Chapter Text
He noticed the ravens first.
None at all had left the rookery since the end of the war. No one in Westeros would be caught communicating with the named traitors, all but begging for the King’s ire. Even the legitimized bastard that had inherited Driftmark didn’t dare, even if his cousins haunted Dragonstone like a plague.
Luke watched them fly one after the other, day after day. Inky black wings stark against the blue of the sky and white of the clouds. He’d asked Jace who it was, of course he had, but his brother had refused to tell him.
He and Rhaena pressed in close when the strange man arrived at their little dock. His ship was too grand to be a fisherman or even an envoy sent from some minor lord, and had no sigil adorning its sail. The men employed on it didn’t so much as make eye contact when they approached, leaving them with no way of finding out where it had come from.
Except to eavesdrop.
“Hush!” Rhaena whispered when Joffrey pressed in with them, broad shoulders knocking into the wall. They all froze and looked through the crack of the doors again, but neither man inside seemed to notice them. Luke let out a breath.
They could hear nothing as the two spoke, their words so low Luke doubted they could hear each other at all. But a paper was passed across the table all the same, and Jace bent low with a quill in hand to scribble across it.
He stood. They shook hands, Jace with an obviously forced smile, and the paper was rolled up and tucked away beneath the man’s arm. Another word, and they made for the hall.
All three jumped back from the door, nearly falling in their haste to get away.
“Go!” Rhaena whisper-shouted, but the doors were opening behind them already, and it was too late to hide what they were doing.
Jace’s eyes fell to them one after the other, a silent tongue-lashing behind them.
Joff cleared his throat. “Um. Wonderful weather, isn’t it, Rhaena?” He tried, earning a not-so-gentle shove towards the wall, and a mumbled curse.
Jace’s gaze fell to Luke last. It stayed a moment too long, his lips pressed too tightly together. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he had the urge to flee.
***
The sea was not kind to them. Two days were spent fighting the unexpected storm, the ship rocking like it may tip over at any moment. It was only as they approached the mainland that the bashing waves had ceased. Luke stood at the very front of the boat, seaspray misting his face, stinging at his eyes and cheeks. The red castle loomed over him like a curse.
He found himself thinking of his dragon. Arrax’s pearlescant wings, the horns that ran down his spine just barely tinged with pink. The beast had been impossibly fast and agile, able to weave through the tightest of corners as they flew together.
But his agility had been no match for Vaghar’s sheer size and strength. One horrible snap of her jaws, and Arrax had been lost to the waves, Lucerys nearly with him. It was only by the mercy of the Gods that he had been scooped from the stormy ocean and returned to his mother.
Or perhaps it was a cruel joke on their part, to be returned only to then be sold to the man who had sent them crashing into the churning sea to begin with. If he thought about it for too long, the winding scar along his side would begin to ache.
“You’re thinking too hard, valonqar.” Jace slid smoothly beside him, his own dark curls messed handsomely atop his head, his cheeks stained pink from the sun. He smiled at Luke as he took his place, and Luke had to bury the scowl that threatened to surface.
He should have run when he saw the first raven take flight from their rookery. It was surely an omen what was to come, the secret Jace had kept hidden until it finally came to a head at dinner.
“You cannot mean it,” Joffrey whispered angrily, looking wildly between his two older brothers. “You mean to marry him to that monster?”
Jace was nearly green as he made the announcement, fingers pressed so firmly together, his first knuckles were white. “It’s the only way for true peace. With this marriage, we won’t have to worry about Aemond coming for us anymore.”
“No, only that we’ll be invited to a funeral within the fortnight. Surely anyone else would suit? I could go in his place, even. There’s no need for Luke to be tortured for the rest of his life.” Rhaena argued, lip curled as she spoke.
Jace sighed, sitting back in his large wooden chair and sipping gingerly from his goblet. A droplet of wine dribbled from the corner of his mouth, leaving a red streak down his chin. He wiped it away with the pad of his thumb, his brown eyes finding Luke.
He felt frozen at the announcement. As though even his heart had stopped beating inside his chest.
He pictured Aemond sitting across from him at the table, all harsh lines and harsher words, if he could spare any for Luke at all. He thought of how he sounded the last time they had met, his words muffled by the thunder and rain and the sound of dragon fire burning the very air he breathed.
They had been friends once, what had felt like centuries before. An unlikely duo, Aemond twice his age with the towering height to match. Afternoons spent reading under the canopy of leaves in the Godswood, speaking to each other in broken Valyrian.
It had come crashing down around them the day Laena Velaryon died, and Aemond had taken her dragon. Insults thrown, then fists. Then a rock held higher than the heavens, and Luke had swung with the only weapon he had.
The tentative friendship they shared had washed away in a river of blood and terrible, shrieking screaming, and any moment between them after was venom spit between sharp words, sharper than even the dagger Luke had wielded that night.
“This is the only way we keep our heads, and get our mother’s line back on the throne. I don’t like it anymore than the rest of you-“
“But you’re the one who decided, anyway,” Rhaena snapped, pushing against the table to rise from her chair. She stalked out of the dining room without another word or glance to any of them.
“Lucerys,” Jace said again, pulling him from his thoughts. They were even closer to the Keep, then. A mere stone’s throw from the port.
“I’m fine.” He insisted, and turned away to hide below deck until the last second he could.
***
Alicent Hightower was not the woman he remembered.
Luke remembered her best from that night in Driftmark, dagger drawn from the King’s own belt, aimed right for Lucerys. She had been wild that night, a woman protecting her cubs, shrieking about justice and propriety. Her hair had been a mess about her from sleep, her robe loosening further with each step over her nightclothes. Her snarl had stained into his corneas, haunting his dreams for years after.
Then later, just before the war. Her hair had been pulled into a sleek bun at her crown, face pinched in disapproval at the three mops of brown hair at her table, a shade and tint of red off from her own. She scowled when they tried to speak to her, hardly touching her food. She chose instead to keep her hands placed firmly beneath the table on her lap, likely picking her nailbeds to shreds. She was somehow more frightening like that than at Driftmark.
And now. Something was broken beneath the surface, like a crack in the ice of a frozen-over pond. She did not scowl, but nor did she smile as the Velaryon brothers exited the carriage. Jace had thought it best their siblings stayed behind at Dragonstone. Should anything happen, they would be safely out of harm’s way.
“Your rooms have been prepared.” The dowager queen said coldly, the warm breeze pushing her loose mane away from her face. She seemed drearier, then, the lines in her face more pronounced than they should have been at her young age. A streak of stark white cut through the red just over her right eye.
She took one step forward, stopping in front of Lucerys. She looked down her nose as she assessed him, eyes running over his frame, the way his grey cloak clung to his shoulders, the way his boots dripped with stick sea-spray even as far as the courtyard. She sniffed and turned away, heading into the Keep.
“Where is Aemond?” Luke asked as they followed her. The Keep was empty, their footsteps echoing like thunder around them. Not even any servants made themselves known. He shuddered. Last time he was there, the halls had been full of life. He couldn’t take a step in any direction without stumbling into some lord or lady or another.
The overcast sky let in little light, leaving the halls covered in shadow. At least the seven-pointed star tapestries had been taken down and replaced with the original Targaryen ones, macabre as they were. Balerion stared down at him from one, maw open just before he spit his fire to cleanse the earth in ash.
“He won’t be seeing you today, he has duties to attend to. Running a kingdom is no easy task.”
He looked at Jace from the side of his eye. He was scowling at the dowager queen’s back, irritation evident in his every move. He knew how hard it would be. He had spent every day of his first twenty-one years preparing for it. And his destiny and duty had been stolen from him, just as it was stolen from their mother.
The three came to a stop in the guest’s wing – not the royal wing, of course not. Alicent turned on her heel sharply to face them. “I’m sure you can manage from here. Let the staff know if you need anything else.”
