Chapter Text
King Viserys sits the Iron Throne, his son settled astride on his leg as Viserys listens to petitions. His left hand strokes through Aegon’s golden curls. The stubs of his ring and little finger, darkened at the tips, are a sharp contrast. Lords, nobles, smallfolk; all of the court’s eyes are fixed upon the child. The boy’s too preoccupied playing with the painted figure of a dragon to notice the stares his presence garners.
He’s innocent and ignorant of the realm’s increasing strife, naught but a boy. Whenever his attention drifts below, a gummy grin graces his sweet features.
Although his older sister remains the crowned heir, murmurs of Aegon’s claim to the throne as the firstborn male alpha spread with every passing day. It’s obvious to any onlooker the favour which Viserys bestows upon the brood born of his second wife. And why wouldn’t he when he’s tied the marital union with the likeness of his deceased wife?
They’re Queen Aemma’s blood, however distant.
And at this very moment, a third’s on the way.
The Red Keep bustles as handmaidens rush, carrying linen cloths and basins full of warm water to the queen’s birthing chambers. Their crimson skirts flutter around their legs, any blood that may stain the fabric goes by unseen by the lords and ladies present in the halls. Greedy eyes rove sharply over the darting handmaidens; vipers awaiting the prime instant to strike, seeking to endear themselves to power. Word’s abuzz within the keep that King Viserys’ young bride began his labours in the early dawn.
At midday, his muffled cries and groans can be heard with every directive to push.
A mother of two children, yet still a young boy at heart, Lucerys cannot help but call out for his mother. Fear grips his soul with cold fingers. High Valyrian slips away from his chapped lips as he twists and turns his head with agony; the world has preordained the birthing bed to be his battlefield, but nothing fully prepares one for this struggle. Sweat drenches his brown curls and they stick to his damp temple, just as his soaked nightshift acts as a second skin. Mattress more red than white, his essence spreads into a butterfly’s bloody wings. Between his legs, a burn spreads as a head finally makes its appearance.
He meets the gentle violet eyes at his bedside despite the darkness of the chambers. “Muñus, kostilus,” he begs at the figure. Slender fingers find his own where they grip at the bedsheets and his mother leans over to whisper sweet reassurances in his ear. She shushes him with a honeyed lilt, her hand firm. Sweet boy, she calls him. It’s all that keeps him going.
With a howl, the pressure releases and Lucerys recognises the moment the babe's left his womb. He’s tired. Exhausted, really. None of his previous labours had been so strenuous. Eyelids heavy, he yearns for the tender embrace of rest, but he fights the fatigue. He won’t rest until his child’s secure in his arms.
His arms remain empty.
The midwives crowd around the bundle. Once again, Lucerys has failed to notice the severing of the cord; all that now ties him to his child is the blood that flows in their veins. Their whispering is all that he hears, so loud in this smothering silence. There’s none of the crying that announces a birth. Silence stretches on. And on and on and on. Something sinks inside of Lucerys.
With the last of his strength, he pushes himself onto his elbows and Lucerys’ vision clears. It isn’t his mother by his bedside — and how could it be when she’s ash on the wind? — but his older sister, Rhaenyra. With wide eyes, he pleads for her not to leave his side. Not with the uncertainty that floats about. His child is silent and a lump lodged in his trachea chokes Lucerys.
He’s still as Death, breath stolen by the Stranger as the seconds pass with an eternity.
They observe as the maester joins the midwives and a palm meeting skin echoes trice before it’s joined by a deafening cry.
Lucerys slumps, relieved, as an attendant approaches with his child. “A male alpha, Your Grace,” she shares with a conspiring whisper. He accepts his son with the utmost care. So small, smaller than Aegon or Helaena had been, but he’s loud. His son’s miserable and Lucerys empathises. For the past nine moons, they’ve been one and now they’re two parts of a whole. Lucerys brushes his finger down a lean nose bridge. Most of the blood has been wiped off his little face, but white gunk clings to pale hair. The mess doesn’t bother Lucerys.
His children are a gift from the Gods.
