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Vermax crests the treeline as a faint olive blur, and Lucerys nearly finds himself crying before he can resist. He wasn't expecting to find himself so emotional at the sight of the other dragon, but all he can imagine is the horrid line of dragon skulls Lord Tully had retrieved from the Dragonpit.
Vermax's roar echoes in the courtyard before them, harmonizing with itself. Something in Lucerys shivers in delight at the call. So many of the warm days of his youth on Dragonstone had echoed with the call of dragonsong. Arrax calls back, and for a moment all is right in Luke's world. Baela shifts beside him and brushes her arm against his. He grasps her hand, threading their fingers together.
He thinks, all but 2 of their brothers are dead and their family and their dragons have been massacred. They are now orphans.
Lucerys watches eagerly as Vermax wings closer. He can feel an excitement foreign to him bubble inside—Arrax. His own dragon is perched on the nearest tower of Maegor's Holdfast, chirruping. Arrax's wings flap eagerly as his sibling dragon glides closer. During Arrax's long recovery in the Vale, the dragon had sung nightly, expecting other dragons to join in on his song. The Vale had only answered with gusty wind and the occasional bleat of sheep. Now, Vermax can accompany Arrax properly as the lifetime companions they have always been.
Vermax dips and touches down in a large courtyard at the keep. Chains still ring the sides, ugly thick weighty things that once fettered Syrax. Lucerys has wanted them gone, but more important matters had always come first. With Jace now here to rule his own Kingdom, Lucerys might be able to attend to smaller details, like tracking down the remains of his mother's trousseau and removing the unsightly chains.
A slim, dark figure slides off Vermax's saddle, crowned only in sleek dark curls. It's Jacaerys in the flesh. He finds himself running before he can even consciously think about it, Baela's hand sliding from his grasp. Jacaerys is as sturdy as always when Lucerys slams into him. His arms envelop Luke in the familiar warm tang of dragon. He sniffs, then sniffles, then—he's crying.
He realizes that he never expected to see his brother alive again.
He breathes in that moment, only faintly aware of the pressure against his back and another small voice calling out garbled bastardizations of Jacaerys's name.
Later, Lucerys has calmed enough to step back and untangle himself from Aegon and Jacaerys. Baela hovers behind them, still careful with the bandages wrapped around her face and trunk.
"Luke," Jacaerys greets, voice wobbly, "Aegon, Baela."
Jacaerys can scarcely speak, face crumpled in an odd and unflattering expression. Lucerys has never seen Jacaerys at a loss for words before. No matter the tension, no matter the anger, no matter the stakes, Jacaerys had always known exactly what to say to get squabbling lords to calm and listen, or for Mother and Daemon to let them out of trouble. Now, he blubbers, then leans forward to gather Aegon back into his grasp.
Lucerys glances about the courtyard and sees the judgemental eyes of the Lords and Knights that will follow Jacaerys's rule. He sees Black Aly smothering an amused cough into her hand, sees Kermit Tully frowning.
"Some refreshment should be brought to Queen Alysanne's Solar," He orders. He turns to the head maid—a smallfolk woman named Elinda—and tells her, " Bring some bread and nuts for the King."
Jacaerys's arrival could hardly be a private matter, but Lucerys dearly wishes it could have been. He can greet his men later, he decides. Now, Jacaerys should be with his family. The Seven Kingdoms can wait for a day.
When Lucerys turns back to his brother, Jacaerys's dark eyes meet his over Aegon's pale silvery hair.
"Jace," Luke greets. "Let us grab a bite—I'm sure you've had a long flight."
He raises his voice slightly to address the crowd, "The dragonkeepers should bring some livestock for Vermax to feast on. The King will greet you in the Great Hall for supper, once he has had a chance to settle in to his new keep."
Jacaerys straightens, face smoothing over to the neutral smile that Mother had drilled into him.
"Lord Cregan and his men should ride in by the evening," he announces. "For now, I shall retire."
That evening, Lucerys is just bedding down when a knock comes at the door. Tysane Blackwood, who appointed herself as his lady's maid shortly after his arrival to the rivermen's camp, looks to him from where she is tending the fire.
"My Prince?" she asks, shifting her grip on the fire poker in her hands so that it mimics a sword.
Lucerys suspects he knows who it is. He waves her off, and steps to the heavy wooden door, tugging his mother's dressing gown slightly at the neck. It's too large, but it's one of the few things that remained in her old rooms. His fingers trace over the golden dragon embroidered at the neckline before he hefts open the door.
It's Jacaerys, because of course it is. After a quick snack where his brother fawned over Aegon and Baela, Jacaerys had taken over the preparations that Lucerys had started for their supper that night. It was just as well—by the time supper came around, Lucerys had already started to feel slightly under the weather. All through Jacaerys's first speech to his Lords, his accepting their sworn vows, and introducing Lord Cregan Stark as his new Hand of the King, Lucerys had found himself sniffling and sneezing. There is not a single world where Jacaerys would go to bed without first checking on his brother's well-being.
"Tysane," Lucerys says as he meets his brother's eyes. "I will not need your company tonight."
"Of course, my Prince," Tysane says from behind him. He hears the crisp clack of the fire poker being set in the stand, and the pop of the fire crackling. Tysane bustles up beside him, steps quiet. She bows to Lucerys, then Jacaerys with a soft, 'Your Majesty', her Tully blue dressing gown fluttering with the smooth movement. She passes by Jacaerys, careful to avoid brushing him.
After she steps around the corner of the hallway, they are left only in the company of the Blackwood knights that have taken post there tonight, plate armor scraping lightly as the two men pace the hall.
Jacaerys steps forward, drawing Luke into his arms again. The door creaks closed behind them, muffling the bustle of the castle even after nightfall. The fire pops again, and Lucerys takes a moment to breathe.
"How are you, brother mine?" Jacaerys asks quietly.
Lucerys takes a moment to think. After he'd left the Great Hall, his sneezing had calmed, honestly. Perhaps someone had worn an irritating perfume? He tells Jacaerys as much, drawing away to track down the jug of watered down wine Tysane had brought for them to enjoy that night.
"Tell me if you notice it happening again," Jacaerys orders, sweeping past to settle on a settee. "I will issue a ban for whatever scent I need to."
Lucerys chuckles as he brings the jug and two goblets over to his brother. "That would be too much trouble! I'm sure it won't happen again."
He pours then some wine and carefully takes a swig to wet his throat. He already feels better. When he glances up from the wine, he sees Jacaerys watching him with dark eyes, brow slightly furrowed in the familiar expression of concern he's been subjected to his entire life. Jacaerys's affection is whole-hearted. It is overwhelming—smothering. He will need to quash the flames before they can burn too high.
"Really, I am feeling fine now," He reassures. "I feel much stronger than the last time I saw you."
Jacaerys audibly scoffs at that, "Of course you feel better than when you left for the Vale. You nearly died! But it seems that Lady Arryn cared for you well. I heard she leant you her favorite maids to attend you when you presented…"
Jacaerys gazes at Lucerys with bare anxiety, eyes tracing over what little bits of skin peek from under Mother's dressing gown. Lucerys shifts, setting his goblet down on the nearby end table. He hardly wants to remember those horrid days where Lucerys had felt like he was burning alive. Everything had hurt so much with many of his bones not having fully healed…
"Rhaena attended me," Lucerys says dully. Rhaena had stayed loyally, despite what the presentation meant for their betrothal.
It is silent for a moment while Jacaerys takes a draw of wine. Lucerys blinks when he hears the click of the metal goblet being set on wood, waking as if from a trance. Jacaerys speaks, tone soft, "How was Rhaena's time in the Vale, then?"
Rhaena's time in the Vale was lovely, Lucerys thinks. She had told him of tourneys held in her honor, shown him the embroidery she had completed. She had gifted him many of them, tucking the finished decorative pillows, handkerchiefs, and even a fine pair of calf-skin gloves with golden dragon heads embroidered at the wrists in his saddlebags to find every time he set out to patrol the mountains. Rhaena had taken to quite a few young ladies and had built up a little court of her own.
"She was quite welcome in Lady Arryn's home," Lucerys reports dutifully. "She was treated like one of their own.
"And your time there?" Jace asks.
"It's quite cold in the Mountains of the Moon," Lucerys chuckles. "Arrax learned to wield dragon flame quite adequately."
Jacaerys hums at this, but Lucerys finds himself avoiding his brother's eyes. Jacaerys has long been an expert on reading Lucerys, and he would rather not talk about his time in the Vale for much longer.
Lucerys decides to go on the offensive, "How did you find King's Landing last?"
Lucerys had listened carefully for every scrap of information he could gather on his family, and the news from King's Landing had turned concerning quite quickly over the last few months. Unrest from the smallfolk had been clear from the whispers, but news of the riots had come as a shock. When Lucerys had heard what seemed to be impossible news about the Dragonpit, he had left camp in the mountains for the Eyrie immediately. Lady Arryn hadn't been ready to march just yet, still waiting for ships to arrive from Braavos. Lucerys had Arrax to ferry him, however, and had flown south to the Riverlands, where he thought Mother and her loyalists would retreat on their way to the Vale. His mistake had cost him his Mother.
Jacaerys huffs and says, "I left them to die."
From what Lucerys could gather, Jace could hardly have expected to know what would happen upon his departure. While there was tension in King's Landing, who could have possibly known that it would boil over enough for lay people to kill dragons.
"I told Joffrey to be strong and protect Mother," Jacaerys continues. "I thought I made it clear that Cregan would house them if they needed anywhere to flee. Instead, they stayed, and those dogs tore Joff apart!"
