Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[130 AC]

Vhagar aims for the glimmer of sunlight above.

The water is heavy and deadly and cold, even after she emerges. It pours off of her wings in great rivulets. Chills her to the bone for hours after she rises from it. And yet, what joy— for the first time in a very long time, there is no pain.

It doesn't hurt anymore.

What a great relief it had been to meet the end at long last, she'd thought. Vhagar was a peerless relic. She knew this, and despaired of it. Wound after wound. Rider after rider. No song left in her. Barely any strength either, not that the little ones could ever know it. None of them remembered, as none of them had ever seen a true dragon. Not as Vhagar had.

In her final days, she found herself wishing she could forget— what she might have been, what she ought to have been— if only, if only, if only.

But that was all before.

Now— she has emerged, the water has all dried, and she is young again.

Her wounds are reversed. Her bones are made new. Her sister approaches, Vhagar knows, and she can hardly wait.

The child is having a hard time of it. Strange, though, he is this way with a good many things. The water makes him sick first. It takes him a good while to cough it all out. Then he fusses with his eye— always fussing with his eye— he pulls the tiny little rein off of his face this time and makes a shrill sound. The blue falls out. The child swats at himself. Vhagar looks to the skies.

Of wing and of scale, there is none who shines brighter than Vhagar's sister. She never could hide from sight, except within the glare of the sun itself. It's been so long, but Vhagar would know Meraxes anywhere. Even as a puny speck on the horizon, her sister is as beautiful as the day Vhagar lost her, over one hundred years ago.

Fly to me, Sister! How I've missed you so!

The wind ripples and surges and through it, familiar as flame, come the notes of Meraxes' voice.

Did you set your fire over the black earth, Sister? Did you burn them? Did you eat their flesh and taste their fear? Was it sweet?

Vhagar opens her throat and calls her reply. How happy she is to be understood!

Sweet it was, Sister, though not half as sweet as the feast we shared on the dry grass alongside the Great One. Do you remember?

Meraxes sings back, lilting, pretty songbird. The wind now is warm of her own making, and Vhagar delights in her sister's silvery gleam.

With each turn of the wind, I remember. The warrior was yet your mistress in that age. Many have you served since. Tell me, Sister, did they bid you raise your wings? Were your teeth made sharp on their wrath? How many days and nights did they call upon your fire?

Meraxes lands in the forest, makes her way forward on foot and claw, and Vhagar tells her. After the warrior, the bold one came with a loud man's voice. He set her fire over the rolling waves, not only once. Together, they filled the winds with salt and smoke. For a long time after him, Vhagar rested among the sands. She sang for herself, she sang for the little girl— the punisher— who came for many days and nights merely to listen at first, and when the punisher finally commanded her, Vhagar served.

Vhagar served, but she must have offended the punisher greatly, for she would not have wounded Vhagar so brutally without reason. Dracarys, the punisher had commanded. The most radiant word of them all. Yet Vhagar felt so wretched when she obeyed.

The deed brought me shame as I had never known. Sister, I beg you, do not reproach me for this. Mine own flame turned so bitter.

But then came the child and he called upon her wings, he called upon her fire until it spread over all that she could see. Fearsome child, wrathful child, yes. His little feet struck the ground with such force, Vhagar often felt him in the earth first before she smelled him.

Hunt the hatchling, the child commanded, for he loved the taste of fear almost as much as she did. Strike the golden one, rend his flight, then slay the red one. Vhagar obeyed, for her own flame had turned so bitter and the pain never ceased, and so it was well that the child never tired. The child would have no other but her, and Vhagar loved him dearly for it.

The child is plenty fierce, though laughter brings him pain. I would have you know this, for I know how well your bird-voiced mistress loves to laugh.

Down below amidst the green, the tiny figure of Meraxes's mistress is stepping closer, closer, closer. The child turns to face her. He settles in his stance. Words are exchanged. Vhagar feels the child's delighted thrill as it climbs higher. She wonders what Meraxes can sense.

Laugh my mistress does, yes, though in equal measure these past moons, she weeps.

She weeps? These riders are strange indeed. With strength and flight made new, what cause could one have for weeping?

The weepy ones never burn the same as the rest, and they smell funny. It has suited Vhagar's taste every now and then, but not often. How fortuitous then, that Meraxes's bird-voiced, bright-tailed, newly-weepy mistress has her strength about her now.

You and I both have known for ages, the riders are given to many strange turns beyond our understanding. Would that my mistress finds your child agreeable enough. Would that they bid us fly in stride. I would hear you sing again, Sister, I would have us dance together on the salted breeze. We will go slowly, so that the baby might keep pace with us. Little Cloud, I call him. You mustn't eat him, Sister, not again. Even with all his foolish barking. Do you hear?

Sister, I hear you. I will not eat the baby if this is what you wish, though I can neither disobey the child. But listen close now, Sister. Do they speak our words? Do they smile upon one another?

𓏵

"No! No, wait!"

Rhaenys comes after him and Aemond speeds up.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Please, just leave me alone!

"I didn't mean it, I'm sorry." Her hand touches his shoulder and Aemond smacks her off. "Forgive me, please. I didn't mean it. I've been so rude."

She has been, extremely. She laughed at him. Although, Aemond's made such an absolute fucking dolt of himself, so whose fault is it really?

And to think, it had started off so well.

Aemond had known her even before she'd dismounted. He'd known by her dragon— huge and silver, gleaming like a well-polished mirror, curved horns and molten eyes— that she was Rhaenys the Conqueror, rider of Meraxes, beloved sister-wife of the first Aegon.

She was as beautiful as the tales claimed, even if she wasn't quite what Aemond would've expected. Sure-footed and slender, yes. The long, loose hair was there, trailing past her waist without so much as a single braid, held back instead with a cut of purple silk; as was the sunny, girlish face, favorite of the court. She made an uncanny image of Helaena one moment. Of Rhaenyra the next. Or rather, Aemond corrected himself, each of them was an image of her.

She'd forgone shoes as well as braids, however. And her clothes, with all their mismatched layers and riotous colors, would've suited a traveling performer far better than a dragon queen.

Aemond did not lose his nerve as Rhaenys advanced. He did not step back. Nor did he stammer, nor piss himself, nor faint.

Rhaenys Ērintys, he'd addressed her, and that had pleased her well.

She'd smiled and called him Aemond Laesmērenka. One-Eye. It wasn't accurate anymore, as Aemond had both of his eyes back ever since he'd emerged from the lake, and perhaps that was why the name hadn't wounded him more than a scratch. Either that, or Aemond was still struck-dumb by the presence of his legendary forebearer— whose deeds he'd read about in books and whose image he'd admired in countless drawings, tapestries, murals, and effigies— not to mention the songs. The poems.

"Where are the others?" Aemond had asked, and that was his mistake. "Where is…" he looked all around, like these mysterious figures might be hiding in the trees, just out of sight. He knew he was beginning to act like a foolish child. He hated that he couldn't stop himself. "Where is Visenya?"

At that, Rhaenys let out a most un-queenly snort. "She's not here, silly."

"Why not?"

"Visenya didn't die on Vhagar's back. You did." She said it like it was obvious. Then she turned in a flourish of color and wandered off, leaving Aemond to chew on those words. Visenya didn't die on Vhagar's back. You did.

And Rhaenys… she'd died on Meraxes's back, hadn't she? Yes, yes she had. Aemond ran after her with more questions and found her sitting comfortably on a stump, legs crossed.

"You know," Rhaenys told him, once he'd caught up, "All the rest of you asked after my husband first." She looked Aemond up and down, muttered, "Visenya," and giggled again, rolling her eyes like she couldn't believe it. Like it was the most amusing thing she'd ever heard.

Sure as the sun rising in the east, Aemond's throat closed up and grew thick with tears.

I didn't mean it. I'm sorry.

Rhaenys can shove the words right up her historically venerated ass. Aemond never wants to see her again, ever. He wants to hide. He marches onward through the trees and still, her voice persists.

"Skorī morghūltan, daorys ēdan." (When I died, I had no one.)

That makes Aemond pause. Fickle as fucking always. He can't help it.

"Ūī drējī usōven." (I am truly sorry.)

When he turns, Rhaenys's expression is open and pleading, so earnest that Aemond almost can't stand it. "Will you let me try again? Please?"

Aemond says nothing at all, but neither does he turn his back on her, which Rhaenys seems to take as an emphatic yes.

"It's lovely to meet you, Aemond," she says, taking his hand. "I am Rhaenys. And I know neither why nor how, so please do not ask me, but you found your death on dragonback and so this world is now yours, as it is mine."

"You don't know why," he repeats.

"I don't."

Aemond's mind begins to turn. Rhaenys's hand is so warm and solid around his own. She doesn't feel very dead. This close, he can count the spaces between her eyelashes. He can measure the slight crookedness of her front teeth. He can smell her. "How long…?"

"One-hundred and twenty years since I was shot down."

"In Dorne," Aemond recalls. It was meant to be the final step of Aegon's conquest. So much for that. One-hundred and twenty years gone and she's been here— this whole time— preserved and yet utterly isolated— and not knowing why. A terrible chill runs down Aemond's spine. He tightens his grip on Rhaenys's hand, half-consciously, though she herself is sparkling, wholly unfazed.

"Quite so. Brilliant shot, it was. Straight through the eye. Isn't that right, Meraxes?"

From a little ways behind, Meraxes snarls in assent.

"See," Rhaenys smiles halfway, "She's got both of them back now, too. I wonder, tell me, does it feel very strange?"

"Yes," Aemond answers truthfully.

Forget strange— it had been overwhelming. He couldn't say for certain how long he'd spent reeling with shock at the lakeside, still up to his knees in cold silt, as that was how he'd known that he was dead and passed on somewhere else. He had his other eye back.

For hours, Aemond merely wandered about in the forest, watching the trajectories of falling leaves, grasping at wavering rays of sunlight. Gods, he could see around them. Was it always this beautiful? Was this what sight had been like when he was a child? Why had he not remembered it so?

Aemond takes the sapphire out of his pocket where Rhaenys can see and she gasps in wonder. "May I?"

He hands it over. Rhaenys holds it up to the sun, turning it this way and that. "It's lovely," she says. "You should keep it."

Aemond was planning to anyway.

With two eyes, he can see so plainly through the trees. There's the massive form of Vhagar, and of Meraxes with her— circling one another slowly like affectionate cats. Meraxes's huge glittering tail sweeps along the forest floor, sending up a flurry of leaves. And Vhagar…

"She's been healed too," Aemond thinks aloud. And he can't help wondering, "Was this how she looked when…"

"Is this how I remember her, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Vhagar, Vhagar," Rhaenys hums to herself, both hands fiddling with the end of her silk scarf. "I remember she was so fierce, always. Deadly. Demanding. Hmmm, though she was smaller in my day, and there was a bit of bronze in her scales as well."

That takes Aemond by surprise. "Bronze?"

"Oh, yes."

They wander closer. Rhaenys steps beneath the cover of Vhagar's wing, easy as passing through a pavillion.

"Drakari pykiros kara," (Great fire-breather) Rhaenys sings up at her, "Yne rūnā?" (Do you remember me?)

To Aemond's astonishment, Vhagar dips her head down and trills softly. Rhaenys giggles, reaches a hand out to touch, and Vhagar lets her.

Aemond thinks, traitor.

Aloud, he asks the question that's been biting at him for days now. "Rhaenys?"

She's still busy scratching Vhagar's nose. "Yes, Aemond?"

It's easier to do it in Valyrian for some reason, even if he is a bit out of practice. "Vasīr tegot bē iksi?" (Are we still on earth?)

Not the heavens? He refrains from adding.

"Kessa," (Yes) Rhaenys turns back to face him. "Hēnkāpo tegot prānoso." (The same earth as always.)

The same earth as always. Aemond gazes about to confirm it, and finds only what he already knew. Here is the forest by the God's Eye, steeped in muted autumn sunlight. Here is the rustle of the wind, the slight chill of it. Aemond shivers. That's something he can do, though it doesn't feel right at all. He is dead, and yet, he can still shiver.

The same earth as always, yes, and for that it is all the more unsettling.

Aemond thought it would feel different. How, he isn't sure. I'm dead, he thinks again, as though this time it might fit better, like a latch clicking into place. It doesn't.

But, perhaps he's been thinking of it all wrong. Perhaps this isn't a true afterwards, so to speak, not like the Seven Heavens. Aemond sees no gods here. No crowns of freshly-plucked stars, no singing bells. Perhaps… might this be…

"Sesīr kesy tȳnior glaeson issa?" (Then this is a second life?)

Rhaenys lets the question hang while she leads him over to a great fallen oak. She sits carefully and pats the spot next to her. Aemond takes it. She's still got his sapphire in her hand, he notices with a tinge of annoyance, clutched snug against her chest.

"I thought so at first, when I was new to it," she tells him. "But I've come to suspect otherwise. For one thing, I don't believe I've aged, have I?"

No, she hasn't. One-hundred and twenty years, and Rhaenys the Conqueror still appears to be around the same age as Aemond's own mother. Perhaps a little younger. "For another," she goes on, "I don't suggest you go looking for it now, not until the… softer flesh has all gone, but you may find that your old body rests, still. Right where you left it."

Right where he left it. In the lake. Four days ago. Aemond recalls that final sensation— the blood. Bursting out the back of his skull.

He wonders if his corpse is stiff enough to break yet. The skin has gone blue by now, no doubt. And his innards. Have they started bloating already, or will the colder temperatures of the water keep it all fresh for the feeding pleasure of whatever might dwell at the bottom for years to come?

"Don't go looking for it now," Rhaenys reiterates, and Aemond blinks.

"I won't."

He absolutely will.

"Good." Rhaenys places the sapphire back in Aemond's pocket and he breathes a bit easier with the weight.

"What else," he wants to know.

"What do you mean?"

"Can I… eat?"

"If you like."

"And can I fly?"

"Wherever your heart desires."

"Can I… touch things?"

"In a way," Rhaenys hesitates. "But it won't be the same as before."

"How?"

"Of nonliving things, you may feel their surface. Lean too hard, and you'll pass right through. Focus yourself just so…" she peers down at the stretch of trunk between them, where a tiny leaf is beginning to wilt, "…and you may even take smaller objects." Her fingers close around the leaf with surgical intent, and it breaks free.

"I see."

"Mm, but you don't. Not quite yet." The leaf twirls in her fingers, this way and that. "By taking this leaf, I've brought it over to our side. On the other side, as far as I understand, the world will… bend. It will be as though this leaf never existed at all."

Our side.

Aemond's next question is only natural. "And of living things?" Of people?

Rhaenys shakes her head. "We cannot pull them over. We may enter wherever they do and walk beside them, but they can neither see, nor hear, nor feel our presence. Trust me," she says, voice turning soft. "I've tried."

Am I some sort of ghost then?

Aemond thinks better of asking that one. Ghosts are mere fiction, obviously, for children and old hermits. And even if they weren't, a ghost surely wouldn't feel the same chill on the wind as he'd felt in life. A ghost wouldn't get tired each night and need to sleep— not the way Aemond has. "Enter wherever they do," he repeats instead. "Why not Harrenhal?"

He'd gone in the direction of the castle soon after he'd exhausted himself counting falling leaves, only to discover to his resounding confusion that the place was simply gone. In the spot where Harrenhal should have stood, there was only the densest, oldest growth of forest.

"A strange place, yes," Rhaenys admits. "It comes and goes. Something to do with the magic of the Old Gods, I would wager. Did you have someone there?" Aemond did. He still does. He doesn't answer the question, and Rhaenys lets it slide. "You might try returning here after the seasons change. Harrenhal will show herself again when she's ready."

"In the meantime?"

Tell me, tell me. Please, just tell me what to do with myself.

"I'm afraid that's entirely for you to decide."

Yes, that's what Aemond was afraid of as well.

"You might even convene with Vhagar on the matter, no?"

Vhagar, of course.

Aemond lifts his head to find her, and there she is, still basking in the leafy shadows with Meraxes. Happier than Aemond has ever seen her.

"Oh," Aemond mutters, and then the question falls from his lips in a rush of childlike hope. "Then… might I come and live with you?"

A second passes. Then another.

Aemond risks glancing over at Rhaenys. The look he finds there is foreboding, and far worse than any laughter.

"Aemond," Rhaenys starts, then stops, and starts again. "Sweetling."

She lays a hand on his shoulder. Bracing him for rejection. "I would… I would love nothing more, believe me, but, you see…" she takes a careful breath. "I've had someone else living with me already. For the past year or so."

Someone else.

The shape of the notion doesn't even fit at first. Here Aemond is, and here Rhaenys is. Why would there be anyone else?

"Aemond?" Her voice is barely a whisper now. "You must know who I'm referring to."

For the past year, she said. Oh. Realization settles like a dagger.

Lucerys.

He'd died with his dragon. He'd beaten Aemond to the punch. Even though Aemond never knew there was a punch to beat.

What has he told you? Aemond doesn't say it. The air is too thin all of a sudden. The light passes too easily. Blind and flailing, Aemond wants to crawl right back into the lake.

Rhaenys knows. She knows, and she's just sitting there.

Lucerys has been living with her, he's been blubbering Seven-knows-what into her ears, day and night. For a year. He's been— fuck, does Lucerys think that Rhaenys is his mother now? Is that it? Fucking pitiful, that is. If she were truly Lucerys's mother, Rhaenys would've greeted Aemond with fire and blood. She would've ground his bones into dust by now, twice over. But she hasn't. Yet.

"I didn't mean to." There is no room for thought. Aemond squeezes his eyes shut and the words tumble right out. "You must know, please. I didn't mean to. Please believe me." All the rest that came after was no accident. He'll admit to that freely if Rhaenys likes— that he'd been everything they said he was, and worse. It'd been his duty, even— they were at war— but it didn't start that way.

He looks up, and Rhaenys's expression flickers. Some adept, seismic ripple. The girlish facade comes down for a fleeting, agonizing moment, and Aemond learns more about her in that single instant than ever before.

"Laesmērenka, I will tell you this. The decision to come here was not an easy one."

Rhaenys is letting him see it now. Beneath the laughter and queenly goodwill, she's appalled. She's disgusted. She's tired. Aemond wonders then just how much of their wretched fucking war she's seen, and the mere prospect has him feeling mortified. The great kingdom that Rhaenys built alongside Aegon and Visenya— decades of effort— and Aemond's gone and torn it all down.

Please. All I ever wanted was to be like you.

Pathetic.

He's never going to escape it, is he?

You owe a debt, he'd shouted at Lucerys that day. Idiot. He'd known nothing of debts.

Aemond had paid for it with his mother's bereaved disgust, first. With the slow death of her love, next. Then with war. With young Jaehaerys's head. Helaena had paid for it then, the most terrible price of all. She'd been made to.

The debt ate away at his sleep next— within the Red Keep at first, then far more menacingly at Harrenhal. There'd been times when Aemond swore he could see Arrax's pale wings lying in wait beneath his bed. He'd called out to Lucerys, even. Pleaded for him to call his dragon off.

He couldn't make Rhaenys see that, even if he were somehow able to find the words.

Let me pay for it, this time in a way that matters. I need it to be over. Please. I can't do it anymore.

"I believe you," Rhaenys says at long last. "If only for the simple reason that I cannot stomach the alternative. And I meant what I said earlier."

"What?" Aemond nearly chokes on it.

"That I would love nothing more."

The wind shifts then. Rhaenys gives a quick shake of her head to keep the fall of her hair behind her shoulder, and Aemond is at once sickened and amazed at having recognized that same mannerism in himself. He suppresses the twin impulse, instead making a point of holding his own hair in place with his hand.

"I'm very glad to have met you, Aemond," Rhaenys goes on, "But you need to be patient. You are only twenty. You cannot know how young that is. Not until time has turned you over. Yes?"

"Yes."

"The same is true of Lucerys as well. With enough time, perhaps, who might say?"

A mad sound bursts forth. Perhaps? Aemond crushed the boy like a gnat. He never thought he'd see little Lord Strong ever again.

Though, now, he wonders, had Lucerys seen him? Had he followed Aemond back to King's Landing that night? Had he been watching from the other side when Aemond climbed down off Vhagar's back only to vomit from sheer horror at the sight of her jaws still dripping with blood?

What have I done, Aemond remembers muttering to himself. What have I done? It was the first time he'd killed a man. Not even a man. A boy. And he hadn't even meant to do it.

"Do you regret it?" Rhaenys asks.

Does Aemond regret it? He felt it lurking behind every corner, in the weeks that followed. Why, why, why did I do it?

But then the moons passed, the war burned on, and Aemond found a decent enough answer. He'd done it because if he hadn't, someone else would have. Aegon was the next most likely. Daeron could have done it, easily. War was no place for a dragon as weak and small as Arrax, no more than for a boy as stubborn and spoiled as Lucerys. If anything, Aemond had done them all a fucking favor by killing Lucerys right at the start.

But Rhaenys asked, and there's no point left in lying. No point at all.

Aemond says, "More than anything."

𓏵

They can neither hear, nor see, nor feel our presence, Rhaenys had said. Trust me, I've tried.

But Aemond's sister is not like most living people.

He finds Helaena in King's Landing, not all that far from where he'd last left her. She's been moved from the Queen's apartments to another smaller set of chambers and locked inside. Rhaenyra's doing.

In order to get her out, Aemond must first get himself in.

First, he does as he's never done before. He lands Vhagar right in the center of the city. It feels deeply wrong, Aemond expects to watch the rooftops turn to rubble beneath Vhagar's enormous feet, but no, it’s just as Rhaenys said. Vhagar passes right through. Alas, she isn't even there.

Night has fallen hard, Aemond thinks, as he makes his way through the streets on foot towards the Red Keep. The city is tense and quiet all around. Aemond's never seen so many armed men patroling about. The few townsfolk he passes by all seem to be in a hurry. They keep their heads down.

The guards flanking the entrance to the outer bailey pay about as much attention to Aemond as their counterparts down in the streets— that is, none whatsoever. Helaena, he thinks, and his feet find their way to a part of the castle Aemond's never actually seen before, despite having grown up in this place. Mother only ever used this wing for guests.

There are no bars on her door, the lock is a jittery little thing, and the only guard posted looks half asleep. Aemond takes some offense to this. Has Rhaenyra forgotten that her half-sister— the rightful Queen— commands a dragon five times larger than her own? If she wanted to, if she woke up tomorrow and decided to, Helaena could be fucking dangerous. Aemond leans his body weight against the door and pushes through, easy as diving beneath the surface of a pond.

Helaena.

Sister, can you hear me?

The chambers are small enough to be insulting, but Helaena's been allowed her needles and a single terrarium filled with gem-colored beetles, as well as most of her finer things. She hasn't been dressed like a prisoner, at the very least. Though it probably would've made very little difference to her either way. Sitting by the window with her head bowed, she's gone all pale. Blue in the hands and glassy-eyed. Looking without seeing.

It's likely that those around her now think nothing of it, because they don't know Helaena as Aemond does. She isn't well.

There's a maid who comes occassionally, Aemond observes, to do everything from menial chores, to helping Helaena dress, to braiding her hair in the mornings and unraveling it again in the evenings. Apart from her, Helaena has no company at all. She doesn't even get to see her daughter.

You were right about the God's Eye.

It was just as you said.

You were right all along.

Dear sister, I should have listened.

Can you hear me?

When he talks to her, Helaena turns her head to hear him better. And she does notice when her things disappear.

"Give it back, please," she says. "I'm not finished with the pattern yet." Aemond apologizes and sets the embroidery hoop right in her lap, but she doesn't see it. Doesn't ever pick it up again.

Dreamfyre, he tries to tell her, directly into her ear. You must go to Dreamfyre. By any possible means. You must.

Helaena only shivers, and swats at her ear. "That tickles."

Days go by. His sister is not long for the world, Aemond can see that.

Don't cry.

Come with me.

Come with me, I'm right here.

The night before it happens, Helaena sits up in bed and looks right at him.

"Aemond?"

Helaena.

At last, she's seen him. He knew she would, he knew it.

Aemond rushes to her side and reaches out to touch her cheek. His hand passes right through, and Helaena flinches as though she's been burned. Then she starts to cry again. No, no, he's upset her.

Dear sister, I'm sorry.

Helaena sinks back down beneath the covers like a mole, lower and lower until only a few pale locks of hair are visible. "You need to go now," her voice comes muffled from within her hiding spot. "I don't want you to see."

I'm not leaving you.

"You must. Please."

Helaena, he tries again. Go to Dreamfyre. Go now.

"I can't."

You can. I'll come with you.

The lump of her body stirs. "Aemond?"

I'm here.

"Does it hurt? Dying?"

He cannot bring himself to lie to her.

At first. But it is only a small thing.

"Do you promise?"

Yes. I promise.

Helaena's hand emerges from the covers, fingers splayed, reaching out. When her fingertips touch the ends of Aemond's hair, there is a subtle shimmering. Just as before, Helaena gasps and pulls her hand back.

"You need to go now," she says again.

Aemond doesn't. He falls asleep sitting upright on the floor, back propped against the bedframe.

***

When he wakes, it's to the sound of the windowpane knocking against the wall. The curtains have been drawn back. Watery light of dawn washes along the floor. Both windows have been thrown all the way open. And Helaena's bed is empty.

Aemond curses and bolts across the room.

She's still out there. She's climbed all the way onto the narrow ledge just beyond the window, balancing precariously with her back against the red stone. Her nightgown flutters in the breeze. Without looking over, Helaena knows.

"You need to go now." She sounds dreamy. Calm.

Aemond pleads, Not like this. This isn't the way. Come back inside.

"I've always known, I think. Ever since I was a babe."

Helaena.

He holds out his hand, though he knows it's no use.

Helaena, please don't leave me.

"I do hope it is beautiful where you are, dear brother." She looks up at him at last. Unafraid. She tells him, "You need to go now."

She steps off.

Aemond collapses to the floor. From across the city, he can hear Dreamfyre, howling.

***

The city crumbles into chaos as word spreads of the Queen's death. It closes in from all sides.

She was good, she was gentle, she was beloved, and Aemond is never going to see her again. Someone barges into Helaena's room, rifles through her things. People are shouting. Aemond takes the pillowcase from the bed. It smells like her, until he ruins it with his tears.

Smoke, the chanting of crowds, the clamoring of bells.

Then, an ancient-sounding roar. Vhagar. Aemond rises to the window and there she is, enormous as ever, prowling over the towers and turrets. She sees him and calls out again, and she's right. They need to go now.

𓏵

Should you ever need to find me, Rhaenys had said to him, just before they'd flown their separate ways, I have a little house. At the top of the Dornish sea cliffs, a ways west of the Greenblood. Do you know it?

Aemond does know it. And he does need to find her.

He flies, south, further than he'd ever gone in life, until the wind turns warm and fragrant.

Through the Reach. Across the Red Mountains. Then the shifting desert dunes, where the Greenblood starts as no more than a frail thread tracked into the sand, barely clinging to life. Aemond follows it, and has just enough time to wonder whether he's got it wrong because this is no river. Surely this cannot be the same current that sustains the lives of over one-million Rhoynar, can it? But he flies further anyway, and in time, the Greenblood lives up to its name.

The river spills into the sea, Aemond curves to the west, and finds what he's searching for.

There, on the very edge of the whole continent, hanging over the open sea.

The head of the cliff is a wild place. Unforgiving flame-colored rock dotted with short, pale shrubs. Nestled right in the heart of it all, the house is short and wooden and solitary— impossible to reach by any road— and this is how Aemond knows he's got the right place.

No road, but, there is a barren strip of ground just a bit further inland, worn flat by years and years of use. Aemond would give Vhagar the command, but she's spotted it already. He braces himself low in the saddle and covers his nose to avoid inhaling the great cloud of dust that whirls into the air as Vhagar lands.

Meraxes, he thinks. She should be here, somewhere close by. Aemond cranes his head to look for her— he and Vhagar both— but neither of them can find any sign. Not yet. Aemond turns his attention back to the little house.

He's level with it now, and can make out the structure much better. It's got a generous porch set out in front, framed by posts that appear to have been fashioned whole from felled trees. The windows are broad and airy-looking. One of them is draped in violet. Aemond is able to see this, only because of the soft candlelight flickering within. Come on, Rhaenys, where are you?

He waits in the saddle while the sun sets. He keeps waiting, even as the first stars come out and the full dome of the sky turns a deep blue.

If it's her in there, Aemond thinks, then she must have heard Vhagar’s landing. She must have. Right?

Night looms darker. Further inland, the wild desert dogs begin to howl. Behind that flimsy violet drape, the candle burns on.

I'm here, Aemond pleads silently. I've found it. But where are you?

Vhagar turns her head and chitters with interest, and Aemond raises himself up to see. Vhagar is interested, he finds, because there beneath the overhang of the next ridge, another dragon is trying, and failing, to hide from her. Aemond's heart nearly stops. Arrax.

He's right there.

Tiny and moon-white. Cowering like a mouse.

Aemond's eyes are burning. His heart is in his throat, now. Perhaps it would be best to just turn back. Yes, yes they should. It's clear that Rhaenys isn't home right now, meaning he has no business here, but unfortunately, Vhagar has other ideas. She settles all the way onto the ground, lying on her stomach. Waiting for Aemond to dismount. No, no, no.

He tries, "Aōha mandiā gūrēñagon jaelō daor?" (Don't you want to find your sister?)

Vhagar huffs at him, sounding annoyed.

Aemond casts one more glance at the lit window. He'd say a prayer, too, but his mind is blank. He's out of options.

His feet hit rocky ground at last, and he makes his way to the front of the house, trudging like a traitor to the headsman's block.

This is a mistake.

There are other colors in the rest of the windows, Aemond can see them now. A full rainbow of ribbons are tied around the porch rails as well. They flutter like wings when the breeze rolls in, and then comes the ringing sound of the little chimes hung beside the stairs. This is one of the stupidest things Aemond has ever done.

This is a mistake, he thinks again. And then, Has the door been open this whole time?

A figure is standing there, lit from behind, cloaked in shadow. The same height as Rhaenys. But Aemond knows it's not.

There's some object clutched in the figure's right hand.

A knife.

Aemond feels his left eye twinge.

"Stop."

Aemond does better than that. The ground is swaying up behind him— he staggers back one step, then two, then three. Then his knees give out and his ass hits rock. And Lucerys takes a single step forward.

By the gods, he hasn't aged a day.

If only Aemond were truly back in Storm's End, he thinks, faint.

Because this is worse.

Oh Gods, comes the next, absurd thought. Why, why did he have to change his clothes?

The sight Lucerys makes now— without Rhaenyra's colors trussed about his little shoulders, without his princely fittings— all that remains is a boy. Aemond wants to scream. He wants to vomit. He achieves neither.

I will not fight you. I've come as a messenger, not as a warrior.

How wroth Aemond had been to hear those words. The denial of them, the self-righteousness, how obvious it was that they weren't even his own.

Lucerys had been nerve-wracked and terrified when he'd drawn his blade in that place. He's even worse now, and his blade is much smaller. It's shaking in his hand, even as he points it directly at Aemond. Defiance in the eyes, wet as they are with tears. He's muttering something under his breath. He's still trying so hard, Aemond realizes, to be brave.

Lucerys is trying to be brave— meaning this is about to get very, very stupid, if Aemond doesn't put an end to it.

He says it, in as plain a voice as he can manage. "I want to see Rhaenys."

At that, Lucerys's expression bends into an ugly fucking sneer. He sobs on his words. "She's out."

"Is she coming back?"

Lucerys gives no answer. He turns back in and slams the door so loudly that Aemond flinches.

You need to go now.

But Aemond can't. Where else can he go, besides quite literally anywhere else in the whole rest of the world? Where else does he have? Vhagar is waiting so patiently for him back at the landing, but Aemond can't move. His limbs have never felt so heavy. His breath has never come so weak. Could he stay right here, right on these rocks, he wonders, and never move again?

You need to go now.

Helaena had been so insistent. And Aemond had heeded her words about as well as he'd done in life.

He wouldn't need Rhaenys if Helaena were here, if only she'd listened to him, he would never need anything else.

They'd be flying together by now, as they were always meant to.

You need to go now. The very last thing Helaena tried to give to him. Though Aemond doesn't understand it and probably never will, and though he's too late now as he's always been— he listens. The moon is huge and full on the eastern horizon by the time Aemond traipses back to his dragon and waits for sleep that won't come.

Did you know, he imagines whispering to her, as though she were lying next to him, Did you ever get to try this?

It's quite comfortable, beneath the cover of Vhagar's wing. Helaena should be here. She would've loved it. The heat of Vhagar's scales is so fierce, even on the outermost reaches of membrane, that any wind that does make it in is quickly muted to a temperate breeze. He ought to have made time for this with her while they were both still alive. But not on this cold, rocky, Dornish ground, and not on a night like this one.

Several times throughout the night, Aemond summons the courage to peer over at Rhaenys's house.

The light goes dark after an hour or so.

Aemond isn't sure, but he thinks he sees another set of eyes in the nearest window, peering back.

Chapter Text

[130 AC]

Rhaenys doesn't return in the morning.

Nor the next one after that.

For two days that feel more like two years, Aemond sits and waits.

With the Dornish sun blazing overhead, it's impossible not to notice that the house is in fact missing an entire wall. Aemond only has to turn his head and there Lucerys is, staked into his place amongst the vague shapes and colors of whatever else lies inside, soft-edged and pale like a little porcelain figure in a dollhouse, though the view doesn't last very long.

Sometime around high noon, Arrax grows some balls. He comes flitting out from the overhang and plants himself directly in front of the exposed side like a guard dog and from then on, the most Aemond sees of Lucerys is the shifting of his shadow. The jutting point of a knee or an elbow.

Arrax grows even bolder by the second day. He puffs up his frills to make himself appear bigger. It's supremely effective. Now, he's the size of a small mare, rather than a pony. Vhagar makes a curious, sleepy growl, and Arrax roars in response— Oh, no, no, no, not again.

Aemond calls out to her. "Daor, Vhagar, lykirī." From within the house, he can hear Lucerys telling Arrax the same.

No one moves. Not Vhagar, not Aemond, Arrax least of all, and Lucerys stays hidden away in there.

Holding down the fort as it were, like he thinks Aemond might swoop in and steal the whole place out from under him the moment he leaves to do anything else. The mere prospect is ridiculous. Aemond isn't here to steal anything, and Lucerys ought to know that because Aemond made sure to tell him his reason for coming. Perhaps this is simply how Lucerys spends every one of his days, Aemond muses, Vhagar or no.

You were never meant to be here anyway, he tells Lucerys in his mind. You're only here by my mistake. Trust me, I'm as sorry for it as you are.

The sun arcs across the sky. Insects buzz. Monster, the Lucerys in Aemond's mind whispers back.

Monster? Aemond grits his teeth at it. I am no monster. I am simply a dragonrider, a true one, as you were never going to be. A mistake is what you are. Your birth and your death and everything in the middle.

Then Lucerys's dark hair appears above a frill on Arrax's neck. Then those big, round eyes. Monster, Aemond hears again, and this time he cannot think of any reply.

He curls up beneath Vhagar's wing that night and falls asleep thinking, I'm not a monster. I'm not.

Though it might be easier for us all if I were.

𓏵

Sunrise breaks yet again.

Meraxes returns in a great glittering flash and Vhagar roars her delight, and from the direction of the house comes the sound of Arrax, flailing. Knocking himself over in a hopeless confusion of conflicting impulses.

When Vhagar rises at last to greet her sister, Aemond is left exposed on the ground.

"I'm not a monster," he mutters to no one. It's only getting harder to push down. Then he cringes because the sun is far too bright, then coughs as he's hit by an absolute wall of dust. Vhagar and Meraxes are stomping about in it like children. They're a ways off on the furthest side of the landing but it's not far enough. Aemond covers his nose before it gets any worse.

Rhaenys doesn't seem to share the same trouble. She does a funny little dance over the rocks to reach him, dressed all in pale blue today, and the heavy marks of soot on her skirts stand out all the harsher for it. Aemond wonders if it's possible, somehow, that she's just returned from battle. Rhaenys crouches down beside him, and now Aemond can smell the smoke too.

"I thought I might find you here," she says. "Would you like to tell me what's happened?"

What's happened? Aemond doesn't know what she's talking about at first. The two-day standoff with Lucerys, is that it? Aemond just stares at her like an idiot until Rhaenys gently prompts, "Aōha mandia, kessa?" (Your sister, yes?)

"Yes," he remembers now. "Helaena."

Aemond searches Rhaenys's face. He searches in vain for the words.

My sister is dead.

She's dead, and I tried, but I couldn't save her. It wasn't enough.

She asked me if it would hurt. She asked me to promise, because she was afraid.

I miss her so much, I want her back, I loved her more than anything.

It hurts. Yes, Helaena, it hurts.

"Oh, Aemond," Rhaenys breathes, and it's like a dam has burst. Aemond goes to pieces.

Rhaenys pulls him into her arms and he buries his face in the patterned blue linen on her shoulder. He's probably squeezing her too tight but he can't help it, she's so solid, and it comes as such a relief to be able to hold so hard without passing right through. Aemond cries and cries until his heart is sore. Like a barbed arrow coming out at last, grating every nerve along the way, until what's left is torn and hollow, yes, but unimpeded.

You are not my mother. Aemond isn't sure if he says it aloud. I don't know you at all.

Rhaenys is not his mother, he must be very sure to remind himself, and yet here he is, with nowhere else to go. And she either doesn't hear the words or doesn't care, because she smooths his hair back with her hand and says, "Come, walk with me."

Aemond goes with her.

He walks, and it gets easier.

They follow a path winding close along the edge of the cliff. So near, Aemond spies the hidden stretch of a sandy beach at the bottom of the drop where the ocean rolls in bright blue. Rhaenys tells him it's colder than it looks.

Overhead, the clouds sweep into high, pink feathers. Light ripples in the distance where the furthest ridges disappear into the shoreline. Underfoot, there are black beetles doddering past. Their fat, slow bodies weave in and out of the roots of pale-stemmed plants bearing buttery-yellow flowers. Helaena never had one of those in her collection, or did she? To his despair, Aemond finds that he already cannot remember.

"She was a good queen," he tells Rhaenys. "Worthy of you." You would've liked her much, he wants to go on, but the words get stuck.

"Spider-girl," Rhaenys smiles into the sun. "I remember."

"You've seen her?"

"I have. Just the once, at the funeral of Laena Velaryon. Who was she to you? Remind me."

Laena Velaryon? Second-cousin by blood, and aunt by marriage. Vhagar's previous rider, as it matters most to Aemond. Of course, looking Rhaenys in the face, Aemond sees that she knows all of this. Or, that last part anyway. And if she was at the funeral, that means she saw…

"I couldn't watch," she confesses. "You were far braver than I, that night."

A wave of hot pride surges up within. She was there. Aemond fears for a moment that he's about to get horribly drunk on it.

"Confirm something for me," Rhaenys goes on, like the monument of what she's just said to him is nothing more than spittle in the wind. "Your sister was a dreamer as well, was she not?"

Aemond nods. "She was." Just the once, Rhaenys had seen Helaena, and she'd suspected it. Aemond knew Helaena his whole life, and by the time he'd worked it out, it was far too late. "How did you know?"

"Oh, there's always a…" Rhaenys gestures. "A look about the eyes."

A look about the eyes, yes, Aemond should have known. They all should have. Was Helaena ever angry at us for it?

"I don't understand why she did it," he mutters aloud, staring out at the clouds.

Beside him, Rhaenys makes a sad sound. "My husband, for all that he could see, could not see this. I suspect the same was true for your Helaena."

"She could see me. And hear me. But she wouldn't listen."

"Oh?" Rhaenys meditates on it for a short while. "Then perhaps she knew more than you or I."

Aemond hadn't thought of that. He so wants it to be true.

"You know, we've all had… someone. Someone we were waiting for, who didn't end up making it." Rhaenys glances back toward the house as she says this, back at Lucerys, though he's barely a speck in the distance now, and Aemond remembers, Jacaerys. Flown into the Gullet on dragonback only to end up slain by a crossbow while hanging onto a bit of floating wood. So close, and yet.

Rhaenys sighs. "I suppose we can't all be as lucky as Meraxes."

Aemond turns to gaze over the distant ocean, where Vhagar is soaring happily alongside her sister. The wind picks up, the dragons ride the updraft, and Aemond is suddenly glad for his coat. Rhaenys ties her linen shawl tighter.

"Who were you waiting for?"

One can guess, but it would be oddly satisfying to hear her say it.

"My husband, at first. Aegon." Ah, there it is. "Then our son. I even thought… as the years went on and I watched my sister grow old and frail, I thought, I wouldn't mind her company so much. We might at last have time for one another. Visenya always knew just what to do with time."

She gives Aemond a look, like they're in on some secret together. "Not one of them made it across, but then my grandson did. A boy I'd never known in life. And then… well, then, you sent over two more in rapid succession, did you not?"

Yet again, Aemond is at a loss for words. Is he meant to feel ashamed? Does he feel ashamed?

"Oh, don't look like that," Rhaenys laughs. "Skorkydoso gīmitua?" (How could you have known?)

Rhaenys insists that she doesn't want him flying off just yet, and Aemond doesn't have it in him to argue.

Lucerys, however, does.

Aemond sits at the cliff's edge, flicking pebbles off. From inside the house, he can make out fragments of Rhaenys and Lucerys's conversation. Of their tooth-pulling, more like. "Just lost his dear sister" and "please" and "no" and "you can't make me". They go on like that right up until nightfall. At last, Rhaenys re-emerges with a smile and and armful of blankets and says, "Good news," in a way that tells Aemond that this is really somehow bad news. "He's willing to let you sleep on the porch."

It's plenty neat and dry on Rhaenys's porch. It's nice to have something soft to rest his head on, too. Aemond would feel awkward about leaving Vhagar out in the wild, were it not for Meraxes. At least those two have managed to find happiness in this place.

Night falls heavy and black. The candlelight reflecting off of the wooden banisters goes out at last. In the moonlight, Arrax's milky wings stand out like a chalk-stain on velvet. He's a ways off in the desert as well, creeping on foot, watching his killer and her sister, coiled together. How confused the little thing must be.

When Aemond wakes with a jolt a few hours later, it's because of Arrax. He's there, a stone's throw away, regarding Aemond with suspicion. His tail lashes from side to side. Aemond can see razor-sharp teeth.

Not so little anymore, am I? Arrax seems to be saying.

Aemond steadies himself.

"Qubroti jās." (Fuck off)

𓏵

"Syrax is gone, but Luke's mother yet lives."

Morning has come, and Aemond is still in one piece.

He learns that the reason Rhaenys looked like she'd emerged from a war-zone yesterday was because she had.

She tells him this in a hushed voice, leaning back against one of the posts. Every so often, her eyes flick over towards the doorway, where Lucerys is no doubt sulking away inside. The Dragonpit was stormed. The smoke, the furious crowds, that's what it must have been, though Aemond's attention was directed elsewhere at the time.

No survivors were found in the wreckage. No new riders have come across, neither. The whole Dragonpit and everything in it, the pride of House Targaryen, has been laid to waste. The longer Rhaenys goes on delivering the news, the more she begins to sound like she's being made to recite the words from a page. She inspected the wreckage herself once it was over— she and "Rhaenys", together.

"Not me, but the other Rhaenys. Daughter of Aemon, rider of Meleys. Lovely woman, isn't she?" Rhaenys lifts her eyebrows knowingly, and Aemond fights the urge to shrink inwards with guilt, again. "I was glad for it. Not so overwhelming when one isn't alone."

There's movement then, at the other end of the house.

Lucerys has come out through the missing wall rather than the front door. He plants himself at the end of a stretch of unfinished floor, turned away, looking sullen. His mother lives. But when she dies, she won't be coming. Aemond, selfishly, thinks, good.

"You'll be gentle with him, won't you?" Rhaenys doesn't say, Or you can get out of my house, but Aemond hears it nonetheless.

"I will."

He won't pass within ten paces of Lucerys if he can help it. How's that for gentleness.

Syrax is gone.

When Aemond was five years old, he'd stood there in the Dragonpit, shaking in every limb while Aegon steered him by the shoulders, pointing out the beasts. Doesn't she look hungry, Aegon had whispered right into Aemond's ear. Syrax stirred awake, growling at her visitors, looking huge and hellish and very, very hungry, yes. Then Aegon gave Aemond a shove and he sprawled onto the ground, right beneath Syrax's jaws.

I'm going to die, Aemond remembers thinking.

He very well might have, had it not been for Rhaenyra's voice emerging in the corridor, calling out, Inkot! (Back!)

Syrax is gone, now. Brought to her ugly end by a mob of all things, impossible as it sounds.

This is Rhaenyra's fault, as most things are. This happened on her watch. If Vhagar were still there, those cultists never would've found the nerve. But Vhagar isn't there. Now neither is Syrax, and neither is Dreamfyre. Caraxes, gone. Sunfyre, gone. Meleys, gone. Arrax, gone. Vermax, gone. Tyraxes, gone. Shrykos, gone. Morghul, gone.

How many remain?

Tessarion. Yes, she lives. Daeron should still be riding along with the Hightower host, nowhere near King's Landing. Vermithor and Silverwing as well, while the Blacks still have Seasmoke, Sheepstealer, and Moondancer. It's funny, in the bitterest sense. Just weeks ago, Aemond was planning how to best overpower all three of them. Now, he finds himself hoping desperately for their survival.

They'll be alright, won't they, he nearly says to Rhaenys, before swallowing the words when he sees the darkened, faraway look in her eyes. As bad as things are, they can still get worse. She's bracing herself for it.

Gods. Aemond's no good at this, what's required of him now, the offering of warmth or unexpected wisdom. Not like Helaena was.

He asks about the missing wall instead, and Rhaenys lights up.

She built the house herself, she tells him. Just one room at first, it had taken a whole year of carefully observing builders at Lemonwood to learn how, and then another two to put the knowledge to use. Then she added a bedroom, and then another when her grandson died on dragonback. And now a third. For Lucerys.

With that wall taken out, she's also used it as an opportunity to add a bit of a slant to the roof, to funnel rain off to one side, then down a little pipe and into a barrel for safekeeping.

"There's a storm on the wind," Rhaenys whispers. "Can you feel it?"

When it arrives that evening, Aemond, sitting on the porch, has to watch as Lucerys comes running up around the side, headed for the banister so he can climb onto the roof presumably, soaked in rain and cut against the sky by a distant flash of lightning, and Aemond swears the gods are punishing him. Lucerys doesn't acknowledge Aemond even once as he hoists himself up. The rain pours heavier, the wind begins to truly howl, and over it all comes the sound of Lucerys's voice, shouting Valyrian syllables.

Seven fucking hells, it's too familiar.

"Sētere issa!" (It's working!) Lucerys calls out, and then there's Rhaenys, cheering.

It's awful, it's so awful even though Aemond knows it's stupid, and when Lucerys finally shimmies his way back down and Aemond is made to suffer the sight of him once more, he thinks, I don't ever want to see you in another storm again.

(There's fresh tea for everyone that night.)

𓏵

It goes like this: Aemond keeps to his spot on the very edge of the porch, while at the other end in the open sunlight, Rhaenys and Lucerys set about what they call "work". The shadows swim over the rocky cliff sides. The dragons sing. Waves crash on the shore below, and every once in a while, Rhaenys will float on over and place some object in Aemond's hands. A cup of tea, or wine. A book. A comb, once. Then she goes back and rejoins Lucerys, and Aemond has to turn away.

If he doesn't, he'll go mad from sheer annoyance watching the way the two of them go about their task. Both of them— Lucerys and Rhaenys— are such disorganized shits. They seem completely incapable of staying focused on any one endeavor for longer than a quarter of an hour at most. And they keep singing jaunty little folk songs, ones that involve a good deal of knee-slapping and undignified hooting. Behold, Aemond thinks. Rhaenys, the sunburnt, absent-minded Conqueror.

And yet, in spite of all of that, Aemond finds that he's never known such quiet.

There are no reports to give, no ravens to send, no prisoners to threaten. No armies to burn. Aemond closes his eyes against the pink afternoon sun and lets his head drop back to rest on the side of the house. Through the wood structure, he can feel the distant pulses of the others' footsteps. He tries to imagine Helaena beside him. He reaches for her.

𓏵

"In addition to these, one might think it right also to premise first this general consideration: that there are two different kinds of primary motions in the heavens. One is the motion by which everything is carried from east to west, always in the same way and always at the same speed—"

"Aemond?"

Aemond sticks his thumb in the book and lifts his head. "Hm?"

Lucerys has flown off for the day, is what, and it's on Aemond to help Rhaenys while he's gone.

"Why has he done it that way," Aemond demands, frowning at Lucerys's handiwork. "The larger pieces should all go in first, that way there's not so many to cut to size at the end—"

"It matters little to me," Rhaenys tries to explain. "It will get done in the end, and as I choose to see it—"

"—look, now we've got this heap of mismatched scrap that fits nowhere—"

"Aemond, you are free to go about it in your own way, just the same as Luke is—"

"No," Aemond insists. "My way makes infinitely more sense."

Rhaenys snorts and mutters something in Valyrian that Aemond isn't familiar with. It sounds like an expletive.

And as for you, Aemond refrains from telling her, you'd have a much easier time of it if you weren't so bent on wearing your hair down all the fucking time. If it was any longer, you'd be sitting on it. Either braid it back or cut it off.

Though it cuts him right to the core, Aemond does not undo Lucerys's senseless fumblings from days past. He rather gets after the next bit like he has something to prove. Rhaenys, as always, hums to herself while she works, with all the delicate urgency of a near-sighted sloth. The hours pass.

Lucerys returns (unfortunately) just after sundown, flushed red from the wind. With a saddlebag full of ripe plums. This, Aemond learns, is worthy of a scolding.

"Please, Luke, you must remember to eat them this time. If I have to clear it all out because you let them go bad again—"

"I'll eat them! I will!"

"—if you're going to take food from living people who need it, you must first think—"

"But they've had such a great harvest!"

"And how would you know a great plum harvest from a poor one?"

"Well, they seemed so happy about it. They were singing."

𓏵

Barely two days later, they've run out of materials.

"I suppose I'll need to fly over to the stockyard and collect some more," Rhaenys exclaims into the air, hands on her hips. Then she lets out a sigh. A very loud one.

Aemond, taking the hint, pipes up. "I could go."

"Oh, would you? Thank you, Aemond," Rhaenys gushes, "You're such a darling."

Such a darling. Really? Has she gone round the fucking bend? For a bizarre split-second, Aemond finds himself sharing a look of bewilderment with Luke from across the railing, before they both remember that they can't stand one another. Darling. Sure.

Planky Town is by far the most crowded place Aemond has been to since he died. There were the streets of King's Landing, yes, but Aemond had made his walk to Helaena long after nightfall. It's high noon now. Planky Town is in a buzz. People walk right through him and every time they do, it's nauseating, though Aemond does get a thrill out of seeing Vhagar looming huge over the crowd, all of them continuing about their business because they have no idea.

Shopkeepers, shouting. Workmen, rushing. Musicians, trilling away. Babies, crying. It's all very… Dornish.

Long panels of gauzey fabric stretch overhead to protect from the sun, hung with bells and charms and incense. The haphazard wooden crossways that give the town its name shift and sway underfoot. Indeed. The whole settlement has grown right out of the Greenblood itself, from hundreds, or possibly thousands, of floating barges all bound together.

The boats in the very center of the town haven't moved in centuries, it is plain to see. Some of these appear oddly formed, as though one half of the structure had been entirely swept away, and then filled-in later by someone else with very different tastes. Others are nothing more than naked scaffolds hung with sailcloth. Almost all of them— the boats in the town's center— bear strange swathes of black paint. An odd choice, Aemond thinks, and then he realizes. It isn't paint at all. Those are burn scars. Meraxes did that.

Threats had been issued not long after the Conquest and when Meria Martell refused to surrender, Rhaenys made good on her husband's word. She didn't stop until the smoke was visible from as far away as Sunspear.

Aemond recalls the playful, musical tones of Rhaenys's voice, and tries to imagine her saying it. Princess Meria, I shall return with Fire and Blood. It's a fucking strange thought. He can't do it. He finds he has an easier time forming those words to Luke's voice, actually. Of course, that doesn't change the fact that Rhaenys had said it. Everyone who knew even the first thing about the Conquest knew it to be true.

You may burn us, my lady, Meria had famously replied, But you will not bend us, break us, or make us bow. This is Dorne. You are not wanted here. Return at your peril.

And so Rhaenys had. What was it she'd said to Aemond, again? Brilliant shot.

Aemond finds the stockyard Rhaenys told him about, the one piled so high that surely a few bits and pieces wouldn’t be missed. It takes him the whole rest of the afternoon to gather his quota and haul it back to Vhagar, and another hour or so to figure out how to secure it in her nettings.

When he gets back, Rhaenys is there waiting, leaning, unsuspecting, with her elbows propped against the railing. Aemond puts her to the question. She goes wide-eyed for a moment. Then she drops her face into her hands and makes a pained noise.

"I wonder sometimes, what might have happened if I'd simply spoken with the woman."

Aemond is intrigued. Delighted, even. "Why didn't you?"

"Mm. It sounds so silly now, doesn't it? I didn't then, because we'd already issued our ultimatum. I didn't want to rescind it for fear of appearing weak. Of course, this is precisely the account that any great war tactician will give when explaining why ultimatums are only for fools." She sighs. "There was a reason we'd saved Dorne for last."

Indeed. Aemond knows it well. "The Rhoynar."

"Yes, the Rhoynar. We knew they'd be altogether unlike the enemies we'd faced among the Andals and the First Men. We knew that. And yet, when the time came, we approached them the same as all the others. It was the… ease of the power, I think. We'd become such cruel, simple creatures by then. And now I think to myself, Gods," she winces behind her hands again, "What a lowly impression Meria must've had of me!"

Aemond decides he should say something, to comfort her. "It matters little what Meria thought. She was already your enemy."

"Yes, well." Rhaenys rolls her eyes. "Hundreds burned and hundreds more drowned, because of my pride. Nothing to be done about it now." Seeing the mood Aemond's still in, she gives him a nod. "Go on, then. Do it. Ask me about the letter."

Right, the letter— delivered to Aegon along with Meraxes's skull by Princess Meria's granddaughter three years after Rhaenys's death, the one that made him so angry when he read it that his hands began to bleed, the one that convinced him to abandon his dream of conquering Dorne, the one that had been lost to time, much to the frustration of many a historian.

"What was in the letter?" Aemond asks.

"I have no idea," Rhaenys is far too pleased to tell him. "I was in Volantis at the time."

𓏵

Days go by, and then weeks, and Aemond learns to sleep through the wind chimes. The room gains a solid floor, then one wall, and another. He acquires a new set of clothes. Better suited for the dry heat, in a nice, sensible shade of dark green. He helps Rhaenys haul pieces around, and though he passes within mere paces of Luke at times, manages to avoid eye contact. 

