Chapter Text
“There is a debt to be paid,” the Queen remarks, her voice watery and filled with anger. Luce shakes like a leaf as she holds onto her mother’s waist, clinging to the warmth and safety of her skin.
The Queen demands, “I shall have one of her daughter’s eyes in return,” and Luce flinches back, heart thudding wildly in fear.
And when Grandsire denies her, her persistence does not die. She is filled with hatred, her voice wobbling as she commands her guard, “Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Valeryon.”
Luce can only squeak fearfully in response. “Mother!” she creaks and Mother steps in front of her, shielding her from harm, sending her to grandsire Corlys for more protection.
And then the Queen has a knife in Mother’s face, the sharp edge poised to tear her apart, to draw blood, to get what she and her daughter is owed.
Luce rushes toward Mother, tears flowing as freely as Mother’s blood. Granduncle Daemon is right behind her, fingers clasping over hers around Mother’s wrist.
“Do not mourn me mother,” aunt Aemond says after a long, long while; her voice cutting sharply through the silence, “it is a fair exchange: my eye for Vhagar and a Hunt.”
The silence this time is deafening, the dripping of Mother’s blood rivaling the roaring flame.
“Hold your tongue while you still have it, sister, my daughter is a child,” Mother reasons, “you are still a child yourself,” Mother hisses, her body heating up under Luce’s cheek, “and you already claimed Vhagar in exchange for your eye.”
“But Lucerys has taken from me,” aunt Aemond grits in reply, lifting her face from the crook of her mother’s neck to stare into Luce’s eyes, “it is within my rights to demand a Hunt and take from her in return.”
Luce inhales tearfully and seeks Jace’s eyes, hoping her brother would be able to provide her with an explanation.
“Blood was spilled in return, you and your mother have taken enough,” Mother reasons but aunt Aemond insists, “Not from Lucery, not what I am owed, and that is why I call for a hunt.”
Mother trembles with anger in Luce’s bird-bone embrace.
Grandsire bellows, “Enough!,” his voice is raspy but still powerful and regal, the voice of a king, not that of the Grandsire who pats her head, “there will be no more talk of blood-spilling, no call of a Hunt, this matter ends now.”
Mother nods in deference to Grandsire but aunt Aemond is staring at Luce, fiery and unblinking. There is a wild glint in her eye, one that Luce has never seen before and, for the first time, Luce finally understands why Mother warns them to stay away from the Queen, from their aunts and uncle, to never walk along corridors decorated with starbursts and green canopies.
The Queen hates them. The Queen and her children hate them.
They are Hightowers first before they are Targaryen; they have no love for Mother, for Father, for Jace, for Luce, or for Joffrey. They only love themselves.
-
Aemond has never loved Luce, no matter how they studied together and played together.
She will never have any love for Luce now.
-
Later, when Mother’s wound is cleaned and bandaged, she comes to Luce and Jace’s chambers to wake them up.
“My darlings,” Mother calls, sitting on the edge of the bed. Luce and Jace peek out of their shared blankets to see Mother’s sweet smile and Father’s gaunt, sallow face, though he is raising a brow at them in amusement.
“Was there a storm raging last night, dear girl?” Father asks teasingly, aware of Luce’s fear of the storms.
The last time Luce crawled into Jace’s bed was two years ago when grandsire Corlys took them sailing across the Narrow Sea in the middle of a storm. Luce has always been afraid of storms; Father always told them that the sea is even more vicious than any dragon, a wise sailor should flee the storm as it gathers. And Luce likes to think that she is a wise sailor, or she will be one.
There was no storm last night but Luce is shaken all the same-
-from taking an eye.
She took aunt Aemond’s eye.
She took aunt Aemond’s eye.
Luce must be crying again because Mother is caressing her curls and shushing her soothingly. “It’s alright sweet girl,” she coos, “we shall be leaving as soon as we break our fast.”
Distantly, Luce hears Father telling Jace to go get ready and check on their baby brother, and then he too is beside Luce, a warm hand on her shoulder.
“You were brave and honorable my little Merling,” Father says, voice wet and trembling, “you protected your Prince, your brother, unlike I who couldn’t protect my own sister.”
Luce whimpers as Father drops a kiss on the crown of her wild curls. Mother reaches over to hold Father’s hand and Luce sees the ugly stitches across the expanse of Mother’s porcelain skin.
The wound is red and angry; like aunt Aemond’s bad eye, the eye that Luce took from her. It’s wild, feral; like the glints in her aunt’s good eye, the singular violet that demanded a Hunt and promised retributions.
Aunt Aemond will hunt her down and kill her.
Luce’s breath hitches pitifully, “I’m scared,” she croons between hiccups, “aunt Aemond will hunt me down and kill me."
“The Hunt?” Father exclaims sharply, his warm skin leaving Luce’s proximity, “You didn’t mention a call to Hunt our daughter.”
“Lucerys!” Mother frowns in disapproval, “there will be no call for a Hunt, your Grandsire absolved it, you mustn’t worry about it, you mustn’t talk about it, leave the matter to rest, my darling child.”
Father’s sigh is deep and weary and Luce looks up tearfully to see a pained expression flash across his face. “If the Kings said it, then it is absolved,” Father asserts, though he is saying the words through a grimace. He’s never been good at hiding his feelings; Laenor is too honorable, Mother would say, too kind. “You have nothing to be afraid of, Luce, your aunt cannot hurt you.”
Luce might still be a child but she knows a lie when she hears one.