Chapter Text
It had been a long, long time since Lucerys had been as happy as he found himself now. He had so many blighted troubles. A great deal rested on his young shoulders – a discontented kingdom, unknown and unseen enemies, knives in the dark. Sometimes it all felt heavy enough to crush him. And yet, for a time at least, Luke felt like he’d shrugged all of it away. The future was dark and uncertain, but he felt equal to the task. How could he not? What impossible things could he not do? He’d already done the most impossible thing of all. He’d gotten Aemond Targaryen to love him.
Luke had hoped… by the gods, he’d hoped for a long time. He’d told himself over and over that it simply wasn’t in Aemond’s nature to say the words. But surely the soft look in his husband’s eye - the one Lucerys very occasionally caught when they were alone together, and Aemond was in a good mood - surely it meant something. He’d been certain that Aemond cared for him. Lucerys knew his omega was different with him, and only with him. But the voice of doubt had always been there to whisper in the back of his head. What if it was just the bond? Aemond was a cold person. Warmest when with Lucerys, but still often shut off and difficult to read – apart from the times when he suddenly exploded with anger. What if Luke was seeing something that wasn’t there? Those fond looks, the little gestures of affection that had become more and more frequent, the ardent way Aemond kissed him when they were having sex… what if it meant nothing? What if it was all just the bond, the bite, the compulsions of Aemond’s caste? Yes, Aemond was determined to help Lucerys to the throne, and had declared his intention to do whatever it took to see that done. But then… they were wed, weren’t they? Luke’s rise was Aemond’s rise? It wasn’t necessarily a promise made out of love at all.
Lucerys wanted, hoped, even occasionally believed… but his own gnawing doubts had never let him rest easy with it. But there was no further need for those doubts. Now Luke knew for sure. His husband loved him. Aemond loved him.
Gods, since he’d heard the declaration for the first time the night before, he’d wanted to demand Aemond say it over and over. Had wanted to ask him to say it when they’d woken up that morning. When he’d kissed Aemond as they dressed. When they’d parted. But Luke had enough wit about him to restrain himself. He understood enough of Aemond’s character to know that he’d be hearing those words infrequently. He also understood enough of his own to know that each and every time that he did, Luke was going to be a moonstruck fool about it.
“You seem particularly cheerful today,” Rhaenyra observed. They were sat together beneath a sunshade of heavy red velvet, watching a large troupe of acrobats performing for the amusem*nt of the nobility. It was an idle afternoon with no contests, and in an hour or so the High Septon would lead some drab prayers for the Queen’s health and the prosperity of the kingdom. A servant handed Lucerys a cup of small beer, and another placed a plate of dried fruits on the small table before them. The acrobats hailed from the Free Cities, and had travelled to Westeros especially for the tourney – costing the royal treasury a pretty coin or two, no doubt. Aemond had declined to attend, citing a total lack of interest in such entertainments – and also that he was feeling tired. Lucerys was a little worried about him. He seemed to have been unwell and tired frequently of late. Complaining about his head aching, food disagreeing with him, and generally being in a funny mood. Probably it was the stress of being at the tourney, being among so many people after more than a year of comparative isolation. And Lucerys was prepared to bet good gold that, even before his capture, before the gods-damned war even, Aemond had never been very fond of loud and boisterous merrymaking.
Luke felt the suddenly urge to go back to their pavilion. To get onto the bed with his husband and hold him. To see if he could coax Aemond to tell him that he loved him again. He smiled suddenly as he thought about it, and tried to hide it by taking a sip from his cup of small beer.
“I am cheerful,” he told his mother. He picked up a dried Dornish date and ate it. “Why shouldn’t I be? Tomorrow I have the chance to make myself a champion. Today I eat and drink, and enjoy the summer sun. What’s there for me to be gloomy about?”
A hundred things, in truth. But Lucerys was happy for his mother to believe he was simply swept away by the idle contentment of the moment. He didn’t want to explain himself. It was nobody’s business but his own. His and Aemond’s.
Before them, a young women stood nimbly on the shoulders of a man and began to sing an old song in Ghiscari as she juggled. Another man walked on his hands as easily as most people did on their feet – to the great delight of the children in the audience, including Viserys who was sat on Rhaenyra’s other side. Most of the lords and ladies were only half paying attention to the acrobats – much more interested in gossip, wine, and the charming little marchpane sweets that the servants had started distributing. They’d been cleverly moulded into the sigils of all the Great Houses. A rampant lion for the Lannisters, a snarling direwolf for the Starks. Lucerys took one from the silver plate placed before him, admiring the skill that had gone into crafting the three-headed dragon. He thought he’d take some back to the pavilion for his mate. Only a little gift, but still a gift. He wanted very badly to get Aemond something extravagant, after what he’d said last night, but what fine things were there to be had out in the Kingswood?
“I don’t want you to be gloomy,” Rhaenyra remarked. “But I did think you’d prefer to concentrate on things other than this foolish amusem*nt. Or do you no longer wish to be champion?”
Lucerys raised his eyebrows, detecting a distinct rebuke. A little stung, he stared at his mother, wondering where her bad mood had come from. He was pleased by how well she looked. Luke had truly thought her far too ill to attend the tourney, convinced that the strain of it would only weaken her further. But now he was forced to concede that his mother been right, and he’d been wrong. If anything, now that the strain of travel was over, being away from King’s Landing seemed to have helped Rhaenyra recuperate faster. The city air did stink terribly, after all. Whereas out here, there was nothing but sweet freshness.
Despite the healthy flush to her skin, the Queen’s mouth was tight. She looked displeased.
“Do you think me lazy?” Lucerys demanded to know.
Rhaenyra looked surprised at the accusation – and then ashamed. “Of course not,” she said quickly. “I simply… forgive me, Luke. It’s me who’s gloomy. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“Gloomy about what?”
“What else?” Rhaenyra said, lowering her voice. “I can’t stop thinking about those dead bodies found in the woods. Part of me thinks I ought to send Aegon and Viserys back to the Red Keep. But… what if they’re in more danger there?”
Lucerys reached over to put his hand over his mother’s. He squeezed it gently.
“Aegon would be absolutely furious with you, if you sent him away,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “All he can talk about is my bout tomorrow.”
“He thinks his brother will be tourney champion, does he?” Rhaenyra said, summoning up a small smile.
Tomorrow, Lucerys would fight in the last contest of the melee. His opponent was a young knight of House Mormont - Elyan Mormont, the third son of Lord Mormont of Bear Island, but the only alpha among his siblings. Both Mormont and Lucerys had seen off all challengers. Or rather… Lucerys had seen off all challengers except his own husband, who had deliberately thrown their fight. Not that anybody else knew that. The prize of victory was so nearly within Luke’s grasp. He could scarcely believe it. He knew himself to be a decent swordsman, but he’d always thought he was lacking in comparison to other knights his age. He recalled still, all these years later, Jace’s frustration with Luke’s lack of enthusiasm for the sword. He recalled the brutal knocks he’d taken after the war had started, learning the hard way. Aemond had always made a point of goading him about his skills whenever they’d sparred together – although… Lucerys had bested his mate before. Not often, but he had. And more and more frequently as time had passed.
“Aegon thinks half of me being champion at this tourney, and half of himself being champion at the next,” Lucerys said with a wry smile. “He’s still drunk on finding himself an alpha.”