In the evenings, Rhaenys begins teaching Luke to play the lyre.

The sounds drift out from the doorway.

"Like this?" Not even close. Luke's playing is torture to listen to. "Almost. Let me show you…"

Eventually, Rhaenys gets her lyre back and takes up a new melody with deft, practiced hands, and Aemond thanks the fucking gods. (Luke is a much better singer than an instrumentalist. And he still would be, even if the bar weren't so low.)

Tomorrow, Aemond thinks, he'll take himself elsewhere. Anywhere but King's Landing.

𓏵

Mere hours later, Aemond wakes in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep.

Something isn't right.

But what?

When he lifts his head and looks out from the porch, all appears as it should. Barely so much as a breeze beneath the thick, bright blanket of stars. Further along from the landing, there are the tented shapes of Vhagar and Meraxes. Perfectly sound. Aemond rolls back over and closes his eyes again, but… something isn't right.

Arrax.

Aemond's eyes fly open.

Where the fuck is Arrax?

In an instant, Aemond is wide awake, prowling from one end of the house to the other and back again. Arrax is nowhere to be seen. Not from Aemond's present vantage-point at least, but it's not like Aemond has been diligent enough to take notice of where Arrax usually spends his nights anyway. He feels all the stupider for it.

Aemond could settle this much faster if he had the nerve. He could go inside— as he's never done before— and either find Luke or not find Luke in less than a minute, but agh, no, he can't. For a brief moment, he considers tapping on Rhaenys's window so that she might carry out the task for him, but no, he can't do that either. Absolutely not. What is he, a child? Aemond pulls on his shoes and leather riding coat, swearing under his breath all the while. Then he marches off into the night.

His eyes search frantically around the cliff top, the little row of ravines to the east, that ridge where Arrax tried to hide from Vhagar that first night, just in case. His feet carry him nowhere else but the landing strip, and Vhagar. Aemond hasn't searched as thoroughly as he could have, he knows, but it doesn't matter because he knows— and he isn't keen to waste any more time.

Vhagar's eyes glow in the darkness when she wakes, like two fishing lures, hanging in the air. Then Meraxes wakes as well, and there are four. Aemond pauses mid-step. Rhaenys. He ought to alert her as well. She would want to know, wouldn't she?

But there's no time.

He could write a note, Aemond thinks, and leave it with Meraxes for Rhaenys to find. But alas, he's a fucking idiot, and hasn't brought anything to write with. It's all back at the house. Just far enough away to be deeply inconvenient. Aemond jams his hands into his various pockets to be sure, and makes contact with something solid. Grape-sized, faceted, and heavy. The sapphire.

What is my message, Aemond wonders, studying the gem in his palm. In the scattered starlight, the blue looks more like obsidian. He's not sure. "I'll be back," perhaps. Or, "you can trust me." "I'm sorry." "Thank you for everything." One of those things, at least, must ring true.

Meraxes makes a low, curious-sounding purr as Aemond approaches her. He holds out the sapphire. He isn't bonded to her, he knows. Can she even understand what Aemond's about to ask of her?

"Aōhot āeksiot ynoma kesy tepilā, kostilus?" (Will you give this to your mistress for me, please?)

Meraxes chitters, nostrils flaring. Then she bends toward him, wing propped back, saddle tilted down. Seven hells, this feels wrong. Aemond's never so much as laid a hand on any other dragon apart from Vhagar. He knows that there is price for trying to mount another’s dragon— the fate that befell Luke's last remaining bastard brother, even though Rhaenys had been so reluctant to tell him— Aemond thinks of this as he steps into the footholds leading up to Meraxes's saddle.

He's already dead, is that it? Is that why she doesn't care to throw him off? There will be plenty of time for pontificating later. For now, Aemond takes the sapphire and wedges it into a little groove in the saddle, right between the high grips, where Rhaenys will no doubt come upon it.

"Kirimvose," (Thank you) he tells Meraxes. Then he climbs onto Vhagar, charges down the landing, and takes to the sky.

Aemond flies north.

Luke has snuck out in the middle of the night, which means he's gone to do something desperate. More likely than not, following the same sense that brought Aemond to Helaena's prison. The little shit has gone back to Dragonstone. Aemond knows it.

Around four hours later, he needs one hand free to shield his eyes. He's flying straight into the rising sun— he's always hated when this happens. To his left now, burning in the distance, lies the great sprawl of King's Landing. Broad towers of smoke rise from at least four different areas across the city, but it's none of Aemond's business, not anymore. He urges Vhagar onwards.

It must be mid-morning by the time he reaches Dragonstone. The fog hasn't yet burned off. Aemond steers Vhagar closer, looking out across the island for that telltale moon-white fluttering.

What he finds first, is another dragon's corpse. Festering on the ground just outside the battlements as though it had been carelessly dumped there. It's a small one. Pale green with jagged stripes on her wings. Ribcage torn-open, halfway devoured. Moondancer, gone.

Aemond's stomach drops, because this doesn't bode well at all. He mutters to himself. "Not another one."

It drops again when he realizes that if Moondancer had been killed in battle, then it's very likely that she's just crossed over. She and her rider both. One or the other of Daemon's twins. Aemond never bothered to tell them apart, on principle.

Right on cue, Arrax comes zipping out from a grassy valley beyond the castle. Even with all the height Aemond has on him presently, he can still see Luke holding tight to his grips, leaning hard to one side, then the other. He's had the same thought as Aemond. Only, he's looking for her. Aemond can practically smell his anguish.

She hasn't made it. Aemond can't say how he knows that, but he swears it isn't only spite— it's true. Give up, already.

Below, Luke yells out in frustration. He gives Arrax another order. Aemond follows Luke as he rises higher, curving hard towards what Aemond assumes must be the Dragonmont. Luke either doesn't notice Vhagar following him, or he doesn't care. Arrax dives, frilled tail flashing red, and Aemond has to swallow a bit of bile before directing Vhagar after him.

His first thought, as he plunges into the cavern, is, This is nice.

Whereas the Dragonpit had always smacked of human scalings— a glorified menagerie, really— the Dragonmont has a feeling of rightness to it. The very heart of the place is alive with fire and magic. Seven hells, it even has a raised platform for dismounting. Vhagar seems to remember it well enough, and Aemond wonders who her rider had been when she was here last. Laena? Baelon? Visenya?

No matter. Aemond's feet hit the platform, and the tails of Luke's new brown riding coat are already disappearing into the stairwell beyond.

Aemond can hardly keep up. Luke's moving with purpose, bouncing off of corners, dashing up staircases, motions oiled by habit— he even tries to open a door by its handle at one point before he remembers, and then melts straight through— because of course, he used to live here.

"Lucerys, wait."

Luke turns back just once to shoot a withering glare.

Rhaenyra's time has come, yes, Aemond feels it in his bones now. Luke has probably been able to sense it for a few days already. He's succeeded well in hiding it, Aemond thinks back.

"She isn't coming, you know that. Syrax is long dead."

Luke is evidently delusional. He marches out onto one of the inner battlements overlooking the yard where he collides stomach-first against the low wall, leaning for a better view. Aemond follows. He joins Luke, looks down into the yard below, and feels his whole body go cold. Dread, as he's never felt before. Because there, back from the dead, ravaged and bloated and wheezing for each and every breath, is Sunfyre.

Rhaenyra isn't coming, Aemond had said it himself. But our brother just might.

Please, no, he prays to the Seven, to the Old Gods, to the Red God, to the Drowned God too, for good measure— to whoever's listening. I beg you.

Then Luke springs into motion again. Aemond curses and chases after him. Voices come bubbling upwards.

"Dear brother. I had hoped that you were dead." Rhaenyra, that was. She sounds like she's gone half-mad by now.

"After you. You are the elder." No, no, no, no.

Two stories down and three solid walls over, Luke pauses at last. They're on the upper level of what Aemond would guess is the main armory. It's shaded, quiet, and smelling of sawdust. Aemond can easily picture Luke curled up in a spot of sun here, hiding a whole afternoon away. Now, Luke presses himself fast against a wooden post. He leans out and whispers, "Mother."

"I am pleased to know that you remember that," Rhaenyra retorts. Meanwhile, Aemond grabs for Luke's shoulder and gets an elbow in the face for his trouble. "It would seem we are your prisoners. But do not think that you will hold us long. My leal lords will find me."

That stupid cunt, Aemond thinks. She really doesn't know.

Rhaenyra, in her final moments, is everything Helaena wasn't. Standing in the very center of the yard, she looks the part of a prisoner, though her hands are un-chained. Every breath she takes, seething with hatred. Vile terror in her eyes. Aemond almost feels sorry for her once he realizes that no, he was wrong. Rhaenyra knows perfectly well.

From the dragon she came. And to the dragon, she is about to make her return.

Aegon says it with a laugh. "If they search the seven hells, mayhaps."

Luke gasps in horror at the words.

And then.

"Sunfyre! Kisās!" (Sunfyre! Eat!)

Oh, no.

Barely a thought left in his head, Aemond grabs Luke by the arm, yanks him back and bundles Luke's face against his chest.

Luke shrieks and flails like the child he is. "Let me go!"

"No," Aemond hisses. "Jurnēs daor." (Don't look.)

From below, in the yard, comes an awful, awful sound. Then several voices, howling in pain. Aegon gives his command again, and Aemond plants his feet. With one arm firmly locked in place around Luke's torso, he presses the other hand over Luke's right ear, still facing outwards. He can feel Luke's pulse, hammering away into his palm. "Don't fucking look, damn you."

And he doesn't.

Luke sees nothing.

Aemond sees everything.

"Let me go, let me go, let me go," Luke sobs, even as he gives up his fight and goes limp in Aemond's arms. He even begins to cling. "Muña," (Mother) he wails, and it still isn't over. Those who've come to spectate, of their own volition or otherwise, have mostly all turned away by now, unable to stomach it. The order is given a third time. Then a fourth, and then a fifth. The sight is horrendous.

Please. Let me spare you.

When it's over, Aemond lets him go at last. Luke staggers to the railing, sights the lake of blood spilled across the yard, and makes a wounded noise. Once more, Aemond is reminded of Helaena.

"We need to go now," he says. Perhaps he's trying for her gentleness. It doesn't work the same.

Luke turns on him. "You."

He's never looked more like his mother, Aemond thinks. Frenzied and burning from the inside. Like a true Targaryen. He lands a hard shove in the center of Aemond's chest, and Aemond, somehow unprepared for it, goes down hard.

Above, Luke boils-over with tears and rage. "I wanted Jace," he spits. "I w-wanted J-Joffrey, I wanted m-my m-mother, but no," he shakes his head. More of a shiver. A mad little gesture. Aemond takes it all back, now. "Instead," Luke snarls the words, "I got you."

He's sure to grind his heel into Aemond's fingers on his way out.

From out in the yard comes the sound of Aegon, sighing, like he's merely finished with something menial and especially tedious, and the sense strikes Aemond once again. Aegon will come upon his own end before a full year is out, he knows it.

We need to go now.

And Aemond will, this time. As will Luke. Luke will fly back to Dorne, back to Rhaenys, if he knows what's good for him.

Aemond will leave the steering to the winds.

Chapter Text

Arrax is not afraid of anything in the whole world.

Not even the Old Lady. Least of all the Old Lady. Arrax's brother is afraid of the Old Lady, he knows, but that's alright. Arrax will protect his brother. Arrax will do anything for his brother. They were born together. They died together as well, many, many days ago.

Even now, Arrax's brother is very small. He cannot fly by himself. He can breathe fire as well as air, but he only does it whenever Arrax isn't looking, because he's shy. His scales are admittedly quite lackluster too, but Arrax doesn't mind. Arrax loves him anyway. His brother's wings are going to grow in any day now. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. It would help if he ate a bit more.

We are loyal servants of fire, Brother, are we not?

Arrax has learned so many words, so many paths, since he met Meraxes.

Meraxes is very big and very strong and soon, Arrax is going to be just like her. She speaks to him in long, beautiful words. She tells him of the things she has burned. She tells him of the things she has eaten. Though she herself has never seen it, she tells him of the Old Country, just as the Great One once told her.

In the Old Country, Meraxes says, the earth itself breathed fire from many mouths and the sky was ripe with screaming. Dragons never hunted alone, she says, which is silly because Arrax's brother has never hunted alone. Arrax has made sure of that. She says the sheep were never allowed to rest. All was fire, and terror, and blood. All had their fill of it, even the riders. How Arrax longs to go there, but Meraxes says the Old Country is gone now. What a sad, unfair thing that is.

In his dreams at least, Arrax flies to the Old Country with his brother and they feast on blood and bathe in smoke together.

Arrax's brother says, Serve me. Arrax's brother says, Be calm and Sit still and Arrax, no.

Arrax, no.

Arrax, no.

But the fire calls from within.

It says, Arrax, YES.

𓏵

[131 AC]

Luke comes running at the sound of dragonsong.

There are two approaching from the west, almost identical in appearance. Similar in size and shape, though one is stormy-grey and the other lacey-white. The white is Quicksilver. The grey, Luke hasn't seen since his father died. Seasmoke.

Both Meraxes and Arrax rise to greet them, and with Meraxes's beaten-silver coloring and Arrax's moon-white, the four dragons together make for a delightful living picture. Like a spilling of winged pearls.

Luke darts back inside the house, feeling skittish for whatever reason. Rhaenys gives him an odd look.

The door swings open moments later and Aegon is stepping through, beaming, cheeks flushed. He says, with far more flourish than is truly necessary, "Ser Addam, I am pleased to introduce you to my grandmother, the Queen Rhaenys Targaryen."

Ser Addam. Luke knows him by name already.

He hadn't cared much for the news of the Dragonseeds at first. He hadn't cared much for anything at all in the early days, back when he was still having those awful crying fits and couldn't sleep unless Rhaenys was right there beside him.

We'll keep the lamps going if you wish, she'd said, and so they had.

It didn't last forever. The hardest nights passed like a storm and Luke got his feet back under him somewhat, enough to make sense of news. Enough to be very glad now that Addam was the one who'd made it across in the end. If it had been either of the Betrayers— if one or both of them were stood here on Rhaenys's threshold— Luke shudders to think of it.

Seeing Addam now for the first time, Luke believes he might be one of the finest knights in all the kingdoms. Dark-skinned, dark-haired, and kind-faced. Standing with such easy grace. Dressed in deep purple silk and brushed wool, though Luke suspects that might have been Aegon's doing.

Rhaenys rises from her seat and goes to take Addam's hand, and as soon as she does, Addam drops to his knee, head bowed.

"Your Grace," he says, and Rhaenys bursts out laughing. She'd done the same when Luke had addressed her as such, back when he'd first met her and realized who she was.

Of the same mind once more, Rhaenys says, "Just Rhaenys, please. No one's called me Your Grace since I found my way to little Luke over there."

Addam's gaze cuts over to Luke, and his eyes go even wider. "Prince Lucerys?"

Luke knows how Rhaenys feels, now. He lifts a hand. "Hello."

Addam looks like he very much wants to say something. Luke very much wants to say something as well. He cannot think of what.

Fed up with the two of them, Aegon blows out a heavy breath and exclaims, "Right-o. Get on with it. You fought in the war, you started the war, we're all dead now, isn't this just grand?"

Hearing that, Addam laughs awkwardly, but settles in a chair when Rhaenys gives the motion.

Luke still can't get a proper read on Aegon. Whereas Luke is stuck at fourteen, Aegon is stuck at seventeen. He's pouty-lipped and misty in the eyes. He wears his silvery hair far shorter than any Targaryen Luke has ever known, including himself. He reminds Luke of Jace at times, or of Aegon the Usurper at others, and he has a way of going all gentle and solemn without warning that is entirely his own.

Rationally, Luke knows that Aegon went down in battle against Balerion. Balerion. Seven hells. But it's strange to know that, and then to watch Aegon whistling to himself, spooning honey into a cup of tea. Luke keeps watching as Aegon tastes it, makes a face, and then adds a bit more.

Outside, the dragons' chittering rises into a harmonic swell. All four voices. Luke meanders a bit further into the kitchen. "We should have dinner."

Aegon cocks his head. "Dinner?"

"Yes. A proper one. It would be nice."

Rhaenys is nodding. "It would be nice. What a wonderful idea, Luke."

They are, all of them, dead. They don't get hungry. They don't need to eat. When food does pass their lips, they can taste it, and feel full when it settles, and Luke doesn't want to think too hard about what happens after that. He hasn't needed to shit once since he came to the other side.

And it's not only those things. Luke can drink his weight in wine and never feel so much as tipsy. His clothes get dusty on the outside but never dirty on the inside. He turns pink in the sun without ever blistering, and his skin always returns to its usual fairness after a night of rest. No matter how hard he breathes when he runs, his mouth never goes dry. For two whole years now, it's been like this.

Death was so instantaneous that when Luke emerged on the other side still in mid-flight, he hadn't realized he'd died at all. He'd flown back to Dragonstone, shaken to the core, still formulating in his mind the best way to tell his mother the news. That he'd failed. That he'd been outdone.

Only to find, when he dismounted beneath the Dragonmont, that Arrax wouldn't go off to feed the way he usually did. He'd wanted to follow Luke. He went so far as to climb up on the platform and Luke had called out to him in a panic, but the dragonkeepers didn't so much as raise their heads at this odd behavior. Eventually, though, Arrax listened.

Luke ventured inside and found, to much confusion and despair, that his mother could neither hear nor see him. He wanted to sit with her. To take comfort. He tried to touch her. His hands passed right through. A foreboding sense came over him then and he thought again of that blinding flash of terror, the sight of Vhagar's wide-open jaws. He'd thought it was a waking-dream, of the very worst sort. Had it actually happened?

Then Daemon came, and murmured something in his mother's ear, and the look on her face— it had been too much. Luke couldn't take it.

He fled back to the Dragonmont, to Arrax, the only one who could still hear and see him. They flew for days. By some ineffable turn of cruelty, he'd dropped onto the beach just as the oarsmen were hauling in what was left of the former-Arrax. And then Syrax followed.

Luke pressed himself against his mother, arms crushed within the space of her chest since he couldn't get them to take hold around her. He'd screamed. He'd cried. Louder and louder in the vain hope that his mother might hear him, that she'd know he was right there.

She hadn't heard him.

But Rhaenys had.

"Does anyone not like fish," Rhaenys is asking. "Meraxes might not make it to the marketplace before they close down for the day, though it would be no trouble for Quicksilver."

"I like fish," Addam replies helpfully.

"Fish is fine," says Aegon.

Luke will eat just about anything, but Rhaenys knows that already.

Aegon decides to fly off to the market anyway. Luke wanders outside after him, so he can watch when Quicksilver leaps from the landing strip and takes to the air like a bolt of lightning. And Luke had thought Meleys was fast. He'd never known the proper meaning of the word fast, it turned out, not until he'd seen Quicksilver in flight for the first time.

"Aegon was only joking," Addam says then, coming up beside Luke. "Nobody thinks it was you who started— I mean. By the time I was fighting, I never heard anyone tell it that way."

Luke pulls his lips into a smile. "Thank you."

And then Addam says, "You're so young," and Rhaenys sighs in agreement from the doorway, and Luke can't look at either of them.

They all fly down the cliffside together to reach the ocean. When Addam sees the way Rhaenys has chosen to lay her nets out, he laughs.

"What? What's wrong with it? Tell me," she implores him, and he does, with much patience.

Back at the house, it's Luke's task to get the wine. White, he knows. He isn't completely stupid. Rhaenys still has three bottles of Arbor Gold sitting on a shelf in the little cellar right beside the last remaining Arbor Red, four Myrish Greens, and eight Dornish Reds. The stock is usually better-kept, or so he understands, but given recent circumstances there hasn't been much time for flying all over to replenish.

Luke hates Dornish Red. It's far too sour. Why even keep this stuff around, he'd griped one evening while Rhaenys sipped away happily. It's not like you can feel anything. Rhaenys hummed in reply and swirled the glass underneath her nose. I enjoy the taste, that's all.

Luke didn't believe her then, and he still doesn't.

"You'll understand when you're older," he mutters to himself as he roots around the cabinet for the corkscrew. At least Arbor Gold doesn't taste like actual wood varnish. But it's strange, he thinks. Because he's never going to get any older. Or is he? Luke sniffs at the rim of the now-open bottle and decides that the taste of wine will tell him.

Next, he fills four cups— mismatched, as most items that end up in the house are— and sets them on the window ledge for now while he clears space on the table. It's heavy wood, cut into a broad oval shape, gently carved, painted blue and peeling. None of the six chairs around it match either. A small heap of fabric is sitting on it presently, along with some chalk and scissors. Whatever it is, it had better not be too important. Luke bundles it all up and shoves it into Rhaenys's bedroom, just past the patterned yellow drape covering the doorway.

They didn't used to have any doors at all. But then Rhaenys had gotten all those ideas about Luke being a teenager and needing his privacy (whatever that was supposed to mean) hence the curtain rods now hung with linen. Yellow for Rhaenys, orange for Aegon, and poppy-red for Luke. The finished effect is somewhat reminiscent of a brothel. Not that Luke's ever seen the inside of a brothel, but still. It is nice to have privacy though, and Rhaenys was so happy to do it, and so Luke's kept the observation to himself.

The rest of the house is much like a witch's hovel straight out of a fairytale. Luke did share that with Rhaenys, once. She told him he was funny.

Lots of intricately-crafted lampshades are arrayed about on the ceiling, and they do work, in theory, but it's much easier to cut another taper off the rack beside the front door should they need light after sundown. Then there are the rugs, all manner of makings from lands far beyond the Seven Kingdoms, hung on the walls rather than laid out on the floor, as to accomodate Rhaenys's distaste for wearing shoes. Then the baskets of tools, piles of firewood, musical instruments, drawers teeming with glittery fascets and sharp edges, not to mention shelves and shelves of books.

Luke's own bedroom, in comparison, feels as bare and humble as that of a silent sister.

(But it needn't stay that way. He's already got a few ideas.)

Time for the dishes, next. These are stacked on a shelf along the cellar, all upside-down to keep out the dust, seeing how they eat so rarely. Luke never realized just how much upkeep went into looking after dishes alone. It's a good thing he's already dead, he thinks. If he were ever made to truly fend for himself, only the gods knew how embarrassing that would turn out.

"Luke?" Rhaenys's head appears from just beyond the front door. "Ah, there you are."

"Yes?"

"Would you mind helping Aegon unload Quicksilver? Addam and I are still baking the fish."

No doubt much of that process has been Addam gently explaining to Rhaenys all the ways she's been going about that all wrong, too. She never had to lift a finger for herself either, not until an extremely well-aimed scorpion bolt determined otherwise. Luke gives her a nod, and goes.

He could make the walk from the house to the landing with his eyes closed by now. Probably. The plants come and go, but the rock forms stay familiar. Perhaps they'd be even more familiar if Arrax were larger, that is, if he actually needed a running start in order to take off. As it is, Luke can usually just stand on the front steps and whistle for him.

When he makes it to the landing, Arrax is there, being a little fiend at Quicksilver's heels. Aegon has already dismounted.

"Have you ever noticed your dragon's got the precise coloring of a weirwood tree?"

Luke frowns. "What?"

"Nevermind actually," Aegon shakes a hand through his hair to rid the dust, muttering on and on, something about the many years he'd spent in the North, and then, "Ever tried one of these?"

He hefts the smaller of the two saddlebags into Luke's hands. Inside, there a half-dozen little parcels wrapped in green and smelling of saffron.

"Not as yet," Luke answers, but Aegon already isn't listening. He's got quite the bounce in his step, despite the late hour and the waning daylight. Luke wonders if it might have anything to do with Addam.

The table feels strangely crowded between all four of them. The two empty chairs on the far end are obscured by tall, colorful candles from where Luke is sat, but they still stick out in his mind. He shoves his fork into his mouth and tries to quit thinking about it.

It's a lovely dinner, really. There's the fish that's come out far better than usual, plus Aegon's variety of marketplace offerings. Only two or three helpings of each, to ensure he hasn't dispossessed any one shopkeeper in particular— or more likely, to avoid upsetting his grandmother. In the green wrappings, there are saffron rice puffs and fried turnip cakes. Beside them are blood oranges, lemon for the fish, cardamom biscuits, spiced chocolates (Rhaenys's favorite), and dried dates.

Luke is beginning to settle into it, heart growing warm, when Aegon sets his glass down and says, "So, where is she?"

Rhaenys tilts her head. "Who do you mean?"

"Vhagar. And her rider as well, Aemond One Ey—"

"He's fucked off."

Rhaenys glares. "Lucerys."

"Sorry."

"Sweetling, we've talked about this. We must set aside our grievances, lest we end up like—"

"I know." Luke can feel his ears burning, the weight of the others' stares. "I said I'm sorry."

"End up like who?" Addam asks.

Now it's Aegon's turn to catch the brunt of Rhaenys's attention. "You haven't told him?"

"Told me what?"

Aegon shrugs. "It's not yet been six moons, Muñāzma. We can tell him now, if you want."

Here it comes, Luke thinks. He sinks a bit lower in his chair and occupies himself with picking the rind off of a segment of blood orange. So waxy-red on the outside, so pulpy-white on the inside. Fascinating.

"Addam," Rhaenys begins. She's doing her queen-voice, as Luke has named it in his mind. His mother had her own version of it too. Rhaenys's is frothier. "You find yourself… here, as I find myself, as do Aegon and Luke, because death came for you on dragonback. Yes?"

"Yes, I understand, but—"

"There are other dragonriders."

"The other Rhaenys?"

"Her, yes. Aemond as well. But there are others. Many others. I myself was far from the first to die astride a dragon."

Luke can't help glancing up then, to catch the moment it sets in. Addam goes all stiff. His eyes widen just a bit. "Old Valyria," he whispers.

"Yes. Old Valyria."

Luke remembers how stupid he'd felt when Rhaenys had first explained it to him. The barest possibility— that Rhaenys wasn't the first— had never occurred to him, even though he'd been made to study the histories of the old country for years. At least Addam has an excuse there.

"Where… where are they?"

"Not here. As far as I've deduced, they seem to… gravitate toward the places where they died. Tell me, what do you know of the Rhoynish Wars?"

Addam shakes his head. "Nothing at all, I'm afraid."

"That's perfectly alright. To tell it short, in the old country, Valyria was the name of just one city along the peninsula. Then as the dragonriders' power grew, so did their lands, until they controlled the whole of the peninsula as well as colonies, further to the west. Volantis. Lys. Tyrosh. Myr."

"Pentos," Aegon chimes in.

"Yes, Pentos as well. All together, it was known as the Valyrian Freehold."

"Wasn't free, though." Aegon again. "They kept thousands upon thousands of slaves."

Rhaenys nods. "They did."

"Then loads of them made their escape and founded the city of Braavos."

"That as well."

"And the cult of the Many-Faced God. And the order of—"

"Aegon. I know you're trying to help, but will you please let me—"

"Yes, sorry."

Rhaenys sighs. "What was I saying?"

"The Valyrian Freehold," Addam supplies, leaning in.

"Oh, yes. The Freehold continued to expand north along the banks of the river Rhoyne, into the territories of the Rhoynish empire, and these became the Valyrians' strongest, fiercest, and longest-standing enemies. You must understand that the Rhoynar as we know them are but a shadow of their predecessors, much as House Targaryen is of the Freehold. In the old days, the Rhoynar were wealthy beyond belief. It is said that Chroyane, their capital, was ever in a state of ongoing festivals, but the Rhoynar were rich in more than mere goods— they also had great weapons. And magic."

"What sort of magic?"

Rhaenys hums. "It is difficult to parse fact from rumor, truth be told. But we know that much of the Rhoynish magic had to do with water, and disease. As the Valyrians pushed north, the Rhoynar would send floods and terrible plagues to destroy their colonies. Whenever they met Valyrian dragonriders in battle, they would make use of their own invented weapon, the scorpion. You must also understand that those scorpions you might have seen mounted on the walls of the Red Keep are crude, puny things compared to the Rhoynish originals. When the Rhoynar fled to Dorne, they brought several such weapons with them, and I myself was shot down by—"

"Grandmother."

"Yes, sorry. Thank you."

Luke smirks. Indeed, Aegon hadn't gotten his flighty attention from nowhere. "The Rhoynish water magic," he prompts, gently.

"Quite so, Luke." Rhaenys gives him a smile. Then she turns back to Addam. "After centuries of war, when it became evident that the Valyrians would claim the final victory, the Rhoynar split into two factions. The first followed Queen Nymeria, who led them out of Essos and eventually to Dorne, with her ten thousand ships. The second followed Prince Garin, the greatest of the water wizards, who'd been captured by the Valyrians and imprisoned in a golden cage in the center of Chroyane. The Valyrians intended for Garin to witness his city's destruction by dragonfire. Instead, Chroyane was destroyed by water. Called forth from the Rhoyne by Garin himself."

At that, Addam gasps. "His own city?"

"His own city. Though I must commend him for it. Garin knew that his people would survive under Nymeria's care, just as he knew that the Valyrians would never allow Chroyane to remain standing. It is said that Garin pulled the whole body of the river into the skies, that he drowned the dragonriders mid-flight. Chroyane was ruined, indeed, but the Valyrian armies had never suffered a loss so terrible."

"And those riders… they are in Chroyane, still?"

"What's left of it, yes. The place they call the Sorrows."

Lord Corlys had sailed through the Sorrows once as a young man. It used to be one of Luke's least favorite tales. He'd lie awake at night, imagining his grandfather binding his armor in layers of packed linen and straps of leather, covering every inch of his body to protect against the infectious touch of the stone-men who lingered in the fog. Then he'd try to imagine himself doing the same and would get so sick with fear, unable to sleep until he crept into his brother's chambers and asked to share his bed.

Jace would smack him and grumble, you're such a baby. He'd make room for Luke anyway.

Where is Jace now?

"These riders are… unresponsive," Rhaenys goes on in a soft voice. There's a distant wound in her eyes. Luke wonders what it must have been like for her, to make that discovery alone. "They sit beside their dragons, upright, but unmoving as statues. Nothing stirs them. And I still cannot…" she takes a shuddering breath, "I cannot imagine what must have made them so."

"Garin's magic," Aegon insists. "It must be."

Rhaenys cuts him a look. "It might be. We cannot be sure."

"Then both of you have seen these riders?" Addam wants to know. He turns to Luke suddenly. "Have you?"

"I– uh– no," Luke stammers.

It's true. He hasn't seen the riders. He hasn't so much as left Dorne, not since… not since Aemond followed him to Dragonstone.

"Aegon and I flew to Chroyane together, many years ago," Rhaenys fills the space. Under the table, she clasps Luke's hand in hers. "It's not an easy sight. Especially for the dragons. Meraxes and Quicksilver were both very eager to leave."

"I'd go again with you," Aegon declares, leaning in towards Addam. "Just say the word."

"Is it dangerous?"

Aegon says, "Not in the slightest," at the same time that Rhaenys says, "Possibly," and Addam flounders.

"If you want somewhere truly dangerous," Aegon starts, and Rhaenys smacks him on the shoulder. "You will not. I forbid it."

"I'm not stupid, I wasn't going to suggest that we go there, I was just going to say—"

Addam groans. "Go where?"

"Old Valyria itself," Aegon answers, before Rhaenys can stop him. "To the swarm. The riders we don't want to end up like."

Yes. The swarm. That's what Rhaenys had chosen to name it.

Luke pulls his hand free from Rhaenys’s. He sinks even lower in his chair, peeling the layers of translucent skin back from the blood orange now that he's run out of rind. The juice vesicles come apart in his hand while Aegon and Rhaenys's voices bounce back and forth, interrupting one another— How apt, comes Luke's dark, rude thought, considering the topic at hand.

Dozens of dragonriders had been slain in Chroyane, they tell Addam, but that was nothing compared to the hundreds who were killed in less than a single hour when Old Valyria met its Doom.

"It was Garin, I know it. He laid a curse—"

"Will you never cease with this– this farce, so certain of things we cannot know—"

"What the seven hells was it then, Grandmother—"

Stop fighting, Luke wants to shout.

He glances up then, and finds himself making weary eye-contact with Addam.

"I've never seen it," Luke tells Addam in a low voice, "But the riders there are caught in… they torment each other endlessly. They seek vengeance."

Vengeance. Luke could hardly lie to himself. He understood very well. He'd thought about it many times, how he'd do it over if he could. Arrax was small. Luke would use that to his advantage, this time. Vhagar might never see Arrax coming until he'd already dropped down on top of her, and then he'd pull Aemond right out of that stupid netted saddle, and then they'd see how well Aemond liked it when—

"But they cannot die," Addam follows, "Meaning…"

Luke shrugs. "They venture no further than the Smoking Sea. At least, that's what Rhaenys…"

The sound of her name seems to snap Rhaenys out of it momentarily, and then Aegon as well. Both of them, to their credit, have the wherewithal to look suddenly, terribly self-conscious.

"I won't seek out the swarm," Addam pipes up at last. "Thank you."

Rhaenys coughs. "Good."

Weeks ago, she'd mentioned something in passing— how she felt so awful that she hadn't made the time to warn Aemond about Chroyane, about the swarm, before he'd left. Luke had turned his nose up at that.

He tried to comfort himself by envisioning Aemond and Vhagar being ripped to bloody shreds by a hundred sets of jaws at once. Then, he recalled watching timidly from the doorway as Aemond cried in Rhaenys's arms. He recalled the look on Aemond's face back at Dragonstone after Luke shoved him to the floor and shouted all that stuff at him. And he felt more discomforted than ever.

It's just a dream, Luke tried to tell himself that first night.

But no, Vhagar was very real.

Enormous and horrible and ugly, right there in the middle of the landing, and she wasn't going anywhere. Not a dream, then. Night fell all around and Luke crawled on his stomach from Aegon's room into the kitchen to stay down and out of sight, out of firing range, whatever, while he inched the second drawer open as quietly as possible and found a knife. It was for cutting melons, mainly. It would be sharp enough if he had to use it.

Can't hurt me.

The best part about being dead, or so Rhaenys had tried to spin it that way.

Can't hurt me.

He couldn't work out why Vhagar— why Aemond— had come here, of all places.

Can't hurt me.

What did Aemond want? Did he think the place was empty? Did he think it was his for the taking, or for the burning? He would be mistaken, if so. Because someone was here. Luke was here.

The night yawned out in front of him, dark and endless. But he had the light at his back. And a blade in his hand. And he wouldn't flee. Not again.

Can't hurt me.

Luke repeated it to himself as Aemond came creeping out of the darkness like a bloodthirsty mimic.

Can't hurt me. Can't hurt me. Can't hurt me.

And then Luke's mind caught up with his eyes— he registered that Aemond had eyes. Two of them, the left as well as the right, and he was fallen over somehow, and asking for Rhaenys, and Luke no longer knew what to think. Not of Aemond, nor of anything else.

He seemed much smaller in the daylight, Luke thought. And he never did much of anything. He kept sitting there.

For weeks after Rhaenys's return, Aemond continued to just sit there.

In spite of himself, Luke got used to Aemond's figure there on the very edge of the house. The eerie-soft tones of his voice, saying things like yes, and no, and I'm fine, thank you. Then later on, through the wall at times when Luke couldn't find sleep, whispering, drējī gīmiō daor? (do you truly not know?) in a pitch so light and subtle that Luke couldn't be certain whether it was Aemond who'd spoken, or Rhaenys.

And then finally, at Dragonstone, hissing, don't look.

Don't fucking look, damn you.

Rhaenys had been unable to hide her dismay when Luke had returned alone. It fell to the wayside when he told her what had happened.

Sunfyre ate her. He ate my mother.

Luke shouldn't have gone at all, should he? Or no, perhaps he should've gotten as close to her as possible— not only because he wanted to see her one last time, but because it was his duty as well. She was his mother. He owed her that much. Didn't he?

He'd turned to Rhaenys then, looking for answers, needing someone to tell him what the rules were on this side. Honor, duty, nobility— these things were still important, weren't they?

Yes, sweetling, of course, Rhaenys had replied, although, queen-voice again. Luke wondered if she even realized she was doing it. But we are not living, and so as the world of the living turns onward, we must impel ourselves if we are to follow along with it. Even then, the most we will ever be able to do is observe. We cannot control. We must be brave if we are to find any peace.

Luke wrestled with that until his head began to hurt and Rhaenys sat by him in silence all the while. She had nothing but time. As did Luke.

But I don't want to, he spoke at last when the sun was low and red. I'm so tired of being brave.

That made Rhaenys cry. Luke hadn't meant to— he never meant to, though he seemed to have quite a knack for it.

Weeks later, Luke sat by the cliff side, listlessly plucking at the lyre and watching the waves below. I give you command of the holdfast in my absence, Rhaenys had told him before flying out again. A stupid joke of theirs. Still, Luke wondered whether the simple novelty would ever wear off. Look at me now, he imagined saying to Jace, or to his mother, or to Daemon. Second-in-command to Rhaenys the Fucking Conqueror, that's me.

Rhaenys-the-Fucking-Conqueror returned, as she usually did, alongside Rhaenys-Luke's-grandmother. Good news, this time. Sunfyre was dead. After weeks spent in agony, he'd succumbed to the injuries dealt to him by Moondancer. And best of all, Aegon the Usurper had outlived him.

Luke sobbed with relief to hear it. Aemond was bad enough already, but to share eternity with the man who'd fed his mother to a dragon? The gods had spared him that much at least, so Rhaenys-the-Conqueror remarked.

Yes, Rhaenys-Luke's-grandmother replied. The gods, and Baela.

Baela lived, still. Luke's grandmother wouldn't be nearly so attentive to the world of the living if she wasn't. Rhaena, too. And unlike Baela, Rhaena yet possessed a living dragon. A tiny, pink hatchling she'd named Morning.

To Luke, and to his grandmother, that meant that there was still a chance.

What would he say to Rhaena if she made it across one day? What if she was very old by then? What if she didn't want to see him? What if, like their grandmother, she'd gone on to have a husband and children of her own? Luke wanted that for Rhaena, of course he did, but… but…

It was supposed to be me, he confessed to Rhaenys one evening, just hours after bidding farewell to his grandmother. I would've been loyal to her. And gentle. I'd never shout at her. And– and– she'd have plenty of coin for new dresses and I'd let her give as many parties as she wanted, and I wouldn't make her have too many babies, because I know it's often very hard.

It is very hard, yes, Rhaenys replied. It sounds as though she would've been a very lucky girl. Did you love one another?

Luke frowned over that one for a good while. Had he loved Rhaena? Truly? Certainly, Rhaena had always been pretty and Luke had always thought so, and they made each other laugh on occassion, but… I don't know, he admitted. How can you tell? What does love feel like?

Oh no. He'd done it again.

Rhaenys pressed a hand to her mouth, tears spilling over, and Luke felt every bit as useless as he had the first time.

I'm sorry.

No, no, sweetling. Don't be.

Luke's got the dishes off to the side in a stack when Addam says, eyes narrowed at something past his shoulder, "Is that what I think it is?"

Luke turns.

Oh. Right. That.

Set innocently on one of the shelves right beside the hearth, between a leather-bound Lorathi star chart and an illustrated compendium of plants from the Summer Isles, as though challenging Luke to not grab it and throw it into the ocean, is Aemond's sapphire.

"It is," Luke answers. "He left it."

Addam's confusion only deepens. "He forgot it?"

Luke had asked the same question, almost a year ago now. Somehow, fucking unlikely as he knew it to be, he'd hoped. But Aemond had been so sure as to give it to Meraxes, so. "No," he tells Addam.

"…Huh."

Then Aegon sidles up as well. "What's this?"

Addam explains, gently, accurately, and Aegon laughs with morbid fascination. "Do you reckon he got it from Tarth?"

Luke couldn't give less of a fuck if Aemond got it from the mouth of a unicorn.

"Why a sapphire?" Aegon continues. "If that had been me, I think I would've gone for something red."

Addam snorts. "Seven hells."

"Like a ruby, perhaps. Or a garnet. Or a fire opal. Or a jasper."

"How do you know that many red gemstones?"

"Oh, all royals do. Right, Luke?"

Luke only locks eyes with Addam and shakes his head.

Aegon is unperturbed as always. "Did you ever get to see this thing while it was still in?"

"Never," Addam answers. "Only ever the eyepatch, and only from a distance. He was always cagey about it, supposedly."

"He showed it to me. Once."

"Really?" Addam looks up. "When?" And then, "Oh, nevermind, I think I know when."

"Yeah."

"Right before he…?"

"Uh-huh."

"Ah. I see."

He used to carry that thing in his head, Luke thinks. He wonders if it hurt more on the way in than the eye did on its way out. From even further back comes the sound of wind. Chimes singing, ribbons rustling, Rhaenys humming, and then Aegon. "Addam can stay in my room, yeah?"

"Oh, yes, of course."

Meanwhile, Luke reaches out to touch. The surface is cold and unyielding. The edges aren't nearly as smooth as one might hope. Sinking deeper into the center, however, Luke marvels at the dainty shimmer. So many shades of blue, crushed so closely together. Then Rhaenys sighs heavily right behind him, plopping herself down in the nearest chair, and Luke almost jumps out of his skin. He rushes to put the sapphire back on the shelf before she notices. But it's alright. She's watching the other two.

Addam's back turns and then Aegon's does as well. They both disappear behind the orange drape, and as soon as they're gone, Rhaenys turns to Luke and mouths, that was fast.

Perhaps it was. Luke wouldn't know.

𓏵

In the morning, Luke can already tell from the moment he opens his eyes that he'll be the last one up. Which is fine. He hasn't exactly got the strictest schedule. Still, he's grown to enjoy this routine. Setting the pillow back in its place on the reading chair, folding each of his blankets into a nice stack, rolling up the flat, rough-bodied sleeping mat the way everyone does in Leng— according to Rhaenys and Aegon, anyway.

The used dishes that Luke expected to find still sitting in the kitchen are gone. Instead, there's the half-muffled notes of Rhaenys and Aegon's voices from the other side of the open window, and Addam, sitting in the middle of the floor.

Sunlight is pouring in from the east, through a pane of stained glass. It's new, actually. Luke helped Rhaenys with it only a month ago. It was well worth the effort, too. From where Addam's sitting, he's tracing his fingertips over the brilliant colors splashed across the floorboards. He hears Luke, raises his head, smiles, and says, "Good morning. Your hair is sticking up."

"Ugh. I know."

Always the same spot. Luke reaches up and does his best to smooth it flat.

Addam's got all of his hair twisted back into a bun today. And he's changed out the silk and wool finery in favor of something much simpler. Sturdy blue cotton with laces at the collar and belted trousers, like a sailor might wear.

Luke still has yet to settle on any one style over the others. He's not sure that he can pull off as many bold colors as Rhaenys (certainly not so many all at once), nor Aemond's long coats, nor Aegon's high collars, nor Addam's handsome practicality. If it's obvious that Luke hasn't changed out of the same stitched linen getup that he went to sleep in, Addam doesn't comment on it. Luke joins him on the floor.

Outside, Rhaenys and Aegon have both slipped into Valyrian to resume their bickering. They've forgotten that the window is still open. And that Luke can still understand them. Even if he couldn't, the clinking of dishes would tell him all he needed to know.

"Forgive me if this is too forward," Addam prefaces, and Luke's already thinking, oh, gods. "But your mother— well, after I bonded with Seasmoke and she realized I didn't speak a single word of Valyrian, she gave me your books. She didn't say it outright, you know, but I figured."

"Oh?" Whatever Luke was expecting, it wasn't that.

Addam's eyes are twinkling now. "I did enjoy your drawings."

"Oh no," Luke groans, "I forgot about those."

"They were quite good!"

"They were not."

Luke had been seven or eight at the time, and most of them were of Arrax, and Arrax would never sit still. How good could they possibly be?

"I still barely know the language even though Aegon has been trying to teach me," Addam confesses, and now it's Luke's turn to laugh. "You could just say 'issa' as much as possible. That's what Jace used to do."

Something happens in Addam's expression at the mention of Jace, but it's gone again in a split second. "Koni rūninna, kirimvose." (I'll remember that, thank you.)

Luke finds a smile. "Biarvose." (You're welcome.)

Rhaenys's voice comes again and Addam closes his eyes to focus on what she's saying. "To the ocean… take… take them to the ocean. Rain… our rainwater is… what?"

"Vōska. It means sacred or precious."

"Vōska," Addam repeats. "I like that one."

Then Aegon's voice rises in reply, all quick and animated, and Addam shakes his head hopelessly.

"He said, um," Luke giggles, "You should have thought about that before you built your house in fucking Dorne."

Now Addam's laughing too. Aegon does have a point there. The voices come again, Aegon first. "Skoro syt lantys baelos daor?" (Why can't those two help?) And then Rhaenys. "Pōjon elēdrari aemosy. Kostilla lūhōñotī Luke syt issa." (Let them have their time. It's important for Luke especially.)

"What did she say?"

"Nothing." Luke feels himself turning red. "She's just talking about me like I'm a baby again."

"Ah. How old are you really?"

"Sixteen."

Addam scoffs. "You are a baby."

Seven hells, not you too, Luke thinks. It's so endlessly frustrating. And it's not like he doesn't know. Gods, if this were all there was— if all grown-up people felt the way Luke feels now— the entire world would surely cease to function.

"Does it… get better? When you're older?"

Addam tilts his head. "Does what get better?"

Luke groans. "I don't know. Stuff."

To his shock, Addam actually takes the time to consider that. "In my own experience, yes. Stuff does get better."

That's good. That's very, very good. Still, it's massively regrettable that nothing will do it except for time. Luke doesn't want to wait. He wants to be over and done with it now. He wants to be knowledgable and capable, yet still good-tempered and humble, the way Addam is. The way Aegon is too, even if he has to be so strange about it sometimes. He looks back up at Addam then, wanting to know.

"How did it happen? With you and…"

"With me and Aegon?"

Luke's face is all red again, he knows it. "Yeah."

At the question, Addam pulls his knees into his chest and gets a look in his eyes. His smile is soft and warm and almost shy. He's been waiting for someone to ask, Luke realizes.

"It started at Tumbleton, I think. Aegon was waiting for me. From the moment I crossed over, he was there. The first words he ever said to me were, I know how that feels."

Luke's heart squeezes strangely. "And what did you say?"

Addam laughs. "I don't quite remember. Who the fuck are you, probably. But he took it well."

Luke waits, and Addam goes on. "There's so much that I never thought anyone else would ever understand, but Aegon does. He knows it exactly."

"You mean, the manner of…?"

"My death, yes. But it was more than that. Everything in those final days, what it was like after I took command of the army—"

My mother's army, Luke thinks. She'd fled the capital by then. No orders had been given. But Addam had done it anyway.

"Gods, I had never known that such a measure of fear was even possible. It's not like I had any idea what I was doing. But I saw the men, and… well, it gave them great courage to march behind a dragon. Even the captains. Even the ones who knew far more of war than I did. And all the while, I kept thinking that I was leading these good men to certain death. I knew what was waiting for us at Tumbleton."

"And Aegon knows what that's like," Luke realizes. No wonder.

"Yes, he does. He told me so."

It gave the men courage to march behind a dragon, but I knew what was waiting for us. For Addam, it was Vermithor, Silverwing, and Tessarion, all three at once. For Aegon, it had been the Black Dread himself. In both cases— fire and blood.

The words come out all selfish-like before Luke can think to stop them. "I never did what dragons are supposed to do."

Addam, again, is far too generous about it. "What do you mean?"

"I never flew above the vanguard. I never burned any ships. I never burned anyone."

Addam sighs. "If it makes you feel any better, I always hated that part."

Now Luke feels like a proper imbecile. Of course that part is awful. Only a child would believe otherwise. The little he's seen of battles from the other side— and Luke has seen a few, despite Rhaenys's insistence that he stay well out of it— he's seen the truth with his own eyes. The songs never quite managed to capture what a mess it always was. And, dracarys, as fun as it might be to say in the open sky, always came with a distinct, unforgettable stench when done in battle. Even so.

"I think Rhaenys enjoyed it. Secretly. Not as much as Aemond did, but more than she lets on."

How could she not? The battle on the Field of Fire sounded like pure glory. Rhaenys's enemies had summoned an army ten times larger than hers, but that didn't matter one bit because she had Meraxes. And Balerion and Vhagar behind her. Not to mention her battle against the Storm King and the burning of Planky Town, and then of course her final battle at Hellholt which seemed like Rhaenys's favorite to talk about, bizarrely enough.

Addam takes a moment to think about it. "You might be right."

"Perzys ānogar," (Fire and blood) Luke mutters.

"Uēpyr, drējor, nēdȳr," (The old, the true, the brave) Addam replies. The words of House Velaryon, yes. Luke feels seasick already. Then Addam goes wide-eyed, all of a sudden. "Shit, I almost forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"Wait here," Addam tells him, before disappearing into Aegon's room. Luke can hear him rummaging around in there. When Addam emerges moments later, he's got one hand behind his back, hiding something. "Lord Corlys gave me this," he says, voice gone soft again. "I later learned that he had it made for you."

Addam sets it on the floor, right where the color is falling thickest. It's bound in leather. About the length of Luke's forearm. He reaches out to touch— the same leather that had been in the Sea Snake's grip, it must have been, and more recently than when Luke had seen him last.

The dagger is a very fine thing. Surest steel. Wicked sharp. The pommel is in the shape of an open scallop shell, wrought out of pure gold. When Luke turns the blade just so, he can see his own reflection laid across. One eye only.

"If things had gone differently," Addam muses, "You would've been my liege lord one day."

"Ugh, no. You should've been mine." Luke glances up, flinches a bit at the look he finds on Addam's face, and then makes it worse. "I mean, at least you're really… you know. A true Velaryon."

At least you were a proper sailor, is what he should have said. Fuck.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I didn't mean– and– your dagger–" Luke turns it back to Addam, handle-forward, trying to do the right thing for once, only for Addam to refuse.

"Take it. It would bring me satisfaction. And you're quite dangerous with a dagger, or so I've heard."

True. If Aemond gets his eye back, then Luke can at least have this, can't he? He wishes he could draw out his hestitation long enough to be polite. He turns the dagger in his hand again. Lord Corlys had it made for you.

"Kirimvose." (Thank you)

Addam winks. "Biarvose." (You're welcome)

Why are you being so nice to me?

Luke doesn't know how to say it. And it doesn't even make any sense. Addam should hate him, really, especially considering— well.

"My mother was a right cunt to you at the end, wasn't she?"

He regrets the words, painfully, as soon as they're out of his mouth. Addam clicks his tongue with a wince, and then Luke regrets it even more.

"No," Addam answers, though it sounds like a lie. "I mean, I knew it was never truly about… me. She was never the same after we lost your brother. Nothing around us was certain. So I tried to be."

"And look where that got you."

"Yeah," Addam smiles at the floor. The colors there reflect upwards onto his face. "Look where that got me."

Chapter Text

[133 AC]

"You have your map? And your blanket?"

The sun is weak this morning, even for the winter— especially for the Dornish coast. There's grey in the air. Stubborn and bitter like a foggy window ready to be wiped clean. And yet, how perfect. Luke has dreamed of this day for… well, not forever, but it might as well be. "Yes," he tells Rhaenys, "I have them."

"Compass?"

Luke pats his breast pocket. "Yes."

"Fire-starters?"

Rhaenys should be sure of that one, she was the one who tied the bundle and packed it in the saddlebag last night. Anyway. "Yes."

"Spare cloak?"

"Yes." It takes up far more room than it should, but perhaps Luke can use it for a pillow.

"And you remember what I told you about sleeping while flying?"

"Yes– I mean– no, I won't do it."

"Sȳz." (Good.) "And you know you can return here whenever you like, even if I'm out?" Rhaenys looks like she's about to start crying again. If she does, Luke's got a handkerchief at the ready. He's thought of that as well.

"Kessa, gīmin." (Yes, I know.)

"Very good." Rhaenys pulls him close once more for a kiss on the forehead. "Olvī aōma hoskaks." (I'm so proud of you.)

"Ugh, Rhaenys," Luke whines.

"Alright, alright." She sniffles and laughs, but lets him go. "I won't keep you any longer. Bring me back a good story, yes?"

Luke gives her a dutiful nod. "I will."

Sōvēs, Arrax!

Luke looks back just once after taking to the air. Rhaenys waves at him from the landing, her cloaked figure shrinking by the second as the whole cliff top falls away. Behind her, Meraxes stretches her wings with a roar. Luke will return, when he's ready. He'll see them both again. Of course he's grateful, of course he cares, but as of right now, Luke can't stand to be in Dorne for one second longer. He can't stand to be fucking anywhere in Westeros, for that matter.

There's a big, mysterious world beyond, and Luke can't wait to meet it.

𓏵

Of the nine Free Cities, Lorath is the one that Luke has heard about the least. He folds the map carefully so it doesn't go flying in the wind, charting his course with one hand and keeping a grip on Arrax's reins with the other. It's an island he's looking for, not too far beyond the northern coastline of Essos. He's looking for vast stone mazes as well. And snow. It's been far too long since Luke has seen snow.

Lorath does not disappoint.

From above, as Arrax circles his way down, fresh snowfall over the city has melted in the streets while still clinging to the rooftops, and likewise along the topmost reaches of the ancient maze. The shape of it is cut so clean, like a massive, god-handed wax seal.

Winter here is very real. Snowflakes drift down, big lazy ones, perfect for catching on the tongue. When night falls and the city begins to glow with gentle hearth light, Luke is thrilled to find that there are even rows of houses built within the maze itself. How wonderful that must be, he thinks, but then, do the people ever get lost on their way home? Every now and then, surely, they must. Is it frightening when that happens, or mostly just embarrassing?

The Lorathi seem happy enough. Even if they do talk funny. Using the words "I" or "you" or "me" or even one's own name in public seems to be as rude as showing one's own arse. Instead, the Lorathi say things like, "A man seeks news of the whaling port" or "A woman has told a girl many times, to lace a girl's shoes properly."

"Eglī zaldrīzino kesi gōntis," (A dragon's ancestors did this) Luke informs Arrax, brushing away the snow on the maze wall to reveal the familiar mark of dragonfire melted into the stone beneath. Arrax trills in reply.

Further into the maze, there is little else besides crunching snow, trickling pipes, and cats. Lots and lots of cats.

Fat ones, frail ones, cute ones, ugly ones, fluffy ones, ones that look like they really ought to find their way onto a ship bound for someplace warmer. Luke has always liked cats. They shiver when he pets them now, as though they can feel his ghostly fingers passing between their bones. Some of them even turn back in his direction, sniffing, searching. "Mrow," Luke says to them, and sometimes, their ears perk up. The cats never seem to feel a thing when Arrax tries to snap them in his jaws, which is curious. Probably best for everyone that way.

