Chapter Text
Fate is a curious thing. One moment all is well with the world, the very next a storm rolls into what one assumes to be a safe harbour. Ropes snap and ships are smashed against jagged cliffs, splinters flying, wounding and crippling the sailors that had once polished them till they shone. ‘Am I the ship or the sailors,’ Lucerys Velaryon ponders, gazing upon the looking glass in the morning light. For much like the shattered ship his deadly splinter had inflicted terrible wounds in the stormy night. Much like the sailors he had been marked by the events. Changed irrevocably, altered to a point where he is not sure who he is anymore. One thing is certain, his once bright future is now a bleak, tremulous thing spanning before him, offering no hope of salvation.
There, at the jointure of his neck and shoulders, lays the mating mark. Aemond’s mating mark. Luke closes his eyes, a vain attempt to shake the memories. Baela’s voice haunts him still.
“Someone stole Vhagar”, she whispers in the dark room. In truth, Luke did not know the girl well, much as they were kin. The sisters had spent their lives across the sea, a land he has never seen, one so strange in customs and people he cannot begin to imagine. And how could he, when all he truly knows are the walls of the Red Keep, the voices of his uncles and the hugs of his parents. But mother had asked that Jace and he be kind to their cousins and so when the girls wish to go investigate, the boys follow.
It is a mistake. One cannot steal a dragon for a dragon is no slave. Yet when facing the agony of loss, truth fades into obscurity. Standing across from Aemond, once a companion, protector and friend, gazing upon him as a foe, is a special kind of cruelty. Hearing Rhaena’s accusations, knowing nothing good will come from them, has Luke shifting with unease. Nothing could prepare him for the stab of sheer agony that blooms in his chest as Aemond calls them Strongs. For how many times had Luke ran to his uncle when the whispers of court became too much to bear? How often had Aemond held him as he sniffled, whispered in his ear. ‘You are a dragon, Luke. That’s all that matters, leave the sheep to their drivel.’ Thousands of little comforts, erased by a single cruelty.
‘Lord Strong.’ Aemond pushes Rhaena to the side. ‘Lord Strong.’ Punches Baela. ‘Lord Strong.’ Jace pulls out a blade. ‘Lord Strong.’ The knife lays in the sand. Aemond picks up a rock. Stands above Jace. His brother needs him. ‘Lord Strong.’ There is a blade in Luke’s hand. ‘Lord Strong.’ He swings, clumsy and unsure. Blood on his hands. Aemond’s screams. ‘Lord Strong.’ His head spins. The cave is too warm, his skin too tight. ‘Lord Strong.’ Aemond upon him. Bloodied, mad. Pain in his shoulder. The world spins.
When Luke comes back, it is to the calming scent of his mother. To her gentle hands and soft whispers. To the screeching voice of the Consort and the sharp stench of Aemond’s blood. Confused and overwhelmed, Luke clutches onto mother’s sleeve till grandmother appears to take him in her arms. “I don’t feel well,” he mutters into her neck. “Hush, sweetling,” grandmother tries to soothe him, “all will be over soon. Do not fret.”
How right she is, how wrong indeed. For the conflict, if it could be called such, ends the very same night, yet there is much to fret about. Luke has presented, an omega. So has Aemond, an alpha. And grandsire, in his infinite pursuit of peace, has declared them mated. No one had been happy at the proclamation. Mother had shouted, the Consort had wailed, grandsire Corlys had raged. Only Aemond had been quiet, drunk off of milk of the poppy, sitting stoic, a statue rather than a boy, as the maester stitched his ruined eye. Luke had gulped at the news, hiding his face into grandmother’s neck, breathing in her soothing scent, hoping to wake from the nightmare his life had become.
Morning had come, light bathing the world once more, yet the nightmare persisted. At least the king and his family had left the island, at least Luke hadn’t needed to face Aemond. Wouldn’t need to for some time still, years if mother gets her way. Never if Daemon gets his. Movement at the door interrupts his musings. His cousin Rhaena hesitates to step past his threshold. She feels responsible, Luke knows. A part of him, the angry, petty, frightened part, wishes to blame her for what happened. He can’t bring himself to, not fully anyway for they all shoulder some blame. Yet it is Luke who must pay the steepest price. Married to Aemond. The uncle who called him a bastard, the boy who tried to crush his brother’s skull with a rock.