What staff? Luke thought, looking around the still-empty palace, not a single sign of life.
Jace turned to him after her footsteps had faded. “Luke-”
“Save it,” he sneered, stalking away and slamming the door to the nearest room behind him.
The chill of the wood was a welcome sensation on his back. He stood against it a moment, trying to calm his breathing and stormy mind.
***
The day had dragged on, like a slow march into battle. Jace had come once, and Luke had quickly run him out of the room. He wouldn’t have an audience to his shame, especially not Jacaerys.
He stood in front of the large mirror in the corner of the room – not his room. It was made very clear that he would be moving rooms after the ceremony, a fact that sent blood rushing hot through his ears and vomit creeping up his throat – and took in the sight of himself. He had feared Aemond might force him into a gown, if only to further his humiliation. But no. His uncle had opted for a traditional Valyrian wedding. The robes Luke wore would be the same as Aemond’s, with only the addition of a golden head piece. It sat heavily on his forehead, slipping further down with every move he made. He pushed it up again, only for it to slip down to his eyes. He sighed in exasperation and ripped it from his head, tossing it onto the bed behind him.
No, he couldn’t let this go on. He had tried his best, for his brother if for nothing else, but his courage was quickly waning. His only choice now was to run.
He ripped off the robe and tossed it with the head piece on the bed, tugging on the trousers and linen shirt he had worn before. It would make it easier to move, make him less conspicuous.
The corridor was empty, not a soul in sight. It made it that much easier for Luke to slip away unnoticed. He hardly knew the Keep anymore, but finding a way down couldn’t have been so hard. He made his way down the first stairwells he saw, keeping an eye and ear out for any sign of life around him.
Guards were stationed at either side of the courtyard exit, swords brandished menacingly on their sides. Surely Luke was not allowed out into the city. Someone would have the foresight to know he would make a run for it, even if he only thought of it a few moments before. The gate wasn’t a feasible option.
He turned the opposite way, towards the gardens. They were pretty enough in the summer, even without the light of the sun. Flowers bloomed all around him, their sweet scent permeating the air to an almost sickening degree. The walls of the gardens were high, too high for him to reach properly without climbing.
He looked around for anyone watching, but the palace seemed completely deserted. He headed deeper into the maze anyway, until he was sure he was at the very edge of it. They were sprawling, his only company the statues that peered eerily at him from their place among the plants.
He walked on until he found a section of wall covered in flowered vines thick enough that they might hold his weight. He gripped them tightly and hiked up a foot, waiting a moment to see if he might fall before lifting the other. He was halfway up the wall before his feet were slipping and he hit the ground. He got up, brushing himself off quickly before starting his climb again.
“Going somewhere?” A voice sounded behind him, startling him enough that he nearly fell a second time. He tried to turn his head to see who it was, but his range of motion was limited with how he held himself to climb, and couldn’t see anyone in his periphery. Luke huffed, taking another step up.
“No,” he grunted, pulling himself higher. He made it farther than he had the time before. If the vines were stronger, he might have been able to reach all the way to the top of the wall and haul himself up. But they creaked perilously under his hands, instead, and he was stuck trying to figure out how to climb them further.
“Really?” The voice came again as he tried another spot, and gained another inch up the wall. “Because it looks like you’re trying.”
Trying being the key word. He moved a hand to the right, and broke a vine from the wall when he tested his weight on it. He cursed under his breath, and tried a different section.
“I don’t think it’s any of your fucking business,” he spit, moving his foot and gaining another inch. It was grueling. Another step, and another vine broke, nearly sending him to the ground again.
A hum came. “Perhaps not. You clearly have this well in hand.”
He could scream. It was bad enough he was failing at his grand escape, he didn’t need some asshole servant behind him mocking him for it.
“If you insist on being there, at least make yourself useful and give me a boost. I can nearly reach the top.”
Something like a snort came, and the distinct sound of a boot crunching against the dirt. He pulled himself up another step. “I would, it’s only, it’d be rather foolish of me to help my own bride escape before the ceremony has even begun.”
He froze entirely, his knuckles turning white where they gripped the vines too tightly. The hairs on the back of his neck raised in realization of who exactly the man was behind him, watching him cling to the wall like a spider in its web.
A barely-there creak, and the vines broke beneath his hands. He clattered to the ground ungracefully, one foot twisted still in the vine. He landed with an unattractive oof, a puff of dust springing up around him.
Luke blinked against the new, dull ache in his skull, up to the spectre of white staring down at him. How had he not realized it before? Of course Aemond would find him now, just as he was making his escape. Of course his uncle would be the one to thwart his plans. Aemond’s lip quirked on one side in something that must have been meant to be a smile, but it reminded Luke starkly of a snake slithering to its prey.
He should get up. He should push himself from the ground and make a break for it in the other direction, take his chances with the posted guards. He wouldn’t be the first person to run from a royal wedding, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. He could take Aemond by surprise and go.
But Aemond’s gaze kept him pinned to the ground. His eyes, both the violet iris and the solid blue gem, stared intently at his face, as if taking in his prize. Luke flushed under the scrutiny, heat rising to his cheeks and the points of his ears.
“You should be readying for the ceremony, taoba.” Aemond said simply, stepping back to allow Luke the room to pull himself from the ground, taking his unnerving gaze with him. “It’s uncomely to keep guests waiting.”
“I am the fucking guest,” Luke grumbled, pushing himself to at least sit, rather than roll in the dirt like some worm after the rain. He coughed once and rubbed at the forming knot on his head.
Aemond tutted, walking slowly in a circle around him, arms clasped together behind his back. Luke finally looked at him properly, and suppressed a groan. Of course Aemond had managed to grow larger in the two years since he saw him last. In Storm’s End, he had been lithe, more lean muscle than anything else. Battle and age seemed to have forced him to fill out, though. His shoulders pushed the black velvet fabric containing him taut. His arms were larger, too, like he had spent every moment of every day since the war began swinging a damned sword.
He probably imagined Lucerys as he did.
“Let me make one thing clear, Lucerys,” he spit his name like a curse. “I will not have some plain-featured bitch making a fool of me in my own castle.”
Luke scoffed, pushing up to finally stand. Aemond had inherited the Hightower height, so he loomed over Luke, despite the fact that he could be considered tall himself. The way Aemond had grown in width didn’t help matters. He felt like a gnat in the face of a dragon. Still, he didn’t lower his gaze or submit, choosing instead to lift his chin and face his uncle head on.
“Watch how you speak to me, uncle. Don’t forget who it was who took half your sight.”
Aemond smiled fully at that, like it was exactly what he had been waiting for. His tongue stuck out to worry the end of his canine, a malicious gleam flashing in his eye. He stalked forward, hands still behind his back, crowding Luke until his back hit the mess of vines behind him. Aemond’s breath dragged across the bridge of his nose, warm and wet, yet cooling the sweat that had begun to accumulate there.
“Don’t forget who holds your family's very lives in his hands. Who the last man in the world with a dragon is.”
Luke swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. The threat was clear as day, hanging dark and thick in the sliver of air left between them. He gripped his hands into fists so they wouldn’t shake.
“Why are you doing this?” He whispered, eyes narrowed.
Aemond shrugged casually, as though they were discussing the weather, that cruel smile still staining his lips. “I needed a Targaryen womb. Should I have chosen sweet, soft Rhaena instead?”
Bile climbed from his stomach at that, clawing and stinging at his throat. He studied the hard lines of his uncle’s face, the scar that cut across his jaw in a deep gash, and the one that Luke had replaced his eye with. Aemond’s eye dilated as he looked, as though he were drinking him in right back.
“No.” Luke sneered. Rhaena could not make a home here, though she would certainly try. He had spent too many days hearing her dreams of romance and love, being swept off her feet and carried into the sunset. “Don’t go anywhere near her.”