"What?" Lucerys had heard little of what happened with Joffrey beyond news that he had fallen of Syrax, and Mother sending knights to retrieve his body. He supposed it was odd that so many of the knights had died, in retrospect, but he had though they were just caught up in the riot.
"Ser Manderly told me that he brought Joffrey's body back to Mother. He had to fight the small folk to retrieve his limbs, and even then they never found one of his feet."
Lucerys's stomach roils at this. He had known that Joffrey's body had gone missing after Mother fled the Red Keep, but to hear that his brother wasn't even whole. It was an injustice to sweet Joffrey that he could never join the mausoleum of ash where their ancestors were laid to rest. It was an injustice that the smallfolk would even think of ill-treating his dear brother's corpse. It was an injustice that common knights and rabble would think of harming his family's noble dragons.
"I was a coward to leave Mother when she needed me most," Jacaerys says, running his hands nervously through his hair. When a finger catches, he jerks his hand out with a hiss. "I thought I could convince Lord Stark to march south in enough time to help Mother. Instead, I left her vulnerable."
Lucerys, however, sees things differently. If Jacaerys had remained in King's Landing… Vermax would be just another dragon skull. Jacaerys would have been devoured alive by that wretched cannibalistic beast of the Usurper's. Lucerys is so unbelievably grateful that Jacaerys flew North to entreat Lord Stark for aid.
"What could you have done differently?" He asks Jace. "It's those terrible chains. The dragons should never been fettered so—they could easily have burned that crowd to cinders!"
Jacaerys only shakes his head, tugging at his curls. Lucerys reaches across the space between them, grasping his hand and pulling it down to lace their fingers together. He squeezes, and Jacaerys squeezes weakly back. His face is in shadow, but he smiles tremulously at Lucerys.
"If you had been in King's Landing…" he says, but trails off.
"I miss Joffrey," Lucerys says firmly.
Jacaerys tries to pull his hand back, but Lucerys holds firm. Jace's smile wobbles.
"I miss him so much," He says, voice crackling. Tears blurs his vision, and a strange faint warble comes from outside the window. Arrax.
Then, Jace is there. He tucks Lucerys under his chin, and Lucerys feels dampness on his hair.
"I miss him too," Jacaerys says thickly, consonants barely distinguishable.
Lucerys hears sobbing, and he's not sure if it's him, Jacaerys, or both of them. He wants to see Joffrey, to hug him and kiss him one last time. He thinks of the fear Joffrey must have felt before he died and the pain. He thinks how Joffrey must have felt Tyraxes' pain too, and how Tyraxes must have suffered with the death of his rider.
"I miss Mother," Jacaerys whispers. "I don't- I don't know how to be King without her."
Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name, devoured by the very symbol that made her family strong. Eaten by a rat, Luke thinks unkindly. He misses Mother too. When Corlys had presented Luke with her dressing gown, a stray earring, two sets of hose ties, and her least favorite dove grey kirtle, Luke had spent the rest of the day curled up on a bed desperately smelling the fabric for any trace of Mother's familiar cinnamon-orange scent.
"No matter what," Luke swears, "You'll have me by your side, at least. No one will separate us again."
"You cannot promise that," Jace chuckles, voice still a little thick and husky. He clears his throat and squeezes Lucerys tight one last time before scooting back to catch Luke's eye. "But I will take your vow all the same. I would like to know that I won't be alone."
Lucerys thinks of grandsire Corlys, and how he's only seen the most fleeting glimpses of the man. He's acted guilty when he gave Lucerys the remains of Mother's clothes, and left Luke quickly to his grief.
Luke glances up to catch Jacaerys's eye, saying, "Grandsire is also by your side."
A flicker of contempt passes over Jacaerys's expression, lip curling and then smoothing before Lucerys can be sure he saw it. His nostrils flare, and Lucerys's older brother looks into the fading flames. "I cannot be sure what Grandsire wants. He named that—boy. He named Alyn 'Velaryon' as his heir. Joffrey wasn't even dead yet. He just- gave away your inheritance, just like that. Like you didn't matter…"
Lucerys had heard about that one all the way in the Vale. Lucerys is well aware of all Aemond's attack cost him, and he has had a long time to think on it.
"Grandsire has judged that an Omega is not fit to lead Driftmark," Lucerys says carefully, fingers coming up to trace again at the golden dragon at his neck. "It is his right."
"Mother would—"
"Mother's own claim cost her a war, and her life!"
Jacaerys frowns again at this. He scratches at his leg, which bounces against the wood base of the settee.
"Let the Velaryons manage their own house, and rejoice that I can stay by your side, Jace," Lucerys says. "I am content that I will find a home with you."
"So you will give up, without even trying?" Jace asks.
"Yes," Lucerys reaches for his goblet to take a deep pull of wine. He sets the glass in his lap and rubs his fingers along the dragons that trace up the stem of the cup. "It doesn't matter if I want it. I am an Omega now."
Jacaerys heaves a gusty sigh at this, leaning back into the seat. He reaches out a hand and fishes out one of Lucerys's hands, fiddling with the rings Lucerys still hasn't taken off yet in preparation for bed. The garnet on his ring finger twists and then slides loose, and Jacaerys palms it. He stares absently at it for a moment, before dropping it on the end table on his side of the settee.
"And what does being an Omega mean for you?"
Lucerys flushes at his brother's soft question. Everyone knows what Omegas are known for. An Omega is a lustful creature, stricken by the Mother. For one to present on their own is one thing, but for one to present like Lucerys did: some of the more superstitious consider them cursed. Still, this is Jacaerys, who is incapable of thinking poorly of Lucerys. For him, Luke can be a little honest.
"Heats are not as they say," He admits shyly, "I have not collapsed into a pile of unquenchable lust. It's just… wet…"
"Wet," Jacaerys breathes, and Lucerys throws back his cup, feeling his face redden.
"I will not speak of it any more," He lectures when he surfaces. "'Tis not proper!"
"Speaking of improper," Jace teases, "You wouldn't mind if I were your bed companion, would you? I don't think…"
He trails off, then yawns.
It is hardly proper, but Lucerys would in fact like the comfort of his brother's warmth beside him. If anyone has anything to say—well, Jacaerys is now King.
When he repeats as much to his brother, Jacaerys chortles a laugh.
"Indeed, few can argue with the King. Though Lord Stark is quite a stubborn one—I fear to ever see his will against yours. You will quite like him, I think," He says. Lucerys thinks that surely the tall man he had seen earlier was no match for a dragon.
The chance to see Lord Stark in person comes soon, with Jacaerys calling a meeting with all his closest allies and advisors. He needs to rein them in, so that they all may work as one. To that end, Lucerys is present, along with Baela. Grandsire Corlys sits across from Luke, who is next to Jacaerys. The aging man is avoiding Lucerys's eyes with a determination that is almost amusing if it wasn't infuriating.
Lord Blackwood is near Grandsire, and his loud chatter with Lord Tully and his brother drown out everyone else, so Luke doesn't even have the chance to listen in on what Corlys is saying to Grand Maester Orwyle. Black Aly shifts to catch Luke's eye, and mouths something that he cannot make out. He's still mimicking her in puzzlement by the time Jacaerys enters the council chambers, flanked by two long bearded men that Lucerys doesn't recognize. Behind them is a tall figure that he vaguely does—Lord Cregan Stark.
As the King makes his way round the table to the head seat besides Luke, a tickle bothers his nose. Lord Stark makes his ways for the seat on the other side of Jace and—Luke sneezes. By the time he looks up again, Lord Stark is rubbing at his nose as he settles in his seat. He gazes out calmly over the room, and Lucerys meets his grey eyes.
Oh, he thinks, then—
"Have you decided on a coronation day, your Majesty?" Black Aly pipes up, breaking the hush in the room.
Jacaerys blinks at her from beside Luke, clearly unused the the irreverent tone she takes. Jace was trained by the best though, so he smiles easily at her and replies: "I thought we might plan the coronation soon, so there might be no questions of my status as my Mother's heir."
Indeed, Lucerys had heard some of the knights chattering about how Jacaerys was 'King Aegon's nephew'. He will have to warn his brother later. The usurper should remain just that, and his ashes being interred at their mausoleum is an undeserving gift.
"Before that is the matter of the Green's defeat. Tell me, what news from the Lannisters and the Baratheons? Where is the war?" Jacaerys says, and the council room quiets.
Corlys shifts, drawing attention to himself. He smiles at Lord Stark, and Lucerys can tell that it's his business smile, perfected against thousands of merchants from Essos and Westeros. "What do you mean, Jacaerys? The war is over. King Aegon is dead."
"At whose instruction, I wonder?" Lord Stark speak up, and Luke glances over to see him leaning forward in his chair, staring Grandsire down.
Meanwhile, Jacaerys's face has smoothed out. Lucerys turns back to Grandsire, takes a breath, and—sneezes. When he opens his eyes, Jacaerys is looking at him with a furrowed brow. He waves his brother off, and their attention is again drawn to Lord Stark, whose voice has risen.
"…then travel north along the Sunset Sea to visit Casterly Rock."
"That is a bold plan, my Lord," Grand Maester Orwyle says, glancing nervously as Jacaerys. "Perhaps we might know what the King thinks of it."
Lord Tully pipes up, "Storm's End, Oldtown, and Casterly Rock are all as good a fortress as your own Winterfell, Lord Stark. They will not siege easily!"
Lord Blackwood, voice still squeaky with youth, says, "Half your men might die, Lord Stark! We have not the stores to last a winter of siege."
"They died the day we marched, boy," Lord Stark answers darkly. He rubs at his nose again, contrasting starkly with his scowl at the young Lord.
