Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Standing still between the statues of Mother and Father as he awaited the arrival of his fiancé, Aemond allowed for all the changes that had taken place in his life over the past few months, ever since the grim council meeting, when his father announced – a lot more joyful than someone already at death’s threshold should be –, his engagement to Lucerys, to pass through his mind. 

His father was inspired by Jacarey and Aegon's nuptial happiness, for as soon as it was confirmed that Lucerys had gone through his first bāneves – his first heat – thereby indicating maturity in the eyes of Valyrian custom, his father had called everyone to a small meeting in the chamber council to discuss his oncoming betrothal.

His half-sister was quick to protest, and for the first time, her pleas were ignored. 

His mother attempted to intervene, softer in tone, but received the same fate as Rhaenyra. The council members watched the whole situation like the vultures they were, and Aemond felt the familial anger roaring in his veins as he saw Tyland Lannister's mockery smirk directed at his mother.

Beside him, his nephew remained quiet, as if he hoped everyone would forget about his existence. His nervous scent wasn’t strong enough to draw attention from the other courtiers, but as perzys, Aemond had a keener awareness of him than the non-valyrian men around them. He fought the urge to bare his teeth and show his sharp canines, a gesture that would have made even Criston Cole uncomfortable.  

“I opted to tell you before the official announcement out of love and respect, but I will not have my decisions questioned”. His father's voice was stern and firm, he even looked healthy – or as close to that as someone in his condition could be. “I am the King, and mine is the final decision”. 

His gaze turned to them, where they were watching the developments, proceedings almost unnoticed by the others in the room. This is the closest to his nephew that Aemond has been in moons since Jacaerys and Aegon's marriage. He kept a tight grip on his own scent, not wanting his anger to fill the place. However, Lucerys was not so quick when trying to imitate his now-fiancé; his scent was embittered with the nervousness of being under the gaze of the advisors and the other members of his family. His father’s sense of smell was not one of the best, impaired by illness over the years, Lucerys' entire posture betrayed his discomfort, and that made something in his father become softer. 

His grandfather, otherwise, remained silent besides his father's side; yet, Aemond could clearly sense his disapproval of his mother’s reaction – his lips wrung in the same way as hers. Otto must have been dissatisfied with his father's idea, but even he must have recognised the advantage Aemond would have by marrying the future Lord of the Tides. There would be Hightower intertwined with the Velaryons. And in the end, that was always what mattered to Otto: what ran through his veins, not the flesh that encased it.

“I, King Viserys I Targaryen, do hereby decree as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms that Prince Aemond of House Targaryen shall marry Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon”.

 His mother let out a trembling sigh as Rhaenyra raised her chin defiantly – a gesture imitated many times by Jacaerys – trying to accept the news graciously as his father turned to the discussion of the budget for the festivities with Lord Lyman. Everyone took this as a dismissal, and Rhaenyra quickly stepped forward to take her son from Aemond's side. Her violet eyes burned with fierce intensity, her lips trembling as if she was fighting the urge to bare her fangs. With a resigned expression, his mother approached him, and Aemond met her gaze steadily before offering his arm. Gently, he guided her out of the room.  

The following morning, the entire court was notified of the King’s decision. Later that day, Lucerys departed for Driftmark, accompanied by Rhaena. From his room, Aemond watched as Arrax receded into the distance, gradually disappearing beyond the horizon. Aegon found the situation amusing, despite their mother’s ardent exasperation. Jacaerys, however, was far less entertained.

There were festivities arranged to celebrate. A feast in honor of the bridegrooms was prepared, although both of them appeared more like they were at a funeral than really at an engagement festivity. Lucerys avoided his gaze at all costs and remained tense beside him for his awful contempt. The bitter scent of his nervousness had greatly exacerbated Aemond’s already growing temper.

As the wedding day drew nearer, the city streets grew increasingly lively, with noblemen from the great houses traveling alongside their vassals to pay homage to the two princes. When the week of their wedding finally arrived, the festivities that would last the entire week were kicked off with a hunt with two hundred men joining. Throughout the festivities, they remained side by side, watching as prominent noblemen and merchants offered their congratulations. Lucerys responded with a cautious but gentle smile, displaying more diplomacy than Aemond, who merely acknowledged their words with a vague nod.

They remained at the table all night. Lucerys did not ask to dance, nor did Aemond offer. Nevertheless, they both sat in a sociable silence, broken only by Aegon's sarcastic comments. Aemond may have offered one or two in return, much to his older brother’s delight. Lucerys even laughed at one about Jason Lannister made by him, which amused Aegon, which prompted Aegon to become even more cheeky in his teasing after getting a reaction from their nephew. Jacaerys watched the whole thing unfold with an affectionate exasperation, his gaze shifting from his smiling husband to cast worried glances at his younger brother.

His thoughts were interrupted when the doors of the Great Sept opened, signaling that the Septon had finally completed the initial seven prayers. The sound drew the attention of the hundreds of guests, who turned to watch the other groom enter, accompanied by Lord Corlys. 

The old lord had been healthy enough in recent weeks to deliver his grandson to the altar, and though he leaned on a cane, he appeared no less imposing in Aemond’s eyes.

Lucerys’s nervousness might have gone unnoticed by the average observer; but to Aemond, it was obvious — in the way he clung tightly to his grandfather’s arm, and in how his eyes remained fixed ahead, refusing to glance at the murmuring crowd.

The morning was bright. The sky was free of rain clouds, and the sun streamed through the seven tall windows of the Sept, casting golden light upon his fiancé — illuminating him as if the gods themselves had chosen to bless this moment.

Although he wore the traditional white of the Faith, every piece of jewellery adorning him was of unmistakably Valyrian origin.

Silver chains were woven into the dark curls of his hair, cascading in delicate layers. Tiny sapphires and turquoises glinted against the black strands, catching the light with each subtle movement. The chains connected to a silver circlet, intricately shaped into seahorses and seashells — a quiet homage to his bloodline.

More precisely, Lucerys wore a demi-parure, with matching earrings encrusted with gemstones that shimmered and swayed with each step. Though his adornments captured most of the attention, his garments were no less resplendent. His half-sister had spared no effort — nor gold — in preparing her son. 

The white doublet was embroidered with silver detailing that harmonized with his jewellery. Intricate patterns of stones were stitched into fine Myrish cloth, and the garment’s length brushed softly against his knees as he walked. Beneath it, a tunic with fitted sleeves clung neatly to his wrists. His trousers echoed the same ornate designs, and his boots gleamed with chains and diamonds that gave a soft chime as he moved. Trailing behind him, his cloak bore the proud sigil of House Velaryon — embroidered in thread that shimmered like the sea under sunlight.

Aemond himself was not to be outshone. Like Lucerys, he insisted on honouring his heritage. 

His silver hair had been tied in a half-bun — a style described in old Valyrian texts as traditional for grooms on their wedding day. The gathered strands were held in place by a dragon-shaped hairpin, its ruby eyes gleaming like embers, custom-made for this day. Helaena had taken care to braid the loose part of his hair, weaving in thin plaits secured by pins adorned with rubies and diamonds, completing the ceremonial look with a sister’s quiet touch. 

A single earring curled elegantly around the edge of his ear, studded with red diamonds, and delicate chains dangled from it, catching the light with each subtle movement of his head.

His mother had not approved of her sons piercing their ears in the Valyrian tradition — not at first. Aegon had done it anyway, with his usual disregard for permission, and Aemond had followed. But unlike his brother, he argued for it with reason, telling her that embracing their ancestral customs was a way to prove they were no less dragons than Rhaenyra’s sons. And eventually, Alicent relented — not because she agreed, but because she could not deny what lived in her children’s blood.

Like his half-sister, Aemond’s mother spared no coin when it came to his wedding attire. She had commissioned a black doublet adorned with fierce dragons embroidered in red and gold across the shoulders and cuffs. Ruby stones were embedded into the fabric, catching the light alongside golden buttons that ran down the front in a regal pattern.

His trousers were of deep black, tailored with precision, and his boots, crafted from fine leather, gleamed with quiet authority. Around his waist, a belt studded with rubies stood boldly against the dark fabric, its buckle shaped into the snarling head of a dragon. Draped over his shoulders, a black cloak flowed behind him, the sigil of House Targaryen — the infamous three-headed dragon — stitched in vibrant red thread, seeming almost to pulse with life.

(Earlier that morning, Aemond had stood before his mirror and confessed to his mother that he wished he could wear something in her honour. He found the number of rubies excessive — a garment far too grand for someone who would only wear it once. She said nothing at first, only smiled at him — a small, sad thing — before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. The gesture, Aemond realized, was more of a comfort to her than to him.)

Lord Corlys placed Lucerys’ hand into Aemond’s, bowing his head in formal courtesy despite the warning that lingered in his violet gaze.

Lucerys looked up at him, nerves flickering across his expression, before taking his hand with a tentative grip. Aemond, ever perceptive, noticed the rings adorning his fingers — a detail that registered distantly on his mind.

Without a word, he led Lucerys up the steps, their footsteps echoing faintly in the sacred silence of the Sept. Together, they came to stand before the High Septon, who solemnly approached, lifting a strip of white cloth to bind their joined hands — the ancient symbol of union, tradition, and the gods' silent witness.

“We stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of man and... man: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

The Septon’s voice rang out across the Sept, faltering only slightly at the revised phrasing — as if he hadn’t uttered the same words at Jacaerys and Aegon’s wedding

Aemond resisted the urge to roll his eye and braced himself for what promised to be an excruciatingly long ceremony. He only half-listened as the Septon recited the seven vows, gave the seven blessings, chanted the seven chants, and proclaimed the seven promises. Each intonation blurred into the next, forming a monotonous litany that filled the sanctified air. 

Then came the lighting of the candles — one beside each statue of the Seven — accompanied by a solemn monologue that stretched far longer than Aemond deemed necessary. 

Throughout the process, the zaltan visibly wrestled with the instinct to shift or sigh, his stillness a thin veil over the growing desire to be free of the ceremonial torment.  

“You may now cloak the groom and bring him under your protection.”

At last, the Septon fell silent, and Aemond stepped forward. With solemnity, he removed Lucerys’ cloak, the symbol of his bachelorhood , and replaced it with his own, draping it carefully over his husband's shoulders.

“Let it be known,” the Septon proclaimed, “that Lucerys of House Velaryon and Aemond of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, and one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

He then reached down and untied the white ribbon that had bound their hands. “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. 

“Look upon one another and say the words,” he repeated, sterner this time.

Aemond loomed above Lucerys, who tilted his chin upward to meet his gaze. His brown eyes shimmered with barely hidden apprehension, though his hands did not tremble. 

Together, they recited the sacred vow: “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am his, and he is mine. From this day until the end of my days.” 

Aemond’s voice was measured, almost indifferent. Lucerys' voice, soft and hushed, wavered as if afraid to be heard.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

Aemond leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Lucerys’ dry lips — a quiet, careful thing — yet heavy with consequence. With that act, their fates were sealed before gods and men.

A sudden cheer erupted from the gathered crowd, causing Lucerys to blink, startled by the intensity of the celebration. They turned to face the assembly together, hand in hand, and as they did, the dragons outside roared in unison, as if offering their own approval to the vow just spoken.

Aemond then pulled Lucerys gently by the hand, beginning the procession out of the Sept and toward the place where Vhagar and Arrax awaited them.

They had to part ways as Vhagar was far too large to land in the courtyard. The ancient she-dragon had settled on a stretch of land slightly below the Sept, where the stone gave way to open earth. Guards followed at a respectful distance, careful not to provoke the beast as Aemond strode confidently toward her.

The she-dragon raised her huge head at his approach, making a recognition sound in his direction. He reached out to caress her, resting his forehead against her hard and warm scales. She leaned into his touch, making a satisfied sound that vibrated throughout his body. And here, in the comfort of her warmth, Aemond let his shoulders sink just for a second with the weight of the situation he was in — married to the person who gouged out his eye. 

Vhagar moved instinctively, stretching her wing outward to shield him from the distant gaze of the guards. His fury flared, rising unbidden, his jaw clenched tight as a growl escaped through his teeth. Vhagar echoed his anger, body tensing, her monstrous teeth bared in silent warning to a threat that wasn’t even there.

And as his palm pressed against her scales, as the fire stirred beneath both their skins, a single line surfaced in his mind. Unbidden, yet true:

“What dread hand? & what dread feet?”

He could almost smell the dry perfume of old pages, feel the sun on his skin again — all brought back by the memory of a single verse.

What force had shaped creatures such as them? What would have bound fury and fire into forms that walked among men? 

Yet even after all these years, the wonder of Vhagar — of her sheer, incomprehensible size — had never truly left him. She was his inheritance and his legacy, the only thing Aemond had left to honor, besides his own blood. Or so he thought.

(Sometimes, he still felt like the boy he once was, standing on the shores of Driftmark, risking everything for a chance to claim her.)

Aemond took a long breath, forcing his emotions down. This wasn’t the time. The day had only just begun, and duty came first. He gave her one final stroke, pressing a kiss against her side before climbing the thick ropes that led to the saddle. Once mounted, he straightened with practiced ease. At his signal, Vhagar let out a mighty roar that echoed over the stone of the Sept and the hills beyond — a thunderous call that marked the true beginning of the procession.

As Arrax rose first, his wings slicing through the sky in rhythm with the tolling of the Sept bells, Vhagar was close behind.

 – •◇• –

They flew over King’s Landing seven times — their wedding needed to be as traditional as possible to appease the Faith of the Seven. The incestuous union might have been tolerated, but it was far from embraced. And beyond that, it was a royal wedding, which demanded the utmost care in every detail.

Vhagar’s massive form cast a sweeping shadow over the city. Crowds erupted in cheers and cries at the sight of the Queen of Dragons soaring above their heads. The streets overflowed with people and decorations honoring their princes. Passage through the capital was nearly impossible; the carriage charged with returning Aemond from Vhagar’s resting place took far longer than expected to follow its usual route. Even with the Gold Cloaks clearing a path, the common folk pressed in, desperate to glimpse their prince.

The festivities would last through the rest of the day and stretch into the next, culminating in a grand tournament to conclude the seven days of celebration. Aemond was already growing weary of that cursed number,  as if it hadn’t tormented him enough during Aegon and Jacaerys’ wedding.

It was nearing late afternoon when he finally joined Lucerys at the doors of the Great Hall. His nephew — husband, he reminded himself — stood waiting anxiously. It seemed he'd had time to retreat to his chambers: the cloak had been removed, leaving him in the full regalia of a groom. Perhaps a servant had taken it, or perhaps he had done so himself.

Without the cloak, the fine stonework embroidered into his doublet stood out even more — silver gleaming against the pristine white fabric. Lucerys lifted his head as Aemond approached and took his place beside him. 

Under the watchful eyes of the guards, Aemond extended his arm, as tradition dictated. Lucerys accepted it with only a moment’s pause, quickly intertwining their arms. The silver-haired prince gave a slight nod to the guards, who opened the towering double doors. The herald stepped forward, announcing their names and titles to the assembled court beyond.

The hall was nearly full by the time they entered, nobles and merchants occupying almost every corner of the vast space. Long banquet tables stretched across the stone floor, each lined with gleaming plates and goblets awaiting service. At the center stood a towering pigeon pie — ornate, excessive, and waiting to be ceremonially carved by the newlyweds. 

His mother and half-sister had overseen every detail of the feast, ensuring every dish would please even the most critical guest. Aemond, despite himself, had to appreciate their efforts. 

As they walked toward the head table, where the royal family awaited them, a roar of cheers rose from the crowd in celebration of the grooms. Aemond kept his expression fixed, never glancing toward Lucerys to see how he reacted. All he wanted was for this whole bloody farce to be over so he could retreat to his — now shared — chambers and finally be left in peace.

They bowed to the King, who offered them a smile that was both tired and proud. And at that moment, Aemond hated him. He hated how, after all these years, part of him still longed for that pride to be directed at him, and hated himself even more for still caring.

With the arrival of the grooms, the celebration officially began. The musicians struck up their melodies, and the servants sprang into motion, moving swiftly to serve the royal family and their honored guests. 

After cutting the pie, Aemond moved to his seat with practiced efficiency, planning to remain there as long as his duties would allow. Lucerys stood beside him, stiff with tension, as though Aemond might grab the nearest knife and finish what had been started all those years ago. His nervous scent clung to the air, bitter and sharp, leaving a taste on Aemond’s tongue as unpleasant as the situation itself. 

He watched with vague disinterest as noblemen from across the Seven Kingdoms lined up to offer their congratulations and gifts, each vying for favor in a meaningless contest of flattery. Aemond ignored them entirely.

It was Lucerys who bore the burden of courtesy, greeting each lord and lady with hollow smiles and empty words of thanks.

From nearby, Aegon sighed. 

“They look like peacocks,” Aegon muttered dryly, “competing to see whose wealth draws the most attention.” 

A goblet rested lazily in his hand, and though he sipped from it, he didn’t appear drunk — a clear testament to Jacaerys’ influence, who had been regulating his brother’s wine intake since their wedding.

His remark was just loud enough for those nearest to hear, Aemond included. He made no comment but silently agreed, his eye fixed on a Lord of the Crownlands who was rambling endlessly about the honor of his invitation and the significance of his gift. If the lord had heard Aegon’s barb, he wisely chose to ignore it.

When the last noble had finally paid their respects, Aemond rose from his chair, adjusting the ruby-studded belt at his waist — once, then again, just enough to center it. The leather had to sit flush with the seam of his tunic.  A hush fell over the hall as all eyes turned to him. He extended a hand toward Lucerys in a formal gesture. It was time for the first dance.

The guests instinctively moved aside, parting to create space in the center of the hall. The newlyweds took their places, facing one another beneath the glow of the chandeliers. Aemond remained still, composed,  — he inhaled through his nose for a count of three, held for three, exhaled for three. Again. — waiting for the music to begin. Lucerys hesitated, just for a breath, then lifted his chin, meeting Aemond’s gaze directly for the first time since entering the hall. 

There was something defiant in his eyes.

And then, as the first notes sounded, Lucerys shifted. Rather than follow the practiced bridal dance that was already rehearsed, he launched into a familiar Valyrian dance — one far older and far less conventional.

The moment Lucerys deviated from the rehearsed step, something inside Aemond coiled — tight and immediate. He hated improvisation. He hated surprises. His jaw tightened, but it didn’t stop him from falling into step. His husband moved with fluid precision, a mischievous glint in his eye, his steps mimicking the aerial courtship of dragons in flight.

At first, the music clashed with the rhythm of his movement, but the bards quickly adapted, picking up tempo and tone to match.

Their bodies rarely touched, yet tension crackled in the space between them. The chains on Lucerys’ boots jingled with each swift step and sudden turn, like bells heralding something ancient and bold.

Aemond was no masterful dancer — not like Rhaena or even Aegon — but he managed to follow Lucerys' lead, keeping pace with instinct and pride. His left arm rose over his head, his right extended toward his husband, and Lucerys mirrored him as they spun around each other. 

This was not a dance they performed in public, for Valyrian traditions were met with wary eyes in Westeros. But Westerosi dances were rigid, lifeless things compared to the passion and elegance of the old ways.

