond’s lips with his own, to press into him and let the room fall away around them, until it is just the two of them once more in their own little world where nothing else can touch them. He shifts to do so, pulling back to meet Aemond’s softened gaze, and he leans into Aemond palm when he reaches up to brush a stray lock of Luke’s hair back behind his ear.

But then.

“My sincerest apologies,” Daemon says dryly behind them, and Luke startles away from Aemond as he turns back to see his stepfather watching them with a look bordering on exasperated, “however I do believe that this conversation is far from over.”

He’s right, and Luke begrudgingly shifts properly in his seat to readdress his stepfather. He opens his mouth, not entirely sure what to say, but he’s saved from the effort at Daemon holds up a finger to cut him off first, hawkish eyes darting between the two of them.

“So.” The word is heavy and makes Luke flinch. “This is not some ill-written stunt then.”

Luke sighs, feeling rather incensed himself. “No, Daemon, it is not.” It doesn’t escape his irony that has started that way on their first arrival to Highgarden, no matter the fact they were both blatantly aware of the others feelings, but Luke decides revealing that may just be counterintuitive right now.

Daemon stares at him for a long moment before his eyes narrow darkly. “And somehow your wish for peace will be achieved by,” he waves his goblet vaguely at them, “whatever this is?”

A flare of irritation nearly makes Luke lose his tongue, frustrated and indignant that Daemon still clearly doesn’t take him seriously despite all that has been said so far. He thinks better of it though, knowing that any sharp retort will only push Daemon into refusing to listen out of pure pigheadedness, if he hasn’t already been pushed to that point already.

Aemond, it seems, doesn’t share the same thoughts.

He huffs, leaning slightly around Luke to sneer at Daemon, his hold bruising around Luke’s fingers. “There is no moral high ground for you to take here, uncle,” he snarls pointedly, finally speaking, and Luke feels a pleased jolt knowing it’s in defence of them. “You and my sister have made choices far worse than the ones we have.”

However Luke’s eyes widen as anger flashes over Daemon’s face and he sits up in his chair to lean back. “I did not almost start a war,” Daemon snaps, and when Aemond’s scoff only enrages him more, Luke hurries to put himself back between.

“There is no war,” he points out, and Daemon regards him as if he were still just a child, almost condescending.

“Not yet, there isn’t.” He sounds as defeated as Aemond has, and that makes something in Luke’s stomach twist and pull, yet it only serves to give him more courage to speak up.

“And there does not have to be,” Luke insists quietly, Daemon’s mouth snapping shut at his eyes narrow again. He looks torn between being interested and bemused, appraising Luke as if deciding how best to proceed.

“Lucerys,” he says carefully, and suddenly those cold suspicious eyes are glowering at Aemond as if he is the cause of all the problems they face, “whatever ill thoughts this cur has put into your head-”

Luke can’t hold back his groan as Aemond lets out a deep growl beside him. “Give me some credit, Daemon,” he mutters, giving Aemond a reproachful look to silence him. “I have thoughts of my own. I am not some impressionable child that sprouts out the opinions of those around me.” He turns to hold Daemon’s gaze. “You of all people should know that.”

It’s a reminder of all the times Luke has opposed him, every time he’s ever spoken up against his stepfather, and it clearly doesn’t go over Daemon’s head as he purses his lips. He doesn’t look happy, barely like he’s ready to listen, but there’s nothing to do but hope otherwise.

Daemon sighs though, shaking his head as he drops his goblet back on the table and runs his hand down his face, hanging his head with a sigh. “This is not something that can be stopped, Luke.”

Luke’s hand tightens around Aemond’s, still clasped firmly in his own. He hasn’t tried to pull it away, although Aemond’s hold has loosened at least from his painful grip of before. Now it just gives Luke comfort, a steady reminder that Aemond is willing to help him fight for this chance.

“It is if we try,” he says, voice stronger than he expected, enough so that Daemon lifts his head in surprise. “Targaryen’s have spent decades on the Iron Throne, our history built its very foundation and created the kingdom as it now stands… and it has taken the actions of a Hightower for to start to crumble.”