“He’s certainly grown bolder,” Rhaenyra acknowledged. “I confess… I did not expect him to have grown so attached to the usurper’s children. He pesters me constantly to bring them to court. It feels like half of everything I’ve heard from him has been about the boy Jaehaerys. Jaehaerys this, Jaehaerys that.”
“Is it a bad thing?” Luke said. “That they should be friends?”
Rhaenyra sighed. “I suppose not. I just… I hadn’t expected it. Perhaps I should’ve. What else was going to happen, putting children of such similar age together like that? Just a few years between them all.”
“I wish you’d meet them,” Lucerys said quietly. “The twins. I think… I truly believe your heart would soften if you only saw them.”
“As yours has?”
“So what if it has?” Lucerys asked. “Life has been cruel to them. I know it it’s been far crueller to others, and that the war left no shortage of orphans behind. But I don’t deny it – yes, I feel sorry for my cousins. I’ve grown very fond of them.”
Lucerys thought about what his mother had said about Aegon – how bold he’d grown. More than once, back on Dragonstone, he’d looked at quiet, withdrawn Jaehaerys and thought that there - but for the grace of the gods - went his younger brother. How easily things could’ve gone the other way. How easily it could’ve been Aegon left so nervous and uncertain of the world. How easily it could’ve been Aegon violently robbed of his mother and father when he was just a boy. Left scarred by it in ways that didn’t show on the surface.
“I’m not cold-hearted towards my niece and nephew, no matter what you might think,” Rhaenyra said. “I’ve always made sure they were well looked after. Before their mother died, I tried to keep life as normal as possible for them. They wanted for nothing! I haven’t stripped them of their royal titles. I haven’t sent them into exile.”
“I don’t think you’re cold-hearted,” Lucerys assured her. “I just don’t want to see them left on Dragonstone forever. It is an exile, of a kind. A comfortable one, yes. But I would not have them waste their whole lives away there.”
“They’re Aegon’s children,” Rhaenyra said. “I cannot…” she paused. Briefly, she twisted her ring around her finger – an old, nervous habit Lucerys knew she’d long been trying to break herself out of. Rhaenyra caught herself a second later and stopped. “I cannot yet,” she finished at last.
“But perhaps one day?”
Rhaenyra nodded carefully. The acrobats were now somersaulting with incredible agility, an impressive enough feat to distract even the nobles of Westeros from their wine.
“Perhaps one day,” the Queen agreed. She picked up a marchpane sweet and ate a little of it. “In the not-so-distant future. Once all this trouble has ended.”
…
Lucerys’ bout against Elyan Mormont was about to begin, and Aemond was surprised to find himself seated next to Rhaenyra again. A silk canopy shielded them from the glare of the sun, and the banners of House Targaryen rippled ever so slightly in the gentle breeze. A servant offered Aemond some wine, and he declined with a wave of his hand. He wasn’t a simpleton. He understood why he was here, sat next to his sister. He understood the image it presented. All part of Rhaenyra’s great declaration of unity – and of control. There sat mad, bloody Prince Aemond. Bane of the riverlanders. Infamously brutal and now rendered so utterly f*cking harmless – his fangs and claws so completely ripped out – that Queen Rhaenyra thought nothing of having her traitorous, murderous brother at her elbow. He was no threat to her. And now every lord and lady in the realm knew it. If they hadn’t already.
Aemond tried not to brood on it too hard. He’d known this was how it would be. But it still stung.
At least it was Princess Rhaena, sat on Aemond’s other side, and not her harpy sister. Aemond wasn’t so weak as to let himself be cowed by an alpha’s scent, but he couldn’t deny, it was more pleasant to have the sweetness of another omega in his nose instead. He looked about the crowd. The seats were packed with as many of the highborn as could squeeze themselves in. Many more were clustered about to watch on foot. It had been three days now, since Aemond had seen Criston Cole. He found himself watching for the man everywhere he looked. But there’d been so sign. Of course there hadn’t! Gods, Aemond’s mind was playing tricks on him, only he wasn’t sure what kind of trick. Had he simply imagined Ser Criston? Or had the man been very real, and it was this paranoid doubt that was the self-deception?
Aemond didn’t want to think about it. Not here. Not now. And so he turned the distraction that always worked without fail. His mate.
Cheering and loud applause greeted the competitors as they walked out onto the field of combat. It was a bright summer day, and the sunlight glinted off their gleaming armour. Elyan Mormont was perhaps five years or so older than Lucerys. His armour, though well-polished, was shabby in comparison to Luke’s. The Mormonts were not a rich House. Nor a famous House, either. They lived on a miserable little island in the far distant north. If this Mormont became the tourney champion then it would be the most significant achievement of his House that Aemond could recall in his lifetime. And to be fair to the backwater whelp, he’d fought like a demon so far to get here. This would not be an easy match for Lucerys.
Aemond watched his husband as he smiled and raised his hand in acknowledgement to the crowd. Gods, Lucerys really did look like something out of a song or poem. Aemond felt utterly pathetic as he looked upon him. Like some simpering, lovestruck thing. He did his best to fight the feeling back down. He was not entirely successful. Unconsciously, he raised his hand, meaning to press it against the bite mark hidden beneath his clothes. But he only got as far as brushing his fingers against his collar before he got hold of himself.
The two young knights bowed before the Queen. Lucerys’ eyes flickered very briefly to Aemond, before he put on his helm and took his weapon from his young squire. Aegon handled Blackfyre as though it was made of glass, not steel. Mormont’s own sword glimmered in the sunshine. Like Blackfyre, it was a blade of Valyrian steel. A carved bear’s head was fixed to the pommel, snarling angrily at the world. Aemond glanced over to where Cregan Stark was sitting. The young Warden of the North was watching on with keen eyes. He leaned over to say something to his beta wife, who nodded and murmured something back, her hand resting lightly on her rounded belly. It would be no small thing for a northerner to take the prize here today. But it would be no small thing for Lucerys either. Tourneys were grand amusem*nts for the nobility. But the honour and fame they bestowed had real value. Luke didn’t need the fame. But the honour? People liked strong kings.
Rhaenyra stood and raised her hand. The signal was given. The bout began.
Lucerys wasn’t a flamboyant fighter – quite the opposite, actually. He was economical in his movements, wasting neither time nor energy. He had no care for how impressive he looked, or showing off how deft and nimble his swordplay could be. If a crude, brutish swipe could do the job well enough, then that’s what Lucerys would do. After a year of sparring together, Aemond knew that his husband’s bluntly efficient manner of fighting had rubbed off on him a little. Made him a better swordsman – although Aemond would never admit it under any circ*mstances.
Elyan Mormont was similar. He and Lucerys circled each other, both waiting for the opportune moment, neither one concerned with looking like the braver and bolder of the two. In the end, it was Luke who struck first, testing Mormont on his right flank. The competing knights exchanged blows – each easily parrying the other. Both trying their best to work out how to lure their opponent into a mistake. It was a good contest. The Prince of Dragonstone versus the heir to some windswept, frostbitten island that most citizens of Westeros forgot even existed. Their wary testing of each other quickly turned into a more hard-fought battle. Valyrian steel clashed loudly against Valyrian steel. Lucerys neatly sidestepped a hard lunge from Mormont – and then in turn, Mormont saw right through Luke’s effort at a feint and brought his own blade up to smoothly deflect Blackfyre.
