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140 A.C., Summer, The Red Keep
The mid-morning sun glares down on King’s Landing’s red tiled rooftops, dazzling in its glower while its sizzling heat sends dozens of smallfolk scrambling to its shores to cool in its grey waters. But atop Aegon’s Hill, the Red Keep’s towering peaks reach out to the heavens, far from the town’s bustle or the stench of its slums.
Light seeps past sheer, voile curtains, harbinger of the coming day. Groaning, Viserys turns onto his side, away from the beams and pulls the covers tighter around his frame. His bed’s cozy and warm, perhaps too warm. Little feet slide against the silken bedsheet, toes wiggling. A knock comes at his door, heavy against thick oak doors, rupturing the peace. Another knock, louder. The chirping of birds reaches him from outside his window.
Morning is here, Viserys realises with a jolt.
In a single move, he kicks off his covers and leaps out of bed, rubbing the sleep crust from his eyes. Today is the ninth day of the seventh moon and Luke sails back to the capital. Those small feet toddle to the windowsills where a couple of robins have built a nest of twigs, bark, and dry grass for their young. “Good morrow, little ones,” Viserys greets with a smile and receives airy whistles. Three vibrant teal eggs fill the nest, unhatched. Four days have passed since they were laid and the maester says it’ll take another week before any chicks emerge, but every morning, Viserys checks on them.
The sun’s high in the sky, the docks busy; he’s overslept.
Far in the distance, a fleet breaks the stillness of the bay. With the winds in their favour, they’ll drop anchor by end of day. His brother returns to court today. Moons have passed since his last visit and Viserys misses the warmth of his arms, how they tightened around him until his body was squeezed firmly to his stomach, ear to his chest. How they cradled him close, kept him safe just as they’d done during the war. Misses the shape of his lips when he smiled down upon Viserys, dark curls spilling across his tunic.
Another knock, this one more insistent.
“Enter,” he croaks out and the hinges squeal open as Uncle Aemond pushes open the door. Smothering his excitement is hard work, barely contained in his small body, but Viserys manages a semblance of composure. At least, that’s the hope. Lips pressed tight, Viserys imagines he resembles Father. Or even his uncle Aemond who wears a stern lip as he watches his charge with an eagle’s eye, certainly displeased by Viserys’ slow response. He worries too much, Viserys thinks, lips twisting in a pout.
A magenta eye regards him, appraising his state. Only once certain Viserys is unharmed does he look away, white cloak brushing against its wood to allow the maidservants inside. They scurry into the young prince’s rooms, skirts surging at their ankles and baskets secured under their arms to gather at dirty linens. His uncle fills the doorway with his armoured frame, hands fused to the dragon bone handle of his sword — ready to unsheathe it should the situation require it.
Overly cautious as usual, his uncle is.
Perhaps he’s right to be when rumours say that those sworn to the Usurper were responsible for his poisoning. But the war ended three years passed and Mother sits the throne as queen, as grandsire had intended and decreed.
While the servants occupy themselves with changing his bedding, Viserys cranes his head out the window. “Viserys,” his uncle berates, timbre low, and Viserys’ heels connect with the ground once. It’s in these moments he wishes his egg would hatch so he might take to the skies and reunite with Luke sooner. But he’s got no dragon and his egg’s golden shell goes cold in the hearth.
Uncle Aemond nods at his nightclothes. Right. Once behind the partition, Viserys removes his nightshift and it puddles on the floor. Barring his brother’s return, it’s a regular day, yet Viserys demands to be dressed in his finest jerkin. Marei holds the scarlet overcoat for Viserys to slot his arms into its cuffs. Its velvet collar is embroidered with silk spun threads and has his uncle raising a bisected eyebrow at his attire.
Unwillingly, heat rises to his cheeks and Viserys knows they must be a rosy red to match his attire.
Mother says he, like Luke, often wears his emotions on his sleeve. Although such virtues are a soldier’s weakness, she speaks of it as something he should be proud of. Aemond doesn’t comment on his appearance nor on the redness painting his cheeks and Viserys is grateful. Instead, he leads Viserys forward with a gloved hand to the back.
“You’re tardy this morn, Trēsys.” Pace even, their footsteps echo against the stone walls as one. “Helaena and your cousins await in her solar.”
“Forgive me.”
A crooked index lifts his chin up, etching the faint coppery scent of smoke the long of his skin. “No need for the long face, boy.” Viserys peers up at his uncle, up and up. Uncle Aemond is tall, taller even than Father. Garbed in the blackened plated armour of the Queensguard and its distinctive white cloak, his uncle wears the evidence of his oaths nobly. The first Targaryen prince to join their distinguished ranks. Furthermore, he commands them. One day, Viserys hopes to be as formidable as his uncle. That one day, he might wear their colours, too.
“There’s nothing to forgive. But it’s unlike you to dawdle in bed. Was the night not restful?”
Viserys pulls at his collar, inhales the sweetness of smoke. “Luke arrives today.” It earns him a contemplative hum.
“You feel his absence keenly.”
He does. As do his brothers and Mother. As does Uncle Aemond, though he’ll never admit to such truths. It doesn’t prevent Viserys from responding with cheek, “You miss him, too, Qȳbos.” That dark, magenta eye settles on him heavily, but he doesn’t cower. Aemond won’t ever hurt him, this is a surety. It’s why he speaks such impudent words with no repercussions.
His uncle looks away. “That’s neither here nor there, Viserys.”
The anticipation of Luke’s return had been too great and sleep evaded him far into the night. He doesn’t need to say it; Uncle Aemond knows. Often, it’s he who understands Viserys most in their family. It’s he who soothes Viserys’ uncertainties when his egg’s warmth wanes. Uncle Aemond sympathises. There was once a time when his uncle, too, had been dragonless. When he, too, had been without prospects.
And when the Usurper’s barbarous guffaws invade his dreams and he recalls his meaty hands groping at Luke's chest, Viserys seeks shelter in the Queenguard’s embrace, shaking where he buries his nose in the nook of his neck. He doesn’t tell his sworn shield whose misshapen face leaves him cold with sweat in the night. Because despite everything — the war, their captivity — the Usurper had been Uncle Aemond’s older brother.
But the Usurper is dead, murdered in his sickbed and Daeron the Daring reduced to viscera under his dragon’s might.
There was a time when his uncle had been an older brother; now he’s the youngest. Their family had waged a war between kin, inflicting a gaping wound to Mother’s half-siblings. While distance and time are all that truly separate Viserys from his brothers, stretches of land crossed with a mere dragonflight, his uncle could fly across the Narrow Sea and wouldn’t find his brothers.
They’re gone. Ashes in the wind.
All he has are his sister, her children, and the Dowager Queen — who lives trapped within the confines of her own mind more than not. A windowless tower of her own creation, built of tar, stone, and unheard prayers. It was Mother’s merciful nature which ensured the Dowager Queen kept her head attached despite her involvement in Aegon’s illegitimate ascension to the throne.
She was different once. More mindful. She still referred to him as Prince Viserys then — although she’d done so with a sharpness. Since the Winter Fever had them fenced in within the Red Keep’s walls, she doesn’t see Viserys anymore. Some days, she calls him Aegon. He knows she doesn’t mean Egg, but the Usurper, because she repeats ‘my son’, when she does. My son, she says and nothing else. There’s nothing the Dowager Queen says to the burnt husk which was her son. Viserys hates it when she mistakes him for his monsters.