𓏵

After the great and ancient mazes of Lorath, Luke flies to see the equally great and ancient cliffs of Norvos with their great and ancient stairway and great and ancient bells. The air moves strangely along the cliffside, perfectly flat as it is. The sound of the bells comes on with force. If men got married to their swords here rather than their massive double-bladed axes, Luke muses, then Norvos would've been the place for Aemond.

(The men aren't expected to bed their axes as well, or are they? How would that even work?)

Then onward again to Qohor, just to have a look around. It's quite a rich and lively place— a lot more fun than the tales make it sound, so long as one is able to get past the whole daily-blood-sacrifice thing, of course.

South next, once Luke's had enough of the cold. Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys first. Each of the three is in a bit of a tangle at the moment. Alas, it's not even been four years since the so-called Triarchy sent their entire fleet into the Gullet and found out just what Luke's mother was made of. The resulting power vacuum has the nobles jumping at shadows, sleeping with one eye open, writing their letters in clumsy ciphers and so on, none of which seems to save them from having their throats slit by their own hired guards in the dead of night. Cunts. Serves them right for killing Jace.

Every other night, it seems, herds of noble households drop everything and go running for the harbor. When they do, Luke is sure to sleep in their vacant feather beds. It only gets awkward if the servants have the same idea.

𓏵

Between Lys and the Summer Isles, there's naught but leagues and leagues of open water. Nowhere to rest if Arrax gets too tired to press on. No solid ground, anyway. Luke's nerves mount higher as the hours pass, as the sun sinks lower and redder on the western horizon and the sea remains as flat and featureless as ever. But there is one option available.

Half a mile below, moving through the water nearly as fast as Arrax does through the air, is a great-hulled Swan Ship. Luke is familiar already. He's seen them in the ports of Driftmark and King's Landing, he's studied diagrams of their masterful construction, he knows that they're manned by hawk-eyed archers and that the mere sight of their billowing sails is enough to have slavers fleeing in terror. He's never actually stepped onto one, though.

Can't hurt me, Luke is used to saying, but before he left, he thinks, he really should've asked Rhaenys whether it was at all possible to be sick.

The answer is no. Arrax sprawls on the deck, wings stretched out, while Luke braces himself miserably in a corner. By morning, he's wishing that the answer was yes, if only for a minute of respite. This had better be worth the trouble.

Indeed, he finds, it is. More than that, actually. Luke half expects to bump into Rhaenys again every time he turns a corner or emerges from a grove of palm trees. She's always going on and on about how she can't wait to return to the Summer Isles, and with the warm beaches, bright colors, and cheerful music, it isn't hard to see why. Luke is definitely going to come back. Someday. When he isn't so… well, eighteen anymore.

He is eighteen though, and the isle of Naath is just another hop and a skip to the east.

"Can't hurt me," Luke utters with his mouth once he's there, even as his feet twitch, ready to run.

Naath is idyllic and peaceful. The sands are warm, the currents are clear, and the infamous butterflies hover all around, in the air and in the trees. You couldn't throw a stone in any direction without hitting at least two of them. Black-and-white wings open and close like sleepy eyelids, spreading their invisible plague. Harmless to the locals, but grizzly and horrid and always, always fatal to outsiders. Outsiders like Luke.

Every time he feels a droplet of water or a cloying breath of wind, Luke gives himself a fright. He can't stop smacking at his arms. Can't stop pulling his sleeves back to be sure he hasn't started sweating blood. Of course he hasn't. He's being ridiculous. Can't hurt me. Can't hurt me.

In all, Luke's time in Naath lasts about as long as it would've if he were still living. Instead of collapsing into the sand with the flesh melting clean off his bones however, Luke mounts Arrax's saddle and flies back north.

It dawns on him as the island is disappearing from view, that he's now set foot on a land unknown even to Lord Corlys.

𓏵

[134 AC]

"Valar Morghulis."

"Valar Dohaeris."

Luke had skirted around Braavos for the first whole year of his journey, on purpose. It was far too close to the Seven Kingdoms, for one thing. (He was apprehensive about running into the blue-and-white seahorse of House Velaryon in particular.) For another, Luke was worried that he might like Braavos far too much— that he'd end up getting stuck here, and wouldn't want to venture anywhere else.

Both fears were rightly founded, as it turns out.

Braavos is just so fucking exciting. Half the streets are made of water. Half the languages Luke hears around him are ones he's never heard and couldn't name. The young men here dress in flamboyant silk stripes and carry blades after dark. Long, thin ones that flex when waved about. All the better for crying out challenges in the middle of the street, circling one another like territorial leopards, and then striking for blood while flocks of onlookers cheer and scream.

A fortnight into his stay, Luke sights blue-and-white banners flying from the masts of no less than three ships in Ragman's Harbor. He releases a shuddering breath after looking again and realizing that the sigil is in fact the falcon of House Arryn. Even so, Luke shies away, turns a few corners, and finds himself among a curious cluster of temples. There is the temple of the Moonsingers and the Lord of Light beside it, as well as the Sept, just two bridges further. Luke crosses one bridge, and then stops before the most imposing temple of all.

Perhaps he's thinking of Aegon's words. The cult of the Many-Faced God. Or perhaps he's drawn to this temple because its black-and-white doors remind him of the butterflies of Naath. Both doors are closed today. As has become a habit whenever he gets a bit nervous, Luke cranes his head, scanning the horizon for Arrax, and there he is. Still flitting between ship masts, amusing himself with sea birds.

"Can't hurt me," Luke recites, and passes through half a foot of solid weirwood.

The temple proves completely windowless inside. Luke finds looming statues, rows of benches, alcoves carved into the walls, and people sleeping within. In the very center lies a mysterious pool of calm, clear liquid. Luke doubts very much that it's merely water in there.

The only staircases lead down, not up. Luke circles the passageways below ground and crosses paths with a stern-looking woman just in time to witness the moment when she sweeps her hand across her face and transforms into a boy— tall and lanky, perhaps no older than Luke himself. Well. No older than Luke appears to be. He follows the woman, or is she truly a boy? He cannot tell which face is the natural one. Or perhaps it's neither one of those. There might very well be a third beneath the first two that Luke hasn't seen yet.

In any case, he follows this face-changer, nearly mad with curiosity, hoping to catch them in the act again.

The face-changer spends five days idling at the Purple Harbor. Then they spring into action on the sixth. Luke follows them into a marketplace where they purchase a single goat, only to move barely three streets over and sell it again to an elderly nursemaid. The face-changer spends the night on a filthy stoop and so Luke does as well, even though he hasn't got the same resistance to the smell. (It's not his fault, he was a prince not all that long ago.) He's beginning to find that he's not as resistant to sleep deprivation either. Honestly, what's the use of being dead if he can't keep pace with a living face-changer for a single week?

Luke might have lost them that night, were it not for the utter cacophony emanating from the building across the alleyway. A woman giving birth, it sounds like, in terrible agony. The hours wear on and Luke begins chewing his nails. Get out, he remembers. Get out, get out, GET OUT!

The sky is barely beginning to lighten when the face-changer rises to their feet smooth as a cat, as though they'd been sitting for mere seconds instead of hours. They slip away down the cobblestones and Luke hesitates. He can still hear the woman. She still isn't through with it. Gods, he really, really hopes she'll be alright.

Luke catches up with the face-changer, scooting sideways across a narrow dockline running alongside one of the deeper, shadier canals. At this hour, there are only three souls out walking, including Luke himself. The second is the face-changer. The third is an old, clean-shaven man. Luke is shocked to realize that this man is familiar as well. He was there at the Purple Harbor. And at the marketplace. All while Luke has been tailing the face-changer, the face-changer has been tailing this man.

Just as Luke is beginning to wonder why, just as the dockline widens, the face-changer loses their impeccable balance.

They bump into their mark for a single second. There's a swipe of a hand, a muttered apology, and both walk their separate ways. However, the mark doesn't even make it to the next corner before he sways treacherously and goes plunging into the water. Luke gasps and bends low. The man sinks like a stone— a plume of red rises to the surface. By some magic, in that single second, the face-changer had dealt a fatal wound without the mark himself even noticing.

What the fuck?

Luke scrambles after the face-changer, only to emerge onto a wide, half-filled street, recognizing no one and laughing with sick delight.

Valar Morghulis, indeed.

Luke spends another week sitting on piers, munching oysters, swinging his legs and listening to tradesmen arguing in a dozen different languages, until one evening when he finally plucks up the courage to visit the famed Braavosi courtesans.

Just to see. That's all. (He sort of knew he was going to do this anyway.) The living pride of the whole city, or so it is said. Head and shoulders above any common whore of King's Landing, each one of them wealthy and exalted in her own right— suitable company for any man calling himself Lord of the Tides, Luke reflects.

He never got to hear that tale from his grandfather. By the time he was old enough, Lord Corlys was in the grip of his illness.

If I'd lived, and if I'd wanted to, could I have had one of them?

It's only partially a question of money. Only partially a question of honor as well. Would such a famous, fancy courtesan still take Luke to bed even if she thought him babyfaced and stupid? Even if his Braavosi was terrible and the words got all tangled in his mouth? Would it matter?

Between the bridges spanning the Long Canal, not all that far from where Luke had his encounter with the face-changer, he finds them. Each keeps her own barge for living in— painted, fixed with light, decked with tents and flowers and gaggles of guests.

How does this even work, Luke wonders. Is a man supposed to just walk right up to any one of them and… and say what exactly? Greetings, it is I, the Lord of the Tides. I come from Driftmark and from Old Valyria before that, and I see that you have guests presently, but would you be so kind as to tell me how much for a comfortable evening inside of you? Ugh, no, not that. Would you like to meet my dragon, perhaps. On second thought, no, definitely not that either.

As it happens, due to several peculiar turns of fate, Luke doesn't need to utter a word.

He finds his way onto a boat hung with a dozen or so ornate crystal lanterns, red, green, and blue, like a lighthouse with every signal lit up all at once. A company of young women are gathered on the prow of the deck. Some recline on cushions, others lean gracefully against the rail. All are fanning themselves despite the chill in the air. The girl in the patterned veil with piercings in her eyebrows and lips has a book in hand, and is reading aloud to the others. Poetry, Luke guesses. He can't understand the words, but there's a delicate rhythm to the lines, followed by thoughtful sighs from the women listening.

It's not hard to pick out which one is the proper courtesan. The red of her gown sits about her hips in a great swirl of silk. Lush red flowers bloom out of her tightly-braided hair. Luke's heard it whispered that when a courtesan wears a red flower, this means that she's having her moonblood. Is that what those are? Is she not in pain? If she is, the courtesan doesn't let on. Her brown skin sparkles in the light whenever she moves, as though she's dusted herself with ground pearls, and perhaps she has. She's not the one who catches Luke's eye, though.

No, he's drawn to the one who's positioned herself right beneath the glow of the nearest blue lantern. She's tall, stick-thin, and fair-skinned with pin-straight blonde hair and something cold in the eyes. Something shrewd in the mouth as well. She's dressed all in black. It suits her. Her satin skirts are gathered high enough in the front to show off the silver clasps glistening at the top of her wool stockings. Both her gloves and her fan are black lace. One might mistake her for a widow in mourning, though Luke doubts she was ever married at all.

Every now and then, the courtesan turns to her and some comment is made in Braavosi, some nod or a subtle gesture, and Luke deduces that the beautiful not-widow must be the courtesan's protegee.

He keeps his gaze on her, keeps watching as a wealthy-looking sellsword tries to hire her, only for her to turn her nose up at him. The sellsword protests loudly, clumsily. He even shakes a pouch of coins at her as though she were a dog. To this, the protegee twists her mouth and snaps her fan open in front of her face, prompting a chorus of laughter from the other women, most damningly from the courtesan herself. The sellsword is far less amused. He issues another round of complaints, but he's soon sent on his way.

Then the courtesan glides back inside the cover of the tent to attend to her guests and after a short while almost everyone else follows suit— everyone except for the protegee. She remains on the deck, pulling a bit of knotted ribbon between her fingers, from the left hand to the right and back again, slowly, taking her time with each knot on the chain. (Luke counts fifteen in total.) In spite of her aloof demeanor, the protegee is practically vibrating with excitement. Luke doesn't have to wait long to find out why.

Just past nightfall, a young man comes running down the dock and up the gangway, freshly combed and out of breath. He grins like a lovesick fool when he sees her waiting beneath the blue lantern. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a similarly knotted bit of ribbon, though his is red where hers is black, and Luke is beginning to understand.

"Tōmi s'ampa hūri," (Fifteen moons) he says. From Norvos, judging by his accent.

"Hmm," is all he gets in reply. She holds out a lace-gloved hand, palm up, still waiting. This earns an affectionate laugh from her visitor.

"Lo yne ēlī ijiōragon kostā, aōhon āeksion āmāzīlza." (If you can please me first, you'll have your coin back.)

Does she strike the same bargain with every man who hires her, Luke wonders, or is it just for this one? In any case, the protegee speaks Valyrian with a soft Braavosi purr. Luke has never heard anything like it, ever. It's got his heart pounding in his chest. This Norvosi fellow has no idea how lucky he is. Why would he ever leave her for one week, let alone fifteen moons?

"Drīvome botes," (Honest work) he says, holding up a hefty gold piece and dropping it into her hand.

"Kōdrio hūndīli." (We'll see about that.) Even as she says this, her eyes have gone all wide and dark, giving away her hunger. She slides the coin right down the front of her bodice. Only then does she permit her lover to take her hand and kiss it.

Luke can't help it. He follows them below the deck, but goes no further than the landing at the top of the stairs. From the sounds at least, (feminine voice whimpering Braavosi nonsense, male voice cooing in sympathy), it very much seems like the Norvosi fellow will be getting his hard-earned coin back. Earned twice over, now. Good for him. Good for her, also.

Before he leaves Braavos, Luke is sure to swipe a bolt of sky-blue ribbon from the marketplace. It's an ingenious idea, really. Even if he's not planning to be back in Dorne by any specific date, it's still nice to have a way of knowing what year it is.

𓏵

[135 AC]

The enigmatically-named 'Green Hell' is next on the list.

The route takes Luke right over Chroyane for the third time.

When he peers down from the saddle at the great snaking body of the Rhoyne, the ruined city on its banks looks just the same as it had the first two times. Deceptively innocuous. The forms of the half-toppled spires, mighty bridges, and hollowed-out palaces appear as tiny as children's toys from up here, though it's hopeless trying to make out whatever else might lie further down. It's all cloaked in a stubborn, unnatural mist.

Luke considers it for a long moment.

Should he?

His hands twitch on the reins. Arrax makes a questioning growl.

No, he decides at long last. Not this time. Next time, perhaps.

Isn't it funny, he'll say to Rhaenys when he sees her again, that I was afraid of Chroyane, but not of a place with 'Hell' in the name?

The thing is though, is it's not only about fear. There's also the fact that living people sailed into Chroyane all the time, didn't they? (A slightly fewer number sailed back out, sure, but that's beside the point.) The Green Hell, on the other hand? Not even Lord Corlys could have made it beyond the shoreline, even if he'd wanted to. Just like Naath.

Luke has begun to distinguish little categories in his mind. There are the places he could have gone, and things he "should" have done, if only he'd lived longer, and then there are the places and things that never would've been possible— that are only possible now, because he's already dead.

Why the Green Hell, he imagines someone (anyone, really) asking him.

Well, Luke would say to them, Mainly, I want to find out whether any of the stories are true. Sinister temples. Nightmarish beasts. Jungle so dense that one can hardly move. And so on.

Yes, as it turns out, Luke finds that they are. If anything, the stories are milder than the truth.

When he orders Arrax to land, Arrax tries his best, but he can't find the jungle's proper floor any better than Luke can. They both squawk in alarm when Arrax braces his feet on what looked like solid ground from above, only to fall through again— down, down, down another twenty meters at least, before Arrax gets a sure grip on the undergrowth.

Everything above, Luke reflects, was mere suggestion. This is the Green Hell.

Gods be fucking good, the air is so humid— fucking dripping with water— it feels as though they've dropped right into the ocean. Arrax's flames are doused to a thick steam as soon as he lets them fly. Luke has to bat it away with his hands in order to see anything.

The first days are spent simply trying to make sense of what he's seeing and hearing, stepping through enormous plants that seem to melt through Luke first before he focuses enough to do it himself. Then, he ties his clothes into a bundle and hangs them over a vine in order to dive into a wide, slow-moving river.

Monkeys and birds howl and scream in the canopy. Huge, dark shapes glide past in the water below Luke's kicking legs. Can't hurt me. Luke turns over to float on his back. He was always a natural swimmer, in spite of his motion sickness. It could have been worse, he muses, and then coughs when a sudden wave goes right up his nose. It's only Arrax. He's trying to follow Luke into the water, splashing and wriggling like an eel. Who knew dragons could swim? Luke certainly didn't. See, there it is again. Things they never could have done in life.

He feels a bit differently later, once he realizes that Arrax had in fact dragged the saddlebags into the river with him, most notably the one containing the fucking fire-starters and the lamp oil, and so he's forced to find his way to his next sleeping spot by touch alone. The tree is bound up in strong, fiberous vines. They make excellent hand-holds.

Luke falls asleep with his back against the trunk and wakes up the next morning just in time to stare-down a beady-eyed, venom-fanged spider the size of a dog as it creeps towards his perch.

Can't hurt me. Can't hurt me. Can'thurtmecan'thurtmecan'thurtme—aah!

When the spider comes close enough to kick, Luke startles so hard he knocks himself out of the tree altogether. His leg breaks in several places upon landing, and that hurts.

First time for me was when I drove a nail through my foot by mistake, Rhaenys had told him. Yours will come soon enough.

Luke thinks back on this, hysterically, for a single agonizing minute spent writhing about in the dirt. Then the bones knit themselves back together and it's like it never happened. The blood still stains all over his clothes, though. Fuck. Gods, and that vapid, mean-spirited lordling back in Lys— the one who shares Luke's measurements almost exactly— has likely been poisoned by his own stepfather by now, and so where is Luke supposed to get new trousers?

(Tyrosh, it turns out. They're tough green wool and an inch too long.)

𓏵

[139 AC]

The moon turns and the knots stack up along the ribbon until Luke holds it up to Arrax one day and gets a brilliant idea.

Arrax fusses about it at first, but no matter, he'll get used to it. The blue of the ribbon looks quite fetching around his neck, as Luke is sure to tell him at least once a day. And it will look even nicer alongside this next purple one, in around five years' time, once Luke finishes knotting it.

He can't help himself. He wants to see Old Valyria, if only from a distance.

Luke makes his approach from the north, steering Arrax carefully between inlets and shoals, staying low, keeping his eyes wide open. First comes the reddish smoke rising from the sea itself. Next, the torn shreds of the peninsula, half-submerged. Then, the clamoring din in the distance.

It resembles no sound Luke has ever heard before. Even Arrax seems to be holding his breath. They stay grounded on a tiny spit of a sandbar, waiting while the sun moves, until Luke swears he can see it. From so far off, the hundreds and hundreds of dragons look like mindless insects. Each one of them must be of a size with Balerion— or bigger. Arrax whimpers.

"Gīmin, ñuhys raqiros." (I know, my friend) "Sīr āmāzioty, paerī." (Let's go back now, slowly.)

Midway through their retreat, they encounter a shipwreck. There's a special place in Luke's heart for shipwrecks, he's learning. Inside this one, he uncovers a chest containing an extremely well-preserved set of finery, or regalia— whatever the proper name might be, it clearly belonged to some highborn Valyrian lady, once. It looks to be about Rhaenys's size.

You will not, he remembers, I forbid it.

Well. If she asks, Luke will say he found it in… in Mantarys. Sure. He wraps each piece in sailcloth and brings it back for her.

Sure enough, it fits perfectly.

A netting of delicate steel chains hugging tight around Rhaenys's collar and waist, sweeping down over the top of her skirts, glittering with drop-sized gemstones. Long plated cuffs for each wrist and another cascade of jewels hanging off, leading up on the other end to connect at the nape in a clear suggestion of wings. She looks beautiful. Luke tells her so.

"Oh." Rhaenys's mouth pinches inward a bit, and Luke wonders if he's said something wrong. "Luke, sweetling… this is very nice of you, truly, but. I'm afraid I can only ever regard you as… as a son."

If Luke wasn't dead already, the sheer mortification he feels in this moment would've done him in. He knows it.

"No, no," he stutters like an idiot. "I didn't mean… I'm so sorry, that's not what I…"

"Well, that's a relief," she laughs, color returning to her cheeks. "Thank the gods neither of us is confused."

"Hang on," Luke blurts out. "Did you say you regard me as a son?"

Rhaenys laughs again, blinks at him, as if to say, You didn't know?

Later, after flying out together over the Red Mountains and putting the jewels to a proper trial-by-high-speed-wind (they hold up surprisingly well), Rhaenys tells him the rest as they watch the sunset from the porch stairs.

"I had never… well. You know that my own son was only three when I died. As such, I never got the chance to…"

"To raise him," Luke finishes for her. But then, one-hundred and nineteen years later, Luke dropped into her lap.

"Sepār, kessa," (Exactly, yes) Rhaenys nods, more comfortable and slouched-back than Luke has ever seen her. She shakes her hair over her shoulder, takes another sip of her wine, and this time, Luke happily does the same. You've got to let it linger on the tongue, that's the trick. "Aōhoso muñoma selos luriot sȳrī sētetan, jaelan?" (Your mother would agree that I've done an adequate job, I hope?)

"Oh, jaehossa," (Oh, gods) Luke snorts, enough to give himself away, possibly.

What would my mother think, Luke wonders hours later, lying on his bedroll and staring up at the ceiling. Rhaenys, as a mother, hadn't been all too different from Rhaenyra. Both were generous with touch, both insisted upon safety above all else, neither would be too pleased to learn that Luke had flown within hearing-distance of the swarm, that much was certain. But the rest?

Luke tries to imagine the two of them meeting— the horrified expression on his mother's face if Rhaenys, up to her elbows in dirt, handed Rhaenyra a clump of petals or a sprig of something wild, and told her, "You can eat this!" The constant singing might grate her nerves as well. Luke is still shocked that Aemond, of all people, put up with it for as long as he did.

I'm afraid I can only ever regard you as a son.

It's not that Luke is ungrateful, because he's not. And it's not that he would've preferred to cross to the other side with no one to look after him, because he doesn't wish that either. And it's not that he's trying to get under his own great-great-great-great-grandmother's skirts— he's not— he is a Targaryen, but seven fucking hells— yet none of it stops the old frustration from rearing up again.

Because, well, everyone is going to continue to see Luke as a baby for as long as he looks like one, aren't they?

For fuck's sake, Luke thinks. I'm twenty-four.

Odd, though. He wouldn't say he feels twenty-four. But he definitely wouldn't say he feels fourteen either.

He decides to stop thinking about it so much.

𓏵

[141 AC]

Eight years after his first setting-out, Luke finally crosses east of the Bone Mountains.

If he didn't know any better, he would think he was at the very end of the whole world. The looming peaks seem to scrape the sky. The only passageways through are wound-tight and barely wide enough for a horse and cart, let alone a dragon's wingspan. As for the route above? Luke squints overhead, trying to read the wind-patterns written into the clouds the way Aegon taught him once, muses that he's not too thrilled at the prospect of being pelted sideways into an ice cavern, and decides to fly south over the sea instead.

In Yin, the sprawling capital of Yi Ti, there's a steep hillside overlooking the center of the city that stretches on for miles, slotted with rows upon rows of tombs and altars. People come and leave food out for the dead, and though it smells delicious and though he wants to so badly, Luke doesn't take it. It feels wrong. He is dead, yes, but he's probably not the sort of "dead" they have in mind.

In Qarth, Luke circles widely in the air, having not yet chosen his first landing-spot, when a sudden gust gives him the fright of his life.

A pair of grey wings, launching upwards, then circling back with a roar. A voice calls out, "Luke!"

Luke laughs, overjoyed. "Addam!"

"Come, follow me," Addam calls back. He's got a strange-looking set of lenses fixed around his eyes. "I want to show you something!"

Something turns out to be an hour's flight into the vast, aptly-named Red Waste. Most of it is buried beneath the sand. Even so, Luke can tell, it's fucking colossal. Quicksilver is perched on one of the great arcs making up its ribcage. Its bones are bleached even whiter than her scales.

"A dragon," Luke exclaims in wonder, once he's dismounted.

Aegon snorts. He's got another pair of those lenses too, pushed back onto his forehead. "No shit."

"What is it doing all the way out here?"

"Dunno. Perhaps it came here to die."

"No rider," Addam answers Luke's next question before he even asks. "Not that we've found, anyway."

"Is it…" Luke glances over at Aegon. He's probably sick of people asking about Balerion all the time. But Rhaenys is the only other one who's seen him, and she isn't here, is she? "Would you say this is bigger than…"

"The Black Dread? Oh, absolutely. This one could've bitten him right in half, I bet."

Addam mutters something in Aegon's direction, something about, we all know how your bets on that subject have fared previously, to which Aegon howls in mock offense and sets out chasing Addam down the spinal column.

If Vhagar could fit a horse in her mouth, then this one could fit Seasmoke and Quicksilver side by side, and still have plenty of room for Arrax. Luke wonders how expensive it must have been to feed. He wonders what its name was.

"Daomblīrinon," Aegon muses later that evening, striking dramatic poses beneath the hollow of its jaw.

Addam frowns. "Rainbow? Really?"

"Why not? It's just as big, isn't it?"

"That's not how rainbows work."

"Ugh, you're no fun. What would you have named it then?"

"Mīsȳrzo." (Guardian)

"Bullshit. How do you know its only task was to guard—"

"It's guarding us right now!"

Luke flops back to rest against one of the pillar-like ribs with a laugh. It's been too long since he's had company like this. He's missed it.

In the morning, after a night spent resting within the great hall of bones, blanket folded up and around his ears so he doesn't have to listen to Aegon and Addam pretending they're not kissing, (and then pretending they're not doing much more than kissing), Luke gets a chance to ask about the funny lenses.

"Oh, right, the flight goggles," Aegon grins. "Nabbed them off an old alchemist fellow in Leng Ma!"

Addam adds, seeing Luke's concerned frown, "Don't worry, he had piles of them."

"They do look a bit stupid–"

"Bug eyes."

"Yes, bug eyes, but they make flying much more comfortable. I can't believe we didn't have anything like this when we were alive. Here, we have another pair for you as well."

Aegon unrolls a bundle of felt, revealing three pairs in total. One for Luke and two more for each of the Rhaenyses, presumably. None for Aemond.

"Thank you," Luke says, examining the gift. "Where did you say this alchemist was, again?"

He finds himself in Leng Ma mere weeks later, having followed Addam and Aegon's directions (just south of the statue of the queen with the peacock on her shoulder, there will be an alleyway leading down to the canal, not the first one but the one after that, then you'll see a training yard full of old ladies, and then…) and sure enough, the alchemist fellow has got piles of funny, thick-lensed goggles.

Luke peruses the assortment and selects a second pair, still not quite willing to admit to himself what he's doing. It would be nice to have a spare, alright? On the off chance he ends up dropping the first ones into the clouds or something. That's all.

𓏵

[145 AC]

Whenever Meleys turns up, it means something's happened.

Both Rhaenyses are there walking the cliffs when Luke lands. Rhaenys-the-first is all in red today, the train of her skirt flying in tandem with her silver hair like a war banner. Rhaenys-the-second looks the same as she always does. Effective, purposeful, and pared-down.

Luke takes a moment to wind Arrax's reins neatly before dismounting, continuing to watch the two distant figures. More words are exchanged. Rhaenys-the-second folds her arms and shakes her head. Rhaenys-the-first presses a closed fist against her mouth and looks down at her feet. Bad news this time, it seems.

Seven hells, what now, Luke thinks. Then he scolds himself for his insolence.

Rhaenys-the-first has made it her business to maintain an awareness of current happenings, he knows, though he also knows that she does it mainly to be prepared for each new rider crossing over. I've only ever had one surprise, she'd told Luke once, with a pat on the head.

Rhaenys-the-second is of a different sort altogether. She watches over the world for the sake of itself. She misses nothing. She never tires. She's been at it continuously, starting a fortnight after her own death.

I'm sorry, Luke remembers babbling at her. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It was the first time he'd looked her in the eyes since… since a good while before both of their deaths, actually. Rhaenys-the-second had stared at Luke like she couldn't be certain whether he was even real. It wasn't your doing, she spoke at last. Still cold. Familiar, if nothing else. Hours later through the wall again, (the most surprising and interesting things were always heard through a wall, weren't they?) Luke heard her say to her own namesake, I wish there were a way to let Rhaenyra know.

(Let Rhaenyra know what?)

That her dear son is in your care now. I know it would buy her at least a measure of peace.

It shouldn't feel like this, Luke knows.

Most things get easier, but here is one exception. If anything, this only gets worse. Luke feels like such a coward for it. He's not a child— he refuses to be— though he still looks like one. He never feels the strain of it more acutely than when he's around his… his… gods, Rhaenys-the-second isn't even Luke’s grandmother, is she, and therein lies the rest of it.

Luke had been so worried in the early days, that Rhaenys-the-first was going to find out what he truly was. That Rhaenys-the-second was going to tell her. It wouldn't have mattered if Luke had confessed it himself already, but he hadn't quite managed it yet. You're not really my grandmother. You don't have to pretend anymore. Luke couldn't bring himself to say that either. He'd asked about his mother instead, but they both ended up regretting that too.

Now, Luke sits and waits for them on the stairs.

"Grandmother," he addresses Rhaenys-the-second, if only to avoid confusion.

She nods. "Luke."

He tries not to shiver, feeling pressure as she looks him up and down, even if she only does it for half a moment. Fuck, he should've tried to make his appearance somewhat less ridiculous.

He's still in his tailed riding coat, the brown one that Rhaenys-the-first got for him all those years ago, though he's recently changed out the buttons for new ones he picked out from a market stall in Qarth, carved silver and painted pearl. Too many scarves, he knows. And these silk-trimmed trousers are going to wear through before the year is out. And he's holstered his knives stupidly. (Rhaenys-the-second has never commented on the one with the golden scallop pommel, and Luke doubts she ever will.)

Luke clears his throat awkwardly and pulls the flight goggles off his forehead.

"Morning is dead."

"Oh."

"Your brothers," she goes on. "They've… nevermind." Rhaenys-the-second looks over her shoulder at Rhaenys-the-first and the two of them share some wordless conversation with their eyes that Luke picks up none of.

Whatever the rest of it is, they decide right there in front of him that he isn't going to know, and perhaps Luke ought to take offense. He feels a bit guilty about how easily he's able to put it out of his mind.

Something to do with his brothers, or to do with two men who were once babies Luke held on his lap, anyway. He's happy for them, just as happy as he is for Rhaena— well. Sad for Rhaena, he supposes he is right now, since her dragon has just died.

It's just that… he doesn't know how Rhaenys-the-second can bear it. To be so close to the living, so much of the time. He wonders whether even Rhaenys-the-first might feel inadequate next to her.

Luke does know about the efforts to revive the dragons. He knows they haven't been going well. There was an unfortunate incident ten years ago, just after the birth of Baela's daughter. She'd placed an egg in the cradle, of course. Why wouldn't she? But then the egg hatched, and the thing that emerged was certainly no dragon. It tore a bite out of the baby's arm and would've taken much more if Baela's husband (Addam's brother, strange as it was to think of it) hadn't been there to strike it dead.

Baela blamed herself, reportedly.

She shouldn't, Luke heard (overheard, again). Who could've known that such an outcome was possible? If I'd known, I never would've placed the eggs so close to my own children. Would you?

Luke can't see the point. What happened to Baela's daughter was a terrible anomaly, and Morning's death is certainly no minor setback, but it's going to be alright. They'll see. The eggs will hatch again. And they'll hatch right this time, because they have to. (Won't they?)

He's not a child, but he simply doesn't want to think about it. Is that so wrong?

Luke kills the time among the dragons. Meraxes and Meleys both like him well enough. They don't seem to fault him for Arrax being, well, Arrax. He gets these sudden bursts of energy most mornings that cannot be satisfied with flight. Instead, Arrax races up and down the landing on foot and claw, rolls about in the dust, wings flapping, until one or both of the others gets tired of him and sends a flame in warning. Still, Luke cannot even imagine being bonded to any other. Arrax fits just right.

Then Meleys flies off again, and it's just— "Just you and me," Rhaenys-the-first grins at Luke and he sighs happily, finally able to relax.

The whole reason he'd come back this time was because of a great gathering of musicians on the Summer Isles that would go on for weeks, if the tales were to be believed, and Rhaenys thought it might be nice to go together. Isn't it funny, Luke remarks to her while they patter around the house getting all of their things sorted— that it took four years to set out, eight to fly east of the Bone Mountains, and sixteen to actually fly someplace with company?

"Sixteen years isn't quite so long," Rhaenys teases. "It was more like forty for me."

"That's different! Aegon and Quicksilver weren't even here until—"

"Pink or purple," Rhaenys interrupts him, holding up two flowy skirts. The style comes from Moraq, Luke knows that now. "Purple," he tells her. Rhaenys hums and folds the purple fabric into her bag, muttering something about how she won't be bothered for anything at all these next weeks, not even if the riders of Chroyane wake up again, not even if dragons come pouring out of the moon—

"Not even then? Truly?"

"Alright," Rhaenys concedes. "But only then."

On the way there, Rhaenys teaches Luke and Arrax how to ride an 'upwash', and then a 'slipstream'. Distinct air currents that a smaller dragon could find at just the right point beside a larger one, either above the apex of one wing, or right behind the tail. Luke steers carefully, making minute adjustments left and right, up and down, while Arrax chirps in confusion. Just as Luke is beginning to think that this is all an elaborate joke, Arrax finds it. The air smooths out and then pulls them forward— so forcefully that Luke has to hold on tight so he isn't thrown back. Arrax calls out in excitement. Up ahead, Rhaenys turns in her saddle, laughing and waving.

Luke has never known such speed, and he's never been so glad to have the flight goggles. They make it all the way from Dorne to Lotus Point without needing to stop once.

The great gathering is everything they'd hoped for. They leave their dragons on the high ridge and make their way down into the valley, passing bonfires, people dancing on the sands, bands playing, old men locked in ardent discussion. A duel breaks out on the fifth night. Some dispute for the favor of one of the dancers, it seems like, ending with the deaths of both men. The dancer himself seems more embarrassed than bereaved, which Luke supposes is lucky. "He can do better anyway," he says to Rhaenys, and she snorts.

The days roll on. Rhaenys takes out her lyre and sets about peering over the shoulders of the very best musicians, picking up their melodies. Luke swims during the day, and learns new dances by night. Rhaenys wanders into the fringe of jungle and always returns with some large, vibrant flower in her hair. "Oh, I know I shouldn't. What if the bees need them?" Luke thinks the bees will be fine.

A fortnight in, they've retreated to a hilltop for the evening, listening to the singing from below, sharing a kind of fruit with a dark pink inside and sharp edges on the outside, when Luke turns to Rhaenys and says, "I'm a bastard."

"No, don't say that. You've got a very kind heart."

"No," Luke insists. "I am a bastard. Truly. Rhaenys's son was never my father."

Rhaenys blinks, and then laughs. "That's funny. I misunderstood." Then she adjusts her sitting position and takes another bite. Down in the valley, the torches begin to glow one by one while the sun sinks in half over the ocean.

"You didn't know before?"

"No."

"And you… don't care?"

"No."

Luke still can't believe it. This doesn't make any sense. "You mean you never wondered why I had dark hair?"

Rhaenys shrugs. "A number of other families had married into ours by the time you were born. I didn't think much of it." Yes, that's what old King Viserys had said as well, wasn't it?

I'm a stain on your legacy, Luke nearly says. Is that truly nothing to you? He stares down at his hands instead. "Yn ñuhon kepe lentormo dīntaks daor." (But my father wasn't married into our family.)

At that, Rhaenys's eyebrows pinch together. "Sparos zirys istas gīmī?" (Do you know who he was?)

"Kessa." (Yes) "He was my mother's sworn shield."

"Ah," Rhaenys sighs. "How romantic!"

Luke frowns. "Romantic?"

"Yes. A princess and her sworn shield." She sighs again. "I had one of those, myself."

"You mean, you– you–"

Rhaenys raises an eyebrow at him. "Hmm. What is it they say about the company I kept? All those singers and actors?"

"But… those were all lies!"

"Were they now?"

"You didn't."

"Oh, yes I did."

"You were married! To Aegon!"

"He knew."

"What?"

"Honestly, Luke, I think you're more wounded by it than my husband ever was. And besides, didn't your mother's husband know as well?"

Of course Laenor knew. He had eyes. And he was always quite amicable towards Harwin, now that Luke is thinking about it. "But…" he's only got one more bone to pick. "Your son."

"Aenys?"

"Yes. Was he… like me?"

"A bastard? No, he was Aegon's."

"How do you know? I mean, with the others, how did you avoid…"

Rhaenys smiles wistfully for a good while, savoring the fruit in her mouth. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, Luke."

"Oh. Alright then."

"Luke?" Rhaenys dusts her hands off and turns to face him. "Mērior tolī bisir." (One more thing.)

"Skoros?" (What?)

When Rhaenys offers both her hands, palms up, Luke obliges. She squeezes tight, tilts her head down a bit to meet his eyes. "Hēdrȳ raqno sittāks. Tolvie iksos kesy vestras." (You were born from love. That's all it means.)

"Huh," Luke hears himself reply. "I never thought of it that way."

𓏵

[147 AC]

Luke actively tries to give himself a stiff, haughty, Volantene accent when he speaks Valyrian.

He tries it out on Rhaenys the next time he goes back to see her. She laughs, but something is off. She never braids her hair. And she never wears shoes either. She's doing both, now. When Luke tries to ask her about it, she wrings her mouth for a bit and says, "I want to be ready."

"Ready for what?"

"Nothing." She tries to laugh it off, looking like she's afraid of saying too much. "Tell me all about Volantis. Did you see the temple of the Red God?"

"I did," Luke starts. "But you've already seen it, haven’t you?"

"I have. And now I want to see it through your eyes." Rhaenys flicks him gently on the nose when she says this, and so Luke tells her.

She wants to ask about Aemond. Luke can sense it even if she doesn't say it outright, and so he tells her about that as well. "Still no sign of him. I could go looking, next time?" A horrible thought arises. "You don't think he's ended up like…"

Rhaenys shakes her head. "No, I doubt it. Aemond is quite… tenacious, is he not?" He is, yes. "He's so much like Visenya, in truth. Vhagar could not have chosen better for herself. Are you still angry with him?"

Is it somehow wrong if Luke is still angry with Aemond? Or is it wrong if he isn't? It has been eighteen years. Eighteen years could be a long time, or it could be a very short time, depending on how one chooses to view it. Regardless, Luke hears himself say, "No."

He stays awake that night, walking the cliffs. He waits until the candle goes out in Rhaenys's bedroom, and then he waits some more. The hinges on the front door squeak ever so slightly, in spite of Luke's attempt to close it gently, as do the floorboards, even though he's taken his boots off. Was this always going to happen, he thinks. The sapphire is just as heavy in his palm now as it was sixteen years ago. The blue is just as dizzying, the facets just as scintillating as they were eighteen years ago. It's cold too, though growing warmer with every beat of Luke's heart.

𓏵

[148 AC]

If I were Aemond, where would I go?

Somewhere quiet, and not too hot. Somewhere with loads and loads of old books, perhaps? He tries Braavos again, but it doesn't take long before it's clear that Vhagar isn't there. And then Luke gets distracted because there's a wonderful theater festival on, the kind that comes about only once every ten years, and he doesn't want to miss any of it.

Of the many speeches and operas and plays, Luke's favorite is the one about the mad maiden with the weak heart. There's loads of music and dancing in it too, so beautiful that he nearly cries, though the plot is, admittedly, a bit of a hard sell. The maiden is humiliated by her lover and abandoned to die, but then her spirit rises after nightfall and she kisses him and protects him. Stupid fluff, really. Who would ever believe that?

He goes to look for Aemond in Oldtown next. Luke's never seen the Hightower before. It's beautiful. He lands Arrax right on top of it, just because he can. From there he can take his time with the view, and sure enough, no Vhagar to be seen. He goes inside the Hightower anyway, into the Starry Sept next, and then inside the Citadel, where he finds the history books.

They're just lying out, individual pages on display. There's no need to touch, no need to pull them across. Thank the gods, because Luke wouldn't want to be the one responsible for the loss of a text like this. It's an account of the war, just as he thought. Or, strange as it is, just as he'd hoped. Luke is usually quite skittish about people and places he'd known in life, yes, but this is different. He circles the room slowly, reading every word.

Jace's deeds are all accounted for, he is pleased to find. He wasn't aware that his brother had spent so much time in Winterfell. And he agrees with the author's note— he hadn't thought that Vermax was female either, though perhaps he ought to look for this alleged clutch of eggs himself, just to be sure. The Red Sowing next, which Addam would know more about. Then they've got a bunch of stuff wrong about the Battle of the Gullet— Luke would know, he watched the whole thing.

When he finds what's been written about himself, Luke claps his hands to his mouth and nearly howls with laughter. Apparently, some of these scholars think that he fell from Arrax's back, and survived. They think that he lives among the fishermen of Driftmark now, and if he hasn't yet come forth to announce himself, it's simply because he lost all of his memories. How strange that is. Would that fate have been better, or worse? Luke cannot decide.

Last of all, he finds an entire page specially dedicated to 'Prince Aemond Targaryen, son of Viserys I (110 – 130 AC)'.

They call him Kinslayer.

Up and down the coastlines of the Reach, no Vhagar. Beneath the spires of Harrenhal— she's elected to show herself, at least for now— no Vhagar. From the ruined forts of the Neck into the Wolfswood beyond Winterfell, no Vhagar. Along the fringes of each one of the Free Cities, no Vhagar.

𓏵

[151 AC]

Luke flies on, urging Arrax further and further across the Great Grass Sea.

He's circled around this vast plain before. He's seen its edges, but he’s never known. Thousands of Dothraki ride as one, like a sweeping tide. The sound of their horses' hooves beating on the ground comes echoing like thunder, even though Arrax soars far overhead. If this is what they're like just moving from one place to another, Luke wonders, then does the earth itself shake to pieces when they ride into battle?

He keeps flying, east, east, east, and then north—

—until he finds a deep, silent forest.

From above, the whole swath of it looks like Vhagar.

Tall and ancient and mottled-green.

And Luke just knows.

The trees are fucking monstrous in size. Luke never knew that they could grow so tall, so wide. Arrax is able to perch in their boughs like a bird. Even so, this forest is most unlike the Green Hell. It's so still. So open. So much space to be had.

Ifequevron. Luke only knows the name from the map, and from the tales. Nothing bad, nothing foreboding, just curious, is all. Actually seeing it now, Luke thinks, Of course. Why did I not think to start here? He braces himself against the saddle grips as Arrax carefully works his way down the trunk, head first.

Daylight is pale, but plentiful. The sun won't set for hours. Luke makes his way through the forest on foot. He could fly even beneath the canopy if he wanted to, there's more than enough space in between each massive trunk, but that would ruin the atmosphere, somehow.

It might have been five hours, or it might have been five minutes by the time Luke makes his way over a slope, nostrils flaring from the first step down. Dragonfire. His heart begins to race. There, at the far end of the shallow basin, the earth has been scorched and stamped-flat repeatedly. Recently too, judging by the fresh white ashes floating in the air. Vhagar made her nest here. But where is she now?

At his side, Arrax whines nervously.

There is a gust of wind, and then a booming thud. Luke feels it, mostly. A tremor beneath his feet. Arrax crouches low, insistent, wing propped back. Climb on. Stay with me. Luke gets the message, and gets in the saddle without further delay.

He takes the reins, steers Arrax towards the nearest trunk before he inevitably begins to panic, and whispers, "Hepās." (Climb)

Arrax is glad to obey. They keep to their height, holding their breath, and sure enough, she comes. Prowling into view, body lurching, head panning gracefully, sharp teeth between crushing jaws, and Luke thinks, this place was made for her.

He goes tense the moment Vhagar spots them, head craned upwards, eyes glowing. He can't help it.

Can't hurt me.

And she doesn't.

She curls up in her nest to sleep. With a clear view of her empty saddle, Luke heaves a dejected sigh. It's been three years of this already, for fuck's sake. Luke has been so patient, he's positively scoured everything west of Qohor, he's turned every city on the Rhoyne upside-down, he even searched the ancient pyramids of Slaver's Bay just to be sure, and now that he's found Vhagar, Aemond is nowhere in sight. Typical, isn't it?

Arrax refuses to allow Luke to dismount for two whole days, and won't allow him to touch the ground for another five after that. Sunlight then shadow, sunlight then shadow. All the while, Vhagar basks where she is.

"Lykirī," Luke calls up to Arrax. He really does look like such a tiny little thing all the way up there, doesn't he? Arrax growls low, questioning. The most sound he's made since Vhagar returned. That's good. Nice to see him getting a little bit braver. "Syrī glaesan," (I'm alright) Luke assures him, and begins walking, slowly.

Vhagar stirs when Luke passes near, but makes no motion otherwise toward him.

Luke crosses to the far side beyond her nest, not sure what he's looking for, not sure if he'll find it, until all at once— there it is.

There'd been a fire long ago, it seems. Some of the trees have had their innermost layers burned away with the outside left intact, grown broader still around the base to stabilize. Wide-open hollows in the center. Vaulted entryways, high as any sept. As large as Luke's old bedchamber at Dragonstone, he estimates, once he's stepped inside.

Aemond hadn't needed to construct any of it. Hadn't needed to hammer so much as a single nail. That hasn't stopped him, evidently. Luke sees the lengths he's gone to. Seven hells.

Most of it is shelves. Nothing too intricate. But these aren't like the bumpy, misaligned ones in Rhaenys's house, no, these are hard and straight. Fitted precisely to each purpose, to every portion of trunk flat enough for such use. Various materials, wood and clay, some bricks, fabric items, blankets, neatly stowed. Books lower down. Around two-hundred, Luke would estimate. Organized by language first, then by author. Only one shelf is completely empty— one of the deeper ones, meant for sleeping on when the rains come and the water rises too high, perhaps?

There's a desk as well. A lantern hung just above, cold and dark for now. More slots built into the wall surrounding. Writing implements, ink, slate and chalk, paint brushes, magnifying glass, scissors, sewing supplies, tool box, fire-starters, lamp oil. A sword (a nice fucking sword) lovingly mounted in a place of its very own. And if that weren't enough, it smells like Aemond in here. Luke never would've expected that he'd already know Aemond's scent well enough to recognize it. And yet.

The only piece that seems somewhat out of place is the small embroidery hoop hung on the wall above the desk with a half-finished image of a cicada stitched across it. The rest of the pattern is drawn-on in pencil. Did Aemond make this? Luke traces over it with a knuckle. It's quite good.

Outside, Vhagar chitters. A friendly sound. Much like the one Meraxes makes, actually, whenever she sees Rhaenys approaching the landing.

Luke thinks, shit.

He takes a moment to straighten the embroidery hoop, to look around and be sure that he hasn't somehow knocked over all of Aemond's things without noticing— he hasn't, thank the gods— and just barely manages to avoid tripping over himself on the way back out.

What was I thinking? I shouldn't have come. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

If he turns and runs away as fast as he can, would there be time…?

The sound of footsteps, from a long way off. Luke swallows. It's much too late now. Gods, Aemond's gait has never matched the slightness of his actual body, has it? It's much too heavy. (And it's much, much too late.) Luke stands there in the open amongst the towering trees, fidgeting in it. Wondering if he ought to call out. Should he start walking towards Aemond as well? Would that be better? What should he say?

Luke still hasn't made up his mind. Time is running out.

When Aemond appears at last, following some invisible, familiar path, the world narrows to a point. Or rather, to a tunnel. Aemond sees Luke in the same instant, and freezes. He looks like himself, and it's much too real. He's got a bow in his hand as well. Dragonbone. Very nice.

Luke blurts out, "What have you done to your hair?"

Aemond doesn't answer that.

He clears his throat awkwardly. Then he asks, "What year is it?"

Chapter Text

[151 AC]

What have you done to your hair?

So dramatic. Aemond's cut his hair. That's all.

And the year is one-fifty-one. So, around five years later than Aemond would've guessed. He's read about this, actually. Time dilation. Seems the phenomenon isn't as spurious as one might've assumed. But… does it look bad? Is that why Luke asked?

"It looks nice, it's just… different."

Sure. Right. Aemond is thinking that this boy— Luke— if it even is him, is full of shit. He's thinking he should've bothered to hang a mirror. He never did, because the surface of the nearby lake stays so wonderfully cold and clear. Sometimes, when the silence settles and the wind goes still, the image in the water renders so fully that Aemond can't help speaking to it. He never should have, he sees that now. He's thinking his mind has finally cracked.

Aemond's right hand passes through the short tufts of hair behind his ear again, tugging. Unable to stop himself. He's got no idea what his face might be doing. Though, Luke seems to be having the same problem.

It is him. The longer he continues to stand there, the more sure Aemond is of the fact.

Luke's frame shudders slightly as he breathes. His eyes are as wide as a rabbit's. The hard press of his mouth says, I've found you.

Is it better this way? Is it better that Luke is real?

It's a deviation, is what it is. Aemond wasn't ready. He's grown a deep, serious attachment to his routine as of the last… twelve or so years. It's not like he doesn't ever get out— he does! Aemond has seen a lot more of the world by now than he ever thought he would, but he likes Ifequevron, that's all. It's quiet. And it's the right kind of spacious. Vhagar likes it too.

But now someone else is here. Luke is here. Wide brown eyes blink wider, hunting their way up and down Aemond's form, taking him in, and so Aemond returns the favor.

Luke has clearly been busy. The well-worn gloves on his hands tell as much, as do the thick glass eye-fittings pushed up on his forehead. All the rest is an eclectic assemblage of garb. Trousers in the Jade Sea fashion rolled up at the ankles. Waistcoat tasseled in the manner of Volon Therys if Aemond had to guess. The purple scarf could be from anywhere. As could the belt holstered with no less than three knives— a large, serrated hunting knife, an ornate dagger fit for a prince, and a mean-looking surgical blade. What does he mean to do with those, a voice says from within.

"Am I bothering you?" Luke is getting shifty now. He's fiddling with a bit of bright yellow ribbon in the pocket of that familiar brown riding coat. It's the color that brings the question to mind.

"Is she well?"

Luke appears very lost, until Aemond nods at the yellow ribbon. "Oh, you mean Rhaenys? Yeah, she's… yes. I think so." That's good. Aemond finds his legs, hefts his bow, and starts moving towards his hollow again, as he always does. Luke is hot on his heels this time. "I didn't touch anything, I promise."

Aemond stops and shoots him a look. "You what?"

I didn't touch anything. Whoresson liar. The bobbing of Luke's throat is rife with guilt. Both of Aemond's fists clench. You invited yourself into my hollow, you went though my things, he fumes, striding faster. I swear on my mother, if there is a single speck out of place, I will kill you again.

"I should've waited, I'm sorry," Luke bleats, still running after.

Yes, he should have. Aemond furiously stashes his bow and then his coat, and sets about taking stock of his entire life while Luke— every real, solid, breathing inch of him— lingers in the 'doorway'. (Aemond doesn't have a door. He's regretting that now, too.)

But the books are still in order and so are the tool kits and the blankets. Firewood, still sorted. Cicada, still hanging.

Aemond really shouldn't keep Helaena's embroidery out like this so often, he knows it well. The make is precious. Fragile, and vulnerable to time. Eighteen years ago, Aemond had cried himself halfway into a panic when he noticed that it was beginning to fray, holes and ladders creeping inwards towards the design in the center. That was the year he taught himself to sew.

(Well, that's not exactly true. Aemond hadn't taught himself. He'd knelt on the floor of a proud old townhouse in Maidenpool beside a six-year-old girl and her governess, and tried his best to keep up.)

Aemond wants to put the cicada in a case, or ideally, a frame. One with a water-tight panel of glass running across the front, of the sort that are made in Myr. Aemond could fly there in under a moon, if he pushed Vhagar hard. He hasn't yet, because he was holding out hope that he'd be able to find something suitable in his own little corner of the world. Alas, the Ibbenese aren't overly dedicated to the long-term preservation of art. Neither are the Dothraki. Aemond takes the cicada down, slips it back into its velvet pouch, stows it in the topmost drawer, and that's when he notices the sapphire.

Just sitting there, smack in the middle of the desk. Aemond didn't think he'd see it again so soon.

I want you to put out your eye, he'd said once. As payment for mine. Even now, he remembers the look on Luke's face.

Is that what this is? Payment? If so, Aemond doesn't want it— but when he glances up, what he finds now in Luke is soft. Apprehensive. On the tips of his toes, almost. Luke's child-face hasn't changed, but the light behind it has. Not looking to the past at all.

Aemond makes a gesture in spite of himself and Luke steps inside, hands clasped, eyes roaming happily.

"Does it have a name?" he asks.

He means the sword. Aemond rescued it from the home of an old salt merchant in Mhysa Faer. The blade is a true work of art, expertly balanced. The old man appreciated it only for the materials, however, (Valyrian steel with carved jewels laid into the hilt) and kept it behind a hidden wall in his cellar, happy to let it gather dust so long as it was safe from Dothraki raids. Well, Aemond's put that concern to rest for good, hasn't he? He likes to think— no, actually, he knows— that the sword is much happier with him. "Qēlilla," he answers, and Luke hums. "Starlight."

Luke doesn't need to know that Aemond talks to Qēlilla as well, at times. He asks her where they ought to roam today. He reads to her. Luke won't know this either, but Aemond has been lonely. Very much at peace, but very, very lonely. If left to his own devices, Aemond might not have noticed it for another half-century. Perhaps it's a habit left over from life.

But the realization is horrible because now that Aemond feels, he won't be able to push it back down. Now he has Luke, again, and the space of the hollow feels far too tight. Seven hells, the last time Aemond shared closed walls with Luke was the day he murdered him.

Would you mind it terribly if I flew to see Rhaenys, just for a little while, he's about to ask, but then Luke is stepping closer, cornering Aemond right up against his own desk from five paces back. "I still have—" Luke starts. "Do you want—" he roots around his pocket again, and produces something small, round, and red. "I already ate the others," Luke explains, though that explains fucking nothing at all, "This is the last one."

Aemond blinks at him.

"It's a fruit." Aemond is beginning to understand that he never knew Luke in the slightest. "We could share it?" Luke offers, head tilting in a strange, bird-like motion. Is this who you are, Aemond wonders, and nods. Though it dawns on him as he watches Luke peel the rind with his nails, that he hasn't eaten so much as a crumb in over five years. What if he's forgotten how?