If anybody had feared that this bout might not be entertaining, then there had been no need to worry. Once it began in earnest, it was quick, frenzied, and aggressive. Aemond saw some of the watching lords and ladies rise from their seats, afraid to miss even a second of the action. He kept himself perfectly still, and his face carefully impassive – even though, inside, he was willing his mate on with everything he had. Aemond noticed every mistake Lucerys made, every opportunity he missed. But he also noted each clever dodge and deft jab. Lucerys had adjusted to the weight and heft of Blackfyre very quickly. He looked like he’d been fighting with the ancestral weapon of House Targaryen for years.
And then suddenly and without warning, Elyan Mormont tripped as Lucerys was pressing him on his left flank. He stumbled gracelessly, dropping heavily to one knee beneath the weight of the full plate armour he was wearing. His sword was held limply in his hand, the edge of the blade trailing in the dirt and sawdust on the ground. The whole crowd seemed to gasp. On his knees, Mormont was left entirely open and vulnerable. It would be so, so easy for Lucerys to kick Mormont’s sword away. So easy for him to press Blackfyre to the man’s throat. So easy for Lucerys to win.
But he didn’t. Instead the honourable f*cking idiot took a deliberate step backwards. Let Mormont recover himself. Let the other man get back to his feet and gather his wits.
“Fool,” Aemond could stop himself from saying. It came out far more fondly than he’d intended. He thought he heard the faint rustling of silk as Rhaenyra glanced over at him, but she was sat on Aemond’s blind side so he couldn’t be sure.
Many of the nobles applauded Lucerys’ chivalry, and almost at once the bout got back underway. Both men fought hard – they really were well matched in terms of skill and determination. Either one would’ve made for a worthy champion. But if the crowd hadn’t been fully with Luke before, they were now. His refusal to take the easy win had impressed them. It had been the honourable thing to do. f*cking ridiculous, but honourable. And in the end, Lucerys paid for it dearly, because it was Elyan Mormont who won the fight. His blade pressed itself against the armour of Luke’s cuirass, sliding right up to the gap at his neck. Lucerys yielded without a fuss. He lowered his sword and in one smooth movement, stepped back and pulled of his helmet. He smiled warmly at Mormont, extending his hand in a gesture of respect.
Elyan Mormont took off his own helm and grasped Luke’s hand. The man looked a little stunned, his eyes passing over the cheering crowd as if only just seeing them for the first time. The Queen rose to her feet, and a second later so did everyone else. As he stood, Aemond’s eye sought out Cregan Stark again. He thought there was a satisfied look on the dour prick’s face. A northern knight, victorious at this fancy southern tourney. How well that would play, back in the high hall of Winterfell.
“Don’t look so sour, Aemond,” he heard his sister say as she applauded. He turned his head to look at her. Rhaenyra glanced sidelong at him as she clapped her hands primly together. “Luke might not be champion of the tourney, but letting Ser Elyan recover himself after his fall was nearly as good as taking the prize.”
“What do you mean?” Aemond asked, not understanding what in the hells she was talking about.
“What will they say of this contest, all these highborn men and women, when they go back to their halls and manses?” Rhaenyra said. “I’d wager a hundred gold dragons that for every mention of Ser Elyan’s victory, there will be three more of the goodness of young Prince Lucerys. They’ll all say Luke could’ve won, but refused to take dishonourable advantage of his opponent’s mistake. How princely, they’ll say.”
Aemond frowned. Was that true? Perhaps it was. He looked down at Lucerys, who was encouraging Elyan Mormont to raise his sword victoriously over his head. He observed the way Luke’s thick hair was a tousled mess. How his short beard was little more than a dusting of dark stubble after Lucerys had visited the barber the day before. He was absurdly handsome. Seven blighted hells, Aemond was so helplessly attracted to him. Once again he fought back the urge to press his hand over the bite on his neck.
Rhaenyra took Daemon’s arm, and began the walk down from the stands to the arena grounds below. Baela followed after them. Aemond prevaricated, until he unexpectedly felt a small hand against his back, pushing him. His head snapped sideways, and he glared at Princess Rhaena. His cousin recoiled, snatching her hand back… but then an unexpected defiance settled across her soft, gentle features.
“Follow after the Queen,” Rhaena said. “You’re her brother.”
Annoyed at having been caught out not knowing what he ought to do, Aemond turned and followed Rhaenyra. Down on the ground, they lined up with the Queensguard flanking them, and pages holding Targaryen banners. Mormont bent the knee before Rhaenyra, holding the flat of his blade up towards her. The champion’s blade, hers to command. Lucerys bowed deeply before his mother.
“Rise, good ser,” Rhaenyra commanded. Mormont rose, and his Queen stepped forward to congratulate him. What the hells were they all doing down here, Aemond wondered. What purpose did this little show have? A fresh cheer and a smattering of applause erupted from the crowd as Ser Elyan took Rhaenyra’s hand and kissed the ring there. With the Queen’s encouragement, he once again turned to the stands and raised his sword aloft.
Lucerys, smiling and cheerful in defeat, his dark hair damp with sweat and his face flushed, took his mother’s hand and also kissed it. Unlike Ser Elyan, he didn’t do it as a sign of submission to his Queen, but out of affection.
“I hope I haven’t disappointed you,” Aemond heard him say.
“You never could,” Rhaenyra replied, putting her hands fondly about his face for a moment. Oddly, those words seemed to cut Aemond. His thought briefly of his own mother. They weren’t pleasant thoughts.
“And I hope I haven’t disappointed you either,” Lucerys murmured. He was standing in front of Aemond all of a sudden. The sight of him, the scent of him, quickly pushed all thoughts of Alicent out of Aemond’s mind. There was a furrow between Luke’s brows. He was genuinely concerned, Aemond realised with a jolt, that perhaps Aemond was angry with him. “I hope you don’t think I’ve squandered what you gave me.”
Aemond regarded his husband coolly for a long moment, excruciatingly aware of all the eyes that surrounded them. He recalled what Lucerys had said a few evenings ago. That there were those among the powerful men and women here who believed that Luke had forced the bite on him. That Aemond was cowed by him. Forced into this marriage – and Luke’s bed – against his will.
Aemond stepped forward, putting his hand on Lucerys’ armoured shoulder, and kissed him on the cheek. He was slow about it, deliberately lingering, so that nobody watching them could possibly miss the action. Aemond heard Luke inhale sharply, surprised by the uncharacteristically public display of affection from his mate.
“You haven’t disappointed me,” Aemond said quietly into Lucerys’ ear. “Even though you are a soft-hearted halfwit.”
Lucerys laughed quietly but rather breathlessly. His gloved hand brushed against Aemond’s waist, as though he wanted to hold him. But then the moment was over.
…
Just as there had been to celebrate the start of the tourney, there was a grand feast to celebrate the end. Each of the champions sat at the Queen’s table, all of them wearing a special cloak of fine velvet and golden thread. The mood was very merry. There were no great garlands of flowers this time. Instead, fresh branches and sprigs of berries from the forest had been woven into thick wreaths and hung overhead, giving the fleeting impression of being sat beneath the great canopy of the Kingswood. The smell did not turn Aemond’s stomach as the flowers had, and he was able to enjoy the food.