Other days, it’s Prince Daeron’s name she cries, alongside countless apologies which blend into a muddled whole.
But most frequently, it’s Uncle Aemond she mistakes him for.
Mother loathes when she does and he can’t understand why it’s such an issue. She doesn’t wake in sweat at the thought of the Usurper. She’d forgiven Uncle Aemond for his treason. And they’re Targaryens; a resemblance is natural. Yet the twist of her lips is only quelled when the Dowager Queen goes on to mistake Egg or Jaehaerys for her dead sons. He wonders what she sees when looking at them. Is it the shape of their eyes? Or the line of their noses? Or no more but a vague likeness due to their Valyrian colouring? That must be the case, after all, he takes after Mother, as Luke does, with his lilac eyes and plump cheeks. The cleft of her chin. Except that his thin hair curls around his ears and temple just as Luke’s dark ones do.
Really, he doesn’t favour his uncle much. He’s got none of Uncle Aemond’s biting edges, nor the piercing fuchsia of his eyes. He’d never met Prince Daeron, but those who did spoke of sky-blue eyes and a kind smile. He imagines it mimics the ones Uncle Aemond grants him in secrecy.
And as for the Usurper — he cannot fully recall his features, only the burns he bore after Rook’s Rest. Viserys was rarely summoned by the Usurper during their captivity. Uncle Aemond ensured he and Luke were kept far away. Despite that, Viserys can’t forget how the seared flesh encased the left portion of his face and body, leaving him to haunt the Red Keep as a walking corpse might.
Viserys still dreams of it. Of the Usurper’s features twisting, furious, as Mother and Father made ground during the war, distorting, until it was more beast than man.
Uncle Aemond couldn’t always prevent their summoning.
“— Trēsys?”
“Yes, Qȳbos?” His uncle regards him wordlessly.
Uncle Aemond calls him trēsys , as Father does ; it means son, but also nephew. High Valyrian can be confusing in such ways. Viserys is the only one he refers to as nephew. When addressing Jace, Joff, and Egg, he uses their title, never their names. Never nephew, although they are, too. Before taking his oaths as Queensguard, Uncle referred to Luke as zaldrītsos. At first, Viserys thought he spoke it with derision. Now he recognises it as endearment. Fondness, even. But it’s something else — wearier — which layers his tone when he says, “Don’t get lost where I cannot reach you, Viserys.”
“I won’t, Uncle. Promise.”
“I’ll hold you to your word, boy.”
Palace guards stand at either side of his aunt’s doors when they approach, announcing their arrival. Aunt Helaena abandons her chair to grasp at her brother’s arms, before pressing a chaste kiss to each of his gaunt cheeks. “Good morrow, Valonqus,” she greets, smile radiant. A glow graces the apple of her cheeks. The scared child who’d wandered empty halls during the hour of the owl, searching for what’d been taken from her, was long gone.
Uncle returns her affections with a whispered, “Mandȳs,” and they embrace, forehead to forehead, eyes resting closed. Once a week, Viserys breaks fast with his aunt and cousins and each time they perform this ritual. As Viserys’ assigned Queensguard, his uncle rarely has the time for his family. Some days, Viserys wonders if the two might’ve hoped to be married. Before his aunt was betrothed to the Usurper, forced to share his bed and carry his children. Before his uncle took vows of chastity and celibacy.
Would they have been happy together?
There are few people Aunt Helaena allows to touch her, her younger brother being one of them. Uncle Aemond’s attentive to her needs and to her children. When Jaehaera mutely tugs at his white cloak with a fist, he grants her one of those rare, kind smiles and caresses her golden-silver locks, careful not to disrupt her intricate braids. The pull of the skin distorts the scar, but none pays it mind. Those who don’t know his uncle deem him frightening. He hears the courtiers whisper about the sapphire and the inflamed skin which houses it.
Hideous , they call it. Repulsive. Something which should be concealed.
Uncle Aemond had worn an eyepatch when Viserys had been younger. He’d worn one during the war, until he hadn’t. Since, Viserys cannot recall his uncle donning it again.
Brother and sister separate. His aunt turns to him with the aftermath of her trials, a tapestry of webs woven into a fragile smile. “Good morrow, Viserys,” she welcomes, voice little more than a wisp. His aunt doesn’t hug Viserys. Her slender figure wafts to the dining table where rye bread, cheese, and cuts of meat are laid out. “Let us break our fast, deserts will follow. The kitchen staff have prepared a variety of small pastries for us.”
Six chairs are arranged around the table, but only five bodies occupy them. Each time, one’s left vacant. Uncle Aemond’s a stone wall, firm in his duties despite the guards which stand outside; his presence is redundant, but nothing his sister argues dissuades him from his post. Although she says nothing, her flitting eyes are insistent, but Uncle doesn’t yield. They’re both exceedingly stubborn, Viserys finds.
Mother is, too. Once she’s made up her mind about a matter, none can deter her. Not even Father, although he will try. Incessantly so. His brothers are much the same. Egg had fought arduously for the permission to wed their cousin Jaehaera.
Neither his aunt nor his cousins are talkative. Jaehaera’s quiet as a mouse. When requesting for the jam to butter her bread, she pulls at her twin’s sleeve and Jaehaerys is swift to hand it over. It’s a contrast to the meals he shares with his brothers. It lacks the distinctive chaos that’s Joffrey Velaryon. There aren’t any senseless debates about which dragon’s faster. Joff's resolute it’s Tyraxes — but he’s biased — while Egg persists that their father’s dragon, Caraxes, outpaces the young drake.
Viserys is inclined to agree with him, but then he remembers Arrax. How the drake had once slashed through Dragonstone’s skies with unparalleled swiftness.
If Egg were here, he would coax Jaehaera out of her shell. The two are strangely compatible. They share a dark sense of humour and morbidness. Maelor’s the only one who speaks, rambling about the training of his young drake, Moonfyre. How he’s recently got his saddle fitted for his first flight.
He’s ashamed to admit it, but envy simmers low in his belly. A pinch in his throat chokes Viserys as he’s reminded of what alienates him from his family. With no one his own age to bounce off like Joff and Egg or Jaehaera and Jaehaerys do. With no dragon of his own to bond, to take to the skies for hours until blues turn purple. If anything, it makes his yearning for Luke all the more poignant.
Despite their age difference, Luke only ever treats Viserys as an equal.
“Viserys?” He tears his eyes away from the window and its promises. Jaehaera doesn’t pay mind to her mother’s concern, but Viserys feels the bulk of his family’s scrutiny. The hair at his nape prickles the longer his uncle’s stare bears down upon him. “You’ve not touched the apple tarts,” he hasn’t touched much of his plate at all, really, but it goes unmentioned. “Are they not your favourites anymore?” They are. Old Madeleine’s confections are the best, but Viserys’ tummy flutters, anticipation swarms his insides.
“Forgive me, I’m…” He glances at the window; Aunt Helaena hums in that whimsical manner of hers, contemplating.
“Lucerys arrives today, does he not? You must be eager to see him again.”
He is. How can he not be? Although Egg remains in the capital, although Jace and Joff and their sisters traverse Blackwater Bay and the Vale on dragonback, it’s different with Luke. He’s always been home to Viserys.
With him gone, there’s no place he truly calls home.