“Then behave yourself.” Aemond spat, and finally stepped back. It was like air could finally fill his lungs again, the claustrophobic weight of his uncle leaving him left him feeling light. He gripped the vines behind him to keep himself from swaying. “Go finish getting ready. I won’t be left waiting.”
He quirked his head to the side, gesturing towards the way back to the Keep. Luke hesitated, keeping Aemond’s hard gaze in his own, before turning on his heel and stalking away.
***
It was too soon before Luke found himself standing across from his uncle again, clad in the tan and red traditional garb of their house. The headpiece was heavier than he expected, slipping down his forehead every few minutes, the solid gold digging into his skin as it did. He pushed it up, a single strand of curl caught in it and pulling free from his scalp. He grimaced, but said nothing.
Aemond was dressed in the same robes as Luke without the headpiece, his hair pulled back in one simple braid down his spine, impossibly long. His face was completely impassive as he stared. The man beside them – not a Valyrian priest, they were all long dead with the doom of their motherland, but an official priest was not necessary for a union of flame – spoke, but his words were muffled over the sound of blood rushing through Luke’s ears.
He handed the dragonglass blade to Aemond first, who took it confidently in his grasp. He took a step forward, and Luke had to suppress the urge to step back. A large hand found its home on the nape of his neck, holding him still as he dragged the sharp edge over Luke’s lower lip. It stung less than he thought it would, even as his blood beaded to the surface and dripped over his chin. Aemond collected it on the pad of his thumb and used it like ink to paint the Valyrian symbol for blood on Luke’s forehead.
He handed the dragon glass over to Luke handle first, a glint in his eye that dared him to try something. He considered it a moment, plunging the blade into Aemond’s chest, watching the life drain from his last remaining eye and his blood pool between them into the grassy hill.
Aemond smiled knowingly. Maybe he could hear Luke’s very thoughts.
He lifted it instead, noting the minute way Aemond tensed as the blade came too close to his eye, and dragged it too deep along Aemond’s lip. The man didn’t flinch. He used his blood to draw the symbol for fire on his forehead, just between his eyebrows.
The man officiating brought out a goblet of wine, red and swirling in the gold cup.
Luke chanced a look at Jace, stood to the side alongside Alicent, his hands clasped firmly in front of him, his face dark. As if he were not responsible for the fate that had befallen them. His brother tried for a comforting smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
He turned again and cut the palm of his own hand before he could think better of it. This one stung, the blade too sharp not to cut too deep. He’d be feeling the gash for weeks, if it healed properly. Perhaps it would fester and become infected, and he would die before having to live through too many horrors under his uncle’s rule. It’d be painless, for the most part. They’d pump him full of milk of the poppy, and he would dream until he didn’t.
Aemond took the glass from him. He was too caught in his own musings to hand it over, and cut his palm, pressing the wound to Luke’s. The man officiating brought forward a red and gold rope and wrapped it loosely over their hands, their blood mixing and soaking the fabric, dripping past it. He put the goblet beneath it, collecting the blood and handing it to Aemond.
His uncle drank deeply, keeping eye contact all the way. When he pulled the cup away again, his lip had stained completely dark, the blood-filled wine thick and dark on his pink skin. He pushed the goblet into Luke’s hand and raised his brows.
He hoped no one could tell how his hand trembled as he grasped it, lifting the goblet just below his chin. A sip and a kiss, and Aemond would own him, body and soul. He shuddered, despite himself.
“Drink.” Aemond’s voice cut through the haze, low and steady, like a stone cutting through water. Luke closed his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to meet the man’s gaze for the thousandth time, the history between them too violent, too all-consuming. It would swallow him whole if he didn’t steal himself now.
It was too metallic, more blood than sweet wine in the goblet. The heat of it felt as though it would burn his tongue. He forced a mouthful of the vile liquid anyway, swallowing hard and nearly throwing the drink at the man beside them in his haste to get it away from himself. His nose crinkled as it coated his mouth and throat, clinging to the white bone of his teeth.
More words were spoken, unintelligible to Luke as he willed himself not to vomit, his bile burning worse than the blood. Aemond was leaning in close, his scorching hot hand on Luke’s nape again and pulling him in. For one fleeting moment, he thought the other man meant to bite him, finally devour him the way Vhagar had meant to all those years before. But he stopped when their lips met, hardly moving, more blood spilling between them.
It was chaste. It could almost be called respectful, if anyone else was on the other side of it. Luke hardly returned it at all. His compliance was all he would offer then, and nothing more. If Aemond demanded his presence, he would have what Luke offered, and nothing else.
When they pulled away, Luke’s breath lost in it, his lungs screaming with it, Aemond’s pupil was wider than it had been. It roamed over him, crossing his eyes and nose before settling on the thinly veiled sneer Luke wore. The man’s lip twitched upwards.
***
There was no celebratory feast after. No lords or ladies had traveled to witness their union, and none resided at the Keep. It was only the four of them, and would be three on the morrow when Jace left back for Dragonstone. The thought filled Luke with dread, being alone with the people who had destroyed his family, even if he was so angry with his brother it bordered on hate.
No, to be alone with the Hightowers was worse than keeping the brother who sold him. He had a mind to ask for Jace, or any of his siblings, really, to join him there at the palace, if only to keep away the loneliness that already infected him just from the last day he was there. But the request would fall on deaf ears with his uncle the only one to hear it, and he could not imagine Rhaena or Joffrey in that desolate place, anyway.
Aemond led him back inside the Keep, keeping a firm hand over the one that Luke had wrapped around Aemond’s arm as if he would bolt at any moment. Perhaps he would, still, if the opportunity presented itself. A life as heir to Driftmark, he could sail as well as any other man. He could carve a life for himself on some strange beach somewhere among the fisherfolk and fabled mermaids.
The door sounding shut was the final nail in his coffin. Aemond stepped around him, leaving Luke’s arm to fall limply to his side. He looked around the King’s room, the lavish curtains hanging over the windows of the solar in various shades of red, the roaring fire in the hearth, despite the summer heat. A large table sat in the center of the solar with four wooden chairs surrounding it. Aemond walked over to it, pulling a basket closer to himself across the surface.
“Sit,” he commanded, pointing to one of the chairs.
Luke didn’t move. He felt as though his feet had grown roots and fastened him to his spot by the door. Only a hurricane could move him.
Aemond sighed deeply through his nose, his jaw tensing as he did. His fist clenched and unclenched beside him.
It was the first time they had truly been alone together, perhaps ever. Even in the gardens the day before, they were not shut off from the world together such as this. The realization sent Luke’s blood cold through his heart, freezing as it pumped back into his veins. There was nowhere for him to run, here, no one who could save him if his uncle decided to finally strike, finish what he had started over Shipbreaker’s Bay.
“You’re bleeding all over my castle. Sit so I may dress the wound, Gods damn you.”
He finally looked to the basket on the table and saw the clean cloth and salve inside, as well as needles and thread. His stomach turned. “You don’t have a maester?”
Aemond scoffed. “Of course I have a maester. But I can dress a simple cut, taoba, I’m not so useless.”
Still, Luke didn’t move. The air was too thick here, too warm from the fire. He could hardly breathe.
Aemond was too fast for a man his size, crossing the room again in no time at all and grabbing Luke roughly by the wrist. He pulled him from his spot, roots snapping under his feet, and dragged him over to one of the chairs, pushing him to sit.
“You will learn to listen, Lucerys,” he sneered, using one of the cloths to dab at the blood still dripping down his fingers. His movements were gentle against the cut, instead of the harsh way he had just grabbed him. “I swear to the Seven, you will listen.”
The antiseptic salve stung as Aemond applied it, and Luke bit back whatever pained sound tried to leap from his tongue. Aemond couldn’t know he had brought him pain, even as their blood still burned his tongue and red circles began to bloom on his wrist. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“You need stitches.” Aemond said, more to himself than Luke. “Fool, can’t even use a blade right.”