“Rhaenyra must be thanking the gods,” Aemond remarked, leaning towards his husband. “Surely all this was exactly how she dreamed it. I’ve never known anything so grand as this tourney.”
Aemond wasn’t exaggerating. He really was impressed by the grandeur and opulence of it all. Rhaenyra had wanted this to be a once-in-a-generation event, and it surely had been. Winter would be here soon, so they said. Aemond could easily imagined just how many times this tournament would be spoken of around great hearth fires the length and breadth of Westeros. The septons would speak of it as they lit candles with frozen fingers in their septs. The maesters would record tales of it in their histories at the Citadel. And the lords and ladies would tell their children all about the many marvellous sights, the lavish food, the displays of great skill. And every last one of them would mention Queen Rhaenyra, First of her Name, in the same breathless retelling.
“It cost a lot of gold,” Lucerys said glumly. But then he shrugged. “But I confess, perhaps it hasn’t been entirely wasted.” He moved his hand to cover Aemond’s, where it lay on the tabletop, thumb brushing lightly over his husband’s bony knuckles. “Although…”
“Yes?” Aemond pressed.
“Those dead men in the forest,” Lucerys said. “They prey on my mind. As glorious as this has been, part of me will be glad when we’ve all left this place and are back behind walls of stone and gates of iron.”
More food was served. Merry tunes were played by musicians in bright clothes. Some people got up and danced by the light of the dozens upon dozens of burning torches and iron braziers that lit the evening. Aemond spied Rhaena, her palm pressed against her husband’s as they smiled at each other, turning this way and that. A second later they were accidently barged into by Garmund Hightower, dancing with a lad Aemond didn’t recognise. Garmund looked tired and rather drained. He’d withdrawn from the tourney just two days in, after finally falling into his rut. He’d probably spent it shut away in the Hightower pavilions, surrounded by guards and with herbs being burned to mask the stink of him. As Aemond watched, Garmund apologised to both Rhaena and Corwyn with a sheepish expression. Would there be bad blood? They’d been on opposite sides of the war, after all. But no. Corwyn said something to make Garmund laugh, and it was over. Both couples went back to their dancing.
Aemond turned his gaze elsewhere. Further down the Queen’s table, the jousting champion, a son of House Tarly, had just told a joke so good that young Loreon Lannister had gone pink in the face from laughter. Daemon was busy telling some tall tale to his youngest son. Viserys listened with wide, eager eyes. Baela smiled at whatever her father was saying, but there was a noticeable tension in the furrow of her brow. Aemond couldn’t see her husband anywhere.
The wine flowed as though it was as cheap as water. The Queen raised a toast to each of her champions. The nobles responded with enthusiastic cheering. When eventually the plates were cleared away, the musicians stopped playing and left the squat stage that the feasting tables surrounded. A troupe of mummers replaced them, to perform a play for the amusem*nt of the Queen’s guests. It was a silly, trifling thing – as Aemond found all plays to be. Aegon had enjoyed such entertainments – the lewder and more farcical the better. He’d preferred the sort of bawdy nonsense performed on the streets of King’s Landing to the high-minded morality plays performed for the court. But for Aemond, both kinds were a trial. Plays were dull at best, actively irritating at worst. He resigned himself to enduring this one.
The play was a history of House Targaryen. A rather crude, simplistic one. It was less concerned with historical accuracy than it was with sensationalism and drama. Aegon the Conqueror strolled onto the stage surrounded by a fire made from thin strips of red and yellow rags, the actor’s hair quite literally painted white. A snarling black dragon’s head, presumably Balerion, was unfurled on a sheet painted as a backdrop. Aegon’s omega wife Rhaenys walked to his side, then his beta wife Visenya – prowling the stage like a hungry wolf. Together the three of them delivered a speech about the might of the dragon bringing unity and civilization to the Seven Kingdoms. Once upon a time, Aemond might’ve been quite stirred by it. Inspired by the knowledge that the blood of Aegon and his sisters ran in his veins. Now it felt flat.
Unsurprisingly, the play glossed very briefly over Maegor and Aenys in a rush to get to great King Jaehaerys. A man playing mad Maegor sat on a wooden facsimile of the Iron Throne, only for blood to spill down his front and death to take him. He was replaced an instant later by another mummer as Jaehaerys himself. He spoke wise sounding words about strength in harmony, the great value of peace, and the kingdom uniting beneath the crown. It was as subtle as a hammer to the face. Then came Aemond’s father. He watched on stonily as Viserys was portrayed as a strong, just ruler who oversaw a golden age of peace and prosperity – his daughter Rhaenyra always by his side. Nursing him through his illness. It was all Aemond could do not to openly sneer. He didn’t know which was more laughable. The idea that his father had been a strong anything. Or that Rhaenyra had been his constant companion, caring for him as he ailed.
Then the play came to the Dance of the Dragons, as the smallfolk had taken to calling it. The mummers crowded around the figure of Rhaenyra onstage, crowning her with a grand flourish as they all dropped to their knees before her. A boy playing the young Lucerys knelt before his mother, holding her hand and pledging his undying loyalty as her son and heir – even though it had been Jacaerys who’d been Rhaenyra’s heir, when the civil war had started. A mummer meant to be Daemon drew a sword and made some absurd, melodramatic speech about defending his brother’s true will and putting all traitors to the sword.
Luke’s hand was still resting over Aemond’s own, on the table. It tightened, squeezing Aemond’s hand tightly. Was it meant to be a comfort or a warning? Aemond just grimaced. What a farce. What a f*cking ridiculous farce. The characters onstage might as well have puckered up their lips to kiss Rhaenyra’s backside.
And then, with a mounting feeling of dull dread, Aemond watched as new players came onto the stage.
“Seven f*cking hells,” he heard Lucerys inhale sharply next to him. The grip on Aemond’s hand grew tighter still.
It was obvious who the two men were supposed to be. One wore a crown and walked with a ridiculously over the top drunken swagger, and the other wore an eyepatch. It was Aegon and Aemond. Both the mummers had been made up to appear as though the left sides of their faces were mangled – Aemond’s scar overexaggerated to grotesque proportions. Combined with the white substance slathered on their hair, they looked more like ghouls than anything else. Aemond stared in horror as the world seemed to grow thin around him, save for those two figures on the stage. The mummers were saying something, although his ears barely heard it. Some drivel about their plot to steal the throne. About betraying their father. All spoken with melodramatic glee.
“Aemond,” Lucerys said in an anxious voice. But Aemond didn’t look at him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the spectacle before him. He tried to take back his hand, but Luke wouldn’t let go. So Aemond violently snatched it back instead.
On stage, the figure of Aegon had begun to paw lecherously at his younger brother. The foul caricature of Aemond tried to resist, but finally relented and allowed himself to be groped, even as he stole the crown from Aegon’s head and placed it on his own. Gods – Aemond could feel it as the eyes of every whor*son there at the feast turned to look at him. He heard the ripple of barely smothered laughter. The whisperings.
“Enough,” he heard a woman say loudly. It was Rhaenyra. She’d risen from her chair. “Enough!” she repeated.
Like he’d been plunged into icy water, the dull shock left Aemond and fury howled in its place. He stood up, his expression a blank mask of nothing. He had just one overwhelming thought. That he had to get away from here. Away from the eyes on him. To the hells with these c*nts. To the hells with his sister! To the hells with his f*cking husband.