And it seemed Lucerys had no intention of pretending to be something he was not.

The Valyrian dance had no gentle sways, no courtly twirls; it was precise and primal, full of sharp glances, wide arcs, and restrained tension. It was not a seduction, it was a challenge

From the corners of the hall, the noblemen and ladies of the Reach and the Westerlands looked on with barely concealed discomfort. Some frowned. Others leaned toward their companions, whispering behind fans or goblets.

"Valyrian," someone muttered. "How... theatrical."

"It’s blasphemous," hissed a lord from the Riverlands. "The Seven weren’t invoked to watch dragon courtship."

But not all frowned. Rhaena watched intently, eyes shining with recognition — she knew this dance. So did Baela, whose lips twitched in a rare smile. Even Daemon, from his place beside Rhaenyra, raised an eyebrow in faint amusement.

His Queen Mother sat rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, as if willing Lucerys to stop and return to the steps she had approved. But it was too late. The musicians had followed his lead. The hall had adjusted. And Aemond was dancing with him.

On the dais, the King smiled through his exhaustion. “A bold pair,” he said to no one in particular.

“Or foolish,” Aegon replied dryly, his cup hovering by his mouth. “But at least no one can say this wedding was boring.”

Aemond didn’t look at any of them. His focus remained solely on Lucerys, on the curve of his arm, the tension in his jaw, the glint of challenge in his eye.

If the court found it scandalous, let them. This was not for them.

They spun one final time, meeting abruptly at the end of the turn.

Lucerys’ breath was hot against his skin as he raised his head, grinning wide — sharp canines flashing with a touch of savagery. His chest rose and fell faster than Aemond’s, though Aemond suspected it was more from exhilaration than fatigue.

The traditional applause that usually followed the bridal dance never came,  only the soft clinking of jewelry and whispers sliding through wine-heavy breaths. But his family more than made up for the lack of public enthusiasm, especially Aegon, who clapped far too eagerly.

Aemond ignored them all, focusing only on the flush that colored his husband's cheeks. Lucerys smelled like ripe peaches and honey — he smelled like happiness.  

As the second song began and the other nobles joined the floor, Aemond guided Lucerys into a Westerosi waltz. His nephew followed compliantly, after all, he had gotten what he wanted.

“Skoros iksin bona?” Aemond hissed under his breath. What was that? His voice remained low, careful, because even though those around them seemed distracted, it never hurt to be cautious.

“Iā lilagon,” Lucerys answered easily, matching the language shift without pause. A dance. He looked content in Aemond’s arms, as though all his nervous energy had melted into twirls and daring steps. That sweet scent lingered between them, clinging to the moment.

“Ȳdra daor tymagon mittys,” Aemond warned. Don’t act like a fool.

Lucerys smiled again, eyes narrowing in amused defiance.

“Kesan sagon biare va ñuha dīnilūks tubis, valzȳrys,” he replied, lifting his chin in a gesture that echoed Rhaenyra and Jacaerys perfectly. I will be happy on my wedding day, husband. 

It was the first time Lucerys had used the word valzȳrys. The first time he had called Aemond husband.

Aemond felt his jaw clench. He spun Lucerys sharply, more from reflex than the choreography, just as the dance called for a partner exchange. He watched as another lord took Lucerys by the hand, clearly unsure of how to lead a male partner.

Aemond turned to his next partner: a girl barely older than Lucerys, black-haired and timid, her steps faltering beneath his lead. She bored him. 

Partner after partner passed through his arms — until Aegon landed there, grinning with the kind of mischief only wine and opportunity could produce. 

His brother looked healthy, Aemond noted. His once-parched hair now fell in soft waves over his shoulders, much like their mother’s. Dragon-shaped pins pulled back the longer strands, exposing more of his round face. Long, golden earrings encrusted with rubies adorned his ears — a gift from Jacaerys during their courtship, if memory serves him right, and likely the envy of more than a few ladies of the court.

Aegon looked more at ease than he ever had during his time at the Red Keep. His eyes were no longer red-rimmed from drink, and the dark circles that once clung to his face had all but vanished. Since his marriage, Aegon had taken to wearing only black and red, and today was no exception.

 “That was quite an exhibition, brother,” Aegon said, flashing a crooked, insolent smile. “For a moment, I thought Mother was going to fall off her chair.” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “Truly, I’m ashamed I didn’t pull such a stunt at my own wedding.” His brother let out a laugh, his purple eyes gleaming with malice.

Aemond rolled his remaining eye as he spun his older brother with practiced ease. Aegon followed the movement effortlessly, he had always been the better dancer. 

During the turn, the perzys caught a glimpse of Lucerys across the room, dancing with Daeron. His younger brother, ten and seven, moved through the hall with grace, seemingly locked in friendly conversation, if Lucery's soft smile was any indication. 

“Do you intend to live your life as miserably as possible?” Aegon asked suddenly, snapping Aemond’s attention back to him. It had been years since he had to look up at his older brother, something Aemond often weaponized against Aegon. 

“Be clear with your words, brother,” Aemond replied, a hint of impatience in his voice.

“You haven’t looked the least bit happy since stepping into the carriage to the Sept,” Aegon observed, tone careless but eyes sharp.

“Not much has brought me happiness lately,” Aemond answered flatly, a dry smirk tugging at his lips.

“Happiness doesn’t come to us,” Aegon said, his voice quieter, steadier than expected. “It’s something that is found” 

And for a moment, Aemond barely recognized him, the brother who had spent half his life drowning in drink and debauchery. 

“You don't need to be miserable”.

“They didn’t lie when they said marriage changes a man,” Aemond scoffed. There was still a part of him — the boy once mocked and bruised — that would never forget Aegon’s cruelties. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late to take the part of the older brother?”

Aegon’s response came softly, with a weight that lingered:

“It’s never too late to fix things, valonqar.”

It had been years since Aegon last called him that. Little brother.

And with that, Aegon slipped from Aemond’s arms as the partner exchange began. But instead of moving to the nobleman beside him, he weaved through the dancers, cutting off a young lady just before she could reach Jacaerys.

His eldest nephew greeted Aegon with a fond, faintly amused smile, not even flinching as the zaltan swarmed the would-be partner with a grin too full of teeth. Jacaerys merely leaned in and nuzzled Aegon’s cheek with a gesture so intimate and familiar it spoke volumes

Irritation boiled beneath Aemond’s skin, sharp and restless. His jaw clenched with the urge to lash out, to sink his teeth into something — or someone. He could feel something stir in his chest. Something old, bruised, but not yet dead.

Once, that word had meant something warm. Before the mockery. Before the wine. Before the betrayal of carelessness.

And now Aegon, of all people, had said it again.

He inhaled slowly, grounding himself with the pressure of his boots against the marble floor. One breath in. One held. One let go. Forcing the fire down into silence

There was no room for sentiment. Not tonight. Not here.

And yet—

With measured steps, he returned to the royal table and seated himself at the separate place of honor reserved for the groomsmen.

He did not look at his mother.

And, thankfully, no one asked him to dance again.

– •◇• –

When the time came to consummate the union, Aemond didn’t feel ready. Not truly.

Still, he endured the cheers and whistles that followed them with his head held high and his face blank, carved from stone as they exited the Great Hall.

At his side, arms entwined, Lucerys seemed to have shed all remnants of the mischief and joy from earlier. The sparkle from the dance was gone.

His husband reeked of anxiety, sharp and cloying, so thick Aemond wondered if even a dull-nosed Westerosi could smell it.

There would be no bedding ceremony. Rhaenyra had insisted, just as she had during Aegon and Jacaerys’ wedding. For that, Aemond was quietly, deeply grateful.

His mother, ever the guardian of tradition, had not agreed easily. But Aemond remembered all too well the growl that had torn from his throat when someone laid a hand too freely on Helaena during her own nuptials.

He did not know if he could contain that same rage now. Not with unfamiliar hands touching him, even in jest. Not tonight.

They walked to the royal wing under quiet escort, the guards keeping a respectful distance as the newlyweds made their way to the chambers they would now share — at least until their departure for Driftmark. Much to Aemond’s displeasure.

When they reached the heavy doors, Aemond dismissed the guards with a nod. They bowed and took their posts down the corridor.

At his side, Lucerys tensed. The once-sweet scent of peaches had turned sour the closer they came to their destination, a scent sharp enough to unsettle Aemond’s instincts. He could feel the pressure building — the need to do something, anything — but he clung to control as he always had. And truth be told, even if he wanted to help his husband, he wouldn't know how.

Inside, Lucerys moved quickly, almost fleeing across the room, to stand stiffly at the edge of the bed, staring down at the sheets as if they might burn him.

The fireplace glowed gently, the chandelier’s candles already lit, casting a warm, golden haze across the room. The curtains had been drawn, blocking out the night sky. It was larger than Aemond’s former chamber, but sterile, without scent or memory.

The silence grew thick between them. He could feel it — heavy, suffocating, wrapping around their shoulders like a second skin.

“Will you make a man of me tonight, husband?”

The question came soft, almost delicate, but the note of resignation beneath it scraped against Aemond’s ears. He folded his hands behind his back, jaw tight as he stared at Lucerys’ profile.

“I will do nothing to you tonight,” he replied coldly. “You can’t even look at me.”

Lucerys flinched at the tone but turned slightly, meeting Aemond’s gaze over his shoulder.

“We must do our duty, Aemond.” His voice was calm, but empty. It carried no conviction. The sourness of his scent had deepened, the stress radiating off him like heat. Aemond’s instincts screamed, but he remained rooted.

“You need to bite me,” Lucerys reminded him quietly. And he wasn’t wrong. That had been the agreement. That once Aemond’s fangs pierced the gland just beneath Lucerys’ skin, their bond would seal.

The bite would hurt. But at least, during sex, there might be pleasure to distract from the pain.

“I would prefer the least painful way,” Lucerys added, voice distant, diplomatic. There was no intimacy in his tone. No appeal. And that irritated Aemond.

“Are you afraid I’ll take your innocence the same way you took my eye?” he asked, mocking, his voice a low snarl.

The scent in the room turned acrid — peaches turned rotten. Nearly unbearable. It clung to Aemond’s throat like smoke. His instincts begged him to act, to soothe or to strike. 

“I am your husband,” he added, softly. But there was no warmth in the words. Only the cold weight of a truth neither of them had asked for.

With that, his nephew walked over to him, the tinkle of the chains on his boots echoing through the silent chamber. He stopped in front of him, closer than Aemond had expected him to dare be. His brown eyes analysed his face, searching for something Aemond could not offer him.

With that, his nephew stepped toward him, the delicate chime of the chains on his boots echoing through the quiet chamber.

He stopped close. Closer than Aemond had expected him to dare. His brown eyes studied his face, searching for something Aemond knew he couldn’t give.

“Yes, you are my husband,” Lucerys said. There was a sadness in the words, in the downward curve of his lips, in the way his features gentled, resigned.“But I don’t think you understand yet the power that gives you.”

Then, he turned away again. Walked to the dressing table and sat on the padded bench, beginning to remove his jewellery. The first to go were the earrings, he sighed as the weight left his ears. One by one, he removed his rings, placing each carefully on the polished surface. Aemond watched him from across the room, eyes tracing the movements with an unease he couldn’t explain.

It was too intimate.

Something about the slow dismantling of his ceremonial self, layer by layer, made Aemond feel strangely out of place, like an intruder.

So he moved.

Without speaking, Aemond stepped behind him, fingers reaching for the silver circlet resting atop Lucery's curls. He removed it gently, setting it aside, then began to untangle the delicate chains woven through the dark strands of his hair.

It was an action driven less by tenderness than by instinct — a primal urge to silence the sour scent that clung to Lucerys, to settle the zaltan before it soured any further.

They were not yet mated, but the scent agitated Aemond all the same. It triggered the same urgency he felt when Aegon or Helaena's scents turned in distress, the same drive that made him guard their doors during bāneves, or linger when their emotions bled into the air.

He had never been good at comforting. Never learned how. His bond with his siblings would never compare to the one shared by his nephews, but Aemond would kill and go to war for his siblings. 

His mother would never understand that.

And he had never tried to explain.

Distance had softened his family bond with Lucerys, blurred it with years of resentment and silence. But it was still there. Humming, restless, demanding something of him.

Even now.

Beneath his touch, Lucerys remained tense, but as Aemond gently freed his curls from the last of the chains, his shoulders slackened. His scent eased, still wary, still uncertain, but gentler now.

He was reacting to the perzys — familiar, instinctive. 

Even if this familiar was the last one he ever wanted to be close to.

“Let me return the favour,” his husband offered quietly as Aemond set the circlet down on the table.

A faint red mark lingered on Lucery's forehead where the jewel had pressed into his skin all day. The entire situation felt absurd, intimate, awkward, and laced with quiet hostility between two people who had spent years resenting each other.

Aemond was tempted to refuse, pride flaring instinctively. But undoing the braids alone would be a nuisance, and so he sat stiffly on the stool, forcing himself to remain still. He watched Lucerys' hands carefully through the three mirrors mounted on the dressing table. 

Lucerys worked without a word, fingers steady as he removed each pin one by one. Last came the dragon-shaped hairpin, loosed gently from its place. With it, Aemond’s scalp breathed again.

The rest of their garments were discarded slowly, each of them in a corner of the room.

And then came the moment of exposure.

Standing naked in another’s presence felt strange. There was a tension that hadn’t existed before or had never bothered him before

Physically, Aemond knew he was attractive.

Sor Criston and his grandfather had forged him that way — through sword drills, pain and rigid expectations. He was to be a blade, the family’s first line of defense, ensuring that any softness would be stripped from him, just as his eye had.

The prostitutes certainly seemed to appreciate this, sliding their hands down the lean muscles of his abdomen until Aemond restrained their wrists impatiently and growled at them as a warning. 

Aemond rarely visited those places. Not like Aegon. He never sought comfort, only relief. For there were times when he needed to release his anger in a way that holding a sword could not. 

His gaze traced Lucery' s form, in much the same way his husband had just studied him.

Lucerys took more after his mother than his father, not as tall, the top of his head reaching Aemond’s shoulder, sharing Rhaenyra’s stature. His body was lean, shaped by years of training, and his thighs carried the tight strength born of dragonriding, coiled and hardened from gripping a saddle in the wind.

Like the brave little thing he was, it was Lucerys who took the first step.

He moved in close. So close Aemond could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

Targaryens were warm by nature. Fire ran beneath their flesh as surely as it ran beneath their dragons’ scales. But this was something else.

The sour edge of rot had faded, and in its place, the scent of peaches and honey bloomed again, thick and sweet.

Aemond leaned in, tracing the curve of Lucery' s neck with the bridge of his nose, drawing a slow path toward the spot where his fangs would leave their mark — the place that would bear his bite for the rest of Lucerys' life.

His husband shivered, his body easing under the proximity of the perzys who would claim him. The exposed line of his throat deepened in response, a silent surrender replacing earlier defiance. Instinct yielded.

Lucerys lifted his arms, reaching to loop them around Aemond’s neck. But Aemond caught his wrists, stilling him. Wordless, he guided him backward until the bedframe met the back of Lucerys’ knees. He pressed him down, almost too roughly, onto the mattress.

The canopy’s drapes swayed slightly as Aemond stepped between his parted legs. Lucerys looked momentarily dazed, breath shallow, his pupils wide and unfocused from exposure to Aemond’s scent.

He hadn’t even realized how thick the air had become, rosemary and lavender seeping from his own skin, curling together with the warmth of Lucerys' sweetness.

He climbed onto the bed, settling between his nephew’s thighs, parting them more fully with his hands. His skin was soft there, warm and untouched, and Aemond found himself stroking it idly, testing its texture beneath his palm.

Lucerys trembled at the contact, breath hitching sharply when Aemond’s fingers skimmed too close to where no one had touched him before.

Aemond ignored it. 

He leaned in toward where his scent was strongest in his glands, so thick Aemond could almost taste it. He let his nose trace the outline of the spot where the mark of his fangs would adorn Lucerys’ skin until the day he died.

Lucerys shuddered beneath his touch, his scent softening as instinct took over. With the perzys so near, the part of him that still feared gave way — he bared his throat rather than growling in challenge. He is more sensitive there than the whores Aemond fucked, but that was understandable. He allowed himself to become intoxicated with the fragrance, sucking and nibbling his skin, making it redder.

Lucerys squirmed under him, but Aemond hardened his grip on his thighs, keeping them on his hips. 

When his nephew tried again to touch him, Aemond easily pinned his wrists above his head, stimulating the scent glands there. Lucerys whimpered in response. Still, Aemond continued tracing a path from his neck down his throat until he reached his nipples, already perked with arousal. He exhaled slowly over the left one, drawing a frustrated, impatient groan from Lucerys.

“Uncle,” he said in a pleading tone. “Husband.”

He gave in, lips sealing around the sensitive flesh as he sucked and licked without mercy. A broken cry left Lucerys, his body twisting beneath him, torn between escape and surrender. When he tried to free his wrists, Aemond held him still, only to move lower, his fangs grazing the other nipple in a cruel imitation of tenderness.

He was drowning in his nephew’s fervour and loathed how his body yielded to it, his instincts whispering that the zaltan beneath him could be his mate. He released his remaining hand from Lucerys’ thigh, vaguely wishing the mark of his touch would remain — proof carved into flesh of what had been done.

His husband, to Aemond’s surprise, locked his legs around his hips and drew him closer, his cock brushing against slick heat, a jolt of pleasure shot through him, forcing a low moan from his throat.

Lucerys noticed and tried to repeat the movement, lifting his hips once more, but Aemond was quicker. He pinned him gently with his free hand, fingers tracing the soft curve of his ribcage. He traced idle circles there,  strangely captivated by the steady rhythm of the heartbeat beneath his touch. Lucerys whimpered softly, frustrated at being denied the release he sought.

“Greedy,” Aemond muttered. “So greedy.”

He leaned in, letting the tip of his nose glide along Lucerys’ abdomen, pausing where instinct whispered that life itself might one day take root. For a moment, he counted the shallow rise and fall beneath his breath — one, two, three, four — the rhythm steady, precise, anchoring him. The scent there was maddening: rich, ripe, undeniable and he clung to the measured pattern like a man holding back the tide.

Releasing Lucerys’ wrists, he lifted his legs onto his shoulders, gaze lingering over the parts of him, thus allowing him to look at the swollen lips of Lucerys’ soaked cunt. But he ignored them in favour of his rigid, erect cock. His nephew’s hands remained where they had been, gripping the sheets tightly, his knuckles pale, breath shallow and broken. 

Aemond had never done this before. Never even thought to.

But now, the impulse came not from curiosity, but from something deeper, a hunger, a pull he didn’t know how to name.

He lowered himself slowly, lips parting —

And then Lucerys spoke, voice catching on the edge of his breath.

“Wait!”.

Aemond froze at once.

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he turned toward his husband  who lay beneath him, flushed and breathless, clearly struggling to gather himself enough to speak. He was so red, Aemond noted distantly, cheeks, shoulders, even the tips of his ears tinged with heat.

“Aren’t you going to take it off?” Lucerys asked, hesitant, voice still catching on the edges of arousal. He licked his dry lips, gaze flickering downward.