“I can use a fucking blade,” Luke sneered and tried to pull his hand away, but Aemond seemed to have seen that coming, and held his wrist again.
“Clearly.” When Luke stopped pulling, Aemond set his hand down on the tabletop and pulled the spool of thread from the basket, along with the container of curved needles. He pulled out a bottle of something clear, as well, and used it to coat the needle. The smell of it was sharp, stinging at Luke’s nose. “Don’t move.”
His movements were precise as he caught the skin at the end of the needle and pulled the thread through. It hurt and pushed more blood from the wound, but Aemond was quick enough with another cloth to dab it away.
He finished the stitches with a knot Luke had never seen before, and cut the threads close to it, so the tails wouldn’t get in his way. He applied the antiseptic salve after, and wrapped the wound in a clean cloth, tying it on the back of his hand.
It was good, clean work. It was an odd contrast, the care gone into dressing the wound to Aemond’s usual demeanor. Why not just let him bleed until the wound stifled itself? Surely it was only that his uncle didn’t want a mess on his floors, though it wasn’t like he was the one scrubbing them. But then, Luke still hadn’t seen anyone else who might do it.
“I’ll redress it tomorrow morning, and watch how it heals.” He stood from his own seat and carried the basket over to one of the many bookshelves lining the walls, sliding it in next to a row of large, thick textbooks.
Luke inspected the work Aemond had done, twisting his hand around to see his palm. No blood seeped from the wound to stain the pristine white cloth. He tried to move his hand, but the wrap was too tight. He only had the use of his fingers and thumb.
“Does yours not need dressing?”
Aemond raised a brow at him before lifting up his hand, revealing the smooth line in his own palm, the scab that had already crusted over. “I know when to stop.”
The corner of his mouth quirked like he wanted to smile, and Luke sneered.
“Come,” he held out his hand – the one unmarred by the dragon glass – as if he actually expected Luke to take it.
His lip curled at the outstretched hand. He hoped he didn’t tremble. His eyes found Aemond’s for the millionth time, boring into him with the intensity of the sun.
“You have a duty, Lucerys.”
“Right,” Luke scowled, fumbling with the ring on his finger. “And you, a wish to humiliate me for the rest of our lives.”
Aemond looked almost like he wanted to frown at Luke’s words. He dropped his hand, clasping it with the other behind his back.
“You don’t even know if I can conceive a child.”
“I don’t know that any of you can conceive a child. I took a chance.”
“And you’re a fool for it.”
Aemond hummed, taking another step closer to Luke. “The marriage must be consummated, regardless.”
Luke swallowed thickly. He wished he had wine to wash away his nerves. Instead he had only the dry sand that caught between his teeth, made it nearly impossible to breathe.
It was what he was bought and sold for, afterall. A marriage to end the divide of their house, to afford protections to his siblings and secure Jace rule over Dragonstone with Baela by his side. A marriage to put their line back on the throne, their names written as more than casualties in the history books.
And all he had to do was spread his legs and secure it.
He stood without another word, nearly toppling the chair in his haste. He ripped the headpiece off his crown and slammed it on the table, scratching the wood as he did. “Hurry up,” he sneered, turning towards the bedroom off the solar. If he moved quickly, he could outrun any thoughts that would stop him.
“Get on with it,” he hissed, fumbling with the knot of his robes as Aemond followed after. He had tied it too tightly before, and he couldn’t get it undone. He pulled and cursed at it, only managing to tie it tighter.
Aemond watched with thinly veiled amusement, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Give me a fucking knife,” Luke finally seethed, giving up and holding out his hand in wait. Aemond scoffed, stepping forward into his space and batting away his hand. He took the knot himself, working slowly to undo it with deft fingers. He was much, much too close, his breath ghosting over Luke’s face again, sending a chill down his spine. His hands were warm, even through the thick fabric of the robe.
The knot came undone, either side of the tie falling away, his robe opening with it. He caught it before it could open completely, only the bare skin of his chest exposed.
Aemond paused, taking in the sliver of skin. Luke could see the wheels turning in his mind, could practically hear them. Aemond was still too close. He was going to be sick.
Those large hands moved to his own robe, untying the knot in one fluid motion and pushing the fabric from his shoulders, allowing it to fall gracefully to the ground. Smooth, pale skin reflected orange in the firelight, crests and valleys trained to perfect definition. Luke didn’t look down, too frightened to think of what waited for him just below his line of sight.
Scars littered the skin of his shoulders and chest. He eyed the one that lined up perfectly with the deep scar on his jaw, down into his shoulder. The skin there was pink, a mess of calloused skin from a wound that had clearly refused to heal. Daemon had left it there, his final attempt to secure the throne for his mother, before he and Caraxes had fallen into the God’s Eye, never to see the light of day again. It was an ugly thing, and it must have been deep enough when it was left to reach bone. But it had healed, poorly as it did, and Aemond stood breathing in front of him.
“Would you like to do it, or should I?” Aemond asked, nodding to the robe Luke kept in a white-knuckled grip. His heart was beating too hard in his chest, threatening to break free in a shower of marrow and blood across his now-husband.
An ugly scar of Luke’s own ran down the length of his left side, hideous to look at and worse still to feel. He’d hardly allowed Maester Gerardys to inspect it when he returned to Dragonstone at last, and now Aemond demanded his fill of it, to see Luke’s dignity torn to shreds and laid out in front of him like the figurines of a strategy board.
“Put out the fire,” he whispered in demand, unable to bring his gaze up from the expanse of Aemond’s chest. A flush creeped up steadily from his own and up his throat.
“Spare me the false propriety, Lucerys-”
“You will put out the fire, or I will refuse you.”
He ripped his eyes upward and caught Aemond’s, narrowed and scrutinizing, nearly mocking as he stared. After a torturously long moment, he turned, grabbing the carafe from the bedside table and tossing the contents unceremoniously into the hearth. He watched Luke as he did it, his face hard and impassive yet slightly mocking still, and set the glass on top of the mantle. Better? His uncle bit with only his gaze. The wood hissed and released a great cloud of steam, before finally puttering out.
It was better. The room was darker, and he could only make out Aemond’s features in the blue light that poured in from the window. He stalked over again, and stopped a handful of inches away. Luke could smell him from that distance, the scent of his soap and whatever oils he must use for his baths. It wasn’t an unpleasant sense, but made his stomach curdle all the same.
“Robe. Now.” He commanded with all the authority he had fought for and won, the crown a shadow on his scalp even as bare as he was.
When he didn’t move, Aemond reached forward, prying his fingers off the edge of the robe and pushing his to the floor, too. He felt a chill dance over his skin despite the too-warm air of the room.
“Get on the bed,” his husband whispered, words gentler than they had been, his lips nearly touching Luke’s skin as he spoke. Cold dread settled in his stomach. He considered again pushing past Aemond and making a run for it anyway, naked as he was. He wished he had been a better climber. He could have gone before Aemond noticed him in the garden. He could be halfway to Essos by then, if he found the right captain and paid enough gold.
Instead, he was there. His husband standing over him expectantly and covered in only the light from the moon and stars. Expectation weighing him down and threatening to pull him under the waves.
He refused to face away from Aemond, setting himself gingerly on the bed and scooting unbecomingly backwards until he rested against the pillows. His knees remained firmly together, bent just-so to tuck himself away from his uncle’s one prying eye that never left him.
Aemond followed, much less nervously than Luke. He looked entitled, even, as he crawled up the bed to kneel in front of him, one large hand coming to rest on Luke’s knee. He looked up expectantly, eyebrows raised, waiting for Luke to open.
“This will go much smoother if you cooperate.”
He could kick him, the words fanning the embers of his rage so well. He didn’t want to fucking cooperate. He wanted to be on Dragonstone again, and leave this world behind him. He wanted his fucking clothes.
