Work Text:
143 A.C., Winter, The Red Keep
The skies peel themselves open.
Weeping winds howl an eerie song against the glass as sonorous strikes illuminate the inky darkness concealing monsters. Viserys dreams of those monsters. She’s larger than a mountain, with a cavernous mouth made to swallow worlds. Her cries, thunderous. Deafening. She’d make a quick bite of him.
She had made a quick bite of Arrax.
The pane wails, straining under pressure as snow batters, ceaseless. Viserys cannot sleep. Not as a result of the noise, no. Another booming rumble disrupts its flow and tremors rake through him. It isn’t the cold, but a bone-chilling terror. Every clap of thunder conjures visions of a boy too young, too frail, atop his drake as he flees a giant’s fury. Visions of a boy falling and falling into rampaging tides, never to be seen again.
He knows they aren’t true. They’re lies his mind evokes. But the terror he feels is real. Was real. His brother had left atop Arrax and hadn’t returned.
He wants to see Luke.
It’s a childish sentiment, one he should’ve long outgrown. At ten-and-one, Viserys shouldn’t feel the need to burrow himself in his brother’s arms after a nightmare. Shouldn’t feel the need to seek refuge under Luke’s covers, so he fights the urge. He pulls his duvet's weight tighter around his shoulders, imagines its bulk are Luke’s arms, embracing him tightly. He continues to tremble with every roar of the heavens.
Another comes. Louder. Closer. It deafens him.
With a half-bitten whimper, Viserys throws off his duvet. The room’s chill is immediate and has goosebumps rising beneath the linen of his night-shift. Small bare feet reach for the floor as another roll of thunder rips through the storm and Viserys wastes not another second, bolting for the doors. The hinges groan, loud in the empty halls.
He expects Uncle Aemond’s stern gaze, expects to be asked why he isn’t asleep. Neither comes; Ser Loreth stands where the Lord Commander usually does, arm braced on the handle of his blade. Viserys knows Uncle Aemond cannot be posted at his side at all hours of the day. Knows that he requires sleep as everyone does, but he cannot help the disappointment which seizes him when his absence registers. Outside of Luke and his parents, he feels safest by his uncle’s side.
“My prince?” the Queensguard asks, puzzled to find his charge out of bed. He takes a step.
“I’m headed to my brother’s chambers. No need to accompany me, Ser,” Viserys informs him, careful to close the door behind him. It falls shut silently. Ser Loreth nods. His eyes are kind, the little Viserys can see of them below the helm. Uncle Aemond would be furious if he were to find out his man allowed Viserys to wander alone, even though Maegor’s Holdfast is patrolled day and night.
Viserys doesn’t want any witnesses to his fears. He wants only Luke.
In the halls, the storm is kept at bay by brick and mortar. Unfortunately, stone cannot ward off a dragon’s might; Harrenhal is proof enough. He scurries past doors, slab floors glacial under his soles, but Viserys’ too impatient to return for his slippers. After what feels like an age, he finally reaches Luke’s rooms. No guards are posted at its doors.
They loom, familiar despite how little his brother inhabits these chambers. More than once has Viserys nestled in his bed, desperate but futilely seeking for the faintest trace of Luke’s scent. The household staff are always swift to replace the bedding upon his departure.
Fist raised to the wood, his knuckles never meet the panel. Now that he’s here, it seems a bad idea.
It’s late; Luke’s certainly asleep. His heat had been swelling of late, sweet on the tongue. Vanilla whirling into citrus and the cream of lemon cakes threading into the air. He doesn’t want to disturb his brother’s rest, especially not when Luke has been so deeply tired. Fatigue has made itself permanent on his features, shadows under pale eyes. It wears at his bones, his frames — leaves him laden.
Thunder drums and before he knows it his knuckles are rasping against the grain, announcing him. No answers come. The storm must be too loud or Luke must slumber too deeply to hear. If Viserys is quiet enough, he can tiptoe into bed by his brother’s side without waking him. Slowly, quiet as he can, he pushes open the doors. Candle lights greet him. Luke’s awake.
Less uncertain with that confirmation, he calls out, “Luke?”
Something collides, clamouring in response. Turning his head to the noise, he finds Luke with a hand to his chest as though recovering from a fright. Further from him, white cloak facing them, is their uncle. Both arms braced against the settee’s backrest. His heaving shoulders betray his breathing.
“Viserys,” Luke goes to kneel before him, fingertips adjusting the thin band of his night-shift which’d fallen low, nearly exposing the peak of his breast. He’s out of breath, cheeks flushed and skin clammy. Viserys can tell his scent has ripened even with his untrained nose; his heat well underway. “What’re you doing here at this hour?” He takes a glance lower, adds, “And barefoot at that; where are your slippers, my dove?”
“I wanted to see you.” It's the truth, but also not. Curiously, he takes another glance at their uncle who’s yet to move, but whose breathing has slowed. It’s late. Viserys can’t think of any reason the Queensguard would be here, despite what he knows of them. “Why’s Uncle here?”
“We were just talking. A small argument; nothing your pretty head needs to worry about.”
He frowns. It’s been years since they last argued. Not since the Usurper was alive and they were his captives. Viserys doesn’t like the thought of them fighting just as he doesn’t like it when Mother and Father do.
Luke takes his hand and pulls him towards the bed. “Come, let’s get your little toes warmed up.” He lifts the duvet, an invitation for Viserys to crawl under. They’re cool, undisturbed. His feet are happier far from freezing floors. An abundance of pillows rest the long of the headboard, the beginning of a nest. He huddles deeper, lulled by the tartness of Luke’s scent.
There’s another scent present, too. It’s fainter, blending near seamlessly. Arid. Sooty.