Bringing his son closer, Lucerys presses his cheek to the babe’s and engraves his scent onto soft skin. The cries quieten down. Humming, the queen soothes and lulls the newborn. Shh, shh, ñuhus hūrus, Lucerys calms. Just as Aegon’s his sun, this one will be his moon. Beneath the thick rust of blood and the sourness of the other fluids, Lucerys discerns the waxy odor of smoke. Almost that of a burning candle. Closing his eyes, the omega immerses himself in his son’s distinct scent and carves it into the foundation of his soul. The babe whines as he presses a lingering kiss on the apple of his cheek.
And something shatters within Lucerys.
In his arms, slumbers away an unpolished gem, small and fragile. Although the hardest has passed, the tides may yet turn. Exhale. When he inhales, it’s the familiar scent of smoke. Aemond, his lips mouth the name like a prayer or a secret. It’s a name of his choosing; he won’t make the same mistake twice. He won’t burden more of his children with another’s legacy.
Skin-to-skin, he and his son share air and blood and in this moment — all is serenity.
It’s a while before Lucerys opens his eyes.
By then, the chambers have been vacated by the keep’s servants and only his sister remains. He knows she would never abandon him. Rhaenyra sits there, the smallest of quirks of her lips. There’s a bitterness to it. How could there not be? He’s only in this position because their mother had been butchered in her own birthing bed.
Their mother spoke of the birthing bed as their battlefield. She was right. Yet none of them would’ve ever expected their father to order her murder. Lucerys loves his children, but he cannot help fear that the next one will be his end.
That he, too, will be cut open just as a lamb for slaughter is. Or a pig to be gutted.
Aemond squirms in his arms and his plump fingers curl, seeking out warmth. He’s hungry. With a pleased hum, Lucerys lowers the front of his nightgown to bare his breast and directs the newborn to his teat. Gently, he cradles the back of his head, supporting the neck, wincing as Aemond latches on. The discomfort fades quickly. As his son suckles, the sensitivity in his chest dissipates.
“Father’s nearly done with the petitions,” Rhaenyra says at last. Words soft in the room, near unheard, to not disturb the tenuous peace. He cannot help but follow how she twists and turns the rings which decorate her fingers. It was unfair of their father to have kept their mother’s ring for his own keepsake. He’d been the one to tear her away. The least he could’ve done was to give them a piece of her to cherish. To remember her by.
By now, they know better than to expect anything of their father.
Three years have passed since their mother’s death. Three years since King Viserys decreed his betrothal to his own omega son. In as many years, Lucerys has given his father three healthy children. He’s given him the son that he always dreamt of and more — yet still, Father asks for more.
Lips purse at his teat and Lucerys peers down to look at his precious son. Father may have assisted in their conception, but these children are undeniably Lucerys’. It’s within his womb that they took shape from a mere concept into life. It’s by his side that they’ll reach into their own. With his index, he strokes the sparse hair which covers Aemond’s head. Both Aegon and Helaena have his curls — Mother’s curls — but their locks are golden like his father’s. Some days, Lucerys wishes they’d take after him more.
Cannot help but imagine a child with his brown hair as wind blows and tresses dance and tangle with the breeze.
Lucerys is in no rush to find out whether Aemond’s hair will be golden or silver, or which shade of violet his eyes will eventually settle into. If he could, Lucerys would freeze time. He’d spend eternity with a babe at his breast or with his children at his knees as he brushes their thin strands of hair. Lucerys fears the day they don’t need him anymore.
Those dreams are dissolved with the opening of the chamber’s doors. Two Kingsguards stand by the entrance once Viserys has limped his way past them. Lucerys’ firstborn son, Aegon, accompanies him. Lilac meets lilac and, and at once, Aegon lets go of their father’s hand to rush towards his mother. He’s stopped from clambering onto the bed only by Rhaenyra’s reflexes.
“Daor! mandȳs, daor!” Aegon protests, squirming to be freed so that he may join Lucerys on the bloodied sheets. He’s unsuccessful. However, his screaming disturbs Aemond who stops his feeding to wail a thunderous roar. Lucerys is quick to calm him. When he turns, the brunet finds Aegon covering his ears to muffle his brother’s shrill cries. Lucerys hides a laugh behind a hand, amused by his eldest’s behavior.
“You may let him go, Rhaenyra,” Lucerys reassures, lifting his free arm to offer a space for Aegon to nest. “Be careful,” he reminds Aegon, as his sister lifts the boy at his side. His son buries his face into Lucerys’ collarbone, but does not disturb Aemond again.