Jacaerys breaks in, waving a hand as if the cut the tension between Lord Stark and the Riverlanders, "Perhaps a long siege might not be necessary. The allies of the usurper are without a dragon, while we still have two. They might see wisdom and surrender before their betters."
"The killing has gone on too long," Grandsire pleads, for once looking directly at Jacaerys. "Your Mother and Aegon are dead—let their quarrel die with them. Storm's End, Oldtown, and Casterly Rock only has suckling babes and small boys to sit on their seats. As a new king, you might grant them honorable terms and they will bend the knee, grateful for your mercy."
Jacaerys taps a finger against the table, and Lucerys can see him mulling Grandsire's words over in his head. Baela, hovering over the back of Lucerys's shoulder, shifts forward to lean against his chair instead. She bites at a nail when he glances back. She told Lucerys earlier that Grandsire had warned her away from speaking, and knows that this is her attempt to follow his order.
"With respect, Lord Velaryon," Lord Stark says, sounding like he very much has no respect at all for Grandsire, "Suckling babes become large men in time. They suck their mother's hate from her breast. Finish them now, and we avoid a war in twenty years when they strap their father's blades to their backs in vengeance."
Grandsire is not cowed, however. "Jacaerys, your uncle said the same and died for it. Had he heeded our council and sought peace by pardoning his foes, he might still live."
Lucerys knows at once that Grandsire has misspoken, and it seems Grandsire does as well, for he pales at the dark look the King gives him.
"A pardon from a pretender hardly counts, does it not, Grandsire?"
"I hardly understand why we should seek the council of one that has actively colluded against our King," Lord Stark pipes up. He opens his mouth to continue, then sneezes.
Guards burst through the door, wearing plain Stark grey. They march towards the table as a few Lords shout, and Lord Stark sneezes again. Jacaerys turns to Lord Stark, expression wrinkling with confusion before smoothing back into the calm, kingly expression that he practiced every night in his mirror for years. Lucerys takes a breath to speak up, and finds himself sneezing again. Whatever is bothering Lord Stark must also be bothering Lucerys as well…
By the time Lucerys has finished sneezing, the guards have hauled Grandsire out of his chair. Grandsire has a resigned look on his face, not even looking at Jacaerys. The guards also reach for a few more green supporters, but Lucerys is too busy turning to the ruckus at his side to note who they are.
Baela has grasped Jacaerys's arm, tugging him nearly out of his chair. "How could you let that man do this to Grandsire? He's innocent Jace—you know he is!"
"Baela—"
"Let Grandsire go!"
"Baela!" Lucerys calls, reaching for her. Regardless of whether she is right or wrong, this is hardly the place.
"You cannot let him—"
"Baela!" Jace shouts, cowing her instantly. She glances at the guards, who are still busy with the resisting men, then turns back to Jacaerys and stomps her foot.
"I will not allow—"
"You have no say, Baela," Jacaerys chides firmly. "Let it go."
She flushes at that and Lucerys can see her hand twitch at her side. She starts one last time, "When I am Queen, they will follow my orders."
"You are not yet Queen," Jacaerys says quietly.
Baela rushes out of the room at that, slipping between the Stark men. Lucerys grips his armrests, so dearly tempted to follow after her. But Jacaerys needs him, he thinks. The rivermen have gotten over their surprise at this point, and Lucerys can hear Lord Tully blustering something out to Jacaerys. Black Aly is shouting something at Lord Stark, and Lucerys catches only the words "traitorous cunt" before another sneeze catches him by surprise.
Jacaerys catches his sleeve and tugs firmly. Lucerys opens his eyes just in time to see Jacaerys mouth something at him in Valyrian. It takes his brain a moment to register 'go after her'.
"Are you sure?" Lucerys asks.
"I have this," Jacaerys promises.
Lucerys surely hopes he does, because it looks like Lord Stark has created quite the mess for them to smooth out. Still, his King has commanded him, and he will do as Jacaerys says. He stands, feeling the urge to sneeze coming over him again. He bites his tongue to try and fight it, and flees the room.
"Order!" Lucerys hears Jacaerys roar as the doors shut behind him. He glances back before the door shuts, and sees Lord Stark's pale eyes looking at him.
Later, Jacaerys knocks at Lucerys's door. Tysane answers it at his direction, curtsying to them both before slipping out the door and shutting it firmly behind her.
Jacaerys droops—even his curls are limp and lifeless. His eyes are shadowed, and he settles against Lucerys with little fanfare, burying his face in Luke's bony shoulder for a moment and just breathing.
"Just one more night, dear brother?" he asks.
Lucerys agrees with little fuss, dragging Jace back to the settee from the night before.
"How angry is Baela?" Jace starts the night off with. "Do I need to worry about any daggers in the night?"
"What exactly are you trying to pull with Grandsire, Jace? Baela's hardly the only one to be angry with you and Lord Stark."
Jace gives a big huff at that, lazily wrapping his arms around Lucerys and giving him a teasing squeeze. He smushes his face against Luke's crown, and finally says, muffled: "I didn't quite agree with Mother, at the end. She should never have distrusted Grandsire, and certainly shouldn't have left him in the dungeons when she fled. She placed him in an impossible position. Still, seeing him choose Aegon…"
"It's not that," Lucerys says, elbowing at Jace until his older brother releases him and scoots away. "The Jace I know would never imprison family over a grudge. Your anger scorches quickly."
Jace rubs at his face again, then answers, "It is only acceptance of both Mother and my own claim to the throne that prevents Grandsire from being considered guilty of regicide, which is no small crime. Lord Stark certainly wants to push for his execution as if Aegon were King…"
"Why does Lord Stark get to decide his punishment? Are you not the King?" Lucerys scoffs.
"Not quite officially, dear brother." Jace smiles and reaches out to ruffle Lucerys's waves. "I still need to plan my coronation."
"I know you trust Lord Stark-"
"Lord Stark is my greatest supporter," Jacaerys interrupts briskly, "And my Hand, for now. I have Vermax, yes, but Lord Stark is the stick that enforces my rule. I cannot afford to alienate his affections."
"So you are as to King Viserys as he is to Otto Hightower, leading you by the nose?"
Jacaerys is hardly pleased by that, lip curling in a snarl. His tone is stiff when he warns, "You are also lucky to have my affections, Luke."
Lucerys stands at that, turning his back on his brother. The fire is smouldering out in the fireplace, embers burning brightly. The sweet smoke of the birch wood puffs up the flue, perfuming the room. Tysane must have burned some herbs as well—rosemary also tingles at his nose.
"I do not understand," he starts slowly. "You stand victorious, your enemies defeated. Only babes quake before you, and a long, unpleasant series of sieges to get to them. Why not demand their surrender instead and be done with war?"
Lucerys hears a plush thump behind him, as if Jacaerys has thrown himself down on the settee. The King groans like a child scolded by his Septa for poor marks. After a moment, Jacaerys finally says, "Do you think it would truly be done? Jaehaera still lives, after all. The usurper's cause could still continue."
Lucerys whirls around at that to see Jacaerys sprawled inelegantly. He steps back towards Jace and demands, "Surely you would not see a child dead?"
"You misunderstand," Jacaerys says, waving a hand to brush Lucerys off. "She is not enough of a true threat to risk kinslaying. Only, a child from her could become a rival line."
"So you would imprison her?" Lucerys asks, nudging Jacaerys knee until he scoots his leg over enough for Luke to sit back on the settee.
Jacaerys reluctantly sits up, turning to face Lucerys more directly, "With a pleasant prison, of course. But a prison all the same. She cannot ever be allowed to have a child, or even risk the appearance of having one. May Daeron languish in the company of the Stranger for dying without a body…"
And, well, Lucerys finds that he doesn't particularly want to talk about his dead relatives right now, even ones that he has less than charitable thoughts towards.
"And what does Lord Stark think should happen to Jaehaera?" Lucerys asks, thinking back to the stern Northern Lord. He probably hopes that she might be 'accidentally slain' during a storming of Storm's End, Luke thinks unkindly while rubbing his tingling nose.
Jacaerys sighs at this, "This is hardly how I would have chosen you to be introduced to Cregan. I think you might quite like each other, if you give him a chance."
"He has yet to earn a chance," Lucerys warns. "I think you should stop things here. Grandsire was right. Your enemies are defeated, and the killing needs to end. Winter is fast approaching, and enough have died in Mother's name."
"I just cannot be sure that they might think so," Jacaerys says. "I will not risk any of you. I would not lose any more of my family—I've lost enough."
Lucerys sighs at this. He doesn't totally disagree—he's lost too much of his family. Visenya, Rhaenys, Viserys, Daemon, Joffrey, Mother… He's quickly running thin on those dearest to him.
"Jaehaerys the Conciliator also inherited a realm divided," Jacaerys muses lightly.
Lucerys is very familiar with their great-great grandsire's legacy: Jaehaerys the Wise. Even as a young boy his wisdom in governance shone through, and he managed to bargain with the Faith Militant to lay down their arms, and to allow the Targaryens to maintain their family practices in peace.
"Jaehaerys offered the Lords that rose up against him forgiveness rather than war. He bartered for hostages, and for gold…" Jacaerys muses. "Perhaps I should seek the council of my ancestors."
He is silent for a while, before asking, "Have you fallen ill, by the way? I've never seen you sneeze so."
Lucerys thinks on the odd sneezing spells he's been having lately. He doesn't remember any strong perfumes in the council chamber today, though he does remember Lord Stark sneezing as well. "I don't feel ill," he finally says. "Perhaps just dust, or something."