A flash of pure fury flashes through Daemon’s violet eyes, decades of mistrust and hatred pour into the one name that leaves his lips. “Otto Hightower.”

Luke nods. “It was to him that Mother delivered her intentions of rule, especially regarding her siblings following her ascension to the throne, and it was him that discarded them without sharing anything to Queen Alicent or her children.” Daemon looks like he’s swallowed something distasteful but Luke continues nonetheless. “Aemond and his siblings have spent years believing that the moment Mother took the crown, it would spell their certain deaths.”

Daemon’s attention slips to Aemond, and Aemond’s hand clenches Luke’s. “And they believed that.”

“It is not like we have given them reason to think otherwise,” Luke points out, running his thumb down the length of Aemond’s own soothingly. “Our families have been at odds for years. What have we done to assure them that is not the truth?”

Daemon clearly isn’t pleased. His lip curls in distaste before he rips his glare away from Aemond, the muscle working in his clenched jaw. He taps his fingers on the tabletop for a moment, long enough that Luke finds himself holding his breath, before Daemon sighs.

“And you have a plan to correct this…” Daemon pauses, looks like he’s swallowed something sour, “misjudgment?”

Luke lets out his held breath in a rush. “I believe so.”

Daemon is clearly unconvinced even as he swipes up his goblet of wine and once more leans back into his chair. “Then I am all ears,” he drawls, swirling his drink emphatically. “Tell me, Lucerys, how should we stop this inevitable dance of dragons?”

Pardoning his stepfather’s dramatics, Luke takes a moment to glance over at Aemond. He looks back straight away, his mouth held in a grim line even as he gives Luke the smallest of nods. It’s enough. He squeezes Aemond’s hand and nods back before turning back to face Daemon.

And he doesn’t hesitate.

“Mother does not have a viable heir,” he says, going immediately for the jugular, and Daemon visibly flinches as outrage flashes across his face. Luke holds up a hand to stop whatever he’s about to say though as he ploughs on, desperate to say the words before Daemon picks up his sword to start swinging. “It’s a fact, Daemon. Everyone knows it. The whole realm knows it. Jace, Joff, and I are doing nothing to help Mother’s claim to the Iron Throne.”

“What you are saying is treason,” Daemon snarls, his grip on his goblet white-knuckled tight, and Luke narrows his eyes back at him.

“I am simply acknowledging the circumstances of our births,” he continues boldly as Aemond’s fingernails dig painfully into the back of his hand. “Both of my fathers are dead. To do them the dishonour of continuing to deny my lineage is worse than continuing this charade that we are true Velayrons, especially after they spent their lives sacrificing so much for my Mother.”

Daemon looks ready to explode, the admission of what both Ser Leanor and Ser Harwin gave up for Rhaeneyra Targaryen and their children clearly doing nothing to quell the anger in him. But Luke carries Laenor’s name and Harwin’s blood runs through his veins, and he holds his head up high with pride to have called both his fathers.

“Whats done is done,” Luke presses on when it’s obvious that Daemon is still struggling with what to say. “We must do what we can to salvage the situation as it stands.”

“What do you propose?” Daemon hisses through clenched teeth, and Luke holds his burning glare.

“Declare Aegon and Viserys as her heirs.” Luke isn’t surprised that Daemon’s mouth drops open as his eyebrows raise. “They are both pureblooded Targaryens, and the sons of Viserys the First’s first and second heirs. Their claim is impossibly strong.”

Daemon is shaking his head though, expressions of smugness and horror warring over his face. He’s not jumping straight to acceptance though as Luke expected. He has no illusions about Daemon, nor his stepfather’s thirst for the throne. He thought perhaps that Daemon would leap at the chance of placing his own sons on there.

But he looks torn. “You would remove yourself and your brothers from the line of succession?” He narrows his eyes. “You would take Jace’s birthright from him?”