“Sȳz, ñuhys vēzos,” Lucerys praises him with a kiss onto the crown of his golden hair. It tickles the tip of his nose.
The peace is ruined as Viserys reminds them of his presence. “Lucerys, I hear the birth has gone well?” Lucerys notices how Rhaenyra bites down on her lips to hold in her rebuttal. ‘Well’ isn’t the word either of them would use. It was a difficult birth. Harder than any of the previous ones. Instead, Lucerys nods. “It did. There was a fright, but Aemond is a fighter. He’ll grow even stronger, I’m certain.” A smile graces the brunet’s lips as he regards the newborn in his arms.
Yes, those are a warrior’s lungs.
Viserys looms over them as he nods. He reaches over with his right hand. Spots mottle the back of the king’s wrinkling hands; age hasn’t been kind to the man.
“May I hold him?” This time, it’s Lucerys who bites down on his tongue. No sits at the very tip of it. He doesn’t want to part with his boy just yet. Aemond is a piece of him; a part of his soul. He’s shaped by his blood and his love. A treasure of his making.
One handed down from the heavens for him to nurture.
But once more, Lucerys lies and acquiesces. But, when he does, it’s with an unkind reminder. It’s the sole rebellion that he’s afforded, “Of course, Father.”
History will remember King Viserys I’s reign as the prelude to the apex of Targaryen rule.
The house of the dragon was fraught with tragedy and conflict for a hundred years following the conquest, war and misfortune plaguing King Aegon I’s descendants. King Jaehaerys I, having outlived nearly all of his children, held the Great Council of 101 for the realm’s lords to decide upon his heir. Amongst the fourteen claimants, only two were truly considered by the lords: Viserys Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.
Although primogeniture favored Laenor, he was naught but a boy of seven years. In contrast, Prince Viserys was a grown male alpha with an alpha daughter, a newborn omega son, and a heavily pregnant mate. It was believed that his wife, Aemma Arryn, despite her numerous miscarriages, had proven herself fertile. That the birth of a male alpha heir was imminent. Therefore, after thirteen days of deliberation, Prince Viserys was decreed Prince of Dragonstone, and thus, he ascended the throne in 103 A.C.
His eldest child, Rhaenyra, grew to be charming, cheeky, and of great beauty. With her silver-gold hair and spirited nature, she garnered much love. Adventurous and bold, nothing could deter the young princess when her mind was set. By her eight name-day, she was widely known as the Realm’s Delight.
For the entirety of her prosperous reign, she would be known as such.
And while Rhaenyra was the Realm’s Delight, her younger brother, Lucerys Targaryen, was a gift from the Gods. Born at the turn of the century, Lucerys was a gentle child.
Never without a smile, the boy brightened the halls of the Red Keep. Nobles and smallfolk alike adored him. Historical accounts described him as more frequently than not, twirling barefoot in the Godswood. Soles darkened with soil, a sprite swaying in the wind alongside the Weirwood’s blood red leaves. Otherworldly. Ethereal. Melodious humming would trail his visits to the Godswood. His laugh, a bell’s chiming. All who met him were livened up by his presence.
He was a fragment of the sun brought down upon earth for mortals to cherish.
As an omega, Lucerys possessed a nurturing nature.
While Princess Rhaenyra took flights atop her dragon, Syrax, her brother remained at their mother’s side and tended to her during her many arduous pregnancies. Rhaenyra may have been King Viserys and Queen Aemma’s first child and the king’s heir, but Lucerys was a mirror image of his mother with his brunet curls and lilac iris and King Viserys adored him for it. In turn, Prince Lucerys adored his father. The young prince was often found at his father’s knee as the king recited tales of Old Valyria and its dragonlords.
It shouldn’t’ve come as a shock that following Queen Aemma’s passing, Lucerys would follow in his mother’s footsteps and become King Viserys’ queen consort.
The union garnered much outrage in its conception. The Faith didn’t look kindly upon a marriage between a father and his son, but King Jaehaerys I’s Doctrine of Exceptionalism smothered all opposition. Nine moons after the marriage, Queen Lucerys brought into the world a healthy alpha son, named Aegon after the Conqueror, and restored balance to the realm.
Lucerys’ kindness defined his time as Queen.
Just as the Good Queen Alysanne had championed the smallfolk and sought ways to improve their lives, so did Queen Lucerys. He was beloved by them for it. Their concerns and grievances, heard and addressed.