"In answer to your earlier question, Baela is furious," Luke says, changing the subject, "And rightfully so. You might certainly keep an eye out for a 'dagger in the night'. She told me she's been in the company of the gold cloaks lately, so surely she's had some practice on dagger-handling technique."
Jacaerys's face falls at that, and he grumbles lowly, "She truly is her father's daughter."
"Is that so bad?" Luke asks.
Jace doesn't respond.
"Perhaps you ought to speak to her," Lucerys suggests, thinking on her confession. It's not his place to mention it, but he thinks she should speak on her grief to more than just him. Jacaerys will one day be her husband, and hopefully Rhaena will arrive soon. Baela and Rhaena's relationship has always been more complex that Lucerys could understand, but they have always been two sides of a whole.
"I already have," Jacaerys says. "I was made aware that my presumption was not welcome."
That doesn't surprise Lucerys in the slightest.
"I will give her time," Jace heaves a sigh, leaning back to look up at the stone ceiling. "Though she may not forgive me for it."
"Give her something to do," Lucerys suggests, leaning towards Jace.
Jace huffs, then says, "Perhaps. It's too late to think clearly now. Let's go to bed."
A few days later, Lucerys finds himself in the Red Keep's immense library looking for medical texts describing mystery ailments where the only real symptom was sneezing. With the passing of Maester Gerardys, and Maester Orwyle both untrustworthy and imprisoned, Lucerys had few to ask for medical advice. He's found little of real use however. Fortunately, there are still quite the number of texts to search through. Unfortunately, the dust has driven him into yet another all-too-common sneezing fit. With his eyes straining for the day and the sneezes never ending, Lucerys decides to take a brief rest.
He exits the library and peers down to the courtyard below only to be stopped short at the sight of Lord Stark running some sword drills with a few of his men. The Northern Lord had been quite busy these last few days 'cleaning the keep of vermin'. Jacaerys hadn't wanted to talk much on it just yet, wanting to see what Lord Stark would turn up.
Lord Stark was normally dressed in thick furs and dark woolens which obscured his bulky figure. Now, however, he's stripped down to a thin shirt stained dark with sweat down the back. Lucerys can just see the suggestion of the muscles in the Lord's back shift as he swings his sword back and forth. He sneezes.
When he looks back up from his hand, Lord Stark is looking up at him. He winces lightly, sniffling.
Lord Stark turns to his men, observing two of his men run through a light bout. He says something, and then turns towards the side of the courtyard that Lucerys knows contains the stairs up to Lucerys. He thinks, briefly, of running and disappearing into the serpentine stairs of the Red Keep. He stands rooted to his spot, absently watching the Stark men running bouts without the supervision of their leader.
"Good day, my prince," a deep voice greets from behind Lucerys.
His nose tingles, and he bites his cheek to keep from sneezing. Cregan Stark is an imposing man. Lucerys, however, is a dragon. He will fear no man, he tells himself. He turns around.
Lord Stark stinks of sweat and dirt—fragrances Lucerys was happy enough to leave behind in the mountains of the Vale. Ever since his presentation Lucerys has been more sensitive to the stink of man flesh. He wrinkles his nose as the urge to sneeze nearly overpowers him.
After a breath, he's finally able to get him under control, and returns, "Good day, Lord Stark."
"Your brother has sworn a blood oath with me, my prince. Though we are yet unacquainted, I would have you call me Cregan."
Cregan is rather bold, Lucerys thinks. This tracks with his behavior before. Few men would walk into a King's keep and throw the King's Grandsire in the dungeons.
"Can I help you, Lord Cregan?" Luke asks. "Surely you ought to be drilling your men in siege tactics?"
Cregan seems to give Luke a bemused look, though it's quickly undercut by a booming sneeze. He swipes absently at his nose, shaking his head lightly before looking again at Lucerys.
"Your dragon has seen battle, has it not?," he asks, coming to settle against the railing next to Lucerys.
Lucerys turns back to face out to the courtyard, ducking down to give a dainty little sneeze. The dust from the library must not have cleared out just yet… He glances up at Cregan and notices the older man's intense gaze. Lucerys is reminded of a hound on the hunt after catching sight of prey in the underbrush, so still and focused. He glances away to breathe, then stops. He cannot back down.
He looks Cregan back in the eye and answers, "Yes, Arrax flew against the men of the mountain clans in the Vale after his recovery. He also fought in the Battle of the Kingsroad against the men of the Stormlands. He is still quite young, but he knows how to wield flame."
Cregan's lips curl up slightly at the corners and he covers his mouth with his hand to give a strange cough. His voice is oddly thick when he says, "Fear is the real weakness in battle, not youth."
Lucerys remembers those horrid, damp months in the mountains, and thinks that it wasn't the fear that got to him. It was the sheer, soul crushing drudgery of his ordeal. It was the repetitive days, so similar that he lost track of time. It was the realization that the stench of burning flesh didn't bother him anymore. Before his presentation, Lucerys always knew that he would fight in battles, winning glory for the Velaryon and Targaryen families. He was a dragonrider, and he was well aware that his Grandsire had participated in more than a fair few battles. He was to take over his Grandsire's legacy in all arenas: in accounting, in Lordship, in mercantilism, and in defense of his home and economic prosperity. He had learned to wield many weapons (how could one not in the home of Daemon Targaryen?), though he readily admitted he possessed no real flair.
"The real weakness in battle is having it at all," Lucerys says, "when peace is a viable alternative. Craven men bite first when words would suffice."
"I cannot imagine a son raised by Daemon Targaryen would find martial strength a weakness," Cregan says, tapping absently on the railing before them.
"What luck for me that I was raised by my mother, the Queen, and my Grandsire, the Sea Snake instead," Luke responds. "I have never feared battle, but I have never found it useful for a first resort. When your foes are eager to negotiate, you can extract the best deals. Now is the time to demand much from the Greens, and hold them to it—not to burn them to ash and wear ourselves down in the process."
"Embers still burn—"
"Have you ever seen those areas in the Westerlands where smoke pours out from holes in the ground? A fire rages underground, unseen and uncontrollable until an unsuspecting wanderer knocks dirt loose and opens a raging chasm. Open anger and resentment can be quashed, but driving it underground only makes it rage all the greater."
Cregan huffs an amused sound at this, and his eyes are bright when he turns to look at Lucerys. He asks quietly, "What would you have me do?"
Lucerys answers, equally quietly, "Rather than grind your men into dust for a fruitless quest, stay your hand. Jacaerys is King. Give him a chance to prove himself, to prove what kind of King he will be. He trusts your council, but you are leading him astray."
Cregan shakes his head, "Jacaerys is wise, but he is still young, and so are you. I also came to my position young, and I had to learn the harsh realities of Westeros. There is no use for clemency, only justice."
Lucerys sighs at that, nose twitching. He disagrees, but he can see that one conversation will not change the mind of a stubborn man. Lucerys will have to try again.
"I have found there is a difference between justice and retribution, Lord Stark," he smiles, thinking back to all the stories of trade and adventure his Grandsire has told him. Justice has little use in the world, he thinks. Justice does not keep your family whole and fed, does not see prosperity, does not see connection. It is as cold and harsh as the great Valyrian blade Lord Stark carries around with him everywhere. "I will see you for supper, will I not?"
"Of course, my prince," Cregan says, nodding his head in a shallow bow. "I hope for more illuminating discussion with you."
"Likewise," Lucerys says, before turning and heading back to the library. He can feel Cregan's cool gaze on him as he goes, shivering down his spine. He raises his hand to his nose as the urge to sneeze grows.
At suppertime, Lucerys finds himself falling into a fit of sneezes. Baela's hands flutter nervously beside him and she hovers, unsure what to do.
Lucerys waves her off, trying to go back to the roast swan, but a final sneeze catches him out.
"Are you quite all right, Luke?" Jacaerys asks, cutting off his conversation with Cregan.
Lucerys tries to answer, but is cut off with another sneeze.
"Is there a Maester?" Baela asks.
"I'm quite fine," Lucerys promises, knowing he is in fact, not fine.
"Prince Lucerys was sneezing a bit earlier this afternoon," Cregan tattles. "Perhaps Maester Kennet could see the prince?"
Baela rears up to look at Cregan with a face full of poison, but Lucerys reaches out to grasp her arm before her mouth can open. She glances at him, back at Cregan, and then throws herself back down in her chair with crossed arms. She pouts.
Jacaerys, meanwhile, accepts Cregan's offer quite readily. "The Citadel announced that they were sending a new Grand Maester only a few days ago. He has a few weeks yet before he is expected to arrive. Maester Kennet is quite knowledgeable, Luke, and he even studied Valyrian at the Citadel—you'll love conversing with him!"
Lucerys's search of the library has been fairly fruitless so far, so an actual Maester's input would be quite valuable.
Baela huffs from beside Lucerys, and says, "I wasn't aware you were feeling ill Luke. Hopefully this 'Maester Kennet' can see to you quickly. Rhaena should be arriving soon!"
"I don't feel sick at all," Lucerys assures, "That's the thing. I feel fine—I've only just been sneezing quite a lot."
"Hm," Baela says, "I feel like I've heard that before. Maybe in a Essosi tale from Grandsire or something? Perhaps when you free him from his unjust imprisonment, you can ask him, Jace?"
Jace sighs at this, "For the last time, Baela, Grandsire has readily admitted—"
"It's unjust and you know it, if you weren't so stuck on gobbling down whatever shit your rabid dog gives you to e-"
"Baela!" Jace intones, "This is unbecoming—"
"Perhaps I should go?" Cregan breaks in, glancing—for some reason—to Luke.