Heat rises to his cheeks again. “I am,” he admits, shy. “His latest letter detailed his travels to Qarth with the Sea Snake,” Uncle Aemond shifts behind him and his armour clamours, “but he promised to tell me more upon his return.” And Viserys cannot wait. He wants to nestle into Luke’s side under the bedsheets as they’d done so many times on Dragonstone, before the war. He wants to spend hours listening to Luke’s stories — he tells them best, using silly voices to represent the men of his crew or the Essosi he meets.
Another hum. “He brings with him gifts.”
“Yes, he mentioned oils for Rhaena and silks.” That doesn’t seem to be the answer his aunt expects, because she adds in that elusive manner of hers, “And more, Viserys.”
Viserys is meticulous in folding his jerkin, smoothing out any creases before setting it aside. It cannot get dirtied before Luke’s arrival. It cannot. The silver buckle forged in a dragon’s head glints under the harsh summer’s sun, gaping maw and rubied eyes reminiscent of Luke’s cradlemate. Arrax had been beautiful, what Viserys could remember of him at the least.
Mother often warned him that he shouldn’t recklessly approach a dragon. Moreso if he were alone.
Arrax had been skittish, but never with Viserys. Even if Luke was absent, he’d gently nose at Viserys’ stomach, prodding until the young alpha gave in, welcoming his horned snout in the pudgy arms of a child’s embrace. There, with his head perched and with every scratch of short nails beneath his chin, rows of crimson spines would quiver and he’d let out eager thrills and gusts of steam.
He’d often dreamt his egg would hatch to resemble Arrax, both of Syrax’s clutches. True and fearless, persisting even in the face of death.
Viserys is and will forevermore be grateful for Arrax's sacrifice. If it weren’t for his brother’s drake, he would’ve lost Luke in the Stormlands, would’ve never gotten the chance to breathe in his scent again. No seawater nor any fresh lemon zest could be adequate replacements for Luke’s scent. There’s a distinctive odor of dragons which seeps and melds into his skin, which all his kin all share, along with a soothing creaminess he cannot distinguish. Luke’s always smelled of salt, of freedom, of home. With every voyage, foreign scents adhere to him. Oils, oak, and the ocean are what Viserys associates with adventure and more.
And more, Aunt Helaena had smiled.
It’s futile guessing what she meant from those vague words. A part of him wonders if Luke returns with a dragon’s egg, if his brother’s lost faith that Viserys’ll hatch the golden egg which rests in his hearth. Mother certainly has. She’s inquired numerous times over the past year whether he intends to lay claim to Vermithor. Perhaps she’d arranged for Luke to choose another for him. He doesn’t want another egg, doesn’t want irrefutable evidence as to his wrongness when it, too, fails to hatch.
“Trēsys?”
Viserys startles. Uncle Aemond’s eye languidly drags itself from his muddied boots to the padded collar of his gambeson, darting to his wrist, scraped raw. He pulls at his sleeve, embarrassed he’s been caught in another instance of weakness. His nails itch, blood drying at the bed.
“No more of that now, Viserys,” his uncle chides. The young alpha nods, sheepish, and selects a wooden sword the length of his arm. Maelor waits for him by the master-at-arms. Steel sings as two blades kiss and Egg and Jaehaerys devise a waltz together, with sweat coating their brows and grins pulling at their cheeks. That prickling envy returns, a stinging reminder he’s got no partner of his own. His brother and cousin are too old to train with them, their training swords made of blunt steel instead of sturdy wood, the tip of their blades dragging against the soil and remnants of straw from the rainfall days past. Their longer reach places them at an advantage.
Soon, Maelor will be given a metal sword of his own.
A gloved hand grips his shoulder and stops him in his tracks, firm but not painful. “I know you’re eager to see Lucerys again, Trēsys, but I won’t permit you to handle a sword, not even a wooden one, with your head in the clouds.”
“You’re not my father,” he pouts and his uncle’s features slacken, sinking. The hand on his shoulder retreats. Viserys doesn’t know why he says this. They’re barbed words, designed to hurt — that isn’t his intention. Nonetheless, from his lips they flower and prick at skin beneath heavy armour. The perpetual frown Uncle Aemond wears deepens, lips downturned and eyebrows pinched. His uncle’s much better at concealing emotions.
“No, I am not.” There’s the faintest waver in his voice, one Viserys has never heard before. There’s nothing small nor hesitant about Aemond Targaryen. Except now. Reminded of his oath’s bounds, Uncle Aemond wears something close to weakness. For as long as he dons a white cloak, he’ll never call anyone his own. As his charge, Viserys is the closest he’ll get to having a son.
Apologies sit at the tip of his tongue. To utter them would be acknowledging vulnerabilities best dismissed, so he doesn’t speak. Leather snags at his hair where gloved fingers stroke at wispy locks, easing the guilt devouring him. Uncle’s forgiveness is easy, unearned but awarded nevertheless. “I’m not, but I am sworn to oversee your safety, including from yourself.”
Viserys nods.
Maelor spins his sword, grinning as he beckons Viserys closer. Under the supervision of their uncle and the master-at-arms, Ser Royce, training begins. Their footwork’s clumsy and their swings lack the elegance he’s witnessed in the Queensguard’s ranks. Lacks the swiftness and finesse cultivated through years of welts and bruises, of defeats and tumbles. Under the whipping heat, sweat gathers at their brows and at their upper lip.
Although Viserys takes his studies with the maester seriously, he pours all of his being into swordplay. Every directive Ser Royce gives, he takes to heart. It’s all he’s got. As the Queen’s fifth son, he’s got no prospects ahead of him, only ambitions to spur him forward. Because if he devotes himself to the art and hones his skill to perfection, maybe he’ll finally belong somewhere. Hence, he parries his cousin’s blows and evades and tries to exploit an opening just they’ve been taught.
And he falls when Maelor’s blunt sword knocks him backward.
His cheek burns horribly, the same burn he’d felt when he’d toppled down a tree and broken his arm. Blood coats his fingertips when he goes to touch, then before he knows it, he’s on two feet again. Uncle’s grip on his arms is painful, but the fright in his eye leaves him quiet. The dark of his pupil’s blown wide, only traces of magenta remain visible. "Your mother will have my head,” Aemond exhales, twisting Viserys’ face to the side gently. It stings, but Viserys doesn’t cry.
He’s not a child anymore even if his family continues to treat him like one.
"She won’t, Qȳbos. Mother is merciful.” She is. If not for her mercy, his uncle would’ve been executed for treason against the crown. “Besides, I’m an alpha, it's normal to get hurt. All strong warriors have scars. Father does. As do you!” But Viserys’ words don’t appear to comfort Uncle Aemond. If anything, he looks rattled. His lips pull downward, stiff, and his gloved thumb strokes a pattern across his injury, brushing away the blood and staining his hands further.
His voice is even tighter when he says, “This is no trophy of war. Only the results of a boy's folly.”
They don’t travel to the docks to welcome Luke and his party, instead, their family gathers in the privacy of the throne room subsequent to the court’s dismissal. Mother sits the Iron Throne, regal, but unsmiling and cold in the face of family, complementing the hardness of her seat. It’s never cut her, Viserys knows; few of its prior occupants could say the same. Father holds his place at her feet, where a staircase made of melted steel begins. And beneath the crown’s eye, Luke endures their heavy stares.
She does this only when Luke visits. Since the war, there exists a tension between them. Every interaction is fraught with friction and it saddens Viserys to bear witness to such displays.