Luke had braced himself for this moment, but even so the guilt that rips through him is near crippling. “For the good of the realm,” he murmurs, voice wavering for the first time. “Jace would stand to inherit Driftmark instead.” He drops his head. “If he is to give up his birthright, then I will give up my own.”

“You are too quick to throw titles around,” Daemon snaps. “They are not so easily granted.” He purses his lips for a moment, his gaze turning calculating, shifting as he taps his fingers repetitively on the tabletop in a rapid pattern. “However, I believe I understand your train of thought, even if you would willingly step away from the title your mother has fought tooth and nail to gain for you.”

Admonished, Luke bows his head slightly. “I will be an unfit Lord of the Tides. We all know this.” There’s a lump in his throat he swallows around. “Jace and Baela will lead Driftmark with honour and pride. Laenor’s chosen son and Laena’s blood daughter.” He glances up. “They will satisfy Corlys and Rhaenys more than I ever could.”

Daemon looks doubtful even as he nods slowly, clearly thinking it all through. “Say we entertain this idea.” He screws his face up slightly before taking a long sip of his wine. “There will still be a war between both factions. Your mother’s chosen heir will not change that.”

Luke is already ahead of him. “We propose a betrothal between Jaehaera and Aegon or Viserys.” Daemon’s eyebrows shoot up again. “It removes the problem. No matter who is on the throne, our families will be united by their marriage and future children.”

Daemon is shaking his head though. “The problem is not simply heirs, Lucerys. To take the throne, Rhaeneyra would have to remove Aegon first.” His gaze slips past Luke back to Aemond. “Your brother will have to face some form of consequence.”

“Exile,” Aemond murmurs immediately, voice impossibly quiet as Luke turns to see him staring back at Daemon intensely. “He does not want to sit upon the throne, it is my mother and grandsire who wish it. Aegon is an unwilling pawn in their games.” He inclines his head slightly. “He would relinquish all rights to the throne in favour of exile to Essos with his ‘knights’.” He spits the last word distastefully and Daemon lets out a sharp laugh.

“Ah yes,” he drawls, grinning wickedly. “I have heard tales of his famous knights. Truely a fearsome bunch.” He leans forward, knitting his fingers together on the table in front of him. “He would go quietly?”

Aemond doesn’t say a word, but Luke sees him give Daemon a terse nod nonetheless. Luke’s stomach swoops and he flexes his fingers, unable to help the nerves that start to spark under his skin at the satisfied look on Daemon’s face as he reclines back in his chair.

“It is an interesting proposition.” He hums to himself. “However, the only way this could possibly succeed is without the inclusion of the Hightowers.”

It’s a challenge if Luke has ever heard one, and he holds his breath as he glances back to Aemond’s impassive face. Daemon is fairly right, even if it’s distasteful, even as he leers at Aemond obviously waiting for him to balk at the idea. However, there is no possibility of negotiating any kind of agreement or treaty if Otto and Alicent Hightower have any say in it. They would deny it on principle alone, just as they had married Aegon and Helena simply to prevent a betrothal between Jace and Helena.

However, Aemond leans forward and nods again. “I agree,” he says, Daemon’s eyes widening in response. “This is a matter for Targaryen’s alone.”

Clearly surprised, Daemon doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just looks between the two of them, no doubt running through the options that Luke has presented. Luke hopes it’s been convincing enough, that Aemond’s support has given weight to Luke’s ideas. There is still problems to discuss, factors to take into account, but the majority of the plan has been laid out.

But Daemon has always been a tactician. “There is one problem,” he says slowly, measuredly, and Luke’s breath hitches. “Say your mother takes the throne, Aegon is exiled, and there is a betrothal between the children.” He narrows his eyes. “There is many years between now and when they are of age to wed. What is to stop an usurpation in that time?”

Luke hesitates, feels Aemond’s hand in his own. That thought comes thundering back, louder and bigger than before. There’s a simple answer, one that Luke wants with his entire being, one that would hold the bonds between their two families until the next generation.

“Our marriage.”