He watches as Luke heads towards the settee where Uncle Aemond hasn’t moved, watches how Luke lays a hand on the alpha’s shoulder with a whispered apology, certainly for the dispute Viserys interrupted. Watches how their uncle offers his own silent reassurances. Watches as the omega slips his bare arms into the silk night-robe which’d been discarded there.
Sees as purpling fingerprints on his shoulders and collar disappear behind the fabric.
Luke returns by his side as he ties it close and Viserys knows what’s coming before it does.
“Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.” His answer must’ve come too quickly because Luke purses his lips, disbelieving.
“You traversed the Holdfast without your slippers in the middle of the night because nothing was wrong?” Sheepish, Viserys hums. It sounds absurd even to him. A forlorn sound leaves Luke. His brother runs the tips of his fingers along Viserys' temple, plays with the curling strands there. Quieter, he says, “There’s no harm to being afraid, Perzītsos."Little flame Quieter, even, “Was it a nightmare?”
It rushes out of Viserys like a waterfall. “You left. You didn’t return. Mother, Father, Jace — we all thought you’d died.” Loaded, “Arrax was dead.”
Arrax was dead; what else could they have assumed than the worst?
A sharp gasp goes forgotten as the skies roar, a reminder. Viserys sees comprehension dawn on his brother. His brows slacken before he crowds the young alpha into his arms, crooning, “Oh, Perzītsos."Little flame He grasps at Luke’s robes, fear easing with his brother so close, alive and warm beside him.
Armour and chain-mail clatters as Uncle Aemond straightens.
There’s a gravity to his eye, a tremble to his breath. Then he’s crossing the room to collect his sword where it rests at the bedside. Just as quickly, he declares, “I should go.” Luke’s head snaps in response. The Targaryen prince secures the scabbard to his belt, but it takes a few tries.
Viserys has never seen his uncle so rattled.
“Aemond…” Luke whispers, as though speaking too loud might spook the Queensguard. He lifts himself off the bed just as carefully. Although he definitely heard Luke, Uncle Aemond doesn’t respond.
Instead he says, voice tight, “I shall see you both in the morn, my prince.”
It’s Viserys’ fault. His words were careless. “Uncle, stay,” he asks. Weaker, “Please.” It gives the Lord Commander pause. Enough for Luke to reach their uncle and capture at a forearm. The two share a long look, stiff lipped. A gloved hand grips at its sword's pommel, leather creasing with the movement.
“I’ll be standing guard just on the other side, Trēsys."Son or nephew
The rejection stings, but Viserys cannot blame him. Not when he so carelessly brought forth past mistakes. When he’s insinuated his night terrors centre him.
The alpha goes to leave but Luke follows, stubborn. Stops him in his tracks with the lightest touch.
He asks for you, Luke stresses, words so low Viserys might’ve not heard them was he not so focused on their lips. His hand leaves Uncle Aemond’s forearm to cradle a quivering jaw, so intimate and familiar Viserys feels he’s intruding.
And he dreams of you dying at my hand.
There’s no mistaking the waver in his voice for anything else than shame. A thumb soothes at tense muscles.
And yet he asks for you. The alpha huffs and tears himself away. As though he knows he’s won, Luke cajoles, “You cannot refuse a prince of the realm, good ser.” The omega heads for the vanity, leaving the knight to his doubts. With practice fingers, Luke removes the pearl encrusted brooch holding his curls back. Doesn’t turn as he says, “You’ll have to rid yourself of that armour if you wish to sleep in the bed, Uncle.”
“I will sleep on the settee.”
His earrings are next. They’re stored in a box with numerous other precious trinkets. Gifts from kin and strangers alike. Luke tuts. “Nonsense. We’ll share the bed and we’ll accept no arguments from you.” An impish curl of the lip is shot towards the bed. “Isn’t that correct, Viserys?”
He nods, earnest. “Yes. No arguments.” Luke giggles a pretty sound in response and Viserys preens.
It’s silly, mayhaps that’s why the tension in the Queensguard’s frame dissipates at last. With a deep sigh of defeat, he acquiesces, “Very well.”
The scabbard he’d struggled so much to secure is the first to go. It’s returned to its previous position by the bedside so easily, as if it isn’t the first time. Nor the hundredth time. By then, Luke has finished braiding his hair. Around his neck remains a string of pearls converging to a dark stone. A sapphire. Viserys only knows this because Luke wears it often and he’s seen it shine a deep blue when sunlight glistens across its surface.
His brother gazes long into the looking glass but makes no move to remove it. Only when Uncle Aemond has finally shed the last of his armour does he say, “Uncle, would you unclasp it for me?” The prince advances without protest and loosens Luke’s necklace, but the back of his knuckles lurk the long of a bare nape, the long of a soft jawline, thumbing the flesh of a lower lip.
Viserys presumes they must’ve forgotten his being there to be so unreserved. He’d only witnessed such ease in the quiet while sleep had lingered heavy at the corner of his eyes.
Luke’s only ever miserable around his husband; that misery melts away under their uncle’s tender attention.
He wants for Luke’s days to only ever be carefree. He wants to see more of his crooked smiles which reveal his too large teeth. To hear more of his laughter. But that won’t happen. Viserys’ gut sinks; not as long as Luke’s shackled to Daemion. Until such a day comes, he can only cherish these fleeting moments and hope for more.
Many more.
Gaze flickering upward, Luke says, “Aemond, the sapphire.” It sounds more like an order.
Uncle Aemond must’ve heard it, too. “It stays.”
Viserys has never seen the man without it. During the war, he’d seldom gone without the eye-patch. Now, Viserys can barely remember what he’d looked like wearing it. The sapphire is another matter altogether. The alpha never goes without it, understandably so. The court speaks, it ridicules, it critiques. It finds weaknesses and prods at them, maliciously.