With fair skin and Arryn brown locks, Queen Lucerys might’ve been described by some as common-featured. However, poems and sonnets were sung of his pearly lilac eyes, a defining Valyrian trait, and of his comeliness. He was the Realm’s Pearl; rarer and more precious than any gem or diamond.
It was said the queen’s braids were adorned with pearls of every shade. Gifts from suitors and family alike. Even as a widow, Lucerys was desired by many.
Queen Lucerys’ staunch support of his elder sister ensured Rhaenyra's smooth ascension.
Although some lords believed that Aegon’s claim to the Iron Throne superseded that of his half-sister, any plots of usurping the throne were doomed to fail for Queen Lucerys had raised his children to support Rhaenyra’s claim. Thus, Rhaenyra Targaryen became the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm in 132 A.C.
With her coronation came the zenith of Targaryen’s rule, boasting a total of eighteen fully grown dragons.
And another century of peace prevailed in Westeros under Targaryen rule.
It’s said that the first Velaryon would venture nightly to the treacherous coasts of Old Valyria at high tide.
There, he would pray to the Merking. With the rocks leaving imprints into his knees, night after night beneath the moons’ eyes, he would ask to be united with the love of his life: the sea. The sailor had come to adore the ocean’s chaos and unpredictability, just as he’d come to love its gentle waves. For years, his prayers went unheard and unanswered.
Until came the day where the sun inevitably scorched the second moon and from it came the dragons.
With a moon’s death, the seas’ equilibrium hung on a string.
When the Velaryon alpha stood at the edge of the rocky cliffs that night, his cries were finally answered. The Merking emerged from the depths, a crown of bones piercing the skies. He promised the Velaryon that his deepest desire would be granted on one condition; the Merking demanded that the alpha and his descendants become an anchor for the tides.
Without any hesitation, the sailor agreed.
It’s said that the Merking broke off one of his horns and the seas reclaimed it. From the foam, rose a figure. He was the personification of the ocean, of wildness, of love, of fertility, and of lust. A male omega. With the purest of white hair tumbling down his back and eyes reflecting the skies, came Lukerȳs. His wet form shone in the moonlight and thus he was named. The ocean clung to his skin and hair as a lover might.
The alpha had never witnessed anything more beautiful.
Within a fortnight, the Velaryon had taken the omega for mate and House Velaryon was born. From that day forth, their banner would be the seahorse in honour of the Merking.
But that wasn’t the end of Lukerȳs’ story for he brought prosperity to more than House Velaryon. Star crossed lovers who sought to overcome fate were favoured by the godly omega, as were those who hoped to build families. He helped each and every and those he couldn’t help, he shed tears for. They leaked and those shards of his soul hardened into pearls, taking the shape of life.
It’s Baelon who shares this ancient Velaryon myth with Aemma.
Heavily pregnant, Aemma retreats to her solar room as her nausea persists. She melts into the plushness of her seat, hand affixed to her belly. A child sleeps in her womb and yet she cannot be close enough. While Viserys is busy arguing with Daemon, Aemma’s left on her lonesome to entertain their daughter. And wherever the princess goes, Baelon’s quick to follow. Her good-father seeks every opportunity to spend time with his granddaughter. For hours, he reads with Rhaenyra seated on his lap. For his blood, he’d adopt the silliest of voices if it brought a smile to the princess’ lips. And it does. Every time.
Aemma watches, content, as her good-father makes her daughter giggle. She finds herself snorting ungracefully in response to his performance. It’s most unladylike, but Prince Baelon doesn’t admonish her for it. He’d once confided in her that this habit of hers reminded him of his dearest Alyssa.
Like this, surrounded by family, she soon forgets the sickness her pregnancy afflicts her with.
Eventually, exhaustion ensnares Rhaenyra and her little body curls itself against her grandsire’s warmth. Embraced by strong arms, there’s nowhere safer. Once more, Aemma’s reminded how precious her daughter is. The only child whom she’s brought into this world and who’s survived infancy. Caraxes’ whistling roar comes from above King’s Landing, accompanied by Vhagar’s guttural roar. Finding the crest of her swollen stomach, Aemma searches for reassurance of the life within. For a confirmation that this babe isn’t already dead inside her, strangled by its own umbilical cord.