It’s not Luke that says it though, and he turns with wide stunned eyes to see Aemond sitting with his head held high, eye blazing, confident in the simple statement he’s just announced… a statement that has just struck through Luke like a single bolt of lightning, leaving him shaking and trembling to his very core.

Daemon lets out an abrupt laugh though. “You must be jesting,” he snorts, shaking his head with clear amusement in his eyes. “I understand that this… infatuation is compelling at the moment, but you are both promised to others and-”

“Betrothals are hardly the most difficult concordant we intend to break,” Aemond interrupts, his voice hard and unyielding. “Our marriage will unify the two sides of our house.” He lifts their linked hands to place on top of the table, a clear assertion of their relationship. Daemon doesn’t miss it as his eyes fall to follow the movement, his jaw working once more.

“Your union would be a childless one,” he says slowly. “With no progeny to bind you together, there is no guarantee the truce will be respected or followed through on.”

“No,” Aemond agrees, and Luke can’t breathe past the lump in his throat, feeling heavy and yet like he’s floating all at the same time, “but it will guarantee that the truce will continue until such times as Jaehaera is old enough to marry Aegon or Viserys and produce children of their own.”

There’s a sudden cunning gleam to Daemon’s eyes. “So you also intend the bloodline to continue through them?”

There’s a tense silence for a moment before Aemond responds. “For the sake of the realm,” he says meaningfully before turning to Luke, his eye softening as he meets Luke’s own, “for the sake of Lucerys, I will support any and every endeavour to save them both.”

Luke’s heart pounds so furiously against his ribs he fears they might break. His entire body feels like it’s shaking, nerves ripple under his skin and his eyes burn with unshed tears. He smiles, small and private, hoping Aemond can see the pure love he feels for him in this moment right now, unified together in the face of an unbearable adversary.

“Aemond…” he whispers, and Aemond suddenly takes his other hand, pressing both of Luke’s between his own as he leans forward, lips pressing against Luke’s knuckles.

“Marry me, byka āeksio,” Aemond murmurs, blue eye twinkling in the candlelight. “Marry me, Luke.”

“Yes.” The word slips unbidden, gasping breathlessly out of Luke, and one of those burning tears slips out down his cheek. “Yes yes, gods yes.”

Aemond grins as he swoops forward, pulling Luke into a searing kiss, his warm calloused hands cupping Luke’s cheeks as he hauls him to his feet. Luke melts against him, throwing his arms carelessly around his neck, dragging Aemond down as his chest beats and pounds and bursts. His mind is racing with so many thoughts with not a one catching, only able to think of Aemond so warm against him, his lips so soft and eager, his touch full of reverence and gentleness.

Behind them, Daemon clears his throat, and Luke’s eyes flash open as he abruptly pulls away. Aemond chases him, pressing another brief kiss to the corner of his mouth before he opens his eyes with a pleased smug look on his face. It makes Luke flush, his cheek burn a no doubt brilliant red, and he can’t help his small laugh as he shakes his head.

“Perhaps next time we could do without the company,” Luke mock-whispers loudly, and Aemond huffs before he tugs Luke forward, settling him into the crook of his side, his expression shifting to defiant as he meets Daemon’s irritated glare.

They just stare at one another for a long moment, Daemon looking tired all of a sudden as Luke loops his arm around Aemond’s waist, until finally Daemon sighs as he runs his hand over his face.

“Sȳrī qogralbar,” he swears under his breath before he suddenly stands up, glowering down at the two of them. “You are both aware that this is not how betrothals work.”

Luke raises his eyebrows. “Are you saying you will not give us your blessing?”

Daemon looks at him sourly, his gaze withering. “As if that would stop you.” He shakes his head, throws back the last of his wine in one quick scull, and slams the goblet down on the table hard enough to make the whole thing rattle. “Fine. We do this your way, Luke.” He gives Aemond a mocking look. “For the sake of the realm.”

Aemond stiffens but Luke doesn’t care as he grins at Daemon. “Thank you.”