But this isn’t court.
With how smoke permeates the bedsheets Viserys settles into, the issue isn’t Luke. No, it isn’t Luke who admitted to fears of storms and of kinslaying. It’s his wrong to undo.
“It does not scare me, Uncle.” Neither startle at his address. Mayhaps they’d not forgotten, after all. No moves are made to remove the stone which fills the cavity of his uncle’s eye.
“Aemond,” Luke presses. Once more, it’s at the omega’s coaxing that the Queensguard acts. Viserys wonders if the reminder of Luke’s presence, of his being there to offer support should he need it, provides the alpha the necessary strength to act. Dipping his hands into the basin, he wets them before pressing along the curve of the gemstone to pluck it out. It makes an awful noise, but Viserys reigns in his aversion.
Just like Luke’s necklace, the stone is stored away in a box.
Candles are blown out, drenching the room in darkness as they near the bed from either side. Uncle Aemond slides under the sheets, taking the side closest to the door. Father sleeps from the same side. He says he prefers to be between any potential danger and Mother. Despite them sharing a bed, their uncle keeps his distance. At his back, he feels the silk of Luke’s slip brush against his nape, feels his arms embrace him closer.
He’s warm, so warm, heat relentless.
“You needn’t be so distant, Uncle,” the brunet grumbles and reaches across Viserys to pull their uncle closer. It has little effect; the alpha doesn’t budge. But Luke does manage to snatch his arm. Uncle Aemond’s palm is large, much larger, compared to Luke’s hand. He pulls and pulls until the alpha has no choice but to turn onto his flank, the position uncomfortable otherwise. Pulls until their hands rest over Viserys’ torso, at his sternum.
The combined weight of their hands has his heart slowing. Surrounded by their scents, nestled between their bodies, the storm is long forgotten.
“Feel it?” Luke’s breath blows against Viserys’ earlobe, calming. “Feel his little heart beating steadily beneath your palm? There is no danger here.” The mattress dips as his uncle closes the gap he’d so cautiously maintained. Calloused skin creeps up Visery’s throat, feels at his pumping blood, its caresses, shy. Bedsheets rustle as legs move and the alpha jerks back.
“Fuck—!” A hiss, then, “Your feet are freezing!” This time, the giggles erupt from Viserys’ small belly. He tries muffling it behind his palms, to no avail. Luke’s quick to join in.
“You’ll warm them up then, won’t you, Uncle?” There’s a grumble at Viserys’ left, but no arguments. Luke’s won, again.
Fingers course through his hair and lips press tenderly to his temple and it quietens. Luke’s breathing evens as sleep claims him. Despite two years having gone by since his last birth, Luke remains weary and while he has nursemaids and his grandsire to help, it isn’t the same. As Lord of the Tides, he commands the Velaryon fleet whilst his consort manages Driftmark affairs.
But that isn’t how it actually goes. Daemion often travels, burdening his husband with the additional responsibility of governance.
Viserys fears the pressure will one day be too great for Luke.
Catching the end of Luke’s braid, he plays with its length. A hand swamps his, much larger.
“I can hear all the thoughts swirling through your head, Trēsys,"Son or nephew the alpha murmurs. “Settle down.” The hand shifts until it rests at Viserys’ torso and holds him close. He, too, is warm, but his warmth isn’t from fever. A pointed nose nudges at his crown, inhaling deep. “He's here. Breathing. Alive. He hasn't left you. He’ll be here in the morn; we both will.”
“Uncle?” A deep hum answers him. “There are days where…” swallows, “where I’m afraid of dragons.”
An absurd notion, a Targaryen afraid of its birthright, and yet. He’d nearly lost Luke to their dance. Nearly lost Jace, too.
Mayhaps that was the true reason he held on so tight to his unhatched egg. Viserys fears facing a fully grown dragon. He doesn’t have his uncle’s courage. He who'd claimed the eldest living dragon when he’d been but a little older than Viserys was now.
A sigh comes from the alpha. Although Viserys keeps him awake with his worries, it isn’t exasperated. No, it feels kindred. As though Vhagar’s bonded one also sometimes fears dragons.
That, too, is absurd.
And yet, the alpha reveals for only his ears to hear, "My father, the King, once told me that we Targaryens are fools to believe we control the dragons. He was right.” Viserys twists so he can face his uncle and traces lines of regret across his lone eye. He gives the boy a wry smile. Confesses, “That control is an illusion. The only ones we control are ourselves." He brushes a bare knuckle the length of Viserys’ nose the same way Luke used to when he was a toddler. “Close your eyes now, Trēsys."Son or nephew Viserys obeys. “Let us sleep,” but he’s long gone, warm and secure between salt and fire.
Viserys wakes at the crest of dawn. Nightfall's cloak lifts and lavender mist dusts the skies, quiet.
He's warm. So warm. Luke burns like coal at his back. Little puffs of air brush the curls at his nape. It tickles, but he doesn't mind. He'll never mind his brother's closeness. He pulls his arms tighter around himself, sinks deeper into his embrace — wishes he could melt into him, meld into his ribcage, into his breast.
A groan chokes Uncle Aemond and the alpha's head twists violently into the pillow, fleeing unseen terrors. Strands of white slips from his braid, catching onto fluttering lower lashes. Soot seeps acid, foul on the sheets. Blackness stares back at him. What's left of his eyelid drops, loose and misshapen. Viserys has never seen it like this before.
Does he relive of the chase which begun the war? Or does he find half his world bereft forevermore of light?
Viserys shuffles nearer to the Queensguard. He reaches for a pounding heart, feels it throb wildly. It scampers like a hare chased by hounds. The sheets rustle loud in the quiet as he ambles closer still until his temple rests against a clavicle and his fingers tangle with a chain. Thumb running along the links, he follows its lines to the band it safeguards.