A firm kick distorts the skin of her belly and she sighs, relieved. Sharp eyes trace the path of her hand and the slump of her shoulders.
“Is my grandchild bothering you, dear daughter?” Prince Baelon inquires, a teasing lift of the cheek she recognises in Rhaenyra when her daughter’s up to nothing good. How infuriating.
“No more than usual, Your Highness.”
Another kick. This one is stronger and she winces. “This one’ll be rambunctious, no doubt,” he remarks. She doesn’t have the heart to remind him of how many babes she and Viserys lost in the early years. Nor of the son they lost in the cradle. Aemma can only hope that he’s right; that this child will live to be loud and lively and everything else they want to be. That they’ll have grand dreams and achieve them. That they’ll carve their own place in this world. That they’ll bond to a dragon, have a lifelong companion, and explore the lands to the north, to the south, to the west, to the east.
The world will be at their fingertips if Aemma has any say in it.
A large, calloused palm flattens itself on her stomach. It curves along the swell. “I shall pray to Meleys, to the Mother, to Lukerȳs, to the Old Gods, and to any and every God for you, dear daughter, if such would ensure your wellbeing and this child’s.” She guides his hand further to the right to feel. The Gods; she’s prayed to them until her voice turned hoarse and her knees numb. None ever answer. She does not say as much.
When her confinement comes a moon later, her labours follow soon after. Countless hours are spent pushing and breathing. Breathing’s the hardest part. Until — a newborn’s cry breaks the rhythm. It’s loud and strong. It announces to the world the birth of a healthy child. Her child. She giggles, hysteric. The declaration of her child’s designation goes unheard as she accepts the wriggling babe into her arms with the most delighted of laughs.
The babe’s scent registers. The citrusy zest of oranges, the lingering odor of milk, and the metallic tang of blood. Then, fainter, is the sweetness of honey; a male omega. He won’t be Viserys’ heir, but that does not matter.
He’s hers.
Her own. Hers to love, hers to embrace, hers to raise. With that realisation, Aemma recalls the Velaryon myth Baelon once read to Rhaenyra. She remembers how her good-father promised to pray for her health and that of her yet unborn child. She remembers how the first Velaryon begged for his dearest love, the sea, and Aemma’s faced with the truth that every life she birthed would be her greatest love.
And so, she names the boy Lucerys. Her tears don’t turn into pearls, but it matters little when she holds one in her arms.
Baelon is second only to Viserys to visit her chambers following the birth.
Lucerys has only just finished his first meal when the crown prince holds his grandson for the first time. Lucerys is born smaller than most; his entire existence fits in Baelon’s hands. When Alyssa passed within the year of giving birth to a third son, the light in Baelon’s eyes dimmed. Whenever he held Rhaenyra, that spark returned to Baelon’s eyes. Now, as he lulls her son back to sleep whilst pacing her birthing chambers, it’s stronger than ever she’s seen it in a long time. Perhaps, Lucerys with his darker head of hair, reminds him of Alyssa’s and her uncommon sandy blonde locks.
Lucerys survives his first night. Then his second. His third, his fourth, his fifth — his twentieth. That day, Aemma concedes to Baelon’s request and her good-father takes the skies on Vhagar’s broad back, her son strapped to his chest. For hours they fly. It becomes routine. Nearly every second day, Baelon steals her children away to glide over the bay and over the city.
Lucerys survives his fiftieth night and many more.
By his first name-day, the egg placed in his cradle hatches.
Placing an egg in a Targaryen child’s cradle was a tradition started by Rhaena Targaryen. Of King Jaehaerys’ thirteen children, only his chosen heir, Aemon, was given such a privilege and only after the boy survived his first moon.
Her son’s cradlemate is pearlescent. It’s a sign, Aemma believes. A sign that the Gods watch over Lucerys. That they ensure his wellbeing. And as such, Aemma names the hatchling, Arrax, after the ruler of Gods. One day, once Arrax is large enough to mount, they will conquer the skies and the seas.
Giggles erupt from Lucerys where he’s being rocked by Viserys.
Curls bounce and flutter every time the boy is hitched higher in his father’s arms. Viserys laughs in tandem. There’s a healthy flush to Lucerys’ plump cheeks. Their roundness often has lords and ladies pinching at them. Sunlight filters through the windows of Aemma’s solar. Viserys’ golden circlet shines and Lucerys reaches upward with grabby hands. Lucerys’ fingers clumsily curl around it. He nearly shoves its palisado into his mouth, but Viserys stops him with a reproaching tut.