“Take what off?” he snapped, irritation sharp in his voice.

“Your eyepatch.”

Lucerys leaned up onto his forearms, trying to get a clearer look at him. His curls were a mess, his chest still heaving with the remnants of desire.

“Why?” Aemond sneered. “Do you want to see the monster you made?”

“It’s not our appearances that make us monsters, uncle. It’s our actions.”

He looked almost sorrowful as he said it, the scent of lust and excitement ebbing into something gentler. His hand reached out, fingers grazing the leather of the patch softly.

Aemond stiffened. His muscles coiled, his jaw locked tight — one, two, three — a silent count to keep the surge at bay. The urge to growl, to bare his fangs, pulsed beneath his skin, but he focused on the number, on the tension of his knuckles, on the evenness of his breath. 

“I heard the rumors,” Lucerys whispered. “About the sapphire. I’m not afraid.”

“What a brave little thing you are, then.” Aemond murmured, darkness curling beneath his words.

He removed the eyepatch. Not because he believed Lucerys deserved the gesture, but because he wanted to see him recoil. To watch the horror twist his features the same way it had when ladies and children had glimpsed him in his youth.

But Lucerys didn’t flinch.

He only stared, gaze steady and unblinking, as the firelight caught the sapphire and sent cold, fractured light across Aemond’s cheek.

“Oh,” Lucerys sighed, voice trembling. “It’s beautiful.”

Aemond froze. Whatever sharp comment had been forming on his tongue dissolved under the weight of Lucerys’ gaze. His brown eyes were soft, and something twitched in Aemond’s chest. He shoved it down and locked it away where it belonged.

Then, wordlessly, he lowered his head.

Lucerys gasped at the sudden contact, his body shuddering once before sinking into the sheets, fingers curling into the pillows. His thighs tensed around Aemond by instinct, but Aemond steadied them with his hands, keeping them from closing and drawing him closer with deliberate ease..

The taste was unfamiliar, but Aemond dismissed it quickly. He moved slowly, carefully, letting instinct guide him where knowledge failed.

It felt strange, holding something so fragile in his mouth, sensing the twitching and throbbing of another’s body responding to each breath he took. He moved carefully to the rhythm, learning the weight against his tongue, the pull of breath and reaction, the subtle, telling shifts of Lucerys’ hips that betrayed pleasure too honest to fake. 

He remembered how others had done the same to him before — but now, mirroring those motions with tentative precision, he discovered something far more real in the trembling beneath his hands.

Lucerys gasped softly, his thighs tightening briefly in response before Aemond steadied them with firm hands. He let his focus narrow, not on the act itself, but on the effect: the way Lucerys’ breath caught, the way his fingers curled into the sheets, the way his body arched.

He sank lower, drawn to the scent that marked him, the one thing that set him apart from the Andals, the First Men, and the Roinars. Aemond didn’t give Lucerys a moment to brace himself before his tongue slid into the wet heat, tasting his husband’s natural lubrication, sharp and immediate. Every flick, every press of his tongue, was deliberate, measured, almost obsessive. Lucerys shivered under him, a tremor of tension and desire, caught between anticipation and the sudden, feral claim of Aemond.

Lucerys’ hands reached for him, not to push away, but to pull him closer, fingers grasping at his shoulders, his hair, his name. Aemond’s hands slid over his round, soft ass, trying to pull him closer, chasing the taste of that sweet spot even more.

Aemond hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected this reaction from himself, usually the one in control, the only one to have someone’s mouth on him when the mood struck. But now, something primal surged within him, something ancient and dragon-blooded  demanding more.

Lucerys whimpered beneath him, trembling, thighs quivering with every pass of breath and tongue. His body tightened, overwhelmed, and Aemond had to steady him, holding firm, possessive. He felt one of Lucerys’ hands grab his hair, not pulling, just holding on, as if he needed an anchor. Aemond tensed, tempted to pull away, but then more of his husband’s slick ran down, and all thought of restraint was forgotten.

He groaned against his pussy’s entrance, his tongue pressing in but not entering. He dug his nails into the softness of Lucerys’ thighs, some restless part of him aching to leave marks that would linger long after his touch faded. Aemond licked from the opening up to the clitoral area, burying his nose in Lucerys’ crotch and simply savoring the strong scent of his arousal, the soft brush of pubic hair lightly tickling his nose.

Lucerys’ hand stroked his hair, hesitant after feeling Aemond tense at the caresses, but the urge to pull away never came, so he let it happen. He reached up again once he felt a little more composed, pressing a finger into the soaked entrance, noting the slick dripping down his hand before slowly penetrating, growling at the way his nephew’s warm walls tightened around him,  Aemond felt Lucerys’ nails dig into his scalp, the other hand gripping and twisting the sheets. He breathed in his scent, momentarily overwhelmed as Lucerys’ insides contracted around his finger, the tight walls protesting the intrusion , and beneath him, the zaltan moaned.

He slid in another finger, watching Lucerys’ reactions with keen attention, and when his eyes widened, Aemond curled them. Lucerys whimpered, hips moving in a shaky rhythm against his hand.

Aemond found himself strangely captivated by the sight before him. Lucerys’ curls spilled messily across the pillows, his lips parted as he gasped out a stream of broken words, some slipping into Valyrian without his notice. He added a third finger quickly, the wet sounds filling the room, leaving Lucerys flushed and squirming in embarrassment.

“You’re so wet,” Aemond murmured, amused by the way Lucerys immediately averted his gaze, cheeks and ears flushing a deeper shade of red. He ignored the reaction for now. “Practically leaking onto my fingers,” he scoffed simply because he could, and because watching his nephew come undone under his touch filled him with a dark, irresistible satisfaction. 

“Don’t say that,” Lucerys stammered, breath hitching. “Don’t tease me.”

As if Aemond couldn’t feel it, the warm slick gathering in his palm, the way Lucerys’ walls softened around his fingers, eager, welcoming, ready.

“Why not?” The perzys pressed in deeper, curling his fingers deliberately as he chased the same spot that had made even the most seasoned whores beg. “Can’t you handle the truth?”

His voice darkened, pleased with the way Lucerys trembled.

“You’re dripping for me like a common whore.”

Before Lucerys could retort, Aemond found what he was searching for, and Lucerys yelled, startled, his eyes flying wide. The hand tangled in Aemond’s hair slipped to his back, nails dragging down his skin in frantic, uneven scratches. 

Aemond hissed at the sting, more pleased than pained.  Lucerys cunt was clenching his fingers, his belly twitching as his cock spurted the white liquid. Aemond watched him intently, pushing himself upright until he was seated back on his heels, towering over the smaller figure of his nephew. He was fascinated, almost entranced, by the sight of tears slipping down Lucerys’ flushed cheeks. Lucerys’ legs finally gave out, dropping to rest loosely at Aemond’s sides as he tried to catch his breath, his chest rising unsteadily. His skin glowed with a sheen of sweat, every tremor in his body betraying just how undone he was.

“Now it’s my turn,” he said, slowly withdrawing his fingers. 

Lucerys whimpered something, but Aemond barely heard him. He was too entranced by the sight before him, by the way Lucerys’ entrance fluttered around nothing, twitching helplessly as more slick spilled out in trembling pulses.

Lucerys sighed as he felt his husband's length begin to penetrate him, his breath hitching sharply as his body tensed around the wider intrusion. Instinct made him tighten, heels digging lightly into the sheets.

Aemond gripped his thighs forcing them open with a low grunt. “Relax,” he ordered, his voice rough with command and strain.

One of Lucerys’ hands slid back into his hair, fisting the silver strands hard to drag him closer just as Aemond’s cock seated itself fully inside the molten heat of his pussy. Their bodies collided, chests pressed together, Lucerys’ breasts flattened against him as he held Aemond flush to his trembling form. 

Aemond’s forehead rested against his sweaty temple, his breath coming hard and uneven as the reality of being buried inside his nephew crashed over him. His instincts were howling in triumph, surging through his veins with a force that made his spine tremble.It was an intimate position and Aemond couldn’t decide whether he wanted to pull away or sink even closer, to lose himself entirely in the heat wrapped so tightly around him. 

It left him close to Lucerys' mouth, near enough to kiss him if he only leaned an inch forward. But Aemond didn't. 

However,  Lucerys didn’t give him the choice.

He turned his head sharply and captured Aemond’s lips in a desperate, hungry kiss. Aemond tried to pull back, startled by the sudden intimacy, but the zaltan only tightened his grip in his hair and dragged him closer with his legs. Irritated, Aemond answered the kiss with savage intensity, taking control of it, only stopping when Lucerys raked blunt nails down his back and broke away, gasping for air.

Lucerys’ head fell back onto the pillows, lips red and swollen, chest heaving. Aemond followed the exposed line of his throat with predatory focus, then lowered his mouth to bite and mark the vulnerable skin, leaving bruises that would be impossible to hide. 

He wondered if Lucerys had tasted his own slick on his tongue.

“Move,” Lucerys breathed. And Aemond obeyed

The perzys drew his hips back and thrust for the first time.

Lucerys cried out, his entire body jolting, still painfully sensitive from his earlier release and trembling uncontrollably beneath him. His walls tightened around Aemond in a crushing pulse, and the silver-haired prince moaned, the sound ripped from him before he could contain it. He pulled away from the intoxicating heat of Lucerys’ body just enough to push himself upright, rising over him, needing the leverage, needing to see the wrecked expression on his husband’s face as he sank into him again.

Lucerys’ arms slid down until they fell weakly at his sides, more tears spilling down his flushed cheeks. His breath hitched, uneven and trembling, but his gaze stayed fixed on the bulge in his stomach, the skin stretched to accommodate his length pressing so deep inside him.

He reached out, pressed down hard, and Lucerys sobbed. Aemond thrust into him again, and again, and again. Wild and unrestrained, his strokes were quick and punishing, barely giving Lucerys a moment to gasp for air. One hand stayed firmly on the swollen bulge in his belly, feeling himself move inside, while the other hooked under Lucerys’ left leg, lifting it over his shoulder and forcing him open even wider,  a position that let Aemond sink impossibly deeper with every brutal snap of his hips.

 At some point, Lucerys’ cock had become rigid again, bouncing with every thrust, flushed red, dripping steadily, untouched. He collapsed beneath Aemond, overwhelmed, his body trembling with every deep snap of Aemond’s hips. The sounds spilling from his lips grew louder, needier, impossible to swallow down. Embarrassed, Lucerys tried to bury his face in the pillow to muffle them, but each movement only made his voice break sweeter, more desperate.

“Don’t you dare hide,” Aemond growled. The sharp, rhythmic clap of skin against skin filled the chamber, accompanied by the violent creak of the bed against the stone floor. “Let them know what a desperate little thing you are.”

He thrust again, the force of it dragging Lucerys’ trembling body up the bed as if he weighed nothing at all.

“Aemond,” he breathed. “Aemond.”

Lucerys lifted his arms, dragging him closer until their mouths were a breath apart, their exhales mingling hot between them. His nails raked down Aemond’s back, desperate and unrestrained, and Aemond moaned at the burn, the sharp sting blooming across his skin.

“I’m close,” Lucerys gasped, voice trembling with the force of it.

“Show me your neck”. He demanded it with a grunt. His nephew's slick oozed more and more, soaking the sheets beneath them. “Urnēptre nyke aōha ȳrgos, zaltan,” he repeated. Show me your neck, zaltan. 

And Lucerys did.

He threw his head back at once, baring his throat in full submission, offering himself without hesitation. Aemond leaned in immediately, his tongue dragging directly over the swollen gland. Lucerys’ breath hitched, a violent shudder coursing through him as Aemond’s fangs grazed down his sweat-damp skin.

He clung to Aemond desperately, nails digging into his back, a broken plea escaping his lips for more, his hips rising to meet every needy, relentless thrust. Aemond tightened his hold on his thighs, as he matched Lucerys’ pace with merciless precision.

And then Aemond bit him.

 The skin tore instantly under the violence of his fangs, and Lucerys howled, reaching his peak as he came so hard his spine bowed off the bed.  The narys — his venom — flooded into the younger prince’s veins, binding him to Aemond forever at the same moment Aemond’s instincts roared within him: mate, mate, mate. Lucerys’ blood ran warm over his tongue, the metallic taste mingling with the sweetness of peaches and honey — and beneath it, that faint, stubborn undertone of the sea, and Aemond growled at the way his nephew’s pussy clenched around him, tight and trembling, instinct answering instinct. 

He knew he wouldn’t last much longer, so he forced himself to release the bruised skin. He dragged his tongue one final time over the thin trail of blood seeping from the fresh mark, his saliva soothing the sting where his fangs had pierced so brutally. His hips didn’t slow. If anything, they snapped forward with renewed urgency as Aemond chased his release, even as Lucerys whimpered beneath hims, pleading about being too sensitive.

“You have to mark me,” Aemond grunted, pulling a limp Lucerys to straddle his lap, his legs falling open around Aemond’s hips. He kept a firm hold on his waist with one hand, the other sliding into those wild, tangled curls as he guided Lucerys toward the vulnerable spot where his own gland pulsed beneath the skin.

Once, exposing his neck like this would have made every instinct in him flare in warning. He would have bared his fangs, snarled, pushed away anyone foolish enough to come close to his weakest point. But Lucerys pressed soft, trembling lips to that place, and instead of growling, Aemond felt a low, involuntary sound vibrate in his chest, almost a purr. His instincts, now recognizing the boy as the only person allowed near that vulnerability, melted under the touch. 

Even if the torn ruin of his eye might have protested otherwise.

Lucerys’ fangs pierced his skin, sharp and deliberate. Aemond’s breath hitched in response to the shock of pain, the torn flesh, and the burn of his nephew’s narys seeping into the open wound. Aemond’s grip tightened around Lucerys’ waist, grounding himself as Lucerys’ fangs drilled even deeper, his veins burning as if a liquid fire had been injected into them. Aemond's hips stuttered with the surge of pain, his seed filling the inside of his nephew, and he moaned. 

Lucerys’ entrance clenched around him in response, tight and trembling, drawing a guttural groan from Aemond’s throat. The sensation of being held that tightly, of his nephew's body reacting instinctively to the claim, was almost overwhelming. There was no distance left to keep between them, no space to breathe that wasn’t filled with Lucerys, his scent, his breath, his blood, his warmth

He could feel his blood trickling down his shoulder, warm where it slid over his skin, and Lucerys was still so impossibly tight around him. They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies trembling, breaths uneven, pleasure ebbing into something softer but no less overwhelming. Finally, Lucerys released his neck with a shaky exhale, only to seize Aemond’s mouth in a desperate kiss. The metallic tang of his own blood coated their tongues, but Aemond didn’t care.

When they parted, Lucerys let his head fall sleepily onto his shoulder, and leaned in to lick Aemond’s gland, his soft tongue easing the throbbing around the fresh bite. His saliva dulled the ache with slow, instinctive strokes 

“I'm so full,” he whispered, one shaky hand drifting to his belly, swollen with Aemond’s seed. The sight alone sent a fresh pulse of arousal through him, and his hips gave a small, instinctive thrust. “No more, uncle. I can't take it.” Lucerys whimpered, breath catching in his throat, his scent trembling between exhaustion and overstimulation. 

Aemond leaned in, an affectionate nuzzling gesture he had only ever seen Aegon and Jacaerys trade, or Rhaenyra and Daemon. It felt foreign, almost too tender for him, but Lucerys melted instantly, a soft purr rumbling in his chest as he curled closer in his lap, utterly undone.

“Shh.” Aemond hushed him, his voice low and almost tender despite the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. He shifted carefully, guiding them both toward the bed, aware of the lingering ache of their newly forged bond and how any careless shift might hurt them both. The sheets were stained, ruined for the night, but he didn’t care.“There will be no more of that tonight,” he ordered softly. “Rest.”

Lucerys obeyed without protest. .His head settled beneath Aemond’s jaw, his breath warm against the newly scarred gland as he nuzzled into the tender spot. He was quick to fall asleep soon after that. 

Aemond lingered, eyes fixed on the flames while his thoughts churned restlessly. He held Lucerys without warmth, but the boy nestled into him as if it were all he needed. Only once the sharp edge of their newly forged bond dulled into something bearable did Aemond finally surrender to sleep.

Chapter Text

The next day, fortunately, marked the end of the celebrations, crowned by a tournament held in honour of the newlyweds. Aemond had not been permitted to participate — and truthfully, he had no desire to, having not found joy in the situation. 

He had been awakened by knocking at the door — not by the bells, which startled him more than the sounds themselves. He was accustomed to rising with the sun; the fact that he hadn’t, suggested how deeply exhaustion had claimed him.

Servants waited anxiously in the corridor, asking for permission to prepare the bath.

Under his watchful stare, they entered in silence, moving like shadows around the chamber. They carried buckets of steaming water to the washing room, careful to keep their heads bowed, their gazes fixed on the floor. None dared to look at the figure curled in Aemond’s armr nor at the exposed sapphire where his eyepatch should have been. 

He felt his muscles tense with the instinct to bare his teeth at them. 

He forced the impulse down and dismissed them with a curt gesture, waiting until the last servant slipped out before allowing himself to exhale. Even then, he felt the faint sting of irritation under his skin.

Despite the strangers moving around the chamber and the curtains thrown wide open, letting the morning light spill across the room, Lucerys barely stirred in his arms, still exhausted from the previous night's activities. 

Aemond rose from the sheets with deliberate care, every instinct in him bristling at the separation — a sharp command to return to the younger one, to guard him in such a defenceless state. Lucerys whimpered faintly at the loss of warmth, shifting blindly across the bed until he found the hollow where Aemond had slept. He curled into it, breathing in the lingering trace of his scent, and settled.

The perzys walked over to one of the wardrobes, feeling the softness of the carpet beneath his bare feet and stopping only to retrieve his eyepatch from where he had carelessly tossed it. He opened the nearest wardrobe merely to discover that it was Lucerys' by the tunics in various shades of blue and red, and the faint lingering scent of peach. 

He frowned, shutting it quietly, and made his way to the second wardrobe.

He took out a pair of brown cotton pants, he usually wore to sleep and pulled them on, the action grounding him. Then he paused, studying the remaining garments lined neatly within, considering what he would wear for the tournament. Choosing his own clothes had become a small ritual ever since he reached the age where he could assert a bit of autonomy, refusing to rely on servants for such matters.

Most of his garments were dark, muted tones, as he preferred, though a few pieces of red and deeper shades of green were scattered among them. Aemond’s gaze lingered on these for a moment, knowing that his mother had ordered new clothes for him in the Velaryon colors. He was, after all, now one of them by marriage, and it would be expected for him to wear the colors of his husband’s house — even though it had been he who had taken Lucerys under his cloak during the wedding ceremony,  it was Lucerys who held a higher status than him, much to his displeasure.