But Aemond was an unyielding force, pushing until Luke either bent or broke. His hand slid smoothly between his knees and pushed them open like nothing, keeping his eye on Luke’s face all the way. “Do you know what to expect?”
Luke glared as his thigh made contact with the sheets and the air cooled the slight damp between his legs. “I’ve done this before, uncle. I’m not some blushing bride.”
A mixture of anger and amusement swirled behind his eye. “Men or women?”
“Does it matter?”
It must not have, because Aemond didn’t ask anything else. He looked, then, at the slit nestled below Luke’s cock, hidden by the thick thatch of coarse, brown hair. He cocked his head at the sight and moved his hand down, calloused thumb grazing along his entrance. Luke squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face away as if to shield himself from what was to happen to him.
He heard a cap popping open, and still did not look when he felt something cool and slick being brushed over him. He muffled the cry pushing at his lips as two of Aemond’s fingers entered him at once, his walls pulsing nervously around him. He curled them once, twice, and Luke had to stifle a pathetic, punched out moan.
“Open your eyes.” Aemond grabbed Luke by the jaw, wrenching his head to face him. “You don’t get to hide from this.”
His uncle pulled out and pressed in again, pushing past the resistance. Luke’s eyes flew open at the feeling, unable to muffle the moan that ripped brokenly from his throat. Aemond was staring, always fucking staring, drinking in the way Luke’s face contorted and chest heaved with every breath. Luke pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard enough to split the cut again, filling his mouth with thick iron.
Aemond’s fingers moved almost clinically, sliding in and out, prodding to see what spots had Luke’s thighs clenching together or more sounds spilling from between his teeth. He wanted to wither and die when he realized the wetness wasn’t just from whatever oil Aemond had procured, but from him as well. His thighs were growing slick with it, shining in the pale moonlight where Aemond’s shadow didn’t cover them.
Aemond’s fingers pulled away, leaving him empty, cunt fluttering around nothing. Luke couldn’t tell if he was relieved by the loss or not. Aemond gripped him by the thighs and pulled him down the bed so he was lying flat, his legs on either side of Aemond’s hips. He could feel his length hard against his own, burning into his skin with its heat.
“Wait,” Luke croaked as Aemond took himself in hand, blunt head lined up to Luke’s weeping slit. “Just- just give me a fucking second.”
The imprint of Aemond’s tongue pressed to his teeth was visible through his top lip as he breathed in irritation, but he listened. Luke pressed one hand over both eyes, the other to Aemond’s chest as if it would keep him still while he struggled to calm himself. His own wetness stuck to the skin of his hip where Aemond held him still.
It wasn’t fear, he refused it. He wouldn’t be scared of a cock no matter who it was attached to. Still, his breath shook as he forced it to fill his lungs and rattled on its exit. His cheeks burned from the mortification, hotter still than the cockhead that pressed incessantly against him.
Another breath fanned over his lips. “Just relax, Lucerys.”
“I know, asshole.” He moved his hand away, glaring up at the other man. His uncle’s brows were knit together as though staying still were some great struggle, the clench of his jaw tight enough to be painful. “What do you think I’m trying to fucking do?”
Aemond sneered down at him, eye narrowing. “You have a mouth on you, are you aware? You need to learn your place.”
“Oh, do you intend to teach me?” He shot back. That was good. Arguing was familiar between them. Even before the war, they were often sent away from one another at family gatherings before their arguments could escalate into something physical again. “You think too highly of yourself. You steal one crown and suddenly you’re the most capable man in all of Westeros-”
“I am the most capable man-”
“Eat shit. If you think for even a moment that I’m going to bare my neck and submit like some bitch in heat, you’re even more of a fool than I thought.”
Aemond scoffed and shook his head. “You are an insufferable bastard-”
“Can’t really call me that anymore, uncle.” Luke interrupted with as much bite as he could muster. “You were just knuckle-deep in the proof.”
Aemond gaped, pulling his head back a hair to stare some more. His hair was still in its braid, falling thick over his shoulder and tickling at Luke’s neck. Luke pulled off the ribbon tying the end together and watched as gravity began to undo it, silver tendrils moving as if on their own accord.
This was better. Now they were both a little angry, and Aemond was just as off-kilter as he was. He could force himself through like this.
He pushed his fingers through the strands until the weave was gone, silver waves falling around Aemond’s face, shielding them from the rest of the room. It moved like starlight against the window.
Luke took another shuddering breath and grit his teeth. “Get on with it, then.”
The first time Luke had ever laid with another man was years before on Dragonstone. Before the war had taken simple pleasures from him. Jace had taken him to a brothel on the island, one of the more expensive establishments that valued anonymity. If they flashed enough gold, no one would ever know the princes had even seen the place.
The man the madam had chosen for him was of a height with Luke, with short, sandy hair and green eyes. Luke had nearly fallen in love with his smile alone, his teeth white and gleaming in the low candle light. He had taken Luke’s hand and led him slowly down the hall, capturing his lips in his own when the door shut behind them.
It was different than with a woman. With a woman, they wanted Luke to take the lead, sighing practiced and prettily as he fucked into them, shaking as they came around him. With a man, he felt he was more on equal footing, even as the whore laid him on his back and lapped at his cunt, bringing him to his peak before pulling away with a grin and licking a stripe up his deflating cock. He bled as the man entered him, but it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as he was told it would. Alric, the man had called himself, and he was slow and gentle as he took Luke against the expensive silk sheets.
Aemond was not like that. His cock was larger, forcing Luke to stretch and adjust to the intrusion, hands scrambling for purchase anywhere on his back, blood blooming where his nails dug in fiercely. It was as if every spot inside himself was being hammered by Aemond’s length, unable to catch a breath. His eyes slammed shut and his mouth fell open in a loud moan, body arching into Aemond’s chest.
“Eyes,” Aemond insisted once he was sheathed to the hilt, no air left between them, hand back to encompass Luke’s jaw. His tone was stern, but his voice was raspy as though every second were a struggle, and the word came out less compelling than he had likely meant. Luke forced them to flutter open anyway, half lidded as Aemond pulled back and slammed in again, forcing Luke an inch further up the bed. He readjusted his grip on Luke’s hip and thrust again, this time holding him down too firmly for him to move. His fingers were a brand against his skin, searing into his flesh and marking another claim.
He rocked with every thrust of his husband’s hips, cock bouncing with every one, the friction of both their abdomens enough to make him squirm. He bit down on his lip again only to release it, unable to muffle the horrible noises tumbling from his mouth to fill the space between them. His thighs already shook from the feeling of Aemond’s cock filling him, pleasure not something he expected to find in their bed. Anger still ran hot as dragon fire beneath his skin, but he couldn’t put it to words. He could only dig his nails into Aemond’s defined shoulders and hold on.
“Look at you,” Aemond breathed, eye scanning every inch of Luke’s face and down his chest, traveling further down when he pulled back to take in the way Luke sucked him in with every thrust of his hips. Luke looked with him, to the impossible length pummeling his insides determinedly. Aemond’s cock glistened with Luke’s wet in the pale light from the window with every pull out before disappearing inside of him again. “Exactly what I thought you’d be.”
Luke had no answer for him. He pulled Aemond close again by the shoulders, wrapping an arm around them and winding his fingers through the soft locks of his hair, holding him against his throat. Aemond was oddly compliant, settling against the meat of his shoulder. His teeth grazed Luke’s skin, forcing another high moan to spill from his lips before biting down and soothing the wound with his tongue. The action sent lightning through his body, every part of him shaking as the tight coil of his release threatened to finally break.
“Aem-” he tried, but a particularly deep thrust, and he threw his head back in another moan. Aemond aimed there again, and again, like he was relishing in the way Luke was having trouble breathing. His release was close, setting his skin ablaze. His uncle pulled back to take him in once more, fighting against the hold Luke kept on his hair. “More.”