The sticky curl of rind goes back into Luke's pocket, and so does a glossy black seed. Luke digs his thumbs, splits the plump white flesh in half, and then holds out both. "Here. I made the cut, which means you have to pick." Something echoes, sounding like Rhaenyra. Aemond takes the one on the left.

Luke eats his half in one go, looking expectantly at Aemond while he sucks the juice off his fingers, and so Aemond has no choice. The fruit is wondrously sweet. It burns on his gums and if Aemond makes an embarrassing noise when he swallows it, Luke is gracious. It seems that death has been something altogether different for him— showing up like he is and asking Aemond so many questions, filling his stomach, having no measure for what it is he's just done.

It's Aemond's turn, now. "What do you want?"

Luke was expecting that question. "Oh, yeah, about that. Um." He knows he ought to have an answer prepared, Aemond sees, and of course, he doesn't. "I wanted to find you because… because I need to tell you that I'm sorry. For, you know. Shouting at you."

I wanted my mother, Aemond remembers with aching finger bones. Instead, I got you.

"Especially considering… well. You didn't have to do that for me. I see that now." The corners of Luke's mouth lift into a hopeful smile, burning-sweet again. "But I'm very thankful that you did."

To that, Aemond says, "Right." And then, "I'm sorry for killing you."

Luke chokes, laughs, and snorts all at the same time. Not the reaction Aemond was expecting, but far better than the ones he was used to at the beginning. Then he clears his throat and wheezes out, "Fuck."

Twenty years. Twenty-one, actually. It's been twenty-one years. "I am sorry."

Luke shrugs. "Whole lot of good it did you, huh?" This is all a joke to him now. That's great. Aemond isn't laughing.

"Would you believe me if I told you I didn't mean to do it?" Aemond omits the rest— would you believe me if I told you that words like this have never come so readily before— because sometimes, he does know when to stop.

Luke narrows his eyes, glimmering like he's just been told a clever riddle. Your death was bloody and brutal, and I was no more ready for it than you were. That's the challenge Aemond has just laid before him. Absolutely no one else may unravel it in his stead. Come on, Lucerys. What walks on four legs in the morning?

"Yes," Luke answers at last. The syllable is too bare, but the air between them feels washed anew.

Aemond had planned to sleep beneath Vhagar's wing tonight. She's grown to lean on it just as much as he has, and her enduring warmth provides a welcome change from the open air, but with Luke here, Aemond feels the urge to re-claim his hollow. Like a dragon in a nest of his own.

Luke sticks close by for the night. He calls for his dragon and Aemond watches, fucking baffled, as Arrax climbs down from the boughs of one of the trees, head first, wings folded back, looking like a huge, white moth. All that, and he could've just flown down. Aemond keeps watching as Luke mounts the saddle and Arrax skitters right on up.

"You're going to sleep up there?" He doesn't need to raise his voice much. Sound passes so easy here.

"Yeah," Luke calls back down. Alright then. Whatever.

By morning, there's the familiar refreshing chill on the breeze. Aemond emerges from his hollow and sure enough, Luke is still passed out cold, fifty feet in the air. He's sitting on a bough with his back propped up against the main trunk, legs draped out on either side, mouth hanging open, drooling slightly. Like that, he's going to need Arrax to fetch him back down as well.

Aemond rolls his eyes. Then he fetches Qēlilla off the wall and heads out for the lakeside.

Ifequevron is filled with haunted grottos, it is said, when accounts are given of this place. Carved trees, big as towers. Foreboding silences. Shunned by the living out of reverence for the fabled woods-walkers. Aemond knew it, even before his death.

Not long after moving into the hollow, he woke one morning to find a trail of feathers in all colors and sizes, leading the way to the hidden lake. You are not invisible. That was the message. Aemond has never once laid eyes on the little woods-walkers themselves, even all these years later, but the silences don't catch him unawares anymore. He can feel it now, humming in the earth, charging up like a storm on the wind, and quickens his pace so as to reach the water by the time it strikes.

The sun comes creeping in through the undergrowth mere moments after Aemond does. Rich, golden light wavers through like thread. When it hits the concave rock face on the other side of the water, it seems to shatter.

Aemond unsheathes his sword, drives it hard into the earth, and waits.

When he returns, Luke is still there. When he returns the next day, and the day after that, Luke is still there. Aemond never complains out loud, never tells Luke to move on, and so he doesn't. If he ever does fly out, he's always sure to leave that yellow ribbon pinned beneath a strip of bark in the doorway. He's always back within a fortnight.

They have their moments. Luke humming to himself and eating little spoonfuls of soft cheese that he picked up who the fuck knows where. He offers to share it with Aemond, and so they do. Watching with deep skepticism as Luke pours a measure of something cloudy-white and alcoholic from a glass bottle into a tiny clay pot to be set over a fire— "It's better warm, trust me"— and so it is.

Or, when Luke slices another one of his alien-looking fruits in half and holds it out for Aemond's inspection.

"Why is it green."

"It's supposed to be green. And it's as sweet as a grape, you'll like it."

Against all odds, Aemond does.

Then, when Luke produces a wad of printed paper from the bottom of his inventory— "You don't have to take it, I just thought… well, I only finished the first three puzzles and you'd probably get more out of it than I would—" It's a game, Luke explains. One of each number has to have a place in every row, and every column, and every grid. Only a few are already given, and you've got to work out the rest. A wonderful, difficult game. After a week, Aemond pokes his head out, inquiring as to whether Luke might have any more. He doesn't, sorry, it was just those ones. Damn.

Aemond allows it when Luke decides he wants to follow along to the lakeside as well, even if he does have to listen to such unprompted bullshit as, "It's so nice to close your eyes and run towards the sun, don't you think?" or then, some hours later, "Hang on. How old is Rhaenys?" He begins counting on his fingers, slowly, clumsily. Tongue poking out the side of his mouth. "Twenty-five and ten, so that's thirty-five, plus ten, twenty, thirty— Shit. Fuck. Forty-five, fifty-five, sixt—"

"One-hundred seventy-six."

"Oh." Luke blinks in surprise. "You're good at sums."

"Yes. I am." It really wasn't hard, though. Gods.

"One-hundred seventy-six," Luke repeats. "Huh. She looks great."

A laugh bursts out of Aemond's nose.

𓏵

Every time the moon fills up, Luke's yellow ribbon makes an appearance.

It comes round again one night when the sky is clearer than it's been in weeks, the air balmy with young summer. Sleeping under a full moon is burdensome for most people. But where else can one find such broad, silver light as this?

Luke watches from his perch while Aemond sets out the oilcloth, then the first blanket, then the second. Then the cushion filled with uncooked grains rather than down. Luke doesn't ask, may I join you. He just does. Arms laden with his own blankets, Luke glances around, frowning at their position in the low point of the basin. "What if it rains?"

Aemond hums. "It won't."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

"Oh. Alright then."

Luke's bedding consists of a single blanket folded back onto itself and stitched shut all the way round, except for the opening at the top. "It's warmer than you'd think, see? I lined it with lambskin." He removes his boots and coat before sitting cross-legged on top of the pile, yellow ribbon in hand, looking pensive. He's going to add another knot to the chain. Aemond knows that by now.

This time, though, Luke passes the ribbon over. "Want to do this one?"

"Hmm. Sure."

Aemond loops the ribbon and pulls it through, carefully, trying to make it so that the knot is spaced evenly with the others. Even in the waning light of dusk, the color is no less vibrant. Aemond passes his fingers over the full length, counting thirty-two knots in total.

"When they're long enough, I give them to Arrax," Luke explains.

Ah, so that's what those are.

"Each one is five years."

Five years each, Arrax is presently wearing three, and the fourth is just over halfway finished.

"The count starts at one-thirty-four. That's how I knew, when you asked."

Clever. Aemond ought to start something like that. Then he glances up at Arrax, perched in the tree with his three ribbons around his neck, purple, blue, and green, and suddenly can't help imagining what he might look like in one hundred years. Two hundred. Five hundred. One thousand. Every color under the sun, stacked all the way up to his head.

What will become of us then?

Aemond doesn't want to think about that. He gives Luke his yellow ribbon back. Watches as Luke winds it methodically around both hands, back and forth, the way Aemond's seen sailors do with rope, and tucks it into his pocket.

"The Sea Snake?" He guesses.

"Mm-hm."

"Then he really was preparing you for…?"

Luke nods. Their eyes meet, and whatever Luke sees on Aemond's face is evidently worth a laugh. "Is that so surprising?"

Yes, it is. Whenever he thought of Lucerys and Driftmark in the same sentence, Aemond had always envisioned Luke doing little more than flouncing around, knocking over various shiny relics that better men had secured for his house, being spoon-fed cake instead of attending any training or lessons, like the undeserving brat he'd always known Luke to be.

"I still don't know how I might have managed it," Luke confesses, oblivious. "I tried to tell my mother so many times. Just standing on the deck of a ship always did horrible things to my stomach, and she knew that. It still does, actually. Isn't that funny?"

Funny, yes. Living-Aemond would've gloated to hear it. Dead-Aemond finds his mouth drawing tight in sympathy. Luke goes on. "Sometimes I thought I should've been a girl. That way I could've married Jace, and then I wouldn't have to worry over it."

Well in that case, girl-Luke would've wound up widowed and re-married to someone far lower. Or, she would've been Queen. If Aemond had been a girl, he would've married Daeron. Or so he would hope, strange as that sounds. Would you have faced some punishment for taking that knife to my eye if I'd been a girl, he wonders, and then bites the words back.

"Just standing on the deck of a ship," Aemond repeats instead. "Hm. But flying is no trouble?"

"No, that's different."

"Is it, though?"

Luke bristles. "Yes. Though perhaps it isn't for you." He thumbs over his shoulder in the direction of Vhagar. "That's a ship, if I've ever seen one."

"Hey."

"Wait, Aemond, can I ask you something?" He's in a mood tonight, isn't he? Fucking hell.

"Sure."

"What was it like, claiming her?"

Gods, what a question. It was the best night of Aemond's whole life, the night he claimed Vhagar. And then it quickly became the worst. Aemond could take it there now if he wanted to. Somehow, with Luke sitting so close, eyes shining dark in the moonlight, he doesn't.

"She was sleeping when I came to her. At first, I tried to climb into her saddle without being noticed, but she woke as soon as my hand touched the rope, and… she was ready to fire on me. I saw it glowing in the back of her mouth, so I told her, dohaerās. I… I knew all the words already, lykirī, sōvēs, but I didn't know that I was supposed to clip myself in."

Luke presses both hands to his mouth. "Oh, no."

Aemond finds himself grinning as he goes on. "I told her to fly, and she did, but she didn't have to thrash about so much as she was taking off, I know that now. Nor did she have to hit every single fucking head-wind in the bay—"

"Was she trying to…?"

"To shake me off, yes. She very nearly managed it, but I kept hold. And I…" The detail is a small one, but it's true, and Aemond has never actually had the chance to share this particular tale with anyone. No one had ever asked. But Luke has now, and so Aemond tells him. "I was overjoyed when I flew high enough, and I felt my ears pop for the first time. I'd only ever heard about it from Helaena, because it always gave her such pain—"

"But you do know that you're supposed to—"

"—Hold your nose and exhale hard, I know. It never worked for her."

Then they both know what happened next, after Aemond landed. There's no need to dig it up again. Luke wets his lips, glances up at his own dragon, and offers something else. "I think my earliest memories are of Arrax biting my fingers when we were both babies. Of course he didn't have any teeth yet, so it didn't hurt, but it frightened the nursemaid to no end. According to my mother, anyway."

Aemond can't help it. His chest squeezes hard with grief, because that— that's what he never got, and never will. Luke has no fucking idea how much Aemond still envies him. They sit in silence for a while. The indigo of the sky settles into black. The treetops cut like jagged lace against the wide glow of the moon. Then, Luke says, "It's all our fault, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Soon there won't be a single living dragon left. Not in the whole world. People will hear about them only in tales."

All our fault?

It's Aemond's fault. Overwhelmingly so. Luke has to know that, meaning he's either being generous or underhanded. But Luke has got to be one of the most unsubtle people Aemond has ever known. "I suppose so," he offers.

Luke shifts on his bedding, staring at nothing. "Do you think it will feel different? When the last one is gone?"

Aemond cannot say one way or the other.

Twenty-five knots later, they find out.

𓏵

[153 AC]

"Aemond? Aemond, kirās." (Wake up.)

"Ugh. What."

"Ryptēs. Konir rȳbā?" (Listen. Do you hear that?)

Aemond pushes himself up on one elbow, dizzy with sleep. The sky tonight is moonless. Stars wash thick overhead, such depth in their waves that one could be convinced that down was up— that one might fall right off the face of the earth and plummet into their glimmering current. Aemond only sleeps in his hollow now whenever there's rain. Luke does, too. If they move the tools from the work table, Luke fits like a cat on a windowsill.

Right now, bundled in his blankets with only his wool-capped head poking out, Luke cuts a better image of a mouse. Aemond listens. He does hear it, yes. Although what they're hearing isn't so much a sound as an absence. Some vast, arcane machine, grinding to a halt.

The dragons hear it too. Across the clearing, Arrax's white wings glow in the night as he flaps his way down from his perch into Vhagar's nest to coil against her, and strangest of all, Vhagar lets him. There isn't so much as a chatter out of either of them.

Luke says it softly. "I think it's happened."

I think you're right, Aemond wants to reply, but his mouth won't move.

It's happened. The last one is gone. Was it Silverwing, he wonders. Or was it Sheepstealer? Both had flown into the wilds once the war was ended. Or was it neither? Was it a hatchling instead, or not even that— something wingless and deformed? Was there much pain?

Once, Vhagar had been gored-open and then drowned. Arrax had fallen from the sky in bloody fragments. They share a nest, now.

Do you see? It didn't have to go this way.

It's far too late, but Aemond sees. He wouldn't have minded losing the war. If it ensured the survival of the dragons, Aemond would've thrown his sword at Luke's feet that day. Don't fly into the storm, not tonight, he imagines saying. Come to my chambers and we'll read together. The door will swing when we push it. They'll hear you down the corridor when you laugh too loud. We'll ask if the kitchens can make those peppermint cream puffs you love so much and the dragons will sing for a thousand-thousand years.

Soon after the silence comes, the cold follows. It settles within, like no cold Aemond had ever felt in life, and so there's no warding it off. Aemond thinks, I am a ghost, yes. Acceptance is so plain, yet all he wants is something solid.

He's going to make me regret even asking.

But Aemond does it anyway.

"Luke?"

Luke's whole body jolts awake, turning towards Aemond like he's been waiting for the same thing. "Yeah," he nods, "Come here." Then he wriggles free from stitched-closed bed roll without being asked and so Aemond drags his own blankets along to cover them both.

Aemond sleeps best lying on his side. Luke's chest slots right in under his head in place of the pillow. Aemond sends one arm across and then a leg, too. "The fault was mine. Not yours. You were only—"

Luke sighs. "Go back to sleep, Aemond." Then his hand comes up to pet Aemond's hair, and the tears spill over.

It's all my fault.

It's all my fault.

Beneath Aemond's ear, Luke's heart thumps steadily.

𓏵

[154 AC]

When the moon fills up, the ribbon gets tied. When the ribbon gets tied, a question is asked.

You've got to wait your turn. When it's not your turn, you've got to answer and when it is your turn, you'd better ask a good one. Something along the lines of, "When did you first suspect that you were a bastard?"

Luke doesn't even flinch. Actually, he doesn't even look up from where he's stood over the leather punch, poking away at what's hopefully going to become Vhagar's new saddle. They're borrowing it from an outpost in New Ibbish. Borrowing this entire attic space from the outpost in New Ibbish as well. They'll be able to give the space back when they're done, if not the tools. "Night I stabbed you," Luke answers, still hunched-over. He said he'd come to bed an hour ago. "Why?"

Aemond hums. "Interesting. When do you think your brother knew?"

"Oh, earlier than me, certainly. Around the time of Joffrey's birth, I would wager." Luke draws back from his task, only to yank the next stretch of material into place, and then he's back at it again. If this goes on for much longer, Aemond will simply have to douse the lamp.

Both ends of the ribbon trail out of Luke's hands, fluttering in the breeze. He's got himself slouched over a nice sturdy branch, up and to the right of where Aemond's perched upon his own. Climbing so high would've been impossible, but they'd spent the whole day nailing a makeshift ladder into the trunk. When the wind comes again and the ribbon flies close, Aemond catches it between his fingers. Then comes the question.

"What ever happened with the Baratheon girl? I mean, Lord Borros said you agreed to marry one of them. Did you?"

"No." Floris, that was her name. She was pretty. Is she dead yet? "I was supposed to after the war, but then…"

"Daemon."

Sure, if Luke wants to put it that way. Aemond shrugs. "Daemon. Though to tell it true, I'd forgotten already."

"You would've made a shit husband."

"I would've."

Then Luke begins winding the ribbon, and Aemond allows the end to slip free again.

𓏵

[156 AC]

"Do you honestly believe your mother would have made a good queen?"

Aemond means, convince me. Though he's not sure why it even matters anymore.

Luke glares and gets all testy for a minute. "Ought I feel childish for saying yes? Because I do. With all that I was and all that I still am, I do think my mother would have made a good queen."

All that I still am. What a turn of phrase that is.

Aemond doesn't tell Luke that he's childish for thinking so, but he does tell him that Aegon never wanted it. That he actually tried to run across the Narrow Sea to avoid it. Luke lets out a disgusted-exhausted sigh and refuses to speak to Aemond for almost two days and they decide after that, no more questions about the war.

But even that loses its abrasiveness after another few years. Years spent orbiting Ifequevron, more or less.

Whenever they do leave, it usually has to do with one of them recalling some little corner of the world— particularly beautiful, intriguing, or strange— and wanting to share it with the other. They work it into a neat little system. Luke carries their rolled-up blankets by way of a leather strap over his shoulders and they spend days or even weeks wandering about on foot, sleeping in gardens, ruined towers, tree groves, and the like.

Flying together proves to be a fucking chore at first, ("You're too gods-damned slow." "Give me a proper slipstream then, you ass") but they work that out too. Aemond keeps waiting for Luke to get tired of it all and fuck off for good. It doesn't happen.

Every full moon, another knot on the ribbon and another question.

Chroyane and the swarm? Aemond has seen both. The first, up close. The second in the dark, from a distance, and he heard it before he saw it.

Time moves quite differently in death. They can go a whole day without speaking a single word to one another, sometimes two or three. Or four. But it's more than alright, because a good deal can be understood without words anyway. In Qohor, at last, they find a sealed frame for Helaena's cicada and at the quieter end of the artists' street, they find a mighty rose bush. Luke stops in front of it and so Aemond does as well. Their eyes meet, and an agreement passes— meet me back here in three days' time. Three days later, Aemond comes out with the rest of it.

That he'd only landed in Chroyane in the first place because of Dreamfyre. He could've sworn it was her there, knelt at the high point of a crumbling bridge like a guardian, so fierce in spite of her stillness. The rider turned out to be a boy, though. Even younger than Luke. Far, far too young to be sent to war, but given the size of the little lad's dragon, Aemond understood why the call was made. His eyes were hanging open, painlessly, as though time had stopped. His armor was slipping from his shoulders. So Aemond fixed it back in place.

In the foothills of the Bone Mountains, the circle of the moon swells to three times its usual size, and Aemond wants to know, "How long did it take you to find me?" Luke turns a bit red at the question. Sheepishly, he admits, "Three years. Almost four."

The journey this time is of Aemond's design. A cascading chain of hot springs, tucked away beyond the beaten road. Aemond found it initially because he'd sighted the warrior-maids from the sky, marching together, spears in hand, and he'd gotten excited. He imagined they were readying themselves for a tactical ambush of some sort. He was only a little disappointed once he discovered what they were truly after.

"What warrior-maids?" Luke asks, picking his way down the rocks. "I don't see them."

"That's because they don't live here, they come from Kayakayanaya." The name is funny, yes, and Aemond doesn't have to look back to know which expression Luke is wearing now. "You keep your mouth shut."

Luke snorts. "Try saying it five times fast."

"I will do no such thing."

The pool at the very top of the chain runs hotter than all the rest. Much too hot for most living people to withstand for longer than a few minutes, meaning it's the perfect temperature for Aemond. Perfect for Luke as well, Aemond is surprised to learn.

"What, did you forget that I've got just as much dragonblood as you, my lord Hightower?"

Before Aemond can get him back for that one, Luke's head slips beneath the water. Whatever. Aemond has finished taking his clothes off by the time Luke pops back up for air. They've got the same bits— also they're dead and nothing matters— but Luke goes wide-eyed all the same.

One full moon-turn later, Aemond finds out why.

"Alright," Luke yanks the knot on the ribbon tight. "Why don't you have any hair?"

"What are you talking about. I have hair."

"No, not the hair on your head. I'm talking about…" Luke makes a coy little gesture. Aemond's jaw drops. "That's your question?"

Sometimes, depending on his mood, Luke's face can sink right back into its own adolescence, like a lizard changing color. It's fucking disturbing. He's doing it now. "Am I not supposed to have any?" he asks, barely above a whisper. "Is it… is it another Valyrian feature?"

Of course, Aemond realizes. The only full-blooded Valyrian in Luke's immediate vicinity would've been his mother. He wouldn't have seen. Daemon as well, but Luke never saw him either, evidently. And Aemond has to answer. He sighs. "No, it's not."

Luke's eyes narrow. "Then why…"

"Because I was in the habit of…" it's Aemond's turn to squirm, "…of stripping it all off. In a manner."

"Ah. And you'd done this shortly before dying?"

Yes, obviously, Aemond had. The way Luke phrased it makes it sound like Aemond had done it in deliberate preparation for his own death— which he had not, to be absolutely clear. Although, Luke isn't being as much of a twat about it as Aemond would've expected. He's merely curious about whether it was very time consuming, and no, not as much as one might think. Aemond enjoyed the process, actually. It was meditative.

"I'm normal, then," Luke concludes happily.

He's not. His hair is still black. His eyes are still brown. His natural parents bore no blood relation to one another— but neither did Aemond's, and yet their blood was sufficient for both of their dragons, was it not?

A different thought surfaces weeks later, mid-flight. Vhagar soars high above the plains at a fraction of her top speed, carving a hard-lined path through the wind the way she's grown accustomed to since they started flying in company. Even so, Aemond turns in the saddle to be sure. Arrax hasn't gone anywhere. He's still right behind. And there Luke is, bent low, head practically braced between his hands on the grips. The sun flares on his glass lenses. Purple scarf and black hair, fluttering in the wind. All is well.

If I'd wanted to, do you think I could've known you while we were alive?

Aemond thinks it in the air. He doesn't say it out loud once they've got their feet back on the ground. But then, he wonders, who is 'I'? Perhaps it would be more pertinent to ask whether Luke still recognizes Aemond as being the person he was before— the one he'd stabbed, robbed, and taunted. The one who'd mocked him, threatened him, then chased, hunted, and killed him?

If that person still exists, surely Luke would be the one to know.

How can you bear to look at me?

He can't ask that either.

Instead, when the ribbon finds its way into his hand again, Aemond turns to a higher and more pristine line of inquiry. He asks Luke whether he believes there can be any instance of effect without proper cause.

Luke groans and presses both hands to his face. "Hae skorot the fuck gīmīlun?" (How the fuck should I know?)

Aemond desperately wants Luke to send the question back. He doesn't. Aemond gives his answer anyway, and ends up having to sleep on his own that night for his trouble. Which is regrettable, but still better than if he'd asked the other one.

But then, not three moons later, Luke asks, "What if I'd said I'm sorry?"

"Well, were you?"

"Oh, yeah." No hesitation. Simple.

Gods, what then? Aemond has to answer, that's the rule. "In that case, I think I would've…"

He might've killed Luke right then and there in a fit of rage, depending on what manner of blunt or sharp objects happened to be nearby. That's one answer. But if he didn't— and Aemond isn't sure he would've— then… then what? He tries to imagine it.

Ūī usōven. I'm sorry.

It wouldn't have given Aemond his eye back. It wouldn't have healed his angry, lonely child-heart either. Sometimes, the anger used to burn so hot, Aemond thought it might tear right out of his chest and onto the floor, make its way across the Blackwater and devour all of Dragonstone. It devoured only Luke and Arrax, in the end. Sometimes, Aemond is so sorry, he thinks it might kill him all over again.

But what does it matter? Aemond has his eye back. Just as Luke has his everything back. A delicate measure of bones, muscles, sinew, and blood, knocked violently apart and then re-assembled, sitting there on top of a worn red coverlet, waiting for an answer.

"I don't know," Aemond confesses. Then he gives back in kind. "Ūī usōven."

It's perfect, really. The way Luke freezes for a moment, and then lets out a defeated-sounding laugh.

𓏵

[162 AC]

"It's your turn."

"Alright. Hmm." Aemond loops the ribbon— pink, presently— around his finger and sends it through. He doesn't have any good ones prepared, not this time. Fuck it. "What's the worst thing you've ever seen?"

Luke swallows a bite of pear and makes a face. It doesn't take him very long. "Gogossos."

Oh, gods be good, Aemond thinks. That sounds fucking abominable.

"You don't want to see it. And you don't want to know."

"You went there on purpose?"

Luke smirks. "Yeah."

"Why, you thought it would be fun?"

"A little! I'd already been to the Green Hell and that was loads of fun, so I—"

"Are you certain you're not still fourteen?"

Luke lays the pear to the side and puffs up his chest. "I am not. I am…" he starts counting on his fingers again.

Aemond sighs. "You'll be forty-seven this year."

"I am forty-seven, I'll have you know!"

"Forty-six."

"Whatever." And then, "Gods, that means you're fifty-one."

"I am."

"And don't you look it."

"Fuck off."

"You fuck off. What's the worst thing you've ever seen?"

Your mother's death, is what Aemond would say if he were just a bit more black-hearted than he already is. Oddly, he's not, and tragically, it isn't even true. Aemond has seen far worse. Seven hells, why did he have to choose that question so unthinkingly? He agitates the ribbon between his finger and thumb, and thinks, Helaena, mid-fall. My mother, gone to skin and bones, talking to herself. Dozens of eviscerated dragons, cast about on the Smoking Sea.

"You don't have to answer," Luke offers suddenly. "I could– I could ask a different one."

"That's not the rule. It's not your turn yet."

"We made up the rules, we can change them if we want."

"No, we can't just change them, we'd undermine our own innate relation to the laws of—"

"Fine, fine, fine."

Very fine, yes. The upkeeping of one's rational principles is paramount.

"What's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, then?"

"Luke."

"Come on, Aemond," he's got a cheeky grin, now. "Would you not agree that companionship in contemplation, which is held up as the greatest happiness according to whatshisname, takes precedence over and above those stupid laws?"

"They're not stupid. And I never should have let you read that."

"Let me?" Luke scoffs. "That's rich. You shoved my nose into it for a whole year."

There's nothing Aemond can say to that, because it's true.

"You're not going to answer, then?"

"No. Not until it's your turn."

Luke sighs and finally lets it go. He holds his hand out for the ribbon and Aemond passes it over. When he's done winding it back up, he kicks about under his blanket and says, "I'm cold," and Aemond extends an arm wordlessly.

"I'm sorry," Luke murmurs, once Aemond's draped across his front. "I didn't mean it, earlier. You don't look that old."

"Hmm."

"You look… you look quite… nice. Actually."

"…Thank you."

Chapter Text

[162 AC]

For a whole moon-turn, it's all Aemond thinks about. The most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

The Hightower, he recalls first. He'd seen it from a carriage window for the first time, at age nine.

Have a look, boys, Mother had whispered to himself and Daeron, pulling the shutter back, and they both gasped in unison. The serene wonderment lasted for all of ten seconds— long enough for Aemond to imagine that he were the one being sent to ward instead— and then Daeron started badgering Mother with questions. What was it made of? Was it magic? Who built it? Did this Brandon the Builder of House Stark live close by and if so, could they have supper with him? Could Mother give orders to have another tower raised at home? Why not? She was the queen, wasn't she?

All the while, Tessarion trilled and squawked from within the iron cart at their rear, every bit as eager as her little master. Daeron hadn't yet asked why Tessarion had been brought along with them. Nor had anyone told him. Aemond nearly spat it out then, getting riled up worse by the minute as Daeron yammered on, but Mother seemed to know what he was thinking and squeezed his wrist tightly in warning.

He thinks next of Alys's cooking fire. By some strange design, whenever she pointed to it, its flames began to shimmer with all manner of colors and figures. Aemond couldn't read any of them, but he'd seen. Though surely, that cannot be the truest answer. Beguilement and beauty are two very different things.

Inevitably, he finds himself thinking of Helaena.

On her wedding day, perhaps? No, that's not right.

She'd been most beautiful, Aemond thinks, while she was pregnant with her twins, though she was barely fourteen herself. Even thirteen-year-old Aemond had known enough to be worried. But then the weeks passed and Helaena stopped feeling so sick all the time. The worries lessened bit by bit until one morning, as though it had happened overnight, when Aemond regarded his sister and found that she had bloomed in full like the rarest sort of flower.

Helaena's cheeks had a healthy pink flush. Her silver hair had never been so thick and glossy. Best of all, she seemed to have so much energy at all hours of the day. She'd flit about like a busy honeybee, sewing clothes and blankets, inspecting the little cradle their mother had ordered from the very best craftsmen in the city (of course, they hadn't yet known that Helaena was carrying two babies), humming to herself all the while.

She'd woken Aemond in the middle of the night, once, to accompany her to the Dragonpit. It's time to choose the eggs, dear brother. Aemond hadn't asked any questions. He'd offered Helaena his arm for support and was very patient with her on the staircases, even lifted her down from the carriage and then helped her lower to her knees once they reached Dreamfyre's lair.

Aemond had never been able to get his head around it, but somehow, Helaena spoke to her dragon only in hums and chirps and funny little purring sounds. Right then and there, practically into Helaena's lap, Dreamfyre brought forth two eggs. Helaena cooed and sang over those, too. Her entire form was lit from beneath by their faint glow, all red-blue-black. If only the whole world could've ceased its turning then.

Although, Aemond only lived for twenty years. He's been dead now for thirty-two. The things he's seen since then— magnificent palaces, painted canyons, mists rising over ancient forests, city lights like a spider's web from half a mile above? No, Aemond thinks. Beautiful, but impersonal. The only thing that might come close— he stumbles upon the thought— is the sound of Luke's heartbeat beneath his ear.

Thump, thump, thump.

Diffuses the nagging guilt until Aemond's mind goes quiet, and so he's come to love that sound.

It's a jarring realization.

It's also a sound, not a sight. So it doesn't count.

Aemond is ready when Luke asks— "I bet I could tie it with my tongue, watch this—" he's ready, but first he has to sit through Luke fooling about with a stem in his mouth. The pink ribbon lies limp in his hands. Aemond is itching to smack him.

"Really?" Luke's face is still screwed sideways with effort, mouth still full. "You're going to pull so many yards of that with your tongue?"

Luke draws back, spits the tied stem into his own lap, grins triumphantly, then shrugs. "Remind me in one-sixty-four then, yeah?"

One-sixty-four, when they'll reach the end of the pink ribbon, and, by all patterns and proceedings, Aemond still won't have tired of Luke's company. "It's your turn," he sighs. How has it come to this.

"Right, well, you know what I'm going to ask." Luke ties the ribbon with a flick of his finger. "Aemond, won't you tell me, what is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

"My sister," Aemond answers. He tells all the rest, fills out the corners of the story, and Luke listens with straight back and open ears. Stories are like meals to them now. They ought to be savored. "And what about you?"

"Nothing so… so precious as that." Luke sounds regretful, but goes on. "Do you know that magical black powder that comes from Yi Ti? I don't know how it works, but their pyromancers pack it into paper vials along with various salts, and then they light the wick, launch them high into the air, and…" he mimes an explosion with his hands. Yes, Aemond does know. He'd flown above a battlefield in Yi Ti years ago, and when one of those brilliant red bombs went off in mid-air not ten paces from Vhagar's right wing, the poor old girl shrieked with fear.

"No, no," Luke insists, "Those are only signal flares. I'm thinking of the ones that are done for show."

Aemond frowns. "For show? People gather to watch artillery? Over their own cities?"

"No, it's not— well, I suppose it is technically artillery, but it's a wonderous sight. They're shaped like giant snowflakes, in every color you can think of, not just red, and they glitter on the way down." Luke tilts his head. "Hang on, when were you there?"

"Around one-forty? I'm not sure. They were in the midst of a fierce war against the Jogos Nhai."

"Aha," Luke nods, getting excited, "That explains it. I was there in one-forty-two, after they won that war." Hence the celebratory artillery, Aemond supposes. "And it wasn’t only that, they've also got this– this small army of musicians, they play all together in such harmony, you would love it. And the court theatrics, seven hells! Just after the war was ended, the emperor's favorite paramour was seized in the middle of a corridor and thrown down a well. I watched it happen, actually, and then—"

"Is it the furthest you've ever been?"

"What?"

"Yi Ti. Is it the furthest you've ever been?"

It's come to mind because Aemond hasn't seen the opposite side of the Bone Mountains in far too long. Strange as it sounds, he's longing for a certain density of life as well, of the sort that's only found in major cities. By now, they've been to New Ibbish and Vaes Dothrak half a dozen times. Higher or lower stretches of wilderness, mountains, coastlines. Of the places he and Luke fly to— they know without ever having to discuss it out loud— they're avoiding the others.

It's why they'll go to Qohor and Lorath, but not Norvos or Braavos. Selhorys and Volon Therys, but not Volantis. Ruins are good, too. Old Sarne, Vaes Leisi, Ar Noy, Valysar, to name a few. Even the freshly-razed Mhysa Faer. It's begun to blur together.

"It is, yes." Luke flops back on the blanket. Then he laughs. "I can't believe I don't know this already. Where's the furthest you've ever been?"

"Mossovy."

"Damn."

Indeed. Mossovy was dark, cold, and very isolated. The people there, however destitute, kept themselves armed with great shards of obsidian. They always bolted their doors after sundown, although they didn't seem to know why, which was odd. The language they spoke was strange, but beautiful. And it was a bit of an accident, in truth. Aemond only wound up there because he was headed for K'Dath and then the Shadowlands after that, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to actually do it. Which is humiliating to admit out loud.

"I'd go with you. To the Shadowlands."

Sure. Luke is saying that because he's never gotten as close as Aemond has. But then again, Aemond was alone the first time. Not so overwhelming when one isn't alone. And he hasn't been for eleven years.

"The world is ours, we might as well," Aemond agrees at last. Luke says nothing. There's a sleepy smile and a bit of squirming around to get comfortable, and then his eyes blink open again. "Speaking of Yi Ti," he mutters and launches back up, shoves his feet back into his boots to cross the clearing to the dragons' nest.

Arrax chatters. Aemond sits up waiting while Luke digs around in Arrax's saddlebag. It's a hair pin, he sees when Luke returns, almost shy as he holds it out. It's two-pronged, made of polished ivory with a crest of jade on the end. "I was saving it for Rhaenys, but I think you should have it."

Aemond eyes it warily. It would be more manageable than the leather cords he used to wear in life. But.

"She never wears her hair up anyway," Luke goes on, "And since yours is growing out…"

Fine, he's right. Aemond's hair has been well past his shoulders for some time now, even if it hasn't reached its full length yet. He takes the pin. "Thank you."

"Biarvose," (You're welcome) Luke replies. He kicks his boots off again. Aemond reaches over and slips the hair pin beneath the laces of his own with the jade crest sticking up, making a mental note to not step on it in the morning. When he turns back, Luke is laid out already, left arm splayed open, looking expectant. Come here. Aemond settles down halfway on top of him without further exchange and pulls the blanket up.

Thump, thump, thump.

"We'll fly out tomorrow?" Luke passes a slow hand through Aemond's hair as he says it. They're pressed so close, it makes it hard to hear.

Thump, thump, thump.

Tomorrow, Aemond thinks. Yes. Alright.

"If you want."

At that, Luke makes a happy sound. He pulls tight on Aemond's hair in his excitement— "Ow!"— "Sorry!"— and sleep follows soon enough.

𓏵

The world beyond the Bone Mountains is really no different than the world before, Aemond knows, understands, and still needs to remind himself. On the map, even Far Mossovy is the same distance from Ifequevron as is Braavos. But if maps were always right, there would be no need to correct them, and perhaps the maester who drew this one only placed Mossovy where he did because he'd run out of space on the parchment. Hm. In time, it might be good for Aemond to start drawing his own. What a project that would be.

For now, Aemond focuses mainly on their route north. North first, instead of straight east, because Arrax fares even worse with mountains than he does with storms. Vhagar, on the other hand, is capable, though she will complain the whole way, and so the choice is clear.

(It's not their only option. If they preferred, they could always take the southern passage between Qarth and Great Moraq, then over the Jade Sea, but Aemond most certainly does not prefer. Not after Luke let it slip that Aegon and Addam had made their home on the isle of Marahai, thus, the entire Jade Sea is off-limits as far as Aemond is concerned.)

Luke insists that Addam is really quite nice. Aemond insists it's not even about that anymore.

What is it about, then?

It will become a ribbon-question sooner or later, and Aemond hopes he'll have found better words by then. Gods. The thing is, Aemond is simply… comfortable with Luke. More than that. Aemond has turned into another version of himself— newer, softer, easier to rest in, however disorienting to behold— and he doesn't want to have to… to explain it to anyone else. Instead, Aemond comforts himself with the fact that meeting the others is inevitable. The world is only so large and all six of them can fucking fly.

Perhaps one day, eventually, Aemond will wake up and feel ready. Or he'll wake up and Rhaenys-the-second (as Luke calls her) and Addam of Hull will both be standing over him and then he'll have to formulate some fast answers. As for Rhaenys-the-first, Aemond does miss her. She was very kind to him when he'd needed it most. I hardly recognize myself, he might confess when he sees her again, and then she'd laugh and say something like, How wonderful. No doubt Vhagar misses Meraxes as well.

It takes two days and nights to cross through Jhogwin, where Aemond is content to watch while Luke and his dragon play amongst the bones of long-dead giants. Then a third night is spent on the banks of the Leviathan Sound, where shadows of living giants stir beneath the waves. Vhagar flies low over the surface, stalking, snarling, issuing her challenge.

They take their leisure across the plains of the Jogos Nhai, and likewise along the shores of the Bleeding Sea.

A single sunset lasts ages in this quiet place. Is it something in the air, Aemond wonders, or in the water, or in the land itself? It falls heavy as a velvet curtain— red. A flood of thick, dark, uncompromising color right up until nightfall, and then the moon rises twice. The true one in the sky, with its reflection so still on the water's surface, no less bright. When the full moon comes, it surprises them both.

"Oh," Luke mutters. He's cloaked in scarlet from head to toe. The silver glow of the moon cannot touch him. "It's your turn."

And so it is. Aemond loops the ribbon, squeezes the unfinished knot hard around his knuckle while he thinks.

"You aren't pained by it," he wonders aloud at last. "Being separated from the others for so long. Why?"

Luke just shrugs. "It's different with you. You don't look at me the way the others do."

"What way?"

"Like a… a poor orphan, or something. I don't know. It's stupid. I'm neither of those things." Then he laughs, or tries to. "Gods, I was spoiled. And I had four parents. Five, if you count Rhaenys."

Aemond twists his mouth, hums. Slips his finger free and allows the knot to close. It's true, Luke isn't an orphan, but he's not like the rest of them. There's no word for what he is. Every one of them— Aemond, Rhaenys-the-first, Rhaenys-the-second, Aegon the Uncrowned, Addam of Hull— died in battle. Luke was murdered. The others can let their hearts bleed all they want, but Aemond was the one who did it.

It's different with you.

Perhaps Luke doesn't know. Aemond tries to hide the terrible, sickening remorse whenever it rises, whenever he watches Luke wandering about in a storm— even if he's laughing, even if he's got his tongue out to drink the rain— because Luke doesn't want to hear it. He'll hold it over Aemond, however gently, forever.

"Does that answer your question?"

Yes. It does.

After the Bleeding Sea, after the sun has risen clean and new, they fly further south and reach the spot Aemond's been most eager to show to Luke. He's very proud of how well he's kept the secret.

"Fuck me," Luke exclaims, when he's finally picked his jaw up off the ground. "What the fuck, Aemond? You knew about this?"

Yes, Aemond most certainly did. The maps bear only a simple row of ink dots, and beside them, The Five Forts. A terribly ordinary description for a place that ought to be named something more like—

"Did the gods build these?"

It's a fair question. The answer might very well be yes. Towering over the wasteland on the northernmost territories of Yi Ti, guarding the crossway into the Cannibal Sands, are five enormous black monoliths. Rigid, imposing, unnatural.

They would be the most sinister fucking things Aemond has ever seen, were it not for the sense of warmth— the magic, it must be— humming throughout every part of the walls, making the structures feel overwhelmingly safe. Like the sort of place you'd want to crawl into to hide from a monster under the bed, except each one of these could readily house an army of thousands. An entire kingdom might hide away in here.

But… hide from what? That's the part Aemond can't work out.

"The shrykes, perhaps? Those demons that live in K'Dath?"

"Shrykes aren't real."

Probably. Everywhere Aemond's been to, for the most part, people are just people. But stories twist and inflate the farther they travel. No doubt the people from the so-called Land of Shrykes have been told a good deal of outlandish horseshit about the inhabitants of Westeros.

"Sure," Luke concedes, "But something must have been real enough. Someone thought it worthwhile to build all of this."

Yes, that's the riddle, isn't it? Aemond hums. "Want to go inside?"

Luke hops up and down like a rabbit. "Drējī kostili?" (Can we really?)

After the Five Forts, the only things yet standing in their way are the Mountains of the Morn. Just as they'd done with the Bone Mountains, Aemond and Luke take the way round, following the coastline split with jagged, unwelcoming rock. A small part of Aemond's mind keeps waiting for the terrain to soften-out. It never does. The gentlest things this place has to offer are patches of ghost-grass draped between the crags like thin fur, white stalks flickering in the wind, hollow and cold.

The great city of Asshai on the southernmost edge is forced to import all of its food and all of its fresh water too, so Aemond's tutors had said. In exchange, Asshai exports gold, rare gems, and relics— none of which are to be trusted, little prince, so don't go getting any ideas.

"I was told the same," Luke mutters once they land within the city, squinting through the fog to no avail. Asshai drinks its own light. Perhaps that is the reason why nothing here is small. Every house is a manor. Every temple is a towering monument. Only one window in ten shows signs of life. Against his better judgement, Aemond is in love.

"Were you ever told why not?" Poison, witchcraft. Those were the testaments of the septons. But Luke had been instructed by wayfarers and tradesmen, so it's worth asking. Luke hesitates. "Lord Corlys said that the land itself is ill, and everything it yields carries the same taint. I've got no idea what that means, though."

"Hmm." Much to consider.

By the sickly light of someone else's study, Aemond leafs through the great compendium, clears his throat, and reads.

"On its way from the Mountains of the Morn to the sea, the Ash runs howling through a narrow cleft in the mountains, between towering cliffs so steep and close that the river is perpetually in shadow, save for a few moments at midday when the sun is at its zenith. In the caves that pockmark the cliffs, demons and dragons and worse make their lairs. The farther one goes, the more hideous and twisted these creatures become, until at last one stands before the doors of Stygai, the corpse city at the Shadow's heart, where even shadowbinders fear to tread."

"Excellent," Luke grins, "Can't wait."

"Then we'd best get an early start tomorrow if we want to make it in time for the zenith event."

"If we miss it, we'll just catch the next one. It comes every day, no?"

He's right, but Aemond glares at him anyway.

"Alright, fine," Luke groans, "I'll get up!"

Does he know, Aemond wonders later as Luke breathes soft against his nape. With entire streets of houses lying dark, bearing countless more empty beds, they'd simply wandered right in and taken their pick. It only occurred to Aemond after Luke was already asleep, that he could've had his own bed for once. It occurs to him next that he doesn't want it. Space and luxury be damned. Luke wriggles closer into Aemond's back in his sleep, and Aemond thinks it again. Does he know that he's the braver, bolder one out of the two of us, now?

Luke has grown so fearless. When the fuck did that happen?

Surely, during the years Aemond spent hiding out alone in his hollow, floundering with no throne to grasp for, no expectations to fulfill, and no adversaries to prove wrong, Luke was busy getting good at it— sustaining himself upon his own, honest desire. Nothing more and nothing less. He makes it look so easy. Aemond doesn't know if he'll ever manage it himself. Still, he reflects, it's nice to be around it.

Morning comes. Aemond is across the room already, coat on, hair pinned, lacing up his shoes while Luke turns over in bed, yawning massively.

"Come on," Aemond grabs Luke's coat where it's been hanging off the doorknob and flings it at him. Luke catches it, just barely. "I can do all the navigating, if you want. Keep to my upwash and you can sleep the whole way there."

Luke sits there blinking for a long moment, clouds in his eyes. Then he hears Aemond's offer. He looks scandalized for some reason. "But…" he mutters, so earnest, "Rhaenys said no sleeping while flying."

Gods, he's not even joking, and Aemond is nearly dizzy from vertigo. Because Luke is five years old again, tugging on a seven-year-old Jace's sleeve, whining, 'but mother said we can't.' In any case, this is ridiculous. Sleeping while flying is one of Aemond's favorite things to do.

"I won't tell if you don't."

That gets a laugh out of Luke at least, but he shakes his head. "No, I'll stay awake. I want to see."

And so they find the dragons, climb into their saddles, and follow the Ash north.

The further they fly, the narrower the riverbank. The faster the current, the deeper the shadows, the stranger the sounds. In time, they're soaring between the walls of a great, black canyon. Further. Tighter. Darker. Deeper. Aemond is beginning to lose his sense of distance— time as well— when the canyon curves, and there it is.

Vhagar's got plenty of height, nowhere near the canyon floor. And yet the ancient doors of Stygai loom in from above as well as below.

I've never felt so small, Aemond thinks.

Behind him in his upwash, Luke exclaims, "Fuck, yes!"

Aemond huffs out a laugh. Then he tugs on Vhagar's reins and steers her towards the entrance. The doors are open, but only part-way and only on one side, and Vhagar has to pull her wings in close in order to dive through while Arrax (Aemond turns back again to lay eyes on him) floats after, stretched-out and practically swimming in air.

It bends into a great, arduous rush as they make their landing a ways inside the doors, coming to a long running stop. Aemond blinks hard. Holds his nose to clear the pressure in his ears, and then there's only the sound of the Ash echoing far below. An eerie, solitary sound, made more so by the fact that the river is now completely out of sight. Rather, the ground is smooth and solid underfoot. Aemond bends to touch it and confirms that yes, it is indeed a paved road. It must have been built over and above the river. Meanwhile, Luke throws his head back and whoops loudly. His voice reverberates for what sounds like miles.

This is what mid-morning looks like. Dark, empty and never-ending. Aemond can't see the sky though he knows it's there; can't see more than twenty paces in front of himself either, but that's improving by the minute. Shapes come into view. Structures.

Arrax follows along as they meander into the city, hopping about, as carefree as his rider. Vhagar, on the other hand, is behaving strangely.

She won't come at first. And she won't go off on her own. She remains in the precise spot where she'd landed as though she'd dug in her claws, calling out in soft little chirps. An odd sound from a beast so large. Almost like she's trying to be cute. "Ynot," (To me) Aemond tells her, and she obeys. The low, resounding pulse of her footsteps feels fitting.

They find twin staircases at the end of the road, leading down into the city proper where the Ash comes back into view. Aemond takes one side and Luke takes the other. Arrax wriggles his way down after Luke, on foot, which Aemond deduces only because he can hear Luke giggling.

Such perfect shadow, Aemond thinks once he's reached the river's edge at the bottom. In their heavy depth, it's plain that the water is glowing. Whitish-green in color.

"Eugh. That's foul."

Aemond clenches his jaw for a moment, staring pointedly ahead. "You did not just drink that."

"It was only a little drop!"

"Luke."

"What's the harm? I'm already dead, thanks to you."

Aemond chooses to ignore that. When Luke heads off down yet another dense, winding passage, he follows.

The surroundings are growing progressively more man-made— on ground level, anyway. Overhead, things skitter in and out of crevices. Demons and dragons and worse. That was what the book said. Aemond can't keep the chill from running down his spine, but he can at least keep his hand on his sword. He examines Luke as well, just to confirm that he's got all three of his knives, and yes, he does. It's alright.

If Aemond isn't careful, he's going to waste this whole opportunity. That's what he ought to be worried about.

Look at the buildings, he tells himself, now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Look at the rock formations. Lumpy, rich sediment, like a slow pour of ice. So many signs of volcanic activity, but Aemond doesn't remember seeing any volcanoes on the way in, and so perhaps it lies dormant beneath the ground as is the case in Winterfell? Or, perhaps there was some great event a long time ago, and it's all dried up since? But no, surely an event of such magnitude would've crushed the canyon walls or filled the space between. Wouldn't it?

Aemond's thinking he doesn’t know enough about geology. He's thinking it's time to procure another book.

"Want to sleep in there?" Luke points out something that appears to be an old watchtower. It's carved entirely out of black stone, including the delicate, lacey finishings around the overhang. Not a nail in sight.

"Sure," Aemond nods. The word is hardly past his lips before Luke goes running up the stairs.

He comes back down swinging his newly-freed arms. "Much better."

They descend further, further, and further still. Another corner, another passage, though one can never stray too far before coming up against one canyon wall or the other. This was a town, once. Little alleyways, roofs, doors, window ledges, even in a place like this. Bridges arc back and forth overhead. Domes and spires as well— the details are coming into view with every passing second as the sun creeps closer.

Luke yelps and darts to the side as a local denizen comes shuffling past. "Seven hells. I thought this place was supposed to be abandoned."

Well, evidently, it isn't. And for what it's worth, the books usually said that Stygai was feared and shunned by the Asshai'i, but that doesn't necessarily mean abandoned. Aemond explains all of this with great patience, more to assuage himself since he knows damn well that Luke isn't listening— he can't pull his eyes away from the hooded figures any more than Aemond can.

Cloaks, each one of them, down to the feet, making it difficult to know for certain if there's something else around their legs, perhaps? Something that might explain their odd, jittery manner of walking. And the masks, too. These cover the whole face, each painted a single solid color, shiny with lacquering. What must that feel like? To pass one's whole life in a place like this, submerged in secrecy like a fish in water?

There's a crunching sound from above, and now it's Aemond's turn to startle. It's only someone stepping out onto a balcony— three someones, actually, all tilting their masked faces upwards and outwards. It's about to happen.

Aemond shakes Luke by the shoulder in excitement. Luke laughs. "Yes, I know."

They pause in their tracks to watch it come. Gently, at first, like a hush falling over a crowded hall— and then it's time. The zenith arrives in a brilliant, soft haze. White, white, white, cleaving right down through the center of the canyon, bathing over absolutely everything. Aemond has no choice but to shield his eyes for those first few moments, and he regrets it bitterly.

When his eyes finally do adjust to this equal and opposite extreme, the first thing Aemond notices are the colors. Beautiful bands of pigment; stripes, swirls, painted along the foremost edges of everything in sight for this pure purpose. Although, stepping closer, green shimmers into purple. Purple turns into red. Red turns into blue. And it isn't some trick of the pigments— it's the light itself. This is what Aemond discovers when he glances over at Luke.

The usual brown-black of his hair is suffused with red now, puffed out around the straps of his flight goggles. His eyes are lightened to the color of amber, set into the cold ivory of his skin, so white now it's almost blue. They open comically wide as Luke gushes, "Jaehossa, ossȳngare iksā." (Gods, you're terrifying.)

He gestures vaguely at Aemond's eyes and mutters, "Daemōñe" (purple) and then, "Could you take the hair pin out?"

"Skoro syt?" (What for?)

"I only want to see. Please?"

Aemond removes his pin. Luke's hand is there combing it through with a mad giggle before Aemond can do it himself— "Jurnēs!" (Look!)— sifting the strands through his fingers right in front of Aemond's eyes as if he needs to be shown his own fucking hair, though Aemond does gasp at the sight. His hair is sparkling like diamonds, bursting with shards of color. Absurdly, Aemond feels a blush coming on.

"Vāedirys," Luke babbles again. He mainly slips into Valyrian, Aemond is learning, when he's got something particularly brain-dead to say. Vāedirys. Aemond doesn't know this one, though. Maybe it's another one of those colloquial phrases he picked up back at Dragonstone, like, remove your head from your ass, or, I know you are but what am I.

"Skorior nȳntā?" (What did you say?)

"Oh, it's um. I didn't actually mean to say that."

"Skorior nȳntā?" Aemond hates not knowing. Just fucking tell me, damn you.

"Vāedirys is a made-up creature from children's stories, you know? A siren."

"Siren." Vāedirys. New word, acquired.

"Yeah." Luke's grinning stupidly again. "Can you sing?"

Aemond scowls. "No."

"Damn." Luke only seems a little forlorn as Aemond twists his hair back once more and jabs the pin into place. That's all he gets.

"Look alive," he tells Luke. "Let's get what we've come for."

They wander over to the Ash, where they find the water greener than ever, reflecting strangely onto the canyon wall in regular, mesmerizing arcs. Aemond is seized by the urge to trace them, somehow, to draw-out all sorts of mathematical secrets. Luke crouches at the riverbank, imitating an elderly-looking robed figure in a blue mask. Perhaps the man is casting spells into the putrid water. Who's to say.

"Haha. It's almost like he can see me."

"Don't be absurd."

There are no grounds for rigor in any sort of lines which are not rectilinear, save for the perfect and blessed circle, so says the ancient school of Myrish geometers. That, Aemond muses as he continues to study the arcs of light, is truly absurd. Cowardly, even.

"Oh. Um. Aemond?"

"Hmm."

"Aemond, tolvyssy īlō hūndesi." (Aemond, everyone's looking at us.)

Time almost stops as Aemond's stomach clenches, then turns to stone. He twists, slowly, carefully, and realizes that Luke is right. Every masked face in every window, every doorway, is turned in their direction. Red, yellow, purple, green, all uniform in their absence of expression.

Aemond's head is a hollow pit. He cannot think besides, this isn't happening.

This cannot be right.

There's been a mistake.

Aemond is dead.

They both are.

From behind comes Luke's nervous giggle. "Hello there," he says, and time resumes.

The one in the blue mask is rising to his feet, shuffling forward. Luke waves.

"Lucerys," Aemond hisses. "Don't."

Blue Mask reaches out, long, spider-like fingers grasping for Luke's face, and Aemond yanks him back by the collar. "We're leaving, right now."

For once in his idiotic, bastard existence, Luke doesn't argue.