It's unremarkable. A simple silver.
He's seen his uncle grip at the metal until its ring have left shadows on his palm. But this is the first Viserys touches it. Its weight is cool, steady. As though he's holding the ocean in the palm of his hand.
Viserys curls tighter around the alpha, feels Uncle Aemond's restlessness quell into even breaths against his temple. He peers up until the tip of his nose meets the narrowness of the alpha's chin, smells how the fear on his scent burns away.
“My dove?” Luke whispers, voice mellow with sleep. He closes the space Viserys created until they both are curled in Uncle Aemond's arms. His brother mirrors his position until they fit into one another as though mere extensions of the another.
Fingertips ghosts the rift which cuts cheekbone, through a lid. He doesn't dare touch it. It isn't fear. He could never fear his uncle, but Viserys does fear hurting him. The wound is long healed but it's permanently shaped his uncle.
Viserys has only ever known the one-eyed version of Aemond Targaryen. He's never known the person who'd existed prior.
His siblings don't speak of it, not plainly.
Baela bears spite to this day for her cousin. It's far from the resentment she'd bore for the Usurper. Not as perilous. Not as self-destructive. This is personal; an insult dealt to her. To her kin. Amongst their siblings, only she refers to the alpha as One-Eye. She isn't the only one who does so in court. He's heard lords and knight shout it in the courtyard. But when it comes from her lips, Uncle Aemond's features twist with shame.
Rhaena said once it'd been the price for Vhagar, that it was Luke's hand which'd collected the toll. Viserys cannot imagine Luke's hands ever capable of giving pain — yet the proof stares back at him.
Uncle spoke of it as the result of a boy's folly. He hadn't blamed Luke for it, but taken it upon himself. His folly.
The chain rattles. Luke's fingers link into his, anchoring them to their uncle. He wants to know, wants to ask. Before he knows it, the words drift away from him, small. “How did it happen?” The hitch in his brother's breathing disrupts the evenness of the pace they'd set. He didn't think capable for Luke's voice to come smaller than his had, but it does.
“It isn't my story to tell.”
“But you took his eye?”
Another sharp inhale, this one with the crush of guilt. “Yes." No excuses are given. No pleas for understanding. It's strangled, as though the word's been punched out of his lungs. Viserys draws Luke's right hand to his chest, possibly the very one which'd moulded their uncle, strokes the ridges of the silver band he wears.
As a child, he'd sneaked into the smithy, had a close encounter with an unattended fire poker. That was the last Mother allowed him to roam without a guard until his seventh nameday. Viserys imagines if he'd touched the poker it would've seared through the tissue of his palm the way the silver does now, pulsating with his brother's fevers.
He'd smelt the char of human flesh, of hair and ships alike, nauseating in its sweetness. It doesn't ease his hold. The opposite, in fact. He tightens his grip, relishes as its etchings press into palm. Hot, but not enough to brand. Not enough to permanently mark Viserys with a reminder of his brother.
Mine, Uncle Aemond had crooned in the hush of night to the omega.
A word so damning that uttering it beyond the privacy of their bedchambers would have the white of his uncle's cloak replaced by black. It's a claim usually accompanied with a ring of teeth, but neither Luke nor Uncle Aemond bear one. No, they'd marked each other in unconventional ways; in blood and in fire. Wherever they go, they carry a reminder of each other. A reminder in the trials, in the strain of their muscles, deeper than any canines can reach. Their scars are more than pains.
They're trophies to be displayed and admired.
Each time Aemond Targaryen's eye falls upon a looking glass, the phantom of Luke's hand stares back. The same hand which'd guided the alpha into waters off the coast of Tarth. The same one he lifts so carefully whenever Luke returns to court and to which his lips linger with reverence. During the war, he'd stopped hiding behind a leather patch and stood taller without its burden.
Tall enough for all to behold Lucerys Velaryon's claim.
How silly, Viserys simpers. Luke sees only the fault he played in their uncle's disfigurement, but he's much the same.
With the exception of mating marks, scars on omegas are viewed as unsightly. Worse even, married omegas whose husbands haven't bestowed a claim upon their flesh will opt for dresses that serve to conceal such an offence. But not Luke. Despite the lack of bite, despite the extensive burns spanning his collarbones, he favours robes that leave his clavicle bare.
It hadn't fully healed when Viserys arrived in King's Landing during the war. Every other day, the maester would unravel Luke's dressings to apply a poultice and wrap the wound in clean gauze. All the while, Uncle Aemond had hovered at the the maester's shoulder, a wraith promising retribution if the man overstepped his bounds. After each session, their uncle would hold up the brunet's tunics to facilitate Luke's robing.
On some of these occasions, Luke would recoil if perchance Uncle Aemond's knuckles grazed the flesh of his biceps. It had the alpha flinching in response and shrinking onto himself. It was then Viserys realised that he man whom Mother called Kinslayer had never meant to deal Luke such hurts.
The undeniable truth is, “He loves us.”
“Yes." Luke smiles as though it’s a secret. If it is, it’s the worst kept secret in the realm. Uncle Aemond had opposed the Usurper's orders, protected them from his impulses, even in the face of the man's own Kingsguard.
“He betrayed the Usurper for us.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Luke doesn't answer him immediately. He weighs his words, settles on, “Because we are family.” But so had been the Usurper. Despite that, he'd chosen them; the omega he pursued in a storm and a boy he stole from a naval ambush. He'd aided in placing the Conqueror's crown on his brother's brow, but when Mother arrived on dragonback to King's Landing after the Usuper's death, Uncle Aemond ceded the throne instead of upholding his claim.