“I am sorry,” she murmurs at him. Luke hums, “nothing to be done now,” he declares. “Let us forget it. Grandmother promised to take us hunting for seashells. To honour aunt Laena.” A smile blossoms across her face then, a brittle thing, yet Luke cannot help but think the girl pretty. ‘She would have been my wife, had Aemond not become my husband.’ Shaking his head to chase the morose thoughts, Luke offers Rhaena his hand as they head for grandmother’s solar.
Years pass, laden with joy, brimming with heartache. Within days of that terrible night, father is slain. Less than a sennight later mother weds Daemon, with Jace and Luke, Baela and Rhaena as their sole witnesses. Grandsire, along with grandmother, stay back at the keep, minding Joffrey. It is much too dangerous for them to witness the union, for mother is wedding against the king’s orders. Should he choose to retaliate, the consequences would be unimaginable.
Their strange, broken family moves to Dragonstone then. There, among the volcanic beaches and sharp rocks, Luke is free. Near feral, no need to follow the edicts his omega status would have demanded in the Red Keep. He runs around the island, swims along the beach, flies on Arrax and learns to fight with a sword. He reads and walks with Rhaena, discusses the histories with Jace and speaks high Valyrian with Baela. The four of them become siblings in truth, brothers and sisters, in the fashion only Targaryens have.
Day after day, Luke envies Jace and his easy smiles, his carefree laughter. His own future is secure, Baela to be his spouse as soon as she presents. Rhaena is an omega, just as Luke is, yet Daemon sees no issue with a union between them. There are days, Luke wants to kiss the older man in gratitude. There are days he wants to kick him for his callousness. No matter his wishes, Luke is wed already. They are to return to the Red Keep for his celebration when he is six and ten. Less than eight moons remain before he must face his uncle once more. His husband.
Over time Aemond sent countless letters to Dragonstone, each addressed to Luke directly. One every seven days when the family first moved to the island. The seals stand intact, mocking him, taunting him, for Luke never gathered the courage to open a single one. “Lord Strong,” the stacks of elegant penmanship whisper in the night, mocking him. Receiving no reply might have deterred a lesser man. Not Aemond. The letters come till this day, one for every turn of the moon. Uncle is persistent in his scorn. Luke is unyielding in his determination to ignore him. Pretend he does not exist, so he might disappear in truth.
Life goes on this way, ominous silence from the Red Keep, not a whisper of planned nuptials, of preparation. The future is easy to forsake as they walk along the black sand, as they swim among the waves. A splash of water, pearls of laughter. Joffrey. The toddler had grown into a rambunctious child, cheeky and free. Much more so than his older brothers. The little urchin wants to be chased into the water, wrested beneath the waves, till their garments are all but ruined. Luke laughs, tossing off his doublet, shedding all, but the linen shirt and pants.
Following his brother into the water, going for a “hunt”. The boy is nimble and he likes the chase. “Come on, Jace, help me!,” shouts Luke between guffaws. “Aye, Jace, tis your duty!,” adds Baela with a mischievous smirk of her own. His eldest brother runs into the water then, fully dressed, pulling daring Baela in with him. The hunt is abandoned, the four of them splashing and playing among the waves, Joff’s childish glee too infectious to ignore.
They make their way back, sopping wet, exhausted, in high spirits. Just as they enter the keep, Rhaena meets them, face drawn. “Has something happened?” She is fidgeting, clearly uncomfortable with whatever news she has come to bring. “Mother and father wait for us in the hall,” the sweet girl finally offers, “there has been a letter from the capital.”
Feeling the joy of the afternoon leaching from his being, Luke follows the others into the hall. Daemon is furious beyond belief. Pacing like a caged animal, the shattered bottle, cups tossed across the floor, silent witnesses to his fury. “Tell us,” Jace commands, ever the leader of their small group. Luke is grateful for him, his brave brother, always there to defend their family. “As you know, your grandsire is not well,” mother starts before hesitating. The next words, lost within her chest, unwilling to come forth. Fear grasps at Luke’s heart, he was to have months yet. He cannot be forced to wed now, he cannot.