Luke’s marine blue robes are loose over his swollen belly, drawing numerous looks.
And more, Aunt Helaena had said.
Luke brings more from his travels than mere oils and silk; he returns heavy with child. Uncle Aemond reels back behind him, the clamour of his armour giving him away. On Luke’s right, the Sea Snake is braced on a wooden cane and further back looms Luke’s husband, Daemion Velaryon, isolated from their kin. Viserys doesn’t find Visenya in his arms, but squirming in the nursemaid's grip. The voyage must’ve exhausted his niece, but despite how unhappy she appears in their arms, Daemion doesn’t intervene. There’s annoyance discernible in his scowl, as though his daughter is little more than a nuisance.
Viserys can’t remember a time he’s ever seen Daemion tending to their daughter.
From atop her chair of blades, Mother looks down her aquiline nose at her second son. “Lucerys, how wonderful it is to see you again,” but there’s a harshness to her tone Viserys is unused to. One she only adopts when he’s done something worth a reprimand. The young alpha cannot help but shuffle uneasily where he stands. No one tells him what Luke’s done to incur their Mother’s wrath. All he knows has been gleaned from stray conversations.
One memory is clear to this day in his mind.
It’d been mere weeks subsequent to the Usurper’s poisoning and to Uncle Aemond’s vows when a raven had flown in with word from Driftmark. Wax seal broken, Jace had unfurled its content and silently read it to himself, shoulders hunched. Neither Joff nor Egg had noticed, too engrossed in another one of their arguments — but Viserys had. Luke alone used a plum wax for his signet. It was with a grim voice which Jace had unceremoniously announced, “Luke’s with child again,” and Joff and Egg’s squabble had ceased as quickly as it'd begun.
Thrilled by tidings of Luke, Viserys hadn’t dwelled on as to what Jace meant by ‘again’. He’d eventually understood that to mean Luke lost a babe prior to Visenya. A babe with no name, no dragon.
“So soon?” Joff had asked in response, the boldness of his smirk a contrast to Jace’s drawn brows. Parchment creasing in his grip, their eldest brother had perused the letter once more as if the dried ink might hold answers to his questions. But there were none to be found. He’d ran a hand through his thick crown of hair, leaving the dark curls wild and messy in the aftermath before sighing and adding, “You’re under the assumption that those two don’t fuck like rabbits whenever they find the chance.” As Crown Prince, Jace always endeavored to maintain decorum. His sudden vulgarity had only served to punctuate his exasperation.
This had shocked Viserys. Every interaction he’d witnessed between his brother and Daemion hadn’t fostered the notion they enjoyed each other’s company. Their union was one of duty.
None of them ever got along with Luke’s husband. After all, it was Father who’d executed Lord Vaemond, but this was many years ago, when Viserys had yet to even be born.
Luke’s letter had crinkled loudly. Humor gone, Joff had asked almost with disinterest, “Another babe with silver hair, then?” However, there’d been nothing aloof about the furtive glances he’d shot Viserys. Why his brother had looked at him so strangely, why he’d asked such an odd question, Viserys hadn’t understood. Naturally Luke’s children would bear Valyrian features; their father was Daemion Velaryon. Their mother, of Velaryon and Targaryen blood.
But Jace nodded and said, dour. “Mother will be furious once she’s told.”
Their brother had been correct; Mother had been livid. Viserys wasn’t made privy as to why, but it was obvious, if he thought about it.
Carrying a babe soon after losing one was perilous enough, moreover Luke’s duties saw him at sea more often than not. Navigating treacherous seas, surrounded by betas and alphas round-the-clock, traveling to foreign lands; those were less than ideal conditions for a pregnant omega. Viserys remembers when Mother’s stomach swelled with his younger sister and how the maesters and servants alike had attended to her every need and discomfort. Luke only has a maester aboard during his journeys. It’d been easy to understand their Mother’s anger. He, too, had been angry his brother would so recklessly endanger himself.
Another, deeper, part of him was resentful of the fact this child would replace him.
Viserys feared Luke would no longer have time for him with a babe of his own to care for.
It was with sullenness that he’d bid Luke farewell. He regrets it to this day. Viserys had allowed his emotions to rule him, he’d been terse with his brother. It was only moons later he learned exactly how close he’d been to losing Luke, again. When the ravens arrived with word of his labours aboard the Red Queen, it’d come to a shock to all. With only a maester for assistance, he’d laboured for days, confined to a cabin whilst the men scurried on deck to ensure their safe travels across the Narrow Sea. Within hours following the birth, he’d returned to the bridge, babe at his teat, commands at his lips and braved the gods’ trials.
Visenya, named after their stillborn sister, was born amidst rare but wrathful winter waves.
Daughter of the Sea they named her, the first female omega who’ll one day hold the title of Lady of the Tides. Born of the seas, none can argue her claim to the Driftwood Throne.
Her birth had further validated his brother’s claim to the Driftwood Throne.
It’s Luke, heir to the Driftmark, who bears the weight of the Queen’s displeasure without cower. There's a challenge in the tilt of his chin, no deference in his gaze. Luke folds his hands behind him and offers a placid smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, not like the ones he gives Viserys. With a lord’s courtesy, he answers, “The sentiment is shared, Your Grace.”
In court, they don’t address her as Mother. Her title flows off his brother’s lips sharply, but there’s none of the warmth Father or Jace speak it. He’s a viper baring its fangs, reminding those who would threaten it of its venom. There’s a meanness to it uncharacteristic of Luke. The tone he adopts is unprecedented. Somehow, since the omega’s last visit, the rift between them has further shifted.
The tapping of her finger against her steel armchair echoes an ominous melody within the marbled chamber, silence stretching around it. “I see you’ve brought us… joyous announcements, once more,” but the disdain in her tone contradicts her carefully chosen words. Luke’s subdued smile melts away into a hardness, but he doesn’t respond to Mother’s antagonism. It isn’t difficult to connect the dots as to what’s set her aflame, for Mother there’s nothing to celebrate of Luke’s current pregnancy. Had she cautioned Luke against having another child with summer progressing? Reminded him of the Narrow Sea’s rough waters and lashing winds which autumn promised? Of what it would entail for if the birthing came to pass during a voyage just as Visenya’s had?
Either way, Luke hadn’t listened and returned pupped.
The difference is that Viserys doesn’t fear this child replacing him as he had with Visenya. Three years ago, when Luke returned to King’s Landing with a daughter bound to his breast, fast asleep, he quietened the loud voices ringing in Viserys’ ears with a long kiss pressed to the crown of his head.
Ever the mediator, Lord Corlys’ gruff voice ripples in the Great Hall, “My grandson’s brought me much joy indeed. Visenya brightens up High Tide’s somber halls, and soon, another shall join her.”
“Soon?” Mother quirks a brow, “How far along are you, Lucerys?” Luke cradles the curve of his stomach. To Viserys, he looks near the end of his term, his belly jutting out heavily. “The maester believes me near five moons along.” Mother huffs, amused. “How peculiar. That coincides with your last visit, does it not?” Whatever it is Mother implies is lost on Viserys, but not on Luke whose smile turns vicious.
“It would, yes.”
“Peculiar, indeed,” Lord Daemion adds beneath his breath, but in the throne room’s silence, they could’ve heard a pin drop. Luke’s lips curl as if poised to strike. “Is there something you wish to add, Husband?” The unsheathing of a blade slices the air behind Viserys and he finds Uncle Aemond’s features set in stone, fingers coiled around the handle of his sword. He doesn’t go any further, but Viserys worries another of their Velaryon kin might lose their head in this hall today.