Then she'd given him a choice. Exile or the white, she'd declared and he hadn't hesitated to pledge his life for theirs.
No one could say what had transpired at Storm's End after the treasonous lord of the stormlands rejected Mother's call for his banners. No one had overheard the quarrel between the two princes before they'd mounted their respective dragons. One thing is clear to Viserys, however, even then their uncle had loved Luke. The remorse the alpha fails to conceal when his defences are down can only stem from love.
And Luke — he'd been wedded to Daemion Velaryon years prior. He'd been denied a choice.
The control is an illusion, the alpha had whispered and in the blackness of thunderclouds and flashing lightning, Vhagar had been a calamity and Arrax, her quarry. Then — “The storm passed.”
“It always does.”
Yes, it had then, too. It'd lifted as a curtain would and washed away all hints of sin. Only days later had the drake's wings and parts of his torso drifted ashore.
“Will you be leaving today then?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No. Never.” His response comes swiftly and with a squeeze of the hand.
Bedsheets rustle as the alpha shifts behind Viserys. “You two have much to say this morn,” Uncle Aemond mumbles, still groggy. A broad palm caresses the boy's brow, unexpectedly. His uncle is usually reluctant to touch them without the barrier of his gloves. Half-asleep, he brushes back at wispy hairs without qualms. They escape his touch, springing back into curls. He makes no attempt to tame them again, simply lets his hand sit there, comforting.
“Have you been listening for long?” Luke laughs.
“No,” he denies amid a yawn.
And for a moment, they stay that way — three bodies interwoven in the quiet. Uncle Aemond runs the back of his hand up the omega's bare arm where its path is hindered by a strap. With the bend of a finger, the blond drags it back over a shoulder. When his hand falls, it brushes against the curve of a breast. It isn't perchance and Luke doesn't recoil as he would've once had.
Although the mood is easy, a heaviness lingers in his uncle. He's reluctant to touch still. As though his hands will bring them ruin. Or taint.
The chirping of sparrows and cardinals gains in loudness as the violets are replaced by tangerine and cyan. With the sun past the horizon, the Queensguard announces, “I must return to the Tower and ready myself for my watch." Viserys falls onto his back as the alpha withdraws. Before the cold can seep into their nest, the young prince is being tucked back under the duvet.
Luke rises, silk scarcely shielding him from the nipping morning chill. Vanilla still rich on the tongue, he mustn't feel its nibbling. They watch as their uncle heads for the basin, as he furiously runs the hemp cloth along the crevices of his hands, scrubbing away ordeals invisible but to him. Scrubs with such vigour, Viserys worries he'll flay the flesh off his bones.
"Aemond," Luke stresses, worry trembling on his voice and weight shifting onto his palm as he considers intervening. But there's no need for it. At the call of his name, the alpha is hauled back into the now. With scraped raw fingers, he slots a rounded stone into the cavern of his eye. There's no eyelid to close over its arch. Against the tenderness of the wound, the sapphire is a moonlit ocean, an infinite sorrow. It's cold against the bruising of the lower eyelid.
Snow white lashes quiver with unshed ghosts.
Whole again, he goes to don his gambeson and breastplate before fastening his pauldrons, then his cloak. It pours down his back, a glaring, pristine whiteness. Follows him as he secure his scabbard without the fumbling from the night before. Next to go are his leather gloves. He pulls at its cuff until he fills all its hollowness before collecting his bracers. “Don’t dally in bed too long,” he warns, busy drawing the belt of his bracers tight around his forearm. He looks every part Mother's sworn knight, except for his hair. It's mussed with sleep. “I'll have the maester bring you tea.”
“Tea?” Viserys asks.
Luke sinks into the feathered mattress, runs fingertips from Viserys' brow to the tip of his nose with feather light study. Presses butterflies to the threads of his scar, sowing his affection into its rift.
“For my heat, sweet boy.”
Ginger. Must be. Luke always requests for ginger tea to soothe an upset stomach.
A wry smile pulls at Uncle Aemond's lips, dimples forming at his cheeks. Viserys itches to poke at them.
Shink rattles the chainmail as the alpha rounds the bed frame and surveys them, eye soft in the quiet of morning. With the sun pulling higher onto the skyline, the Lord Commander should be departing, but instead he cards gloved fingers through Viserys' wispy hair, snagging their ends onto leather. Instead, he bends to nose at his charge's temple, etching the crisp warmth of his scent onto the young prince.
Pale lashes blink closed as a fuchsia eye slinks to where Luke lays, to where the length of his legs where his night dress has climbed up to uncover the tautness of a knee, to where the band of his slip has dropped down the fullness of his arm — a demand for attentive hands to fix. And Uncle Aemond does, but not without protest.
"Ao jazdan,"You harpy. he kisses his teeth."Kesīr iqrinumban yne."Here to antagonise me.
It earns him a giggle, a flash of a pearly smile. A scrunch of the nose. A coy, "Mittys iksā."You're a fool.
"Kesrio sytao? Va mōriot."For you? Always.
Their banter is easy, refined through hundred, if not thousands, of these stolen moments. Stolen — because Luke is a wedded omega and Uncle Aemond is the Lord Commander of the Queensguard. They steal at time because it runs out eventually, finite. Viserys understands. His time with Luke, too, is limited.
Inevitably, his brother will return to Driftmark with his children and he'll be here with their uncle, waiting until Luke's ship drops anchor once more at port. It could be weeks from now. It could be moons. No matter, Viserys will wait and grow taller, grow stronger.
"Ilnītsos, ñuhas zaldrītsosses."Rest, my little dragons.
Viserys decides he prefers to be small a while longer.
Viserys noses at Father's pillow, fleeing the onslaught of invasive fingers. They tease at the shell of his ear, tracing its curve. With a whine and a shrug of the shoulder, he withdraws even further into the firestorm. A song lulls him deeper into its warmth. It sways, swells, and reels in.