Lucerys sneezes again, rubbing at the headache forming in his head. Perhaps he ought to go as well.
"No Cregan," Jace says.
"Yes, Cregan," Baela says.
Lucerys sneezes again and covers both eyes with his hands. "I think I've lost my appetite," he mumbles.
"Perhaps—" Jace is cut off by Baela, and Luke stands and steps away from their noise.
"I think I will take supper with Aegon, if he will let me in his rooms," Lucerys says.
Cregan stands and the bulk of his body muffles the sharp sounds of Jace and Baela arguing. He stoops just a bit, and says, "Might I escort you, my Prince?"
Lucerys, still sneezing, peeks up at him. Lord Stark is not the best conversationalist, but honestly that might be best for his pounding head. A walk in silence sounds quite nice right now, he thinks, and perhaps a chance to see if he can feel Cregan's arm muscles through his woolen tunic. Cregan regards him with a strange look, intense in a way that Lucerys has only felt once before. He shivers at the reminder of his uncle, banishing those memories for later, and reaches for the man's proffered arm. Sturdy, he thinks, unable to resist the gentlest squeeze. Stable.
"—driving Lucerys away with your inflexibility—" Baela shouts from behind Cregan.
"Yes," Luke says softly. "That sounds quite nice."
A few days later finds Lucerys just as stumped after Maester Kennet gives him a clean bill of health. The unusually young maester had expressed confusion over the symptoms, expressing that he'd never seen sneezing quite like that before. With little real advice, Lucerys had given greater thought to visiting his Grandsire in the dungeons. Was Baela right in suggesting that he might know more about Lucerys's affliction? Would he honestly respond if Lucerys asked him about it? After repeated snubs from Grandsire before, something in Lucerys's heart told him no. That hesitance keeps him from traveling to the dungeons.
Before Lucerys can come to any sort of decision, news comes. Lady Arryn is soon to arrive, and with her: Rhaena.
Great fanfare ushers Lady Arryn up from the harbor. The crowds of King Landing (who only weeks ago ousted Mother and went on a rampage in the Dragonpit) gather in the streets to cheer the army of the Vale. Rhaena rides beside Lady Arryn in an open wheelhouse in her signature pink. She glows under the attention of the crowd, and in her arms rests a dragon.
"Her Ladyship, Lady Arryn of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East!"
Lucerys stands next to Jace in the front courtyard, Aegon tucked in his arms. Baela stands next to him, using Luke to block Jace from her sight. Lord Stark is in parade rest on the other side of Jace, and the winter lord sneezes lightly in the slight chill of the late morning air.
"Lady Rhaena Targaryen of Pentos, and her dragon: Morning!"
Rhaena steps to the edge of the wheelhouse, reaching out an empty hand to be helped down by a knight from House Corbray. Tucked against her pale bodice is her other hand, propping up the smallest dragon Lucerys ever remembers seeing. It nearly blends into her clothing—only the faintest shift of movement tells Lucerys that there is a pale pink dragon in her arms. This must be Morning, hatched from the last eggs that Syrax laid.
In Luke's arms, Aegon turns away from Rhaena and her dragon to bury his head in Luke's chest.
"What's wrong, love?" Lucerys asks, ignoring Baela launching herself forwards from beside him to pet Aegon's back.
Aegon shakes his head, silent. Lucerys glances up at everyone cheering around them for Lady Arryn and Rhaena. Jace catches his eye, glancing down at Aegon and then back up before mouthing something that Lucerys doesn't fully catch. He ignores Jace—he's sure that it's probably just general concern for Aegon.
Lucerys leans down some, breaking away from Aegon a bit, and says, "Aegon, I cannot fix it if you don't tell me what's wrong."
Aegon breathes against him for a moment before finally saying, barely audibly, "Her beast is terrible."
Well. Lucerys had already left for the Vale when Aegon and dear Viserys were sent to Pentos, so he had not been present when Aegon's Stormcloud passed. Jace's letter on the matter were horrid, however, and Lucerys feels guilt for missing his brother's pain. Baela had lost Moondancer and described it as losing a part of her soul. Aegon had lost Stormcloud and felt that pain, and had seen the indignity that the Usurper committed upon their Mother. He also must have seen Joffrey fall from Syrax.
"I am sorry that its presence brings you discomfort," Lucerys says, unsure of how to fix this. Aegon had once spent a lot of time begging Jacaerys and Lucerys for rides of Vermax and Arrax. Now, with their return to King's Landing, Aegon had not asked once to ride on dragon back. He had been so focused on matters of Jace's Kingship that he hadn't even noticed his brother's out of character behavior.
He cannot and will not banish Morning from Aegon's presence, but he also does not desire to bring Aegon further pain. He will have to bring the matter up later to Jace…
"For now," Lucerys continues, "Why don't you keep me company? Morning is newly hatched—they will be more interested in Rhaena than anyone else."
Aegon huffs and buries his face back into Lucerys's front. Lucerys sneezes and looks up to see Lord Stark watching him from the other side of Jacaerys, a strange expression on his face.
"Lucerys," Jacaerys calls from beside him. The King gestures forwards towards Rhaena, who is caught in a tight embrace with her sister. "Greet her quickly, then we can retire to the Great Hall."
Rhaena—peeking over Baela's shoulder—laughs as clear as a bell then says, "No need Jacaerys, we can catch up later!"
Jacaerys raises a brow at that, but gamely announces to the Lords and Ladies of the Vale that they should make their way to the Great Hall.
Once there, Lady Arryn takes the lead in kneeling to Jacaerys, "Hail King Jacaerys, first of his name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. I, Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East do swear to be faithful. I pledge my fealty to King Jacaerys, and shall defend him against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the Old Gods and the New."
Rhaena settles besides Luke at the foot of the Iron Throne, stroking an absent hand down her dragon's dark spine. Morning barely twitches at the contact. With Aegon tucked against his chest again, Lucerys surveys the Lords and Ladies of the Vale kneeling before their King.
"Hail King Jacaerys!" Lord Corbray starts, kneeling besides Lady Arryn, "First of his name!"
"When is the coronation?" Rhaena whispers to Lucerys lowly, "Have I already missed it?"
"…and Protector of the Realm…"
"He wanted to wait for your arrival," Lucerys whispers back. "And for the arrival of the Lords of the Vale. It will be tomorrow."
"…do swear to be faithful…"
Rhaena surveys the crowd of men and women before them and sighs, "We'll be here for a while yet."
She isn't wrong.
Rhaena's grip on Lucerys's arm is both familiar and strange. Her attention is mostly on the slumbering dragon in her arm. Morning's head is curled at Rhaena's breast, tiny little black horns scratching at Rhaena's collarbone as the dragon breathes. She chatters away about the court of ladies she'd built for herself at the Eyrie and Lucerys can vaguely remember some of them.
Rhaena's rooms are next to Baela's, tucked in what was once Queen Alysanne's nursery. Aegon is also nearby. Valemen patrol the halls where Rivermen once stood.
A Redfort girl shrieks on the other side when Lucerys opens the door.
"My Prince!" She says as soon as she recognizes him, "My Lady!"
"Mela," Rhaena greets, "Fetch some maids to bring water for my baths."
"At once," Mela curtsies deeply to Rhaena and then to Lucerys. Lucerys can feel her eyes on him. She quickly steps out of the room without a word, however.
Rhaena settles Morning on the foot of her bed then turns to Lucerys with a smile, "What have I missed?"
The thought of compressing even the past few days down into just a few sentences nearly gives Lucerys a headache. He decides to let Baela handle most of the gossip—truthful or otherwise—and starts with as bare bones as he can get.
"Jacaerys arrived with the Northerners just over a week ago to claim his seat. He named Cregan Stark as his Hand, and Lord Stark has committed himself to arresting any and all that supported the Usurper," Lucerys starts.
Before he can parse out what to say next, Rhaena cuts in, "Of course, Baela sent me a confusing letter. Something about Grandsire being arrested—did Lord Stark arrest Grandsire as an ally of the Greens?"
Lucerys confirms as he steps further into her rooms. Trunks litter the ground, a few half-open and still stuffed with her wardrobe. It looks like the maids and the Redfort girl haven't had the chance to finish unpacking just yet.
"How absolutely horrid," Rhaena scorns, voice loud enough to prompt Morning to stir slightly. She startles, then continues a little more quietly, "What a foul man! Grandsire is too old for the dungeons. He could fall ill from this poor treatment. Why hasn't Jacaerys spoken out against him?"
"Well," Lucerys begins slowly, unsure how to explain things palatably, "Lord Stark wants to continue to war, to march on Storm's End and burn all the Greens to the very last. Jacaerys is still considering his options."
"What options are there?" Rhaena scoffs, "The war is over. Jacaerys has won the throne. He needs Grandsire by his side to help him rule. Grandsire will be quite cross with him when he leaves, and I won't blame him."
Lucerys isn't sure how to explain that Jacaerys is quite cross with Grandsire right now in a way that won't drive Rhaena to defensiveness.
"This Cregan is quite the fool, trying to fight in a war that is already finished," Rhaena grumbles. "North of the Neck men turn strange and lose all decorum. The Knights of the Vale have true honor: they are learned and wise. They know poetry, are skilled with the blade and lance, treat women with honor and chivalry. It seems that Lord Stark is more beast than man."
Lucerys is quite familiar with the Knights of the Vale. Perhaps even more than Rhaena, he thinks, or at least another side that they never allowed Rhaena to see. In the mountains of the Vale, Lucerys saw little decorum, little poetry, and even less chivalry. The Knights of the Vale that Lucerys met certainly played at honor, but Lucerys saw them celebrate after raids of the mountain clans.