Aemond left the raised dais on which the royal table sat, shoving aside a guard blocking his path. He wasn’t even sure which direction he was storming away in, save that it led away from the table. That it led away from all these people that Aemond hated. Led away from yet another f*cking humiliation. He felt… gods, he felt oddly numb and yet incandescently furious at the same time. Of course. Of course – it had all been too f*cking good, hadn’t it? f*ck the gods. f*ck all of them – the new gods, the old gods, the dead gods of Valyria. Every one of them.
“Aemond! Aemond!” dimly he heard Lucerys’ voice crying out after him. His mate was following. Surely the guard were as well, ready to drag their Queen’s treacherous brother back to his seat and force him to endure Rhaenyra’s little joke. Aemond didn’t want to talk to Lucerys. Didn’t want to see him. He just wanted to be away from here.
Perhaps the bastard gods felt some regret for the cruel games they kept playing with Aemond’s life, because fate briefly smiled on him. He suddenly saw a large crowd of septons, septas, and commonfolk all gathered about a burning fire. A twilight sermon for the maids and manservants of the nobles, whilst their masters and mistresses were at the feast. It was quite a large gathering. Aemond elbowed his way among them, disappearing into the press of men and women. And then he had his second stroke of luck – a grey cloak, discarded over a barrel. It was threadbare and stained with candle wax, but Aemond snatched it up and threw it about his shoulders. He yanked up the hood, covering his hair. He had no idea if he’d been seen. Even among these strangers, Aemond knew his fine clothes and pale hair gave him away. It would be so easy for one of them to call out. To give Aemond away without a second thought.
But nobody did. Perhaps the men and women were too consumed with the septon’s sermon. Too deep in their own prayers. Or perhaps the rapidly dimming light, as evening turned to night, had hidden Aemond’s appearance somewhat. Either way, he emerged from out of the crowd without finding himself collared and dragged back. He heard shouting behind him. He heard Lucerys, still frantically calling his name. But Aemond just kept on walking – and nobody followed. It truly was as though the gods had meant for him to escape. Here and there, out of the corner of his eye, Aemond thought he spied the guard spreading out about him. But he kept his head down and simply pressed onwards, determined to move faster than them. He ducked his head, letting the hood fall further over his face.
The camp was so large, Aemond had no idea how long he walked. Only one person gave him a strange look – a young lordling with a hunting falcon perched on his glove. He squinted at Aemond’s half-concealed face, as if trying to recall where he recognised him from. But in the next second, as Aemond hurried past him, he lost interest and turned back to his bird.
Aemond arrived at the edge of the Kingswood. He didn’t hesitate to pass into the great woodland. The trees loomed ominously above him, but the forest was far from dark and silent. There were people out here. A lot of people. Aemond saw campfires burning everywhere he looked. Smelled meat roasting and stews simmering. And everywhere, movement among the trees. Gods, there was a whole other camp here. Far rougher and bawdier than the tourney camp, but no less celebratory. As Aemond walked among them, the hood of the cloak still covering his head, he watched as men and women of all ages drank, laughed, and revelled. Many of them looked to be whor*s. He heard plenty of lewd moaning from within the ramshackle woodland tents – but saw just as many couples f*cking out beneath the stars, where anyone could see. He almost stumbled into two of them, half concealed as they were behind the thick trunk of a beech tree. An alpha, her arms greedily about the omega whor* laid on the fern covered ground beneath her, groping the girl’s bare breasts as she f*cked into her. Aemond looked away in disgust at their shamelessness.
He wandered this odd place, not sure of what else to do. Nobody paid him any mind. Small wonder, for they all seemed drunk. Once upon a time, Aemond might’ve felt uneasy in a place this low and vice-ridden. But his many moons spent hiding among the very lowest of the smallfolk had numbed him to such depravity. He recalled very clearly the stinking docks of Gulltown and the rough folk who’ve lived there. That wasn’t to say he liked it – he hated it, in fact – but he wasn’t unsettled by it. And if he watched these crude whor*s and vagabonds as they drank and made merry, then he wouldn’t have to think about what he was going to do next. He thought about Lucerys, and violently smothered the immediate impulse to turn about and go back to him. Hot on its heels came the memory of that scene on the stage. That disgusting scene. The image of himself being gleefully molested by Aegon, and concerned only for snatching the crown off his brother’s head as he was groped. A fresh swell of bitter, impotent rage rose up inside of Aemond, howling. He wished he still had Vhagar. He wished he could burn this whole cursed place to the ground. Let everyone who’d witnessed Rhaenyra’s filthy lies die in fire and blood. Save for Luke. He alone could live – and even then, Aemond would make him beg for forgiveness.
Beneath the shadow of a tree, Aemond closed his eye and paused. He fought to master himself again. To quell the fury. Slowly, his tightly clenched fists relaxed.
Calmer, Aemond peered into the shadows and the flickering firelight. He realised quickly that not all those out here were lowborn. In fact, the more he looked, the more he saw men and women in fine, expensive clothing. The jewellery they wore glinted in the glow of the campfires. They were there for the whor*s, of course. Indeed, these lechers were the whole reason the whor*s were here at all. Where the lusty highborn went, prostitutes followed after as surely as day followed night.
Aemond continued to wander aimlessly, careful to keep to the shadows. Suddenly he caught the faintest snatch of a voice he recognised. A man’s voice. Surprised, he lingered for a moment beneath an oak tree. Were they searching the forest for him? Was that Daemon’s voice, or Lyonel Bentley’s? But no – no, whoever it was sounded merry. Aemond heard the voice laugh. Gods… was it Criston? He stepped closer, trying to work it out.
There was a long sheet of brightly coloured linen wound around a hawthorn bush and the thin trunk of an oak sapling. It provided the barest pretence of privacy, and enclosed a pile of threadbare cushions and a couple of blankets. A small collection of cheap candles had been placed on a large rock and lit, so that the wax melted into itself and ran down the stone. Stumbling towards this nest of cushions, lit by the dim candles, was Alyn Velaryon. He was laughing, a little drunk, and in his arms he carried a pretty young woman. She wriggled and squirmed playfully in Alyn’s hold, giggling sweetly. Aemond caught a little of her scent on the air – honeysuckle, and something fresher – like the faintest touch of mint. Unquestionably an omega. Aemond drew back, making certain he couldn’t be seen. He watched as Alyn carefully deposited the girl – the whor* – down on the cushions before flinging himself down on top of her and kissing her wine-stained lips passionately. His silver hair caught in the candlelight as the girl’s slender arms wrapped eagerly around him.
Aemond turned away, honestly shocked.
He’d heard about it, of course. Omegas bedding other omegas, to take the edge off their heats. He understood that it wasn’t exactly uncommon among the smallfolk, where a secure, private chamber and servants to see to your every need were an impossible luxury. He’d even thought about it himself, once or twice, when he’d been deep in the fever, before he’d started taking the asp water. When the pain and need were almost too much to bear. They’d been nothing more than desperate fantasies, of course. It would never have been permitted. Not when some alpha or beta lordling would expect to have Aemond pristine and entirely untouched when he was finally forced into a marriage bed. Would want the possessive pleasure of being his first and only, and might easily have thought him spoiled goods otherwise. There was a reason only the smallfolk indulged. Although the gods knew Aemond had certainly made himself spoiled goods carelessly enough later on. It bothered Lucerys, he knew, that another had bedded him first. But not because he thought Aemond ruined by it – but because he was jealous.