Boundless blues bellow 'beware, dear benign soul'
Last he'd heard Mother sing The Benign Sailor had been before the dance. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. He shouldn't have, but he had. There had been no one posted at her doors to stop him, Mother having dismissed them in her grief. A vile bitterness had filled the birthing chambers along the vulgarity of rust and with wretched vocals, she'd cradled a quiet bundle and crooned its verses to his stillborn sister.
A different sorrow burdens these cautions of beguiling creatures; one of remorse for days long lost. The ache is well-worn, softened by acceptance. It cannot be Mother, not when Visenya to this day is a scab to be picked.
Fingertips tickle at his temple, tucking silken stands behind his ear. A kiss graces the hull of his ear. “It’s time to wake, my dove,” Luke's voice emerges through the fog, steering Viserys to wakefulness. Citrus and sea salt teases at his nose, not neroli. Wax, not wood. He fell asleep in his brother's bed, not their parents. It's Uncle Aemond's presence lingering on the bedspread, not Father's. He's stolen his uncle's pillow without notice.
The mattress dips under his brother's weight. His grief, delicate.
Does he picture Princess Rhaenys with her shrewd smirks? How she'd hover at the edge of doorways, observing? There had been no mischief without her knowing. There were time when he'd flee deep into the labyrinth of the Conqueror's garden, to the arch of the Dragon's Tail where the geese gathered; she was always the first to find him. Together, they'd feed the goslings and ducks with bread stolen from the kitchens.
Once, he'd asked how she was so quick to cross the maze, how she knew where he'd be. Lost in a memory, she'd said, I was the daughter of the Prince of Dragonstone. A daughter; a mother.
Her daughter, Laena Velaryon, had ridden Vhagar before Uncle Aemond. His sisters' mother. Father's often said they'd inherited Lady Laena's beauty and her undeterred spirit. But Laena Velaryon wasn't Princess Rhaenys' only child.
She had a son, too — Luke's father. Mayhaps it's he who brings such a rueful smile to Luke's lips.
Viserys was born long after the man's assassination, but he's heard countless stories of the dauntless Laenor Velaryon, of his audacious flying and tactics against the Triarchy. Mother had quipped wryly that Laenor Velaryon's comeliness had rivalled his sister, Laena's. Viserys can believe it. Luke may favour their mother in the shape of his chin, in the paleness of his eyes, but there's something other about him. Something wild. Something tempestuous.
There's no one as lovely as Luke.
Even with residues of sleep crusting the corners of his eyes and his braid unravelling from a night spend tossing, Luke is the most beautiful Viserys has ever seen. He hasn't changed out of the thin slip he wore to bed, hasn't slipped on a robe. The strap his uncle had fixed kisses the slope of his arm. Despite the duvet he's tucked under, despite the smouldering heat emanating from the dancing flames in the hearth, Viserys is cold.
“Aren’t you cold, Luke?”
Lilac softens and the tartness of lemons swells. “No, dear boy." Fingers card through Viserys' hair; unwillingly, his eyes fall close. "But perhaps tomorrow I will be.” His heat must be on the cusp of breaking.
A knock comes at the door. “Enter.”
“My prince,” Meredyth greets, tray in hand. She's been his brother's handmaiden since before Viserys' birth, had followed him to Driftmark to serve his household. She's barely past the threshold before Visenya's pattering form endangers the stability of the teapot and the mugs Meredyth carries in. It doesn't smell of ginger, but of mint. Mint and honey.
In her arms, dangling like a disgruntled cat, is Morningstar. The drake's bronze tail wags idly, all too accustomed to her manhandling. A yawn has his maw opening wide, unveiling rows of ebony fangs.
“Muñus!”Mother Visenya giggles as she scales the bed to join them. She doesn't notice him, not until she's sauntering over him, punching the air out his lungs. "Oops," is all she says, still giggling. Luke saves him by lifting her into his arms with a kiss to golden hairs. At five years of age, his niece is growing into a rambunctious young lady prone to rule breaking. Since Luke's return to King's Landing, Father's done nothing but encourage it, delighting in her liveliness.
And Viserys has turned out to be her unintended victim more often than not.
“Good morrow, my little siren. Have you come to break fast with us?”
“Mmn!" she nods. “QȳbosUncle sleeped here?”
“Yes, he slept here," Luke corrects tenderly.
“No one told me!”
Viserys slides up to them, basks in their shared warmth, The cold which'd bitten at his skin fades as they welcome him into their arms. Morningstar climbs onto the young alpha's chest, claws kneading at his shirt, snagging on the lace of his collar. He scratches at loose scales; the fledgling has begun moulting. A purr rumbles from the gulf of his chest as he basks in the attention Viserys bestows on him.
Head in Visenya's lap, his niece musses at his hair with clumsy fingers. They tangle and pull, but he doesn't complain. Not when she pouts with a sadness that doesn't become her.
“The storm scared me." Admitting to his fears happens easily. "It didn’t scare you, did it, Talus?"Niece
So easily, the downturn of her lips lifts. “Storms don’t scare me! I’ll be Lord of the Tides!”
“Lady of the Tides, dearest,” Luke smiles, adept hands working her silky strands into a tight braid for the day ahead. “Come, my doves, we’ll break our fast here. Then I must visit the nursery and instruct the men of our new plans. Our ships will require maintenance before we lift anchors.”
Viserys wishes every day could be like this; the three of them breaking fast after a quiet morning spent in bed. He knows it cannot. Luke won't be returning to Driftmark today, but he will eventually. A day, two days, weeks from now; regardless, it will happen.