They walk at a brisk pace at first. Blue Mask follows, shuffling along behind them. Aemond can't tell if he's capable of moving faster, but he doesn't want to wait to find out. Seven hells, this was stupid. Where is Vhagar? Where is Arrax? Why did they ever leave the dragons so far behind?

An hour ago, Stygai had seemed no larger than a mid-sized market town. Now, though? With how deep they've come, so fucking far from the paved road and the colossal city doors, it might as well be all of Volantis laid out at their feet. They keep moving, silent with panic, and as they do, more masked figures start to poke their heads out of little windows and crevices. Then they begin shuffling down to the passageway as well. None of them are moving any faster than the first one. But soon, Aemond realizes, the sun will be gone.

It's crossed the width of the canyon already. There's barely a razor's edge of space left between the sun's circle and the heavy black cliff face. Another moment later, that razor is crushed. The sun begins to wane, and the shadows loom deeper and darker, bit by bit.

"Run," is all Aemond says. Luke obeys.

They're making far too much noise. It can't be helped. They can't help making a wrong turn either, it seems— one, and then another, each costing them precious seconds that they don't fucking have. Aemond can hear Luke's breath trembling. Something pulls on the tails of Aemond's coat and he yelps like a mouse— it's only snagged on a loose bit of scaffolding, but Luke stops, the imbecile, and turns back. "Are you alright?"

In lieu of answering, Aemond grabs Luke's wrist in a crushing grip and hauls them both onward. The last thing he sees before the sun disappears for good is the moon-white of Arrax's head as he comes clambering over a low rooftop, squeezing into the alleyway to meet his rider.

Thank the gods.

Luke swings into the saddle, easy as mounting a pony, and Aemond shoves in close as well, just to get Luke clipped-in faster. But then, even once he's in tight, Luke still doesn't give Arrax the order. He turns back again instead, holding out a hand.

"Are you completely stupid? He can't carry us both."

"Come on already, we won't know unless we try."

Aemond is considering it, but then, the masked wraiths catch up at the end of the passageway and he fucking feels the precise moment when they all catch sight of Arrax. They scuttle forward faster now, practically falling over one another, hissing and chittering in excitement. Oh, no.

Dragons. They want dragons.

In a haze, Aemond recalls a particularly impassioned sidebar in one of his history books back in King's Landing, some long-dead scholar's insistence that although he could not say what had caused the Doom of Valyria, he was all but certain that the same event had happened once before. In the fucking Shadowlands.

"Oh, yne morghot ojenillās." (Oh, fuck me dead.)

"Aemond?" Luke holds his hand out.

"Not now! Get him out of reach!"

Luke's furious expression comes through even in the dark. "I'm not leaving without you!"

"Then don't," Aemond agrees, "Just give me light."

Aemond draws his sword and marches on, trying to keep from tripping on the winding path, bit by bit— stupid, stupid, stupid— all the while, Arrax crawls laterally along the canyon wall, ten paces or so above Aemond's head, flapping at times from one wall to the other.

"Dracarys," Luke calls out, every few seconds. Arrax's flames come in a great, red bloom, lasting just long enough for Aemond to take measure of the next stretch of passageway. Then all goes dark once more and he covers ground, heart pounding in his ears.

"Dracarys."

Aemond risks a glance back that time. Are they coming close?

"Dracarys."

Another glance shows him that they are. While incapable of running, it seems the wraiths aren't hindered by the dark. Unlike Aemond.

"Dracarys. What are you looking back for?"

He's looking back because he swears there are far more of them now than there were when—

"Dracarys. I could try to hit them."

Something in Aemond's gut says that would be a very, very bad idea. "No, don't."

"Dracarys. Are you certain?"

"Don't."

"Dracarys. Aemond, I don't like this."

"Neither do I. Shut up."

Nearly there. The rush of the river grows louder, the canyon space wider, and the passageway smoother underfoot. So, so close.

"Dracarys."

Flat, straight corridor up ahead. Aemond breaks into a blind sprint. Arrax launches off the wall again, white shadow swooping over and above.

Nearly there.

"Dracarys."

Something moves in the distance.

An immense wing, unfolding.

It's Aemond's turn now.

"Dracarys!"

His voice carries all the way down while his feet continue driving hard against the pavement for one breath, two, three, four, five— and then the command reaches Vhagar.

She cranes her head straight up and sets the fire loose, spilling into the canyon like a scorching, hellish flood. Once, Aemond had needed a whole moon turn to come up with the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. In a single instant now, he knows.

"Sȳres riña," he gasps. (Good girl.)

Like a singer holding a note, Vhagar lights that single, unbroken flame for as long as she can. A thick current of heat bursts outwards, blistering, suffocating, and Aemond runs headlong into it. Further behind, the wraiths catch sight of her as well. One of the nasty fucks even squeals in delight, and Aemond has to suppress the urge to turn back, to set about cleaving heads from shoulders. She's mine!

Overhead, Luke gives Arrax the order once more, just as Vhagar's fire is going out. She screams, urging him along.

I know, I know. I'm coming.

When he reaches her, Vhagar bends as low as she can. Even so— and even though Aemond could make this climb with no eyes at all by muscle memory alone— it's never felt so long, not since the night he claimed her.

The reins in his hands feel like a miracle. "Sōvēs," (Fly) Aemond tells her.

And Vhagar tries.

She turns to face the doors at the far end of the road and gets a running start. It goes on for far longer than it should, Aemond knows it in his bones. He knows the rhythm of her flight and it takes twelve heartbeats, or four hard breaths, or eight hard strides to get them into the air, but not this time. Somehow, even though this road is several times the length of the landing strip back at Rhaenys's house in Dorne, Vhagar begins to run out of space.

She stretches her wings out as wide as they can go, stubborn as ever. Even beats them against the ground as if that might be enough to turn the stone into air— air— because the air isn't flowing right. The canyon is too narrow. Vhagar is too big, too determined, and she's going to break herself on Stygai's doors if Aemond doesn't do something.

"Lurūs!" (Fold!)

He pulls back on her reins, harder than he's ever done before, and Vhagar roars with effort, folding her wings back in, twisting sideways just in time to avoid a head-on collision. Instead, she hits the foot of the door with the whole left side of her body.

Aemond is thrown so hard in the saddle that he hears— then feels— the bones in his hip splintering apart. The fractures break to their widest, then fuse back together. Aemond screams the whole way through. He hasn't felt such immense agony in years, not since he took three feet of Valyrian steel through his brain. Judging by her shrill lament, Vhagar feels similarly.

Up ahead, beyond the gap in the door as well as the film of his own tears, Aemond can see Arrax's pale wings flapping their way to freedom above the roaring current of the Ash with no trouble at all. Luke hasn't yet noticed that Vhagar is trapped. But he will and he'll circle back when he does, and if he's not paying attention— if he flies too low— fucking hell, Aemond doesn't have time to worry about that right now. The road is buzzing with cloaked figures now, hard glossy faces shining far below like beetle shells.

Vhagar steadies herself on her feet once more. This time, Aemond steers her directly toward the canyon wall.

"Hepās!" (Climb!)

He's never told her to do that before. He's not even sure that she can. He can feel her fear, it's seeping through their bond like tar, but she obeys the command. Vhagar gets one set of claws anchored on the cliff face, then the other. Her back legs find purchase and she starts to work her way up, slowly, painfully, aiming for the promise of the sky.

"Aemond!" Luke's voice, and then a gust of wind just behind, where Arrax is flapping like mad in mid-air.

"I can't take off, she's too big," Aemond calls back. It comes out graver than he meant it to.

Luke says something to Arrax that Aemond doesn't catch, the wind shifts again, and there's a thud of impact on the cliff face. Arrax has landed, just above Vhagar. He chirps down at her. She responds. Aemond can't work out what the hell is going on, until Arrax starts climbing too, and then he gets it. He's showing her how it's done— yes, of course, Arrax does this all the time— and sure enough, Vhagar is learning.

When they reach the top of the wall, Vhagar manages a few short, limping steps over the uneven terrain before her muscles give out. Over on their right, Arrax is faring better, though not by much. Aemond doesn't want to think it, doesn't want to say it aloud and risk tempting fate, but—

"We made it," Luke sighs, and Aemond knows he's right, despite the cold terror lingering in the back of his throat. Arrax grumbles and Aemond watches as Luke dismounts to let him rest. Right, because Luke's weight on his back really does make that much of a difference. Luke shuffles on his knees in front of his brave little dragon so that Arrax can lay his head in his lap.

Later, after Aemond's legs have quit feeling like lead, after he's made his way down from the saddle, he joins them. They rest together on the jagged, twisted rock forms, all four of them, shocked beneath the foreboding purple fog. The Shadowlands have changed not one bit since the morning. Heavy and dark and yes, laid so deep with illness. Lord Corlys was right all along. The very sky seems to say, I told you so.

"Oh no," Luke mutters in a small voice. "The blankets."

Aemond stares at him in disbelief for a long moment, but Luke is so sincere, and so Aemond promises. "We'll get new ones."

"Uh-huh. I want nice ones."

"Nice ones, then. You know, in Mossovy they weave them from the softest wool, coated in thin wax. All manner of colors."

"Yes," Luke nods. "Let's do that."

"Luke?"

"Mmm."

"Thank you."

"Yeah. You're welcome."

Hours pass. The dragons need time to recover. Vhagar, especially. There will be no lying down on terrain such as this, and so Aemond's forehead finds its way onto Luke's shoulder instead. The pulse there beats like a gentle chord.

"We can't stay here," Luke murmurs after a long while. He's staring at the canyon's edge, eyes wide, half-dazed.

"No," Aemond agrees. "We can't."

And yet when he makes to stand, he finds Luke clinging hard to his wrist. Payback, Aemond supposes. Understanding passes without a word. I'm staying with you.

Taking to the air has never felt quite like this.

Relief thrums in Aemond's veins like liquor. Even the harshest wind is welcome. He tells Vhagar, "Jinqi. Jelmor-endia. Ūjā rūnā, kessa?" (Jinqi. North-west. You remember it, yes?) Of course she does. That's all she needs to hear. Still, Aemond keeps talking to her.

"Geron bōson issa, gīmin." (It's a long way, I know.)

"Nākostōbys iksō." (You must be tired.)

"Kirimvose, ñuhys raqiros." (Thank you, my friend.)

They leave the mountains behind, and the ghost grass, and the rocky shoreline. The salty scent of the ocean rises to meet them and when it does, Luke's weight sags against Aemond's back, though his arms remain wrapped tight around Aemond's waist. He would turn to check for Arrax out of habit more than anything, but it's alright. Arrax is there. Where else would he go?

Aemond's eyes fall shut. Sleep finds him with his arms folded across the grips of the saddle and Luke draped warm over his back.

𓏵

The first and only other time Aemond visited Jinqi, he'd stuck to the fortifications and siege engines on the east side of the city, wanting mainly to know how their armies fared, how their commanders vied for power, and so on. That is, he hadn’t seen any of this. Luke leads the way into the heart of the city, as if by habit. There they find the harbor, the lush palace gardens, throngs of pole-boats up and down the river delta.

None of it seems to reach Luke, at first. His keeps to their spot on the footbridge, stroking Arrax's chin, fog still in his eyes. His hands stay clenched tight in his lap. But Jinqi is everything that Stygai wasn't, full of life— ordinary life— color and music, and Luke thaws in it. Little by little, the fog burns off, and Aemond cannot bring himself to suggest that they go anywhere else. He'll happily remain for as long as they need.

They stay long enough that the full moon comes round again, and it’s Luke's turn this time. He spends ages in thought and almost forgets to actually tie the ribbon, but he gets there. The question comes, and when it does, Luke's voice is steady. "Were they like us, once?"

If it was Aemond's turn, he would've asked the same. In Luke's eyes, though he was the one to ask the question, Aemond can see the answer.

"Yes."

Luke chews on his lip. "Alright," he mutters, and then, "Can we… I know I'm not supposed to tell you what to ask, but…"

"I'll ask something else next time." Meaning Aemond won't ask the rest of them— any of them.

Luke's warmth returns with each passing day, and all memory of Stygai becomes nothing more than a bad dream. He drags Aemond by the hand, into grand theaters, tea houses, monasteries filled with fragrant smoke, then night markets underground where he shoves palm-sized morsels at Aemond and demands, "Here, eat this." ("What's in it?" "Don't worry about that. Eat it.") Until at last, one evening when it seems the entire city has come to gather on the delta, waiting for dark, and Luke can hardly contain himself.

Aemond leans forward on the terrace rail beside him, hands clasped. "Won another war, have they?"

Luke gives a shrug. "I don't know. Is that important?"

"Is that impor— yes!"

"Wow," Luke giggles, "Apologies."

Aemond opens his mouth to say something else— and then the sky splits right open.

Lightning. No, blue dragonfire. No, an enormous flower made of flames, blooming a mile wide it looks like, in a single instant. The echoing crack follows seconds later. Aemond has barely recovered from the first one, and then comes the second. Red. And then a third, yellow. Pink, green, purple, blue again. It's beautiful.

"See?" Luke whispers. "I told you."

Yes, he did.

"No wonder the Valyrians never tried their luck here," Aemond thinks aloud as great showers of sparks come raining down, and Luke groans.

"Shut up, Aemond, you're ruining it."

Yi Ti has not won another war, as becomes clear over the following days. Rather, the magical black-powder display was simply the beginning of a long, loud, and vibrant festival in honor of a goddess— or is it two goddesses? Aemond still hasn't worked it out by the end of the first week, to great frustration.

In any case, there is much to see, hear, taste, and get lost in. The streets are showered with red and orange petals. Paper lanterns float above the river like dandelion seeds, and among them, a wonderfully carved boat in the shape of a dragon, bearing a striking resemblance to Caraxes. It just needs to have its nose smashed-in on one side, Luke teases, and Aemond laughs.

They find Vermax next, scales etched out of jasper and jade, spanning the length of the stone archway above the spice market. A tiny Tessarion, serving as the handle of a teacup between the dainty fingers of a highborn lady, and there on her skirts, dozens of silk-thread Syraxes. "Morning," Luke says, pointing out one made of pink gossamer, held aloft on poles, lit from within by candlelight. A team of four are carrying it through the streets, slowly, lest the flames catch.

Aemond says, "Who?"

Luke stares at him like he's stupid. "Morning. Rhaena's dragon."

"Rhaena had no dragon."

"Hah. That's what you lot thought."

Luke says it and goes wandering off after the pink dragon, leaving Aemond to wrack his brains for a moment and then chase him down, demanding to know more, right now.

The pink dragon leads them up through the noble district where, oddly enough, the festivities only become more boisterous. Out in the street, on makeshift stages in pools of torchlight, actors deliver soliloquies. Acrobats bend themselves inside-out and upside-down. A woman flings daggers at her blindfolded partner, who catches them between the slats of her wooden hand-fan.

Something happens, then. Either they've stepped into a different sort of street, or a different sort of late hour, or perhaps neither is true; because although Aemond balks at the sight of this particular exhibition, the living people around them react with such casual bemusement, one would never guess that the performers were fucking. Which they are. Openly.

There's nothing especially novel or deviant about it either. Just a man, sitting cross-legged, naked, with a woman astride his lap. If anything, the spectacle lies in the utter rapture the two seem to be deriving from their coupling. Impressive, a bit grating even, and nothing Aemond hasn't seen before, though he wasn't expecting to bump into it like this. They weave through the crowd. They continue on their way. Luke glances back a few times and tries to seem like he isn't. It's almost painful to witness.

Aemond sighs. "Stop thinking so loud."

"Sorry."

They wander onwards through the streets because that's what they always do. It's nice and it's fun and when they've had enough they'll make their bed or call for their dragons. But it happens again— they stumble upon another exhibit, and Aemond knows because he hears Luke's sharp inhale first. Two men, this time. One is bent over on his knees, legs spread wide open, moaning in ecstasy while the other licks him from balls to tailbone and back. (Aemond breathes slow, remembering.) At his shoulder, Luke scoffs. "Seven hells. It can't possibly feel that good."

Aemond looks at him sideways.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Aemond tries not to think too hard about what he's doing when he routes them around the corner, and then around the next one, and then the next, until they're right back at that same crossing, on the other side of the whole display.

By now, the man at the rear has replaced his tongue with his cock. They've arrived just in time to watch as he picks up the pace, rolling his hips at an angle that has his partner shuddering, eyes rolling back. The air is filled with the sound of their bodies smacking together, both of their voices pitched with pure, unmistakable pleasure because it does feel that good, apparently. Luke is quiet and sullen after that.

The garden seems a decent place to rest for the night.

There are guards at the front of the manse that they breeze right past, a hulking iron gate that they push right through.

Night flowers are blooming. There's a grove of trees in the center, growing out of soft earth. They both know without negotiation that this is going to be the spot.

Luke takes the bed roll off its strap and Aemond removes his coat, folding it up to make a pillow wide enough for two. One blanket on the bottom, one on the top. Just as always. Aemond removes his hair pin, shakes everything loose, and tucks in next to Luke. The moon is a slim waxing crescent, far from full. There will be no tying of the ribbon tonight, but Aemond still asks the question.

"You've never had sex, have you?"

Luke tenses up like he was expecting this. "No. I haven't."

That's the answer Aemond expected, and yet it brings on another novel facet of the same old guilt. He'd killed Luke thoughtlessly and mercilessly, taken him from his mother and brothers, started a war that all but toppled their family from power, reduced dragons to mere memories— and— Luke had died a virgin.

To be pedantic, Aemond himself hadn't been a virgin any longer at fourteen. But he knows he would've been, if only he'd had his way.

"I'm not a child," Luke tells the air.

He's not. He's an old man, in fact, by many standards. Perhaps he'd even be a grandfather by now if he'd lived. And yet his face is still flushed with youth, his frame lanky with unfinished growth, and his voice, though lowered, will never lose the awkward lilt of not-quite-manhood. For the second time in as many minutes, Aemond is caught up in a new angle of his guilt. He would apologise again, but Luke would just brush it off as he always does. Instead, Aemond says, "Do you want to?"

He hopes his meaning is plain enough.

Luke laughs. "What, you mean to take pity on me, is that it?"

No. Yes. Maybe. Not entirely. Aemond begins to sift through what else is there for him, besides the pity, besides the guilt, and finds… curiosity.

"It can feel quite nice," he says, dodging into a new track altogether.

"So I'm given to understand." Luke shifts around on the blanket. Somewhere close by, a cricket commences chirping. "Was it… quite nice for you?"

"Yes," Aemond answers truthfully. "Though not always."

"Why not?"

"It's… difficult to explain."

Luke waits.

"At times, it was as if… as if my body was there, in the act, but my mind was elsewhere."

"Because you didn't want it?"

"No."

"Why did you do it then, if you didn't want it?"

"I don't know. I suppose it seemed easier to get it over with than to refuse."

Luke makes a sad noise when he hears that.

"I wasn't forced," Aemond says quickly. "It wasn't… violent."

"That's good, at least."

"Mm."

"What was it like, when you… when you did want it?"

Aemond thinks of that night at Harrenhal, the first time Alys ever had her way with him. Even now, beyond death, Aemond blushes when he remembers the… the noises he'd heard coming out of his own mouth. How he'd begged and wept for more, how his whole body had thrummed pleasantly for hours. "Fucking amazing."

"I see." Luke's looking at him funny again.

"What?"

"Fucking amazing," he echoes, and goes on. "It's stupid. I used to imagine, if the dragons hadn't gotten so small and sickly, and if there'd been more riders, that perhaps one day there would come a… a girl. My own age. And that perhaps she might… like me."

"Hm. You imagined this often?"

"I know it's stupid."

"I didn't say it was stupid." The next few heartbeats pass in silence. "So only girls, then."

Luke blurts out, "No." And then, "Please don't say what you're about to say."

"Oh? What am I about to say?"

"That I… that in some respects, I am Laenor's son after all."

"I wasn't going to say that." Though he probably would've, a lifetime ago. As it happens, Aemond has already propositioned Luke first— a fact that Luke has seemingly forgotten.

He sounds so painfully shy when he asks, "What about you? Girls, or…?"

Indeed. Or.

Aemond has known this about himself ever since he watched Daemon take a man's head off in broad daylight, right in the middle of a crowded throne room, and get away with it. (And for what it's worth, Aemond's never once liked girls. He prefers women. Shrewd of gaze and rich of voice, a figure filled and softened by childbearing, not that that's any of Luke's business.)

Rather than answer the immediate question, Aemond turns his head to meet Luke's eyes— wide and unsure and yet so trusting— and re-poses the earlier one. "You want to?"

"How?" Luke replies, a bit too fast. "I mean. Let's say I did want to. For the sake of argument."

"Sure. For the sake of argument." Inconspicuous.

"Right. Um. How would we?"

"Well, there isn't just one way. So I suppose we'd have to decide."

Luke is squirming like a bug over there.

"Skorverdon?" (How many?)

"…What."

"Skorverdon ziksossi ilzi?" (How many ways are there?)

"Lucerys."

"Mmh. Y-Yes, alright."

"Yes, you want to?"

"I want to." Then a nervous giggle. "You're not going to lick my bum, are you?"

Aemond could be convinced, if Luke decided that was what he wanted. Sounds like he doesn't though, so Aemond says, "No."

Let me give this to you. I'll make it good, I promise.

It is, in many respects, the simplest way. The least daunting. Luke's never had sex before, but he wants it now, and so Aemond is going to give him something warm and tight to fuck into.

"So, I just… like this?"

"Mm-hm."

"Alright."

Luke is lying on top of him in a funny reversal of their usual cuddling arrangement, both of their breeches pulled down just far enough to expose the necessary points of interest. Luke's cock, as well as the space between Aemond's inner thighs, tensed together with effort. This might've been easier if Aemond weren't so skinny, so fucking bony and sparse. Gods.

At least Luke doesn't appear to have any objections. He's already decently hard. Dripping with readiness, actually. Aemond's not, and he's still covered beneath the hemline of his shirt, but that seems for the best.

Like this, Luke is able to push down into the softest part. Aemond shivers at the feeling. He's never done this particular act before, and is quickly learning that he's far more sensitive there than he ever would've imagined.

"Mm," Luke mutters. "No, this isn't–" he shakes his head, down where Aemond can't meet his eyes.

"No?"

"Sorry, I think I n-need– I want–" he looks up at Aemond then, so earnest. "Can we do it with our clothes off? Please?"

Oh.

Aemond nods after a moment, feeling a bit stunned.

Luke rolls off, just long enough to strip, and Aemond's moving far too slowly. He realizes this when a very eager and very, very naked Luke climbs right into his lap half a minute later, fingers going for the button at Aemond's still-clothed collar. His shirt comes off and Luke is staring openly at him with interest, with hunger, and Aemond is left reeling again. Oh. Because it's so odd. He wants me.

Then Luke nudges at Aemond's chest, trying to get him to lie back again, but—

"Wait, one more thing."

Luke huffs, impatient, but he sits still and watches while Aemond spits onto his own fingertips and wipes the saliva into the space between his thighs. Then a bit more for good measure. Then he lies back and crosses his legs at the ankles for better hold.

"Try it again."

This time, Luke pushes back in and melts against Aemond, gasping and panting straight from the go. He looks up at Aemond with a shocked expression— what's happening to me— even as his hips continue to move. Mind caught, but his body knows what to do. It's an old, old impulse. Urging Luke's hips forward, shivering up his spine, stuttering out of his mouth in the form of a shy little moan, and it doesn't stop there.

It catches, like fire. Something so wild, and Luke can't be bothered to fight it.

No, he's letting it happen.

Aemond can't get his head around it, until he can, because it feels good being naked like this, feeling the heat build between them. Luke squirms into it with his whole body and with every roll of his hips comes the hot, hard jab of his cock.

In his head, Aemond's thinking, I want you inside me.

Out loud, he asks, "Good?"

"So good," Luke nods, brow pressed to Aemond's collarbone. Rutting back and forth in a wet slide. "I– I– yes, I think I u-underst-tand now. Ohhh. M-makes sense." Aemond smirks and when he rolls his hips up into it, Luke groans harshly and then tries to apologize. "S-Sorry. I can't h-help it."

"It's alright. That tends to happen."

"I know, I'm not– fuck– I'm not s-stupid, but it's d-different w-when…"

"When it's yourself, yes."

"Uh-huuhh."

Aemond wraps his arms around Luke properly and hauls him up a little higher so he can stick his nose in Luke's hair, hold him tight while he squirms, and that brings out the sweetest noises yet.

"Oh, gods–" he whines. "Aemond, you feel so good."

"I know."

Luke's starting to twitch down there, Aemond can feel it. That and his heart, pumping so heavily. His knees splay open wider, bracing for leverage on the ground so he can fuck Aemond's lap harder, faster. Aemond realizes with a jolt that his own cock has become very, very interested. When Luke moans again, sounding so wrecked, it's all Aemond can do not to squirm back. "Aemond, please."

"Ūjā dāeremās." (Let it out.)

At that, Luke whimpers helplessly, thrusts turning ragged. Aemond re-adjusts because he needs to see Luke's face— needs to know— just in case Luke decides after this that once was plenty, but Luke has other ideas. He surges forward and kisses Aemond full on the mouth just as he's reaching completion, pouring a truly filthy noise right down his throat.

(Once, Aemond had needed a whole moon turn. Then, in a single instant, he thought he knew. Now, he knows that he was wrong.)

Luke is damn-near glowing. Lying spent and shivering on Aemond's chest, now that Aemond's thighs are thoroughly marked with his pleasure. "Fuck," he sighs, and Aemond is. So hard. It actually hurts. He's trapped between both of their stomachs and with Luke gone soft and pliant now, the difference is throbbingly obvious.

Aemond is going to deposit Luke as gently as he can, and then he's going to make some excuse, hide away, rub it out himself. That's the plan. It goes to the wind when Luke notices. All red-cheeked and open-mouthed about it, even as sated as he already is.

"Mmm, I know this," he purrs. Before Aemond can do anything about it, Luke licks his hand wet, reaches down, and gets him in a sure, clever grip, oh mercy. Aemond hasn't been touched by another in so long. Luke knows what the fuck he's doing. Aemond throws his head back, tries to hold on for dear life, and still, barely five strokes in— "Ahh, wait—!"

Luke pulls a spine-tingling orgasm right out of him before he even knows which way is up. Aemond moans until he's run out of air. It's frankly fucking rude, the way Luke asks, "Good?"

So good, so good.

Aemond sobs for breath and nods. He's still seeing fucking spots.

Eventually, they're going to have to move. They've made such a mess. But for now they lie together, not a stitch between them, panting and quivering with the aftershocks. Every few heartbeats, Luke's right leg spasms. He nuzzles into Aemond's chest like a cat, then demands to be kissed again, and Aemond gladly obliges.

Luke has more than one lifetime of energy to work out. He wants it again in the middle of the night and again in the morning— Aemond is on his back with his legs open that time ("it's not going to fit–" "–it will, if you try pushing down instead–"), and before the sun has fully set the following evening, there they are, having obtained a little vial of something more effectual than spit, fucking noisily on some poor astronomer's rooftop.

"Like that, hahh, it's so good like th-that, d-don't change a-anything—"

"Bossy."

"You sh-shut up, oh, kessa—" (yes) "I'm a-about to—"

Whatever this is that's grown between them in the last eleven years, it bends with new purpose, tilts into high speed. Every bit as inexplicable as before. And now, Aemond sees, inevitable. He finds himself fiercely protective of it.

He finds himself dragging his tongue all along Luke's pale throat, rocking their hips together, still chasing him down. It's not long before Aemond panics, because if they continue at this rate, soon they won't be able to do anything else. He conveys this to Luke— shuts his mouth and chokes a moment later once he realizes what he's said.

"Alright," Luke nods. His pupils are blown so wide. His voice is cracked from use. "Just. Um. Let me know whenever you want it again, yeah?"

Whenever Aemond wants. Gods.

"I will."

He's not ready when the full moon comes again. He's in no mood to ask this time— what he wants is to confess. (It's new for me, too. I've never had this. I'm as green as you are. It's never felt like this.)

Aemond can only think of one question, and the problem is that he knows he shouldn't ask it yet. It's too soon. But the ribbon is in his hand and his wits have left him high and dry.

He asks, "When… at what point was it always going to happen?"

That particular phrasing seems to resonate with Luke, Aemond watches it flicker in his expression. He has an answer, a fast one, but then he scrunches his nose up and frowns, thinking harder.

The moon tonight shines a deep blue. From within the quiet little monastery, stray wisps of smoke drift out onto the terrace, sinking into Luke's hair, his skin, the fabric of his clothes— he's solid enough for that, if not enough to be held fast by walls. In another week or so, they'll need to go and haunt the local wash house.

At last, Luke cocks his head, a sly smile growing on his lips. "Do you remember that first night, when you came to find Rhaenys? And she wasn't there?"

"I— of course."

"And you fell on your ass."

"Fuck. Truly?"

"Yes." The look he's giving Aemond now is almost evil, rife with conviction. "That's when."

Chapter Text

[56 AC]

Quicksilver has known wild things.

In the woodlands and the great tumbling mountains beyond the straight-walled nests where Quicksilver was raised, they have called out to her. Fearsome firebreather, they used to utter in pitiful, trembling voices, Great white terror from above, how could you let them tame you so? Have you no pride? Throw off those reins. Rend them with your teeth. Set your fire where you please, they urged her, for this was what they imagined they might do if only they had wings like hers, for they could not understand that Quicksilver was born to wear a saddle.

She never gave them the satisfaction of reply, but she wondered, would they ever see? Did they ever watch as her rider sang some brilliant word, mere twitterings at first, until Quicksilver beat her wings and made it real?

Higher, her master says, and Quicksilver soars right up through the clouds.

Follow, her master says, and all other cares dissolve, giving way to glorious clarity.

Faster, her master says, and this is the sweetest word of all.

Quicksilver is nothing if not fast. Even in her final moments of life— after flying for hours, days past her last meal, chest raw and smouldering from another’s fire, blood pouring from what remained of her tail— even then, Quicksilver was fast.

Here, now, it has been weeks since she's felt the ground beneath her feet.

Still, Quicksilver is fast. She must be. The air is dense and dark with smoke. She bends, turning with the hard lines of her master's reins, east, then south, then west, then north, then east again, on and on in a dizzying spin, orbiting around the angriest cloud Quicksilver has ever seen, filled with the wildest creatures she has ever met.

Closer, her master tells her and Quicksilver tries. Until one of those wild-things comes lunging out, jaws screeching, raining blood. They never catch her, of course. Quicksilver is too fast for that.

Let me help you, another voice says. Meraxes, it is— and not for the first time. Quicksilver can feel the beat of those much-larger wings at her side. Slower, indeed, but stronger and steadier. She can hear Meraxes's mistress, shouting Aegon, Aegon.

Quicksilver's master moves on her back. He digs in his heels and bends himself lower. No words, but Quicksilver knows what he asks of her. And she is ready as ever to heed him. Faster.

She beats her wings, carves her way through the wind, and leaves Meraxes behind.

They've been at this for weeks.

They've been at this for years.

Her master is waiting for something. This is a strange sort of hunt. On and on they fly, even in the dark, even in the rain, and she learns that the only constant things now are the smoke in her eyes, the screaming wild-things at her tail, and her master's words in her ear. Lovely, brilliant, beautiful words, even if she cannot understand them all.

Where are you, her master says, and it's alright. Quicksilver is clever, too. She knows these words aren't meant for her.

Sweet baby.

I'm right here.

You're almost there.

You're almost there.

If Quicksilver could speak, she would say, I'm sorry.

She doesn't like to fail. Failure makes her want to slip her skin. But she can only hold out for so long. The sound of her master's voice crying in despair, thinning into nothingness as sleep finally catches them— taking him in the same instant as it takes her— this is the worst sound in the whole world. Quicksilver wants to burn in her own shame. Instead, she crashes headlong into the sea.

Now comes the drowning.

Quicksilver wonders what it might mean to be good at drowning. If she knew, she would learn it.

Her lungs fill to the brim with water and salt, her fire goes cold, her wings are no better than limp, tattered flags, but it's alright in the end. Quicksilver is dead already. She can drown again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again, until the water lifts her, or Meraxes does.

Quicksilver does not know what might happen if Meraxes were to drown as well. She wouldn't much like to find out. Meraxes's teeth scrape against her scales as she drags them by the harness, up onto the soft, slippery land, and Quicksilver tells her, I'm sorry, good friend. I've not yet learned to make myself lighter.

Meraxes turns Quicksilver onto her belly. She even lends some of her fire. She always knows just what to say.

You've done well.

Quicksilver's wings shiver. Have I really?

You have. Look, your master returns to you.

Meraxes is right. Quicksilver's master comes crawling. From the moment his hand touches the footholds, with every spasming step closer to his place in her saddle, she feels her heart swell with pride. She feels her fire beginning to simmer once more.

Then the reins pull tight and Quicksilver is ready, though she's never been so exhausted. Two years, it's been. She's never hunted anything for two full years. She tries to imagine what sort of prize might await them at the end of it all. A handsome mate? Or perhaps a great big fish? If she's fast enough this time, perhaps she'll get to find out. Whatever it is her master has been after so adamantly.

Quicksilver will catch it this time.

𓏵

[179 AC]

You know you're too rich when your cellar has its own cellar, Luke muses with a sigh.

And if you're going to hide the second one behind a secret doorway built into the rear wall of the first one, you'd do well to fashion the latch mechanism out of something less conspicious than a bright green hunk of crystal. It’s a shame that Luke isn’t able to use the secret doorway as intended, though. This green crystal must make an especially satisfying series of clicking sounds when pulled all the way back. Fucking magisters. Fucking Pentos.

Luke steps across the wall and into the hidden cellar, lit candle in hand. On the dusty shelves, he finds hardwood chests varnished so well they shine like glass and beside them, painted ivory cabinets bearing rows and rows of tiny drawers, crystal bulbs filled with liquor, perfume, poison. The bulk of the space below is taken up by four tightly-sealed casks— the true reason for this hidden cellar, no doubt. Luke takes note of the rag soaked in rose oil laid over top to conceal the smell of whatever lies within, wondering if it might be a dismembered corpse. (It's happened before. Luke's run across them in attics and wardrobes, beneath the floorboards of the handsomest manors.)

But he's come in search of a gift for Rhaenys, and so Luke turns his attention back to the delicate rows of ivory drawers. Something perfect, if he can find it. Something that says, "I'm sorry I disappeared on you for thirty years."

And he has. It's been thirty years. Six ribbons knotted all the way down. Luke might be the lousiest adoptive son who ever lived. Who ever died. Same difference.

Please don't be angry, please.

Rather than opening each drawer individually, Luke shoves his hand right through, feeling without taking hold. Combing through the contents until he finds something good. Coffee beans. Chocolates. Vials of firewine. Canisters of rare spices. No, no, no, and no. Little pastries stuffed with candied nuts, rolled up in spun sugar, cut into the shapes of birds' nests? Luke considers it, but then he glides on over to the next row where he finds the incense. Meticulously bundled, each kind in its own separate drawer.

Luke shoves his nose through as well to investigate, and sure enough, he’s in luck. The resin from the afazhoy tree has a scent that is both deep and crisp, smoky yet sparkling clean. The tree cannot be found anywhere in Westeros. It’s perfect. Luke snags a few sticks from the bundle, wraps them in a scrap of velvet and tucks them into his pocket. He turns to leave, mission completed, only to find himself hesitating as his eyes fall once more upon the mysterious casks.

He shouldn't, he knows. It's almost never worth it.

But Luke is feeling curious, and he can always boil his skin right off afterwards to get clean if it comes to that, and so he draws a breath. Presses his focus hard into his fingertips, and slips right through the top of the cask, feeling. His fingers come out dripping, cold, and blue. Luke sniffs that as well, gags, and confirms his suspicions. Shade of the Evening. Vile stuff. Perhaps a corpse would've been better.

On his way out (after wiping the remains of the stinking blue horror off his hand), Luke spots the baskets of dried dates sitting innocently on a table in the kitchens and swipes a handful of those, too. Rhaenys has her reservations about taking food from the living, but these aren't for her. They're for someone else.

Luke ambles across the kitchen wall into the corridor, then out through a flimsy pane of glass towards the inner gardens. The morning sun has risen a touch higher since he went in. Good, clear light grows even warmer on the golden stones of Pentos's ancient square towers beyond. Thin plumes of smoke rise from the temples, sea birds cry out. A voice, far away and half asleep, echoes on the breeze. Rhaena was born in this place.

Did she ever make it back? Had the city changed much, Luke wonders, or was it just as she remembered?

Pentos used to make him nervous for no good reason at all. (It still does.) Perhaps it was because of his mother, her promise that they would go together one day, "soon, when there’s time." After Arrax had grown a little bigger, after she claimed her throne, after Luke married Rhaena and claimed his. Or perhaps it's the sound of the Common Tongue being spoken in the streets. Compared with the silence of Ifequevron, the thousand bastard dialects of Valyrian, the harsh notes of Dothraki, and the oddly-graceful tonal shifts in Yi Ti— it feels so strange, now— to be able to understand the speech of the living.

It tells Luke only that he's getting closer. That he's returning at last.

In these sprawling gardens, green hedges shimmer with dewdrops. Cottonwoods drift like snow, collecting at the feet of marble statues. Water sings in the fountains. Luke climbs a long, winding stair to reach the balcony spanning the length of the ballroom within, where he spies Aemond first through the watery glass.

He's sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the window, head ducked down, long tendrils of hair still wet from the bath. In his lap is a pile of brown leather. Luke's beaten, torn, sorry excuse for a riding coat. Aemond's right hand lifts every few moments as he pulls the thread. Luke would step right through this window too, but Aemond is holding a needle presently. So he won't. Instead, he enters through the vestibule on the left and makes his way round, fishing a date out of his pocket and biting it in half as he goes.

The ballroom is empty and idle, the furnishings all pushed to one wall. Great crystal fixtures still hang overhead though, sparkling in the space beneath the high ceiling like icicles. Aemond is here only because the light in this room is best, sure. No other reason. With the carved finishings all painted so white, silvery pearl laid into the floor, Aemond himself fits right in.

Luke knows Aemond can hear him as he approaches, even if he hasn't looked up yet. There's the sound of the needle poking, thread pulling. A lock of pale hair slips from Aemond's shoulder and Luke sucks hard on the date in his mouth. He thinks, I like you, so much. He pries the stone out of the other half and holds it out for Aemond to take between his teeth.

"Almost finished?"

Aemond chews slowly, focusing. "Hmm."

Both elbows have been patched up, the seam running up the back has been reinforced, and Aemond is working on what he insists is the last bit— replacing the lining on the inside of the collar, stained irreparably from those years Luke spent with his hair dyed bright purple. Aemond hated it. He hated it when Luke bleached it sickly-yellow, hated it even more when the purple came out all streaky and uneven, complained the whole time while he hovered behind Luke, working the pigment through in the back where Luke couldn't see. Better? Luke remembers asking. You look like a sea urchin with eyes, Aemond had replied, and then, No, don't come near me.

Luke tried not to get any purple on Aemond, truly, he did. But he couldn't help it if it ended up all over their pillows, and their blankets, and the cord of his flight goggles, and half his shirts, and so on, all of which were banished to the topmost shelf in their little hollow in Ifequevron until it was time to pack their things and head for Dorne. When that day arrived, Aemond hauled the lot of them down off the shelf, out of the hollow, and sent them to their fiery deaths. Just books and tools remain in the hollow for now, stacked high and wrapped tight.

"You've got something on your other hand." Aemond is finally looking up, needle lowered.

"Oh, this?" Luke wiggles his fingers, "It's only the true source of our fine magister's fortune, if you cared to know."

Aemond curls his lip, such pure disgust as Luke has seen exhibited by no one else. "Wash."

Luke washes. He ventures out again, this time to take his pick from the store of firewood outside the kitchens. Four more bundles should suffice. He can't imagine they'll need more than four days to reach Dorne, can't imagine they'll spend too many of those sleeping outdoors anyway, but it's best to be prepared. (They learned that lesson for the last time during a most wrathful and unexpected ice storm on the shores of the Poison Sea back in one-sixty-eight.) Vhagar is lounging in the street, sunning herself when Luke hauls the bundles over, resting her head on the grand steps of the manse with one wing half-clipped through the next block of houses.

"Rytsas, ābrāzmus," (Hey, lady) Luke greets her. Vhagar grumbles and huffs a plume of smoke in his direction.

They're almost ready. By the time Luke makes his way back to the white-and-silver ballroom, Aemond is on his feet, brushing out his hair. He points Luke to the mended riding coat draped across the window seat. Luke takes a moment with it before he tries it on, running his fingers over Aemond's rows of stitches. You're so good at this. He must have said it to Aemond countless times, and it's always the same. The furrow of Aemond's brow, the no, I'm not. He only thinks that because of Helaena, probably.

That precious cicada of hers has its own specially-sized pocket in Aemond's sturdiest saddlebag. Luke knows what it looks like. A point of ridicule, even jealousy between them— if not for Aemond's affections then for the rarity of sentiment, but Luke understands. It's why he made sure to pack the cicada himself. It's why he made sure Aemond saw him do it.

"You're welcome," Aemond says once Luke's got the coat on, stretching his arms a bit for good measure. Gods. Aemond is cute when he smirks. And his hair, freshly washed and brushed, is flowing down his shoulders like liquid silver. Luke wants to touch, so badly it's almost an ache. He must be doing a shit job at hiding it, because Aemond steps in, head tilted, throat bobbing slightly.

Luke sinks his fingers into Aemond’s hair and his teeth into his own lip.

There’s no time. Not today. Not even if they did it quick, right here, up against the wall. Still, Luke takes another greedy pass, stroking the shell of Aemond’s ear. "Such a shame," he murmurs.

Aemond frowns and makes a questioning noise.

"It's only going to get dirty now," Luke sighs, and this prompts another smirk. He keeps watching as Aemond twists it all back so methodically, pins it in place and then wraps a scarf around, covering his hair first and then his nose and mouth. The only part of Aemond left visible are his eyes, but then the flight goggles go on and now Luke might as well be standing before one of those Braavosi face-changers for all that he can recognize his own lover.

"Sīr rhaenili?" (Are we ready?) the face-changer asks, and Luke laughs at him.

"Nykēla rhēdin." (I've been ready.)

𓏵

Something happens two days later as Luke is walking up the porch steps.

He's got his bag over one shoulder and his riding coat bundled in the other arm. Aemond is just behind. The steps squeak underfoot, the same familiar tune. The Dornish sun beats down. Still so hot, so late in the afternoon, another reminder of just how ferocious this summer has been. No Meraxes to be found at the landing strip nor anywhere else, but that's alright. Luke is used to that as well.

It dawns on him as he reaches for the handle on the door— as the brass fits in his palm the same as it always did even though he'd forgotten— that he's never felt… old before. He does now, and he is. Sixty-four. For a dizzying, flickering moment, Luke feels his age.

But then the moment passes as soon as it came, and Luke is overcome with how nice it is, to be home at last.

They hang their coats and remove their shoes. Luke drifts into the space, shivering happily at the feel of the floorboards beneath his toes, leaning his palms on the edge of the old blue dining table— that's still here, even if half the rugs on the walls have been changed— and then he notices Aemond frozen in place just inside the doorway, eyes wide, arms stiff. Glancing around with barely contained fascination.

Oh gods, that's right, Luke remembers. Aemond had only been permitted to go as far as the porch the last time he was here, at Luke's own insistence. It's honestly embarrassing to think of it now, and so, Luke makes it up to him. He shows Aemond around the little house.

The wide open spread of the first room, generous space filled to every brim, the hearth, the dining table, the spot in the very center where the colors come spilling through in the morning. Cooking implements. Candles. Sticks of incense. Cakes of tea leaves. Musical instruments propped up along the walls, including one beside the hearth that Luke doesn't recognize. It's like a funny sort of harp, lying flat, suspended within an ungainly writing desk, and a little bench to go with it. There's a wood panel that folds open on a hinge, revealing a long row of ivory teeth. When pressed, each tooth emits a different note. There's a book of sheet music held open on the stand just above as well, though Luke assumes Rhaenys has memorized most if not all of the melodies already.

Next, the great chest filled with haphazard treasures including the Valyrian ladies' finery that Luke rescued from the shipwreck, as well as the collection of crystalline wind chimes which Rhaenys must have stowed away for safekeeping before flying out. Luke chooses a few to put back up, and Aemond helps. (He's relieved when Aemond doesn't try to dig further, that he doesn't notice the red cloak lying mere inches to the left. The one Luke had been wearing the day he crossed over.)

Why did I ever keep that?

Luke makes a note to himself. At the next available opportunity, as stealthily as possible, he's going to have to lay that cloak in front of Arrax and fucking burn it.

(He isn't hiding it. It's not that Luke is trying to forget what happened between them at Storm's End. That's not what it's about. It's just… well. Everything about it— the plush red fabric, the golden threads woven in, the ornate clasps at the collar— practically screams spoiled princeling. Stupid child playing at war and fooling no one, that's what Luke had been half a century ago. There's no need to remind Aemond of the fact as well. It's probably best if Aemond never catches sight of that horrid red cloak ever again.)

Past the curtain and into Luke's bedroom next, where the sleeping mat and bedding have been carefully rolled up, the reading chair covered with a dust sheet. Here too, Luke is able to point out a few more things that weren't here last time. A new rug on the floor, woven and painted to look like ocean waves. Lovely rich tapestries on the walls. A lantern decorated with beads forming the shape of dragonflies. Up on the high shelf, a short stack of books, affixed with a note that merely reads 'Laesmērenka'. One-eyed. Oh.

"I think this is meant for you." Luke passes the bundle to Aemond. Aemond winces a little when he sees the nickname, but he handles Rhaenys's gift as though it were made of glass. "That's nice of her," Luke comments. Aemond is sniffling and turning red like he wishes he weren't. Luke politely turns away.

"Come on, there's one more thing."

Back across the first room, through Rhaenys's yellow curtain on the other side— Aemond gets all twitchy about that too ("Are you sure we're allowed to be in here?")— but shuts his mouth once he sees it. One of the arms of the scorpion that killed Meraxes.

The wood is rock-solid as ever, the arc both long and high enough to serve as the footboard of the bed. Luke can only imagine what a sight the weapon itself must have been. How huge, how beautiful. The arm is painted with interlocking sun shapes, bright shades of yellow, orange, red, and pink, and between the brush strokes, engravings in mysterious Rhoynish script.

Aemond takes great interest, just as Luke thought he would. "She used this to build her bed?"

Luke grins. "She did."

"Hmm. Perhaps I should have taken Dark Sister."

"What? I thought it was still—"

"With me, at the bottom of the God's Eye, yes. But they pulled me to the surface, after a few years." Aemond's voice is soft. He's got that sick little ghost of a smile on his face. "It was Dark Sister they wanted. I'd been keeping it safe in my skull."

"And you watched this happen?" They pushed you right back in, didn't they. Luke withholds that part of the question, just barely.

Aemond hums again, smiles wider, and turns his attention back to the Rhoynish script while Luke contemplates the vague notion of what it might be like to have earthly remains. He crouches down next to Aemond. "What does it say?"

Luke asked for it, and so Aemond goes on and on. Most of the writing is praise for their god, Mother Rhoyne, plus one very direct reference to the events of the First Turtle War ("You know it, I presume." "Of course," Luke lies) and a few other phrases mixed in alongside, though Aemond will need to consult his lexicon to decipher them all. What an odd, sweet creature he is.

Luke bumps his nose gently on the underside of Aemond's jaw. They do kiss, very rarely. More frequently, they prefer to do as their dragons do. Aemond hums and nuzzles back.

"I never thanked you, did I?"

"Hmm. What for?"

"For killing me with such expedience."

That actually makes Aemond startle, and Luke laughs. "I felt no pain at all. It was over so quickly. Would that we were all so fortunate, no?"

Aemond swallows. "I didn't mean to do it."

"I know, you've said so before. Come on. Let's go and fetch your lexicon."

Later that evening, they light a candle in the dragonfly-lantern. Luke sniffs his way through each of the tea bricks, trying to remember which was his old favorite while Aemond starts a fire for the kettle. Luke plays Rhaenys's lyre, badly, until Aemond threatens to burn it. Then they dust off Luke's bedding and curl up together, still wide awake by the time the lantern goes dim.

Aemond noses at Luke's temple. "Do you want to?"

They don't, most nights.

Aemond says that he'd rather it be a decision, always, rather than something habitual or mindless, and Luke agrees with the general principle. There's no need for urgency. Time will deliver all that his ever-eager body aches for, as long as he's careful to hold himself back.

All the time in the world, we have all the time in the world. This is what Luke tells himself on more nights than he would care to admit, cock throbbing behind the laces of his breeches, toes curling, trying so hard not to rut against the lovely pressure of Aemond's sleeping body. It works, sometimes. When it doesn't, Luke pushes Aemond off and rolls over on his side, trying, waiting, begging for the fire to die down.

I get so cold without you, Aemond had murmured once, and Luke swore it would be the end of him.

I can't, I'm sorry, I want you too badly. That was the worst thing Luke could've said, it turned out. Or was it the best thing? It got Aemond's hand down Luke's trousers, is what it did, even though they'd fucked for hours the night before. Oh gods, we shouldn't, we shouldn't, we shouldn't.

No need for urgency. Time will deliver. And it has. Seventeen years later, they've come to learn quite a lot about one another.

Do you want to?

Luke cranes his neck, baring his pulse point as close as he can get to Aemond's own. They've left the windows open and the linen drape flutters in the breeze, still so hot, so long past sundown. They've kicked the blankets off already. Luke is sure he'd be sweating by now, if he could.

Do you want to?

Aemond wants to. Luke can feel it, poking him in the thigh. He's dying to touch, to feel it inside, to see it hanging so pretty between Aemond's legs, because of course Aemond is so beautiful, even there. It isn't fair. Gods, Luke wants.

"Yne renīs." (Touch me.)

He doesn't need to ask twice. Aemond gathers Luke in his arms, ducks his head down, and latches onto Luke's flat chest like he thinks he's being subtle. A long moan tears its way out of Luke's throat regardless. He clings to Aemond's shoulders. Aemond switches sides, giving the other nipple a soft kiss before sucking that too, hard enough that Luke can't help bucking his hips against the firm plane of Aemond's stomach. He'll come out with it, any moment now—

"I think I want…" Aemond murmurs, sighs, drops his head to Luke's sternum. Luke strokes a fingertip along his nape. Come on, now.

"Baehot aeragon koston?" (May I be on top?)

There it is. Luke huffs out a laugh. "Baehot, iā baehot?" (On top or on top?)

The way Aemond flushes at the question, one would think they'd been fucking for mere weeks rather than seventeen years. Gods be good. And when has Luke ever denied him? He isn't about to start now. Luke strips out of his shirt and breeches quick as anything, rolls over on his side and arches back, holding his breath so he can hear Aemond's low, heavy purr.

Luke wriggles his hips. "Skoro syt umbā?" (What are you waiting for?)

It didn't take them very long to learn that Luke tends to like it rougher than Aemond does. That he tends to get all mouthy and bossy when he's on the receiving end of anything. Give it to me, bend me over, pull my hair, yes like that, why the fuck are your clothes still on, harder, harder, oh gods, I need it.

But he can't take it there straightaway, or Aemond will hit his limit before they've even gotten started. Luke keeps ahold of his own tongue, panting hard through his nose, going quietly mad at the sensation of Aemond petting his rim, getting the oil where they need it.

Just shove it in. Fuck me.

Luke keeps it to himself. Instead, he finds his litany again. "Tolvie vȳhot jēde aemi." (We have all the time in the world)

Aemond makes a happy sound. He closes in at Luke's back, wraps an arm across his chest and holds him there while he slides his stiff, naked cock against Luke's asshole, teasing, because he's the worst. Luke whines through his teeth, claws lines into Aemond's forearm to no avail. It's going to feel so good. Held in place on his side with his back arched like this, the angle is going to be perfect. It's going to feel so fucking good, just as soon as Aemond decides to finally—

"Syrī ynoma?" (Ready for me?)

"Kessa, kessa," (Yes, yes) "Ūī trūmirī jaelan—" (I want it deep) "—oh, oh!"

Aemond splits him open, fights his way inside with a stuttering thrust, and then another for good measure. Fuck, fuck, oh, it burns. Luke can't believe his luck. He's pawing at the sheets already. You're so good to me, he's going to say, but then Aemond drags him back again, fucking against the best, sweetest spot, and Luke slurs out a messy plea instead. This, yes, this is what he wanted.

Behind, Aemond sinks his teeth into Luke's shoulder, moaning on every other breath. He sounds needier than usual. Words scatter between Luke's ears— am I warm enough for you, and oh, I've missed you.

It's only been a fortnight since the last time Luke had Aemond like this, he knows he's being ridiculous again, but he can't help it, his wits are long fucking gone. Is this a reward for something, Luke wonders. Did he feed Aemond something particularly good? Was he outstandingly neat and efficient with their packing? Shit, is today his birthday?

Luke goes readily onto his stomach when pushed, crying out, "Kessa, drēje k-konīr—" (Yes, right there) "—Haahh, ohh, Ae-m-mond—"

If he comes like this without so much as a fingertip on his cock, it wouldn't be the first time. No, the first time that ever happened, Luke was sobbing into the plush velvet covers in some bloodmage's hovel in Nefer. It would be the first time on this side of the Narrow Sea at least, comes Luke's delirious thought. And then, oh, seven hells, we're in Rhaenys's house right now, we're having such a loud, dirty fuck on the floor of my childhood bedroom. A mad giggle bursts forth.

Aemond's rhythm falters. "Pirtiapos issa?" (What's so funny?)

He's not asking to get an answer, though. Just as Luke cranes his head back and up to meet Aemond's eyes— silver hair tangled in itself, lips parted open, muscles trembling— Aemond closes a hand around Luke's jaw and over his mouth. "Aōle lykemās," (Shut up) he hisses, and Luke moans, so, so loudly.

Seventeen years. Skills honed, lessons learned. When he's not on top, Luke likes it rough. Ideally from behind. He likes his mouth covered, gagged, or better yet, full. In kind, Luke has learned a thing or two about Aemond. It's not that Aemond doesn’t have his own submissive tendencies. He does. But he's not one to run his mouth. For the most part, Aemond just makes those sweet, pleading, purring sounds— when he's got Luke's tongue up his ass in particular— though he won't just give it up anywhere. No, Aemond needs someplace safe, warm, clean, private.

(That first night in Pentos, Luke had Aemond squirming on his front, brains melting out of his ears, until Luke decided he'd had enough and rubbed Aemond to a very whiny finish.)