Again, Aemond felt the urge to go back to his alpha. Again, he pushed it away.
Alyn Velaryon was very clearly not in heat, and nor was the girl he was atop of. Seven hells – Baela had been at the feast Aemond had just fled from. Did she know her mate was here? Surely not. Where did she believe him to be then?
Aemond left Corlys’ bastard to his seedy pleasures. But the shock of it didn’t leave him. Aemond did not… he did not understand how Alyn could. Not how he could betray his marriage vows – Aemond knew marriage vows were sullied in such a manner a hundred thousand times every day. But how he was physically able to. The very idea of laying with anyone other than Lucerys left Aemond repulsed. He certainly felt no desire for anybody other than his mate, who he felt desire for nearly constantly. And yet, Alyn Velaryon’s desire for the whor* had been genuine. Aemond had been able to smell his arousal on the still air. Gods, if he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought the man an alpha, such was the sheer want he’d fallen upon the omega with. Aemond knew his bond to Lucerys was unusually strong, but he’d always assumed all other mated omegas lusted only for their alpha, just as he did. He realised now, that wasn’t true. Was it Alyn who was unusual, or was it Aemond? Or were neither of them normal? Did… did Alyn’s true tastes run only to those of his own caste? Aemond knew such scandalous things were possible.
He found a quiet spot, a long way from Alyn Velaryon, between the various little forest camps. Aemond sat himself down in the shadows beneath a sycamore tree. People wandered past, but Aemond – in the darkness, the hood of the cloak still up over his head – went entirely unnoticed.
The stillness left him with little to distract him from his thoughts. Aemond found himself quickly succumbing to a painful mixture of misery and anger. The God’s Eye had broken him, in more ways than one. Not just his body, but his mind too. Once upon a time, Aemond had been able to pull coldness around him like a shroud. Whenever something had cut him beyond his ability to bear it, whenever he felt truly wretched, he could reach for that bitter tonic. That… numbness. He’d lost that, the strength of it, in the God’s Eye. Or… or perhaps before.
His hands clenched into fists and his mouth set itself into a furious snarl – even as tears pricked at his eye. Pathetic.
Criston Cole was out here somewhere. Aemond was certain of it. But how could he be found? How many people were here, in this strange shadow camp? A hundred? Two hundred? Perhaps more. Easily more. All spread out amongst the trees. Finding one man among them seemed an impossible task. Although the gods knew – because what had the odds been of Aemond stumbling across Alyn Velaryon? Maybe the hand of fate really was at work here.
Aemond hissed derisively to himself. Fate? Horsesh*t.
He pulled the hood a little lower over his face. It was difficult not to stew in despair, because Aemond knew what he had to do. He had to go back. What other f*cking choice did he had? Had nothing on him. No gold, nothing he could sell, no weapon. How long would this meagre disguise last? Until daybreak, at best. And soon enough there would be guards tearing this place apart, once they realised Aemond was nowhere to be found in the tourney camp.
And he had to go back to Lucerys. He was always going to go back to Lucerys. Gods-damned Lucerys. Aemond could practically feel his alpha’s teeth in his neck again.
Had this been what Rhaenyra had wanted? Had this been what she schemed when she’d plotted to humiliate Aemond before every lord and lady at the great tourney? To remind Aemond that he was nothing more than her living, breathing war trophy. A broken thing, alive only on sufferance. Did his sister still brood resentfully on it? How she’d been robbed of the match she’d wanted for her son. Who would she have chosen? Cerelle or Tyshara Lannister, perhaps. Or maybe she would’ve cast her net further. Qoren Martell, the Prince of Dorne, had an omega son they said was very beautiful. Either way – someone compliant, lovely, and well-connected. How much easier everything would’ve been for Rhaenyra then. Surely her chosen mate for Luke would’ve come here heavy and round with his gods-damned heir already. Sat on a silk cushion next to the Queen, gently holding their swollen belly just as Cregan Stark’s wife had been all damned tourney.
Beneath his ratty, stolen cloak, Aemond pressed the flat of his palm to his own stomach. It was hard and flat. For all he knew, there was nothing there. But… perhaps there was. Perhaps, unknown to anybody except himself (and even he wasn’t sure) he was carrying that heir Rhaenyra so desperately wanted. Her much-coveted grandchild.
Aemond swallowed hard. His throat was so tight that it hurt.
More people passed him by, still oblivious to Aemond’s presence. He listened to the sounds of the forest around him. Somebody was playing a lute very badly. The sounds of f*cking and rutting drifted through the trees. Lewd moans and squeals of pain. More than once Aemond overheard some filthy c*nt vomiting somewhere. And he caught snatches of conversation too. Most of it was dirty nonsense. But some of it was not.
“… don’t know what all the f*cking fuss is about, but something’s amiss you mark my words…”
“… jumped up pricks were swarming everywhere. Searching for someone I reckon. Maybe some cur has robbed the Queen herself, what do you think?”
Somebody mentioned Lucerys’ name too. But Aemond caught none of the rest of it. He closed his eye. Tried to steel himself – to pull a little of that old coldness back. This was going to be f*cking awful. Walking back into the camp. Letting the guards drag him back to Rhaenyra. Aemond was going to find himself locked up again. There was no chance now that Rhaenyra would let him see his mother. No f*cking chance at all.
“Hello there sweetling.”
Aemond’s eye flew open again. A bulky figure emerged from out of the gloom. A drunken fool, maybe twenty years older than Aemond. He stank of beer mostly – but beneath that was the unmistakable fug of an alpha. In one smooth movement, Aemond rose to his feet.
“Come here then,” the alpha leered. He was squinting, not quite able to see Aemond properly beneath the shadow of the tree. “I can smell you there, sweetling. You can’t hide. Young and fresh. I can smell you.”
“Get away from me, you filthy dog,” Aemond said in a cold voice. He stepped forward. “Find someone else to pester.”
“I don’t want to pester someone else,” the alpha sneered. A little of the bravado had gone out of him, now he saw that Aemond was both male and as tall as him. “Come on, you frigid little prick, let me have a proper look at you…”
He reached out towards the hood of Aemond’s cloak. Aemond’s lip curled, and he slapped the c*nt’s hand away.
“Are you deaf, or are you stupid?” Aemond said contemptuously. “Both, perhaps. Find some cheap whor* to take your dirty coin – the gods know there’s enough of them about.”
The alpha laughed. It was a vicious, mocking laugh. He drew a dagger from his belt. He was so drunk that he couldn’t hold the blade steady. But that didn’t stop the dagger from being sharp, and even a drunkard could stab straight enough from this distance. Aemond stood his ground, but eyed the swaying weapon warily. He wished there was more light here, so that he could see better. There was only the warm glow of nearby campfires. Even the moon and stars were hidden by the treetops.
“Now,” spat the alpha. He gestured with the dagger to Aemond’s body. “Let me get a look at you. Let me get a feel of you.”