But Rhaena is a dreamer, Lucerys remembers. She loves flights of fancy, loves great romantic gestures, and loves the ideals of knighthood.
"Compared to knights like Ser Corbray," she continues, "he falls quite short."
Luke wonders about the mention of Ser Corbray, who is a bit older than Rhaena to his memory. The knight is not one that Luke had the pleasure of spending much time with, which makes sense if Rhaena knows him well.
"Ser Corbray," Luke repeats slowly, allowing the implication to linger in the air.
Rhaena flushes red. "I did not mean-!"
Luke smiles at her slyly.
"I would never—! I—It's not like we're still betrothed anyways," she stammers. "I have not betrayed you. We are free to marry whoever we like anyways! We can marry, and find peace!"
Find peace? What does marriage have to do with peace, Luke laughs to himself. He asks, "Is that what peace is to you: a marriage and fat babes?"
"Well of course," Rhaena smiles at him winsomely, "Is it for everyone? If war is death, then peace must be life—marriage and children! I have a dragon now, and maybe in a few years Jacaerys will find me an honorable Lord Knight to marry…"
Lucerys remembers listening to Black Aly complain about the state of the Riverlands with quite a large portion of the men dead. Only, she hadn't phrased it that way. She had complained that the women were all widows, and the children were all orphans. She had defined the men by the wife they married and the children they fathered. Was that peace to her, he wonders? Lord Tully and his brother similarly wanted to go home and rebuild, with Kermit Tully mentioning finding a wife among his goals…
Lucerys wasn't sure he agreed with Rhaena that peace was tied to home and hearth, but it was certainly something to think about.
Jacaerys looks handsome in the crown of Aegon the conqueror, Lucerys thinks as he looks at his brother seated at the head of the council chamber. It has been less than a day, but already the crown looks at home on him, like it was meant for him. Lucerys only laments at its heaviness—the crown that their mother had worn was much more light but that one might forever be lost to them.
Jacaerys taps idly at the table while next to him Cregan Stark stands, gesturing at the map of Westeros stretched out at the center of the table. His deep voice echoes through the chamber, sending a shiver up Lucerys's spine until he feels a tingle in his nose.
"…with the forces of the Vale, siege would not take long. We must march soon if we should maintain our supplies…"
"What of the investigation you were heading, Lord Stark?" Lady Arryn draws Lucerys's attention back from observing his brother, her face stony in the still of the chambers.
Lord Stark pauses for a moment, rubs at his nose, and answers, "Nearly finished. The traitors should be ready for execution by tomorrow, I should say."
Jace shifts beside Luke, and he glances at his king. Jacaerys's face is stiff. Where before mentions of the traitors would draw frowns and grimaces, now Jacaerys's expression hardly changes.
Lucerys knew his brother's research had favored King Jaehaerys's reign as of late. Perhaps Jacaerys could be King Jacaerys the Reconciliator, reuniter of the broken realm.
"We can be on the road to the Baratheon stronghold by week's end," Lord Stark says, standing across from Jacaerys with a look of challenge in his eye.
Jacaerys cannot reconcile anything if Lord Stark still has his army, Lucerys thinks. Jacaerys keeps tapping his finger against the table, silent as stone. Lucerys grimaces to himself. Speak up! he thinks, but Jacaerys does nothing.
Lucerys stands, drawing eyes in the room. He thinks to speak, but his nose tickles, and he bites his tongue. The silence stretches for a beat too long, and Lucerys rushes out, "Or perhaps we might negotiate their surrender instead, Lord Stark."
Lord Stark's gaze is upon him, and Lucerys has never felt so hunted in his life. Even after his uncle—… Lord Stark has a certain way of staring so deeply that one felt flayed from the inside out. Lucerys feels a shiver run up his spine, and felt the tingle back in his nose. Now is not the time to sneeze, however. He brushes his nose forcefully and straightens, throwing his head up proudly. He is a dragon. He will not falter.
"You would have their sacrifice be for naught?" Lord Stark's voice echoes through the council chamber, deep and menacing. "I gathered, trained, and marched my army South just to die un-blooded?"
"Actually," Lucerys says, gripping the table for strength. Next to him, Jacaerys's hands have fallen still, so he continues, "I think they still have quite an important task to yet complete."
Lord Stark hums at this, eyes sweeping up and down Lucerys. He sneezes abruptly, causing the Lords and Ladies in the council chamber to jump in surprise.
Lucerys takes the opportunity to continue, "Yes, I think Lady Alysanne might have a valuable suggestion."
"I do?" Black Aly pipes up, brow wrinkled in confusion.
Lucerys nods to her, answering, "Of course! Lady Alysanne mentioned to me that the Riverlands were suffering from a dearth of men lost in honorable battle for my mother's throne. Perhaps she might have some ideas on redistributing the men of your army, Lord Stark, to where they are most needed."
And Black Aly is off, a spark of inspiration in her dark eyes. She starts to speak on markets of flesh rather than goods, and Lucerys discreetly turns away to sneeze once, twice—again and again he sneezes as lightly as he can into his hand. When he finally calms, he looks up to see Jacaerys's warm eyes gazing at him with fondness.
He turns back to the rest of the room to see Cregan Stark asking questions of Black Aly and Lord Tully, face neutral. He seems genuinely interested in their answers, and Luke is learning to see that this is already a victory. Lord Stark likes a challenge, he thinks.
"This is a good idea, Lady Alysanne, Brother," Jacaerys speaks up, drawing the council's attention back to him. "Lord Blackwood and Lord Tully have both spoken on their stewards reporting an increase in banditry. Mayhaps the men of the North might be an arm of the King's Justice."
Lucerys sees that Cregan Stark is focused on Jace's words like a bowman aiming an arrow. He is calm, his hands crossed behind his back in a relaxed pose.
Jacaerys continues, "My sweet brother speaks wisdom—we might see if the letters of peace my Grandsire sent have borne fruit. Tis foolish to fight against a foe that has already surrendered."
"My King," Cregan begins, "Treacherous enemies will only stab one in the back later. A foe crushed is true peace."
He argues, but Lucerys can see that he is still relaxed. He is finally hearing what the council is saying. If only Lucerys knew what would push him over the edge…
He sneezes, missing Jacaerys's rebuttal to Lord Stark's comment.
By the time he's swiped the unpleasant bit of snot leaking out of his nose, Jacaerys has stood up. He stretches to his full height, and the crown of Aegon to Conquerer rests nobly on his brow.
"Your men will release Lord Corlys Velaryon at once," he says, voice firm and confident. "He is no true foe to the realm. His actions were an affront to my family, and so I will handle him as the head of House Targaryen."
"So he will escape justice?" Lord Stark snarls, body stiffening.
"He will not escape the justice of the King," Jacaerys chides. "You need not concern yourself with him any longer."
Lord Stark takes one terrible moment to stare Jacaerys down, and it feels like everyone in the room is holding their breath. Then, a huff. No, a chortle. Lord Stark chuckles, smile flickering at the corner of his mouth.
"As you will it, my king," He says warmly. He turns to Stark guards waiting by the door, and they leave with a nod to him.
And Lucerys realizes: Lord Stark likes to be challenged. He feels foolish for not realizing it earlier. Lord Stark, like Daemon Targaryen, would push and push and push until someone he respects enough finally tells him to stop. Lucerys will have to use this somehow.
The door burst open with a terrible squeal, causing Lucerys to jump. Jacaerys, who had been pacing alongside Lucerys's chair, stills. It is a stiff, awkward sort of stillness that is clearly the work of training rather than personal calm. He faces the door, arms crossed behind his back.
The guards at the doorway enter, bracing a dark figure with grey hair between them. Grandsire. He looks exhausted. Every line of his face looks deep enough to be a crack. The guards march him to the open seat and help him lower himself down. He groans, and Lucerys is reminded that Grandsire is 77 years old.
With their task done, the guards bow with a short acknowledgement to their King, turn, and leave the room.
Silence falls.
Lucerys is grateful that Jacaerys had ordered Baela and Rhaena to stay with Aegon. As he takes in Grandsire's dirty clothes, dirt smudged cheeks, and fragrant scent, he knows that Grandsire would loathe for his granddaughters to see him in such a state.
Grandsire avoids Lucerys's eyes, but Lucerys feels no shame in openly observing his grandsire. He is a bit dirty, and clearly worn from his experience, but he wasn't thin or injured. His stay hadn't been pleasant, then, but he wasn't tortured like many of the true green supporters were. Lucerys takes a moment to bask in the familiar rasp of his Grandsire breathing until he notices it speeding up.
"I distinctly remember," Grandsire's voice breaks the stillness in the room, "A promise to free me from imprisonment."
Lucerys turns to look at his brother. Jacaerys's face is tilted in shadow, his shoulders tense. Lucerys couldn't quite get a good view, but Jacaerys slowly tilts up his head to look Grandsire in the eyes.
"That was before you colluded with the usurper to hold my youngest remaining brother captive, Grandsire," Jacaerys says lowly.
Grandsire bristles at once, brows furrowing and shoulders drawing up. "I know you are no fool, boy! What other choice did I have, what with your foolish Mother leaving me in that dungeon to rot?"
"He had Baela too," Jacaerys says, voice starting to rise. "Would you have fought me if he threatened her? Would you have traded my crown for the usurpers?"
Grandsire laughs derisively and leans back in his chair. He seems diminished somehow after the question. He sighs, and then he says, "It never would have come to that, Jacaerys. I did exactly what I needed to do—I killed him for you, for Baela, for Aegon!"