Why do you like it so much, Luke had asked once. He'd kept the question in his pocket, saved it for his next turn with the ribbon, knowing it would earn him a death-glare as well as an honest answer. Just sensitive there, I suppose, was Aemond's reluctant response. That, and a story about a woman who used to do that to him when he was alive. Show me, Luke insisted, and Aemond tried to, but Luke never enjoyed it half as much as when he had Aemond's mouth elsewhere.

Seventeen years gone— seven-knows how many more ahead— and already, it's a scene that's played out dozens of times, in theaters, temples, and gardens, up against grimy walls on crowded city streets.

Aemond backs Luke against the nearest surface, pins him there, and kneels down. Luke is already sick with anticipation. It's not like he does it on purpose. By the time Aemond shoulders his way under one of Luke's thighs, holding him in place with one hand while he unbuttons Luke's trousers with the other, Luke knows he sounds truly pathetic.

There's a little nerve that Aemond stumbled upon, around four years after that lovely night in Jinqi when everything changed for good. It's just beneath the head of Luke's cock. It's so, so terribly sensitive— and it's stayed that way. Luke can't adapt, can't resist. His body never learns.

Luke stares down at Aemond, wobbling on one foot, whimpering in defeat like a cornered prey animal, almost dreading the moment when Aemond pulls him into his mouth. The first deadly-precise stroke of his tongue feels every bit as heavenly as it had the first time. Luke can't help dropping his head back, can't help whining, "Ohh, Aemond."

It took Aemond four years to find that little nerve and another week to discover that if he held Luke down on the bed and tortured that spot with his tongue, Luke would come so hard he actually screamed. Against the wall, Luke dissolves. He cries and begs in a mix of both languages and only succeeds at making Aemond go slower. It feels so good, it fucking hurts, Luke honestly isn't sure whether he's about to come or faint.

Two minutes later when he's half collapsed against the wall, hiccuping and sniffling, he finally gathers the courage to look down at Aemond. He expects to find a wicked smirk. In this too, it seems, he never learns. The look he finds in Aemond’s eyes is always so wide and dark instead, so thick with affection, and that cuts deeper than any bodily nerve.

Back in Dorne at last, on Luke's own bedroom floor, Aemond's rhythm falters again.

He pauses altogether, still halfway buried in Luke's guts. His forehead drops down to rest on Luke's shoulder. Meanwhile, Luke fights the urge to roll his hips like the shameless harlot he knows himself to be.

"Sȳrī glaesā?" (Are you alright?)

Aemond nods. His breath shudders. Lower down, his cock is pulsing hard. "Nngh. Drēje dōnys hylāks." (You feel so good)

Oh, Luke realizes with a thrill. He's only trying not to come. Sweet thing.

Both of Aemond's hands are fisted in the sheets. Luke reaches out and caresses Aemond's right wrist, loops his fingers around, squeezing lightly at the tension there. Gods, he's so strong.

"Kesīr," (Here) Luke coaxes him, lifting his hand.

Aemond lets out a weak gasp when he understands— that Luke means to be taken by the throat— and it's alright. Luke has learned the rules of this as well. It's about his pulse. He'd have to be blind to not know by now, what it does to Aemond, how much Aemond needs it, why this can never be done face to face. It would be too much.

"Kesīr," Luke sighs again.

Aemond's fingers press inwards. Firm and steady.

Someone moans, sounding desperate. Luke's heart pounds in his chest, pulse thrumming into Aemond's grip, airway thinning out. Can you feel it? It's alright. That sweet, desperate moan comes again. Their hips move together, only the motions of instinct, now. Waves rushing, hugging the shore. You can feel me, you can't hurt me, it's alright. I'm dead, but it's alright now. It's alright, it's alright, it's alright.

Pleasure-stricken tears come spilling down Luke’s cheeks, but it’s Aemond who does the sobbing.

When Luke wakes hours later, the tears have dried to nothing.

Aemond's spit on his chest is all gone, the bite marks on his shoulder, the bruise around his neck. The only traces remaining are the typical spots of fluid staining the blankets. Luke will strip them off in the morning, set them aside for the wash. It's sad, he thinks. It would be nice to have something left of Aemond. He'd like to fret over a poorly-concealed love bite, just once.

Moonlight wavers in through the open window. It's still so warm. Neither of them bothered putting any clothes back on after they were done, and they've only kicked the top blanket off again.

Aemond's head has found its place on Luke’s chest, right above his heart. Stray wisps of silver hair flutter beneath Luke's nose with every exhale. Aemond grunts softly in his sleep, brows furrowing. Is he too hot, Luke wonders. Slowly, gently, he gathers Aemond's hair into a bundle so as to hold it up, off of his neck. Sure enough, Aemond settles with a sigh, and Luke laughs through his nose. He brushes his foot along Aemond's shin.

How can you tell? What does it feel like?

Luke doesn't know.

He isn't sure.

But it comes up on him, every now and then— because if this isn't it, then Luke doesn't know what would be.

He thinks he loves Aemond.

Thinking, that's the trouble, isn't it? Luke makes his case as exhaustively as he can. He cares for Aemond. He's weak for him. He turned the whole world upside-down in search of Aemond, and hasn't let go since he found him.

And Luke has observed others— people, couples, young and old. Sea birds, the ones that mate for life, but they aren't the only ones, are they? There are swans too, monkeys, and wolves. Dragons. Feeding one another, coiling together, whispering in the dark, separating when they must, but always finding their way back together again before the seasons turn. He and Aemond are just the same. I am Vermithor and he is Silverwing. Or is it the other way around?

It doesn't matter. Another voice rises up, always, before long.

Silverwing went mad and died alone, and the last thing Vermithor ever did was kill Addam.

Is it love?

It's Aemond, for fuck's sake.

One-Eye. Kinslayer. I have marked him twice over.

Do I love him?

Or is it that he's quite literally the last person left in the whole world?

Luke's mother wouldn't hesitate to pry them apart if she could see them now. As would Jace, and Daemon, and Lord Corlys, and Queen Alicent, along with every lord who raised a green or black banner, and what would Luke have to offer in defense?

We found ourselves in another world, you wouldn't believe it even if I told you. It was always possible. Such depth of potential, obscured by the thinnest film. If we tried, if only you'd let us, I think we could've done it in life, too.

That last part is the worst thought of all— I think we could've done it in life— because Luke still isn't sure. He wants to know. What would it take? He wants to live it, to drive himself forward, sweating with monumental effort, all for Aemond. Whatever it might take. He wants the pain of cutting off friends, making enemies, losing sight of himself; of spending years at war, years at sea, making a fortune and casting it all aside. My love, he imagines saying, cradling Aemond's beautiful face, This was all for you.

Luke will never know, and he tries not to care.

He gets to have it now. And that's a gift, really, isn't it?

A gift, in that he's found the gentlest version of Aemond. Shifty sleeper, early riser. Swears up and down that he doesn't sing, and Luke still catches him humming to himself. Happiest when falling into detail, happier still when held tight in Luke's arms. And gods, does he smell nice. Luke's grown so accustomed to it, greenish and light, like a freshly-broken stem.

Luke knows what Aemond looks like when he's just woken up, when he's working out some problem in his head, the expression he wears when he wants something, when he's got an odd taste in his mouth, when his hair feels too dirty. Luke even knows what Aemond looks like when he comes. He's adorable. The way his eyelids flutter, mouth open on a gasp. Aemond is so quiet, until he's not. Staunchly independent, but he gives in so easily. Luke is never going to forget it— the night the last dragon died, the first time Aemond ever let Luke hold him.

I wish I was bigger than him. Then I'd be able to wrap myself all the way around, keep him so warm. He'd like that, I bet.

He told Aemond as much, once. He wasn't expecting it somehow, when Aemond got all withdrawn and guilty, but he should've. Aemond still hasn't managed to move past the whole 'murder' thing. Not like Luke has. It's quite simple for Luke really, because this, here, is his life, for all it’s worth. Luke is a ghost. Ghosts have to come from somewhere, don't they? That's all.

Luke thought he'd gotten to the bottom of it, on a night not too different from this one, barely two years past. Worked it out, sat on it for a few weeks to be sure. And then he'd tied the ribbon, looked Aemond in the eyes, and asked.

Do I disgust you?

He didn't need to elaborate. Aemond knew what he meant. (You didn't usually prefer your bed partners so young, did you?)

Aemond had been expecting that question. It very much seemed as though he'd been rehearsing his answer for years.

No. You are as an angel.

It's late enough in the night, so dark that Luke can't even make out the form of the tree just outside his window though he knows it's there, and so he lifts his head slightly, leans in close. The crown of Aemond's head is the most readily available and so Luke presses soft kisses there.

On other nights, he'll go for the curve of his shoulder. The sharp points of his spine. Softly, slowly, so he doesn't wake Aemond. (Inhale, kiss. Exhale, kiss.) He'll even pretend he hasn't noticed if Aemond should wake anyway— that he hasn't noticed Aemond is merely feigning sleep and allowing Luke to do as he pleases.

Luke doesn't mind. It's different, in the dead of night.

He gathers Aemond's hair off of his neck again.

Breathes out, presses another kiss, and holds it there.

Aemond isn't faking it this time.

Luke knows the difference.

He wraps his other arm tighter.

I love you.

𓏵

There's a dragon outside in the morning.

And it's not Meraxes. It's Quicksilver. Aemond is the first to say it, still peering through the window even though Luke has thrown the front door wide open. "Where's Seasmoke."

"I don't know," Luke admits. It is very strange, yes. Since Addam crossed over, he's never seen one without the other. "Don't… don't bring it up."

Aemond raises his eyebrows dismissively. Alright then.

Out on the landing, Quicksilver bends low to the ground so that her rider may dismount. Arrax comes swooping out from below the cliff face, flapping and squawking with excitement. When she sees him, Quicksilver tilts her head and chitters once, as if to say, oh, it's you. Vhagar should be along any moment now.

Luke leans into the doorframe while he waits. Even from here, in spite of the shade of the porch and the early hour, he can feel the heat of the sun on his face. Just as Luke and Aemond had done yesterday, Aegon has shucked off his riding coat. He dons the hood only, leaving his arms bare, then hoists the straps of his bag over his shoulders and makes his way over the rocks in long, quick strides.

Perhaps Addam and Seasmoke are off on some errand, Luke thinks, to Planky Town or Lemonwood?

He can see Aegon, though. The way his face gives away every turn of thought, and the muttering at nothing. It's inevitable when one has spent years on end without seeing— truly seeing— another person. Luke knows. He's been there a few times himself. He lets his next breath out slow. A few days at most, that's how long it will take. And then Aegon will acclimate.

Luke raises a hand in greeting when Aegon reaches the stairs. "Skorkydoso glaesā?" (How are you?)

Aegon grunts first, then nods. "Hey."

Luke opens his mouth to say something else, where have you flown from, perhaps, or, is everything alright, but then Aegon freezes mid-step, eyes narrowed at something further behind. Aemond. Luke turns.

If Aemond were wearing his sword right now, Luke knows he'd have his right hand tight on the hilt.

Do you think you're ready, Luke had asked him a few weeks ago. It had dawned on him that Aemond hadn't truly met someone new in years. The last one would've been Rhaenys, on the shores of the God's Eye, mere days after his death. To that, Aemond had scoffed. Why wouldn't I be?

Why indeed. Luke is beginning to feel like a dragonkeeper caught between two toothy, fiery hatchlings.

Please, he thinks. Both of you, act normal.

Aegon, remembering that he's a grown man with two legs, two thumbs, and a brain between his ears, resumes walking like one. Aemond meets him at the halfway point, which is, unfortunately, right in the squeeze of Luke's place in the doorway. An awkward handshake is exchanged.

Aegon does not call Aemond 'One-Eye' straightaway. Neither does Aemond call Aegon 'Uncrowned'. So far, so good.

Then Aegon turns abruptly to Luke, and taps at the bag on his shoulder. "I brought supper."

Supper, Luke thinks. What the fuck.

It has to have been forty years since Luke last saw Aegon and here he is, back in Rhaenys's house, not even one full day after Luke and Aemond made their return. And he's brought supper. Was he just idling about in Planky Town, waiting for anyone at all to pass overhead? Luke turns it over. He doesn't enjoy that the answer is very obviously yes.

Meanwhile, Aegon ambles further inside. He sets his bag and coat on the table and goes for the kitchen cabinet, takes a few dishes down to sort out whatever food he’s brought, setting bowls over top to keep everything fresh. Then he turns, gaze bouncing from Luke to Aemond and back, a spark of amusement growing within.

"The two of you, huh?"

Luke flushes. It is objectively very funny, he can't fault Aegon for that. He shrugs. "Nearly thirty years now." At his left, he can feel Aemond blinking in surprise. Would Aemond have said thirty, Luke wonders suddenly, or would he have said seventeen? Oh, gods. Whatever. It will be thirty years, soon enough.

"Huh," Aegon says again. He leans back on the table, arms crossed. "Well, that's just great. I fucking owe Rhaenys twenty silvers."

Supper goes over just fine.

They leave the front door open along with every window in the house to welcome the scent of scorching wood, the sounds of birds and dragons. Luke glances across the table at Aegon once, and sees in every part of him that they're having the same thought. That this is so much like that first supper— only this time, instead of Rhaenys and Addam for company, they've got Aemond. And it's fine. Pleasant, even.

But the gods have a sense of humor, which Luke sees first in the choked expression on Aemond's face as he stares out at the sky, and second, rising in the east. That the moon is full again, tonight of all nights.

Seven hells, it's not like they have to. The sky isn't going to come falling down on their heads if they don't. One would never know it, though, from the fierce dedication Aemond has laid into it, year after year. He's already giving Luke an expectant stare, even as he squirms in his seat. Well. Alright then. Luke unbuttons the pocket along his left thigh, draws out the bolt of midnight-blue satin, and passes it across the table to Aemond. This turn is one of his.

"Want to play ribbon-questions, Aegon?"

Aegon swallows his tea, face breaking into a grin. "Sure. What's ribbon-questions?"

Between them at the end of the table, Aemond gathers the full length of ribbon down off the table and into his lap like he thinks he was never supposed to have it. "It's a load of children's nonsense."

"Yes, it is," Luke nods, "And we do it every full moon."

Aegon snorts. "Excellent. What are the rules?"

"Only one rule," Luke narrows his eyes at Aemond before he can make it all rigid and over-complicated, "You have to answer."

"I can do that," Aegon says, and Aemond relaxes visibly. He hums, thinking of something good— intended for Aegon, no doubt— and Luke's heart leaps into his throat for a moment. Don't ask him about Addam, please, do not fucking ask him about Addam.

At long last, Aemond ties the ribbon, looks up at Aegon, and simply says, "Balerion."

Thank the gods.

Aegon scoffs. "That's not a question."

"Hmm. Fine. What was he like, then? In battle?"

"You want to know if yourself and Vhagar could have taken him," Aegon pokes back.

"No, that's not–"

"You couldn't have. Not even with all the strength she's got now."

Aemond hides his disappointment well.

Luke pipes up. "Answer the question."

Aegon gets all far-away and misty about it for a good minute or so. "You can't imagine him." So don't try. "I thought I could. I'd seen him before at Dragonstone, so I thought… when the time came, I thought I knew what he would be." Aegon swallows, then laughs softly. "I did have a plan. Not that I could tell you what it was."

Luke leans forward in his seat, enough that the edge of the table begins to cut into his sternum. Somehow, he realizes, he's never heard this story before either. Aegon's eyes shift back and forth. He's beginning to smile again. "You know, when a thing of such size takes to the air, the winds don't come from the heavens anymore, they come straight from him. It was as if… at times, that he was sending currents my way, just to see what I might think to do with them. And you've seen Quicksilver, you know she's—"

"Fast," Luke nods.

"That she is. He enjoyed her, I think. She got a few licks in. Didn't hurt him in the slightest, but he was impressed, I know it."

"And in the end?" Aemond, that time. Aegon takes it in stride.

"Oh, Balerion finished it himself. Maegor had fuck-all to do with it. I mean, there's no word that Maegor could've said, to command him to…" Aegon makes a motion with both hands, like a slow-moving clap with fingers pointed downwards. "He never touched her. A great gust of air threw her into the ground and she… she died amidst naught but her own fire."

An honorable death, in the eyes of a dragon. Seven hells. Aegon said it was pointless, but Luke's mind runs wild with it.

"Rhaenys says I read too much into it, that I became blind in my faith, but I know what he…"

Something happens, then. Aegon folds at the waist like he's been stabbed, hiding his face in his hands. Aemond reaches out, but Aegon hardly seems to feel it. His words continue to pour like an open faucet. "I… I was so p-proud of her, w-when she claimed him," Aegon stammers.

Who? Luke nearly asks. He watches as Aemond puts it together. Half a heartbeat later, he gets there as well.

Aerea.

Luke's blood runs cold.

His mother hadn't wanted him, or any of them, to know the story. She tore the relevant pages from their books, gave strict orders to the tutors. She insisted it wouldn't do them any good. When Luke finally heard it in full, it was with Daemon's hand gripping on his shoulder like steel, horrible shadows dancing on the walls, Jace's hand sweating and trembling in his own. Two of Daemon's phrases in particular kept Luke awake all night.

There was something inside her, something moving.

When commanding your dragon, you must choose your words very, very carefully.

"She… she told him to fly home."

"Oh." It had never occurred to Luke before now. That Aerea was Aegon's own daughter.

He can only watch as Aegon stays like that, clinging to himself, as the horror of the old story gains new, devastating depth. "She said, lentāzmā. And. I- I suppose it makes sense why. W-why he thought she m-meant—" Aegon stops with a sudden choking sound. The moment bleeds on and on. When he rises back up again, Luke almost wishes he wouldn't. The utter misery etched across Aegon's face is unbearable. Luke gasps. His cheeks feel wet. He keeps listening because he can do nothing else, but it only gets worse.

Aegon followed her the whole way. He doesn't say it, but he doesn't have to. He followed her as far as he could— but alas, Aerea was on the side of the living, and Aegon— oh, gods.

If she'd made it across, if she'd died on dragonback in Old Valyria, she would've been delivered straight into the jaws of—

Luke can read it now. The furious tremble in Aegon's whole body that says, I would've fought every one of them to the last.

"H-he’d done w-well by Quicksilver, so I h-had to believe that he knew. About this. Rhaenys d-didn't agree, but she didn't know him, n-not as I did. A-and I had to believe…" Aegon's breath wavers. "…Lurȳsi ziry ynot arlī maghagon sylīles." (That he was trying to bring her back to me.)

At that, Aemond draws back as if in shock. Luke meets his eyes and finds some old wound there, split right open to the core, petrified, until finally, gracelessly, Aegon breaks. Luke drops his own face into his hands. The feeling flooding his nerves is close enough to relief.

"Ziry qrīdrughagon kostilen daor." (I couldn't leave her.) "Ñuhi rūs īles." (She was my baby.)

It's Luke's idea, but Aemond helps, and Aegon doesn't argue.

The three of them make their beds together in the first room, clustered at the foot of the dining table. Luke finds Aemond’s hand. Clutches tight and doesn’t let go, not even after Aegon settles at last into heavy sleep.

The full moon arcs from one window to the next.

Aemond whispers into Luke’s shoulder, with hardly any breath.

"I had a child, once."

Luke blinks. His jaw moves. The silver light falls so thick down here on the floor, and yet he cannot make out the barest traces of the wooden beams in the ceiling. They've been lost in the dark. Aemond runs a thumb over Luke's fingers. He whispers again.

"Are you angry?"

Luke shakes his head. He isn't angry, no. But his heart feels so bound up.

"Will you tell me?"

Harrenhal, Aemond whispers, and doesn't leave anything out. Luke even learns the woman's name at last. Alys. And Aemond tried to go back and find them. Not only once. "Before you, at every changing of the seasons, I went."

Before you. But then he stopped.

"I might have found them. I thought I would know it, once I did, but that never happened."

Luke has seen Harrenhal only once, only ever from this side. He's seen it for himself— the way the place bends through time. He strokes a hand through Aemond's hair. "Then tell me. Who did you find?"

"I found a knight, first. Valyrian. Wearing our colors. He was riding in a great tourney. He won the tilts and bestowed the crown upon a Stark maiden. I thought he was the one, I even went back for him again, but then I found…. I think she was a girl. Her hair was all cut off, but she looked so much like…"

"Alys?"

Aemond nods, head tucked into place above Luke’s heart. "She had a list she recited to herself every night before she slept. Names. I didn't recognize any of them."

Yes, Luke thinks. Perhaps he would've been angry even yesterday. He couldn't muster it now, even if he wanted to.

"What name did you choose?"

"I… I never did."

Luke strokes his hair again. "What name would you have chosen, then?"

The answer comes quick, and it's the answer Luke was expecting. "Helaena."

"And if it were a boy?"

Aemond has to think on that one for a while. "Aenar," he decides at last.

"Aenar the Exile?" Even Luke knows this one.

Aemond's frown brushes along his skin. "Yes," he insists. "Aenar who heeded the warnings. Aenar who had the advantage of a dreamer in his household and didn't squander it." Not like I did.

Luke tries to conjure it in his mind. Helaena, he decides. Helaena Rivers. She'd be almost fifty by now. Raised by a fabled woods witch among the spires of Harrenhal, dark hair on her head, with Aemond's dragonblood running thick in her veins.

"Whoever they are," Luke murmurs into the air, "I'd imagine your child is something fearsome."

Aemond goes still as stone for a moment as though he’s not sure what to think, but then Luke feels it when he smiles. "You think so?"

"Jāla gīmin." (I know so.)

𓏵

Their tears have all vanished come morning. This time, it feels like a blessing.

Luke crouches next to the rain barrel, holding the spigot steady while Aegon tilts the whole thing on its side. The water, when it comes out into the kettle, has an unfortunate metallic film on its surface. No doubt riddled with infection as well, not that that's of any real concern. Aegon lifts it to his lips and announces that the water will do just fine, so long as they add ginger to cover the taste. Luke is never going to look at him the same ever again.

You were only sixteen, he thinks, lingering behind as Aegon goes plodding back up the stairs, tea kettle in hand. You were only sixteen when she was born and she never got to know you. She should have.

Luke takes a moment to breathe and then follows Aegon back inside. He has a chance to ask now, about Rhaenys, and so he does.

"Oh, yeah," Aegon nods. "She flew to Vaes Dothrak, what is it? Two years ago, now."

"Vaes Dothrak? Why?"

Aegon shrugs. "She didn’t say. Just left me a note, is all."

Vaes Dothrak, Luke almost has to laugh. It's just south of Ifequevron. He must have flown there a dozen times since he first found Aemond. Something in his chest squeezes again. We passed right by her.

The tears have vanished, the water is heating up, and still, Aegon is twitchy and withdrawn. He won’t stop muttering apologies for nothing at all. Aemond is much the same. For his own part, Luke rocks on his heels, gaze roaming. Come on, he thinks. What would Rhaenys do?

Later that very evening finds the three of them huddled together in the back of a favorite old playhouse in Sunspear. Wine is flowing, candles are burning, patrons are laughing well before the curtain has risen. Aemond is the one to pass a cup of something rich and spiced into Luke’s hands this time, and gets a kiss on the jaw in return.

The play turns out to be a boistrous comedy, about a petty old lord who spends his days locked inside his attic with his trove of novels, allowing his farmlands to lie idle and useless while he reads and reads until he goes raving-mad.

Uncouth, formless, beneath me. Those were the descriptors Aemond had chosen once, years ago, back when Luke still had to drag him into places like this by the hair. (Now, though? When the old lord emerges at last, convinced that he is a great Valyrian general and that his donkey is a dragon, Aemond fucking loses it, unable to suppress his laughter any longer.)

Days go by, and then weeks.

Aegon knows how to work the funny new instrument with the long rows of teeth, it turns out. He begins teaching Luke first, until it becomes clear that Aemond's interest is much greater.

The ribbon is tied again, and this time Aegon asks, "Where did you get that sapphire?"

"Tarth," Aemond answers, "Where else?"

Aegon smirks to himself. "Nice."

(It is a bit of an adjustment, going at it in Luke's room with only a single wall separating them from Aegon, but they grow accustomed to that as well. Luke is sure to press both hands tightly over his own mouth while Aemond's head bobs up and down between his shaking legs.)

Luke grants himself entry into Rhaenys's bedroom, just to put away the afazhoy incense at first, before it sinks to the bottom of his bag and ends up getting ground into dust, but then he remembers. She left a note.

If the first room can be called generous— and it is— then Rhaenys's own bedroom is flush, brimming chaos. How she's able to find anything once it's been stored away in here is an utter mystery.

Luke sets the incense down on a pillow and goes poking through the drawers, looking for paper. For clues. For— oops, definitely not that drawer, seven hells, Rhaenys. Luke slams it shut and takes another wide look around. His eyes land on the tall, rickety armoire, shoved into the furthest corner. It's not even where Rhaenys keeps her clothes, and Luke has to fight his way past several more baskets and boxes to reach it.

What's in there, Luke had asked once. He'd been dead for barely three months. Rhaenys had shrugged, smiling to herself. Nothing of value.

Armor, as it turned out. Finely-forged polished bronze, with ringmail cut to look like dragon’s scales, the plating engraved with swirling glyphs. When Luke opens the doors only to find the full suit missing, his stomach drops.

Rhaenys hates wearing armor.

She always has, even when she was alive. (Luke has only seen her put it on once, and that had taken weeks of whining and pleading.) It has a place here in the house, only because it was what Rhaenys had been wearing when she died.

If she’s taken it with her…

The front door swings shut. Aemond's voice calls out. "Luke?"

Footsteps come closer. Luke quickly closes the armoire, concealing the emptiness. He turns around just as Aemond is pushing the yellow curtain back. "There you are," Aemond smiles softly, and Luke’s heart tugs again and again. "Have you found anything?"

"No," Luke shrugs. "Nothing at all."

Chapter Text

[129 AC]

There is a moment that comes each morning as the sun begins to rise over the Gullet.

Just after the lighthouse goes dim, and just before the old captain rouses his crew. At last, the periodic beat of that bright yellow beam ceases and thick grey mist settles in its place, cool as a linen veil, not yet burnt off by the rising sun. In the narrow span of such a precious moment, Rhaenys finds all the rest she needs.

She pulls the hood of her coat low over her eyes and settles in against the carved wood at her back, drifting off, feeling proud of herself.

Rhaenys didn't used to be able to sleep sitting up. Hell, she used to require no less than three pillows, three blankets, and a cup of lavender tea. Although, that Rhaenys had never lifted anything heavier than a great bronze singing bowl. She wouldn't have known her way around a handsaw, wouldn't have known what the other end of a hammer was for either. She definitely wouldn't have spent an entire fortnight (thus far) on the prow of a ship's deck beneath the open sky— beneath the ready rustle and snap of House Velaryon's war banners.

When the captain wakes in his cabin just beneath Rhaenys's spot at the prow, she wakes with him. She feels it in her sit-bones as the heavy old door slams shut. She opens her eyes, allowing herself a yawn, then rises to her feet to find sunlight washing over everything between the shoreline of Driftmark on one side and the distant spit of Sharp Point on the other.

Everything between, yes, Velaryon ships laid out in a vast grid over the surface of the water as far as the eye can see, like a cyvasse board with no edges. And these account for only a fraction of their full strength, Rhaenys knows. Jaehossa. The sight still takes her breath away. House Velaryon had nothing even close to this, back in her day.

War is coming.

Rhaenys has known this with certainty for exactly eight years, ever since the crown princess Rhaenyra removed herself and her entire faction to Dragonstone. Then, of course, she'd been there inside the great hall the day the frail old king made his last stand, watching from her place at the left hand of the throne— she'd seen enough not to bother with King's Landing any longer.

War is coming, and it flexes in Rhaenys's mind like a sore muscle coming back into use.

This, it seems, Rhaenys has always had within her.

The first thing that's going to happen, the moment the old king finally goes cold, will be a move by the Blacks to close off the Gullet, close off trade routes into King's Landing, make the Greens stumble under the dead weight of the capital before they have a chance to leverage it as an asset instead. (Rhaenys knows, because it's what she would do.) The Greens, in turn, will have no choice but to break the blockade by way of some hasty naval alliance, or more likely, by good old-fashioned dragonfire.

Either way, this is going to be the place. It won't be long before the deep blue waters of the Gullet begin smoking with dragon's blood.

It's now been five days since Meleys sped past in all her red fury, headed for nowhere else but Dragonstone. Then the entire port at Driftmark burst into action all around her mere hours later, and Rhaenys knew her suspicions were correct. War is coming.

Old Corlys leaning on his cane, issuing commands. Men sweating, hauling supplies, captains hollering away, bells clanging, swords being sharpened, the click-click-click of the scorpion being reeled back, mounted in its place at the prow— which, come to think of it, might be the reason Rhaenys has slept so well in this spot. Perhaps the arc of the scorpion’s great wooden arms remind her of home.

As she's done half a dozen times before, Rhaenys climbs up on the scorpion's mount. She runs her hand across, letting the matter phase through, feeling the tension in the cables, the cold steel of the bolt. This particular weapon, Rhaenys guesses, is intended for none other than Vhagar, though she doubts it would finish the job, even if it struck true. The bolt is barely the length of a jouster’s lance. Pathetic, a voice says within, sounding an awful lot like Visenya, and Rhaenys smiles to herself as she gathers her hair over her shoulder.

A braid, in Rhaenys's opinion, is only to be worn in times of dire necessity. She has always held firm on this. She used to run off down the corridors of Dragonstone as a little girl, barefoot and shrieking with some long-suffering nursemaid in hot pursuit, brandishing the hairbrush as though it were a pitchfork. Rhaenys Targaryen, you get back here, young lady!

Sometimes there were spankings. Tears, even. Always a promise of, you'll get used to it one of these days, but that's where they were wrong. Years later, despite the fact that Rhaenys and her sister had acquired a proper flock of handmaidens between the two of them, not one of the maids ever wove a single braid on either of their heads. Not Rhaenys, because she wouldn't suffer it, and not Visenya either, because Rhaenys always took on the task herself.

Visenya would say the same every time. I care only that you make it tight.

She said that, and yet, Rhaenys knew.

On the mornings when they had enough time, Rhaenys would be sure to wind the braids into loops, cross them over and under, and finish it all with a few silver clasps, just so she could have the pleasure of catching Visenya in the act— admiring her own reflection one moment and shying away the next, as if she thought it a horrible weakness.

Now, Rhaenys sweeps her own hair over one shoulder. She takes her time brushing out the tangles, holding the leather tie between her teeth, fixing it all into a single braid while she watches the sky.

Late in the morning on the eastern horizon, at long last, there is a burst of movement. Four dragons. Three living, one dead. The first— Meleys— is headed again for the Gullet, and so she is Rhaenys's to watch over. As for the other two, the smaller-white breaks away to the south while the larger-green heads north. Quicksilver carves a great arc through the clouds between them while Aegon makes his decision.

The green one, Rhaenys thinks pointedly, as though Aegon might be able to hear her. The green one is Jacaerys, the crown prince. He is every bit as eager and bold as you were. Follow the green. And Aegon does.

How will I know? Aegon had asked her, before they'd flown to their respective lookouts. What sort of feeling is it?

Alas, Rhaenys hadn't been able to bring herself to watch, the day Aegon flew against Balerion. She'd lingered on the ground at the Red Fork of the Trident instead, leagues away from the battleground, wringing her hands and praying to every god she could think of. Please, please. Let it be fast. Let it be clean. Even so, the instant it happened— when dragon and rider died together as one— she felt it.

Like a great shiver all over the body, she told Aegon. Like being thrown into a cold, deep pool.

She hadn't quite done it justice, as it turns out. Hours later, still pacing back and forth over the shipdeck, almost too warm in the pink glow of the afternoon, Rhaenys stumbles. Every muscle in her body seizes up. Her bones turn to lead. It's too much, it's so cold, she's being crushed— when she collapses onto the deck at last, shivering in great spasms, it's almost a relief.

Gods, Rhaenys thinks, grasping at her coat, pulling it tighter across her chest like it's going to be any help at all. Was it this bad the first time?

Far across the water, somewhere beyond the soft grey ramparts of Driftmark, she can hear Meraxes wailing in shock. She can only hope that Aegon and Quicksilver have managed to weather the event without falling right out of the sky. She wonders next, whether it was Jacaerys after all? Is Aegon greeting him right this very moment? It must be so. From Rhaenys's vantage point in the midst of the fleet, the whole of the Gullet appears as tight-wound and ready as ever. Meleys soars overhead, conserving her energy, very much still alive.

The feeling is like a thread as well. If you focus, you may follow it.

Rhaenys rises gently to her feet. Then she closes her eyes and spreads out her arms. The wind whispers between her fingers. She picks up the thread in her mind, bright and cold, and finds herself wandering… south. South along the main deck until she bumps into the rail at the stern.

How curious, she thinks, and then it hits her, hard.

Oh, no.

The younger brother. The one who flew south. The only one they didn't think to tail.

No, no, no, no, no, no—

Rhaenys turns on her heel so quickly that her braid swings behind her, then smacks her hard around the stomach. She marches up the steps to the quarter deck, buttoning her coat tight as she goes, calling for her dragon in long, piercing notes. Meraxes comes diving out from beyond the castle walls. She makes a low pass behind the ship, curving in a deadly hook— a brutal blow of wind that would've knocked the whole vessel on its side if only she were still living— and the next time Meraxes swoops back around, Rhaenys is ready.

It's a rash move, far too stupid to ever attempt in life, but in moments like these, it's fucking efficient. Rhaenys takes a running start right along the lip of the hull, then leaps off into midair, and sure enough, Meraxes's body slots into place beneath her own. It wasn't perfect, that time. Rhaenys missed the saddle— she's landed halfway up Meraxes's frilled neck instead— and must now work her way down on all fours, clutching onto silver scales, already giving the command. "Vēzor!" (South!)

Meraxes flies, faster, faster, following the reins in Rhaenys's hands while Rhaenys follows the ones tugging in the core of her heart. The hour is far too late by the time they arrive somewhere above Shipbreaker Bay, though they're just in time to witness the dispersing of the storm clouds. Oh no. Such a great storm for a dragon so small.

It was here, yes. The boy and his dragon died right here, but they haven't stuck around. There's no sign.

Rhaenys curses at the clouds and loops the reins in her hands. She circles the whole of the bay, searching for something, anything, until at last, in the final stretches of daylight, she finds it. A single torn-off wing, tossed about on the waves like a bit of pale foam, cut with long red gashes. Tooth marks. Another dragon. It makes no sense. Rhaenys feels sick with confusion.

She orders Meraxes higher, combing through the clouds this time. Where are you, sweetling?

A whole day passes, then another. Rhaenys feels herself beginning to go truly mad, or so she thinks. They take their rest where they can find it— on cliff heads, rock beaches, shallow splits in canyon walls— all the same, they take it. I'm no help to anyone, she tells herself, though it kills her to spend even a minute on solid ground, not if I run myself straight into the waves the way Aegon did. If she can find the strength, perhaps she'll even admit it to him later when this is all over.

If this is even an echo of what you felt while you were waiting for Aerea, Rhaenys will say to him. She'll hold his hands again. The moment will come.

We won't be at this forever. It can't last forever, it can't— and it doesn't.

After three excrutiating days, there on the northern horizon, Rhaenys spots him. Tiny white wings flapping listlessly in no single direction just as a living rider never would. Then Rhaenys blinks and he's gone, disappeared to the north once more. Oh— of course. Dragonstone. The little prince tried to go home.

She finds him on the beach. She hears him before she sees him.

Muña, a voice wails. With it, a woman sobs. Muña, her son cries again, and she can't hear him.

She never will. Not with the veil of death between them like this.

His arms are absorbed within his mother's. His back ripples in and out as Rhaenyra sways with grief, as her son bends to follow her. Black hair melds into silver. Above the union of their forms, the plump yellow dragon howls. Rhaenys thinks, he's going to hate me for this, but it must be done. If the little prince remains like this for too long, it's going to ruin him.

Meraxes has always possessed a flair for the dramatic. When Rhaenys brings her in to land, she drops onto the beach with enough weight to shake the ground. It's enough to startle the boy as well, enough to have him scrambling backwards on his hands, and so Rhaenys dismounts quicker than she can remember doing in years.

"Inkot," (Stay back) she tells Meraxes. She makes her way forward over the wet sand on her own two feet, and still, the sweet little prince is only getting worse. His eyes bounce between Rhaenys one moment and Meraxes the next, panicked, and Rhaenys recalls the fatal tooth marks on his dragon's wings. Things hadn't gone very well for him the last time he'd encountered a larger dragon, had they?

The boy's own dragon, tiny though it may be, proves fiercely protective. Such a shame— what a force this little baby would've become one day, if only fate were kinder. The little dragon comes prowling, flaring its wings out wide to guard its master and then roaring out a ferocious battle-cry, not allowing Rhaenys to take another step. Oh, hell. Rhaenys hadn't exactly prepared herself to catch a face-full of fire this morning, but if that's where the day's events are headed, then so be it. She kneels all the way down. She shows both her hands. She tells him, "I'm not going to hurt you."

The little dragon roars, indignant. Behind those familiar, newly-healed white wings, Rhaenys can see that at the very least, the boy has stopped fighting the sand.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

Rhaenys had given thought to what she might say, when she greeted the riders who'd soon cross over in droves once the war broke out in earnest. You fought bravely, even if they hadn't. Give it up already for gods' sake, if necessary. Instead, Rhaenys finds herself on her knees along this soft, idyllic strand. She says it, again and again.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."

At her back, Meraxes trills. Cold wind whips at her braid. Bit by bit, the little dragon stands down and Rhaenys is happy to remain right where she is, now that she's at last able to look the boy in the face, and it's far too cruel. He's so young.

"Valyrie rhakitē?" (Do you understand Valyrian?)

The boy nods, eyes wide.

"Sȳz. Dārilaros Lucerys iksā, kessa?" (Good. You are Prince Lucerys, yes?)

He nods again.

"Se sparos bisys iksos?" (And who might this be?) She asks, gesturing to his fierce little dragon.

"Arrax," he answers. His voice is in tatters.

"Ijiōran jemī rhaenagon, Lucerys se Arrax," (I am pleased to meet you, Lucerys and Arrax) Rhaenys finds a smile, bringing a hand to her heart, "Rhaenys brōzaks, se bisys Meraxes issa. Avy ōdrili daor." (My name is Rhaenys, and this is Meraxes. We're not going to hurt you.)

Lucerys's eyes go even wider then. He makes a sound like a sob, then fights his way up onto one knee, leaning forward. Rhaenys thinks he's about to be sick, and then she understands— he's bowing to her.

"Aōhys Eglivys," (Your Grace) he whispers, yet the syllables seem to dance in the air. His pronunciation is so beautiful, Rhaenys is so proud of him already, and gods damn her, she cannot help laughing. "No, no, sweetling, none of that. Tell me now, have you any place to sleep?" She asks, even though the answer is plain to see. Lucerys's fine clothes are caked in sand. His whole body is shaking with wild exhaustion.

I'm so sorry, sweet boy. I'm sorry it took so long for me to find you. You must have been so frightened. Forgive me. I should've been right there.

It hadn't gone like this, when Aegon crossed over. When Rhaenys reaches Dorne later that evening with Lucerys in tow— and thank the gods for that, because she wasn't convinced that little Arrax would be able to fly so far in just one day— she finds herself rushing over to lift him down from his saddle before he falls. Lucerys is the same height as she is, but he wobbles on his legs like a newborn colt and Rhaenys wonders if perhaps she ought to carry him the rest of the way. His body is going into shock, yes, and repairing itself, not quite fast enough.

Just his hand on her shoulder, her arm around his middle, and one foot in front of the other. Between labored breaths, the boy mutters in a thin voice. "You're really her, aren't you?"

Dry rock crunches underfoot. Insects hum in the dark. Not much further now. Rhaenys nods. "Yes."

Lucerys's head wilts on his shoulders. "Morghe iksā." (You're dead)

"Ilan, kessa." (I am, yes)

When his knees give out for a moment, Rhaenys tightens her hold, switches languages as well. "Small steps, Lucerys, it's alright."

"No," he starts, then swallows, and starts over again. "No one ever calls me that. Lucerys, I mean."

"No? What should I call you, then?"

"Luke."

"Ah," Rhaenys smiles, "You're right, that is much nicer. Can you manage the stairs, Luke?"

"Yes. In a moment."

Inside, Rhaenys sits Luke down in her own favorite chair. She asks him if he's hungry, though she knows the answer. Luke shakes his head no. Even so, Rhaenys uses the last of her fresh water to mix into a cup with a bit of elderflower syrup, places it in his hands, and goes rifling through Aegon's room for a clean set of clothes— even straightens the sheets as well, though Luke won't be sleeping in Aegon's room. It becomes clear once Rhaenys emerges to find Luke seizing in a fresh panic, cup knocked over, imploring with his wide stare.

Don't leave me.

Rhaenys won't.

"Would you prefer to sleep in my room? We'll keep the lamps going if you wish."

It's a small, lucky thing; that the tears wait patiently until after Luke has fallen asleep. After he finds his way under the covers, flat on his back with Rhaenys's hand clasped hard in his own, and yet the shaking goes on and on. An old melody comes to mind then. Rhaenys hadn't even realized she still remembered it. A simple, wordless thing, the one she used to sing for Aegon— her Aegon— whenever the dreams got bad.

It works on Luke just the same. He settles at last; his breathing evens out, his hand softens, and Rhaenys's tears slip forth.

I only wanted company. That was all. I wanted guests beneath my roof again, voices for building proper harmony, and riders at my side. I was so tired of being so lonely, but this is worse, she thinks. Please, I never wanted it like this.

Rhaenys keeps quiet. She clenches her jaw until it aches. She doesn't move, not to stop the tears from dripping off her chin and into her lap, though she refills the oil when the lamp threatens to dim. This, she can do. It's alright.

Rest now, sweetling. Rest enough for both of us.

Soon the wee hours will come, that same stretch of perfect quiet, and Rhaenys will have what rest she needs. It will have to do. She'd best get used to it now that the war of pacts and ravens is ended— slain in mid-air above Shipbreaker Bay alongside Luke himself— and when tomorrow comes, penance will follow. Hellfire will rain down on every one of the kingdoms. The war ahead will be horrid, bloody, and long. The years will drag like a burden, Rhaenys knows, and she plans to face them one after the other. She hopes her table will be big enough.

And she won't ask, not for a long time. But as she sits there all night, watching the soft orange light flicker on Luke's sleeping face, she cannot help wondering. Honored prince, gentle child, dragonrider. The question rises up in Rhaenys's mind again and again.

Who did this to you?

Chapter Text

[180 AC]

Luke taps his foot against the painted wood in a slow, absentminded rhythm where the furthest end of the scorpion's arm meets the floor.

Proud, Rhoynish colors flake onto his sock. He's sat on Rhaenys's bedroom floor again, squirreled away in the shadowy gap between the bedframe and the great big chest of drawers. Barely enough light to see by, though Luke won't notice until dusk. That's when he'll catch himself pressing the notebook right up to his nose and come back to earth at last.

He'd discovered it lying there at the bottom of the empty armoire. Not so empty after all, as it turned out.

It must've been three weeks past. Since then, Luke hasn't been able to leave it alone. He keeps returning to this, gets stuck flipping the same page backwards and forwards, prying its edges underneath his fingernails until the paper begins to soften and crease like cloth.

Most of the other pages were reminders, memos, lists. Supplies to collect from Sunspear when the shipping lanes opened again in the spring, repairs to be done, messages to be relayed. Various living people of interest to be watched over. There was even a chart— a loopy family tree in blue ink, current as of one-seventy-one, with all of its branches stemming from one of Aegon, Viserys, Baela, or Rhaena as though the four of them were now the foundational pillars holding up the whole world.

Daeron, Baelor, Daena. Luke traced his finger down and across, smiling in spite of himself. How dizzying. Another Laena, not to be confused with Elaena, nor with Larra. A handful of Aegons to be had. One more Jacaerys, too. He's even got a cousin named Jacaera. How quaint, Luke mused. Then he flipped to the next page and went cold all over.

That was three weeks ago.

Now, Luke finds himself running in circles. He hides himself away in the shadows beside Rhaenys's bed whenever he has a chance, opens the notebook to the page with the drawing on it, closes it, opens it again. The image glares darkly. The chill stops his breath in his chest, every time.

The page is almost entirely covered in red ink— soaked, and now dried, with hardly any white left at all. Red bursts outwards from the shape at the very top. A bleeding star, raining a wonderous veil of pigment, dispersing and then hardening again in the center of the page, between the carefully-traced lines of a house. A house with a red door. It isn't all red, though. There's a lemon tree just outside one of the windows. The yellow fruits look like they've been smudged-on with a fingertip.

Near the bottom is a human figure. The outline has been rendered in black, so sharp that— yes, Luke can see it still, even when he closes his eyes. There she is. A pregnant woman holding a horse's bloody heart in both hands, head bent low. Feasting on it. Luke is well familiar, after wandering into Vaes Dothrak however many times over the years. It's a ritual. The woman— the queen of one Khalesar or another— presents herself before a council of widows who in turn present her with the heart. She's got to eat the whole thing right there for all to see, and keep it down too, in order to prove that she's carrying a son.

How strange, he'd chattered at Aemond on their way out of one such spectacle. My mother birthed five sons, but I doubt she could've made it through all of that. Not even once. Fucking grueling, is it not?

At that, Aemond gave him a shit-eating smirk. Speak for yourself. My mother could've done it.

Is that why the woman in Rhaenys's drawing is silver-haired? Is it meant to be herself?

Luke studies the woman closely, not for the first time. She might as well be faceless behind that fall of hair. No discernable features except for her wide-open mouth. How strange. The familiar chill takes hold, deeper. What does it mean? I don't understand, I don't. How strange. From outside meanwhile, fifty paces or so beyond the porch, comes the bright sound of clanging blades. A bit of grunting and goading as well. Aemond and Aegon are at it again, Luke supposes.

It's really quite sweet. After getting his answers regarding Balerion, and then the Faith Millitant, and Maegor as well; and then those rumors about Visenya's blood magic habits— was any of it true? And Jaehaerys and Alysanne— what were they like as children? After all of that, Aemond tilted his head at Aegon one morning, tapping his fingers impatiently on Qēlilla's hilt.

So, they called you the finest young lance in all the realm, did they?

Aegon turned red and sputtered for a moment. That was– well, yes, but that was a long time ago.

Hmm. Aemond rolled his shoulders, flexed his right hand. Was it?

Yes. Over a hundred years ago. I haven't– I haven't so much as touched a blade since– gods. Fuck off. You can't expect me to—

Can't I?

Aegon made his excuses, but even a whole century out of practice, he was still better than Luke could ever hope to be. It only took the two of them a few days of sparring incessantly out on the rocks before a sudden bark of laughter jolted Luke out of Rhaenys's notebook, out of his shadowy fugue. Aegon's laughter it was, followed by Aemond's demands. How did you do that? Show me, now.

Here, now, dusk falls through the window. All pink and blue.

How strange.

The light wanes. The red on the page sinks into black.

I don't understand.

Luke bends down closer to make up for it.

I don't understand.

Bleeding star. Old house. Red door. Lemon tree. Horse's heart. Silver hair. Open mouth.

When Luke's nose leans into the page, then makes contact, he takes it as a sign. But I still don't understa— yes, yes, fucking hell, and whatever he's searching for on this page, it won't come to him tonight. Gods. In any case, this is getting truly ridiculous. Luke can simply ask Rhaenys about it when she returns. He shuts the notebook, rises to his knees, and shuffles over to the window.

Sure enough, there's Aemond and there's Aegon as well, pacing a slow orbit around in front of him. Swords at the ready, both of them, steadying their feet, getting serious again.

Bleeding star.

Aegon's got a sword of his own, now. A plume of red tails out from the top of the hilt, handsome for the way it flies when he swings, even if it marks him as a rather doll-faced tourney knight. Aegon stalks right in at Aemond, blade and plume flashing. Aemond meets him halfway in a sharp, clever twist. A brief exchange, four hits, a moment to linger. Aegon steps back again, proud and straight, chest held high, and Luke tries to picture it. Aegon the Uncrowned living, one-hundred-thirty-seven years ago, dressed in all his tournament finery. In black and red, surely. Full plate and mail, silver helm, silken cloak, calfskin gloves, iron spurs.

Bleeding star. Bleeding star, bleeding star. Old house.

Luke screws his eyes shut for a moment. Even now, he can still see her. I don't understand. The sound of blades rings out afresh and Luke blinks his eyes open, trying to focus. Aemond. Yes, there he is.

Something pulls then, between the two of them, and Aemond glances back in the direction of the window. Gods, has his shirt been off this whole time? As soon as he notices Luke standing there, Aemond lowers his sword and runs a hand through his hair. Several locks have come loose from the pin in the back and Luke is happy to keep on watching while Aemond reaches up to fix it, one hand and then both, lean muscle on display, chest flushed pink with exertion.

Luke twists his mouth into a coy grin. His heart flutters, and something else has caught hold of his breath now.

He wishes it would last.

Bleeding star. Old house. Red door…

…Lemon tree. Horse's heart.

Silver hair.

Open mouth.

Later that night, warmth begins to bloom all around. Sounds slip past like ice. The light of the world floats like gossamer, pink and edgeless, the way it hasn't done in a very long time.

Luke thinks, I've missed this.

Whatever this is. Wherever he's sat.

There is a sturdy chair at his back and a lush woven rug beneath his feet. There are no shadows. Yes, and Luke will make sure of it. He frees one arm from the weight in his lap and reaches over to pour, to fill the lamp on the table. The weight in his lap begins to squirm and Luke hushes gently. He finishes with the lamp and when he brings his hand back, a smaller one clasps tight around his thumb only.

Dōnus, Luke whispers to the baby. Sweetling.

He knows it, now.

I am in a dream.

He'd never had one half as blissful, not in all the days of his life, and so, Luke melts into it. He wants to.

Into nothing at all beyond this very moment. Here, with his baby sleeping in his arms, with tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb. Little puffs of breath. Plump and healthy and perfect. When the baby opens its eyes— what lovely copper-brown eyes, Luke knows it's almost over.

He wakes to find Aemond cradling his face, hovering, searching. His hair falls, so white in the dark. His hand is wet for some reason.

"Luke–" Aemond gasps. His voice is shaking. Luke's whole jaw is wet too. And his cheeks. It's trickling down into his ears.

"Aemond?"

"I'm here. You've been– you were crying."

"I was?"

Aemond nods.

No, no, Luke thinks. But I was so happy. Still, Aemond is right, and the tears press onward all on their own. The sweetness is gone, the world is dark, the harder edges can't hurt him anymore but they're there all the same, and Luke begins to sob.

"Luke. What is it?"

Luke can't answer, his words are gone. The sweetness is gone, and so he drags Aemond down. The kiss is heavy as a storm cloud, longer and deeper than anything Luke can remember and this, too, is the only thing he could ever want. To be kissed until he can speak again.

"A dream," he breathes into Aemond's mouth at last. "Only a dream."

Aemond's eyes widen. "A dream," he repeats, hands gripping unconciously on Luke's shoulders. Luke knows where his mind is running to.

"No, not like that. I know what you're thinking. It wasn't that." I'm not like Helaena. But Aemond isn't convinced for even a moment— and he's so terribly determined to learn from his mistakes— he wants to listen this time, and so Luke is going to have to tell him.

"It was… no. No, it's not something that's e-ever going to happen. It was…" he can't say it aloud. It feels so far away now, and how could he, knowing it was never even real? Not as it was real for Aegon, nor as real as for Aemond, despite the fact that Aemond never so much as laid eyes on his own— his own— he never even got to—

"Luke."

Bleeding star, bleeding star, old house, red door, lemon tree. Gods, why can't I leave myself alone.

"It wasn't real," Luke whispers up at him, "I know it can't compare to what y-you…" That's as far as he gets. He can't finish, but he doesn't need to.

Aemond says only, "Oh."

Then he twists back on himself. Speared with guilt, again.

—lemon tree, horse's heart, silver hair, open mouth. Yes, you killed me once. I don't fucking care. Bleeding star, old house. Red door.

"Aemond. Aemond, kostilus āmāzīs." (please come back)

Aemond makes a pained noise. Luke isn't sure, but he thinks Aemond's got his face buried in his hands. Bleeding star, old house, red door, I feel like something bad is going to happen. Luke fights his way up. Then he drapes himself along the back side of Aemond's waist, head bowed. Hands clinging, supplicating, digging in.

"Please."

Please touch me, I need it. It has to be you. I'll wind myself up on you instead, if you'll let me.

All night long, Aemond lets him.

Their bodies find their way together in the dark, and as soon as Aemond touches him, the thing in Luke's mind goes quiet. Hot mouth on his throat, a hand petting roughly through his hair. Thick pleasure drawing tight, making him squirm as Aemond presses him into the floor from head to toe, keeping his wrists pinned together atop his frantic heart. Aemond draws it out. He laps gently at the precious little spot behind one ear and then the other, working down into the dip of Luke's collarbone, and it's so sweet— oh gods, it's so much— Luke is bucking and pleading already.

Since forever ago, Luke has resented his body for its rabbit-like neediness, for the way it makes him so fucking easy, but forever has since taken a turn. Now, Luke relishes it. The weight of Aemond's thigh in between his own, holding him down so brutally hard that he can't move to rub himself off on it no matter how he whines— until the feeling rises, crests, and scatters like a shower of embers— and then he's moaning in gratitude and thinking of nothing at all.

"Sȳz hylā?" (Feels good?) Aemond murmurs. Always starving for reassurance.

Yes, my love, Luke tries to say, biting at the air. You feel so good. Please, more, please, help me.

Aemond makes a soft sound. He lifts up, brushing Luke's cock against his opening, trying to be generous again, only for Luke to gasp, "No."

"No?"

"No, I'll come." I don't want to, he realizes. Gods help him, he really, really doesn't. "Please," Luke whispers again, "Please, Aemond, please."

He doesn't quite know what he's begging for, but Aemond does. Luke watches as he lies back so gracefully, propping himself on his elbows— making it clear that he's offering his leg now instead— and Luke outright whimpers. Oh, yes, please.

Aemond reaches out, pulls Luke in, and he goes readily. Fucking is one thing, but this— Luke could do this for days on end if he ever felt like it. Straddled on Aemond's left thigh, head tucked into the flat of his sternum, grinding, shivering— not coming— not yet, not yet. Luke clings to Aemond and gets swept up. Kissing, until they're both wet past the jaw. Rocking together until Luke is weeping so heavily all over Aemond's leg, until the need burns, until his balls ache like a bruise.

He fights right to the dizzying end— please, please, please— so fucking keyed up by the time Aemond rolls them over, gets Luke on his back, presses one of Luke's knees up to his chest and holds it there, making him wait while he slicks his cock. Luke is gone to nothing, begging for it in spite of himself. "I know, I know," Aemond breathes, and, "I'm sorry," then sinks his teeth into lip and slides in.