He reached out to grope at Aemond. This close, the smell of him was unpleasantly intense. During the tourney, it had been hard for Aemond to catch the scent of his opponents beneath the thick covering of their plate armour. Not that it would have mattered – he’d never bared his neck to an alpha before, and he shrugged the impulse off again easily enough again now. It was laughably simple to grab the whor*son’s hand – the one holding the dagger – and twist his wrist until the man howled. The drunkard’s fingers went limp and Aemond neatly took the dagger from them. It was a cheap thing, with a cracked hilt.
Aemond could’ve probably seen the drunken knave off with his own weapon. Could’ve threatened him. Pressed the dagger’s edge to his throat. But every emotion festering inside of him since he’d fled his sister’s table came rising up - an unstoppable wave of it. Despair. Humiliation. Rage. Aemond recalled the figure of himself on the stage. Being molested by his older brother. Rhaenyra’s great, poisonous lie – as though Aemond couldn’t have broken every bone in Aegon’s body if he’d ever tried it! Was that what the lords of Westeros thought now? That Aegon had groped lecherously at Aemond whenever he’d felt like it, just as this nameless c*nt had tried to do?
Aemond didn’t think twice. He drove the dagger deep into the man’s belly.
Blood poured out at once, seeping over Aemond’s hand and sleeve. The stranger’s face looked surprised, then pained, and finally horrified. With his free hand, Aemond pulled down the hood of his stolen cloak. He had no idea if the man would recognise him, but just in case he would, Aemond wanted the snivelling bastard to know exactly who had killed him.
But he saw no spark of recognition in the man’s eyes. He didn’t see anything at all, except the dull glaze of impending death. The alpha slumped heavily to his knees, and then toppled over onto his side. More blood spilled out of his body, soaking into the leaves and dirt of the forest floor. Aemond watched every second of it, until at last the c*nt had breathed his last.
It felt… it felt good. The rush of power was briefly stronger than all the other emotions warring inside of Aemond. He savoured it. He knew he couldn’t linger though. There were plenty of other people about. Aemond did not want to be found here, standing over a corpse with a dagger in his hand.
…
Lucerys was worked up to a near frenzy.
He had no idea how Aemond had managed it. One minute he’d been there, elbowing his way through a crowd of people deep in prayer, and then suddenly he’d been gone. Lucerys had looked around desperately for the telltale silver gleam of his husband’s hair, but it truly was as though the ground had swallowed Aemond up. He’d just vanished. And nobody had laid eyes on him since.
Luke felt sick with fear and worry. The Queen had ordered the camp searched – as subtly as possible. Lucerys had gone with the guard, overwhelmed by the urge to do something. Officially, Aemond was not missing. It would look far, far too bad on Rhaenyra to admit she’d lost her traitor brother. But the lords of Westeros weren’t stupid. They’d all seen Aemond storming away from the Queen’s table. They all knew Rhaenyra’s men were searching for somebody now. You didn’t need the wisdom of the Citadel to put two and two together.
Gods, where was he? Was he hurt? Had… had someone taken him…
The terrible, gut-churning fear rose up sharply inside Lucerys, just as it had a dozen times already that evening. He marched through the tourney camp, a guard holding a flaming torch hurrying to keep up with him. There had been no sign of Aemond anywhere. Wherever he was, he was well hidden. Or else… or else he’d managed to slip into the Kingswood. Luke’s gaze turned to the dark treeline. It would be a warren in there. whor*s, thieves, vagabonds… but he’d tear it apart if he had to. It was his duty, his compulsion to look after Aemond. To keep his husband safe, even from the man’s own worst impulses. Luke would rip apart the whole damned forest if he had to. Whatever it took to find his mate and silence the desperate anxiety clawing wildly inside of him.
Lucerys had watched on in horror as the mummers dressed as Aegon and Aemond had come onto the stage. He’d held Aemond’s hand tightly, hoping to somehow keep him tethered to the pleasant evening they’d been enjoying up until that point. Lucerys had wanted to turn angrily to his mother, to demand to know what the hells she’d been thinking. But Aemond had been more important. The shocked look on his face, the flatness of it, had almost been more painful to look upon than if he’d snarled with anger.
In the here and now, Lucerys strode back into the royal camp. The night was pitch-black. The pavilions were lit by a large burning brazier. Nobody was asleep. The glow of two dozen candles lit the Queen’s pavilion from within.
“… search the surrounding woodland once dawn breaks,” Rhaenyra was saying as Luke came stomping in. He threw himself restlessly into an empty chair. Everyone looked at him, and then at each other. Some other time Lucerys might’ve bristled at those loaded glances. Might’ve wondered what his family were thinking of him. But right now, he couldn’t have cared less. He had no energy for worrying about anything except what the hells had happened to Aemond.
“Perhaps he’s fled,” Baela suggested. She seemed in a bad mood. Had all evening. “Escaped. We were stupid to let him have so much freedom.”
“Stupid, am I?” Rhaenyra said.
Baela, to her credit, kept hold of her temper. She bowed her head contritely. Aemond was a thorny subject for her. She would never forgive him for the death of her grandmother. Her nature was just too fierce for it. Just like Rhaenys herself. “Pardon me, your grace,” she said. “I didn’t mean to imply such a thing.”
“Aemond hasn’t fled,” Daemon insisted. “Where the hells would the cur flee to? Out into the forest to die?”
Luke’s heart clenched in his chest.
“I want the players whipped,” he announced in a hard voice. “The ones who dressed themselves as Aemond and Aegon. And whoever wrote the filth too. I want them lashed until they bleed. In public, at this place. Before every lord and lady who saw their wretched mummery.”
Heavy silence reigned for a moment.
“Luke…” his mother began.
“He’s right,” Daemon interrupted her. “You should have them whipped. How does this look on Luke, otherwise? The gods know I think Aemond is a mewling traitor, but he’s Luke’s mate. And those f*cking fools got up on a stage before every noble in the realm and made him Aegon’s whor*.”
Rhaenyra sighed and sat back in her chair. She nodded wearily. “Yes,” she said. “If that’s how it must be. I’ll have the mummers whipped. But… what I don’t understand… why would Quince permit such a thing? He isn’t an idiot. I’ve always valued his common sense.”
“Did you not ask him to?” Lucerys said sharply.
“No!” his mother cried. She looked Lucerys dead in the eye. “Perhaps if things had been different, such mockery of my traitorous brothers would’ve made for a fine spectacle. But things are not different. The gods help me, I’ve learned to live with Aemond’s continued presence in my life, little though I might like it. We’ve made a sort of strange peace with each other. I wouldn’t jeopardize that out of some lingering spite. I didn’t ask Quince to put on such a performance, and I’ve no idea why he would.”
“Let’s ask him then,” Lucerys said angrily. “Have him brought here.”
Robert Quince was produced, dabbing at his forehead with a linen cloth. He looked flustered.
“Because you requested it, my Queen,” he said helplessly, once the question was put to him.
Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed. “I did no such thing.”
Quince mopped at his brow again. “But you did, your grace,” he insisted. “You wrote me a letter. It arrived here, with the royal seal and carried by royal messenger. I believe… I must still have it, somewhere…”
“What did this letter say?” Rhaenyra demanded to know. She seemed a touch rattled now. Her eyes darted to Daemon, and they shared a look.