“Your mother speaks of Corlys, he’s been injured in the Stepstones,” Daemon interjects, “it seems Vaemond has decided to show his true skin.” That makes little sense to Luke, yet he relaxes momentarily. Whatever great uncle has in mind cannot be so very bad. “He has petitioned the court for the Driftwood throne,” Daemon finally utters, “and with my brother sick, the Hightowers will be itching to grant it to him. Which is why we must fly to the Red Keep directly. Face the petition and oust the serpent from our midst.” He sounds so certain, so powerful, that for a moment Luke believes him. Mother’s drawn countenance brings him back to reality. Should Vaemond wish to petition for High Tide, there is but one argument he might make. “Lord Strong.” Luke takes a sharp breath, “he means to call my legitimacy into question.” ‘And mine own husband shall support him, no doubt.’
“He is but a small, greedy man, Luke,” Daemon assures him, yet mother will not meet his gaze. It pains her, he knows, to have her children abused so. “And it might yet work in our favour,” his father mutters to himself. “What are you thinking, uncle?” Daemon smirks then, that devastating twist of his lips that spells disaster for all who dare oppose him. “The green cunts will side with Vaemond. And when my brother settles the matter, in our favour no doubt, we can petition the sham of a marriage with the one-eyed cunt be dissolved. After all, it has never been consummated and Lucerys needs an alpha who supports him by his side. Not one who would side with his enemy.” Mother and Jace seem to liven up at Daemon’s proclamation and Luke would be a liar to claim the words have no effect on him.
Could it truly work? Could he be free of his hateful uncle all the while keeping his inheritance? And so it is decided they will fly to King's Landing at first light the very next day. It is but a short time on dragonback and they should arrive before Vaemond does.
That night as Luke readies for bed, Rhaena knocks on his door. He invites her, offering the seat by his writing desk. “Do you think you might be free?” Luke takes his time with the answer, he knows what she is truly asking, ‘can we be together?’, yet the answer is not a simple one. He settles for honesty, “I pray that I am.” ‘I pray I can call you mine own,’ the words he hopes she can hear in his voice, see upon his face.
Come dawn they mount the dragons. Rhaena stays behind to mind the little ones along with Joff. The capital is not safe and had Daemon gotten his way, mother would not be travelling either. Yet she is the Crown Princess and as such needs to be present at court despite her condition. None are there to greet them upon arrival, aside from the kingsguard, an affront, deliberate sub that ranks at Daemon more than the reason for their journey does.
The Keep no longer feels like home, if it ever did indeed. Gone are the tapestries depicting their homeland, their dragons. Instead the overwhelming stench of incense makes his eyes water, while the seven pointed star of the Andals mocks the family from every nook and cranny of the castle. “No dragons live here,” Daemon mutters in irritation. “A plague has swept across the city, a plague clad in green.” Mother shushes him, the walls have ears here. Those walls are no longer their own so they must take care, consider before speaking a word.
They are shown to their old apartments and Luke goes along with Jace and Baela as soon as the Consort walks in to speak with their parents. No need to risk a meeting, certainly not yet. Much has changed over the years, yet the scorn of Alicent Hightower remains potent as it ever was. She cannot look their way without scrunching her face, as if being in the same rooms gives her physical pain.
Unsettled by the changes all around, unsure of the future, they find themselves heading for the training yard. Perhaps the flex of muscles and a sheen of sweat will prove beneficial. It is a mistake. One Luke regrets the moment they step into the training space. There, standing in the mud, facing set Christon, is none other than Aemond. His uncle has grown tall, much taller than Luke himself, or even Jace for that matter. Graceful and deadly despite his impediment, it takes Aemond moments to win his bout.
“I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” he answers to something Luke didn’t hear. His voice is different, much like the rest of him. Gone is the kind, shy boy who shared sweets with Luke under the heart tree. Gone is the angry youth that screamed insults and raised a rock against them that fateful night. He is a young man now, honed and deadly and Luke fears him. Fears for his own future should the King insist upon the match. Aemond turns then, much too slow and far too soon, Luke is unsure what is painted across his face as his eyes meet the one he has left. The other is hidden by a dark leather patch, the scar running above and beneath it. For a moment, Luke wants to reach out, touch the flesh he himself marred forever. Sheer madness.
Aemond sees them then, his carefully neutral expression turning thunderous for the briefest of moments. He smooths his features, stands straighter, towering over everyone in the yard. “Niece, nephew,” he greets, “husband,” he adds. His tone changes between greetings, something dark and intense hides behind the last of his words. “You’ve come to train,” a question in the form of a statement, “perhaps we should face each other, Jacaerys.” Luke is about to plead a headache, horrified at the thought of his brother exchanging blows with the other man, when commotion brings their attention to the yard. Vaemond has arrived. Luke breathes a sigh of relief, saved by the traitor it seems. They make their excuses and head inside to prepare for the audience.