Satisfied with his choices, Aemond left his clothes on the chaise at the foot of their bed and moved toward the basin of water, a silver box, and a silk handkerchief, all carefully placed there by the servants who knew his preferences. He sat on the bench and began cleaning his sapphire, a ritual etched into his mind since childhood. He avoided his reflection. Aemond had long stopped looking at himself in the mirror during this process, unable to tolerate the sight of his drooping upper eyelid, the hollow of the empty socket, or the inflamed, red skin that persisted despite years of care. The slight discomfort in the empty cavity reminded him that sleeping with the stone had been a mistake. He would need to apply the ointment afterward, but he decided to do so only after bathing.

Once finished, he carefully placed the sapphire back in position. All the while, he remained attentive to Lucerys’ breathing, though the boy stayed asleep, nestled in the sheets. Aemond did not want the zaltan to see him like this 

He walked to the bathing chamber, immediately immersing himself in the bathtub filled with hot, almost scalding water, but it barely mattered. His natural resistance to fire and heat was a proud symbol of his Targaryen heritage.  Many times, as children, he and Aegon had competed to see who could endure the flames longer; occasionally, even Jacaerys would join, more drawn by Aegon’s provocative remarks than by any genuine desire. Their mother could never know, for she would undoubtedly have panicked.

Aemond felt the sting of scratches across his back and reached for his usual soap. He washed his hair and body carefully, untangling his silver locks while wincing at the mild soreness in his scalp, remnants of Lucerys’ rough tugs the night before. He left the bite on his shoulder for last, treating it with particular care, gently cleaning the dried blood with a damp cloth. Both he and Lucerys would need a visit from the Maester for proper treatment, Aemond reminded himself, and to confirm, in fact, whether the marriage had been consummate. Though the thought did little to ease the ache in his shoulder.

Nonetheless, the thought of someone who wasn’t his mate getting close to his mark made him uneasy. The bite didn’t sting as much, thanks to the numbing properties in Lucerys’ saliva, but both of them still needed proper treatment. 

Despite the temptation to linger in the warmth of the water, Aemond finished his bath quickly. He wrapped himself in a soft towel and walked toward his attire for the day, leaving his pants on the stone floor for the servants to collect later. Frowning in displeasure, he felt the fabric of his tunic brush against the still-sensitive bite. To avoid irritating the mark, he left the last few buttons unfastened. 

Other than that, Aemond dressed swiftly, leaving only his hair to be attended to. He settled on the padded bench at the dressing table, the jewels from the previous day having been neatly stored away by the servants in his jewelry box. Only the combs and hair oils remained. Reaching for one of the small vials containing almond oil to apply to his damp strands, he paused as Lucerys’ voice suddenly interrupted him.

“Would you like me to braid it?” Lucerys’ voice was hoarse from the screams and moans Aemond had drawn from him the night before.

Aemond turned to him, finding the boy still wrapped in blankets, his curls tousled and eyes blinking sleepily at him. He stared for a moment, a sick sort of satisfaction curling in his chest as he watched Lucerys squirm beneath the intensity of his gaze.

Offering a braid was a tradition that symbolized trust and love. It meant revealing the most vulnerable part of yourself and knowing no harm would come. It was something meant for lovers who truly loved each other, not for Lucerys and Aemond. Yet, the dragon within him bristled at the mere thought of refusing his partner this small, intimate act.

“You should take a bath first, don’t you think?” Aemond said, his lips curling in a sneer. “Unless you want to do it while my seed drips from your loose pussy?” 

He scoffs because he wanted to see the way Lucerys' cheeks flushed with embarrassment, something his nephew didn't disappoint. His brazen comment seemed to have shaken off the last of the sleep that still clung to Lucerys since his nephew gaped at him, clearly not expecting such low vocabulary from Aemond out of bed.

Aemond leaned back just enough to savor the moment, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. There was a subtle thrill in watching Lucerys squirm under his gaze, in seeing the mixture of surprise, irritation, and reluctant amusement flicker across his features

“And here I thought Aegon was the one with the foul tongue.” He snorted, looking away.

Aemond rolled his eye at the comparison, a faint huff escaping him, but he couldn't deny the spark of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth at the sharpness of Lucerys’ comeback.

“You didn’t complain about that foul tongue last night,” Aemond replied, voice dripping with smugness.

That earned him a sharp sideways glance — half annoyance, half flustered disbelief — before Lucerys burrowed back under the sheets, curling into the warmth like he could disappear inside it. He let out an exaggerated yawn, purposefully dismissive, refusing to dignify Aemond’s comment with an answer. 

Oh, he was embarrassed. And Aemond savored it.

“Do me a favour and use that foul tongue of yours to call the servants to change the water.”
Lucerys didn’t even bother to look at him, lifting an arm and flicking his hand in a lazy, dismissive gesture, as if Aemond were some bothersome attendant instead of him.

Aemond’s brow tightened instantly. His jaw flexed, and he bared his fangs in irritation, though there was no real danger behind the display. 

Lucerys’ laugh burst out bright and unrestrained, the sound warm and sweet, filling the room with an ease that irritated Aemond almost as much as it pulled at him.

"Do it yourself," Aemond grunted.

“I would if I could feel my legs,” Lucerys grumbled, shooting Aemond a dark, irritated look, one that did nothing to hide how aware he was of Aemond’s smugness filling the room like smoke. Still, Aemond went to ring the bell without another word.

By the time the servants entered with fresh buckets of steaming water, Lucerys had already bundled himself tightly in the sheets, only a disheveled curly-crowned head visible. He’d put his eyepatch back on as well, unwilling to be fully exposed before an audience again.

However, that didn't stop them from acting fidgety around him. Aemond’s gaze swept over them like a blade. He didn’t bare his fangs this time, but the instinctive possessiveness still rose, thick and unwelcome. Too many people. Too close. In a space that smelled so strongly of them.

But it was necessary.

The sheets were a mess, pillows tossed out of alignment, clothes discarded unevenly on the floor. His eye twitched; his jaw clenched. Every misplaced item grated against his nerves like sandpaper. The servants moved quickly, perhaps sensing the tension in the room or simply eager to finish their task and flee the prince’s suffocating stare.

Lucerys shifted.

He wasn’t asleep after all. He pushed himself upright with a small hiss of breath, fingers curling briefly into the blanket as if grounding himself. Aemond watched the tremor along his arms, the tightening in his shoulders, the familiar bracing of someone waiting for the room to tilt beneath him.

Aemond’s smirk came anyway, a little cruel, a little indulgent.

The silver-haired one watched as Lucerys struggled to stand upright, one hand immediately rising to massage the sore spot along his lower back. His legs were still unsteady, the aftermath of the night lingering in the heaviness of his movements and the faint stiffness in his posture. 

Lucerys took a hesitant step away from the bed only when he was certain his trembling legs would support him. 

Aemond’s smirk deepened. There was something undeniably satisfying about watching him like this. Lucerys walked past him, ignoring the heated weight of Aemond’s gaze on the bruises scattered across his skin, and closed the door behind him.

Left alone, Aemond took the opportunity to face his reflection in the mirrors, particularly the central one, larger than the two flanking it, offering a full view of the upper half of his body. He stood there for a moment, assessing the arrangement of his attire with a critical eye.

He had chosen a deep red tunic with golden detailing around the collar and black linen trousers tucked into his leather boots. The ostentatious black overcoat still lay folded on the chaise: its embroidered brocade of golden lines sweeping across the shoulders, sleeves, and lapels. He would put it on only after the Maester tended to them.

Allowing himself a moment of stillness, Aemond contemplated his appearance before selecting the ruby and diamond earrings he had worn during their wedding ceremony. He fastened them with quiet precision, then slid on a ring shaped like a dragon curling along the length of his finger — an indulgent piece, but one he favored along with his signet ring.

With Lucerys taking longer than expected, Aemond turned his attention to his hair. He picked up the ivory comb left on the dressing table and began working through the silver strands, movement steady and almost meditative. By the time he finished, his hair had dried nearly completely, smooth and free of the loose curls that usually clung to the ends when damp.

It was then that Lucerys reappeared.

He stepped through the arched entrance, wrapped in one of the mantles hanging beside the bathtub. Steam still clung to him, softening the outline of his curls and warming the air around him. Without a word, he crossed the room toward one of the wardrobes, his movements slow but more controlled now, though a faint stiffness lingered in the way he shifted his weight.

“It’s the other one,” Aemond grumbled, irritation threading through his voice. His mood had soured the moment he realized Lucerys had taken far too long in the bath, and now, judging by the sun’s position, they were unmistakably late for breakfast.

Lucerys paused mid-step and glanced at him with idle curiosity, as though Aemond’s displeasure were little more than morning chatter. Then he simply crossed the room, mantle trailing softly behind him, and moved to the opposite wardrobe.

Their wardrobes stood in opposite corners, each raised on a single-step platform, facing each other with a white partition framed in gold separating them. Aemond’s irritation only sharpened as he watched Lucerys sift casually through tunics and jerkins, wholly unbothered by the passing time. Lucerys tugged hangers, hummed under his breath, and considered fabrics as though they weren’t expected downstairs at all,  as though Aemond weren’t slowly losing patience.

“You do realize we don’t have all the time in the world to deal with your whims, don’t you, husband?” Aemond snapped, his voice low and biting. 

Lucerys snorted in response, giving him an annoyed, sidelong glance that carried just enough edge to show he’d heard the reprimand and chosen to ignore most of it. Still, he didn’t argue. He simply gathered the garments he wanted with an air of deliberate calm.

“Aren’t you going to call the maids?” Aemond asked.

“No need,” Lucerys replied. Aemond heard the muted rustle of fabric behind the partition. “I don’t feel comfortable with them,” he admitted softly.

He couldn’t tell if it was mistrust, anxiety, or instinct. With Lucerys, any of the three were possible.

“Where is your servant? Couldn't you call them instead?” 

There was a short silence. Then Lucerys’s voice emerged.

“Would you allow it?”

The question hit Aemond harder than it should have.

His entire body went rigid. Lucerys wasn’t even accusing him, he already knew the answer.

And gods, it shamed Aemond that he knew it too.

Because the mere thought of someone else’s hands near Lucerys — adjusting his clothes, fastening a clasp, standing close enough to scent his skin — sent a violent, protective jolt ripping through him. So sharp and instinctive that his vision blurred for a heartbeat. His body reacted as though to a threat, not a hypothetical.

He dug his nails into his thigh, hard, hard enough for the bite of pain to anchor him. Anything to fight the wild urge to bare his fangs and bite him again, to draw blood and taste it on his tongue, to lash out.

The dragon within roars in a rage, mine, mine, mine, the word echoing through. Aemond clenched his jaw so tightly he trembled.

“Thought so,” Lucerys laughed quietly from behind the screen. It wasn’t mocking. Not truly.

But Aemond hated how unsteady he felt. The room smelled like smoke and ashes, his own agitation bleeding into the room, and he hated it. 

Fortunately, Lucerys didn’t take long to dress. The ornate blue tunic suited him unfairly well, the silver embroidery catching the light in soft glints, the wave-pattern hem echoing Driftmark so clearly it almost smelled of salt and spray. Like Aemond’s own garments, the top remained slightly open to avoid brushing the healing bite, the faint bruise still visible.

“Let me fix my hair first, and then I’ll do yours,” Lucerys said as he approached the dressing table.

Aemond wordlessly gave up the space, retreating to one of the armchairs watching closely as Lucerys selected a vial of oil with thoughtful care, the glass catching a glimmer of early light. Then those slender fingers slid into his own curls, separating them gently, methodically, without a comb. Aemond found the method unusual. 

Lucerys carried a faint scent of nervousness around him, subtle, but distinct enough to prickle at Aemond’s senses. He still wasn’t used to the full weight of Aemond’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, following every small movement he made. And the lingering edge of Aemond’s anger in the air certainly didn’t help; it only made Lucerys’ shoulders tighten in that familiar, anxious way. Their instincts were still unsettled, still struggling to find equilibrium within the bond forged so recently. Aemond had been trying to keep himself composed, to ignore the territorial pull thudding beneath his skin as much as Lucerys could pretend all he wanted, moving with practiced grace, but his hands betrayed him. A slight tremble. A breath held too long. A sideways glance that skittered away the moment it met Aemond’s.

He could still sense the echo of where they’d been joined — bone-deep, blood-deep — thrumming under his skin like a pulse. He could feel, acutely, the absence of Lucerys’s scent, washed away during the bath. The faint ghost of it remained on the sheets, in the air,  but not on him. And it scraped at Aemond’s nerves like claws, his body tense as though responding to a threat no one else could see. The absence of that aroma sparked a low, simmering agitation in his chest, as if some unseen challenger had dared to step into his territory.

Lucerys finished tending to his curls and began opening the dressing table drawers, searching with quiet determination. When he finally found what he was looking for, he lifted a delicate blue circlet and placed it atop his head. From afar, it might have passed for embroidered fabric, but Aemond recognized the truth immediately. Platinum and diamonds shaped into tiny forget-me-nots. The design was softer, more feminine than the traditional rings worn by princes, but Lucerys didn’t seem the least bit bothered. He added sapphire-set silver earrings to match, though he left his fingers bare for once. Then he rose and gestured for Aemond to sit again.

Aemond obeyed, watching Lucerys move behind him and waited. Waited for the familiar prickle of rejection, that instinctive surge of warning whenever someone came too close to his back. But nothing came. The dragon inside him remained calm, settled, recognizing Lucerys not as a threat, but as something claimed.

Their mother had always struggled with their instincts; the smallest attempt from a maidservant to fix their hair would set shoulders rigid and teeth bared. Helaena had been even more sensitive, recoiling from unfamiliar touch and covering her scent gland whenever she felt cornered. They’d all learned to manage those instincts better as they grew older, smoothing the roughest edges with discipline and habit, but the tension had never vanished, merely learned to sleep under the skin.

And yet here Aemond sat, letting Lucerys comb through the roots of his hair with careful fingers.

Aemond even removed his eyepatch to make the process easier, exposing his sapphire without protest. It felt strange to reveal the eye he had lost because of the very man now touching him so gently. The daylight made it feel more real, more raw. Still, Lucerys showed no fear, no hesitation. He only met the perzys' gaze for a brief heartbeat before returning to his task.

From the next jewelry box, Lucerys retrieved the ruby pins Aemond had worn the night before. His hands were steady and practiced as he slid them into place, his face soft even in concentration. Aemond watched every detail unfold in the mirror, the movements precise and almost ritualistic When Lucerys finally finished, their eyes met again in the reflection.

"Done," Lucerys announced, stepping back. 

An awkwardness settled between them at once, the quiet kind, heavy and unsure. Neither seemed to know how to stand, how to breathe, how to behave around the other now. It was difficult to ignore the spilled blood between them, more difficult still to forget it, especially when the proof of it lingered on his skin, haunting them.

“I will ask for the Maester to be summoned,” Aemond said, rising a little too quickly. He stepped out to instruct one of the guards, his voice clipped, then returned inside and took the other armchair, the one Lucerys hadn’t claimed.

Silence unfurled between them again. Lucerys had chosen, intentionally or not, to sit in Aemond’s blind spot. The placement grated on him, but not enough to provoke comment. What struck harder was the faint thread of unease woven through Lucerys’s scent. Subtle that anyone else would have missed it. But Aemond couldn’t. Not now. Not with their bond still raw and new, every shift in Lucerys’s mood brushing against his nerves like a pulled thread.

He tried not to stare. Lucerys tried not to fidget. Neither succeeded.

Fortunately, a knock at the door cracked the tension like thin ice.

Maester Orwley entered with one of his young assistants in tow, both offering stiff bows before getting to work. Aemond motioned for Lucerys to be tended to first, though the decision did nothing to calm the restless coil in his chest. He hovered close, but not close enough for his own comfort. However, Orwley was weak in personality, and his hands trembled the moment they neared Lucerys’s skin.

Lucerys noticed. Of course he noticed.

He kept glancing sideways, every muscle wired tight beneath his blue tunic, shoulders held as though expecting the slightest touch to turn threatening. His lips pressed into a thin line, jaw ticking with the effort of holding his instincts to bare his fangs like the wild creature he was. 

Aemond wasn’t much steadier. His fists were clenched behind his back, nails digging crescents into his palms. The movement was silent, controlled, but the tension radiating from him filled the room. His lone eye followed every motion Orwley made: every dab of cloth, every brush of fingertips too close to Lucerys’s mark, every breath.

It rattled the Maester. Visibly.

Orwley swallowed hard, his voice strained as he murmured instructions to his assistant. The boy, even younger and far more inexperienced, had blanched upon seeing the ruined bedclothes and approached with clumsy purpose. He checked the sheets for proof of consummation, despite his discomfort. He was not used to this duty, a mated pair whose instincts simmered so close to the surface.

Aemond wasn't much better off; his hands clenched into painfully tight fists behind his back. The fact that his lone eye was attentively following Orwley's movements seemed to make him nervous. His assistant was no better, moving back to his side after checking the bed's sheets in search of consummation proof. He was not accustomed to this, it seems, based on his age. 

The dragon inside him bristled the moment the Maester leaned in, restless and snarling at the sight of unfamiliar hands so near a vulnerable point on his mate. Aemond held still for a heartbeat — one — and then the restraint snapped.

The sound that tore from his chest wasn’t human.

A low, guttural growl rumbled out of him as Orwley dabbed the herbal mixture onto the bite, the sharp, medicinal scent smothering Lucerys’s natural sweetness. The violation of it struck Aemond like a blow. Instinct flooded him too fast, too hot. He barely registered that he had started toward the Maester until the man jolted violently, nearly tumbling off the bench in terror.

His nephew’s lips peeled back, fangs flashing as he recoiled from the Maester’s touch, a warning hiss slipping free before he could contain it. For a moment they were two beasts cornering the trembling man, the air thick with aggression and the copper bite of adrenaline.

Aemond stopped himself just in time.

He dragged in a harsh breath, then another, and another. Each one burning like a forge bellows in his chest as he fights his instincts back into submission. His fingers dug into the carved wood of the canopy structure as he forced himself to retreat, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched until it ached.

When it was his turn, Lucerys somehow seemed even worse off than Aemond.

The younger one prowled around them with a kind of feral agitation, pacing in slow, deliberate circles like a predator staking its claim. His brown eyes never left the Maester’s hands, pupils razor-thin, swallowed by the dark. Every time Orwley so much as shifted in a way Lucerys didn’t like, a warning growl slipped free — soft, but sharp enough to prickle at the skin. He looked less like a prince and more like one of the dragons from the Andal’s stories, coiled above a hoarded treasure no thief would survive approaching.

Aemond couldn’t help the smug curl of satisfaction tugging at his mouth.

Watching the assistant tremble, half terrified, half morbidly fascinated, almost made the ordeal worth it.

The scent of the herbs reached him next, and his stomach twisted in instinctive rejection. His nose wrinkled; his shoulders tightened. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Having foreign hands on his claiming mark felt like a violation carved straight into bone. His fingers clenched around the armchair so tightly the wood creaked. It took more effort than he wanted to admit to keep himself still and not sink his fangs into the nearest throat.

Thank the Gods, the Maester didn't take long to finish, leaving them with a warning to seek help if they experienced any fever or other symptoms that could indicate infection.

“There won’t be,” Aemond replied, his voice low and certain, and carrying more threat than reassurance. The Maester stiffened. He opened his mouth to insist, to offer another nervous string of instructions, but one glance at Aemond’s lightly bared fangs silenced him instantly.