His brother heads behind the partition where Meredyth awaits him with breeches and robes. There's the rustling of fabric as Luke disrobes. His faithful handmaiden tuts, but Viserys cannot see what earns such a playful noise. Certainly not the bruises he'd seen scattered on the omega's back the night prior.
Not when there could only be one culprit for such a disrespect.
“When will you depart?”
Luke emerges from the partition, clad in rich indigo robes. A scarf of Yi Ti sourced silk lines the collar of his robes, sweeping low at the front. There's no hiding Arrax's kiss down his sternum. Wide sleeves lash as he pours himself a cup of tea. “I cannot say, sweetling." Steam teems in the air, but Luke doesn't wait for it to cool before drinking. "Such heavy snows down south are rare. But while we’re stranded, we may as well enjoy spending the day outside. What say you, dearest?”
“I wanna swim in the white ocean!” Visenya clamours, fuchsia eyes gleaming brighter than any star in the night sky. She rivals the sun in her vibrancy. Luke laughs. He, too, has a fire which challenges the sun's.
“Let’s break fast and then we must prepare accordingly." The omega offers Viserys a hand which he takes; he'll always take Luke's hand. Visenya follows after them, Morningstar at her heel, blackness clawing at stone. Cuts of dried meats and bread await them. "It’s cold outside and we don’t want you catching the shivers, do we?”
Visenya is tall enough to sit on her own, dexterous enough to fill her own plate, but Luke butters a slice of bread for her and ladles on diced pears and apples. She makes a whine and a grab for the table knife in her mother's hand; Luke yields it to her with a nudge at a pouting lower lip. Then, he's preparing a plate for Viserys, though the boy is even older. No dissent comes from him, however, pleased at being tended to.
Now and then, Visenya sneaks morsels of venison to her drake. Her attempt at stealth are foiled by Morningstar's gruelling chewing, the cuts too large for his narrow snout. Fortunately, he doesn't spit it out onto the carpet to sear.
It's with a full stomach Viserys takes his leave. He finds Uncle Aemond stationed at the doors, hand firm on the pommel of his sword, hair no longer the mess it was that morn. It's combed and tightly braided, copper cuffs woven in its folds. He meets the sharpness of his uncle's gaze, sees ridged eyebrows slacken, and something eases within him.
Visenya is apt in calling it a white ocean.
Crystals of ice encase the bleeding redness of the weirwood foliage, freezing them in time. At its base, two feet of snow shimmer under the sunlight, undisturbed. Light oscillates across its dunes, sewing the illusion of tides at rest. Drowning in its body would be easy. It would be cold. But neither coldness nor danger can deter his niece, as she leaps into its flurry. Giggles erupt from her belly as she affirms, "It's cold!"
When she sits up, snow clings to all of her in its frozen embrace. The hood Luke had fought to secure over her braids and ears, citing, 'MuñaMother would be very sad indeed if you caught the chills'— has deserted its position, leaving the shell and lobes of her ears reddening.
Morningstar pounces after her, but doesn't venture far before rolling onto his back with a thrill. He writhes, the magma of his veins thawing his makeshift cot. Steam fogs as the fledgling coils into a ball. With her arms spread out and an unbridled giggle, Visenya drops besides her drake and lets the snow break her fall.
As though she's sprouted wings of her own, she flaps at them and cuts its glide into the colourless wastes.
"Ūndēs, Muñus! Nyke sētetan timpe sōvion!"Look, Mother! I made a white butterfly!
"I'm looking, sweet girl."
And he does, until he's forcing a handful of snow in the gap of Uncle Aemond's armour. Then he's speeding to escape, joy wild on the lips. It isn't long before he's caught by the waist. He cries, but there's no terror in his voice. Uncle Aemond holds him to his chest with a smile, palms wide and swallowing at his tapered midriff. Luke's nose and cheeks are a ruddy pink, eyelashes speckled with snowflakes, leaving them dewy.
Gingerly, Uncle Aemond picks at a fallen lash and for a moment, the world fades away. It's just them.
It isn't long until Visenya's dragging her mother to make butterflies with her under their uncle's alert eye.
He's reminded of days on Dragonstone when he and Luke would go to shore and tumble in the sand until it crept in the creases of their tunics. How they'd wet the sands so they'd clump, how they'd sculpt shapes with it.
After the war, they never did it again. There is no sand here, but the snow sticks just as well.
His niece was right. It's cold — wet, even — when he kneels to build a castle. The thickness of it makes it easy to stack into spires, rampart, a portcullis. Between his gloves, he moulds snowflakes into skulls and gaping maws and roosts them at the apex of the columns. It's a shadow of Dragonstone's splendor, but recognisable nonetheless. The dragonmont begins as a mound of white, but as he sharpens its borders, it resembles the volcano's treacherous rimrock.
Lava doesn't gush from its peak and down its flank. What comes isn't magma, far from it. It cannot even be considering a dragon's flame. A vaporous sneeze sweeps over Morningstar, sending the drake sputtering from its force. The warmth is more than sufficient to melt the details of his craftwork into an indefinite mass.
"Onqēlos!"Morningstar! Visenya scolds and captures her fledgling under its wings. "Mittītsos! Usōvēs qȳbor."Dummy! Apologise to uncle.
"All is well, Visenya," he reassures, "it's just snow."
With a wobbling lip and glistening magenta, she says, "But he ruined it."
"And it can be built again."
"Vēdrosōñe daor?"Not angry?.
"Dōrī."Never.
"Māzīs, Onqēlos; Lykirī.Come, Morningstar; Calm. We will help qȳborUncle remake it."