Luke's spine snaps taut. Oh, oh, gods. Not much longer now. Aemond holds Luke down and fucks him hard like he knows what's good for him, even as Luke shakes his head, cries out in panic because— no– fuck– so close– oh, I don't want to. He's writhing into it anyway. Aemond bites out a curse, closes the distance, and claps a hand over Luke's mouth just in time.

Darkness reconfigures. Luke is a puddle.

"Jāla ynoma āmāzis," (It's coming back for me) he mutters.

Aemond doesn't hear him, he's still busy down there. Silver hair loose in front of his face like a curtain. He's got Luke's knee folded up still, this time so he can wipe everything clean. So methodical. He doesn't need to be. The mess will disappear to the same place as all the bite marks and bruises, but Aemond does it anyway. The cloth drags over Luke's tailbone, then the juncture of his thigh.

Luke sighs, head lolling back. He can't be bothered to do the blanket himself, so Aemond throws it over, keeps him warm. Dawn is starting to glimmer outside. Bleeding star. Luke's heart thumps in his throat. Old house, he thinks, finally ebbing into sleep. Red door, lemon tree.

Horse's heart, silver hair.

Open mouth.

𓏵

Luke's mind has grown wings— there is no other way to understand it. It stirs in the darkness, refusing to ever sleep now, and so Luke passes the hours by flying on dragonback instead.

Soaring through the black night, warm summer wind whistling in his hair. Breath harsh in his chest. He cannot remember ever steering Arrax nor speaking a single command, but Arrax drops from the clouds all the same in a long dive over the streets and spires of King’s Landing. The capital isn't truly asleep either, though this is probably as close as it ever gets. Glowing here and there with late-night oil. Taverns clustered with open mouths. Streets pocketed with the occassional red door, and with silver hair as well.

Seven only knows how many horse's hearts, Luke thinks.

Aemond is there in the godswood when he lands, waiting up for him. The godswood is good. Luke's mind is always quieter, whenever he's sat beneath the oaken heart tree. Though, he wonders if a proper weirwood might do him one better.

"Luke?"

Luke sighs. Turns away, finishes yanking off his gloves. Keeps his eyes on Arrax as he clambers up on the garden walls, then launches into the air once more. Why, though, Luke wonders. For what reason does a dragon fly to any one place over another?

"Luke."

Luke sighs again. A hand settles on his shoulder, thumb brushing softly. When Luke looks, he notices. That Aemond's hair is still pinned back. That he hasn't slept either. It brings a tinge of annoyance. "Aemond, it's alright. There's no need for you to– to–"

Aemond tilts his head. "To?" he prompts, but Luke has already forgotten. While the heart tree is good, and flying is better, Aemond is… is… himself, yes, that’s it, and the feel of him— the scent of him— is as sturdy as a mooring line. His mouth has grown sweeter than air. I don’t ever want to breathe anything else, Luke thinks, leaning in. Aemond cradles him by the waist, feeds him one kiss, then two, and then stops, holding Luke back with a hand on the chest.

For a long moment, Luke forgets to even fight.

He watches Aemond, as Aemond watches it rise up within him. The fire takes longer than it used to. How strange.

"Luke," Aemond says for the third time, or the hundredth time— mooring line— Luke thinks it suddenly, and though he's been flailing in the open water for quite some time, only now does he truly feel it. He gasps for air right there in the godswood and holds tight to Aemond's hand on his shoulder, finally having enough sense to cling back. He needs to get the words out now, right now, before the water rises again.

"There's something wrong with me."

"Luke, no, nothing is—"

"There's something wrong with me," Luke insists again, and then begins well and truly raving. "Something's wrong with me, something's wrong with me, something's wrong with me, something's wrong– with– me– some– th-thing i-is—"

"Skoros lumie issa, raqiarzys? Skoros?" (What's wrong, darling? What?)

Something is wrong. Luke hardly even recognizes him. It's as though he's standing in front of a stranger, like they're meeting for the first time all over again; but the pinch between this man’s brows, the frantic shifting of his eyes— such clear violet eyes— makes Luke want to fall harder into his arms, and so he does. Aemond catches him. "Something's wrong with me, something's wrong with me," Luke twitters on, and all the while, pressing closer, Aemond answers, "Tell me, tell me."

Luke will. He wants nothing more, but… "I want to sit," he demands first. "I want the heart tree."

Aemond is so quick to obey, and a thought springs into Luke's mind.

I would have taken you into my service. I would have taken you as my sworn shield, just as my mother took my father. You never would have let them hurt me, would you?

"Never," Aemond agrees, and Luke realizes he's said all of that out loud. He sinks onto the ground amongst dry earth and gnarled roots, a waxy green canopy overhead and Aemond at his side, and sure enough, the currents of his mind begin to run clear. "Ynot ivestrās," (Tell me) Aemond asks again. Luke is ready this time.

"I've grown these… obsessions. With the strangest little things. Half the time, I can hardly think about anything else. I can't sleep either, not for very long. I've waited for it to pass, I've waited and waited, but…"

He glances up and finds Aemond leaning in, nodding. "This is… it's connected to your dreams, isn’t it?"

Dreams? They don't dream. Dreams are for the living. Luke had one, yes, but only ever one, and he only dreamt of—

"No," he snaps.

Aemond hums thoughtfully and squeezes Luke's hand. His face is doing that thing it does whenever his mind is already made up, like he's decided he disagrees, like he somehow knows better than Luke himself. "It's not the fucking dreams, Aemond." Luke snatches his hand back. "You always do this, you hear only what you want to hear, I swear, it's impossible–"

"Not impossible. Have you perhaps considered that–"

"Will you let me finish? It's impossible getting through to you sometimes–"

"Well, all I'm saying is–"

"Jaehossa!" (Gods!) "Helaena never managed to teach you a fucking thing, did she? Not for lack of effort, I'm sure."

Luke tastes the unbridled venom in his own words, but it's too late. Aemond flinches, blinking back tears, looking shocked. Scarred, Luke thinks, with another pang of regret. "Ūī usōven," (I'm sorry) he gasps, reaching out again. "Yne imandūljās, kostilus, skoro syt vestrin gīmin daor." (Forgive me, please, I don't know why I said that.)

Aemond squeezes his eyes shut, swallows hard, then sighs. "No, you're right," he says carefully. "There was… never a lack of effort. On her part."

"Aemond," Luke breathes, taking in the godswood of the Red Keep all around them and only now remembering— Helaena. He used to come here all the time with her, didn't he? "I'm so sorry. Please. I didn't mean it."

"No." Aemond's hand trembles, though only for a moment. "I'll let you finish," he insists, and, "I'll listen," bearing the scar Luke's given him so quietly this time. Rolling over in surrender, almost, and Luke doesn't know whether to kiss him or hide away in shame. "Tell me what's wrong, if not the dreams."

I don't deserve you, Luke thinks, and, Yes. Something is wrong with me. Something is very, very wrong with me.

Aemond waits. Luke swallows. The whole truth of it, now. "Have this for an example. I don't… I don't know how we got here."

A moment passes in silence. Then Aemond leans in, eyes wide. "What do you mean, here?"

"Here. King's Landing. I know it doesn't make any sense." Luke is feeling hot in his chest now— feeling the horror for the first time— only now. Panicked tears well up, then spill over, impossibly warm on his face. "Can you– please, Aemond, please, can you tell me how we got here?"

They must have flown, that much is obvious. And they can't have been here for very long. Luke realizes he knows that too, and has known it, because it's still the same midnight-blue ribbon in his pocket. "See?" He brings it out for Aemond, the proof. "I know I-I've talked to you every day, and flown every night, and I know– I know that Aegon is here too, somewhere, but…"

But why? That's what Luke can never keep in his grasp these days, no matter how hard he tries, because he can't even bring himself to try very hard at all. He can't for the life of him remember when, nor how, nor why he'd ever agreed to come to King's Landing in the first place.

I've never wanted it before. Why now?

Luke confesses tearfully, and so Aemond cups his head, presses their brows together, and reminds him in gentle, patient words.

Aegon knew about a meeting that Rhaenys-the-first agreed upon with Rhaenys-the-second, Aemond tells him. They planned to meet here in King's Landing sometime in the latter half of the year one-eighty, such as they've done every five years like clockwork, since the last dragon died.

Three decades past, Luke thinks, feeling sick. I was gone for twice as long as I lived.

There'd been instances in prior years, Aemond continues. Instances when Rhaenys-the-first had known she wouldn't catch her counterpart in time and had sent Aegon in her stead, and it was beginning to look as though this year would be another such instance. Only this time, of course, all three of them would go together.

Then they'd all talked about it some more, they'd discussed whether they'd like to chance a visit to the living family, and Luke had said yes.

"I did?"

Aemond nods. "I was surprised. But yes, you did."

Luke screws his eyes shut again. "Alright. And… and when…?"

"That conversation was only a week past. We've been in the capital two days, Luke. That's all."

At that, the tension drops out of Luke's shoulders. He releases a shuddering breath.

Two days.

Not two moons. Not two years. Thank the gods.

"Syrī iksos," (It's alright) Aemond murmurs. He clearly doesn't believe it himself. Luke collapses into his arms all the same and tries to hold back the sobbing— scores his nails into Aemond's back through his shirt instead, and Aemond lets him. "If I may ask," he whispers, chin nestled atop Luke's head, "What else is there? Earlier, you said, an example. Implying others."

"I don't know." Luke shakes his head, and he's trying, he really is. He's trying so hard. "There's… Aemond, there's this thing comes upon me sometimes. Always without warning, and whenever it does, it's like… like my thoughts aren't my own anymore. And I'm so afraid. I'm so afraid, all the time, though I couldn't say what of, I'm– I'm just…"

I want to go home. Home, home, home, that's all I ever want these days.

Luke breathes slow. "And I don't know if it's even true, I might've got it all wrong, but… I think…"

"What?" Aemond bends low, lifts Luke's chin in one hand so their eyes can meet. "Tell me."

Luke doesn't want to, he doesn't want to say it, for fear that saying it might make it true— or worse— that it was all nonsense from the start, and that saying it aloud might yield nothing but deeper madness. But Aemond whispers again, "Tell me," and Luke feels every ounce of apprehension, evaporating like steam. "Tell me, tell me." Beautiful voice on beautiful lips. Vāedirys. Luke called him that, once. He remembers it still. Can you sing?

"I think something happened after we returned to Dorne," he tells Aemond, balancing each word on his tongue. "I think… mirros ūndioks daor hūndetan otāpan." (I think I saw something I shouldn't have.)

Aemond's hand goes stiff, freezes where he'd been stroking Luke's cheekbone. He doesn't have to say, tell me. Luke does it on his own.

"I found it in Rhaenys's room. A drawing she'd made, but… I don't think… somehow, I don't think she knew."

Aemond takes a moment to turn that over. He takes another to choose his next words carefully. He says, in that eerie-soft tone of his, "Alright." Sweet as ice. Enough, once, to strike mortal terror into Luke's desperate, living, rabbit-heart. "Shall I have a look at it as well?"

He knows what that would be. Luke can see it written so plainly on his face. Aemond knows, and he means it. Say the word, darling. I'll share this madness with you.

"No," Luke insists, "You can't." And then he realizes. "It's gone anyway. I burnt it."

"You… burnt it?"

Luke nods. Yes, he remembers now. Wandering off in the middle of the night with Rhaenys's drawing rolled up in his hand, calling out for Arrax. Letting the paper fly free in the wind, then pointing his dragon after it. Dracarys. "Perhaps I shouldn't have done that either. I'm not sure of anything anymore. And– Aemond, all I want is…"

"Yes," Aemond is nodding already. "Anything."

"I want to go home. I know we said we'd meet the others, but–"

"Whenever you'd like. Lentāzmā īli." (We'll go home.)

Lentāzmā, lentāzmā, lentāzmā. It echoes in Luke's mind. What a dangerous word.

"We'll go now," Aemond offers, but Luke only shakes his head.

Not yet, not now. I'd need to know where home even is, first.

"Thank you," he says instead, at last.

Aemond tells him to, and so Luke remains, sitting beneath the old oak tree while Aemond retrieves their bedding. The warm wind stirs. Luke feels the living, twisting wood at his back and hears the faint rush of the Blackwater, far below the castle walls. In the distance, with new eyes, he can even see Vhagar's huge wings flapping slowly as she passes over the Kingswood, and he realizes— it feels better. Now that he's said it, now that he no longer needs to worry about Aemond finding him out— because Aemond knows, and it's alright.

On his back at last with Aemond's head on his chest and Aemond's hand folded into his own, Luke feels so heavy, for the first time in a very long time, like he might sink right through the pillow. It's a good feeling.

"Thank you," he murmurs again. Aemond presses a soft kiss to his heart in reply. He strokes his thumb along Luke's wrist, and Luke can feel it when Aemond smiles to himself. "What?"

Aemond looks up, wearing a sly little grin. "Was it a good drawing, at least?"

Luke huffs out a laugh. "Yes, actually. It was."

It wouldn't do to lose one's senses over bad art, now, would it? That's what the gleam in Aemond's eyes is saying. How embarrassing. And he's waiting patiently, whole body thrumming with curiosity— still, Luke hesitates. Mere words can't hurt, or can they? There's no way to know. Perhaps he shouldn't, but he can't help sharing this, too.

"There's a house," he tells Aemond. "A nice one. With a red door and a lemon tree in the courtyard. And a woman too, eating a horse's heart in the manner of the Dothraki queens, you know? But she had silver hair, like Rhaenys. And over it all, there's this great… sort of… bleeding star."

"Like a comet?"

"Yes. Yes, a red comet."

"Hmm. I don't think I've ever seen a red one."

"Neither have I."

"And do you… feel better? Now that it's gone?"

"I don't know. I think so."

It's not a lie. Luke strokes his other hand along Aemond's head, petting him behind the ear, and the whispers come on the wind. Silver hair, silver hair. Aemond has such lovely silver hair, yes. Silver hair, silver hair.

Lemon tree, bleeding star, silver hair.

"Aemond?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you kiss me?"

Aemond pulls himself up wordlessly, and now Luke's heart is fluttering once more, lips parting— thinking of something else, because this never gets old, and Luke wonders earnestly if it ever will. I'm so lucky, he whispers right back. Perhaps the wind can hear him, too. I'm so lucky.

𓏵

They find Aegon already waiting for them in the middle bailey.

It's smaller than I remember. That's what Luke had said, the last time he'd wandered into this place. And he'd been wearing Velaryon colors then. He'd had his brother at his side. And Aemond— Aemond had been right there— all in training leathers, a sword in hand, and a patch covering his left eye. He'd said something too, hadn't he?

Luke fixes his gaze on Aemond now, marveling at the sight of him while the old words echo in his mind. Nephews. Have you come to train?

He's still in black, though it's fine cotton now instead of leather, draping softly from his shoulders, folded in tight at the waist. No eyepatch on his face, not one blade on his belt either, and his hair doesn't hang down his back any longer. Instead, it's all twisted up so elegantly, run through with that same ivory and jade pin. The one Luke gave to him, not three moons before giving Aemond his virginity as well. (Luke has offered him plenty of others in the years since, ones made of silver, gold, ebony, and crystal. Aemond has never wanted any others.)

You tried to scare me, he thinks, taking in the red stone walls, feeling the gravel crunching underfoot, coming up beside Aemond and winding their fingers together. And it worked. I was so terrified. I had so much to prove.

"Is that it there?" Aemond murmurs, pointing.

Luke doesn't know what he's talking about at first, but then he sees, and laughs with shock because yes, that is it. It's still here, fifty-nine years later. And you thought you could swing Criston's morningstar. It's Jace's voice whispering in Luke's ears now. Almost took your own head off.

When Luke goes over to touch it, his hand ripples through. I was here.

"Not bad," Aegon comments just behind. "How old were you?"

"Six, I think."

"Damn, and they still haven't fixed it. Place is in fucking shambles."

It isn't, though. The castle seems very, very lively, actually. Luke can hear voices bursting with drunken laughter, even from down here in the bailey, and it's not even noon.

"What now?" He asks, following the others towards the staircase.

Aegon shrugs. "We could go looking. Or, we could station ourselves in the center of the holdfast, and wait."

Maegor's holdfast, Luke realizes suddenly. He glances back at the bailey— the place where he'd run into Aemond again— alas, the same place where Maegor had thrown Aegon's younger brother to rot after torturing the poor lad to death over nine long days. Gods. Luke turns again Aegon, who seems not to have thought of it at all. "Are you coming or not?"

Luke is.

The temperature drops as soon as they cross through the heavy doors, just as it had in life. The antechamber looms, vaulted and red. The grand stairway sprawls. Aemond reaches for Luke's hand again, pets his wrist gently, and whispers in a low voice. "Are you alright?"

Alright?

It's strange being back in the Red Keep. It's strange walking through so many bad memories. Luke can't stop the chill running down his spine, but his mind is his own, for now, and so he nods. Aemond squeezes his hand again. "Are you sure?"

Luke blinks, looking around. They've made it to the first landing already. "I– yes, I think so."

They don't have to wait very long, it turns out. There's a small commotion from the corridor at the top of the stairs. Luke barely has time to look up and register how much the place has changed— mirrors, velvets, so much gold framing absolutely everything— before Aegon mutters, "Oh, no," and there she is.

In all his years, Luke has never seen a face so sickly-pale, practically translucent.

Her hair is completely covered beneath a while cowl. Her dress is white as well, densely woven, with a high neck and sleeves that swallow her hands; and over that, a sky-blue kirtle split open down the middle, revealing the shape of her swollen stomach. She's very, very pregnant. Luke's first thought is that he cannot imagine why the court would go to such lengths to harbor a pregnant septa. His second is—

"That's going to kill her."

Aegon makes a sad sound in agreement. Then, one of the ladies supporting the sickly septa's arms whispers, "Please, My Queen," and Luke just about falls through the floor in shock.

"Queen?"

She doesn't look like one. She wears no crown, no jewels, no silks. Almost as if she's trying to hide what she is. If she could rid herself of those violet eyes and silver hair as well— Luke sees it now, a single lock falling limp behind one ear— she would. And he can't help wondering. If that's the queen, then what must her king be like?

"She's called Naerys," Aegon says, sounding like he's got something caught in his throat. "I didn't think she'd…" I didn't think she'd still be alive. The assumption isn't even a cruel one. Luke can't fault him for it. "She's your niece, I believe. Last I saw her, she'd only just been married to her brother. Another Aegon."

"I take it he's not a very good one."

"No," Aegon sighs. "The worst."

Poor Queen Naerys makes her descent painstakingly, her ladies fussing and pleading with her every step of the way. I have a niece, Luke thinks, and it doesn't fit. He can't even place her age. She could be twenty-five. She could be fifty. And it feels as though she ought to be six or seven generations down— not one. Aegon goes on. "There was another brother, but his name escapes me. He joined the Kingsguard not long after the wedding, to– to– protect her. I suppose. They were always very close. But he isn't with her now, which I can only take to mean…"

"He's dead."

Aegon sighs, dejected. They watch on as Naerys stumbles, as one of her ladies screams in fear, and another catches her just in time.

I have a niece, Luke thinks again. Not for much longer, though, it would seem.

"Baelor," Naerys is insisting, over and over. "I must go to the Sept of Baelor, I must." All the while, her ladies try to reason with her. The septons are happy to come to you, Your Grace, they have offered many times, please, Your Grace's condition is very delicate. Naerys refuses to hear them.

If only she'd had a dragon, comes the next thought. A dragon would've helped her. She would've been stronger for it.

Luke turns to Aemond then, and the words falter in his mouth at the sight of Aemond's aghast face. His eyes are wet with silent tears. Oh. She reminds him of Helaena. Wordlessly, he takes Aemond's hand instead, and when Naerys makes it close enough to hear the rattle in her breath, Luke feels Aemond's impulsive twitch. He desperately wants to help her, Luke knows. But he can't.

At long fucking last, a member of the house guard comes running. He lifts Naerys gently into his arms. All three of them breathe a sigh of relief. "Baelor's sept," the little Queen insists to her guard as well, and the man nods, and carries her the rest of the way down the stairs, out of the holdfast, and through the inner yard where her carriage stands waiting before the gate.

They agree on it without discussion. They'll follow her. And it isn't hard. From the moment Naerys's carriage enters the city, the smallfolk come. In twos and threes at first, then in dozens, then in scores; and still, even as the followers mass together and the procession slows to a crawl, Luke has never seen anything like it. He's never seen an entire crowd so cautious, so quiet, so restrained in their adoration. By the time the Queen reaches this mysterious new Sept of Baelor, there must be at least five hundred people at the rear.

"Who is Baelor," Luke hears himself ask. Naerys's guard is there once more to carry her inside the Sept— a high, proud thing, lush with greenery, crowned with a white marble dome and seven crystal towers, and in front, a statue of a kind-faced man with a wreath of flowers on his brow.

"The maddest of us all," Aegon says, looking up from the statue's feet. "But he played it off well."

Aegon continues, sporadically, about Baelor's mission to Dorne and the pit of vipers, the Maidenvault, the months of compulsive fasting, the appointing of an illiterate stone mason and then a child beggar to the post of High Septon. Luke hears little, and Aemond, even less. He stays well ahead, close at Naerys's side, and when her guard lowers her to kneel before the altar of the Mother, Aemond kneels with her. In the muted candlelight, the subtle shimmer of Aemond's form becomes imperceptible.

He would've been good to her, Luke muses sadly, and it's alright. He's happy to let Aemond have this.

After several long moments, Aegon goes as well, to kneel at Naerys's other side. Luke would join them too— he's about to— but something halts his step. Something is telling him to turn around.

To look back at the main entrance of the Sept, where the doors are groaning open and another small group is only just entering.

A man and a woman, both finely dressed and fairly young, and between them, an old woman with a cane. Luke cannot take his eyes off of her. Something in his chest swells suddenly, threatening to break. He doesn't dare believe it, not at first, but then the young man at her side addresses her in Valyrian. He calls her, "Muñāzma." Grandmother. He knows the word, even though everything else about him is plain, unassuming Andal. She smiles up at him— her grandson— and the moment she speaks, the moment Luke hears her voice, he knows.

Despite her wrinkled face, stooped posture, and grey hair, she's still very much herself. She's lived a very full life, it's clear to see. And it's everything she deserves. Luke folds to his knees right there on the floor, weakened, overjoyed and utterly devastated.

Rhaena.

Chapter Text

[180 AC]

She doesn't know it, but for a few short days in her latter years, the Princess Rhaena Targaryen-Corbray has a visitor.

The blazing summer sun falls lighter on her skin. The drapes in her sitting room float in the air, reaching out for her, suspended on even the lightest breeze. She finds that her old bones don't ache so much. Her knees don't give her so much trouble. She even feels well enough to leave her cane behind when she goes to join the Lord Hand in his solar for their noonday meal, though her visitor doesn't realize any of this.

He's there beside her while she hums to herself in the corridors. When a thought passes across her mind and she giggles to herself alone. Each time she passes by a mirror and pauses to make a face, taunting her own reflection, only if no one else is watching. When she applies her perfume the 'proper' way— the way she'd tried to teach Baela and Jace once— by spraying a cloud of it into the air and walking through.

Luke finds the sweetest joy bleeding through his tears. His chest feels sore. His jaw hurts from smiling so much. Over and over again, he whispers the words.

That's still you, alright.

She goes, she eats with the Lord Hand. He calls her good-sister. He tells her about a certain Lysene lady he's brought to court, one who they say is cold and cruel. "She doesn't speak our Common Tongue so well, to tell it true," the Hand divulges. Could it be, he wonders, that the lady is merely nervous about making any error? It might bring her great comfort to speak her native tongue— with one of her own fairer sex, that is— seeing as the only other in the whole of the court is Queen Naerys, Seven bless her gentle soul, and… well…

Rhaena smiles at him across the table, sly, discerning, but she agrees. She will have invitation sent to this Lysene lady, though whether she accepts is entirely up to her, is it not?

When she sits at her own table that night, penning away at the parchment, Luke sits with her.

Just on his own heels, kneeling at her right side, since he doesn't want to risk touching anything. He won't take anything of Rhaena's, not even a cushion. He won't do that to her.

There's a short invitation first, written in Valyrian, addressed to 'Lady Serenei'. Then a much longer letter that begins, 'My beloved daughter.'

She has a daughter, Luke thinks, delighted. One who shares Rhaena's blood if not her Targaryen name— perhaps the mother of the young man at the Sept who'd known the word muñāzma.

Rhaena's got many, many more daughters after that first one, it turns out. Her pen scratches on into the evening. The ink runs low, the letters stack up. By the time she's on the fifth letter, Rhaena has to stop after each sentence, wincing in pain and squeezing at her knuckles. She's sixty-five years old. Luke has to try. He's right there with her the next time she sets her pen to the paper.

They cannot hear, see, or feel us.

And yet.

Luke works his hand against Rhaena's. He focuses his grip, feeling beneath her wrinkled skin, tracing the delicate shape of her worn-out muscles. Whatever it is that's kept him so young for so long, Luke pours it out willingly.

Gentle heat seeps through. Rhaena's old, tired hand softens at last. She sighs in relief.

Luke finds himself leaning his forehead into the edge of her table when it's done, panting, exhausted, but satisfied. Rhaena leaves the letters out on the table to dry. She gets up and heads for the bedroom to ready herself for sleep. Luke almost follows after, but.

It was supposed to be me.

He feels so small next to her, now. He feels the ocean between them. It was supposed to be. But it wasn't. We never did have our wedding. I had no right then, and I have no right now.

He sleeps on her sofa instead.

Before he closes his eyes, Luke thinks of that sensation once more— the tiny weight in his arms, squirming.

It was supposed to be me.

He's still drained from his efforts come morning. But Rhaena is well, bringing a high spirits and a healthy appetite to breakfast, and that's everything in the world to him right now.

The grandson and his wife join her, the ones from the Sept. Then a granddaughter as well, Luke catches the resemblance to her brother, along with a handful of nephews and nieces, presumably. Their table rings brightly with sounds of laughter, chatter, spoons scraping against bowls, teacups landing on saucers.

In another life, the thought starts, and it's full of poison. It ends, this could've been mine.

Luke has another life, is the thing. He got his second chance. But he can see it. It would be the walls of Driftmark around them, salty-grey instead of red. Luke would be right there across from her, just as stooped with age. Arrax and Morning would go soaring past in the distance. A few of these young ones around the table would have black hair and turned-up noses, surely, hopefully without too much resentment.

Luke has no children. He never will, though it's not like he needs them anyway, now that the crushing legacy of the Velaryon name has been lifted from his shoulders. (He would've named one Rhaenyra, one Jacaerys, and another Joffrey. And if there'd been more than that, Luke thinks, he's always liked the sound of Aurane. Jaenara, perhaps— she could go by Jane for short. Daenys.)

Luke is dead, and free, and he has a family. He has Rhaenys. He has Arrax. He has Aemond. Of course it's not what he envisioned for himself. It's not like he could have. In any case, the living person that he once was— that rabbit-hearted child pretender— is long gone. Luke is free now, and he's got more than enough.

Rhaena, though. The more time Luke spends with her, the clearer it becomes. She hasn't got enough. Respect, that is.

It occurs to him first when she is permitted to cross through the Great Hall amidst all the courtly fuss and nonsense without being announced, as though she's nothing more than someone else's mother, aunt, grandmother. A mere fly on the wall. From then on, Luke's eyes are forced wide open. He can't set it aside. They're all looking right past her. Rhaena herself bears it in stride, but as the days pass, Luke begins to seethe. Who raised you people?

When members of the court do manage to put their pricks away long enough to acknowledge her, it's always "Lady" Rhaena for some goddammed reason. Luke wants to shake each of them by the shoulders and shout it in their faces.

Princess, not Lady. She is the Princess Rhaena, born of House Targaryen, daughter of Daemon and rider of Morning, for fuck's sake.

The mouth-breathing sods only bob their heads in greeting, if they even bother to bow at all. Youths these days. They ought to kneel all the way down to the floor and beg for the honor of kissing her feet, Luke thinks. She is their Princess. Their elder. Above all that, she is the last dragonrider of House Targaryen, and the last the world shall ever know.

When some petty rat-faced fool raises his glass, looks Rhaena straight in the face and calls her Baela, Luke has fucking had it. That kind of disrespect could've gotten the man roasted alive within the walls of his own sad little castle not even forty years ago. He's lucky to be losing his shoes instead. Not even all of them. Only the left ones. Luke flings them out the window, just for the satisfaction.

𓏵

He's still thinking about it later that evening, after Aegon comes to pry him away from Rhaena, and then Aemond away from poor Queen Naerys.

The three of them escape the castle and venture further into the city, where they climb up onto the roof of an old alehouse. Kicking back on an incline of gritty orange tiles, side by side. The surrounding roof tops glow dusky red, then fade to grey. The Sept of Baelor looms beyond. Its seven crystal towers glitter even after sundown.

The last dragonrider, yes, Rhaena was the last. And Luke— Luke was the first of the last, wasn't he?

So much has changed since.

It means nothing to them, was what he'd thought at first, but it comes to mind again on the roof top as he watches Arrax swoop over the city, screeching into the night. It dawns on him that this, here, is a sight these people have never seen. They don't know. Of course they don't. And they never will.

At his side, Aemond leans in, brushes a soft kiss along the shell of Luke's ear. Luke is still thinking. He hauls himself to his feet and goes wandering the length of the highest ridge, balancing on the tile, all the way up and back down again. The dragons weren't the only creatures to leave the world for good.

There were dragons, and then there were dragonriders. Yes, Luke was one of the very last of a dying breed.

We never survived the Doom at all, did we?

It's not nearly the same as riding a horse, nor sailing a ship, nor wearing a crown. So much of what Luke knows— no, who he is— only came to him the moment the egg hatched beside him in the cradle. Oh, how I found you clinging to one another for warmth, his mother used to say. Luke can almost hear her still. When he tries to imagine his life without Arrax, a life spent solely on the ground, he can't.

He suspects the same is true of Aemond and Vhagar, funny enough. Though he'd gone eleven years without a dragon and though Vhagar had known three other riders before him, Aemond was the one who was with her to the last. He was always going to be hers, one way or another. There was never any earthly scenario where Aemond wouldn't have tried climbing into her saddle that night— he was a dragonrider. He had always been. He would have Vhagar, or he would have death.

Luke turns on his heel, taking a moment to study Aemond from behind. He's got both knees up, chin in one hand. Long, silvery strands hang loose from the pin, drifting over Aemond's shoulders the way they always do when the hour is late. His place is in the sky, Luke thinks. And then, He's so much like Visenya, in truth.

Rhaenys herself had said that, and she would know.

Luke was there at Rook's Rest, the first time Rhaenys ever laid eyes on Aemond and Vhagar together.

He'd been dead for not even three moons. And he had wanted to go, mostly because he was so disastrously curious.

They'd flown in from the south. No sooner had they crossed to the north shore of Gullet than Arrax dropped stubbornly to the ground. Somehow, he knew who was waiting in the trees and would go no further, no matter how Luke pleaded with him, not unless he could go on foot and claw, and not unless he could hide behind Meraxes the whole time. Thus, Luke found himself riding to the battlefield mounted upon the world's twichiest, toothiest horse. At least Rhaenys didn't seem to mind.

It was only Meleys at first. Then Sunfyre as well. And he was clearly no match for her.

On the ground below, those poor foot-soldiers were being skewered by arrows, screaming from the dragonfire. They're Greens, Luke tried to tell himself, to little avail. He found his throat closing up all the same. Sunfyre's blood came raining down, smoking wherever it landed, and it was seeming like the whole war was going to be over well before sundown. It was seeming like Luke would have to think of some nice things to say about Aegon the Usurper, quickly.

Only then did Vhagar emerge from the trees.

Luke watched it happen in Rhaenys's whole body— the way she straightened up, helpless to memory— the moment she caught sight of her sister's old dragon.

"Visenya," Rhaenys muttered as if she were dreaming.

"Grandmother," Luke gasped in horror.

"Stay right here," Rhaenys told him, sharp and clear this time. "Wait for us." Then she braced herself low, tucked her long silver braid behind her shoulder, and gave Meraxes the order.

Vhagar made her way into battle slowly and steadily like an ancient flagship.

She didn't know it then and neither did Aemond, but at that very moment, straight as an arrow, Meraxes was soaring out as if to meet her.

(Luke had divulged as much to Aemond, years back. Aemond had been utterly, adorably mortified to hear it. "Did she see," he'd wanted to know then, "Was she there at– at Storm's End?" Luke answered truthfully. Aemond looked relieved for one second only, before realizing what that also meant. "It was just three days," Luke told him, shrugging.)

Luke watched through the trees in a helpless trance as the three living dragons clashed. Meraxes circled out wide like a hawk, obeying Rhaenys, and yet calling mournfully to her sister all the while. With the sight that herself and Vhagar made together, Luke could almost see Balerion.

The Black Dread was long gone though, and before Luke could even blink, Sunfyre went down hard with Meraxes diving right after him. Vhagar and Meleys fought on. The wind swept, the ground shook, and Luke realized then, that he'd never stood a chance. Vhagar was her monstrous self, but Meleys was a seasoned fighter as Arrax had never been; and with Sunfyre slapped out of the way, the true dragon-battle began in earnest.

Luke held his breath. He waited for the horrible, cold, crushing feeling he'd been warned about. He waited for Meraxes to return with Sunfyre in tow. He was still waiting when Meleys relinquished her one chance at escape, and came circling back around. Muñāzma.

"Sōvēs," (Fly) Luke tried. "Arrax! Sōvēs! Sīr!" (Fly! Now!)

Arrax ducked his head and whined in refusal. Please don't make me. Not again.

Luke never managed to get his dragon off the ground in the end. Grandmother. He wanted to scream or cry— he wanted to fly to her, but Arrax still wouldn't move— and he couldn't allow himself to meet her again like this, like a coward, not when it was all his fault.

Luke dismounted.

He ran on his own two feet, breaking through the treeline and onto the open field while Arrax squawked in anguish behind him. Mere moments later, it happened. Meleys and the Queen Who Never Was, thrown to their deaths in a resounding shock of fire and blood, together. The last thing Luke knew before he seized up and staggered headlong into the dirt was the sight of Vhagar, floating far above it all like a seagull on a breeze.

When he at last managed to lift his head, the battle was done. The field was thick with smoke. There were two of Meleys. Stood before them was one Meraxes, bright sparkling silver, bowing ever so cordially. Rhaenys, meet Rhaenys, Luke thought. And so they both did.

Luke takes another pass along the roof top. The stars have all come out by now. He thinks again of Rook's Rest, how harrowingly important it had seemed then. He thinks there isn't a single battle he could give a flying fuck about now, even if he wanted to.

"It's different, isn't it," he mutters aloud, "Since the last one died." We're different, Luke means. It was easy not to notice at first, because he and Aemond were so busy with, well, each other, but the examples are numerous. The cold that bites much harder than it used to. Luke's dreams. Rhaenys, he thinks next, and then wishes he hadn't.

Aegon hears him though, and rolls sideways, nodding. "The glass candles have stopped burning. Have either of you noticed?"

Glass candles. Twisted obsidian relics brought over from Valyria. They're supposed to do something magical, but Luke can't be assed to remember. He watches as Aemond shakes his head, listens as Aegon laughs darkly and goes on, "Citadel uses them as an instructional exercise, now. Each of the acolytes has their turn to spend a night in there, to try anything they can to make the candles light once more. You know. To demonstrate that no matter how many books the fuckers read, some things are forever out of reach."

To that, Aemond mutters, "Stupid. Someone will work it out, it's inevitable."

"I doubt it. It won't happen. Not with all the magic in the world… waning like it is."

Aegon is right, probably, but Luke wishes he wouldn't be such a bitch about it. "Who's to say there won't ever be any more?"

"Of course there will be more," Aegon sighs, morosely. "Just as soon as the sun rises in the west and sets in the east."

Aemond bites out a dry laugh.

The words arise in Luke's mind, sharply cut and fully formed.

"When the seas go dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves."

Loud and clear as a thunderclap.

He jumps— then twists around, wobbling precariously on the tiles, expecting to find someone there, right behind him. Who said that, he wants to call out. But the opposite slope is just as vacant as it's been. The city sprawls out beyond, red and orange rooftops, winding streets, beneath a clear and starry sky.

No one is there.

Luke tries to chase after it, to remember what the voice said, but time seems to slip. The harder he tries to remember, the quicker the words fade away, until he wonders if they were ever there at all.

How strange.

Aemond catches it too. "Luke?"

Luke blinks at him for a moment. Aemond is getting his feet under himself, making his way across the tiles, reaching out. Luke considers saying, I heard something— but he knows he didn't. There's nothing to find.

Which is far, far worse.

The familiar chill is starting to grip his spine again. He feels like a doll, held together and propped up with metal pins. He begins to sway. Aemond's voice cries out. When the itch flares, Luke scratches it incessantly.

Red door, lemon tree, red door, lemon tree, red door, lemon tree, bleeding star. Bleeding star, he thinks. Horse's heart, red door. Silver hair, bleeding star. But there's more, now. There ought to be more, Luke knows, because he just had it. It's torn right through him, carved him out, and left him lighter than before. Hollow. Less real.

"Luke."

Aemond's so close, he's right there, Luke can feel his hands gripping his shoulders, but it's not enough. A bleeding star, that's all he wants. That, and a house with a red door. It's happening again.

"Aemond," Luke forces the words out while he still can, "Would you– can you– please talk to me?"

"What about?" He's right there, Luke can see him, but his voice sounds so far away, like it's coming from the end of a long tunnel.

No.

No, I'm not ready.

"Anything at all, just do it quickly. Please."

"Alright, um, the– the– the thirteen children of Jaehaerys and Alysanne were as follows, in order of birth," Aemond begins, eyes shut tight in focus, "Aegon, born too early, lived for just three days, named in honor of the Conqueror as well as for his fallen uncle, Aegon the Uncrow–" he falters.

The fallen Aegon the Uncrowned reaches out from where he's sat and smacks him on the ankle. "Daenerys," he supplies.

Aemond nods, and continues. "Then came Daenerys, dead of the Shivers at age six. Aemon, first rider of Caraxes and heir to the throne. Baelon, second rider of Vhagar, father of Viserys and Daemon. Alyssa, his sister-wife, first rider of Meleys. Luke?"

It is working. Luke can feel the breath in his chest again. He sways forward. Aemond's voice is like a tether, clipping him in, holding him down. "Keep going. Please."

"The Septa Maegelle and then the Maester Vaegon. Daella, mother of Queen Aemma. Saera, bane of Jaehaerys, mother of bastards. Viserra, dead in a drunken street-race at fifteen. Gaemon, born too early, dead in three moons. Valerion, born too early, dead just shy of one year. Gael, the Winter Child, mother of a stillborn bastard, drowned herself in the Blackwater, should I— Luke— the– the– before the Baratheons, the Stormlands were ruled by House Durrandon who claimed descent from Durran Godsgrief."

Aemond goes on, kneeling them both down, a hand at the back of Luke's head, keeping their brows pressed together. He tells Luke about Durran's love for Elenei, the daughter of Sky and Sea, who gave up her immortality so that they might be wed in the realm of men.

Some say that Elenei's love sustained Durran, and that the two of them reigned together for one thousand years. Others, certain historians, esteemed scholars, explain that this was really nothing more than a succession of kings, all named Durran, one after the other after the other, and Aemond is inclined to agree. The very last of them was King Argilac the Arrogant, cut down in battle by Orys Baratheon whilst his men faced the wrath of Meraxes, and burned.

Still, Aemond goes on. By the time he's resorted to recounting the plot of Luke's favorite opera from Yi Ti, the one about the betrayal of the Amythest Empress, he's panting with exertion. Luke can feel his lover's breath on his face, now.

The sounds of the world are clear, Luke's mind and body are once more his own, and so he takes it from there. "And then the terrible black star falls to earth, and the empress performs that– that elegy that none of the actresses ever got quite right except for the eldest one—"

"Yes," Aemond breathes, and pulls Luke into a fierce embrace.

Over Aemond's shoulder, Luke makes bleary eye-contact with Aegon, sitting far too close for comfort now, and finds some odd look there that he can't quite read. Fucking hell. He pulls free, stomach roiling in embarrassment, suddenly far too aware of himself.

Aegon raises his eyebrows. "Gierī sȳrktys?" (All better?)

Luke doesn't answer that. He barely manages to avoid snapping at Aegon to fuck off. If it were just himself and Aemond on the roof top right now, he'd like to think he'd be less of a child about it. (Unfortunately, he knows better.)

The other two pick up on it after a stretch— Luke's bull-headed insistence on acting like none of that just happened. They follow along, kind of. Mostly. Aemond won't settle until Luke acquiesces to holding hands, and even then, he's squeezing so tightly, still shaking a bit.

Thank you, Luke thinks at him.

They watch the clouds gather.

There's to be a vicious storm in the south, it seems. Luke can see tiny purple flashes pulsing within the thunderheads. Autumn won't be much longer now. Quicksilver drops from above, diving toward the city at breakneck speed and snapping her wings out wide at the last second. Behind her, Arrax makes his own attempt at the same. No Vhagar in sight. She's most likely haunting that same old hill top. As is Luke, in a sense.

It's not the first time he's had this thought. He's tended to run from it in the past, but now, given the choice between the old haunt and the terrible new itch, Luke flees into it readily.

He asks, "What sort of a person dies on dragonback?"

Once, this would've been what Aemond calls a "good one." That usually means he's about to start quoting dead men with big bushy beards and that usually means he's excited. This time, however, Aemond looks down at Luke with what appears to be tragic concern. Luke stares back defiantly.

There's movement on his other side. Aegon props himself up on his elbows, frowning, considering. "You think we're being punished?"

Luke shrugs. Do you think we'd know it, if we were?

It's not as though the gods would be so kind as to walk up with herolds and banners, shake each of their hands, and announce their decree in plain words. Good morrow, you're damned. Thoroughly so. They've all been dead long enough to know this.

"Try putting that in front of Addam," Aegon mutters.

He says it, and goes tense all over a moment later.

Addam.

Luke remembers, thinking of Qarth and the Red Waste, of Leng Ma and Marahai, and of that first set of flight goggles, still tucked away in Aemond's bag somewhere. The dagger with the golden scallop. He thinks of the glow he'd seen on Addam's face that morning in Dorne— half from the wash of sunlight and stained glass, half from somewhere else entirely. Addam is nowhere to be seen now, and Aegon is all blue shadow.

The fact is a bit regretable, but Luke feels less alone. Like he's no longer the only one up here with his ass out.

Having come to the same conclusion it seems, Aegon glances up. Their eyes meet. "I could talk about that for ages, if that would… help."

It would.

Say yes, Luke nags at himself. You can even try being who you once were. Pretend, if you can't.

He tries softening his heart before he sounds his voice. "Tell me."

Aegon does.

"We were in the Cannibal Sands," he starts. Slow words, measured voice. "Well beyond K'Dath, beyond the Dry Deep, even. It had been years and years since we'd been home. I was just getting so… fucking tired. You can't imagine what it's like out there. Formless. Nothing. The winds have no pattern. After a while, our compasses even stopped working."

"What?" Luke blurts it out at the same time that Aemond does, and they share a look. That can't be right.

Aegon knows what they're thinking, of course. "I know how compasses work. I'm telling you, they were no help to us at all. I took it as a sign. I'd been wanting to turn back for years as it was, but… Addam was only getting started." A smile bleeds through, one that doesn't reach his eyes. "He's so wonderful that way. Steadfast, you know. I suppose I should say I loved that about him, once. But… he said that I was only slowing him down."

Imagine that, Luke thinks. Quicksilver, too slow.

Then he lifts his eyes to the darkened horizon.

To the east, he can see as far as where the Blackwater spills out into the Narrow Sea. It's too far presently, but he could point a straight line to Pentos, just beyond. The rest of the Free Cities after that, and then the old Rhoynish territories. Even further east, the Dothraki plains and Ifequevron, and then the terrible sky-scraping Bone Mountains which men once mistook for the walls of the world itself, but others knew better.

Luke is one of them. He's seen past them with his own eyes— he's flown to Yi Ti, Jogos Nhai, and the Bleeding Sea. Further still, the Shadowlands, and Stygai, and those jittering masked wraiths, riders so ancient they'd managed to lose their dragons. K'Dath is even further. Somewhere still, surely, past even the Cannibal Sands where the maps all drop off, if one flew and flew for years and never stopped, one might happen upon the ghost of Ser Addam Velaryon, son of Corlys, rider of Seasmoke.

Is he any better off than we are?

"He wanted to know if there was ever an end to it all," Aegon continues. Aerea was one thing, but now, with Addam, it's like the grief has been burnt out of him. "He used to say that if there was, that either he would find it or I would. And that if he found it first, he'd stay and wait for me there. He wanted me to promise the same. So I did."

Is there ever an end, Luke wonders. Addam struck out in search of it so soon. Perhaps that's what Luke should've been doing all this time as well. He wonders what might drive him there, eventually, if at all. He wonders if he'll still have Aemond by his side when he does.

He said I was only slowing him down.

Luke is sinking Aemond like a stone, he knows.

That's all he ever does lately.

Aemond just hasn't realized it yet.

𓏵

Bleeding star.

Old house.

Red door.

Lemon tree.

When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east.

When the seas go dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves.

Luke closes his eyes that night and finds a vast longhall.

The place has been built recently, out of new wood. He can smell just how the fresh cut is. Candles burn atop great iron wheels. Dark velvets drape from the windows. A dragon's roar carries in from outside, one first, and another in reply.

Rhaenys the Conqueror is there, in all her glory such as Luke has never seen her.

She's wearing a voluminous gown of red and black velvet. Her hair falls freely down her back. On her head is a Valyrian crown, wide and radiant as the sun, dripping with gemstones. She's got rings on every one of her fingers. They tap impatiently on the arm of her throne. Overhead, there's a banner hanging, a three-headed dragon, red on a field of black. Perzys ānogar.

Someone is speaking. Luke turns his head— he is there in body, it seems— and finds a man on his knees, hands clasped together. "A thousand pardons, Your Grace," he's saying. "I swear I didn't know. It wasn't me."

Luke thinks, Liar.

He lounges back on the steps of the throne and stretches out one leg.

"You swear, do you?" Rhaenys laughs at him from above. "Worms have crawled up your nose and devoured your wits. Let us have done with it. If you have any final pleas to make, voice them now."

"No, no," the man says first, disbelieving still. His senses do catch up, eventually. "My– my children. They had no part. Please, fair queen, I beg you, have mercy on them."

Rhaenys hums, tapping away.

Then she tilts her head down at Luke, and their gazes meet. "Skoros ȳdrā, Ñuhys Dārilaros?" (What say you, My Prince?)

Am I her heir, Luke wonders in elation, feeling his heart flutter. Is this a test?

When he glances back down again, the kneeling man has forgotten all about Rhaenys. The desperation in his eyes is more animal than human— the sight of it brings on a strange, heady rush that Luke has never felt before. He'd never had the chance. My Prince. The kneeling man doesn't dare speak the words aloud of course, but his mouth forms their shape. Mercy. Mercy.

Jace used to have all sorts of lessons on this. With every decision a ruler makes, a message is sent, whether one wishes or no. It's never just about the individual. There are greater things hanging in the balance; stability, prosperity, for all. Mercy is as gold, Luke remembers his brother reciting proudly, neither should be dispensed so carelessly. He tries to imagine what his mother might do, or his grandfather. He knows what Aemond would do— or rather, what Aemond would've done.

Liar. Traitor.

But it's Rhaenys's feet he's sitting at now, and Luke can't help recalling something he'd heard her say once, years and years ago. The ease of power. We became such cruel, simple creatures. And he makes his decision with ease.

"Your children shall have their freedom."

The man falls all the way forward onto his hands, sobbing with gratitude even after Luke calls loudly for his head. There comes the sound of a sword being unsheathed, as if from far away. Luke turns to Rhaenys. Did I do it right, he's going to ask her.

But her throne is empty.

𓏵

Another week goes by, then two, and still no sign of Meleys or Meraxes.

Luke is getting restless. Flighty. He wants to go home. He's not any closer to knowing where home is. He doesn't tell Aemond about the new dream. He knows he should. He feels awful about it. He still doesn't. When they fuck, it's like Aemond is trying to make sure Luke takes his medicine.

It all goes to shit on the day of Naerys's funeral.

The bells begin to ring, low and slow and somber. Then a faint, bodiless wail goes up as if from the Red Keep itself, and they know it's happened.

That's going to kill her.

And Luke had been right. They really had witnessed the Queen at her last.

The child was female, and stillborn; later shrouded in black-and-red and laid on her mother's chest in a tiny bundle with Naerys's arms folded over, tied by the wrists. Morbid, but practical. Luke notices as much when the procession makes its way past.

Aemond insisted on a proper view, and so the three of them have taken up position on a low balcony, practically level with the street. The master of the house is watching from the window above. His children and servants have gone down to join the crowd, and to throw handfuls of white petals. When the wagon carrying Naerys makes its way through at last, one might think it was snowing.

Did they cry for me?

Luke wondered in the early days, but he'd never asked. It was a childish impulse. War waited for no one, least of all dead princes. Even if it weren't for that, the smallfolk of Dragonstone might have turned out, but they never would've screamed and howled— not like this. Aemond isn't immune either, though he keeps silent about it. Luke fishes a spare bit of silk out of his pocket and hands it over. Aemond sniffles in reply. Luke watches as his lover buries his face in it, thinking, Did they ever cry for you?

Naerys and her infant daughter are replaced by others moments later, horses, carriages, banners— the family— and Luke gives him a nudge. Aemond had wanted to see them all, no?

The next of kin are seated on the carriage just behind, glittering with finery, even in black. His Grace evidently couldn't be bothered to show himself. Instead, the seat of honor is filled by a younger man in his late twenties perhaps, wholly plain-faced and unassuming aside from his silver hair, combed and waxed. The crown prince, surely. His wife sits at his right side. She's dark-haired, dark-eyed, and olive-skinned; and if that weren't enough, she's wearing the golden sun of the Rhoynar in the center of her forehead, suspended by a single delicate chain. She's a Martell. That, at least, raises Luke's interest.

If only the Valyrians were here to see this, he muses. They'd shit themselves so hard, their swarm would crash right into the ground.

"Prince Daeron," Aegon says, pointing. "And his wife, Myriah of—"

"—of Dorne," Luke finishes. Soon to be Queen Myriah of the Seven Kingdoms. Or will it become eight in that case? Who's keeping count?

On the upper seats behind Daeron and Myriah are two women and a gaggle of children. Luke counts four boys and one girl. Two of the young princes, he can't help noticing, have inherited their mother's dark Rhoynish hair. Best of luck with that, lads.

Of the women, the first is around the same age as the crown prince. A sister, perhaps. She's silver haired as well, but even from here, Luke can see the thick streak of gold running through. The second woman, of course, is Rhaena. No grandchildren this time. There's only so much room in the one carriage, and they don't rank high enough to be seated alongside her. When Luke searches among the mounted riders further back, he spots the grandson.

Aemond clears his throat, mutters something that Luke doesn't catch, and Aegon shakes his head. "No, Daeron's only got sons. She's his sister, not his daughter." Aemond hums in acknowledgement. "Another Daenerys," Aegon adds.

Poor little Daenerys can't be older than eight or nine. She looks like she desperately wants to be anywhere else right now. Luke makes this observation at the same time as Rhaena, it seems. She plucks a few pins from Daenerys's hair and folds the veil down over her face. The girl's shoulders start shaking a moment later. She tries to hide herself in Rhaena's shoulder, and Rhaena lets her.

"King's bastards," Aemond murmurs next, looking further back along the street.

Aegon nods. "Proper scores of them out the arse. It's a disaster waiting to happen. No offense, Luke."

None taken. Luke cranes his head to see as well.

However drastically uncouth it might be for a king's bastard to show face at the queen's funeral, there's also a nice fat opportunity for keeping favor with the crown prince. Daeron wanted them there, it seems, and around a dozen have taken him up on it. Half are silver-haired. The others are all dark except for a boy still too young to ride by himself, seated in front of his sister in her saddle, white-haired and red-eyed like a rat. So Valyrian it almost hurts to look at him. The boy lifts his head, and now Luke can see he's got a bloody mark covering one side of his face. And it's almost like the boy is staring right at—

"One of them is called Daemon," Aegon says. "Can't remember which."

Aemond lets out a pained sigh.

By the time Luke blinks hard and finds the red-eyed boy again, he's facing straight ahead once more.

The crowd flows past. Aegon and Aemond chatter away in low voices. Another war is going to break out, obviously. The queen has birthed a son, who's gone and had four sons of his own— with a lady of House Martell. Of Dorne. The enemy of all seven kingdoms ever since Rhaenys issued her threats and got shot out of the sky for it. Enemies no longer, if Daeron and Myriah have their way of things, though if Daeron's got any brains between his ears, (which Aemond believes he does) then he must know that it was never peace they wanted with Dorne.

No, Luke thinks, feeling sour. Not peace, but victory. Conquest. Fire and blood.

Daeron lacks the fire as it is. And if he won't give them any blood either, the discontented lords will simply choose from among his plethora of bastard half-brothers to find one who will. So fucking eager for war. Easy enough for them, only because they've never seen it.

Luke allows his eyes to glaze over, then turns his back on the street altogether.

We used to live in a tree.

When he looks at the shape of the doorway leading back inside the townhouse, and at the rest of it— the carved stone and painted wood, plaster and nails, nothing more than cheap contrivances and artifices— his mood only grows worse.

We used to have the world to ourselves.

He glances over at Aemond next, and tries to envision the bark walls of their tree hollow back in Ifequevron sprouting up around him now. How those years flew by. Gods, Luke wants to go home. But he'd thought the same when they were there, and that was why they'd left, wasn't it? (That, and Luke had wanted to show his lover off a bit.) Take me back to Stygai, he thinks next, for no reason at all.

Aemond wonders aloud what Rhaenys might think of this. All of it— Naerys's death, Daeron's ascendancy, the impending peace with Dorne? The war to come? Aegon, aloud, wishes he knew. "Lately, all she talks about is… I don't know. I think she means to find a new home for herself. Last I saw her, she kept going on and on about a house with a red door and a—"

"And a lemon tree?" Luke blurts it out.

Fuck.

Time stands still.

Luke can feel the floor about to drop out from under him. When he musters enough courage to turn his head and look, he finds Aegon right there, focused on him with deep suspicion. "How did you know that?" His eyes narrow. "Luke. There's something you want to tell me. Isn't there."

He's telling, not asking.

Luke desperately does not want to answer.

Aegon advances slowly, sliding his hand along the banister, voice gone cold as ice. "What were you doing in her room for all those hours anyhow?"