In truth, calling the Maester had been nothing more than a required formality.

The healing properties in Aemond’s own saliva were more than enough to tend to a bite like this; they always had been. The bone-deep exhaustion that followed their bonding was simply their bodies adjusting to the narys now threading through both of them, weaving their instincts into one rhythm. Now, Lucerys would only respond to him and reject any other perzys, zaltan or ñuquir.

The man nodded back hesitantly but bowed to both of them respectfully before taking his leave,his assistant stumbling after him. . The door had barely clicked shut when Lucerys was on him.

He launched forward with startling speed, clinging to Aemond as if dragged by instinct rather than thought, burying himself against him and inhaling deeply. That familiar scent — peaches warmed by sun, honey just beginning to crystallize — rushed over 

Aemond wanted to pull away. He truly did. But his body betrayed him effortlessly.

His hands closed around Lucerys’s waist, dragging him closer, lowering his face into the crook of Lucerys’s neck so his own scent — lavender crushed under thumb, rosemary bruised by touch — could flood over the younger man and drive out the bitter trace of herbs clinging to his skin. Lucerys nuzzled along his jaw, rubbing his cheek against the hard line of it, coat­ing him with sweetness until Aemond felt the tension draining from his limbs against his will.

A low, helpless breath escaped him. He sniffed back, deep and hungry, chasing every lingering note of him, desperate to scrub away anything that wasn’t theirs. The urge to drag Lucerys onto the bed, to trap him in their mingled scents, to drown the herbal stench until nothing remained but the imprint of their bond hit Aemond with brutal force.

Lucerys had been the root of nearly every pain in his life, the source of humiliation, the reason he wore sapphire in place of flesh. He should hate him. He should push him away. He should bare his teeth and return injury for injury, pain for pain.

But the very thought of hurting him now twisted Aemond’s insides until he could hardly breathe.

Something of that turmoil must have seeped into his scent, because Lucerys whimpered softly and pressed closer. He rubbed his cheek along Aemond’s jaw again, slow and earnest, as if trying to overwrite the bitterness leaking from him, soothing it with peaches and honey, smothering it before it could rot into something worse.

And Aemond, despite everything, let him.

Aemond needed to step away from it, take a step back and think clearly. His nephew didn’t protest when he did so, but Aemond still noticed the way Lucerys’s body leaned forward, as if pulled by an invisible thread, his tiara slightly askew and his expression tense with hesitant expectation, waiting for Aemond’s next move like it was the only anchor he had.

“We should finish getting ready,” Aemond said, steadying his voice, pretending he wasn’t as rattled as he felt. “Or we’ll be late.”

He turned away before his instincts betrayed him again, retrieving his overcoat and slipping it on with practiced precision. Lucerys mirrored him, fastening a short blue cloak at his shoulders, the twin seahorse brooches gleaming softly in the candlelight. The slits along the sides allowed the younger’s arms to move freely, the delicate, translucent fabric swaying with every cautious step.

Aemond placed a guiding hand at the small of Lucerys’s back, and led him toward the dining hall. The faint brush of the cloak’s fabric against his fingers was maddening. Still, he focused on the path ahead. The hallway felt narrower than usual, every murmured greeting from servants loud against his ears, every curious glance scraping across already-frayed nerves. Instinct demanded he bare his teeth, drive them all away, shield what was his from their intrusive eyes. 

Lucerys stayed close. Too close. And Aemond, despite knowing better, didn’t push him away.

The zaltan was nervous. His eyes darted around the corridor, scanning every person they passed, pupils still slightly narrowed in that feral way that set Aemond’s senses alight. The moment a maid walked too near, Lucerys shifted closer to him.

They were neither the first nor the last to enter the room. Jacaerys and Aegon sat beside one another, the elder holding a glass of what Aemond presumed was diluted wine. Joffrey was present as well, still bleary-eyed with sleep, flanked by his younger brothers, Aegon III and Viserys II, who were being quietly entertained by their mother’s maids. Rhaena had already taken her place too, seated with composed elegance next to Aegon III.

It was Jacaerys who noticed them first. His gaze lifted, and he offered Lucerys a bright, warm smile, but he remained where he was. Wisely. He knew neither Aemond nor Lucerys would appreciate him approaching now, not when their instincts were still raw and unsettled.

Aemond couldn’t help remembering their mother’s old frustrations back at the Red Keep, the way she bristled at Aegon and Jacaerys’s constant need to remain close, almost glued together, especially when she wanted to discuss Aegon’s duties as future King Consort. Most of her concerns revolved around heirs. She doubted Aegon's ability to conceive, not out of malice but simple ignorance; she had never met a male zaltan capable of pregnancy. In truth, almost no one had. The Faith’s condemnation of such unions, with the Targaryens being the only exception now. Her faith in the Seven prevented her from fully believing it. 

Two years had passed since Aegon’s wedding without a pregnancy, and their mother’s anxiety only grew. It was that same fear that had made her wary of Lucerys as a match.

Aegon, of course, found all her attempts to lecture him endlessly amusing. Moving to Dragonstone had freed him from most of her admonitions about duty and sacrifice, though she always tried again whenever Jacaerys visited Rhaenyra. Jace tolerated it with patience, refusing to leave Aegon’s side no matter how pointed her advice became.

Lucerys now mirrored that same silent loyalty, making no attempt to separate himself as Aemond guided him through the hall. His nephew simply followed, soft steps matching his own, allowing himself to be led exactly where Aemond directed.

The instinctive trust satisfied the creature coiled inside Aemond’s chest. Rationally, he knew better than to mistake it for anything else. Lucerys wasn’t choosing trust. He was following instinct, just as Aemond was. Newly bonded pairs were fragile, unpredictable things. For weeks, sometimes months, territorial tension thrummed beneath the skin, sharpening every sense and shortening every fuse.

Aemond courteously pulled out the chair for Lucerys to sit — with only a slight tremor caused by their late-night activities — next to Rhaena. She greeted her cousin-brother with a warm, unrestrained smile and immediately drew him into soft conversation. Aemond remained silent, taking the seat at Lucerys’s other side, his lone eye tracking each family member as they filtered into the hall. His mother and Rhaenyra, accompanied by Daemon, were the last to enter. Rhaenyra moved without hesitation to the head of the table, a place she had claimed with increasing regularity in recent years, much to his grandfather’s thinly veiled fury.

“Unfortunately, the King will not be able to grace us with his presence this morning,” Rhaenyra announced, hands folded neatly before her, posture regal. Her gown, a deep, commanding red traced with gold along the bodice and hem, caught the morning light, emphasizing the authority she carried as naturally as breath. “The festivities of last night proved too strenuous for his condition.”

Aemond heard Aegon’s soft chuckle, amused by her delicate phrasing. Everyone at the table knew exactly what it meant: Viserys hovered one breath away from being claimed by the Strange or by Balerion himself,  as it seemed the Seven did not inclined to have anything to do with the Targaryens. Their mother clung to the belief that her Hightower blood might spare him from the curse of their draconic ancestry, but Aemond knew better. He never felt entirely comfortable in the Sept. Still, for her sake, he could play the dutiful son.

“I will stand as his representative for today’s celebrations,” Rhaenyra concluded, taking her seat and signaling for the food to be served.

His mother began the prayers, her voice soft yet commanding, and Aemond followed out of sheer habit. He lowered his head and closed his eye, letting the familiar cadence wash over him. He doubted anyone besides Daeron truly cared for the ritual, certainly not Aegon, whose posture already screamed impatience, nor Jacaerys, who was subtly nudging his husband beneath the table. But tradition bound them, and habit was its own leash.

When the prayers ended, Aemond deliberately avoided his grandfather’s stare, knowing full well the disappointment lodged in the old man’s chest like a splinter. Instead, he focused on the dishes that the servants began arranging before them. Aegon and Jacaerys were already leaning into one another, sharing food with unthinking ease, Jace piling meat on Aegon’s plate while Aegon slid sliced fruit toward him in return. Across the table, Rhaenyra and Daemon oversaw their younger children, guiding the servants with an expectant flick of the wrist, ensuring the hatchlings were fed before turning to their own plates.

Thankfully, Lucerys was not seated in Aemond’s blind spot. The silver-haired man watched him with quiet attentiveness while serving himself. He took mental note, almost automatically, of what his husband reached for. Bread. Fruit. Nothing substantial. Without thinking, Aemond scooped a portion of the meat dish onto his nephew’s plate.

The younger man's lips twitched at his gesture, as though he were fighting the urge to smile. It made Aemond pause, just for a heartbeat, and wonder if Lucerys had done it on purpose. The boy was perceptive, far more than people liked to admit. He could have easily noticed Aemond watching him, cataloguing his choices, reacting before he even realized it himself. Perhaps Lucerys had chosen the lightest foods intentionally, testing him or simply nudging him into behaving like a proper mate under the eyes of half their family. A subtle push. A reminder..

Aemond wasn’t sure whether the thought irritated him or warmed something deep and stubborn inside his chest.

Lucerys, still absorbed in selecting fruit slices, pretended not to notice the scrutiny. But Aemond caught the faintest shift in his scent — a flutter of satisfaction, soft and honey-sweet — confirming that yes, the boy knew exactly what he was doing. And he was pleased by the result.

"Well, nephew…" Of course it had to be his brother to shatter the fleeting peace that had settled over the table. Aegon addressed Lucerys, who blinked in confusion at the mischievous glint in Aegon’s purple eyes, despite the feigned disinterest on his face. “I didn’t know your voice could carry so far.” He laughed, delighted by the scandalized gasp their mother let out. Lucerys’s cheeks flushed scarlet as Daemon’s laughter rolled across the now-silent table.

He had forgotten that their new quarters were in the same hall as Aegon and Jacaerys’, so it wasn’t exactly impossible for the two of them to have heard the sounds of their mating. Even the guards outside his door could barely meet their eyes when they left their room.

“Aegon!” their mother hissed, the veil on her crown rattling with the speed of her reprimand. But Aegon only smirked, raising his cup as if nothing had happened.

“At least, brother, you only had to endure it once,” Aemond said, tone flat. “During your own turn, I couldn’t sleep a wink. Even the distance between our rooms wasn’t enough to spare me from your screams.”

“Aemond!” his mother snapped again, displeasure tightening her features. Aemond ignored her.

"That just proves I have vigorous perzys," Aegon retorted smugly. Jacaerys, who had been diligently pretending to ignore his uncle-husband's antics, promptly choked on his wine, his ears flushing red with embarrassment. Daemon burst into laughter again, joined by Baela, who nudged her cousin-brother with a teasing grin. Even Rhaenyra seemed unable to hide her amusement at the brothers' exchange. Aemond couldn’t see Daeron from his blind side, but he certainly heard him, making a strangled sound of barely contained laughter.

"Does that mean we can expect an heir, then?" their mother interjected, desperate to redirect the conversation away from anything obscene.

"I wouldn’t trouble yourself over that, Your Grace," Lucerys replied quickly, polite but firm, turning his attention back to his plate. "Even if my husband’s seed doesn’t bear fruit after our union, my bāneves are expected to come soon."

Aemond’s lone eye snapped toward him at that, studying him sharply. Lucerys didn't return the look. It was absurd to think he could be pregnant after a single night, male zaltans almost never conceived outside their cycle, and certainly not on the first attempt. Aemond knew this. Rationally, he knew Lucerys’s womb was empty.

And yet —

Even now, knowing with absolute certainty that there was no offspring forming inside him, the mere image of Lucerys carrying his child, round-bellied and glowing with it, sent a fierce, possessive hunger curling through him.

“I shall pray for the Mother to pour her blessings upon you, my Prince, and grant you healthy heirs,” his mother said with solemn grace.

“You honour me, Your Grace,” Lucerys replied, offering her a faint, polite smile.

Aemond watched the exchange in silence, his expression carved from something close to indifference, though he was far from unaffected. He knew his mother too well. Her words might have been courteous, but beneath them lingered the bitterness she never managed to conceal when it came to his marriage. She had envisioned him wed to one of the Baratheon girls, a union forged for strength and alliances, not for the tangled lineage and fractured loyalties that came with Lucerys.

She had pleaded with their father for moons to dissolve the betrothal, and she had not been alone. His half-sister had argued for it just as fervently. Still, even as his body weakened and his mind slipped toward delirium, their father had not faltered in his decree.

Afterwards, the remainder of the breakfast passed in relative peace, and sooner than expected, the members of the royal family were making their way toward the carriages that would carry them to the Tourney Grounds. Lucerys and Aemond shared one of carriages, seated opposite each other as the horses began their slow, rhythmic trot down the cobblestone path.

Aemond kept his gaze lowered, fixed on the shifting sunlight that filtered through the curtains rather than on his nephew. He needed the distance, or rather, the illusion of it, to attempt to make sense of the morning. Of everything. The air between them felt charged, thick.

The dragon within him purred, sated and serene in a way Aemond had never experienced. The bite throbbed beneath layers of linen and fabric, a slow, steady pulse that was both soothing and suffocating. 

His veins no longer burned; the feverish shock of their union had receded into something steadier, deeper. The narys of his nephew — his mate — had settled into his blood, threading through him like molten silver. There would be no undoing it now. Their bodies had accepted the bond, sealed it, carried it.

From this moment on, pain would be shared, instincts intertwined. Aemond’s breath would answer to Lucerys’s, his fury sharpened by his mate’s fear, his strength bolstered by Lucerys’s presence. Their lives were bound tightly, irrevocably, one of them left this earth eternally.

And just as the thought settled in his mind, the carriage hit a gentle bump in the road. Lucerys’ knee brushed his.

Aemond stiffened. The dragon in him didn’t.

“So it shall be.”

Lucerys’s resigned tone broke the silence between them, drawing Aemond’s attention away from the streets of King’s Landing, where his gaze had been fixed in restless thought. Commoners crowded the roads, straining for a glimpse of the royal family, held back by the City Watch. Some shouted insults, about their marriage, their clothes, and the obscene amount of coins spent on the wedding. Tongues like theirs would have been cut out by nightfall, but that knowledge did little to soften the impact. Lucerys flinched all the same at the raw violence in their voices.

“What do you mean?” Aemond asked.

“Our marriage.”

Aemond stared at him for a moment, feeling a kind of weariness he couldn't quite describe.

“Did you truly expect everything to change after a mockery of a courtship and a single night together?” he snapped, mirroring Lucerys’s earlier tone as he leaned back into the plush seat and crossed his legs. “If so, you are more naïve than I thought. I have fulfilled my part of our agreement, Lucerys. Let the matter settle. Let us live our lives as best we can with what we have.”

“It isn’t naïve to want to avoid a lifetime of misery, husband,” Lucerys replied, a bitter smile curving his lips. His shoulders slumped a small, defeated motion Aemond would never allow himself.

Instinct screamed at him as Lucerys’s scent began to sour, sharp with hurt and resignation, commanding him to act, to close the distance, to fix it. But Aemond remained rigid, resolute in his refusal to give in to the beast coiled inside him , even if that denial wounded them both by withholding something neither could yet name.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Aemond scoffed, his lips twisting into a grimace, “but we have very little say in our own lives. We are toys to be moved at the King’s will — and the King’s will is the law.”

He had always known he would not marry for love. He had accepted that much long ago, prepared to fulfill his duty as a spouse, believing at least that his marriage would serve a purpose, to help his grandsire secure Aegon’s throne. Instead, he had been wed on the whim of a dying old man.

“I want us both to live well, Aemond.”

Lucerys whispered it like a secret, his shoulders slumping as he sank onto the padded bench with a quiet sigh. “To heal the wound that tore our family apart.”

“We are no longer children, Lucerys.” Aemond’s voice hardened. “That wound runs too deep to be mended with kisses and good intentions.”

Heat flooded the carriage, fire and ash thickened the air, and the urge to bare his fangs rose sharp and instinctive, a demand to intimidate, to reassert control. Yet something inside him recoiled all the same, roaring wrong, wrong, wrong so violently that he nearly flinched under its force. 

“You can never leave the past behind,” Lucerys said, disappointment threading his voice, as though he had expected more. Aemond’s jaw clenched at the audacity of it, his nostrils flaring. “You drag it with you everywhere.”

“How could I not?” Aemond snapped, baring his fangs as anger surged through him. “It’s carved into my bones.”

His scar throbbed in response — or perhaps he imagined it. Either way, he dismissed the thought, clenching his fists so tightly his nails bit into his wrists, grounding himself against the heat burning beneath his skin.

“Jace and Aegon seem to have buried it,” Lucerys countered.

“Well.” Aemond’s lips curved into something sharp and sardonic. “Aegon didn’t tear Jacaerys’ eye from his skull, did he?”

He expected Lucerys to recoil, to retreat under the weight of it. Instead, he watched his nephew’s temper rise to meet his own. Not in flame, but like a treacherous wave, swelling and dangerous enough to drag ships beneath the surface.

That, he hadn’t expected.

Aemond blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the salty edge of Lucerys’ anger flooding the air, so unlike the fire he had braced himself to face.

“I will not be ashamed of my actions,” Lucerys said through clenched teeth, his breathing heavy and uneven.

He was a seastorm, as a Velaryon should be, but only in moments like this.

Since his bāneves, Lucerys always smelled like peaches and honey, sunlight caught in ripe fruit, with no trace of fire or ash, no salt-laced fury or storm-wind beneath it that might have proven him trueborn before. Not like Jacaerys, whose scent had shifted unmistakably after his own bāneves, dispelling every lingering doubt about his blood — much to their grandsire’s chagrin. Most of the time, Lucerys was soft. His presence gentle, his scent warm and mild. The sea did not cling to him naturally; it did not live in his skin the way fire lived in Aemond’s blood. The salt and the storm only surfaced under strain, in flashes of anger, irritation, or pain, brief and sharp, like waves breaking violently against stone before retreating once more.

“I was defending my brother,” he finished, voice sharp with conviction.

“And what a splendid job you did,” Aemond replied coolly. He lifted a hand and gestured toward his eyepatch, his smile devoid of any real mirth, all sharp edges and bitter amusement. “You should be very proud of yourself.”

Lucerys whimpered.

The anger drained from him all at once, replaced by something far worse, a raw, burning anguish that surged through him, strong enough to make his mark throb in response. Aemond recoiled instinctively, startled by the intensity of it. His nose wrinkled as the scent shifted, not salt and storm, but something sickly sweet, peaches turned sour with distress.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. They were newly bonded; everything between them was still exposed, still bleeding through skin and instinct alike.

Aemond exhaled slowly, fatigue settling deep into his bones.

Immediately, Lucerys surged forward, climbing onto his lap and burying his nose against Aemond’s unmarked gland. Aemond stiffened for half a heartbeat before allowing it, letting the familiar scent of lavender unfurl through the confined space of the carriage in a deliberate attempt to calm him. The sharp edge of anger had faded, though faint traces of it still lingered, clinging stubbornly to the air.

It would not make for Lucerys to appear distressed. Such weakness would draw Daemon’s attention like blood in water, and Aemond had no desire to provoke his uncle’s protective instincts.