Father, too, must recall that day because he mocks, “You would do well to remember the last time a sword was unsheathed in these halls.” Lord Daemion appears to reconsider his next words as he notices the Queensguard’s blatant threat, eyes flickering nervously over in Viserys’ and his uncle’s direction.
Caution triumph as he spits out, “Nothing, Husband.” Steel settles in its sheathe, leaving the space strained. Once more, Lord Corlys takes the initiative to dispel its intensity. “We hear the council’s been giving you grief of late, Your Grace.”
“That’s correct, my lord. Your presence and advice would be most valued.”
“Night draws close and we tire from our travels, Your Grace. Perhaps it would be best if my grandsire retired for the evening. I can contend with the council on my own.”
Mother hums. “Your belongings have been unloaded in your respective chambers, per usual.”
“We’re most grateful, Your Grace, but I must disagree with my grandson. Lucerys, you carry my great-grandchild, and furthermore, Visenya is exhausted. We both know what a terror she becomes when left in the care of nursemaids.” Luke looks prepared to argue but Visenya chooses this moment to wriggle and whine, displeased, in her caretaker’s arms. She only calms when Luke relieves her from their grasp. Despite his state, hoisting her onto his hip. The Sea Snake’s cane strikes the marble floor.
“Settle your daughter in bed, take a warm bath. Rest. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to argue with bullheaded old men in the morrow.” The lord turns to Mother. “Is that agreeable with you, Your Grace?”
“It is, my lord. You may take your leave.”
With that, they’re dismissed. Lord Daemion’s the first to push past the ornate bronze doors whilst Viserys follows after Egg and their cousins, their uncle at his heel. “Good evening, Prince Viserys,” Lord Corlys greets, his aging body leaning onto his sturdy cane, without sparing neither glance, nor greeting for Viserys’ sworn shield. Calloused fingers, rough from decades of handling ropes and tools, pinch at his cheek, dotingly. The only relation they share is their bond withLuke, yet the Lord of the Tides treats Viserys as if he were his very own grandson. His hauls often include presents for the young alpha. Whether it’s sweets from Yi Ti or a custom handmade dagger, a seashell handle adorned with pearls.
“Your brother awaits you, my prince,” Luke’s grandsire notes, index pointed somewhere behind Viserys. He turns to find Luke’s head swivelling, peering amongst the intricate headpieces of courtiers. “Off you go, lad,” the old sailor prompts, with a firm pat to the back. Viserys wastes no time. No, he’s waited far too much for this moment. Counted the days until those turned into weeks, then into moons. Viserys is meant to stay in his shield’s line of sight, but he cannot delay a second longer. Pushing his way through the throngs with slight shoulders, Viserys slips between the gaps, each step carrying him closer to Luke.
He saunters, nearly planting onto his knees in his urgency — and there he is.
Luke.
As two planets converging might, they collide, gravity propelling them weightlessly into each other’s arms, heedless of their nosy entourage. Viserys’ lanky limbs wind themselves around Luke’s narrow neck, just as his older brother attempts to lift him up. Except he can’t and promptly, the brunet bursts into blubbering tears. His dark curls, pinned into a practical twist, come undone from their conjunction. Glistening tears leave Luke’s cheeks fevered. Viserys’ only ever seen him this distraught once before, during the war, when Uncle Aemond had taken him back to the Red Keep after they’d watched atop Vhagar as the Triarchy’s fleet collapsed to cinders and offerings for the ironborn’s Drowned God.
With clumsy hands, Viserys tries to contain the torrent of Luke’s sorrow. It does little. The sourness of Luke’s creamy scent has his nose furrow. “Luke?” the young alpha inquires, voice trembling, as his attempts to quench his brother’s flooding sobs. Armour clatters behind them and Viserys knows the Queensguard’s caught up with him. He can’t turn back to look, not with Luke clinging onto him as he does. When Luke does release him, his heaving sobs have calmed. Fortunately, the crowd’s since dispersed, affording a semblance of privacy. It’s likely their uncle’s doing.
Viserys’ glad to have been spared the experience of being the recipient of his dark glower.
Few have the guts to withstand the unnatural lifelessness of the smooth sapphire slotted in his mutilated eye.
Luke wipes away the remnants of his tears and appraises Viserys. His lilac eyes fly to the wound on his cheek. The blood’s dried, but it’ll scar the maester mourned. “What’s this, Perzītsos?” he asks, but throws a cutting look over Viserys’ shoulder. Uncle Aemond coughs. “It’s from training,” the young alpha preens. It earns him the same somberness the Queenguard displayed and Viserys can’t prevent how small his shoulders become. The lecture he expects doesn’t come. Instead, Luke says, “But don’t you look dashing, my love?”
The acknowledgement of his effort has heat rising to his cheeks, but the little alpha is more concerned by Luke’s flustered state, his tears still damp.
“Why’re you crying, Luke? Are you in pain? Is it your tummy? Should I kiss it better?” he questions in a flurry. It earns him a lighthearted chuckle that does much to alleviate his concerns. “Oh, my love, no,” his brother answers, still amidst tears. “This isn’t a hurt you can kiss better — I just… I’d not noticed how big you’d grown until now. Too long has passed since my last visit.”
His brother is silly. Only he would cry about Viserys growing up. The fact that Luke’s noticed it has Viserys beaming, ecstatic that he’s a step closer to becoming a man. So elated, that he exclaims, “I’m nearly as tall as Maelor now!” Four years apart and yet Viserys’ll soon reach his cousin’s height. But again, Luke doesn’t share his enthusiasm, just as Uncle Aemond hadn’t at the mention of scars.
“Yes, you are,” Driftmark’s heir agrees, granting him a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Once, you fit in my arms and now you’re too big for me to carry.”
“Don’t cry, Luke, I must be tall and strong to protect you. Protect Visenya and her future sibling.”
Something he says amuses Luke, because his eyes soften. “Thank you, Viserys, but it’s my duty to protect you. Not the reverse.” A familiar hand strokes at his pale curls. “Your brother’s right, Trēsys. It’s for us to look after you. You may have grown, but not enough that I cannot carry you.” And without warning, Viserys’ feet leave the ground as the alpha picks him up. The world looks different at Uncle Aemond’s height. Smaller. Luke’s tall, but the top of his head barely peeks above their uncle’s shoulder.
“Uncle, put me down!”
This time, Luke’s giggles extend to his eyes, his prior sadness forgotten. “Shh, my love,” his brother shushes, “won’t you let me cherish this moment?” And how could Viserys possibly say no? Holding tighter onto his uncle’s firm shoulders, Viserys breathes in the scent of sea salt and smoke. Of home.
“...I missed you, Luke.”
Plush lips brush against his temple. “As have I, Perzītsos. I’ve missed you every day since my ship lifted anchor.” More tears gather anew at the corner of the omega’s eyes; the babe leaves his brother sensitive. Pale lilac iris glance above Viserys’ head and they sweeten with something unknown. Something secretive which piques Viserys’ curiosity. He wants to unveil what this look they share means.
And when Luke whispers, “Thank you, Uncle, for looking after him in my absence,” Viserys wants to uncover what Luke’s gratitude conceals.
Waiting begins anew the following day.