Daemon waves him off as he steps away from the table. “Do not thank me yet. We still have to convince your mother that all these years of enmity has somehow resolved in your marriage.” Even Luke winces at the thought of that particular conversation, not entirely sure it will be as ‘friendly’ as this one with Daemon has been. “And there is also the matter of locating someplace neutral for peace negotiations-”

“Here, at Highgarden.” Luke shrugs when Daemon looks at him in surprise. “I was already intending on asking Alyssa this evening before you arrived.”

Daemon’s lips twitch. “You have been planning this for some time.” He laughs, quite genuinely too, before suddenly stepping forward and reaching out to clap a hand down on Luke’s shoulder. “Contrary to what I called it in the past, you always were the clever one, Lucerys.”

Luke tries not to preen under the praise, well aware he fails by the amused huff Aemond lets out beside him. He doesn’t care, not as Daemon looks at him like that, like he’s proud of him. Despite it all, Daemon is still a father to him, as Laenor and Harwin were. His praise fills Luke with a honey warm glow.

He ruffles Luke’s hair before moving back, rolling his shoulders as he steels his expression, as if he’s preparing for war. Perhaps he is, a different kind than he was expecting though. “Speak with Alyssa, ask her conditions for holding peace accords here in Highgarden.” He looks to Aemond. “You call for your brother and sister. Tell them to come on dragon back and ensure they do not bring Alicent with them.”

Aemond nods sharply, face betraying nothing, and Luke frowns before asking. “What about you?”

Daemon’s lips press into a grim line. “I will send for your mother. Gods help me.”

Luke doesn’t envy him. Mother is a formidable woman at the best of times. He can’t imagine how she must be now, burning with grief and rage, desperation and determination, readying herself for a war she can’t be sure she will win, worrying for a son she no doubt believes to be lost. He has a moment of guilt for the worry he must have put her through, but if it leads to peace then Luke isn’t sure he can bring himself to regret it.

He can’t regret Aemond.

Clearly having decided the conversation is finished, Daemon gestures for them to follow as he walks off towards the doors, looking less and less pleased with each step, his usual intimidating darkness returning to his shoulders. Luke trails behind with Aemond, both of them passing through the doors as Daemon holds one open, but he catches Luke’s arm to pull him back.

Luke looks at him in question, and Daemon arches one high pale eyebrow down at him.

“Aemond?” he asks. “Of all people?”

Luke huffs, shaking his head with amusement, lips twitching at their corners. “Is that what my grandfather said to my mother after you married her?”

Daemon looks struck for a moment, eyes wide before he tips his his head back and bursts out in an uproarious laugh. It shakes his shoulders, an arrogant sound that makes Luke smile, and even Aemond pauses to gape at Daemon in shock.

Daemon just claps Luke on the back though. “You’ve changed, Lucerys,” he crows, eyes crinkling at their edges as he grins at him. “It is a good look on you.”

By the time Luke finishes talking to Alyssa, the evening has set well and truly into night.

She had taken a long time to make her decision. Luke cannot and will not blame her. The thought of hosting the crown for peace negotiations is daunting, especially knowing that both sides of the Targaryen families are teetering on the edge of a war that is only a slip of words away from beginning. Opening Highgarden up to the start of what could be one of Westeros’s bloodiest and cruelest conflicts is something even he has struggled to justify in his own mind.

But she has agreed nonetheless. Under the strictest of conditions. No armies are to be brought to the Reach, no one outside of the Targaryen dynasty and herself are to be included in any of the discussions, and if at any point she feels it has become… unproductive, then she reserves the right to cease all negotiations and send them all away with the Reach to face no consequences no matter the outcome.

Luke hadn’t even hesitated in shaking her hand, firm with agreement. Alyssa had looked drawn and tired, her shoulders slumped with dread, but when Luke had casually mentioned his and Aemond’s sudden betrothal… she’d thrown her arms around him in joy and pressed kisses to his cheeks.

“Oh Luke,” she had beamed with a beautiful smile, “I am so happy for you both.”