Lucerys nestled closer, careful with the tilt of his head so the tiara would not press uncomfortably between them. A low, mournful sound escaped his throat, subtle, restrained, unmistakably Valyrian. The sound tightened something in Aemond’s chest. He responded by pressing his cheek against Lucerys’, slow and controlled, letting his scent wrap around him like a shield.

“You’re not even going to try?” Lucerys murmured, his voice small now, stripped of its earlier defiance. His nose traced the sliver of exposed skin at Aemond’s collar, tentative and reverent, sending an unwanted shiver down the older man’s spine. “We used to be friends.”

A bitter laugh escaped Aemond's lips, and he had to restrain himself from letting his anger seep through again. At this moment, antagonising his husband would do more harm than good. "You remember our childhood differently than I do, it seems."

His words only seemed to make things worse.

Aemond’s nose burned as the scent of rotten peaches surged, overpowering his careful veil of lavender. Lucerys’ hands trembled where they fisted in his overcoat, knuckles pale, grip unsteady.

You don’t have to be miserable, Aegon had told him once.

But not being miserable always seemed like labor in itself. He wouldn't even know where to start. So instead, he learned to live inside it. To let the sadness and anger settle deep, growing slowly until they became familiar, almost necessary. He learned to endure them, to build a life around their weight, treasuring the rare moments when they loosened their hold.

Aemond thought then of his mother.

Of the way she had been trapped in a marriage devoid of affection, her mouth forever curved into that tight, enduring scowl — not quite anger, not quite despair, but something hardened by years of disappointment. He thought of the early years of Aegon’s marriage to Helaena, of how his brother had worn his own sour, putrid sadness like armor. How he had drowned himself in the brothels of the Street of Silk, eyes red and swollen, laughter hollow, until he had begun to resemble her far more than any of them cared to admit.

Sorrow, it seemed, was inherited just as surely as blood.

And Aemond wondered, not for the first time, whether this was all marriage ever truly offered them. Not love, not healing, but different shapes of the same misery, passed carefully.

“Thank you, Aemond,” he whispered, as though speaking any louder might undo the words entirely.

Aemond almost laughed at that.

“But this is not forgiveness,” he added at once, unwilling to let hope take root where it could fester.

“Oh, Aemond.” Lucerys’ lips curved into something soft and faintly melancholic. His thumb brushed the edge of the scar not hidden by the eyepatch, and Aemond braced himself for the familiar spark of irritation.

It never came.

He rarely allowed anyone to touch it, not even the Maesters, and only when absolutely necessary. He preferred to tend to it himself. Yet now, instead of recoiling, he felt an almost embarrassing urge to lean into the touch, a low contentment settling beneath his ribs.

“It’s all right,” Lucerys murmured gently. “I didn’t ask for it.”

Lucerys remained in Aemond’s lap for the rest of the journey.

When the towering structure of the arena finally came into view, the younger man reluctantly shifted back to his seat as the carriage slowed to a stop and a servant opened the door. Aemond exited first, his eye sweeping the surroundings with habitual vigilance despite the number of guards already stationed nearby. He inhaled sharply — a useless instinct, really. Westerosi lacked scent glands, unable to project emotions or intent through pheromones as Valyrians did.

Still, the foul stench lingered.

Aemond barely restrained his grimace as it assaulted his sensitive nose. He already missed the enclosed safety of the carriage, the way Lucerys’ scent had wrapped around him, steady and familiar. He must have let something slip, because the servant stiffened, suddenly nervous under his displeasure.

Aemond dismissed him without a word and turned instead to Lucerys.

The brown-haired man stepped down from the carriage with measured grace, offering the servant a gentle, reassuring smile — one that smoothed the tension Aemond had left in his wake.

And just like that, the world pressed back in around them. 

They were quickly escorted to the section reserved for the royal family.

Aemond and Lucerys were neither the first to arrive nor the last. Rhaenyra, Daemon, and the younger children were still absent, as were their mother and grandsire. They took their seats without delay, settling side by side. Almost immediately, Lucerys turned to Jacaerys, slipping easily into quiet conversation, while Aemond focused instead on the stands as they filled, watching the slow swell of anticipation as the tournament’s start drew near.

His relationship with Jacaerys remained carefully neutral. Courteous nods, restrained greetings — nothing more. Aemond preferred it that way. Silence was safer.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the family to arrive. Rhaenyra stepped forward to deliver the opening address in the King’s stead, a substitution that Aemond assumed sat poorly with Otto Hightower. His grandsire was fortunate, Aemond thought with a flicker of dark amusement, to have been born Westerosi. Had he been Valyrian, concealing such naked disdain from his scent would have been impossible — and likely fatal. Otto would have lost his head long ago. Aemond felt no guilt at the thought; the man had sown enough misery in his mother’s and brother’s lives to earn far worse.

Then came the procession of contestants.

Aemond watched with thinly veiled disinterest as lines of posturing, overconfident knights paraded before the crowd, basking in cheers they had yet to earn. He didn’t need to glance at Daemon to know his uncle wore the same bored expression. The archery contest briefly captured Lucerys’ full attention, unsurprising, given his preference for the bow, and Aemond found himself noting the way his husband leaned forward, eyes sharp, scent bright with focus.

By the time the joust began, Lucerys had fully settled into the spectacle. He reacted with open enthusiasm, turning toward Aemond whenever a knight was unhorsed or drew steel in frustration, his excitement strikingly reminiscent of their boyhood: loud, earnest, unguarded.

For a brief moment, it almost felt easy.

Then a knight bearing Tyrell colors approached the covered royal stands.

And just like that, the fragile good humor shattered.

“I humbly request your favour, Your Highness,” the knight said, lowering his lance toward Lucerys.

Tension snapped through Aemond at once. He couldn’t quite hide his surprise at the man’s sheer foolishness, nor the way Lucerys’ previously relaxed posture stiffened despite the careful neutrality of his expression. Aemond felt it immediately, the subtle shift in his husband’s scent, the tightening beneath the calm.

Misunderstandings like this were not uncommon. Valyrian second genders were poorly understood, especially by commoners whose education barely grazed such matters. Even his own mother grasped little of it — and what she did understand, she resented. Rather than learning, she had chosen suppression, pushing that part of her children aside or leaving it in the hands of Maesters and Guardians.

Aemond remembered all too well how she had handled Aegon.

She had smothered his instincts, denied him the chance to learn motherhood from the Septas, refused to let the younger children seek comfort in him. She had chastised him for his lack of masculinity and forced him into lessons he despised — lessons meant to mold a king, not a person. In doing so, she had driven him to reject his own nature, leaving him bitter, reckless, and cruel in the cage she called duty.

“I humbly request your favour, Your Highness,” the knight said, lowering his lance toward Lucerys.

Tension snapped through Aemond at once. He couldn’t quite hide his surprise at the man’s sheer foolishness, nor the way Lucerys’ previously relaxed posture stiffened despite the careful neutrality of his expression. Aemond felt it immediately — the subtle shift in his husband’s scent, the tightening beneath the calm.

Misunderstandings like this were not uncommon. Valyrian second genders were poorly understood, especially by commoners whose education barely grazed such matters. Even his own mother grasped little of it, and what she did understand, she resented. Rather than learning, she had chosen suppression, pushing that part of her children aside or leaving it in the hands of Maesters and Guardians.

Aemond remembered all too well how she had handled Aegon.

She had smothered his instincts, denied him the chance to learn motherhood from the Septas, refused to let the younger children seek comfort in him. She had chastised him for his lack of masculinity and forced him into lessons he despised — lessons meant to mold a king, not a person. In doing so, she had driven him to reject his own nature, leaving him bitter, reckless, and cruel in the cage she called duty.

She had not been so strict with Aemond or Helaena. They were almost normal in her eyes, despite her clear distaste for their fangs and growls. Daeron, at least, had been spared altogether, not by mercy, but by distance.

A memory stirred, unbidden.

He remembered being young, hearing a nobleman mockingly call Aegon princess. He remembered the fury that had overtaken their mother when he’d asked why they called his brother that if he was a boy. After that, she became harsher with Aegon in public, sharper, more vigilant.

Aemond sometimes wondered if her resentment toward their ancestry had roots deeper than pride. If it had begun with the fracture of her friendship with Rhaenyra. But he had never found the courage to ask. Some truths, once disturbed, had a way of rotting everything around them.

The fact that his nephew had a cunt seemed to overshadow the fact that he also had a cock.

Lucerys took his time before responding. His blank expression only seemed to heighten the knight’s unease; even the horse shifted beneath him, restless, as though it sensed its rider’s discomfort. The stands fell into an expectant silence, hundreds of eyes fixed on the exchange. Beside him, Aemond felt a smirk tug at his lips, darkly amused.

“I fear, my lord, that I cannot grant you any favour,” Lucerys said at last. His smile could hardly be called one, it had too many teeth, too much sharpness in it. “I am no princess, after all. Perhaps Lady Baela or Lady Rhaena might oblige you instead. Or even my dear aunt, Princess Helaena or my grandmother, Princess Rhaenys.”

The knight flushed crimson, and a ripple of laughter rolled through the crowd. Aemond leaned back in his seat, satisfaction settling comfortably in his chest.

“Lady Baela, then,” the Tyrell knight said quickly, turning toward Lucerys’ cousin.

Baela wore much the same amused smile. If she felt slighted by being the second choice, she showed no sign of it. She rose gracefully from her seat and crossed toward the place where the favours were kept, selecting one woven in red and blue. Her short curls — so often the subject of quiet courtly disapproval from his mother, especially from those who whispered that Daemon allowed his daughters too much freedom, too much wildness — swayed with every step.

She moved deliberately slowly, as though intent on drawing out the knight’s humiliation, before finally tossing the favour onto the tip of his lance.

“May this favour bring you good fortune in the battles to come, Sor,” she said delicately.

The Tyrell knight all but preened at her words, flashing an arrogant grin toward the perzys before lowering his visor and riding off to take his position. A hush fell over the stands as all eyes turned toward the field, the tension breaking only when the trumpets finally sounded, signalling the start of the joust.

Baela returned to her seat, exchanging quiet giggles with her twin before casting an unapologetic wink in Lucerys’ direction, an unspoken show of solidarity.

When the Tyrell knight fell from his horse, she was the first to laugh.

— ◇ —

One last dinner would be held at the Red Keep, more of a farewell than a celebration. They prepared in silence, though Aemond noticed that, at times, Lucerys seemed on the verge of saying something — glancing at him with palpable hesitation, his lips twisting in quiet frustration. His nephew appeared unwilling to disturb the fragile peace that had settled between them, a restraint Aemond found himself appreciating.

The least sociable of his siblings, Aemond found the entire week exhausting: forced to mingle with nobles and their intrusive questions, to endure hollow congratulations and perform false courtesies. His mother breathing down his neck about obligations and duty did little to improve his already fraying temper. At least Lucerys managed it better with him, always stepping in when he sensed Aemond nearing his limit, guiding conversations away with practiced grace, and letting out a shared sigh of relief when they were finally able to leave.

It seemed everyone was eager to congratulate them on their marriage, despite the unease that lingered in some gazes whenever the two princes stood side by side.

Aegon wore a deep red tunic with billowing sleeves and intricate cutout embroidery woven into the fabric, tucked neatly into black linen trousers that accentuated his waist. A black silk waistcoat, embroidered with gold brocade, completed the ensemble. His silver hair was worn loose, curls carefully groomed, his fingers heavy with rings, and in his ears hung the familiar pair of earrings Jacaerys had given him.

Jacaerys wore a similar outfit, though without the waistcoat. Gold brocade traced the sleeves and lapels of his tunic in rich Velaryon blues. The matching attire must have been Aegon’s idea, surely, and Jacaerys had been far too enamoured with his brother to refuse him such a request.

They looked happy.

Aemond found himself wondering if, one day, he and Lucerys could be like that , if years of enmity could truly be left behind, allowed to soften and blossom into something shared. Perhaps, he thought, the fact that they were soulmates had made the path easier for them.

His gaze lingered on the way Aegon’s earrings swayed with every spin. Valyrian courtship dictated the exchange of jewellery, and Aemond had sent Lucerys a piece of his own. Yet his nephew had not worn it once since their arrival in King’s Landing.

Aemond’s brow furrowed.

“You didn’t wear it,” Aemond said, drawing Lucerys’ attention away from where he seemed to be savouring his dessert.

The curly-haired boy looked puzzled for a moment, tilting his head slightly. The turquoise gems set into his tiara caught the candlelight, shimmering brilliantly and drawing more than a few envious glances from ladies making their way to their seats. Lucerys seemed to enjoy adorning himself with such finery — something Aemond had noticed, and remembered.

They had bathed and changed in silence earlier, Lucerys visibly hesitant to start any conversation, still uncertain of where the boundaries between them now lay. Yet when Aemond had pulled him closer and nuzzled into his neck, Lucerys’ shoulders had loosened at once, tension melting away beneath the familiarity of the gesture.

They entered the hall with their arms entwined. Lucerys wore a deep blue velvet tunic, light blue embroidery tracing the loose sleeves, the hem, and the open neckline that revealed his skin and the healing bite mark at his throat. It was displayed without shame, a declaration of their bond laid bare before the lords and ladies of Westeros, as Valyrian tradition demanded. A black leather belt with a silver buckle cinched the tunic at his waist, paired with black linen trousers and short boots polished to a gleam.

Aemond himself wore a white silk tunic with ruffled lapels, its tight collar exposing his pale skin and his own unhealed mating bite mark. Some nobles cast horrified glances his way, seeing it as yet another display of barbarity rather than devotion, but Aemond kept his head high, posture proud and unyielding. His brother had endured the same scrutiny during his own marriage, meeting it with a mocking smile and teasing eyes. At the time, Aemond had rolled his eye at Aegon’s theatrics; now, standing beneath those same judgmental gazes, he understood him far better than he ever had.

His trousers were black linen, his boots plain leather, and over it all he wore a long red overcoat of velvet, embroidered throughout with black detailing. Unlike his husband, Aemond did not burden himself with excessive jewels, wearing only a single black earring set with hanging rubies. His mother, however, clearly found even that too much; her lips twisting into a familiar expression of disapproval.

Aegon had never marked Helaena during their marriage, despite what Valyrian tradition dictated; their union had followed the customs of the Faith of the Seven instead. Aemond wondered how his father had remained willfully blind to it. Perhaps he had seen the misery in his children and, in rare mercy, chosen not to force the matter. It had certainly made the annulment easier in the end — especially given that Aegon had never fathered children with Helaena, much to their mother’s immense disappointment.

“What?” Lucerys asked as he finished chewing the piece of pie in his mouth, licking his lips as if still trying to savour the sweetness. Aemond stared at him for a moment before looking away, but his nephew had clearly noticed the shift in the silver-haired man’s attention, his eyes gleamed with smug amusement. He licked his lips once more, deliberately this time, but Aemond refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“The jewel I gave you as a betrothal gift,” Aemond said, taking a measured sip of wine to ease the sudden dryness in his throat.

“Why would I wear something given to me without love?” Lucerys replied, his tone suggesting the answer should have been obvious. In Old Valyrian custom, a courtship jewel was crafted or chosen specifically for the courted, meant to demonstrate devotion, thoughtfulness, wealth, and the ability to provide. In earlier times, many had carved such jewels with their own hands. “When what is between us is true,” he continued softly, “only then will I wear your gift.”

“And if that never happens?” Aemond countered, curiosity sharpening his voice. His lone eye remained fixed on his husband, carefully watching as Lucerys’ expression faltered, colour draining subtly from his face. He hesitated, taking a breath before answering.

"Then your jewel will be a beautiful ornament on my chest." He smiled with tight lips, his eyes filled with sadness. His scent softened for a moment before returning to normal quickly enough that his family wouldn't notice. However, Aemond was connected to Lucerys in a way that others weren't; their blood and narys intertwined within him — not completely yet, but it was almost there — so it wasn't difficult for him to notice the change.

Realising the conversation had ended, Lucerys returned to his apple tart, savouring it with deliberate care. Aemond shifted his attention to the hall, where nobles danced in clusters of colour and laughter. He noticed Rhaenyra and Daemon among them, moving together as though the world had narrowed to just the two of them, painfully and undeniably in love. More surprising still was the sight of Daeron guiding Joffrey onto the dance floor, though the younger boy looked less than enthusiastic about it.

For a moment, Aemond found himself hoping Lucerys would ask him to dance. Instead, the zaltan remained by his side throughout the evening, exchanging polite words with those seated nearby, never straying far.

When they finally reached the expected time limit for such a ceremony, Aemond was quick to rise. He extended his hand to his nephew and, amid the swell of celebratory applause, guided him toward the towering doors of the hall.

As they entered the room, Lucerys visibly sagged with exhaustion and moved straight to his wardrobe. He retrieved a soft cotton nightgown in a pearly tone, almost translucent, its hem ending just above his slender ankles. The puffed sleeves clung to his wrists, ruffles framing the collar. The zaltan slipped into it quickly, and if he noticed the way Aemond’s gaze burned over the places where his fingers had left marks on his skin, he gave no sign of it.

He removed his jewellery with quiet efficiency. Earlier, he had dismissed the handmaiden who offered to help, preferring to handle it himself; the girl had looked relieved to be excused, uneasy beneath Aemond’s unblinking stare.

Aemond changed just as swiftly, choosing cotton trousers and forgoing a nightgown altogether, finding it more practical. He ignored Lucerys’ gaze, which lingered on his skin with equal intensity. 

When it came time for bed, Lucerys hesitated. Aemond was already sprawled among the sheets, watching as the curly-haired man finished storing his rings before carefully settling beside him. Aemond wrinkled his nose at once, unsettled by the absence of their mingled scents.

“When we arrive at Driftmark, I will show you my nest,” Lucerys said with a huff. 

Aemond watched with quiet amusement as Lucerys fussed with the pillows, adjusting them to his liking — replacing the same one more than once until he was finally satisfied. He spoke of it as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, yet the faint souring of his scent betrayed his anxiety far more clearly than words ever could. 

Aemond tilted his head, considering. He took his time answering, enjoying the way his husband grew restless, clearly bracing himself for rejection.

“That would be lovely, husband,” Aemond replied.

There was no teasing in his voice this time. He had promised to try.

Lucerys narrowed his eyes at the unfamiliar sincerity, then leaned in to audibly sniff Aemond’s marked cheek before tugging the blankets up around himself. Aemond hissed — still unused to such things, especially on his blind side — and Lucerys laughed, delighted by the reaction.

“You’re quite invested in your own work, nephew,” Aemond teased. 

Lucerys squirmed, tightening his grip on the pillow clutched to his chest.

“It’s not that,” he protested indignantly, though his gaze drifted, unbidden, to the leather eyepatch. His expression softened, touched with something like sadness. “But it must hurt, doesn’t it? Sleeping with the sapphire can’t be comfortable.”

His eyes were round and earnest. Aemond looked away before the impulse to reach for him became too strong.

“Yes,” he said slowly, fixing his gaze on the crackling fire. The embers glowed and shifted as the wood was consumed, hypnotic in their quiet destruction. “But pain is an old friend.”