Over the subsequent weeks, Viserys catches but glimpses of Luke. Mother keeps him busy with the task of mitigating the increased threat of piracy in the Stepstones. The little he sees of his older brother is across Mother’s seat during meetings. Although Luke isn’t a part of the Queen’s counsel — Lord Corlys holds onto the title of Master of Ships — he’s being groomed to eventually assume his grandsire’s position.
And as his mother’s cup-bearer, Viserys attends to her and the lords who constitute her small council, pouring tried-wine into their goblets. Poised at his mother’s right, he’s privy to all matters discussed, such as Dorne’s negligence in regards to the plundering of ships which cross its neighbouring waters. He learns of the realm’s affairs and conflicts, of the allocation of funds. When the discourse shifts to the looting of merchant ships and sinking of Velaryon vessels, Luke’s given the lead and Viserys gets the honour of witnessing his brother in his element.
His brother is mesmerizing, strong, as he proposes a plan to establish secure shipping lanes, detailing the approach to strengthen their lines, moving tokens along the map. Each of his movements are decisive, confident in a way Viserys remembers Luke once wasn’t. He’s grown into his inheritance. The turquoise of his House complementing his complexion made darker from moons at sea beneath scorching suns.
As usual, it’s Unwin Peake who jumps at the chance to invalidate Mother and their kin. The crackle of his laugh is ill placed, patronising, but Luke doesn’t allow his interruption to destabilise his flow.
Instead, he gives the Lord of Starpike the attention he craves with an agreeable, “My Lord?” and a tight smile which rings as false as his tone. Unwin offers a duplicitous leer of his own and begins a long-winded spiel aimed at discrediting the omega’s strategy. Any opportunity he’ll seize to voice his opposition, unsurprising of a man who’d been a supporter of the Usurper. A firm believer that a beta son’s claim to the Iron Throne was greater than the King’s chosen heir on the basis of her sex.
Even after the Usurper’s loss, after Mother’s coronation and the clemency the Queen offered him — going as far as to grant him a seat at her table — and the realm’s prosperity, his convictions have yet to waver.
The lord is a thorn in Mother’s side, yet she does nothing to silence him.
And Luke? Viserys watches him take it all with tall shoulders. He watches how Luke employs silence to assert dominance over the lord. The longer Peake speaks, the more he sputters through his words, as if they’re too large for his tongue to articulate. Luke doesn’t need to say anything. Peake only needs to notice the hesitant stares he’s garnering from the other men seated around the table. Even Tyland Lannister, who’d once sided with Mother’s enemies, appears perplexed, shooting uneasy sideways glances to Grand Maester Gerardys at his left and to Lord Corlys at his right.
All the while, Uncle Aemond’s fingers play with the pommel of his blade, a growing smirk stretching the ruined skin of his cheek.
There’s little Viserys sees of Luke outside the meetings. If he’s fortunate, Luke is present for the breaking of fast, but the morning sickness keeps him abed most mornings and his seat remains vacant. When he does attend, his attention is split between their siblings. Or on Visenya who refuses any foods which aren’t to her standards. A fussy little thing, his niece, and Viserys loves her all the more for it.
Except when it’s got Luke too engrossed in appeasing her fits to spend time with Viserys.
“— Murmison expelled from the Faith, my prince?” Viserys startles at the address, ceasing his mindless thumbing of the frail parchment of his book. It’s laid out open on a page depicting Queen Visenya atop Vhagar, Dark Sister raised high, but it offers little indication as to what Maester Munkun had just asked of him. Confusion must show on his face, because the man doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Septon Murmison was dismissed, and later butchered by pious poor fellows, for officiating the wedding between Princess Rhaena and her brother, Prince Aegon.”
“Was it a bad thing? For them to be married?” Viserys can’t fathom why. Not when Aegon the Conqueror had married both his sisters. Then there was King Jaehaerys and his Queen who’d also been siblings. Marriage between kin was natural in his House. It kept their blood pure, their bond to the dragons strong, unbreakable. Viserys was the result of such a union. He says as much. “Father and Mother are uncle and niece, and they’re married.”
“That’s correct, but at the time, the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, which permits House Targaryen to engage in incestrous unions, didn’t exist. Thus, their marriage was viewed as unholy. An abomination.”
“Was that why Princess Rhaena wasn’t married to her uncle? Because it was seen as sinful?”
“In part, my prince, but primarily because King Aenys didn’t approve of such a union.” Perhaps if he had, Maegor wouldn’t’ve usurped the throne, wouldn’t’ve slain his nephews in cold blood to ensure his reign went unchallenged. And Viserys recalls Luke’s secret, one he’d whispered to him on a night where the clouds hid the stars from sight, hid the moon, and left them cloaked in darkness. How there’d been an alpha he’d hoped to wed, one Mother hadn’t approved of.
How he’d been required to wed Daemion Velaryon for the good of the realm; a union which left him miserable.
There was no love between Luke and his consort. No respect.
A knock sounds from outside before the hinges creak open. “Pardon the intrusion, Maester, Prince Viserys is required elsewhere,” Uncle Aemond interrupts and while his words are aimed at the maester, he doesn’t take his lone eye off Viserys. With a nod, Viserys is dismissed. The alpha doesn’t specify what so urgently demands Viserys’ presence. He hopes nothing’s happened to Mother or to Luke. But what he finds waiting for him on the other side of the door has him scampering into tender arms.
It’s Luke.
After weeks of glimpses, of quick kisses, Luke’s here.
He isn’t alone. Dolled up in a rose dress which matches her vibrant magenta eyes, Visenya’s plump fingers pull at Luke’s carefully pinned curls where she’s propped on his hip. He’d seen her kick at the nursemaid’s belly in the Great Hall, but she doesn’t now. Fortunately so, as Luke’s swollen stomach is made more apparent where his robes are cinched at the bust.
Viserys’ hand settled on his round belly, ear pressed to its side. When Luke’d carried his firstborn, Viserys had listened for signs of her like this. Once again, he hears nothing. Nails card through his pale curls, tucking them behind his ear futilely. “Perzītsos ,” Luke greets with a pearly smile, “Shall we go?” Viserys peers up.
“Go where, Lēkȳs?”
“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you now, would it?” Luke winks, secretive. He takes Viserys’ hand in his and together they descend to the outer yard where a convoy awaits them. It’s early in the day still and the summer sun’s a gentle caress on his skin. Viserys is glad to be released from his studies for the day. Uncle Aemond holds out his palm, aiding the pregnant omega up the carriage’s step and the door shuts behind them. On horseback, the Queensguard accompanies them. Their wagon jostles with every rock the wheels wove over and Viserys recognises the streets leading to the dragonpit.
Viserys turns to his brother with a gummy grin as it dawns on him that they’re going flying.
Silverwing is brought out by the Dragonkeepers, guided forward by carved staves of wood and stern Valyrian. The she-dragon is larger than Viserys remembers her. Bigger than Arrax ever was. He’d been no more than a third of her size, skittish as Luke’d once been. Good Queen Alysanne’s dragon isn’t timid, she’s graceful, skulking forward on her front claws. Outside and freed of her shackles and of the pitt’s cramped darkness, Silverwing spreads her majestic wings and they shine a beautiful gleaming white and shakes off the tension brought by her confinement.
She’s a dragon worthy of Lucerys Velaryon.
“You ride with me today, my love,” Luke informs him, handing off his daughter to Uncle Aemond who accepts her all too carefully, as if he could hurt her with his mere touch.