“You… the letter I mean… you wanted the entertainments to include a play, for the amusem*nt of the lords. A history of your House. And you wanted it to ridicule the usurper and his brother. Your worst enemies, you called them. You wanted them cast down as vile degenerates. You were most explicit, your grace. You mentioned Prince Aemond by name.”
“I wrote no such letter!” Rhaenyra declared stridently. “You will find this letter for me. I want to see the forgery with my own eyes.”
“You believe him?” Lucerys said, the instant Quince had bowed and left the pavilion.
“Of course I do,” Rhaenyra said. “It’s not in Robert Quince’s nature to lie about such a thing, or to plot and scheme either. Loyalty is his greatest virtue. If he said he received this letter, then he did – although I didn’t write it. The gods damn it! Who has done this thing? And why?”
Her eyes flickered to Daemon. He visibly bristled.
“It wasn’t me,” he said. “If I wanted to order such a thing, I’d have put my own damned name to it.”
“This isn’t helping us find Aemond,” Lucerys declared impatiently, suddenly tired of all this. There were no answers to be had here, not at this hour. He rose to his feet. He’d been in this f*cking pavilion for too long. Aemond wasn’t here, and all that mattered was finding Aemond. Having him back, having him safe. Lucerys could think of nothing else. He wanted… gods, he wanted his mate in his arms. Wanted to scent him. To hold him. To nose at the mark on his neck. What if Lucerys was never able to do those things again? What if… all sorts of grim possibilities tore at his imagination. He’d failed. Lucerys was supposed to keep Aemond protected, happy, safe at home, and he’d failed.
A powerful, almost unstoppable tide of raw emotion threatened to overwhelm Luke. He choked it back. What would tears do to help? His breath came short for a moment or two, before – through sheer force of will – he pushed the urge to cry away.
Which was the exact moment they all heard raised voices outside of the Queen’s pavilion. And then an instant later, lit by the golden glow of all the candles, Aemond came walking in - as if he’d done nothing more than gone for an idle stroll about camp! There were five guards trailing after him, eyeing the prince like they weren’t certain whether he was their prisoner, or they were his escort.
Lucerys stared. At then promptly lost the very same control he’d only just gotten a grip on again.
He flung his arms around his husband, hanging on as though Aemond might disappear in a puff of smoke if Luke didn’t cling onto him tightly enough. Aemond was stiff and unyielding in his arms. But after a moment or two, he relaxed minutely and ever so slightly pressed his face into the crook of Lucerys’ neck. The scent of him filled Luke’s nose. He didn’t smell either afraid or distressed – thank the Seven. Lucerys kissed his cheek, rubbing his nose against the sharp curve of Aemond’s jaw. Every inhale of breath eased the roiling, miserable anxiety inside of him. The gods damn Aemond. Lucerys had been sick with worry for him.
“Where have you been?” Lucerys demanded to know. It came out angrier than he’d meant it to. He leaned back, his palms trailing down Aemond’s sleeves, meaning to take his mate’s hands in his own. Luke realised with a jolt that Aemond’s right sleeve was damp with something. And a second later, that his right hand was covered in blood – half dried, half still glistening wet. Lucerys held him by the wrist and brought the hand up to the candlelight, staring at it, horrified.
“You’re hurt,” he said, the anxiety coming charging back.
“It’s not mine,” Aemond said.
“Answer my son’s question, Aemond,” Rhaenyra’s voice said sharply. The Queen rose from her chair, fixing her errant brother with a hard stare. “Where have you been?”
Aemond’s face was as blank as a statue’s as he returned his sister’s gaze. Lucerys found it unsettling. There was a coldness to Aemond that Luke hadn’t seen since his husband had first been dragged before the throne in chains, over a year ago now. It was a front. A poor one – to Lucerys, at least. He saw right through it, to the resentment and agitation beneath. But it seemed to work on Luke’s mother, who glowered straight back at Aemond.
“I’ve walked the Kingswood, your grace,” Aemond replied in a soft voice. He stepped away from Lucerys’ hold and tilted his head back, just a little. There was a defiance to the gesture that visibly irritated Rhaenyra. “Just as many of your lords have, these last two weeks. To hunt and for idle pleasure.”
“You do nothing without my permission, and you know it,” Rhaenyra retorted sharply. “Don’t pretend to me you merely went for an evening walk. Who have you been with? Whose blood is that on you?”
“I didn’t ask his name,” Aemond said. “Some vagabond in the forest. He threatened me with a blade, so I took it from him and stuck it in his belly.”
The agitation roiling around in Luke’s stomach increased in intensity yet again. Somebody had pulled a weapon in his mate. Out in the forest, when he’d been all alone. Yes, Aemond had killed the bastard. But Lucerys should’ve done it. He should’ve been there, and he should’ve done it. Seven cursed hells, Aemond should never have been in the Kingswood in the f*cking first place! He should never have felt the need to go! Lucerys shouldn’t have lost him.
“Why did you go out into the Kingswood?” Rhaenyra demanded.
“For peace and quiet.”
“Gods damn it, I should put you in chains,” Rhaenyra said. “The freedom I have granted you, and this is how you repay it?”
“Did you expect me to simply sit there?” Aemond retorted angrily, the stony veneer finally cracking. “Did you truly think me so broken? Made so pathetic? If the price of living comfortably is to endure whatever humiliations to seek to pile on me for your own perverse amusem*nt, then you’d better lock me in the dungeons when we return to King’s Landing!”
Baela opened her mouth. To insult Aemond, Lucerys just knew it. He glared at his sister, and she glared back – but thought twice about whatever she’d been planning to say. Daemon simply watched on in uncharacteristic silence.
Still sat at the table, Rhaenyra clenched her jaw. Her eyes glimmered by the light of the candles.
“I doubt you’ll believe me,” she said. “But I had nothing to do with the mockery of you. I never asked for such a display. I had no idea it would happen. And tomorrow, I’ll have the players responsible whipped in the middle of this camp for their disrespect.”
Aemond stared at her. He clearly hadn’t expected that. Had no idea what to do with it – or to say to his sister. But Lucerys’ patience with all of this had run out. He was done with it for tonight. Aemond was safe, well, and returned to him – and that was all that mattered. He had no time for any f*cking squabbling. Let his mother and his husband snipe at each other in the morning. Lucerys wanted to take Aemond back to their pavilion and wash the blood from him. He wanted to soothe whatever resentments Aemond had until they went away. And he wanted to go to bed and hold his mate in his arms. Where he damn well belonged.
“Can this not wait until morning?” Lucerys said. “The hour is late. Nothing will have changed by daybreak. Sleep will cool all our tempers.”
His mother paused. Her fingers tapped restlessly on the tabletop. She wanted to have it out with her brother, Lucerys could see that clearly. But she also knew Luke was right.
“You are forbidden from leaving this camp,” Rhaenyra said to Aemond. “The guards will stop you if you try to cross the palisade without my expressed permission. Gods help me Aemond, I’ll have you tied to your horse on the journey home if you defy me. I mean it.”
Aemond said nothing. Lucerys wanted very badly to hold him again. He wanted to kiss him. Scent him. Take him away from here and back to Dragonstone. To their chambers, to their bed. If Arrax were here, that’s just what he’d do. Fly overnight until they were home.
“Everyone to their beds then,” Rhaenyra said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “But tomorrow, brother mine, you and I will talk. And you will listen.”