The admission was more vulnerable than he liked, but something about the moment demanded honesty. Lucerys flushed, bashful, yet his scent didn’t sour as Aemond had expected.

“Don’t hold back because of me, Aemond,” Lucerys pleaded, drawing his knees to his chest and hugging the pillow tightly. His curls were still mussed from shedding his tunic, making him look painfully soft.

“And frighten you enough to send you running to Rhaenyra’s skirts?” Aemond taunted.

"I wouldn't do that!" Lucerys retorted, petulant.

“Hm.”

Only then did Lucerys realise he was being teased. With a huff, he swung the pillow at Aemond, catching him off guard. Lucerys burst into laughter at the sight of his uncle momentarily startled. Aemond recovered quickly, baring his fangs — but that only made Lucerys laugh harder.

Scowling, Aemond reached out and shoved him, the gesture almost embarrassingly childish. Lucerys toppled back onto the bed with a yelp that dissolved into giggles.

“I can’t believe you pushed me,” Lucerys said between breaths, making no effort to rise. He merely shifted to face him more comfortably. “Such improper behaviour from a prince of the realm.”

His eyes sparkled, and the warm scent of peaches and honey filled the room.

“Striking someone with a pillow is also improper for a prince of the realm,” Aemond replied dryly. “Enough. We should sleep. Tomorrow will be long, and I’d rather be well-rested when dealing with our noble lords and ladies.” He said it sarcastically

With the festivities over, the guests would soon be leaving King’s Landing, and the more powerful houses would undoubtedly demand private farewells and final congratulations.

“But already?” Lucerys whined. “The hour of the ghost hasn’t even come yet.”

“I don’t care.”

Aemond removed his eyepatch, set it on the headboard opposite the bed, and turned his back. It wasn’t cold enough to warrant blankets, so he stacked them within easy reach.

Lucerys snorted, but the rustle of fabric told Aemond he was reluctantly settling as well.

What he hadn’t expected was for Lucerys to sling an arm and a leg over him, clinging shamelessly.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Aemond snarled, muscles going taut, even as the dragon within him purred in satisfaction.

Lucerys’ nose slipped between his shoulder blades, sending a shiver down Aemond’s spine.

“I’m doing what you told me to,” Lucerys replied, mischief clear in his tone. “Good night, Uncle.”

Aemond reached for the ankle draped over his waist, intending to remove it. Instead, he tightened his grip and pulled Lucerys closer, earning a startled whine that quickly turned into laughter as the smaller body slid against his.

“Sleep well, nephew.”

Chapter Text

The following week was busy and exhausting.

The early mornings, however, belonged to them — hesitant and uncertain. Lucerys almost spoke for both of them, filling the silence with words as if afraid it might swallow them whole. He never seemed offended by Aemond’s quiet, rambling endlessly about the time he had spent in Driftmark and at sea, speaking with particular fondness of both the island and Dragonstone. He took visible pleasure in recounting every detail, as though grounding himself in places that felt like home.

Aemond had rarely been to the rocky island, save for the brief visits when he had accompanied Aegon during his bonding with Sunfyre. His mother had always opposed their presence on his half-sister’s lands, despite knowing well enough that Dragonstone was their ancestral seat and that he had as much right to it as Rhaenyra ever did.

He responded vaguely, offering little unless he deemed it necessary, yet Lucerys brightened each time Aemond asked about some minor detail in his stories. That pleased scent — soft, warm, satisfied — was enough to quiet the dragon within him, especially when Lucerys didn’t even blink as Aemond placed food on his plate. In return, the younger man would grin, barely containing his satisfaction, as Aemond dutifully ate the carefully chosen portions Lucerys laid out for him.

Aemond did not dislike desserts and indulged in them on occasion, but his nephew’s preferences for sweets seemed unchanged by age or circumstance. He remembered how Aegon had once used Lucerys’ round face to coax biscuits for everyone when they were children. The maids had never been able to resist the little Velaryon’s soft cheeks and wide eyes.

When they were not spending time together, the two were occupied entertaining the remaining nobility within the Keep. The Dornish envoy and the Starks were among the first to depart. 

Lord Cregan had been formal to the point of austerity, his courtesy precise and unembellished. He neither questioned nor commented upon the nature of their marriage — a neutrality that felt deliberate rather than naïve — unlike much of the other nobility. Lucerys had mentioned that he could not tell whether the northern lord simply did not care or whether he had grown accustomed to the idea after his elder brother’s marriage. Lucerys later remarked that he could not tell whether the Lord of Winterfell truly did not care, or whether he had already learned to navigate such arrangements following his elder brother’s union. Since Aegon and Jacaerys’ wedding, rumours had moved faster than ravens, and those most entrenched in the Faith of the Seven were the least inclined to hide their unease.

Lucerys, for all his poise, still seemed taken aback whenever a nobleman cloaked a sharp remark in feigned curiosity about second genders, or congratulations delivered with smiles too thin to be sincere. At times, it was evident that life surrounded by Valyrians had dulled the edge of Westerosi reality for him. Applause did not mean acceptance. Their customs were tolerated only so long as they remained ceremonial, decorative — never authoritative. The smallfolk could be guided by spectacle and proclamation. The nobility, however, tested boundaries quietly, patiently.

Throughout the week, they received lords and ladies in garden pavilions and private solars, exchanging farewells and final words heavy with implication. It was then that Aemond fully understood what Lucerys had meant during their nuptials. Many lords addressed Aemond as though he were the Lord of the Tides. They discussed shipping lanes, tariffs, and naval strength, directing their words at Aemond alone — not with open insult, but with calculated omission. Lucerys was treated as one might treat a consort under the Faith: present, visible, yet politically inert.

It was a test.

Aemond recognised it for what it was and allowed it to continue, observing with detached interest as his nephew stepped seamlessly into the conversations. Lucerys did not raise his voice or assert himself crudely. He corrected figures, referenced existing agreements, and offered opinions with the calm certainty of someone who knew precisely where his authority lay. Interruptions were met with polite redirection; dismissals with quiet persistence. The more he spoke, the more the tone shifted.

Aemond’s jaw often tightened hard enough that his fangs pressed against his lip, though his expression never betrayed him. Each courteous slight, each assumption disguised as flattery, was noted and remembered. Afterwards, Lucerys would seek him out without a word, pressing his face into the crook of Aemond’s neck, breathing in his scent as though grounding himself after a battle fought in silk and smiles. Aemond never denied him this comfort, gathering him close with a gentleness he did not bother to disguise.

The day after the feast, Jacaerys and Aegon departed for Dragonstone. According to Lucerys, his brother had taken personal charge of overseeing a new batch of barley crops in the fertile soils surrounding Dragonmount, aided by a Maester sent directly from the Citadel. After several moons of study, the volcanic ground had proven unusually rich, and Jacaerys intended to leverage that abundance to strengthen Dragonstone’s trade position.Keeping the younger dragons away from the fields had been a challenge, Lucerys admitted with mild amusement, but so far the effort had succeeded. 

Aemond knew well enough that the timing of their departure had little to do with barley alone. Aegon’s patience had finally worn thin under their mother’s relentless scrutiny — questions of heirs, propriety, and duty pressed upon him until retreat became the only sensible course. Dragonstone offered distance, and distance offered peace.

They exchanged their farewells in the courtyard. Jacaerys embraced Lucerys with an intensity that bordered on excess, holding him as though separation were a certainty rather than a matter of days or weeks. Aemond watched from a short distance, the echo of an old, unwanted emotion stirring in his chest — a familiar, childish envy he had believed long buried. He pushed it down at once. He was no longer a boy standing in another’s shadow. Still, the question rose unbidden: why never me?

His parting with Aegon was quieter, and stranger for it. There was no embrace. Instead, his brother placed a measured hand upon Aemond’s shoulder, his smile subdued — not the red-eyed, wine-soaked mockery of years past, nor the sharp grin that once delighted in Aemond’s humiliation. It was something tentative. Cautious. Aemond inclined his head in response. Nothing between them was resolved, but for the first time in years, it felt as though resolution might one day be possible. 

He did not watch them depart. Still, Sunfyre’s roar rang out across the Keep — loud, triumphant, unmistakably pleased — a sound that carried Aegon’s spirit as clearly as any banner. In a few days’ time, Aemond himself would leave as well.

The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Driftmark held no warmth for him, no cherished memories to soften its shores.

Lucerys was excited for both of them. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys had not remained for the tournament, as the Sea Serpent’s health did not allow for a prolonged stay. He had travelled only to escort his grandson to the altar before returning to his lair. Lucerys seemed to miss them already, and Aemond found himself curious about how they would receive him. He knew well enough that the two elders had been among the most vocal dissenters within the family, openly advocating for a marriage between Lucerys and Rhaena after the betrothal between Baela and Jacaerys had shattered — a consequence of Jacaerys and Aegon entering their bāneves at that disastrous dinner.

He doubted he would be welcome. Politeness would be extended, certainly, but only for the sake of appearances.

Aemond was still unaccustomed to sharing his territory — at least on a rational level. He woke at the slightest movement in the bed, alert and tense, while Lucerys could not sleep at all unless Aemond held him. The silver-haired prince preferred rising with the first bells, allowing himself time to prepare before facing the servants, polishing the sapphire in solitude, free from curious or frightened glances. 

Lucerys, by contrast, clung to sleep, protesting softly whenever Aemond drew the covers away. Worse still, he was careless with his belongings.

Clothes lay abandoned where they fell. A sleeve over the back of a chair. A nightgown pooled beside the bed. Each misplaced item set Aemond’s teeth on edge, his gaze snagging on them again and again, unable to ignore the disorder no matter how hard he tried. He corrected what he could — folded, stacked, aligned — but Lucerys undid it just as easily, thoughtless, unbothered.

He stepped on a discarded garment more than once. The near-fall after training with Ser Criston was the final straw — his foot catching on one of Lucerys’ nightgowns left where it did not belong. The jolt of panic that followed was sharp and humiliating, his breath stuttering as his mind raced through everything that could have gone wrong.

Lucerys’ laughter reached him from across the room. He sat with a book open on his lap, entirely unapologetic.

Heat crept into Aemond’s ears, an unfamiliar and deeply unwelcome sensation. He hurled the offending garment at its owner in sharp irritation, but that only made things worse. Lucerys’ laughter followed him all the way to the washing room, light and unrepentant.

Another thing Aemond struggled with was the constant need to keep Lucerys within reach.

The perzys had read about the procedures in  old Valyrian tomes with clinical precision, but living through it was something else entirely. When Lucerys slipped from his sight, even briefly, a restless unease settled beneath Aemond’s skin. It irritated him, the sharp pull of wanting, the instinctive demand for proximity that felt neither rational nor ignorable.

They were often seen walking together through the Queen’s Gardens, just as they had during their month-long courtship. His mother was frequently present during these walks, watching them with a tight, disapproving frown. Aemond never met her gaze. Instead, he would guide Lucerys elsewhere with a hand at his back or waist, steering him away from Alicent and her ladies.

Lucerys, who thrived on affection, seemed to delight in the closeness. He leaned into Aemond’s touch, fingers curling into his sleeve or belt, as though anchoring himself. And Aemond discovered — not without surprise — that his husband could be fiercely jealous when provoked.

It happened when a young girl lingered too near. She was drawn, clearly, by silver hair and purple eye, the unmistakable pull of a dragonlord’s presence. The girl clearly came from a small house, her wide-eyed curiosity betraying that this was likely her first visit to the Red Keep. She drifted closer than Aemond found comfortable and closer than Lucerys allowed.

However, this did not appear to matter to Lucerys, who hissed a warning. His fangs flashed at her after she had feigned stumbling over the bars of her own skirt. An effort of young seduction that Aemond hardly recognised but received a reaction from his husband.

Aemond found it difficult not to laugh. She flinches at the sight of sharp fangs, then retreat with some stupid reason that they both hardly noticed and a crimson-faced. Lucerys watched her go with undisguised satisfaction before turning back to Aemond, pressing closer.

He scented him openly afterward — a possessive, territorial gesture that sent the clean salt of the sea rolling off his skin, strong enough that even guards and servants nearby shifted uneasily. Aemond inhaled despite himself, irritation giving way to reluctant calm.

His final days at the fortress were spent saying goodbye.

He went first to his sister, whom he is likely to miss the most.

The guards at the gates bowed properly as they announced his presence to Helaena. It was still early, the Keep quiet in the way it only ever was before the court stirred, but Aemond was already dressed and ready for the day, tAemond was already dressed for the day, movements precise, habitual. The high collar of his doublet no longer irritated the fading bite at his throat — the mark nearly healed now. 

Lucerys had insisted they tend to one another every night. It had become ritual rather than indulgence: careful, deliberate, intimate without words, and the combination of the healing properties in their saliva and Targaryen blood aided the process more than any infusion or ointment the Maester could provide.

Although it wasn't fully sexual, Aemond couldn't stop himself from inserting his fingers into his nephew's wet cunt, making him squirm and weep loudly as he asked for more. But it was only later, when tears of pleasure were running down through his red cheeks and his legs were shaking from the remains of his last bliss that he would get inside him swiftly and harshly, biting him wherever his mouth reached, his teeth gnawing on his tender flesh as if it were the tastiest meal he had ever had. The guards never looked at him the following morning, and Aemond couldn't help but find such prudent behaviour hilarious — as if they didn't frequent the city's brothel houses.

He exhaled sharply, forcing his thoughts back into order as the doors to his sister’s chambers opened.

Helaena’s rooms were exactly as he remembered — cluttered, alive. Books occupied nearly every surface: narrow leather-bound volumes, yellowed tomes with cracked spines, loose bundles of parchment tied with string. Most of them concerned insects — their habits, anatomy, lifespans. Anything involving one of her beloved small creatures was promptly acquired. Although others drifted into gardening and the forgotten gods of Old Valyria. Newer additions bore Essosi markings; gifts, no doubt, from a fiancé who indulged her interests rather than dismissing them.

There were several potted plants throughout the surroundings —  some even hanging from the ceiling —  their fragrances overlapping until the air itself felt alive.  Yet Aemond was still able to discern his sister, a faint smell of lavender and jasmine permeating the area.

In the midst of it all, Helaena sat on a chaise near the window, bare feet tucked into the plush carpet as she embroidered. She wore a pale pink gown, delicate in both cut and colour. He could see elegant needlework in the golden threads across the collar and the cuffs catching the light as her fingers moved. The long, twirling skirt was embellished with a profusion of embossed flowers made with materials in brilliant tones of pink, lilac, sky blue, and yellow, each delicately placed by hand in a pattern popular among Reach women. The fitting corset had an interlaced lace overlay that went on to the shoulders, creating lovely puffed sleeves. The corset's backside was decorated with pearl buttons, which added a sense of elegance and beauty. 

The garment was a gift given by their older half-sister and Helaena's favourite since then  —  much to their mother’s displeasure. She is by herself without any ladies-in-waiting to keep her company or speak with, for she always finds solace in her solitude.  

Aemond paused at the threshold, something in his chest tightening.

For all the farewells he had yet to make, this was the one that mattered most.

“I’ve come to bid you farewell, sister,” Aemond said quietly, careful not to disturb her.

He approached with measured steps and, when she did not recoil, seated himself on the chaise at a respectful distance.  Her locks were only half bound, the upper portion gathered into Valyrian braids while the rest spilled freely down her back. Her servants must have found it challenging to replicate the pattern, after all growing up with the rigorous Hightower ways their mother imposed on them from an early age had left them little room for such expression. However, since her engagement to Clement Celtigar had been agreed upon, Heleana had grown more accepting of her heritage. 

She leaned over the embroidery in her hands, her posture one that should have been uncomfortable, yet she appeared entirely unbothered.

“Are you going somewhere I cannot follow?” she asked without looking at him. 

Her needle moved steadily, fingers gliding over patterns she had studied since childhood. Aemond let out a quiet huff of laughter at her casual tone, his shoulders loosening despite himself. He wondered if she had said the same to Aegon.

"No."

“Then it isn’t farewell, silly.” She clicked her tongue, chiding him as if he were still a boy.

“You are right, sister,” Aemond replied, amused. Her bluntness was a relief amid a court built on graceful falsehoods.

“I usually am.” Helaena paused only long enough to flick her needle aside in a dismissive gesture before resuming her work. Aemond looked at her for a moment, interested in such dedication. Since she began painting, her sister only indulged in embroideries when it was essential to entertain the ladies of the court or when their mother desired her companionship. “You simply don’t listen.”

Aemond tried not to feel guilty; after all, Helaena hadn't intended it that way. She was merely pointing out a fact. Her murmurs have long been ignored by all around her, including Aemond. He would frequently ignore her, as he grew annoyed by her enigmas throughout their conversations, feeling unheard and dismissed. He would never upset his sister by admitting that he often wished she was normal, that she was more here than in his head. 

Adulthood had changed that. Helaena had been allowed to grow into herself, to flourish as the quiet, devoted woman she was always meant to be.

“What are you embroidering?” he asked, steering his thoughts away from darker paths.

“Dragons,” she replied simply. AAemond leaned closer, careful not to intrude. He recognised Vhagar and Caraxes immediately by the colours of thread, their forms intricately woven,  days of work stitched into silk. Still, his brow furrowed.

“Are they fighting?”

“No.” She turned to look at him for the first time since he had entered the room. “They’re dancing.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“When dragons dance, the night grows dark.”

She returned her gaze to the embroidery, tracing its contours with reverent care. Aemond remained silent, unsure whether interruption would be tolerated. Her eyes had gone distant, clouded, as though she were recalling something not yet lived or long past.

“And full of terrors,” she added softly.

Aemond never tried to understand his sister’s prophecies.

He listened to her, of course, but he did not dissect her words or search for meaning where she herself seemed indifferent to it. Their father, however, had been different. When Viserys drifted in and out of lucidity, Helaena was often found in his chambers, seated at his bedside, speaking softly of dreams he barely remembered upon waking. He listened as though each word were a thread holding the realm together. 

Their mother placed no faith in such things. 

Alicent dismissed Helaena’s visions as heathen nonsense, another Valyrian corruption better left unacknowledged. Anything that strayed too close to their blood’s old ways earned her disapproval. She encouraged her children to follow in her footsteps in the Faith. Otto Hightower, on the other hand, had made several attempts to draw something useful from Helaena’s dreams. He spoke politely, patiently, always with purpose. Despite his distaste for Valyrian excess, he had not forgotten that prophecy had once preserved his dynasty.

However, Helaena remained silent or uninterested in his company.

Their grandsire had made several attempts to draw something useful from Helaena’s dreams. He spoke politely, patiently, always with purpose. Despite his distaste for Valyrian excess, he had not forgotten that prophecy had once preserved his dynasty. And so he searched.

(Once, when they were children, Otto spent hours scouring the Royal Library for texts on Old Valyria — forbidden rites, half-destroyed accounts of visions induced through ritual and discipline. He summoned Helaena to the Tower of the Hand under the pretence of tea, of conversation, of harmless curiosity. The High Septon would have called it heresy.

He had asked Helaena how it felt when they would be hiding in the Weirdwood from her Septa; one of the few moments when Aegon joined them sober and unguarded. After his nephews left, he seemed to recall that he had other family members, but Aemond was too bitter to trust that this interest would endure.