Lucerys’ giggles don’t cease even when the circlet is removed from his grip. Instead of placing it atop his head, Viserys sets it on his son’s. It proves to be too big for him and falls down slightly.
“Muñus?” Rhaenyra tugs at her mother’s pale blue beaded dress. Arrax crawls at her feet. He’s the size of a large dog, but he’s well-behaved. More of a cat in his mannerisms than a dragon. Rarely does he growl at the servants, rather, trilling at them for scratches below the chin. None of the servants ever do, to Arrax’s disappointment. They’re much too frightened of him. It’s why they’ve yet to relocate him to the dragonpit. But, soon enough, they’ll have no choice. Arrax gets larger with each turn of the moon.
When they do, it’ll devastate Lucerys. Their son is practically inseparable from the fledgling.
“Yes, my dove?” Aemma tugs at Rhaenyra’s hand, stopping her daughter from sticking her thumb into her mouth. It’s a bad habit. Both her children have the same bad habit of putting things into their mouths. Instead, Rhaenyra wraps her arms around Aemma as best she can. She’s too small to fully embrace her mother, not with the babe currently growing in her. Arrax joins her and lays his chin on Aemma’s lap. When she runs her fingertips down his spine, his eyes close in delight. Down his back, the membranes shudder.
Her son’s dragon is spoiled, just as his cradlemate is.
“Is there a little brother in your tummy, muñus?” Aemma smiles. “I hope so, my dove.” From the face Rhaenyra pulls, Aemma knows that she disagrees. Rhaenyra loves Lucerys, there’s no doubt to that, but Aemma knows her daughter hopes for a sister most of all. A sister that she can play with and learn alongside.
Rhaenyra has even chosen a name for this future sister of hers: Visenya. It’s a regal and powerful name. It’s a name stained by a mother’s love.
“Why?” the princess asks. Aemma twirls a strand of Rhaenyra’s silver-gold hair around her ring finger. Arrax grumbles, displeased that she’s stopped her petting. Unable to resist the drake’s whining, Rhaenyra strokes at the soft scales. Truly. Spoiled.
“So that I may give your father an heir.”
The thumb is back into her mouth. Aemma huffs fondly at the sight. “Won’t Lucy become king after kepa?” She does not correct Rhaenyra that Viserys isn’t yet king. Although, that day is imminent. King Jaehaerys spends most of his days abed, grief ridden. The king had lost all but two children, had chased away his last daughter across the Narrow Sea, and his last son had abandoned him for knowledge.
To die alone; what a tragedy. Aemma hugs her daughter closer.
There’s an ache in Aemma’s heart as she considers her daughter’s innocent question. She’s still naive. Yes, perhaps in a different life, Rhaenyra or even Lucerys might’ve been Viserys’ heir. But not in this one. Not when princess Rhaena was married to her younger brother, Aegon the Uncrowned, to strengthen his claim. Not when their daughter, Aerea, was passed over in favour of her uncle. Not when King Jaehaerys forsake Princess Rhaenys’ claim to the throne by virtue of her sex.
Women do not sit the throne because men decree it so.
And omegas do not sit the throne because alphas decree it so.
“No, my sweet girl,” Aemma answers. The words are bitter in her mouth, but they’re true. “He’s destined for something else. Omegas don’t inherit lands or titles; they inherit a mother’s duty. He’ll be a lord’s consort some day and will provide them heirs just as you and I will.” Rhaenyra nods, too young to understand the deeper meaning of such seemingly simple words. How the world has put into place limitations and expectations that’ll dictate their lives. If Aemma could, she’d tear it all down. But she’s no queen.
Only a consort.
Only a mother. The means to an end.
She can only ensure that her children will be kind. That the son she gives birth to will fight for and honour his elder sister and brother. This world is cruel, but she’ll strive to make it a better one. In this room, surrounded by her loving husband and their beautiful children, Aemma believes she can accomplish such aspirations.
What neither she nor Rhaenyra know at this time is that Lucerys won’t become any lord’s consort.
No, he’ll be his father’s Queen Consort for he’s the living portrait of Aemma and Viserys is a weak man.