Now though, after Alyssa had ushered him from her rooms and called for a bleary-eyed Orville with a renewed vigour, Luke walks through the silent halls of Highgarden back towards his quarters. He thinks to find his stepfather, wondering if Daemon might need assistance with what to write to Mother, but he decides it is not a burden for him to also bear. He will have to face his mother himself soon enough, and he is deeply unsure how happy that reunion will be.

Nevertheless, he has done his part, weaved together a plan for the future, begun to mend the broken bonds between their families, arranged a place for them to come in the name of coming to an accord and moving forward.

In truth? He’s just exhausted now.

“Lucerys.”

Luke blinks unfocused eyes as he hears his name, unsurprised to see Aemond striding down the corridor towards him. He looks cool and collected, perfectly composed as usual despite the hour, but Luke can see the tightness around his eyes, the tense line of his mouth… he’s worried.

He smiles.

“Aemond,” he murmurs right before Aemond reaches him though, and Luke falls straight into his arms, pressing himself into Aemond’s chest as he loops his arms loosely around his hips. Aemond doesn’t pause, just encloses Luke into a firm embrace, arms bracketing him as he drops his pointed chin down on the crown of Luke’s head.

They don’t say anything for a long time. Luke lets his breathing settle to match the slow drag of Aemond’s own, his eyes falling closed as he toys with the hem of Aemond’s shirt, running it between the tips of his fingers. It’s soft and peaceful here, the world held at bay around them, the silence like it’s own warm embrace. Luke is loathed to leave it.

But eventually he speaks, mumbling words into the crook of Aemond’s neck. “Alyssa has agreed. Under strict conditions.”

“I would expect nothing less.” Aemond’s chest rumbles with his voice, and Luke pushes his nose into the exposed skin of his throat, feels him shiver beneath him.

“Tell me this will work,” Luke pleads quietly, letting the doubt finally creep in. “Tell me we haven’t just launched Westeros into an unnecessary and bloody war.”

Aemond hums, his arms tightening around Luke as his hands press into Luke’s sides. “I cannot,” he says gently, and Luke’s heart stutters a horrible moment. “You know as well as I that whatever happens next is truly unpredictable.”

Luke scrunches up his face. “You are not very good at this comforting thing, Aemond.”

“I do not pretend to be a seer, Luke,” Aemond scolds him even as his thumb rubs soothing circles into the dip of Luke’s back. “But what I do know is that whatever happens, whatever worse things are yet to come, we shall face it together.”

Together. The word roots itself in the depths of Luke’s chest, twisting around his heart. “You mean that.”

He says it as more of a statement, but Aemond’s lips brush against Luke’s ear as he leans into him. “More than anything.”

They linger for only a moment more before Aemond pulls away. Luke lets out a soft noise of protest, but Aemond’s fingers catches his as he starts to tug Luke back down the corridor where he’d come from. Luke goes, trailing behind him blearily, that bone-deep tiredness making him stumble along ungracefully until they reach the door to their quarters.

Their quarters.

Perhaps its the tiredness that makes Luke so sentimental, but as Aemond ushers him inside and sets about readying their room for sleep, Luke can’t help but feel nothing short of pure adoration swell up in his chest. He leans back against the stone still of the room’s window as he watches Aemond, eyes running over the spill of pure white hair that tumbles down his back, his sharp beautiful features and tall striking frame, the deep blue of his eye that rivals the gem beside it…

And he’s all Luke’s.

Gods.

He’s all Luke’s.

“Did you ever think this would happen?” Luke suddenly asks, the words tumbling out before he can catch them. He thinks to slap his hands over his mouth, barely staying himself as he fidgets with the medallion on his chest instead, rolling it between his fingers over and over.

However Aemond simply glances up at him from where he stands at the end of the bed, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Think what would happen, byka āeksio?” he asks slowly, tilting his head slightly to the side.

Luke swallows a little nervously. “This.” He gestures between the two of them. “Us.”