Aemond’s lip curled again into something akin to a smile as he narrowed his eye. His tongue poked out of his mouth to run along the tip of his canine, devouring every twitch in Luke’s face like a hound would its meal.
“Gluttonous thing,” he hissed before pulling away to rest on his knees, snaking his hand around Luke’s thigh to haul him up with him so their bodies were still connected. He used his other hand to wrap his long fingers around Luke’s length and pump in time with his thrusts, pounding into him as hard as the new angle would allow. Luke’s hands scrambled until one twisted into the sheets beside his head, the other finding its home on Aemond’s flexed abdomen.
It was all he needed for his release to wash over him like a tidal wave, pleasure coursing through him to the tips of his toes. They curled uselessly in the sheets, his lip caught again between his teeth, more blood spilling into his mouth. Spend shot from the tip of his cock to paint his stomach and Aemond’s hand. He shook with the force of his orgasm, and could feel rather than hear the way his moan erupted from him like a scream.
Aemond picked up his speed, slamming relentlessly into him, the jut of his hipbones bruising the underside of his thighs. He’d be sore in the morning, certainly, but Aemond was fucking him so nicely through his aftershocks as it was, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Aemond slung one of Luke’s legs over his shoulder and held it there, gripping him with the other hand by the hip to increase the speed of his movements. Sweat clung to his forehead and the pink skin of his cheeks. A bead ran down from his hairline over the slope of his nose and hung perilously from the tip, before falling. Luke watched as it fell all the way down to mix with the mess of his come on his stomach.
“Fuck,” Luke moaned as Aemond changed angles, pounding in deeper, the tip of his cock kissing along the start of his womb. It was a distant pain, but the pleasure of it was overwhelming, drowning it out. He screwed his eyes shut again, and this time, Aemond didn’t stop him. His cock was beginning to fill again between them, bouncing with the force of Aemond slamming into him.
“Already?” Aemond asked incredulously, thumb tracing through the spend that covered his stomach, rubbing it in.
If he could have, Luke would scowl at the man. But as it was, his thoughts were muddled, thinking a hazy, distant dream he had once had. He gasped from the pillows, unable to stop the onslaught his uncle was delivering.
Aemond pushed his leg away and bent down again, weight caught on his elbow by Luke’s head. More sweat clung to his face and over his collar bones and chest, and Luke resisted the urge to lick the saltiness from his skin. His mouth watered at the thought of it.
“Kiss me,” he breathed instead. Aemond didn’t hesitate. He crashed his lips into Luke’s, using the gasp of surprise to lick into his mouth, tasting every inch of him. Luke wrapped his fingers in Aemond’s hair, pulling too hard, keeping him against him. Aemond’s lip was bleeding, the cut too deep from Luke’s blade, and blood smeared between their mouths and against each other’s chins. It didn’t taste as bitter as it had before at the ceremony. It was an almost welcome flavor, thick and viscous against his tongue. He bit Aemond’s lip and wrapped his lips around it, pulling more blood straight from the source.
Aemond’s hips stuttered with a groan, and he spilled inside of Luke. His spend was hot enough to burn, like fire inside him, and he relished in it. He clenched around Aemond’s length, milking him for the rest, moaning at the feeling of it filling him and spilling around them already to drip down the curve of his ass.
His uncle rested his forehead against Luke’s, eye lidded to look down to where he made space between them, fingers once again wrapping around Luke’s length. He pulled hard and fast, breathing rapid as he ground his softening cock inside of him and forced Luke over the edge a second time. Luke nearly sat up with the force of it, screaming too loud into the bedchamber air as it ripped through him near painfully. He dragged his nails down Aemond’s chest as he did, distantly aware of the hiss his uncle let out and the blood springing to the surface.
He finally went limp again, arms falling to either side of him to collapse against the sheets. Aemond panted hard against him, forehead still ghosting over his until he pressed them firmly together. Luke hadn’t the energy to push him away, too caught in his post-orgasm bliss to care too much about it.
It was several long moments of heavy breathing before either of them had the will to move. Aemond pulled away, soft cock sliding out uncomfortably to hang wetly against his thigh. He looked Luke over again, both violet and blue eyes intense as they took in the mess they had made of Luke’s body together. He wiped the sweat from his brow and sighed.
“They’ll want evidence,” he said, putting his palm to his mouth. Before Luke could say anything or even think of what he meant, blood dripped from his teeth, and Luke realized he had reopened the cut on his palm. He held it between them and let the crimson drops fall to stain the sheet, just enough to be believable. “I will not have anyone accusing my children of bastardry.”
Luke could hardly argue against it. He hadn’t had another since before the war, he knew he could not possibly be with child. And with the castle as barren as it was, it was not like to happen with anyone else. And still, Aemond’s eye did not meet his as he pulled his palm back to his lips to lick over his wound.
Instead of collapsing on the bed next to him, Aemond stood and made for the door. He grabbed a robe from the wall and pulled it on, before grabbing another and tossing it to the bed. He swiped a pipe from the side table, as well as a box of matches.
“I’ll have someone show you to your rooms.” He said, pushing open the door. Orange light from the hearth in the solar filled the room, casting light and shadow along the still exposed center of his body. Sweat still glistened there, clearer under the fire.
Luke scrambled to sit up and pull the robe over his shoulders. It was blue, impossibly soft against his skin. “Wait,” he called before Aemond could step out, holding the fabric closed. “My rooms? You mean I won’t be staying here?”
Aemond turned towards him, stopping just inside the doorframe. “Of course not. You’re the Queen, you’ll have your own chambers for… whatever it is you do.”
Luke gawked at the other man. “So you’ll throw me out of your bed, dripping your seed?”
Aemond shrugged. “There’s a washbasin in the solar. I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow.” And the door shut with a finality behind him.
***
The gloom from the day before had finally broken into a full rain, drenching him as he made his way to his carriage.
“Was he at least kind?” Jacaerys asked, one leg crossed over the other as he sat across from Luke.
Luke settled him with a glare. “What do you think?”
Jace swallowed, rubbing his hands on the fabric of his pants. He shifted nervously. “Did he hurt you, then? You don’t look hurt.”
Aemond hadn’t. He was sore, but as much was to be expected after so long without someone else to share his bed. Until he had been so rudely dismissed and sent away. A woman had collected him after Aemond left, the only servant Luke had seen in the entire time he was there. Even the food he had been brought was left on a cart outside of his room, a ghost’s knock and no other sign anyone had left it for him.
He turned away from Jace, choosing instead to look at the passing city outside his window. “No.” He said. “I wasn’t hurt.”
Jace exhaled a breath of relief, settling deeper into his seat. “You need only write, if something goes wrong. I’ll be on the next ship to collect you.”
Luke scoffed at that, but said nothing. Aemond was right, he was the last man in the entire world with a dragon. Jace would be little obstacle if Aemond refused to let him leave. He’d only get himself killed. Even if he didn’t have Vhagar, Jace would be of little consequence. Aemond was larger than any of them, and had fought hard in the war. And he was the King now, besides. There was no escape, not anymore. Especially not with Jacaerys.
The carriage came to a stop at the docks, horses braying at the front. Luke got out first, before Jace could start on another tangent about the necessity of the match. Of course Jace thought it necessary, he had everything to gain from it. And Luke, nothing but suffering.
“I’ll return soon for a visit to see how you’re settling. I won’t leave you completely alone here.”
“You already are,” Luke snapped, moving away from the hand that had settled on his shoulder. Jace’s eyes flashed hurt, large and brown in their sockets. He let his hand fall back to his side.
“I’ll be back, anyway. Take care. And write to me, if you have need.”
He looked like he may go in for a hug, something Luke would have welcomed before. Would have welcomed it now, if he weren’t so angry and his wound not so fresh. Jace turned away instead, his footsteps echoing around the dock as he boarded his ship.