Jacaerys's eyes are red when Luke glances over. His shoulders shake, a fine tremble that Lucerys aches to soothe. He knows that Jacaerys wants to look and feel strong, however, so he stays put.
"And what of Luke?" Jacaerys demands, "You cast him aside for that boy the very moment Lucerys presented as Omega! How does that aid him?"
Lucerys turns from Jacaerys and looks at Corlys, hoping sickly to see a flicker of regret, anything. Corlys's face is stone, however. He avoids looking at Lucerys, instead looking unwaveringly at Jacaerys.
"That decision," he began lowly, "Was not an easy one to make. You may not understand it fully, but I made the wisest decision I could at the time."
Jacaerys scoffs at this, "And here I was hoping that my Grandsire might have more wisdom to lend me. If this is the quality of advice that the Sea Snake has after all his adventures, then perhaps I ought to seek it somewhere else."
"My ambitions have taught me the harshest lesson of all, Jace: temperance. I once sailed to satisfy my own hunger for wealth, for power, for legacy. I schemed to elevate my family to the level of kings, and I succeeded. But the cost— it cost me everything of true value. My wife, my children, and even my beloved grandchildren… So even if it hurts them…"
"Lucerys," he continues, finally turning to look Lucerys in the eye. His pale gaze focuses on Lucerys, nearly grey with exhaustion and poor lighting. "Even as a boy you were wiser than I. You cared not for power, only those you loved. I wish I had realized the cost of ambition earlier. I wanted you to be my legacy, to carry on my name and follow my actions. I wanted you to lead the Velaryon family in the seas, despite the danger. When you presented, when you survived that attack I had a long time to think. What I wanted most for you was to be hale again, unfettered by the expectations of your new sex. You are already my legacy and you need not commit any deed to prove yourself worthy of me."
Lucerys's vision blurs. Wetness traces down his cheek. A grounding hand rests on his shoulder. Jace.
"Your Mother's position has only brought her grief," Lord Velaryon slumps further in his chair, deflating. "I did not want you to suffer the same judgment and expectations. I wanted you safe in the care of your brother where you would be happiest."
Lucerys sniffs. His voice cracks when he finally swallows down his tears and speaks, "How was I to know that you still cared for me at all when you refused to even look at me? Are you not ashamed of me?"
"No!" Corlys says at once, "I could not be ashamed! My heart hurt for what that terrible boy did to you, but I could not be ashamed of you. "
"You wouldn't even speak to me," Lucerys says, voice weak.
Grandsire groans and leans forward to rest his forehead briefly in his hands before running his hands down his long silver locs.
"I was ashamed at myself," he says quietly. "I was placed in an impossible situation, and you both paid for it. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you."
"Will you," Jace sneers, "How can I trust you when you've left Luke here sneezing up a storm by himself?"
"Sneezing?" Grandsire asks, voice odd. He straightens in his chair, and he looks again to Lucerys, eyes intense, " You've been sneezing a lot, lad?"
Was he dying? Lucerys thinks. Heart thudding in his chest, Lucerys leans forward slightly and says, "A bit, I suppose. Is that bad?"
"How much is a bit, boy?"
Lucerys pauses to look up at Jacaerys, who seems equally confounded. Thinking back, he answers, "Enough that I had to leave that one family supper. And during the meetings…"
"Family supper?" Corlys breathes before he shakes his head and continues, "You would have done it before. Who else was there?"
"The guards—"
"Who else?" Grandsire cuts him off, "Someone who was also at the meetings?"
"Only Lord Stark," Jacaerys says, brow furrowed,
Corlys's face darkens and he is silent for a few heartbeats.
"Is there something wrong, Grandsire?" Jacaerys asks. He reaches down again to rest his hand on Lucerys's shoulder and squeezes it tight. "Will Lucerys be fine?"
Grandsire seems to have worked through whatever his concern was, for he sets his jaw and focuses back on his grandsons. He reaches across the space between their chairs for Lucerys's hands. Grandsire's palms are warm and dry, slightly cracked with ill-care. They dwarf Lucerys's as always, and something in him feels comforted by the confident grip of his Grandsire.
"Rejoice, lad," he says, "Few Valyrians are blessed with the good fortune of meeting their Blood-match."
Jacaerys mouths 'Blood-match' beside him, squeezing unconsciously on Luke's shoulder. Lucerys shrugs, knocking Jace's hand off.
Before Lucerys can ask anything, Grandsire continues, "Has Lord Stark sneezed around you, Luke?"
Lord Stark has been sneezing a fair amount. Lucerys had thought that whatever had been bothering Lucerys had also bothered Cregan Stark. He says, "I suppose."
Grandfather shakes his head a bit, then mutters, "Only you could out-stubborn that man."
"What is a Blood-match, Grandfather?" Lucerys asks, tugging on Grandsire's hand. "Tell us plainly!"
"A Blood-match is found among those with Valyrian blood only—a gift from the goddess Syrax. A sneeze—like breathing flames—kindles the burning desire of the blood. A passionate relationship will amount from the match. Lord Stark seems to be yours."
And there are so many implications from that. Lucerys thinks at once about the resentment clear in Grandsire's voice. Lord Stark had jailed him and campaigned for his execution as traitor—a slight Grandsire is not likely to forget any time soon. But Grandsire has preached lately of peace and forgiveness, accepting apologies and forgetting bygone mistakes.
"I had to leave supper when the sneezing became too much," He says, "Will it ever cease?"
"Of course," Corlys scoffs, "You've truly never heard of Blood-matches? Seems a waste…"
"How were we to know, Grandsire?," Jacaerys burst out, shifting subtly to block Lucerys from Grandsire's view, "Who was left to guide us: everyone we love is dead!"
"Fool boy! You are my oldest Grandson—I named you myself! Why would you think I wouldn't answer your questions?" Corlys demands. "I never meant—I only thought Daemon or your Mother would have mentioned it to you. Daemon always regretted he had no Blood-match."
"He died before he could," Jacaerys says, "And now only you are left."
"I will not betray your trust again, Jacaerys, I swear it. Just as I am all you have left, you are all I have left: my precious grandchildren. I am sorry that I gave you cause to doubt, but I never wavered from your cause."
Jacaerys slumps down, collapsing like a pile of puppet parts. His eyes are red, and his chin pebbles in an ugly pout. Lucerys is torn between comforting him or leaving him to cry in peace. Jace straightens himself, however, and looks Corlys straight in the eyes.
"It shall crush my heart to ever doubt you again. I need you by my side, so that we can help Lucerys with that Blood-match business, and so that you may aid me in negotiating peace with the rouge houses of the realm."
"You have all that is left of me, my King," Corlys promises, and his grip in Lucerys's hands is sure.
With Corlys settled into the care of his grandchildren after a bath and beard trim, Lucerys has a mission.
Lord Stark approached war with a sense of dogged inevitability that was almost laudable. Lucerys did not want to continue fighting, however, and he has slowly come to realize that Cregan Stark could be convinced to let the war die. Lucerys has been waiting for others to act, for Jacaerys to stand up to his Hand. Jacaerys had stood up to his Hand, and now it was time for Lucerys to do his part.
Cregan Stark has been settled into the Tower of the Hand, so that is where Lucerys looks first for the Northern Lord. He knocks on the Hand's solar door, and is greeted with a deep bid for entry.
Cregan Stark sits at the great wooden desk that Otto Hightower once plotted at, and the tabletop is littered with correspondence. As Lucerys enters, Cregan sets down the quill in his hand and laces his fingers, giving Luke his full attention. It is a weighty thing, an almost physical presence that bears down on Lucerys.
"Can I help you, my prince?" Cregan asks.
Lucerys gathers his courage and says, "It is time for the petty grudge that is not even yours to ledger to be put aside, my lord."
"And why would I do this, little prince?" Cregan smirks.
"You will do it because I tell you to," Lucerys says. "You will follow my commands because you want to please me."
Cregan smiles at this, fingers drumming in a thoughtless motion. There is something dark in his gaze, something that blows his pupils out and gives his pale eyes warmth. Something that sends chills down Lucerys's spine. Lucerys straightens, ignoring the fright, and stands tall. He is a dragonrider, the brother of the king. He is blooded in war, controlling one of the strongest beasts in the realm, and is a dragon in human form. He has nothing to fear.
"And why would I want to make someone that is not mine own happy?" Cregan asks, in the tone of an adult playing along with a child's fancy.
Lucerys should strike Cregan's fool face. He is a prince of the blood, not a child to be appeased. He puffs up, ready to spit a response, and then he feels it. A sneeze tingles at the back of his nose. He thinks that he will spend the rest of his life sneezing in the presence of this horrid man, for there is no chance that Cregan will unbend his stiff neck and commit to peace. Cregan will never properly participate in the Valyrian blood ritual.
Lucerys allows a moment for despair as he tries to somehow choke down the sneeze, but he fails. With a great squeak, he sprays Lord Stark right in the face with spittle and snot. When he sees what he has wrought with Cregan's face, he finds his resolve. He is Lucerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, and he will not know defeat.
"Making me happy will be the quickest way to make me 'your own' ," Lucerys says, wiping his mouth. "Beyond that, pleasing me will please Jacaerys, your King."
"And?" Cregan asks, having not moved so much as a muscle to clean his face. The warmth is still there in his eyes, something that edges towards hunger.
"And," Lucerys continues, "Pleasing Jacaerys shall allow him to grant you what you want."
"What do I want, little prince?" Cregan asks.
"Me," Lucerys breathes. Then again, firmer, "You want me. You should want to please me because you like me. You should please my brother because he may grant you my hand. You should listen to my commands and obey me, because you want me to want you back."