Between them, Aemond lets out a sound like a hiss.

Luke doesn't have to say a word. He can only stand there, burning in shame as Aegon reads it all just from his face— Rhaenys's journal, her drawing, the one she'd made without ever knowing it, which Luke knows for a fact, because the same obsession has spread and taken root in his own mind now— and then mutters to himself, "She told me she was getting better."

Better?

"Luke. Her armor."

Oh, gods.

"Did she take her fucking armor? Answer me now."

Feeling violently ill, Luke nods. He shuts his eyes too, but it's no use.

"You knew it this whole time," Aegon seethes. "You knew." His words are sharp with rage. "Aōle ilībōños–" (You bastard) but he makes it no further.

Aemond snarls.

Luke opens his eyes just in time to watch as he flies at Aegon, catches him by the shoulders, and then slams him into the nearest wall so hard that Luke hears something crack. Distantly, he's aware of how amicable things had been between the two of them, not even a minute ago. Aemond is all teeth, looming over him, ready for the kill. It has Aegon startled to his core, that's what it looks like anyway, and oh— of course. He never knew Aemond in life, did he? He's never seen him like this. It's been a while for Luke as well and the mere sight is making him want to scream.

"Qubyz zijot hegnīr ydrās daor." (Don't fucking talk to him like that.) "Ziry renīs daor. Tistys avy nekēbinna." (Don't touch him. I'll gut you dry.) Aemond means it.

"Aemond, stop, he's right, it's my fault–" at that, even as he is, Aegon gets over himself and manages a sharp, depricating laugh. "It's my fault," Luke insists again. He swallows. Coward's words, he knows it, but he says them anyway. "Aegon. I'm sorry."

"Yeah?" Aegon turns his head and spits. "How could you?"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, I– Aemond, please. Let him go."

Aemond steps back. As soon as he does, Aegon goes storming off through the door. Luke hears him muttering, Bastard. Kinslayer.

Meanwhile, Aemond goes all soft again. "Hey." He takes Luke by the shoulders, squeezing gently, trying to, but Luke can't fucking look at him right now. He has no idea what Aemond might find if he does, but he knows he doesn't want Aemond to see.

"Are you–" Aemond starts to say, but Luke still won't look at him, and there's movement in the doorway again.

Aegon is back, furiously buckling himself into his riding coat. One bag is slung over his shoulder already. He flings the other two down at their feet.

"Tolmiot sōven, drējī sīr." (I'm flying out, right now.) "Ynoma māzītīs iā daor." (Come with me or don't.)

𓏵

Naerys's funeral, like most, was finished well before noon. They've got all day to fly.

Luke feels numb on the street and then numb on the roof top.

Arrax appears by some odd trick, and then he feels numb in the air, too.

Aegon is fucking livid. Quicksilver, being herself, puts it all to use. She carves her way through the wind like a blade, creating a slipstream forceful enough to pull Vhagar. Aemond accepts his place with minimal protest while Luke, being smallest, weakest, and most useless, falls in at the very back. It feels like Aegon's dragging them to Vaes Dothrak by the scruff of their necks.

The Narrow Sea is dealt with in a matter of hours, though they make it 'only' as far as the old Rhoynish territories by nightfall.

They don't touch Chroyane. It's out of their way. Instead, they make their landing further north in Ny Sar.

Just for the night, it's only one night.

Luke knows Ny Sar, sort of, though only as one of many stops on his years-long search for Aemond decades ago, and only ever the once. And he hadn't noticed the smell. To think, this place used to be the seat of the legendary Queen Nymeria herself. Now, it's all crumbled into one massive graveyard, damp and rotting.

They land their dragons within the pink marble ruins of Nymeria's palace. Aegon stalks off on his own. Luke turns his head and spots him there across the waterway, seething at the top of some lookout. Mounted on the tower just beside him are the dilapidated remains of what would otherwise be the single largest scorpion Luke has ever seen. Twice the size of the one that felled Meraxes, easily. With good aim, a single shot might have blown Arrax to a bloody mist. The thing is still pointed upwards. Ever ready.

Aemond finds them a spot for sleeping, no worse than countless others they've had before. It's dry, warm, walled, and halfway-roofed. Luke goes willingly enough. But as the night wears on, the fog creeps in; rising from the riverbank, seeping between the marble archways, and Luke could almost swear there's something in it. Something gentle and incessant.

Can't hurt me, he might have said to himself when he was still young, and perhaps back then it would've been true.

The pale fog rolls right through their little corridor. It laps at their feet first, then their bodies, then full over their heads.

Luke doesn't sleep. He lies there all night with Aemond's head on his chest, clinging to him. In the morning, when he sees Luke's puffy eyes and straggling gait, Aemond hauls the both of them into Vhagar's saddle.

On the second night, Aemond asks in a low whisper. "She took her armor." He asks while Luke is stood beside Arrax, halfway encircled by a wing, trying with wind-frozen hands to yank their bedroll free from the leather. "What does that mean?"

She took her armor.

Luke only turns from him, and cries.

𓏵

The best part about being dead, I think, is that none of it can hurt you anymore.

It could, though, was the thing. Luke was having such trouble falling asleep on his own, in the dark, without Rhaenys there. He was fourteen and a half and it was humiliating.

When the feeling rises up, just do what I do.

Luke still remembers that moment clear as day. The beautiful serenity that came over Rhaenys then, summoned from within by honed practice.

Can't hurt me.

Can't hurt me.

Can't hurt me.

Just like that, see? Now you try.

"Can't hurt me," Luke murmurs into the wind. His throat is too wet. He can't get the sounds out.

"Can't hurt me." His tears are blown to stiff, flattened salt tracks. If it weren't for the other two, he never would've been able to even drag himself past Pentos. He knows it.

"Can't hurt me."

Nothing could ever hurt Rhaenys.

That was never a question in Luke's mind.

The green and yellow grass yawns out below into a vast, flickering ocean. Luke buries his head between his tight-gripped hands. He thinks of one of the last things she'd ever said to him, the last time he actually managed to visit her. Decades past. Just before Luke made up his mind to go and search for Aemond.

"I want to be ready," she'd said. She hadn't meant to.

Ready for what?

Luke had gone that far, and no further. Like a fool, he really thought they'd have all the time in the world.

Vaes Dothrak has no walls. It doesn't need any. Who would be mad enough to try invading the home of the greatest land army this world has ever known? Wide, dusty roads sprawl out in a great web beneath the Mother of Mountains. The greatest of these is the Godsway, beginning at the Horse Gate and running right down the center, flanked by hundreds of holy idols pillaged from lesser unfortunates.

In the heart of it all, at the foot of the mountain, there is a vast lake.

The Womb of the World.

She flew out only three years ago, Luke thinks. Not long before we did. She even left a note. If we'd gone just half a year earlier, if we'd turned south instead of east…

But they didn't, because they didn't know, and they're far too late now.

She's been right here, all this time.

Sitting in the milky shallows, just up to her waist.

Meraxes is crouched above. Her wings are braced out halfway, head bent low, settled there, perfectly still. Sunlight gleams first on every one of her silver horns, and again, along the bronze of her mistress's armored shoulders.

Even from the sky, Luke can see it.

That Rhaenys has her hair braided back.

Because she was afraid, he realizes. She was so afraid, all of the time, and she didn't even know why.

"The water," Luke gasps, turning to the others a moment after landing on the muddy shore. "We– we musn't– don't touch the water."

It's based on nothing. It's only grieved, panicked, half-flung reason, and Aegon tells him to shut the fuck up. He drops from Quicksilver's saddle and goes wading right into it without looking back. "Muñāzma."

Unresponsive.

Nothing stirs them.

And I still cannot… I cannot imagine what must have made them so.

Aegon had been so sure that evening that it was Garin's magic. Even then, Rhaenys had disagreed. And Luke thinks now that he would give anything, anything, anything—

But then Aemond follows Aegon into the water. He's up to his knees, shivering and alone, and so Luke has no choice.

Aegon is knelt down in front of her, holding her face in his hands, sending out ripples with his shaking. "Grandmother, it's me. I'm here. You can wake up now."

Rhaenys doesn't.

Somewhere along the shoreline, Vhagar begins to howl for her sister.

"Did you find anything? What did you see?"

She saw a bleeding star. An old house with a red door and a lemon tree. A silver-haired queen devouring a horse's heart.

"Grandmother."

Her eyes are closed. Luke gets close enough to see that much, and he wants no more. He tugs on Aemond's hand like a child, screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. That's Aegon's grandmother. Luke isn't going to take this from him as well. Instead, he presses his face into Aemond's chest.

Don't look, Aemond had said to him, so long ago. We need to go now.

"Muñāzma. Nykēla ilza." (Grandmother. It's me.) "Va skoriot īlitē?" (Where have you gone?)

Yes.

Luke needs to go now.

There's something pulling on him, he can feel it. I'm next, aren't I? He fists both hands in Aemond's coat, gazes up at him, and he's about to say it. When it's time, I want you to take me to Chroyane. I still have yet to see the place, don't I?

Before the words come out, Aemond grabs him by the face.

"Look at me," he commands, and Luke sobs. He looks at Aemond. He tries. "Stay, Luke. You're not going anywhere. Stay with me." Luke's heart is pounding in his chest now. His breath is heavy and harsh. Above him, Aemond glares like the sun, twice as fierce. "Stay."

A sudden crack of wind sounds behind them. Luke turns just in time to watch as Quicksilver takes to the sky with Aegon braced low on her back. He didn't even say goodbye.

"Luke. Do you hear me?"

Yes, he does. He doesn't let go of Aemond's shirt as he drags the both of them closer, helpless to it now that there's nothing but cold, cloudy water separating him from Rhaenys.

"No, Luke— jagon ajorrāeli." (We need to go.)

He can feel his own mouth moving. Whatever it is he's saying, it's loosening Aemond's grip. It's not right. He's moving towards her now, frantic. She doesn't like it that way. I have to fix it for her.

When he reaches her, Luke drops to his knees. The water soaks through his clothes and laps at his heart, his lungs.

He's never touched Rhaenys's hair before. It's wavier than Aemond's. It's been three years. The braid has gone all cold and stiff and heavy. It must be pulling on her scalp, it must feel so horribly tight.

"She doesn't like it," Luke mutters, working at the little tie on the end with shaking hands. "I have to fix it. She doesn't like it, she doesn't like it."

The tie comes out. The three long sections come apart, bent and twisted, but Luke is persistent. He works his way up.

Rhaenys Ērintys. Daughter of Aerion. Rider of Meraxes.

Even like this, she is glorious. A wonder to behold. A warrior in fine bronze plate, a dragon queen, the terror of the Reach, the firey scourge of Hellholt, and one of the last things King Argilac the Arrogant ever saw. Luke strokes his fingers through, again and again, until Rhaenys's hair softens at last, floating on the breeze just as it always had, just as he'd remembered.

The very last piece sits across the crown of her head, a heavy band of polished steel holding it all back. Luke takes his time with it. It's all gone so stiff, grafted together almost, it's like trying to pry a tooth from her skull, but he manages. When it's done, he feels beneath the water's surface for Rhaenys's gloved and gauntleted hands. He sets the band there in the cross of her wrists. Still, it isn't right.

"Luke."

No, no, it's— she's—

"Iōrves jurneks," Luke laments. (She looks cold)

He turns back, meets Aemond's eyes. His love is old. And tired. And still fighting so hard, clinging to Luke's shoulder— a fortress crumbling in the storm— and Luke thinks of Elenei, the daughter of Sky and Sea. Some say she gave it up for love. How, though?

Aemond takes off his good leather coat. The hem floats along the water. Luke watches as Aemond drapes it around Rhaenys's armored shoulders, threading one arm and then the other, taking care to tuck all of her long hair underneath. Wind comes sweeping off the surface of the lake. Aemond shudders as he rises to stand.

"Let's go," he says again, slipping an arm around Luke's waist, turning the both of them away. He means to be gentle, Luke knows he does, but his voice is beaten so flat. "You want to go home, don't you?"

Home.

Home.

Feet dragging, stumbling through the water, Luke turns back one last time.

Meraxes stands guard.

Watching over her mistress, now and forever. Until the last nation falls, until the land turns to dust, until time itself wears down.

You built us a kingdom, Luke thinks. And then you built us a home.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Chapter Text

[190 AC]

Aemond flicks through the pages of the books Rhaenys left for him, just to go through the motions.

The light is good and the books are excellent. Philosophy. Rare dialogues and critiques from the Myrish academy. Aemond had read them all cover to cover in that first year after Vaes Dothrak. He even tried explaining the concepts to Luke whenever he couldn't keep it to himself any longer, though it never went the way he hoped. Luke usually lost his temper.

As the years passed by, Aemond's grasp began to weaken. He'd catch sight of the books' titles and realize he no longer remembered what each one was about. He'd set out to read them again, to remind himself. Only to find each time that he couldn't focus. Couldn't stop the words from blending together.

It's like that, this time. Worse than ever.

"Sparo iksā yne ivestrās." (Tell me who you are.)

They call to one another some mornings, when the world feels thinner than it should. Sometimes it's Luke who initiates. It's Aemond, today.

Down on the porch steps, Luke hears. He raises his head. "Lucerys iksan, dāranna Driftmākot syt." (I am Lucerys, heir to Driftmark.)

A gust of wind comes howling, ruffling Luke's hair and whipping at the pages of Aemond's book. Luke's voice carries on. His words are drowned out, but Aemond knows them by heart.

"Ilībōños pirtenka." (Bastard pretender.)

"Tȳno trēso va Dāria Rhaenyra." (Second son of Queen Rhaenyra.)

"Ēlī morghūligon itsan." (I was the first to die.)

Luke comes back up the steps, arms wrapped tightly about himself to keep warm, and kneels down where Aemond is sat just inside the doorway. "Se sparos iksā?" (And who are you?)

It isn't always like this.

There are days when Luke cannot stand to be touched, or Aemond cannot; there are days when it feels as though they might dissolve if they don't stay wrapped around each other at every moment. Then there are days like this one, when Luke orbits the space around Aemond, measuring.

"Aemond Laesmērenka iksan, dāranna daoruno." (I am Aemond One-Eye, heir to nothing.)

"Sēntenkānogro iksan." (I am the Kinslayer.)

"Tȳno trēso va Dārys Viserys." (Second son of King Viserys.)

"Ēlior ānogri anektotan." (I drew first blood.)

Task completed, Luke drifts onward, and the wind picks up. There's a lingering chill in spite of the Dornish climate. Either winter is coming or winter has just gone. Aemond cannot remember.

𓏵

[192 AC]

They've fallen together from some great height, Aemond thinks.

That it was Luke who'd gone first over the edge was only a matter of chance. Aemond's got Luke's wrist gripped tight in one hand, the other clinging to the rim by his fingertips— slipping, one by one. Moon after year after season after age.

He grabs Luke by the face, checking him for dreams as if for worms. Pulling his eyelids back. Feeling for lumps in his throat. Counting his teeth. Meaningless actions. Aemond does them anyway.

When he wakes alone to darkness and stillness, sheets still tangled around his legs, Aemond knows what to do. He dresses. He laces his boots properly. He latches the door behind himself with care. Then he ventures out into the night, searching for blood.

Luke is old, that's all. He gets confused.

In the wild desert, far beyond the dust-ridden landing, the landscape turns from brush and gravel to crags and crawl spaces. Blind stumbling means split sinew and broken bones. As Luke presses onwards, limping, healing, still bleeding, he leaves a trail for Aemond to follow. He glows faintly in the moonlight from a long way off. Naked and barefoot, but he's got their white blanket bundled around his shoulders.

"Aemond?"

This does something to him.

The look of relief on Luke's face when he turns, recognizing Aemond, his old sweetness spilling over the way it does for nothing else. "I got lost," Luke calls out, and with that he starts weeping, "I'm sorry."

No you're not, Aemond thinks in reply. You are not sorry. I am. Sorry is all that I am.

Tear-steaked and shivering, Luke looks so much like Storm's End. Like the Bay. Terrified into misery. His feet are like new but the mess is still there, and Aemond hates that he cannot stop this from happening. He tries to recall how much rain they've had recently. Whether there's still enough water to get Luke cleaned up. I truly only meant to scare you that night. I was young and angry. Obsessive and stupid. I didn't mean to do it, but I have to watch it now. Day after day, I am made to look upon what I've done.

"I know," Aemond tells him. He's sure to gather the hem of the blanket as he lifts Luke into his arms. "It's alright."

Luke wraps his legs around Aemond's waist. Drops his weary head onto Aemond's shoulder. His pulse beats, chest to chest, as Aemond carries him. "Would you please talk to me?"

It's getting harder and harder to find things to talk about.

Anything, anything at all.

He's told Luke every bit of history he knows. Every battle, every crossing, every legend. Every one of his secrets. He's told Luke about his own first memories of him— how Rhaenyra's stomach kept getting bigger and Aemond had been four and he'd wanted to know why. From the way his mother talked about it, it had seemed that Rhaenyra had eaten something she wasn't supposed to. But then there was a baby. And he was cute and sweet and never cried, and then the baby got a dragon, and Aemond's heart hardened.

He's confessed, how he wishes Luke hadn't burnt it. Rhaenys's bleeding star, the red door. All those things Luke saw but shouldn't have. He's made promises, pleas.

If only it were I instead of you. I would've succumbed so much quicker but you could've carried me so much further. You're so strong. You've always been. I'm not letting go. I'm not. Don't go where I can't follow.

Please, please, hold onto me.

"Forever," Aemond murmurs, now. "Forever."

He says it again in Valyrian. And again in Rhoynish. And again in Braavosi. His arms burn. He drags his nose along Luke's throat, breathing him in, dragging his feet.

Luke melts in his arms, shuddering. "Home."

"I know. We're almost there."

Aemond lays Luke down in their nest. He bathes the dried rust off of his feet until the air grows heavy with the scent. Then he parts Luke's thighs and bends his head down, giving where he can. Luke trembles from it. His breath pulses into sounds. Aemond tries to catch his illness.

Forever.

Forever.

Luke mutters to himself before long, into the dark of the bedroom, and Aemond leans close. Even through the weight of fugue, their language flutters so light on his tongue. Aemond listens to his rolling, flickering syllables. Shuddering breaths. Clinging to the words.

"Lo inkot ūndion qrīdropēnna," Luke mutters, heavy-lidded.

If I look back I am lost.

𓏵

[194 AC]

"Sparo iksā yne ivestrās." (Tell me who you are.)

Luke, this time.

It's the middle of the night, not the morning. It doesn't matter.

"Aemond Laesmērenka iksan." (I am Aemond One-Eye.)

There's no need to recite the rest of it.

Luke studies him for a good while and seems to reach the same conclusion.

Aemond wonders if his own face makes for as strange a sight as Luke's does. Never growing, never changing. Nothing lost. Nothing gained. Fourteen. Not yet a man.

Still, there's a disquieting focus in his eyes that fits poorly with the rest.

Aemond asks, this time because he's curious to know. "Se sparos iksā?" (Who are you?)

𓏵

[197? AC]

The wind was so loud, that was all.

There'd been a storm. Rhaenys's chimes had gotten smashed to bits and Luke couldn't bear the sight. He'd cried for days. Or was it weeks?

And the wind was always so loud.

So, Aemond had covered the windows.

Luke stepped in to help. They took turns. One holding up the tapestries, sail cloth, dust covers, blankets, while the other hammered in the nails.

No wind, after that.

No sound at all but the pump of Luke's heartbeat underneath Aemond's ear.

Though, it doesn’t stay that way.

Through the air, through the hangings, through the cradle of Luke’s chest, comes a shrill, piercing note.

A roar.

One that Aemond hasn’t heard in a very, very long time.

The roar comes again.

Then the sound of something heavy hitting the ground nearby. Aemond feels it. He knows her.

Meleys.

Beneath his ear, Luke’s heartbeat quickens to a frenzy.

Outside, the sound of something much lighter than a dragon dropping to the ground.

A woman’s voice, speaking a single command.

Booted footsteps crunching over the dry rock.

Weighted echo on wood, coming up the porch steps.

No, Aemond thinks.

No, no.

The footsteps come round. Up to the front door.

And then they stop.

𓏵

[200? AC]

"Aemond. I'm tired."

"I know."

𓏵

[2XX? AC]

The west.

Rises in the west.

But nothing ever rises in the west.

It's nonsense.

Rises in the west.

West.

When the sun rises in the west.

"When the sun rises in the west," Aemond tries.

Luke sighs.

The light goes out of his eyes as he retreats, setting once again.

Setting.

Setting. Setting.

Aemond's so close, but he can't find it.

Why can't he find it?

"Where the fuck is it."

His own voice sounds alien.

He rolls over. Raises his head to point an accusatory stare at Luke.

"You have it, don't you?"

Luke gives no sign.

"Please," Aemond tries again. "Please tell me. The rest of it. I know you have it."

There's a sliver of light that creeps in at times, through a gap in the curtain where they'd been careless in their hanging.

Aemond watches it cut across the wall.

Heavy orange.

As the moons turn, the orange ribbon creeps.

It touches the ends of Luke's spilled hair, one day.

Some time later, it lands right across his forehead.

When it reaches his eyes, they shine like warm amber.

Luke himself hardly seems to notice.

Unblinking.

Unmoving.

Orange ribbon cast across his fingers, Luke mutters.

"When the seas go dry."

But it's Aemond who cannot hear, now.

𓏵

[??? AC]

There is an itch.

Hot beneath the skin.

There is light.

Aemond is sitting through his lessons.

He isn't alone.

Another boy is there too, on the other side of the desk.

There's something oddly familiar about him.

Aemond sits up taller, shifting in his chair, trying to resist the urge to curl his legs up. When he kicks his feet, the soles of his shoes brush the floor just barely.

He is ten years old.

This other boy must be around eight or nine. He's dressed in handsome seafoam-green. His eyes are a soft violet, his nose is slim and regal, his wild-curled silver hair sticks out from his head in all directions like a dandelion puff.

The old maester sits between them, his weathered hand resting on the closed covers of their notebooks. No cheating.

"Tell me, my prince," the maester addresses the other boy first, "What is the present strength of the Pentoshi navy?"

The stranger grins like a little devil and gives his answer. "Pentos has no navy."

The maester nods. "Very good. And tell me, Prince Aemond, why is that?"

Just as the stranger had done, Aemond speaks without missing a beat. "Braavos won't allow them one."

"Very good. And you, Prince Aegon—" Aegon?

Yes, Aemond's older brother is here too. Slouched back in his seat at the furthest end of the room, rolling his eyes before he's even heard the maester's question.

"Can you tell us why Braavos does not allow Pentos to keep their own navy?"

Aegon only drags a hand down his face with a groan, but then Aemond's hand flies into the air a moment later, as does the stranger's. There's a moment of exchange between them— You can go— No, no, you— and though the maester calls on the stranger in the end, Aemond takes no slight in it. No, he's grinning with shared pride.

(There is a shimmer of smoke, a distant beat of wings.)

(The warmth blooms brighter.)

When the stranger finds him again, a year has passed, or perhaps two, and Aemond is crouched in front of the hearth with something heavy cradled in his hands.

An egg. And it's moving. Aemond doesn't dare breathe.

The shell cracks open and a tiny snout emerges, damp and frail and sapphire-blue. The stranger gasps right into Aemond's ear. His hand squeezes tight around Aemond's shoulder.

"What will you name it?"

There is an entire list of names, somewhere. Aemond has been compiling them ever since he can remember, but not one of them comes to mind now. "How…" he looks up, into the stranger's wide violet eyes. "How did you name yours?"

The stranger laughs. "I didn't. I was only a baby when he hatched. My parents did the naming for me." He opens his mouth to say more, but then the door swings and Rhaenrya comes stepping through. Hair loose, dressed in silver and gold.

"There you are, Luke. It's time to greet your grandsire."

Luke?

It cannot be.

The stranger doesn't move from Aemond's side. Instead, he says, "Mother! Come and see!"

The hatchling stirs happily in Aemond's hands. Thin, translucent wings begin to unfold for the first time, already thrumming with ancient magic, burning into his palm like a hot cup of tea. The little dragon lets out her first screeching cries and now Rhaenyra's kneeling down as well.

"Gods be good," she gasps. "Aemond, well done!"

Well done. The words settle so deep in Aemond's heart, he could just about fly.

The walls around them shift like clouds, and now Aemond and the stranger are walking together along the passageways of the Dragonpit. The pillars are pristine, the dome is intact. From further along come the sounds of the larger ones, stomping and snarling while Aemond's dragon— his very own dragon— clings to his arms with tiny claws. She screeches again.

"I'll call her Sīkuda," (Seven) Aemond decides. "To honor my mother." He looks over at the stranger beside him, nervous, giddy, and hopeful all at once. "Will she like that? Do you think?"

"Sīkuda," the stranger repeats, considering. "Valyrian and Andal. Just like you. It's perfect."

At that, Aemond feels himself blush like a fool. He can't help it.

Scenes melt past.

Bright and happy, every one of them.

Arms around shoulders, feet dashing down corridors, stomach full, muscles sore and satisfied.

There is no illness. There is no treachery. It is always summer.

(The wings are beating closer, now. Aemond is beginning to sweat from the heat.)

(Something is coming.)

"Is this alright?" Aemond whispers.

The stranger nods, lip caught between his teeth. Aemond is holding one of his legs up while he moves inside, and oh, he's so tight. Aemond can't help squirming into the sensation. Underneath him the stranger sighs, then moans, sounding timid. He smells wrong. He feels wrong. "Gentle," he pleads, and Aemond breathes a soft apology. He leans in to kiss too-full lips, tease his fingers through pale, tightly-curled hair.

This isn't right, Aemond thinks.

This isn't right.

He cannot ignore it any longer. He breaks their kiss and draws back for a moment to study the face of the boy lying there on the pillow as though it might set things right— but— There are supposed to be more years between us. Your hair is meant to be black, your eyes are to be brown, with a nose that gives you away. I'm supposed to be half-blind and it's supposed to be your fault. You're not him. This is all wrong.

All at once, it comes snarling out of him.

"Where is he?"

"Where is who?" The stranger's face pinches up in confusion. "Aemond?"

"Who are you," he demands. It's all gone so cold. Aemond pulls out and scrambles back, searching around the bedchamber for something, anything to brandish against this– this– changeling, demon, liar.

"I am Luke." Gods, he seems to really believe it too, and Aemond almost feels sorry for him.

"You're not. Sparo iksā yne ivestrās!" (Tell me who you are!)

"L-Lucerys iksan." The stranger curls his knees into his chest, looking half-panicked himself. "Dāranna Driftmākot syt." (Heir to Driftmark)

"Ilībōños pirtenka," (Bastard pretender) Aemond interjects harshly. That's what's supposed to come next, he remembers now.

"What? No, I'm not. Aemond, what's gotten into you—"

"Ilībōños pirtenka."

The words come out strained and pleading. Even so, Aemond surges forward and grips the stranger by his naked shoulders hard enough to rend bloody lines. "Skoros zijomy gōntā?" (What have you done with him?)

Luke. Luke.

Aemond was supposed to protect him, but he can't even find him.

"Skoros zijomy gōntā?" He howls the words into the stranger's face, tears of fury spilling down his own.

Overhead, something great has begun to snap its wings and take to the air. Aemond cannot see it, whatever it is, but he feels the gust of fire whipping through the room as he shakes the hollow body until it dissolves in his hands. "Bring him to me! The real Lucerys! I demand it!"

Where are you?

Where are you?

(There's something creeping beyond the horizon.)

(It hasn't come yet. But when it does, the earth will tremble and the stars will bleed.)

(It hasn't come yet.)

(But Aemond can hear the soft rise of its breath.)

He is blind once again. His head is split and his lungs are drowned. The steel grinds mercilessly inside his skull— he feels its weight swinging up behind him as he folds forward, hacking and vomiting. Even now, Aemond knows the waters of the God's Eye by taste alone, just as he knows the heavy latency of the sapphire lodged into the place where his left eye used to be.

There is a sword hilt on the right. Plunged so deep, Aemond can feel the jagged cross-guard pressing on his cheekbone. Dark Sister.

It must be grabbed, and pulled. Inch by agonizing inch. Aemond works at it, hand slick with blood, braced on his knees and screaming the whole way until the thing comes free at last. The sword clatters to the floor— and Aemond's old sight returns. One eye only.

Where are you?

Aemond is inside a prison cell of sorts. That's what it looks like. And yet, the door is unlocked.

Where are you?

He keeps Dark Sister in hand as he ventures out, turning his head and finding a long hall with high stone archways. The space stretches onwards to a vanishing point like no manner of palace he's ever seen before. Shadows hang low. There is a distant chill in the air. On the opposite side of the hallway, there is another door. Heavy and wooden, just like the one now swinging shut behind. Aemond opens it.

The occupant of this cell won't be moving anytime soon.

He's been reduced to a burnt, blackened husk. Plate and mail indistinguishable from the flesh and bone beneath, but Aemond still can make out the ridge on his helm where the brilliant red plume ought to be, and yes— he knew this man once.

Fool. You challenged Balerion.

Aemond keeps walking. He finds a third door, pushes that one open too, and finds another corpse. This one is in somewhat better condition. The materials of his armor are recognizable, in any case. Bronze and leather. And he's retained his features. Brown eyes half-open and unseeing. Face drained of blood, long black hair spilling onto the floor.

Addam Velaryon, Aemond thinks. We meet at last.

He keeps walking; appreciating, as he makes his way along, that apart from the sword buried in his skull, he'd died so wonderfully intact.

Behind the fourth door, Rhaenys the second is splayed out on her back, mangled by the shockwave.

Behind the fifth, Rhaenys the first lies curled up on her side. Neck broken. Eyes dim. Blood trailing out of her nose and mouth. And then Aemond notices the braid, the hard, cold crown on her head, and he remembers. A voice shaking, sobbing, so long ago. She doesn't like it. His heart aches, but he must, and so he steps closer and kneels down. And then she moves.

Rhaenys lifts one hand only. Her finger twitches. She's pointing at something behind.

Is this real? Aemond wants to ask her. Instead, he turns to look.

There, across the hall, tucked beneath the next archway, stands the sixth and final door. Aemond's blood runs cold.

You asked for the real Lucerys, didn't you?

"No," he mutters. "No, not like this."

All he needs to do now is stand, walk ten paces, and push it open.

"No."

It was over so fast, Luke had joked once. He hadn't even realized he was dead. Aemond is so close now. He'd begged, screamed and wept to get this far, had he not? The real Lucerys. All that's left to do is to cross the hall— and look upon what he's done— but he can't.

"I didn't mean to do it," Aemond sobs, chest heaving. Rhaenys's armored hand drops down over his own. Her eyes are locked in that same blank stare, but her fingers twitch again and so Aemond holds on, weeping bitter tears. I can't. I can't, I'm sorry.

Tears are beginning to mold into words. Rhaenys is limp and broken on the floor, but she's all Aemond has left, and he's going to tell her all of it. How hard he's tried. How small their world has become. How time has worn them down. How none of it is working anymore, it just isn't— Aemond is going to tell her. But then he hears it.

Slow, creeping footsteps.

Someone is out there in the hallway.

Aemond freezes, heart pounding in his chest.

It's coming closer.

There are only supposed to be six of us.

In the span of a single heartbeat, his mind runs wild with it. He imagines one of those terrible masked wraiths from the Shadowlands. Or no, perhaps… perhaps Luke has woken up, just like Aemond has. Oh, gods. Perhaps… despite his horribly mangled state, nothing more than a shattered heap of viscera, perhaps Luke is trying to cross the distance.

No. No, please, no.

Could Aemond do it? Could he stand to even be near Luke, to look at him, to… touch him, even if…?

Oh gods, it's not Luke's fault. Aemond was the one who'd left him in that awful, unrecognizable state. And if Luke is lonely, if he's frightened and in pain, Aemond thinks, then yes, yes of course he will— but then comes another sound.

Distinct, confounding, and matching neither of the horrifying visions Aemond's cooked up for himself.

Bells. Shimmering softly.

They ring out in time with the slow footsteps, closer, closer, and the thought arises once more.

There are only supposed to be six of us.

The bells are moving away, now. Whoever it is, they haven't stopped, haven't looked back. Aemond rises to his feet, gripping Dark Sister. He braces himself against the stone, peers out, and sees…

A girl.

There are only supposed to be six of us.

And yet, Aemond has found the seventh.

Silver-haired, weak and wobbling on her feet. Clothed only in a rough-hewn shift, soaked in sweat. Lower down, her legs are streaked with blood. He knows the source of the bells, now. Dozens of the dainty little things are woven through her braid, ringing as she moves.

Aemond keeps to the shadows. Keeps his distance as well, but she isn’t hard to follow. Bloody footprints mark every one of her steps.

Each time she turns a corner, there comes a moment— for half a breath, Aemond can see her face.

Queen Naerys, he thinks. There is a certain resemblance. But even in her sickened state, this girl has a hard strength about her; thin muscle like wire, skin bronzed from the sun. And she's so young. Hardly more than a babe. Around Luke's age, comes the lurching realization.

I'm not supposed to be seeing this.

The feeling claws its way up from within— Aemond can practically smell it— the thrumming of her heart. She's got fire in her, as well. Most ancient, brilliant, beautiful dragonfire.

His vision narrows. His feet stumble after her, as helpless as a moth to the light. The sapphire aches in his head. His jaw hangs open.

A part of him wants to call out to her, to ask all sorts of things.

Where are you going?

Is this your palace?

Are you real?

Can you help me?

Another voice inside hisses, Mine.

Aemond is the one creeping up on her now, and she's letting him. Dark Sister gleams wickedly in his hand. He doesn't know what he'll do when he catches her, but it won't be good for either of them, and so he calls out at last.

"Faster, faster," Aemond urges her gravely with his words, even as he closes in with his steps. "Faster, FASTER!"

His mouth has turned into something monstrous and gaping, but the girl has heard him. She breaks into a run. Where her feet fall, the stones melt, then burst into flame. It's not long before the high vaults of the corridor are all awash; cracking, blossoming with fiery tendrils. Aemond revels in it.

She's so bright.

It hurts to even look at her now, and still, she isn't fast enough.

Aemond throws the sword aside in desperation.

He reaches out and gives her a great shove forward—

—it feels like touching molten iron.

His palms blister, then burn. Her flames swallow his hands and eat their way up his arms, licking at his collar, his throat, his face. The last thing Aemond sees before his vision goes once more is the great bloody split tearing its way down the girl's back.

Her enormous leathern wings, unfurling.

She leaves him behind.

"When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and the mountains blow in the wind, like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before. To go north, I must journey south. To reach the west, I must go east. To go forward, I must go back, and to reach the light, I must pass beneath the shadow. If I look back I am lost. Mother of dragons. Mother of monsters. What have I unleashed upon the world? Queen I am, but my throne is made of burned bones and rests on quicksand. Daughter of death, bride of fire, slayer of lies, I am the blood of the dragon. If they are monsters, so am I. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. If I look back I am lost. IfIlookbackIamlostIfIlookbackIamlost.IfIlookbackIamlostIfIlookbackIamlostIfIlookbackIamlostIfIlookbackIamlostIfIlookbackIamlost."

Aemond recoils from it.

Her voice sends him spiraling into a fall.

Into vast, empty cold.

Pushes him as far as he can go, and then further still.

The seasons turn.

The dream withers to dust in his mouth.

𓏵

[??? AC]

What have you done with him?

The real Lucerys.

Bring him to me.

When he sees again, it's that orange ribbon.

Making clear amber out of brown irises once more.

This time, though, eyelids twitch feebly against the force of the light.

A single fat teardrop hangs from a clump of lashes.

"Aemond."

The teardrop disconnects.

Aemond hears the soft plop when it breaks open on the floorboard.

"Luke."

"Luke," he echoes, and.

And Aemond understands.

That he'd forgotten.

Luke had forgotten his own name.

When–

how long–?

What–?

"Will you tell me how my mother died?"

Luke's mother?

Who?

Across the room, Luke's chest rises and falls.

His breath rattles.

"Your mother."

Aemond remembers.

"Rhaenyra?"

Luke nods.

"Rhaenyra. Yes."

Rhaenyra is dead?

Yes, yes,

of course.

Rhaenyra is dead.

"How?" Luke asks again, and all at once, Aemond's throat closes.

Breath won't come.

Aemond rocks his head on the floor.

"Tell me."

He shouldn't.

Luke is hardly more than a shattered heap.

Time has strung him out. He's in no fit state.

The worst sight Aemond's ever witnessed, it must be.

Look at what I've done.

"You don't want to know."

I'm sorry.

"It wasn't pretty."

I'm so sorry.

I'm so sorry.

"Aemond," Luke whispers.

His eyes are beginning to fade again.

"I can't feel anything."

The light is dimming,

dimming.

No.

Don't go.

"Six bites," he begins.

"That's how many it took."

If Aemond left it at that, he thinks,

time might just stand still with Luke suspended on top of it.

I can't feel anything, Luke had said,

and Aemond pleads,

Get me out of here.

Clawing at the bottom, his nails slip uselessly.

You think we're being punished?

On the mouth of this black and ancient shore, it's no use.

I'm so sorry.

It's no use.

The real Lucerys.

It's no use. There's only one way left to go.

I can't feel anything, he'd said.

Aemond goes on.

"The dragon had to be ordered to it each time. He was so full from eating Moondancer, you see."

Luke's whole body begins to tremble on the floor,

listening.

The life in his eyes is a low, steady burn.

Talk to me, he used to say.

Anything.

Aemond goes on.

"Your mother, she. She tried to comport herself with dignity."

Luke catches the phrasing. "She tried."

It was only a message.

You were only bringing a message.

Dragons fly faster than ravens, yes,

but you were only a child.

Did you know she was kissing you for the last time?

When you drew your sword in that place,

did you know it would lead you here?

"Tell me."

Aemond fancies he can see the air, stirring above his parted lips.

Come back to me.

"As her body was coming apart, she would… grasp for the missing pieces. Couldn't help it, I think."

The memory stirs in Aemond's ears. The sound of her— the moment she became animal prey.

Luke, fighting with all his might against Aemond's chest. His mother, torn and wailing like a dog.

"She held her guts in place with her hands, to keep them from spilling out." Come back to me. "But then he took her arm off at the shoulder." Come back to me. "She only had one left."

The floor creaks.

It might as well be the sound of the earth caving in, because for the first time in a lifetime,

Luke is rising, stumbling to his feet.

His tears are coming like rain, now. Aemond hears them pattering on the old boards.

"Tell me."

"She… could do naught but scream, though she was choking on– on herself. When her arm was taken, her heart was dislodged. It looked that way to me. They all saw it. It poured so thick onto the ground."

Luke's voice breaks into a heavy sob.

The dark of the room seems to bend to his whim.

Come back to me.

Aemond goes on. The words flow.

"I couldn't be certain whether… whether she was still alive at the moment the dragon's teeth went through her skull, but the way her head crushed… and the sound… of your brother, screaming—"

"My brother?"

Oh.

Luke had never known.

This is going to be good.

"Yes,"

Aemond says it with sweetness.

"Aegon. Your mother's last remaining child. He was forced to watch."

He knows what happens now.

Come back to me, darling.

I can take it.

Come back.

Luke closes in— there is a single instant where that fiery thread of light ripples over him, head to toe, delivering terrible revelation in that barest glimpse before it passes once more. Luke is not what he seems and Aemond has known this; that his appearance is but a shell.

Luke is not fourteen. He is not a prince.

He is not alive. He does not fit inside a room.

Aemond has caught the true thing peering out at him every now and then like a lure.

He's tried in vain to beckon to it. Se sparos iksā?

Then Luke takes another step and the light flees past and the moment is gone.

All of him drops into Aemond's lap, pinning him with hot, frenzied weight. His breath comes in long and rushes back out. His hands reach up to grasp hold on either side of Aemond's head, taking anchor in the roots of his hair, and Aemond has time enough for a thought. Oh, wow. Then Luke lifts up and slams back down.

Pain.

Clean, white, slash. Heavenly drone in his ears, annihilating his vision.

Still, Aemond can feel every ounce of wrath humming in Luke's fingertips. The wavering split of his skull grinding back on the floor when he's thrown down again. Tender structures threatening to dislodge. If Aemond could think, he'd affirm it so sweetly. Yes, I'm yours, take me apart.

And Luke does. The sound of him could rend the skies.

Aemond's mind remains so pliant, awe-struck and reverent, though his body heaves. He can't help it and he doesn't want to. It's precious fuel in their fire, winding the two of them closer together with every thrash and spasm of Aemond's limbs, giving Luke somewhere to cross back, do-over, retaliate. He keeps Aemond's skull in shards.

Come back to me.

Luke works at him with his fists until his knuckles and wrists are too far gone. There's film of blood, hanging so thick in the cavities of Aemond's head. He cannot breathe— then Luke sends a heel down to crack his sternum and air has nowhere at all to go. By the time Luke succeeds at sinking his foot past the fixed border of Aemond's ribcage, his hands are good as new. And so is Aemond's face.

That's it, darling.

Aemond's mouth moves without permission and whatever Luke hears, it's just what he's needed. A fist flies across Aemond's cheekbone. Then another, and another, and another.

All the while, Aemond keeps a hand on Luke's knee, stroking him there while the swelling in his head recedes. Breath returns at last, and their little warren of a world sharpens before his eyes as it hasn't done in ages. He sees it there, just over Luke's shoulder— how the structure of the room has sagged and rotted all around them. Luke begins to grunt wordlessly. Aemond turns his head. Oh.

He's focused-in on Aemond's right arm. Perhaps it was already splayed out like that or perhaps Luke arranged it that way. In any case, it's not going anywhere. Luke's got it pinned under one foot, all ten fingers groping at the connective bands in the pit of the shoulder, and, oh.

He means to wrench it out and my heart with it, like Sunfyre did his mother. He's got the wrong arm though. My heart is on the left, not the right. He'll need a blade as well, or a set of jaws. Luke realizes all of these things in perfect sequence around half a minute after Aemond does, and yells out in frustration. Still, he turns Aemond neatly onto his front, wrenches the arm back, snaps clean through the shoulder in three hard blows, and Aemond's scream rings out all the same.

Luke bends low over him. "Konir hylā?" (Do you feel that?)

Feel what?

Aemond isn't sure. He feels so many things. The crackling burn of his bones finding their way back together mainly, and his cheek sliding wet on the floor. A sizable lake of blood has gathered underneath him since they've been at it. Dark and glossy. It's all Aemond can smell. His hair feels drenched. Then Luke settles himself along the back of Aemond's body and yes, that, too— he feels what Luke meant.

A hand not belonging to Aemond comes down into his cone of vision and wipes up a long stroke of blood, sweeping back and forth, turning heavy black into sheer iron red. "Up you go," he says with a tap on the hip, "Ynot." (To me.)

Aemond goes. Luke smears the mess between his legs and forces a cry from his lips, only half from the shock of sensation— because he's only realized it now. I'm naked and so is he. It must have been one of the very last things they did together. Aemond has no memory of it but he hopes he made it good, or tried to. He's doing the same now. Putting up no fight.

Oh, it's been so long.

He waits, holding as still as he can manage though his arms are trembling even worse than his breath. Come back to me, darling, come on.

Luke snarls again behind him. His cock slips blindly up the cleft of Aemond's ass, making him shudder, and though this is nothing at all like that first night, Aemond remembers it now. Shivering uncovered in the wee hours. Trying to keep his own nerves at bay and his knees spread. How Luke's mouth dropped open once he'd finally got it right for the first time, the hot flush on his cheeks; how he'd whined, fuck, I can't believe you're really letting me, as though Aemond could ever deny him anything. Yes, he remembers.

It's going to be harder this time. Aemond hasn't taken it in longer than he even knows. Do you remember, he's going to ask, because he's not sure about Luke, not yet. Gods, he hadn't remembered his own name when they started, but what does it matter? It's the wrong question. Luke is more himself than he's ever been— he's waited and waited and waited for this. All at once, Aemond is hauled back, split deep, and ridden hard.

They howl through it as one; conjoined, wild thing.

Luke pours himself out inside, clawing at Aemond's hips and slipping on the blood, having a fucking fit of an orgasm while Aemond's body heaves back into life. He could fuck me through the floor and into the bedrock if he wanted, he'd only need time. He could paint this room red if he wrung it out of me. He's halfway there already.

Come back to me, darling.

Aemond can taste some distant vision— dragonfire climbing up the walls. Shimmering of bells.

Come back.

Luke has him on his knees until they slide out. Then flat on his stomach, then on his back, running Aemond ragged all over again until he's gotten bored. When that happens, he takes an ankle in each hand and begins hauling Aemond across the floor.

Where are we going?

Aemond sputters aloud. His blood-wet hair snags between the boards, dragging like a paintbrush. "Where are we going?"

Luke doesn't answer, though he must have heard. In all of this, Aemond has yet to put real weight on his own two feet, and now that Luke is hauling him out of the bedroom— towards the light— a bolt of fear sinks deep. Luke drops Aemond's legs. He leaves him there in the doorway. Half-in, half-out, with the edge of that flimsy red curtain draping across his chest.

He can't see what Luke is doing out there in the first room, but he hears the squeaking of a hinge; the rude, violent awakening of something heavy banging against the wall; and Luke— panting harshly and muttering to himself.

Then he drops down beside Aemond's bare legs and sets about dressing him like a doll. Trousers first, then a shirt, then some clinging leather, boots, and a belt over top as an afterthought. Where are we going?

Aemond sits himself up and brushes the curtain aside, just in time to watch Luke throw that old red cloak around his shoulders.

No.

He hears it, clear as any nightmare.

I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon. I have come as a messenger, not as a warrior.

This time, Aemond is the one trembling.

It's Luke's turn to loom over him.

"Get up."

Aemond hears himself say, "No."

"Do it."

"Wait," Aemond tries.

It's not that he can't see Luke properly. He can. Luke is wound-tight. His hands are shaking as he fixes the golden clasp at his throat, eyes all shifty and unblinking. Dust comes shivering down with every heaving breath— he isn't well. If Aemond didn't know any better, he might mistake this– this mania for fear. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Aemond moves right past what are we doing and wonders instead, is this how it's going to be, then?  

Either I am lost or he is, or we both are. The years will wheel right past us, and we'll have our moments. We'll be together for a day, or two, out of every century. And then we'll scatter right back into nothing. Is that how it's going to be? Forever?

Luke hasn't said it yet. He's close enough to reach out and touch, and Aemond misses him already. Desperately. Can't we wait? Please, won't you let me hold you first? Aemond is going to ask. He's still searching for the right words. He's taking too long.

"I want you to chase me."

Luke says it simply.

"I want you to do it again."

The plea is but a half-formed whisper, but it makes its way past Aemond's lips. "Yne qrīdrughās daor." (Don't leave me.)

Luke doesn't hear him. He's already moving for the door. Daylight spills through, and Luke races out in a flourish of red. Then it slams shut and Aemond is left alone in the dark.

He sits rocking on the floor. Blood clotting up his hair. He runs a deadened hand over the belt tied round his waist, back and forth, the last place Luke touched him. Mouthing words to a ghost. Not like this, darling, please. Hasn't it been enough yet?

The rest dredges to the surface on its own time.

I can't. Please, I can't. Does it have to be this way? Is it something you're hearing again? What is it this time? Is my voice not enough anymore? Is this all I am to you? What do I have to do to make you see it? Don't go where I can't follow. Don't leave me, please, please don't leave me.

Chase me, he said. I want you to do it again.

As if Aemond could ever deny him anything. He's done this before. He'll do it again. Aemond laces his boots properly. He latches the door behind himself with care. Then he ventures out into bright, merciless blue, searching for blood.

The first thing Aemond sees of the outside world once his eyes adjust to the overwhelming force of light is his dragon. Ancient and mountainous, prowling over the ridge to meet him. How fitting, comes the stray thought. Either she's missed him, or she knows.

In all those years spent in darkness, the ropes leading up to Vhagar's saddle have been stolen by the winds. The ones that do remain are hopelessly frayed. But it would seem she's aware of this, too. As she's never done before, Vhagar bends the branch of her wing towards her rider to form an even slope. As he's never done before, Aemond gets down on all fours and climbs it, making his way toward his place on her back. The sun beats down. The magic in her body simmers beneath his palms. The blistering is oddly familiar.

(A voice echoes through the wind again, itching in the space between Aemond's ears.) "Faster," he mutters lowly to himself.

The leather of the saddle is all dried and cracked, but no matter. Aemond's legs swing into place like coming home. "Sōvēs," he tells her. (Fly.)

They fly out over the ocean, and then west. Further, further, and further still. The distance melts, the perimeter of the whole continent comes dangerously close, the vast and truly endless sea looms beyond, and Aemond begins to think in terms of herding. Where are you?

The cliffs rise to their highest, arcing in and out like curtain walls. Vhagar soars closer and a flock of white-winged sea birds flies out at them, melting straight through. The sight of them makes Aemond’s heart jolt in his chest anyway— You're mine— though what he’s chasing isn’t quite so puny as that.

You're mine.

Aemond makes another turn, and another, tracing the cliffs as tight as he dares until Arrax comes diving out from a shallow cavern beneath the next head just as Vhagar is drawing herself in. His little wings flap madly, making a desperate escape over the ocean. It nearly works. There are rock forms jutting out among the waves. Arrax fits, Vhagar doesn't, and so Aemond shouts over the wind.

"Skoriot iksā, ilībōños?" (Where are you, bastard?)

Luke can't have flown very far. He's down there, somewhere. Aemond can almost smell him. He steers Vhagar closer, skimming low over the jagged peaks, hunting with his eyes. "Taoba," he taunts, "Gīmin yne rȳbagon kostā!" (I know you can hear me!)

Even if Luke can't, that stupid, suicidal little pet of his sure as hell can— and yes, there he is. Thin wings flitting, fighting a hard enough battle against the wind already. Aemond's sight goes red.

"Ñuhon iksā!" (You're mine!)

This time, he gives the order.

"Angōs!" (Attack!)

This time, Vhagar listens. Her fury melds tightly with Aemond's own and over the wonderous rush, he can hear Arrax. The terror in his shrieking is very, very real.

This time, broad daylight leaves nothing hidden. Gleaming white scales, red cloak snapping out behind, and that crazed, wide-eyed look that Aemond only catches for a moment before instinct takes over and Luke flinches hard in his saddle, just as he had the first time.

This time, though, Vhagar only catches part of their prey in her jaws. This time, Aemond hears the raw pitch of Luke's death-scream.

Oh, what have I done?

What's left goes scattering in the wind, then tumbling into the waves. It all happened so fast, but Aemond saw it. Right to the last, Luke had one hand reaching out.

What have I done?

"Iōdēs," (Dive) Aemond orders, and Vhagar does, headlong into the wind. He'll jump from her back and swim if he must. He'll comb every last tract of the Sunset Sea if that's what it should take. Whatever's left of Luke, Aemond will have it. He'll bring him back. That's what he means to do, but his strength fails after mere hours, and Vhagar is left to glide on the wind. On her back, Aemond dissolves, sobbing into his hands.

It's too late now, but he remembers. Every last moment of it. It's all come back to him now.

Years of grudging solitude so rudely interrupted the day Luke sniffed him out, standing there amidst the towering trees, looking so guilty. Grinning down at Aemond from his place in the lush green canopy. Wading up to his knees in ruby-red waters. The song in his laughter. The inevitable, sweet bleariness in his eyes every morning. The gentle, steady sound of his heart beneath Aemond's ear every night.

What have I done.

It had been the single loveliest sound in this world, the best gift the gods ever gave him, the closest thing to true peace that Aemond's ever known.

And I never told him. For years, he said, anything. Anything at all. And I never told him that.

The waves roll past, vast and empty. Aemond imagines the weight of Luke's body bundled in his arms. Words spill forth from every corner of his mind, with nowhere to go and no one left to hear. If only Aemond had him now, he knows what he would say.

I ended your life as it was just beginning, and yet you still found me. How on earth did you do it? You gave me what I never had. I was on a slow path to burying myself and I would've, but you wouldn't let me. You drew me out and showed me other ways. You talked to me. Me.

I, who have hungered and wanted but never known what I needed until it was too late. My appetite is unworldly. My jaw hangs open, my stomach rings hollow, and I must never be fed, for I seized a kingdom just to grind it into ashes. I lost my love and found him just to kill him again.

They should have seen it festering in my eyes the moment I was born. They should have given my mother a coin for her trouble and they should have put me down.

Aemond finds himself straying along the wet sand, feet moving on their own. I'll fly again, I must. In the meantime, he'll wait. When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves. Only then shall Aemond cease waiting for his love to return.

Forever.

Forever.

He's sworn himself and made his vows in full. The hour is late and the light of the world has softened to an ember when he hears it.

Arrax, chirruping from the waves. Washed up whole. Oh.

He's flailing slightly in the current, not quite managing to get his feet and claws steady on the sand yet, but he's moving, breathing, good as new. Then he lifts one wing into the air, revealing— and Aemond sees— and drops down hard.

Luke is half crouched in the surf. The waves are lapping all around him. He's tugging at himself, tearing away the rags— all that remains of that awful red cloak— and casting them aside. He's unhurt.

I love you, Aemond tries to say. He needs to get it out at last, but his mouth gapes and his eyes burn, insistent as ever on grief.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, forgive me, please, I love you.

Surely some of it is making its way into words, because Luke hears him. He stands and crosses the distance, naked and new and so lovely in the setting sun. He brushes his dark wet hair out of his eyes. He whispers, "Ynot āmāzīs." (Come back to me.) Though the shame is more than he can bear, Aemond obeys, reaching out for him. For the second time in one day, Luke drops into his lap.

His eyes are clear, now. Clear and lively and dark and everything that Aemond had been yearning for so desperately. "Avy jorrāelan," (I love you) he utters at last. The words bring a gasp to Luke's lips. Then he's clinging, arms so tight around Aemond's back, nails digging in, breath coming so fast and hot along Aemond's collar. When he pulls Luke even closer, Aemond can feel his beating heart. The more he says it, the easier it gets.

I love you. I love you.

They pass the sounds back and forth, mouths pressed together, licking their way in closer, making a heaven of their very own. Avy jorrāelan. I love you. The sun disappears. There's light enough still. Aemond slides his bloodstained hands up the length of Luke's bare chest, feeling. He still cannot believe it. You came back.

"Syrī glaesā?" he murmurs, "Drējī?" (You're alright? Truly?)

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, his mind totters on, but he pushes it down so as to hear the answer.

Luke doesn't offer him a single word. He lets out a long sigh at first, smiling in a haze. Eyes blown-out and shining black with euphoria. Then he bites his lip and moans all high and breathy, sending Aemond's heart racing.

Half a beat later, Luke's hands go for his belt with frenzied intent.