He stayed standing on the dock until the ship raised its anchor and departed for the sea. He could see Jace standing above deck as it left, arm raised tentatively in a wave of goodbye.
He stayed longer, long after the ship had disappeared past the waves, until he couldn’t make out the speck of it. The rain thickened, pummeling him, soaking into his hair and his clothes. Still, he stared. He ached. His bad hip was becoming more and more stiff with every passing moment, and he could only hope it wouldn’t pain him too terribly later on.
“My Queen,” a burly man stepped down from the carriage, a white cloak adorning his shoulders and an umbrella in hand. He held it out, so it shielded Luke from the downpour. A little too late for that, but the sentiment was there. The man was an inch or so shorter than him, with short brown hair and bushy eyebrows. He must have been in his thirties, or perhaps his early forties. He could not have been any older than that.
“Don’t call me that,” Luke hissed, too unkindly for the man with the compassionate gesture.
“Is that not your title now?”
“No,” Luke insisted. “I’m no woman. I’m not a fucking Queen.”
“All right. Your Grace, then,” the man conceded. “The King will be wondering where you are.”
He sneered. The sea was angry, then, waves crashing loudly against the beach and docks, sailors rushing around to secure their cargo before the downpour could ruin it.
“I don’t have it in me to care what that man is wondering.” But Luke turned anyway, and the knight followed a step behind until the footman opened the carriage door for him again. He, too, was soaked to the bone, and Luke couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty about it. He shouldn’t have stayed so long. It’s not as though there was anything left to see.
The carriage was too quiet as they departed back for the Keep. The air was stifling, warm and humid from the summer rain, so thick he could drown in it. He vaguely wished he would. Aemond got what he wanted, he had no use of him now. The whole of the kingdom knew of his most well-protected secret, knew they’d been wed and Luke forced to lay on his back and let Aemond ravage him. Expertly so, with large hands covered in callouses from fights well fought that were hot and grounding all over him, but ravaged all the same.
His family would be fine. Drowning in the air could probably be considered an accident, anyway, so they wouldn’t even have to suffer a battle to see justice.
No one greeted him as he returned to the Keep, still dripping rain. The knight from before came forward again with the umbrella, but he waved him away this time. He had no need of it. He was already soaked, and needed a bath, anyway. A little more water wouldn’t hurt.
No one followed him inside the castle. He was left on his own again, to wander the halls until he made his way to the royal apartments. It was horribly empty all the way up to the Queen’s chambers. Not even a cat strode by to break his isolation.
He had no idea where he would even find the servants. He knew there must be some, since that woman had come to fetch him the night before. But he hadn’t spent enough time in the castle even before the war to know his way around well enough, and had not the slightest clue where he would find their quarters. It left him to draw his own bath in the too-large tiled bath room overlooking the water. It was at least a nice view. He could watch the waves roll over and crash into one another, ships entering and leaving the waters. Their waters. If he was married to the King, everything in the kingdom would have to be his right, as well.
He unscrewed the tap, cold water spilling from the metal faucet and splashing into the ceramic tub. He felt it with his fingers as it flowed, letting it splash against his skin and soak his sleeve. They didn’t have running water on Dragonstone. Did Aemond have the renovations done to the Keep, or did Alicent? It didn’t matter, really. Perhaps Aemond wanted less need of people around him and had it installed for his own convenience. It would make sense. The man was so solitary, even after Lucerys had allowed him to spill his seed inside him and— Gods— let him kiss him. Asked him to, even.
He pulled away from his perch on the side of the tub and went for the matches in a cupboard, bending low to light the fires beneath the tub. He had no idea how long it would take to heat. Someone else had always done this for him. He pulled oils and soaps from the cupboard next, picking and choosing before settling on vanilla and lilac for his bath. He dumped them in haphazardly until the scent of them filled the room. He had probably added too much. Bubbles began mixing in the steady flow of water, too tall already to be the right amount.
He walked back out into his bedchamber and pulled out clothes from the wardrobe. Some unseen person had unpacked all his belongings from the chests that had been carried with him from Dragonstone, placed neatly and orderly around the room. Even the dagger he had kept since he was five, the one that had carved Aemond’s eye from his skull, and the claw that he had been found with clutched in his hand had been unpacked, placed together on the desk in the solar. Evidence of his and Aemond’s violent natures.
Had Aemond been informed he had them, still?
He shook the thoughts away from his mind, grabbing new clothes and a towel from the same cupboard everything else was stored in. He set them together on the wooden bench next to the tub and stripped his old clothes, stepping in.
The water was still too cold. It chilled him to his bones as he settled in, resting his head against the hard side of the tub, the bubbles too many and tickling against his chin. He let his eyes fall shut and his limbs hang loose.
He must have fallen asleep as the water finally warmed. When he opened his eyes again, it was to streaks of orange and pink running across his bath room, soaking him in their light. The water was cooling again, the embers beneath dwindled down. He hadn’t even gotten to wash yet. Fool.
He scrubbed anyway until his skin was pink, adding more vanilla scented soap to the brush and getting to work. His hair was harder. Again, it was something someone else had always done for him. He tried his best to emulate the way Elinda used to wrap his short curls around her fingers after he scrubbed his scalp so they would dry just so, but he couldn’t get it right. He huffed, shaking the finger curls from his hair. It would dry however it wanted. Only Aemond was around to see it, anyway.
A knock sounded softly on the door just as he pulled his clean clothes on and pulled the plug from his bath. It was about time for dinner. He was in no rush to answer it, they’d leave his food on the cart like they had for his other meals. He gathered his clothes and placed them in a pile in the corner. He’d have to figure out what to do with those.
Another knock came. Luke froze.
After a moment, he padded quietly to the door and pulled it open. The girl from the night before was there, her arms placed demurely behind her back. She gave a small smile as he pulled the door open further.
“My Queen,” she greeted, and Luke scowled. Fucking Aemond.
“What is it?” He asked, instead of something more snippy like he wanted to. It wasn’t her fault Aemond was a complete and total ass, with no decorum left to him. He looked at the cart next to his door. No food was on it.
She noticed his look, and smiled again. “The King wishes to dine with you in his solar.”
Oh. Right, Aemond had said something about that. He had been too offended to focus on anything else besides Aemond leaving to see himself out. The dread was back, coiling in his stomach. “No thank you.” He said, and tried to close the door, but the servant woman’s foot was too quick as she wedged it between the frame.
“I don’t believe it was a request, my Queen.”
He scoffed, nose crinkled in disgust. “He truly expects me to dine with him?” He scoffed again, higher and louder this time. “I said no. Move your foot. The King can go fuck himself.”
The woman did, and he slammed the door closed again. Slid the bolt in place for good measure. Who was Aemond, to request his presence after what he pulled the night before? The weeks before, even, sending to Jacaerys for Luke’s hand? The nerve of that great oaf.
He threw himself into one of the plush chairs by the window, chin rested on his fist. Aemond probably just wanted him in his bed again. Of course he did. It’s why he had bought him, after all. What had he said? ‘Exactly what I thought you’d be.’
So he had been thinking about it. Luke couldn’t be surprised. He was the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, he had a choice of anyone in the world he could marry. Women he could marry. Instead, he chose Luke if only so he could humiliate him further, keep him under his thumb. How better than to keep him chained to his bed, pumped full of seed every night? He was a blithering fucking idiot if he thought for even a second Luke would just roll over and take it, allow himself to be commanded and used-
Another knock on the door, much louder this time. The large door rattled on its hinges, the tapestries on the wall shaking with the force. Luke jumped at the noise, turning in his seat.
“Lucerys!” Aemond yelled angrily, then continued beating on the door. “Open the door, now!”
The banging went on, like a nail being driven into his skull. Even the bird that had made its perch on his windowsill had flown away. He scowled, pushing up from his chair and whirling towards the door.