He feels like a child when he says it, but it comes out before he can pretty up his words.
Cregan seems to like it, for he smiles. It's an expression Lucerys never thought he would see: Cregan seems allergic to joy and happiness. This is not quite that—even Cregan's smiles seem tinged with something deep and dark. They are not joy, not quite, but Lucerys still likes the expression on him.
"You once made a pact with Jace, that he would send his firstborn daughter to marry your son." He has a split second where he wonders if he will really say what he's thinking of saying, but then: "I wouldn't be opposed to them marrying, but I think our children ought to have some choice over their marriage partners lest they decide to flee their betrothals."
Lord Stark is perfectly still for a heartbeat or two, then he flexes his fingers. His previously pale eyes are completely dark as he looks Lucerys in the eyes. His beard shifts, and Luke thinks that he's working his jaw. Then, he too gives a sneeze. He, at least, is considerate enough to cover his mouth.
"How bold of you to presume that I desire you," Cregan comments, though the edges of his mouth are curled in a smile.
Lucerys smiles back, all teeth, "Your eyes betray you, Lord Stark. You watch me as a hound on a deer. You hunger. And fortunately for you, my blood hungers back."
"What does that mean?" Cregan asks, drawing back slightly.
"The sneezing—you've noticed it, have you not? Grandsire told us what it meant. It's a gift from the Valyrian goddess Syrax, a sign that our blood burns for each other," Lucerys says, perhaps a bit too hastily.
Cregan sits back in his chair, eyes sweeping up and down Lucerys. He feels bare, judged and found wanting. Cregan clearly doesn't like something about this.
"Tis a blessing," Lucerys asserts, trying to draw himself up. He is unsure, but he must forge onward. "You already desired me, the blessing only makes it clear that we would be well suited. It proves that you are worthy of a dragon."
Cregan relaxes slightly at this, and Lucerys sees his chance. He continues, "I will not marry a Lord that will leave me to fight and die in siege. The war is over, is it not? It is time for us to find peace in marriage."
Cregan taps a finger against the desk, rubbing absently at his nose with his other hand. He stares through Luke, contemplating. Lucerys shifts slightly, and Cregan's eyes focus on him whip fast.
"A bride seems as good a price as any for peace," he says slowly, "If the war is over, there is no need for me to remain away from my lands. I would not leave King's Landing without a wife to keep me warm for the trip…"
"Then a wife you shall have," Lucerys says. "I shall travel with you and reside in Winterfell, though I cannot promise to stay. My brother still has need of me, and dragon wings can ferry me quite quickly."
"A deal will be struck," Cregan promises, "A compromise can be found."
"The man sees sense!" Lucerys laughs. "You will marry me, then, and cease with your plans for bloodshed?"
Cregan looks him up and down once more, and nods, the warmth burning in his eyes. "Aye. I will put aside Ice for my bride, if he so asks."
Lucerys finds himself beaming. Cregan, the great bear, is not so fearsome in the face of a true dragon! Now, the real challenge will be explaining to Jace the bargain Lucerys has struck.
Rhaena has scarcely started her prattle over that night's supper, when Luke slams his cup down on the table and draws all his remaining family's eyes to him. Cregan has refrained from attending this night's dinner in deference to Corlys, and at Luke's request. News of the marriage Lucerys has struck will not be popular.
"I have an announcement," he says enjoying the confusion in their eyes.
"I have ended the war," he says.
Baela scrapes her fork against her plate, expression showing her bafflement and impatience. Rhaena, meanwhile, has a befuddled yet supportive smile for him. Jacaerys turns from his conversation with Aegon, smile falling from his lips. He's always had a sense for Lucerys drawing trouble.
"I have brokered a deal with Cregan Stark," he continues. "The armies of the North will disband peaceably upon the surrender of the Greens, and submit themselves to Black Aly's marriage markets or seek whatever employment they might find. Cregan Stark has promised to no longer impede negotiations with the Greens."
Corlys tosses his napkin over his already modest dinner. He frowns at Luke, violet eyes nearly grey in the candlelight. "What was the cost of this bargain, lad?" he asks.
Lucerys basks in his family's attention, drawing the moment out for as long as he can. Jacaerys leans forward and opens his mouth, so Lucerys knows his revelry must be cut short. He cuts Jacaerys off before his brother can demand anything, "Marriage."
Baela's eyes grow wide, and she slams back in her chair so forcefully that Lucerys can hear it squeak lightly on the stone floor. Rhaena keeps her head a little better, though she drops her fork. Aegon frowns, and Jacaerys's face drops in shock. Grandsire, meanwhile, has turned nearly as grey as he looked earlier in the dungeon, and his brow sets in anger.
"Who is marrying?" Rhaena titters, looking about the rest of the family nervously. "Surely not—"
"Cregan Stark will wed me and take me back to Winterfell," Lucerys announces. "He has kindly agreed to no longer hold you to your pact, Jacaerys. I will give him all the daughters he desires."
Jacaerys droops at that, a strange tension entering his shoulders. He says, "After so long apart, not knowing if you were well, if you were still alive, you have finally been returned to my side. And now, you say you will leave after barely a week in my presence?"
"We are dragonriders," Lucerys chides, "I am never so far from your side. Cregan is not so selfish to keep me from you—I would not allow it!"
Jacaerys seems sufficiently mollified by this, for he promises Lucerys "a wedding to remember", which sends Rhaena into paroxysms of delight.
"Oh you will have to allow me to help you plan!" she crows. "I will need practice for my own wedding after all!"
"Not too soon, I hope," Grandsire mutters.
"And what of our wedding," Baela asks Jacaerys. "You promised to wed me once the war was over? Now, Lucerys is marrying that horrible man, when will our wedding be?"
Jacaerys's eyes shift to the side. He says lowly, "Baela, you are only four-and-ten summers… I will not discuss this with you right now."
Baela reddens, fists clenching. Lucerys doesn't think he's ever seen her so wroth in his life, not even when Grandsire was arrested.
Speaking of—
"Are you so sure about this, Lucerys?" Grandsire asks, grief lining his face. "You should have someone that has earned your hand."
"With our situation as it is, I can barely stand to be in his presence for too long. If he is meant for me, then our marriage will be all the happier. For now, I would like to be able to have a conversation without sneezing on his face."
And with that, the match is set.
Wedding planning is quickly overshadowed by negotiations, so much so that Lucerys ends up leaving it in Rhaena's trustworthy hands. They are in no position to frivolously spend money they don't have, no matter how Jacaerys despairs that Lucerys's wedding will be simpler than he deserves.
And so it passes that the Lannisters, Baratheons, and Tyrells have bargained their surrender to their King. With the remaining Green supporters either executed or sent to the Wall, Cregan has little reason to stay in King's Landing in the face of a long winter.
Lucerys is wed to him in a succession of short ceremonies by Rhaena's design. First, a small public ceremony in the Sept of the Red Keep. Then, an alien ceremony in the Weirwood before Cregan's men. Finally, a private ceremony with only Targaryens witnessing in the King's Solar. It is perhaps this ceremony that feels most real to Lucerys.
Corlys oversees, glowering at Cregan the entire way through.
The ritual to break the Blood-mate blessing is deceptively simple, similar enough to Valyrian wedding vows to incite Lucerys's curiosity. Which came first, he wonders: were the wedding vows modeled off the Blood-mate ceremony, or is the Blood-mate ceremony an extension of the original wedding vows?
A sting to his hand draws his attention away from his unimportant musings.
"Blood of Two, joined as one," Corlys chants.
Cregan has sliced a thin cut across Luke's palm with a small dagger of dragon glass. Blood wells in his palm, and Cregan carefully tips Lucerys's hand so the blood drips in a goblet of blood. His eyes are intent on Lucerys's hand, something lupine in his gaze at the sight of Luke's blood. When he finishes, he lifts Luke's hand up to lap at Luke's hand with his tongue. Lucerys jerks his hand back at the tickle, disgusted and aroused both.
"…two hearts as embers, forged in the fourteen flames…"
Lucerys moved mechanically through the next steps, slicing Cregan's palm and tilting some drops of blood in the same goblet. He reaches up with the dagger to carefully slice Cregan's lower lip, invigorated by how Cregan stays perfectly still for him. His eyes don't even blink as Lucerys draws blood, so focused is he on staring at Luke.
Lucerys gather the blood on his finger and starts drawing glyphs—Blood on Cregan's brow, Syrax's name over his nose, and a claiming streak down Cregan's throat. He passes the dagger back to Cregan, and focuses on his husband as Cregan lifts the dagger up to Lucerys's lips. He forces himself to stay still and calm as he feels a sting, tracing the Valyrian words over and over in his mind. Blood, Syrax, mine. Cregan's wet finger traces at his forehead, his nose, and his throat. Blood forever entwined, he thinks, two hearts beating as one.
He may not know Cregan well yet, but he thinks he has a good measure of Cregan Stark's character, and he likes what he sees. Quiet intensity, dogged determination, and loyalty despite all odds—he is impressed with Cregan Stark. He thinks he will like to get to know this man, like to build a future together with him.
"…Vows spoken through time, of darkness and light…"
When Aemond chased him in that storm, Lucerys thought he and Arrax would die. Lucerys's survival was almost like a rebirth, with him coming into his new life as an omega. Uncertainty and loss plagued his first year after presentation. Now, he would build something new with a man that was as fierce as he was, a man that hungered for him and would shelter him through the uncertainty. Now, his new life could truly begin.
Lucerys lifts the goblet of wine and blood, and takes a deep draught. It tastes of iron, rich wine, and spices. He's never tasted anything so good.