Submitting at the omega’s feet, Silverwing exhales sulfurous breaths, blowing the loosened curls from Luke’s plump features. “Rytsas, riñalbus,” his brother greets with a scratch below her jaw. She trills a rumble and the earth trembles at her behest. The brunet directs Viserys up her shoulderblade, to her saddle. With his brother seated behind him, the straps are fastened across their waists, securing them for the journey. A step, two, three, and they’re in the sky, air whistling as Silverwing’s leathery wings cut through the world.
They circle the dome below a few times before Vhagar’s mountainous form emerges from the caverns with a guttural roar, two silver crowns barely visible atop her back.
On dragonback, the Kingswoods are crossed within minutes. Headed southeast, the Stormlands greet them. Flying offers an unmatched freedom, wind sifting through curls, cold on their cheeks despite the stifling summer heat. Within hours, the mainland disappears at their tail, an island taking shape off the coast. Vhagar lets out a thunderous roar in recognition. She’d avenged a prince here in a distant lifetime, when a brave prince had been a part of her soul.
Stone towers sprout over the edge of a cliff, a hall emerges, sprawling into paved roads and clay rooftops. Shadowed forests and spiny mountains unfold into rivers they chase to the seashore where sapphire blues stretch far as the eye can see. Silt crumbling under the dragon’s mass, Silverwing lowers her front and burrows her thorax into the soil, crooning contently. Viserys climbs down first where Uncle Aemond waits for him, a hand resting the long of the she-dragon’s neck. Silvering recognises Targaryen blood.
When it’s Luke’s turn, he offers that hand and assists him to the shore with a dutiful, “My prince.” A smile flirts his lips as he accepts it with, “Thank you, Qȳbos.”
The tides surges in, foam catching on the coast before returning to sea. It’s different at the shore than in the overhead. Bluer. Azure blankets the depths, beckoning Viserys closer to its familiar waters. Yet foreign. Blackwater Bay was an oily darkness, a dense, impenetrable obscurity. The waves are clear, a shimmering looking-glass. “This is…” but words escape Viserys. “Tarth, the Sapphire Isle,” Luke finishes.
It earned its name. A sight unlike any other. But it doesn’t compare to Uncle Aemond’s bejeweled eye which blazes into a myriad of hues, searing all those it regards.
Slippers cast aside, Luke steps towards the rushing tides, bare toes curling inward at the intimate caress of the seas. The hem of his robes drags with its movements, dampened. “The waters are warm, shall we go for a swim?” the Velaryon heir suggests, to Visenya’s delight. With help, his niece’s pink dress is removed and she makes a dash for the cradling waves. “Not too far now, sweet girl!”
Viserys doesn’t need help to divest himself of his overgarments and he joins Visenya’s giggling and splashing in the tranquil tides. Luke’s next. Unlacing the front of his gown, it slips off supple shoulders, revealing a sweeping scorch mark spanning from his clavicle to his throat, a final kiss from Arrax. Without the heft of his robes, Luke’s pregnancy belly is made more pronounced. His brother looks much further along than five moons.
There’s no hesitancy in Luke’s disrobing, despite the Queensguard’s presence. It’s improper for a married omega to be so bare in the company of an unmated alpha. If it were anyone else than Uncle Aemond, it would be unbecoming of Luke, but they’re Targaryens. The boundaries drawn between their kin are often blurred. Clad in only a white slip, there’s something ghostly — otherworldly — about Luke. He’s a manifestation of the ruinous sirens rumoured to dwell in the seas’ abyss, body coursing and drifting through its clearness as only fluid might.
It sways at his bust when he stops and turns. Calling out to the shore, he sings, “Won’t you join us, Qȳbos?”
Uncle Aemond’s white cloak faces them, fluttering at his heels. He doesn’t spin when he responds, but it carries over the serene ripples, “My sworn duty is to protect you and your family, my prince.” Luke tuts and Visenya snickers, imitating her mother. The Velaryon heir isn’t so easily denied. “Excuses. No one would dare anything, Qȳbos, not with Silverwing and Vhagar flying overhead.”
And with a wink, he whispers to Viserys, “Observe, Perzītsos , this is how a master does it.” The omega wades his way back to shore, slithering a path to the strained figure of their uncle. Luke twists the alpha’s pointed chin his way, forcing him to look at him, frock soaked and adhering to his curves like second skin. Their lips move, but in the distance, what’s spoken can’t be heard.
It matters not because Luke’s soon unbuckling blackened steel shoulderguards and removing the alpha’s breastplate. Deft fingers strip at the Queensguard’s armour, then his linen chemise until stark alabaster flesh is laid bare, bold against its surroundings. Without his armour, Uncle Aemond looks different. Thinner. Smaller, almost. His waist is tapered. Garbed in trousers, Uncle Aemond enters the waters, pulled along by a luring hand. A recoil flits through him and he gasps, “You call this warm? Is this temperature appropriate for the babe?” An infectious laugh rumbles from Luke’s lips, “It’s nothing the dragon’s blood cannot handle. Look at Viserys and Visenya, they’re doing just fine.”
But the further along they advance, the more reluctant the alpha grows. Luke notices, too.
“Truth is, you don’t how to swim, do you, Qȳbos?”
“Is it so strange?” Uncle Aemond challenges, “There was no necessity to learn, as in your case, my prince.”
It’s strange that there’s something Viserys is better at than his uncle. The alpha is strong. Stronger than Father even. His High Valyrian greatly exceeds Viserys’, who still struggles with its inflections. It’s futile mentioning his sword skills, as Lord Commander, the one-eyed prince far surpasses everyone else in the art. But Uncle Aemond cannot swim and Viserys is quick to offer, “We’ll teach you.”
And they do.
There’s much enjoyment to be gleaned watching the usually composed alpha flounder in attempts to stay afloat. Visenya relishes in making their uncle’s life much more difficult than it’s meant to be by scaling his wet shoulders, squeezing at his neck and a sound previously unheard of erupts from the alpha: a laugh. It’s loud, unrestrained. Blissful. Surrounded by dunes of mossy silts and family, Uncle Aemond’s carefully built fortress opens up.
Dislodging Visenya, the alpha hoists her in his arms, remnants of his laughter lingering at his lips. A long, sharp nose inhales the salt clinging to her plump cheeks. “Sweet girl,” he purrs, breath tickling at her small ears. Their magenta eyes reflections of another’s. Viserys envies their uniqueness. “Remember me? I’m your kepus. ” And Visenya repeats after him, but it’s wrong.
“It’s not kepus!” Viserys interjects, “It’s kepāzmus!”
Uncle Aemond pulls a face so foreign, it could only be described as disgust. “I know such is the proper term, Trēsys,” the alpha retorts with a glower that doesn’t rival any Viserys’ seen him deliver in court, “but Visenya referring to me as ‘granduncle’ would make me feel older than the Doom.”
"Well, she can't very well call you kepus now can she?”
The Queensguard must accept Viserys’ words as truth because he sourly admits defeat. “Uncle will suffice then.” A sore loss for his uncle, the pinch of his brow and mouth reveals, but a feast to Luke who watches it unfold with rippling laughter. And in the moment, Luke presses plush lips to a clean-shaven jaw. There’s a pause, as if Luke suddenly remembers who he’s kissed, remembers where he is. Uncle Aemond’s not moved since. He’s silent, cheekbones uncharacteristically flushed. It’s hard to associate the term tongue-tied with his uncle, but that’s exactly what he is then.