Before long the family stands in the hall, facing the Iron Throne, a space now occupied by the Hand and his daughter. It feels wrong, the Hightowers should not be ruling a Targaryen kingdom and for the first time Luke truly understands Daemon’s frustration. It is a sham, a mockery of proceedings, for even grandmother is not allowed to speak as Otto Hightower weaves his tale. Fury blazes in Luke, the unfairness of the situation leaving him breathless.
The doors open. The king has arrived. Hunched over, gasping in agony, grandfather drags his rotting body forward. Sits the throne once more to defend mother, his true heir. To defend Luke, the grandson he claims to love. To say Vaemond is angry would give no justice to the man’s true feelings. He is mutinous and it is emotion that dooms him. “She is a whore,” he screams, “and her children are BASTARDS!” Grandfather calls for his tongue. Luke hears the familiar sound of steel drawn in the crowd nearby. Aemond advances, dagger in hand. Is he itching for blood or does he mean to aid the serpent? Luke will never know for Daemon keeps Dark Sister at the ready. A clean strike, Vaemond is dead before he hits the ground.
The following moments are a whirlwind, all Luke manages to gather is the safety of his own inheritance. They are then ushered out the halls and back to the apartments, readying for supper. The scant few hours Luke has to gather his racing thoughts prove far from adequate time to prepare. They sit in the solar, all of them kin, yet the tension remains thick enough to cut with a knife. Luke himself has been seated between his sisters, the massive table separating him from his uncles, praise the gods for small mercies.
Music starts playing then, and Aemond rises from his seat. Heads for Luke. Conversation ceases, a jolly tune, the only sound that persists. “Aemond,” the Consort chides, yet her son ignores her. “Care to dance, husband?” ‘Not with you!,’ Luke wants to shout, yet one look in mother’s direction dissuades him of the notion. Cautiously hopeful, she smiles at him and for the first time Luke remembers Aemond is her brother. She would not wish to see them fight at supper, not with her father so ill and so desperate for peace. And so Luke swallows his feelings, only to rise and take Aemond’s hand.
They dance. A jolly tune, a simple form. Aemond feels much bigger this close, his hands dwarf Luke’s own. Not a word is spoken between them as the family watches every move with care. Daemon is grasping the hilt again, the Consort has turned white as a sheet, mother remains fretful. Grandfather is the only one to clap, truly happy at the display. ‘He better be,’ thinks Luke, ‘the charade is for his benefit only.’ Tragic as it is, Luke now sees the King won’t live much longer. Perhaps not even long enough to see the wedding he is trying to orchestrate. And without him, there will be no wedding. What harm is there in granting the dying man a sliver of comfort?
And so Luke forces himself to smile at Aemond, polite and rehearsed. The other man surprises him with a small twitch of his own lips. They’ve had the same idea. Twirling and hopping, following the steps of the dance, Luke barely notices when the music stops. Aemond bows to him then and Luke returns the gesture. His uncle guides him to the green part of the table under a guise of greetings. Aegon is drunk, he always is these days if whispers from the capital are to be believed. He is also an omega. And a whore. Helaena is gentle as always, a bit withdrawn, the strangeness she carried as a child having persisted over the years.
Food is served and eaten, the king retreats and the family departs, each to their own chambers. Aemond insists on escorting Luke. In a fit of madness mother allows it with naught but a guard to act as a chaperone. To ensure Luke does not end up bleeding in a ditch.
“Our wedding celebration nears,” Aemond states once they are alone. “We should correspond, I believe.” Luke nearly stumbles. “What would we have to speak about?” He asks after a moment, the very thought of writing his uncle too repugnant for consideration. How is he to know Aemond won’t show the letters to his mother and grandfather? Won’t use them to mock Luke. “Don’t you have preferences?” ‘I prefer not to wed you at all,’ Luke thinks. “I follow the gods of Old Valyria,” he says instead. Aemond hums in response. The rest of their walk is blessedly devoid of conversation.
The family leaves for Dragonstone the very next morning. Taking to the skies with Arrax, Luke can breathe for the first time since leaving home.