“I don’t know,” Helaena had said, her gaze fixed on the slow beat of a butterfly’s wings. She looked distant, as though watching something far beyond the garden. “I don’t drink them.”

Aegon snorted, his eyes closed, and leaned against one of the roots. There were leaves in its curls, but he did not move to remove them. "Then Grandfather won’t be pleased.”

The notion of Helaena going through this sort of experience made Aemond want to revolt. Even now, the memory stirred a quiet, he had growl  — an instinctive resistance to an unseen threat. Their mother disapproves of these behaviours. Any hint of something feral earned sharp looks and sharper rebukes. Even Aemond wouldn’t escape her reprimand.

Aegon had grown serious then, watching Helaena carefully, searching her face for signs of Otto’s displeasure, his purple eyes were serious, which was unusual for him. It was easy to forget that Aegon was the eldest, that beneath the mockery and excess lived a natural instinct to shield them, even when he tried to deny it — he was certainly skilled at it, if his jokes at his expense were any evidence. 

“Grandfather is rarely happy,” Helaena replied mildly.

Her hair had been loose that day, woven with small Valyrian braids she must have done herself —  because sometimes she was unable to tolerate the servants' touch near to her scent glands. — the same careful patterns she sometimes braided into Aemond’s hair, and occasionally Aegon’s. It was a gesture of trust. Of closeness. Helaena had never offered such a thing to their mother.

Perhaps she had been rejected, he reasoned with sombre disappointment. 

“Doesn’t it frighten you?” Aemond had asked before he could stop himself. Too young. Too childlike to his liking. At no point did Helaena look at him, her gaze still fixed on the butterfly's delicate wings. 

“No,” she said, untroubled. As if it were easy not to be terrified. “Even the highest towers crumble beneath dragonfire.” )

Only years later did he understand what she meant.

“On the night before our sister’s arrival to defend Lucerys’ right of primogeniture, I had a dream,” she continued, her tone soft, almost melancholic. “I dreamed of severed bonds being mended with a red thread.”

It was not difficult to grasp the meaning behind her words. The dinner that followed sealed Jacaerys and Aegon’s union — and with it, the quiet collapse of Otto’s plans for usurpations. The petition of Sor Vaemond should have been the moment to assert control. Instead, it became a spectacle that even Alicent could not smother.

It was surprising that Jacaerys, who had just passed through his bāneves, hadn't jumped on Aegon throughout the petition with Sor Vaemond, though perhaps the intense odours of his family combined with the cloying perfumes of the noblemen had confused the perzys' sensitive sense of smell. Even his mother couldn't have downplayed the scandal — Aemond almost chuckled as he recalled Otto's anger as Jacaerys threw himself at Aegon like a famished beast, nearly violating him right there on the dining table, much to both of his mothers' displeasure. 

The only one who seemed delighted with the circumstances was his dying father, who proclaimed them hēnka perzyssy — identical flames.

His mother collapsed when his father decreed Aegon and Helaena's marriage to be invalid. The High Septon ended up coming from the Starry Sept to personally discuss the matter with the King. It would be the first recognised union between two Targaryen men since the Conquest, however Targaryens rarely had zaltans in their lineage, especially male ones, varying between perzys and ñuquir. A sign of weakness to other noble houses of Old Valyria who fought themselves at the thought of having a zaltan in their family. 

Even as Hand, Otto was barred from the meetings.

The exclusion was deliberate and unmistakable. His place was taken by Daemon and Rhaenys, a substitution that spoke louder than any formal decree. It infuriated him. The sessions stretched on for days, doors closed, voices lowered, until yet another concession was granted to House Targaryen and preparations began in earnest. Alicent and Rhaenyra moved with uncharacteristic unity, rushing to organise something worthy of the heir to the throne on such short notice.

Aegon and Jacaerys remained largely oblivious throughout it all — insulated from the murmurs of the court, from the looks of revulsion some lords failed to disguise behind stiff smiles. Dark Sister was rarely sheathed in those days. Daemon’s presence alone was enough to silence dissent, and no nobleman was exempt from his fierce, almost feral protection until the King himself issued a direct decree demanding restraint.

Two years later, little had truly changed.

Aemond was no fool. He did not believe the lords of Westeros had accepted his marriage out of sincerity. They had merely learned to temper their outrage. House Targaryen now possessed more dragons than it had during Aegon the Conqueror’s reign, and the realm had always known this truth: the Targaryens stood closer to gods than to men. For the time being, that was enough to keep rebellion at bay.

“The night before your engagement was announced, I dreamt the same dream.”

Helaena’s fingers continued to trace the unfinished embroidery, slow and reverent. “I want you to be happy, Aemond.”

She spoke like the older sister he sometimes forgot she was.

He might have married her, once — a sacrifice to appease their mother, to maintain appearances. Instead, he had borne witness to the quiet devastation of his siblings, and resentment crept into his chest despite his efforts to uproot it.

“And I want justice.”

The warmth bloomed instantly, familiar and dangerous, spreading through his blood. A growl threatened to rise in his throat, but he forced it down, drawing a measured breath as if discipline alone could contain it. The memory still had teeth.

“I want what was denied to me.”

He chose each word carefully, though the force behind them remained unsoftened.

“Fate has no concern for what you want, Aemond.”

Helaena paused her needle and turned to him then. Her eyes were impossibly gentle, utterly mismatched with the certainty of her tone. “Her will shall be done.”

He swallowed.

“Do you believe I could be happy with Lucerys?”

Because sometimes Aemond looked too long into his husband’s eyes to believe it. He thought of how simple it would be to grab for the dagger hanging around his waist and obtain justice that he had been deprived. An eye for an eye, an eye for an eye, an eye for an eye, his mind sang. And yet, something deep and instinctive recoiled violently at the idea of bringing suffering to his mate, roaring its refusal with a force that left him shaken.

“The sea takes, and the sea gives,” Helaena said softly. “And being on fire does not mean the world around you must burn as well.” 

His breath caught.

Her prophecies were rarely this clear. Usually they came fragmented — murmured riddles, half-formed truths tossed into the air as though they had no desire to be understood. This one, however, rose before him like the sun itself.

Helaena watched him for a moment, the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips, before returning to her embroidery. They sat together in silence, existing side by side — much as he once hid in his chambers to escape Aegon and his too-loud nephews.

– •◇• –

Aemond visited his mother shortly after breaking his fast with Lucerys.

He had spent the morning with Helaena, seated comfortably beside her while she worked on her embroidery, needle moving with unhurried certainty. He had long since learned that she possessed her own way of expressing her dreams  — in thread, paint, or murmured fragments — and interrupting her only brought her distress.  They had learned this the hard way, years ago, during a dinner when Helaena had seemed on the verge of suffocating, unable to voice what pressed against her chest. Their mother had panicked, convinced the food was poisoned, her cries echoing through the hall as servants rushed in confusion;  iIn infancy, Helaena had often been found murmuring to herself in corners, terrifying maids and courtiers alike. Then came embroidery, a quiet compromise that allowed their mother and sister to coexist peacefully before painting fully claimed her.

Before leaving, Aemond leaned in and inhaled Lucerys’ scent one last time, the tip of his nose brushing the smooth curve of his cheek in a gesture that was almost absent-minded.

He then made his way to his mother’s chambers.

Ser Criston Cole stood guard at the door. The Dornishman studied him for a heartbeat too long, dark eyes searching for something unspoken — he always stood in his mother’s shadow  when Aemond and Lucerys crossed the Queen’s Gardens. His hand resting on the pommel of his sword, as if Aemond were some barely leashed creature liable to strike

Whatever Criston sought, Aemond would not give it to him.

He straightened to his full height — it had been many moons since he had been shorter than his former mentor — and resisted the instinctive urge to bare his fangs. Still, Ser Criston shifted uneasily, brow furrowing as Aemond’s pupils thinned. That trait of House Targaryen unsettled him, as did many servants and nobles who learned, quickly, not to meet his gaze for long. 

Aemond arched a single eyebrow. Ser Criston relented.

“My Prince.”

“It is only out of respect for you as my former mentor, and as my mother’s protector, that I will not have you whipped, Sor Criston,” Aemond said calmly, his hands clasped behind his back. 

He was well aware that Sir Criston served not only as Alicent’s shield, but as her confidant  and greatest supporter, and the perzys did not doubt that he must have been aware of his mother’s feelings regarding his marriage.  

He remembered how Criston had once treated Aegon with the same thinly veiled hostility he reserved for Rhaenyra. Unfortunately for him, Aemond had never been inclined to endure such insolence. 

More than once, he had humiliated Criston in the training yard, his superior strength making a spectacle of the disparity between them.

(There had been a time when Ser Criston would have cut off his own hand before ever raising a sword against any of Alicent’s children , but that time had long since passed.)

It had only widened the distance between them.

“Of course, my prince,” Cole replied, his expression carefully neutral, no respect on his tongue despite his words.  He clearly saw Aemond as a traitor to a cause that had barely come to life. Any support his grandfather had gained had been lost when Jacaerys and Aegon had wed.  He inclined his head with practiced precision. “Forgive any unintended offence on my part.”

Aemond lingered a moment, his gaze resting on the knight with a stillness that unsettled more than open hostility ever could. His head tilted slightly, not in threat, but in consideration — a habit that often left servants uneasy, as though they were being weighed rather than judged. It was a reminder that House Targaryen was not entirely shaped by Westerosi sensibilities. 

Something in Ser Criston must have recognized the threat in him. Not fear, nor defiance, but a tightening awareness — the same unease one felt standing too close to a bridled warhorse. He did not reach for his sword, nor did his hand stray from its resting place. If anything, his posture straightened, reaffirming discipline over instinct. 

Though the men of Westeros liked to believe themselves civilised, they were still creatures of instinct, and instinct warned him that Aemond was not to be tested.

“You may announce me,” Aemond said evenly.

“At once.” Criston inclined his head again, stepping aside and knocking softly at the door before opening it for him.

As Aemond passed, their shoulders nearly brushed. Criston did not flinch.

His mother was as beautiful as ever, though time had finally begun to mark her, as if the weight of the events of the past two years had settled into her bones and refused to leave.She sat with perfect dignity upon one of the divans that lined her chambers, back straight, shoulders square, hands folded neatly in her lap. Yet even from where he stood, Aemond could see the bruising along her knuckles, the faint discoloration that spoke of neglect rather than accident.

Her hair was pulled back tightly, not a strand out of place, and she wore a green gown — Alicent Hightower had never known how not to be at war — cut high at the neck and long at the sleeves, concealing every inch of skin. Her expression was closed, guarded in the way she carried at court, and in that moment she was more queen than mother. Aemond knew, with weary certainty, that whatever passed between them would not be gentle. The Seven-Pointed Star at her throat gleamed dully, heavy enough to resemble a chain rather than an ornament.

“Aemond,” she greeted him, her eyes roaming over him as if she had not seen him in years.

Aemond watched as her lips pressed together and her hands twitched as she finally noticed the small braids Lucerys had placed in his hair this morning. Even she could not ignore their meaning — small, precise plaits woven into his hair that morning by Lucerys’ careful hands. His husband made a habit of it, brushing the pale strands softly and methodically. Sometimes he hummed without realizing, low and gentle, and something deep in Aemond’s chest would settle in response. The dragon within him quieted under such attention, content. More than once, he had had to swallow back the instinct to purr.

His nephew also liked to lace his fingers into his hair, clutching when sensation overwhelmed him, anchoring himself there. Lucerys, as Aemond came to learn, was easily overwhelmed.

“Mother.” He bowed, precise and respectful, waiting to be invited to sit.

When she inclined her head, he took the divan opposite her, mirroring her posture unconsciously — spine straight and hands folded. Aegon might have inherited her face, but Aemond had inherited her discipline.

Talya poured tea swiftly, refilled the Queen’s cup, and was dismissed with a flick of Alicent’s fingers. Only when the door closed did Aemond speak.

“I think you should tighten the leash on your dog,” he said mildly. “He’s starting to bark.”

If his mother seemed bothered by the way he insulted her sworn protector, she gave no sign. She studied him instead, eyes sharp, searching, taking her time to respond.

“He’s cautious,” she replied smoothly. “Loyalties shift quickly as the winds these days.” She raised her cup, the ghost of an apologetic smile touching her mouth, well-practiced and hollow. “Have you been avoiding me, son?”

It was framed as a question, but it was not one.

Aemond crossed one leg over the other, hands returning neatly to his lap.

“I’m sure your husband hasn’t been so greedy  as to deny me a moment with my own son,” she continued softly. The word husband curled with something poisonous beneath its surface. For a woman of such fervent faith, swallowing her objections to Jacaerys and Aegon’s union must have been agony. His own marriage only compounded it.  “Then again,” she added, eyes narrowing, “it would hardly surprise me. After all, it is in his nature.”

“I was fulfilling my duty,” Aemond replied evenly. “As you taught me.”

“Your duty is to your family,” she snapped. “Your blood.’’

The crack in her composure was brief but unmistakable. Just as quickly, she drew herself back together, shoulders straightening, hands clasping again — knuckles whitening with restraint, the shell of the dignified queen she had portrayed so well.

“Lucerys shares my blood as well,” Aemond said quietly. The perzys in him stirred at the challenge.

She scoffed. “Your appearances differ enough that one might forget his parentage entirely.” Her hand waved dismissively, the old insult laid bare. “Still you seem to have resolved your differences.”

“And what did you expect, Mother?” Aemond asked, exhaustion seeping through despite his control. “That I would torment him for the rest of our lives?”

“Yes!” The word burst from her, raw and unguarded. Tears hovered dangerously close, hysteria threading her voice.  It was disconcerting to see his mother like this and know that it was because of him, but Aemond didn’t know how to make her feel better. “That is what he deserves for taking your eye!” 

“Oh, Mother.” He inhaled slowly, deliberately and it was like that night in Driftmark. “ We both knew I would never have justice.” 

He leaned forward and took her hands, large and steady around her trembling fingers. He could no longer fit beneath her arms as he once had, but he could offer this much. She clutched him as though afraid he might vanish.

“And yet you still allow him a claim on you,” she whispered viciously, nails biting into his skin. “He took your eye!” She cried indignantly, as if Aemond could somehow forget. 

As if, on his worst days, he did not still feel the blade slide across his face, warm blood spilling down his cheek, the scream in his throat.

“I am a living memory, Mother.”

He smiled then, showing more fangs than strictly necessary, and his mother shivered at the sight. She had never liked that trait in them. In moments like these, Aemond often wondered how she had ever been Rhaenyra’s friend without accepting her wholly. Or perhaps, he considered, it was the memories of simpler, happier times that unsettled her most. It must hurt to remember what should have been forgotten. Alicent always seemed to be bleeding from some unseen wound, one that refused to heal.

Her brown eyes, a different shade from Lucerys’s, dropped to where the bandages around  his mating bite peeked out from the collar of her doublet. 

“You Targaryens and your queer customs,” she sneered. The expression twisted her mouth into something that reminded him painfully of Aegon. She turned away, retreating into her impeccable posture, though Aemond could still feel where her nails had bitten into his skin. “Marriage will not save you from having your head on a pike.” 

“Rhaenyra cannot harm me without harming Lucerys,” Aemond replied with a tired sigh. “She will sit the Iron Throne, Mother. You must accept that before it is your head that ends up on a pike.”

But Alicent had always been stubborn. That, at least, had never changed. Aemond could not fault her for it; all his life he had been told that Aegon would be king, and even now the idea lingered like a bruise that refused to fade.

(“I have no desire to rule!” Aegon had shouted on one of his many nights out, as Aemond dragged him bodily through the streets. He was drunk, reeking, dressed in ragged clothes in a futile attempt to blend among the smallfolk. “I am not fit to rule!”

His brother struggled in his grip like a pig being hauled to slaughter. He smelled like one too, Aemond thought grimly.

“You won’t find me disagreeing,” Aemond grunted, dodging a clumsy swing.

“Let me go,” Aegon pleaded, nails digging into his wrist, stumbling over his own feet. It was pathetic and worse, it was familiar. “Please, Aemond! What sort of brother steals his sister's birthright?”)

“I am bound to her by blood and law,” Aemond said now, voice steady. “Rhaenyra will not be a kinslayer.” The words still went against everything he had been taught, everything she had instilled in them. “Just as I am bound to Lucerys in every way two living beings can be. Any stain on his name stains mine. Any insult to his name insults mine. Do you understand, Mother?”

She looked at him then. Truly looked. And Aemond did not look away.

“He already has you under his thumb,” she said faintly, shaking her head. “Just like his mother.” Disdain hardened her features. “She takes what she wants without regard for consequence. She desires what defies the law of the Gods and the will of men.” Her fingers worried at her nails as a way to disperse her anxiety.

“And you must remember,” Aemond replied evenly, “that Targaryens answer to neither Gods nor men.” She stared at him as though he were a stranger. Those wide, round eyes had once been enough to bend him. Not now. 

"The realm will not bow.”

“To the dragons?” His lips curved, something fierce awakening beneath his skin as Vhagar stirred in distant recognition. “They will.”

It was that simple. His sister had won the war before it had even begun. That did not mean peace would follow — but it meant submission, one way or another. Fire and blood had always been Daemon’s preferred language.

“She’s taking you from me,” Alicent whispered, her voice breaking. Her shoulders began to shake, thin and fragile, like the wings of a bird that had spent too long grounded and was now struggling to remember how to fly. “She’s taking you all from me.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, as though she could force the sound back down her throat. Aemond moved at once, crossing the space between them and gathering her into his arms. The position was awkward; he was too stiff, too large, too unsure of how to offer comfort. But he held her anyway. It was all he knew how to do.

“That’s not true, Mother,” he murmured, rubbing her thin arms in slow, careful motions. Only then did he truly notice how little weight there was beneath his hands. She was not eating properly, too restless, too consumed by her own thoughts to let anything remain in her stomach for long. Alicent despised being seen like this, laid bare and unravelled, but there was no hiding it from her sons. Aemond had been with her through these episodes more than once, just as Aegon had. Helaena was always spared, and Daeron was too far away to be of any help at all.

“It is,” she cried, so fragile in his arms that Aemond feared that if he held her any tighter she might simply come apart. It astonished him that a body so slight could endure so much for so long. “Aegon never comes to visit me.”

The anguish in her voice cut deeper than accusation. Aemond had no defence for his brother, no words that would not ring hollow. Instead, he tightened his hold around her brittle frame, as though his arms alone were what kept her together. He let his scent bleed into the room — steady, grounding, unmistakably his — strong enough for her to sense it, to remind her that she was not alone.

(Lucerys did not comment when Aemond entered their chamber later. There was only the faintest note of distress in his scent—so subtle it would have gone unnoticed by anyone not attuned to him. The meeting with his mother had shaken Aemond more than he cared to admit.

Lucerys rose at once, abandoning the book in his hands, arms opening without a word. Aemond crossed the distance between them in two strides and pulled him close, burying his nose in the softness of his curls. He breathed Lucerys in deeply, letting the familiar sweetness steady him, wash through his blood, quiet the turbulence his mother had stirred.

Only then did the tension ease from his shoulders.)