“What is wrong with you?” He yelled back as soon as he had wrenched the door open. Aemond’s face was stormy, mouth set in a hard line as he stared down at Luke. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“I told you to come to dinner.” He ignored Luke’s question, pushing him further into the room and letting the door fall shut behind him. “You have no room to deny me.”
“Of course I do! You think I want to see you? Want to sup with you, like we’re any normal married people? Should I come by and read you stories and let you take me on a turn about the gardens, too?” Luke sneered, pushing back against Aemond’s steps.
“Insolent fucking bastard. You tell my own head of staff that I can ‘go fuck myself?’ I am your King!”
“You could be the Father reborn, for all I care. I’m not going!”
Aemond’s nostrils flared, and his teeth ground together. “You will come to dinner. That is a command.”
He took hold of Luke’s wrist again, over the bruises from the night before, and dragged him closer to the door. His grip was too tight, moving the bones of his arm together painfully. Luke pulled against him, anyway, fighting tooth and nail against Aemond’s hold.
His grip grew stronger, and Luke cried out, his boots slipping where he had planted them in the floor. Clawing at Aemond’s hand wasn’t working, nor was pulling, or hitting his arm. He swung a fist instead, his knuckles colliding with Aemond’s jaw.
Aemond stumbled slightly in what must have been more shock than anything else, letting go of Luke’s wrist as he felt at his reddening skin. He settled Luke with a glare that could set him ablaze.
“I would rather starve.” He hissed, taking several steps back so he was out of Aemond’s reach.
Aemond was impossibly still as he stared, the sapphire menacing in the dwindling light. Luke breathed hard, readying himself for whatever attack Aemond would throw at him next. He was painfully aware of the dagger and sword on his husband’s belt, while he had none but the one on his desk across the room. Maybe if he made for it now, he could reach it before Aemond caught him.
“Have it your way.” Aemond sneered instead, the words barely a breath past his lips. “If you won’t eat with me, you won’t eat at all.”
He turned, still holding his jaw, and stormed out of the room.
***
Sleep evaded him. He spent hours tossing and turning in his deep red sheets, the light of the moon casting his room in a soft, blue glow. Hunger gnawed at him. He had slept through lunch in the bath, and without dinner, only the berries and toast for breakfast were what he had to eat that day. His stomach growled loudly.
He turned again, facing the door. Who was there to stop him? He was married to the King. That made him one as well, or a Prince Consort, at the very least. No servant or knight could tell him he couldn’t fucking eat something if he went down to the kitchens, wherever the seven those were. There wasn’t even a knight posted at his door to run off and tell Aemond he was out of bed, as far as he knew.
He sat up, sliding his feet into the slippers by his bed and covering his night clothes with the blue robe from the night before. He couldn’t sleep anyway. Even if it took him hours to find the kitchens, it would be no time wasted.
The night air held a chill as he made his way through the royal apartments. He wrapped the robe tighter against himself, trying to drive it away. There were no guards patrolling the grounds, oddly enough. Luke would have thought Aemond would keep the castle well manned, either for protection or to make sure he didn’t run off.
He made his way to the stairwell, taking them two at a time all the way down. Kitchens would be on the lowest level, most likely. It would make the most sense, so no one would have to carry feasts up and down stairs. Unless they were in the basement?..
He turned a corner, and ran directly into a black figure in the dark. He stumbled back, putting his hands out to keep distance between him and the figure. Something clattered loudly to the ground, ringing out painfully in the silence of night.
It was Aemond. Of course it was fucking Aemond, staring bewildered down at him. His front was covered in… something, red and sticky and dripping off him towards the ground.
“What are you doing out of bed?” Aemond sneered, arms out so he didn’t touch whatever he was covered in. Luke looked at the ground, at the silver tray that had finally slowed to a stop and the various foods fallen all around it, smashed by gravity into the stone floor.
“Feeling peckish?”
Aemond huffed in clear irritation. “It’s far too late for you to be out of your chambers. You don’t know who could be lurking around the Keep.”
“Right. Like my deranged uncle out for a midnight snack.”
“It wasn’t for me,” Aemond defended, wiping at the mess at his front with his bare hands. It was berries, Luke realized upon closer inspection. Raspberries. Luke loved those.
But he loathed Aemond. He wouldn’t feel jealous at the implication. “Don’t let me keep you from whatever whore you had dragged into your rooms, uncle. I’ll be on my way.”
“Whatever what?” Aemond looked disgusted. “You think I would bring that here, into my castle?”
“Why not? I refused you. And besides, I was never fool enough to expect loyalty from you. But I won’t have you lying to me about it.”
Aemond scoffed, bending down for a cloth napkin and wiping his hands on it, then the rest of the mess on his shirt. It smeared more than anything, but at least he wasn’t dripping anymore. “When did you refuse me?”
“Tonight?” Why was he playing coy? He knew just as well as Luke. “Have you hit your head recently? You came to my rooms and tried to drag me out, then demanded I starve instead.”
“For dinner. Do you think I bring whores back to my rooms to dine with me?”
Luke narrowed his eyes, and said nothing else.
“This,” Aemond gestured to the floor. “Was for you. Not that it matters now, seeing how you’ve obliterated it with your clumsiness.”
“Me? You’re the one too big to see where the hell he’s going!”
“You and that mouth. You’re a Queen, now. You can’t speak like you live your life on a ship.”
“I’m not a fucking Queen.” He hissed. “Do I look like a woman to you?”
“You’ve a womb, and you’re married to the King. That makes you a Queen.”
“I’ve a cock, too.”
“It’s of little consequence.”
Luke rolled his eyes, pushing past his uncle. He had no desire to finish the charade of a conversation.
“Well I can’t very well name Rhaenyra’s son as King while I still live, can I?” Aemond called after him, not moving from his spot. Luke paused at the use of his mother’s name. It sent a pang of grief through his chest. “Not when I became my brother’s heir. ‘Queen’ will serve just fine.”
“It will not.” Luke said without turning around again. “I am a prince through my mother. I will remain one.”
He moved again, in the direction Aemond had come from. If he had a tray of food – allegedly for Lucerys, but he couldn’t actually know – then he must have come directly from the kitchens.
“You are a Queen through me.” Aemond insisted, falling into step with him. “It’s a higher rank than ‘prince.’”
“It’s of little consequence,” Luke threw Aemond’s own words back at him with a mean smirk.
Aemond’s lip curled in response. “I wedded you, I bedded you, my cock has made you a wife and a Queen. You could be more grateful.”
“Grateful?” Luke roared, skidding to a stop. “You expect me to thank you for this?”
Aemond shrugged, turning to face him. “Not in those exact words, but you could show it by not acting like such a spoiled bitch for even just a moment.”
Luke scoffed again, eyes wide in disbelief. “Fuck you!” He finally managed unintelligently, trembling with his anger.
“Again with the language, Queen Lucerys.”
“Do you want me to hit you again? Is that what it is?”
His husband’s gaze darkened. “I gave you the once. Do not test my patience a second time.” He took another step forward into Luke’s space. “I saw how you were shaking before, common-colored eyes darting to the dagger in your desk drawer. Do you think I would not have caught you before you got to it?”
“You liked my common-colored eyes well enough last night, did you not? ‘Open your eyes, Lucerys, look at me.’” He put on a high falsetto. “Or, how was it? You’d know better, wouldn’t you?”
Aemond’s face had grown pink with his anger, his flush reaching the tips of his ears. His breath was hot against Luke’s cheeks. “You’ll pretend you didn’t like it? Could you not feel how sopping wet you were, dripping around my cock?”
And Luke was flushing to match, eager to forget the memory. Aemond smirked at him like he had won something.
“Go back to your fucking whore, Aemond.” He sneered and pushed past him again. Even their argument couldn’t ease the edge of hunger that was consuming him.
“I don’t have a whore!” Aemond insisted again, but that time, Luke ignored him. He was going to hit him again if he didn’t leave, consequences be damned. Fucking asshole.