There’s a heavy pause as Aemond stares at him, face unreadable, and Luke wonders if he’s let his exhaustion get the better of him. But then Aemond shifts, crossing the room to stand in front of him, and Luke’s breath hitches as Aemond reaches out to gently caress the backs of his fingers down Luke’s cheek.

“I used to dream about it,” Aemond murmurs, voice so sweetly low. “In the rare moments I would let myself think one day you would return my affections.” His eye softens, lips part in a small sigh. “I used to wish for it more than I will ever admit.”

The confession makes Luke’s heart thunder against his ribs, his chest aching with each beat. “And is it everything you wished for?”

Aemond’s thumb runs over the curve of his cheekbone, feather-light and much too gentle. Luke leans into the touch, feels the shivers run through his body, presses his lips sweetly against the soft inside of Aemond’s wrist as he cups Luke’s jaw.

“More.” Aemond’s gaze burns with an intensity that Luke wishes he could drown in, could let consume him. “I would lose a thousand wars, Lucerys Velaryon, if it meant I would have you.”

Luke sighs, a fond yet exasperated smile spreads over his face. “You have not lost, Aemond.”

Aemond looks at him for a moment before he leans forward, and Luke’s eyes slip shut as Aemond presses their lips together sweetly. It’s soft and chaste, spills a honey glow warmth through Luke as he leans forward into Aemond’s waiting arms, letting himself be wrapped up in Aemond’s hold as he deepens the kiss, taking as much as Luke is willing to give. His head spins and the world is so unsteady beneath his feet, swaying backwards and forwards over and over, but Aemond is firm and strong and Luke clings to him as his anchor in this perfect storm.

And when they break apart, their breath warm as it brushes against each others cheeks, Luke blinks slowly up to meet Aemond’s besotted gaze.

Because he looks at Luke like he’s hung the very moon… and Luke thinks that for Aemond, he could.

“No,” Aemond says, “I suppose not.”

Come tomorrow, dragons will descend on the Reach in a rainbow of colours and glittering scales, their maws open to let loose brilliant flames. Striking riders will slip from their backs, a mix of some with glowing white hair and tumbles of unruly brown, all thrumming with the blood of a dynasty built from Fire and Blood.

Two rulers will walk into Highgarden’s halls… only one will walk back out.

Decisions will be made about the realm’s fate that will rewrite the coming history. Titles will shift, thrones passed on, heirs decided. Agreements none would have thought possible will be pledged upon, harmony will be found, change will happen.

The Targaryen’s will live on.

But tonight.

Luke pulls back from Aemond. “You know,” he says lightly, the heaviness of the room slipping away as Aemond quirks an eyebrow down at him. “It occurred to me earlier that I am still indebted a bow and set of arrows to a blacksmith in some stray village,” he pauses to grin at Aemond, “and you owe that poor innkeeper two nights board.”

There’s a pause before Aemond suddenly smiles and it lights up the very room as it steals all the breath from Luke’s chest.

“Tell me, byka āeksio,” he sighs as he reaches out to tug Luke in close again, and Luke comes willingly, looping his arms around Aemond’s hips with a pleased noise. “Does that mind of yours ever stop?”

Luke laughs as Aemond starts to walk him backwards across the room. “It was you that called me a dreamer, did you not?”

Aemond huffs and Luke yelps as he abruptly pushes him over, the comfort of their bed rushing up to meet him as Aemond stands over him for a wonderful moment, all power and grace, lithe and tall, so utterly perfect.

“As you are,” he drawls, lips turning up cockily, smug and pleased in a way that makes Luke’s heart stutter. “Perhaps then you need some help as to come back to actuality.”

Luke pauses before he scoffs, reaching out to hook the backs of his legs around Aemond’s teasingly. “And just how will you do that, my betrothed?”

Aemond’s eye flashes, and Luke’s own widen as he suddenly lunges forward, crushing Luke to the bed. He nudges himself in between Luke’s legs, holding himself over top of him with his hands to either side of Luke’s head, long hair tumbling over his shoulders as he leans down to brush their noses together, making Luke’s breath hitch.

“How indeed,” Aemond murmurs.

Fin.