The heaviness of his eyelid turns his lone eye dark with something unrecognisable as he stares at Luke, boring himself beneath his skin. But Luke doesn’t notice, too focused on Viserys’ reaction.
Kisses are common amongst siblings. Jace presses one to Viserys’ head each time he visits, whilst Joff and Egg aren’t so unreserved in their affection. And Aunt Heleana shares those chaste kisses with Uncle Aemond when they visit her solar to break fast. It isn’t unusual, but — Luke’s was loaded with disaster. With a fire that could incinerate the earth, leaving it blackened and ashen. A calamity worse than a war fought with dragons.
“C’mere, my love,” Luke summons and Viserys goes. He always will when it concerns his brother. A kiss is promptly pressed to his lips, to the tip of his nose. It tickles and the rest is forgotten.
They’re Targaryen.
Noon turns into evening, the sun a ball of vivid fire on the skyline, submerged by the ocean’s swallowing darkness. When a yawn breaks Visenya’s strides, Uncle Aemond runs a thumbs in circles at her temples. Cradles her head to his shoulder. “The hour grows late and the children tire.” Viserys wants to argue. He isn’t tired just yet, but another of Visenya’s yawns holds him back.
“We should head back.”
And with their clothes still moist, they set out for King’s Landing, Luke’s dry cloak keeping them warm in the evening breeze. With the flapping of wings for company, Viserys nods off.
Viserys’ lashes flutter. Sturdy arms carry him, holding him close so he doesn’t jostle with every step. The coppery sweetness of smoke ensnares the senses, along with the musk of dragons. Father smells of smoldering wood. It’s soothing, familiar. Nuzzling closer to Father’s gland, Viserys basks in his scent. A cheek rests on his thin hair, spreading more of that burning wood along his skin, his curls, until it imbues itself into his soul.
Soft, trickling locks brush against his nose and a sneeze breaks free. A hum rumbles from Father’s chest, gentle, with a shush.
“I hope he’s not caught a chill,” Luke’s voice whispers through the fog; the answer is lost within.
The firmness of his mattress greets Viserys and the duvets are pulled up to his shoulders. Smoke encloses him before thin lips find the curve of his ear. Kepus, is mumbled through the haze. It costs much not to surrender himself to exhaustion. Luke’s here and Viserys is greedy for time with his brother. Every second counts. He fights and fights what seems like a losing battle, until a voice that isn’t Father’s says, “Take a seat, Lucerys.”
It’s Uncle Aemond.
At once, the fatigue dispels. The Queensguard doesn’t address Luke by his name since he’s spoken his oaths, brought down to a knee at the Queen’s feet. He listens as Luke crosses the room and hears the armchair whine under his weight. The Queenguard’s voice comes, condemning, “You’ve been on your feet all day long. You must rest.”
“Is it ‘Lucerys’ now?” the omega questions, coyly. “I've never been able to acclimate to such formalities from your lips.”
“Would you prefer something else, beastie?” Viserys is unused to such boldness from them. They must think him asleep and he strives to maintain an even breath. Fabric rustles but with his back turned, Viserys can’t discern what makes the noise. What Uncle Aemond says next reaffirms this isn’t a discussion Viserys would’ve been privy to had they known he was awake.
“Your mother ensured I cannot call you mine.”
Mine, mine, mine. It’s possessive, how an alpha refers to their omega. It puts into perspective the weight of Uncle Aemond’s stare when Luke’d pressed that furtive kiss the long of his jaw. What had previously been unrecognisable now has a name: hunger. Desire had clouded his gaze, turning the fuschia into coal. But Luke belongs to Daemion Velaryon because Mother hadn’t approved of the man his brother had coveted. Mine, Uncle Aemond calls Luke behind closed doors. The man whom the Velaryon heir would’ve married if not for duty.
A pained complaint earns a quick apology from Uncle Aemond. Viserys shifts onto his left and fortunately his sudden movement doesn’t lure their focus. The Queensguard is knelt at Luke’s feet, holding a swollen ankle in his calloused hands, kneading at sore muscles. Head inclined on a fist, Luke looks down on their uncle. “Well, there’s no one here stopping you, is there?”
“How wise of you, ñuhys jorrāeliarzys.”
Father has whispered this endearment to Mother when he’s done something which merits him her temper. It never quenches her fire, only makes it worse, but Viserys thinks that’s what he enjoys. It’s the redness which rises to her face when he calls her my love. It’s what Uncle Aemond calls Luke without Mother here to forbid it the flush it brings to the omega’s cheek is softer. Silent, like a secret well-kept.
There’s an effortlessness in their interactions Luke is deprived of when in Daemion’s company. When Uncle Aemond remarks how haggard the brunet appears, seated in a plush armchair, slumped shoulders and the weariness of parenthood lining his eyes, he doesn’t bite back. There’s a vulnerability he trusts their uncle with when he says, “Try commanding a fleet while fat with child, then you can remark on my appearance.”
“Fat?” the blond snorts, “I beg to differ; you’ve never looked more beautiful.” There isn’t a trace of dishonesty, only the abyss of his affection. What he whispers next is indiscernible but a smile blooms on Luke’s features, one Viserys’ll cherish when his brother leaves court again. Then it’s quiet. There’s nothing words could say that hasn’t been spoken in the quiet. Their affection grows in the space, filling it, and Viserys wonders how he’s missed it all this time.
Luke groans before shifting position, and again, as if he cannot get comfortable. He cups at the swell of his belly and huffs a reprimand toward his unborn child. Uncle Aemond fetches a cushion he fits at Luke’s back. “Are the pups keeping up at night?”
“Pups? Is one babe not enough that you must saddle me with two?” Luke grumbles, unexpectedly irate. Mother, too, had been quick to rile up when pregnant with their sister. The alpha doesn’t respond, wisely so, but it doesn’t spare him from Luke’s displeased hissed, “Do not give me that self-satisfied look!” The vision forming in his mind is the rejoiced smirk he’d worn during the council meeting, as they’d witness Luke put Unwin Peake back in his place. But when the alpha’s hand joins the brunet’s where it rests on the curve of his pregnant stomach, his temper scatters as quickly as it’d appeared.
It goes no further. Uncle Aemond attends to the omega’s aches and discomfort but he does nothing untoward. Luke’s confidence in the alpha is all that reveals this is more than mere kinship. Jace and Joff have both voiced concern in their brother’s reticence.
Not even with their brothers does Luke confide, yet he does with a man who’d once stood on the opposite side of war. The man who’d killed Arrax in a chase in the skies of Storm’s End and stolen him amidst fire and blood.
“Your boy, too, has been restless as of late.” It earns a contemplating look and a puzzling, “He’s yours as well, Aemond.” Possessive, again. Yours, yours, yours. It goes unacknowledged. Drowsiness creeps closer and Viserys struggles to make out what comes next. “He was eager to reunite with you, as were the rest of your family,” is nearly lost. Before long, Viserys yields and succumbs to his dreams. He doesn’t hear the, “But none more so than me,” which follows it.
He doesn’t see the condemning kiss they share. Not on the cheek, not on the jaw, but one shared by seasoned lovers.
When the chirping of robin chicks wakes him in the morrow, skies shimmering a soft salmon, their interaction has faded into reveries and all that remains is the swirling scent of salt and smoke, swaying him back into dreamland.