It isn't Dragonstone they build, but High Tide. Visenya instructs him as to where each spire must stand, dealing directions with confidence. The whiteness of snow is better suited for the limestone of her home than the obsidian of Dragonstone. Morningstar proves of little assistance, circling Visenya's legs. Somehow, she doesn't trip over his swarming form as she returns with a handful of crimson leaves. She sticks the stems onto the pillar's flanks and its summit. There are no such flora growing on High Tide, but Viserys says nothing.
A boot flattens snowflakes and Viserys glances to find his uncle studying their creation.
"It looks…" His lips stiffen into a line as he holds in a laugh. He opts for, "Interesting."
Viserys snorts. "You can say it looks ugly, Uncle."
"Don't put words in my mouth now, Trēsys."
It's no work of art, but it's theirs. His niece traces blocks in the columns, the foam of the tides wafting ashore. She's found stray pieces of bark and amasses them at the shoreline. It sits askew, a clumsy replica, but — "I love it," Viserys declares and he savours the pearly grin which flowers on her lips, her cheeks rosy with chill.
His niece has unearthed a slew of scarlet leaves and uses their lustre to build a model of her drake.
An egg sits in the fires of his hearth, proving Viserys unable to hatch a dragon, but in snow he gives one life. He cannot give it size, but he's careful that it's horns twist upward just so. Under sunbeams, etched spines shimmer a thousand colours.
"Who is that, my dove?" the brunet inquires.
The young alpha stills. He turns over his brother's question without success before mumbling, "Arrax." A part of him reels, embarrassed that Luke wouldn't recognise his drake in Viserys' poor imitation. Another part of him mourns that his brother might've forgotten the opaline dragon's characteristics. Silence answers him and Viserys turns to find Luke blinking away at tears. His button nose has turned redder.
"He looks beautiful," he rasps. Then he's looking to his daughter, looking for a distraction, and asks, "Visenya, where did your gloves go?" His vocals tremble so slightly, betraying him.
Visenya looks to her fingers which are flushed a bright rose as though only noticing. "Oh," she says, almost confused. "I don't know."
Behind Luke stands Uncle Aemond. It's unlikely he didn't overhear, yet he makes no mention of the omega's sorrow as it saunters the godswood. Instead, he bends low to offer with open palms, "Give me your hands, sweet girl; I’ll warm them up." Her hands are impossibly small in his as the alpha blows warmth on her chilled skin. She gives him her gratitude with a dramatic kiss to the cheek. Soon she's running off, unsuspecting of her mother's pains.
Luke shudders a breath.
He gives Uncle Aemond a nod when the Queensguard thumbs at his wrist, searching. Apologising.
For a moment, the peace bears fruit. Then Visenya throws the first.
Hidden by the weirwood's great stalk, Viserys rolls crisp snow into a sphere and aims. Uncle Aemond lurches forward when it hits the bullseye and unravels. Bits of it tangles with fine hairs. Stunned at his own success, Viserys' glee comes delayed. By then, the alpha's turned and made a weapon of his own. Triumph still on the tongue, the young prince trips in his haste to avoid retaliation.
But Viserys isn't alone.
Behind the Lord Commander, Luke and Visenya have assembled a tower of projectiles. Their combined assault is relentless as they sling and pelt their uncle with frost. With Uncle Aemond preoccupied evading their charge, Viserys regains his balance and amasses his own arms. He doesn't lag with form, nor size. He focuses on quantity as his brother and niece had. Then it's the three of them against one.
It isn't a fair fight in the least, but Aemond Targaryen is destined to lose when it concerns these two omegas.
Their giggles chase him as he sidesteps another hurled snowball, but neglects the one Luke launches. It's the tipping point and has him toppling over Viserys and Visenya's misshapen creation. The young prince feels no grief for its collapse. Not when they've been regaled with the unlikely sight of the Queensguard landing on his rear. Viserys is the next to sink into the wetness of snow, guffaws much too loud and wild. His abdomen spasms, but he's helpless in ceasing his laughter.
Luke appears to be in no better shape.
Aghast at his own ungraceful plummet, the alpha stays put, mouth agape. Flanked by merriment, Uncle Aemond surrenders them the battle and slumps flat on his back. He doesn't spy the little lady sprinting his way until she's leaping into his arms, boasting of her conquest. She straddles his lap, her thighs sodden from capering in the snow. In all of her cheering and wriggling, she nearly loses her balances — but she's spared by stable forearms. The Queensguard holds Visenya close, holds her safe as a shield might.
"I'm at your mercy, my lady," the knight simpers.
“Then mayhaps it’s time for the Lord Commander to retire his cloak.”
Viserys turns to find Father braced against a stone pillar, arms crossed at the front. It's then he notices how the cloudless blue has turned murky with inbound shadows.
The alpha throws the Prince Consort a lopsided grin. “You first, Nuncle.” Father lets out a boisterous roar. They do this often, rile each other up. At fifty-and-nine, Father shouldn't duel anymore. His limbs not as spry and his joints less forgiving. In recent years, he's developed a gait at the knee. But not even Mother can deter him from a fight.
Honour is what Father argues he's upholding. His pride, Mother amends.
Prince Daemon Targaryen had flown atop the Red Wyrm as a harbinger of calamity and secured the Stepstones. He'd earned his reputation as a rogue and as a formidable swordsman. But Uncle Aemond is younger, more agile on his feet. They cannot contend on the training yard, so they quarrel like this.
“Dinner approaches." At the reminder, Viserys can longer ignore the dull ache of hunger. It's been hours since he broke fast with Luke. By Visenya's drooping eyelids, she, too, is feeling the fatigue of her appetite. "I’ve instructed the chambermaids to ready hot baths for you.”
Skirts in hand so that it won't drag, Luke crosses the godswood, snow crackling beneath his boots. The knot of his hair has come undone from their tousling. He stops by Father and presses a kiss to a sharp jawline. He whispers a sweet, “Thank you, Kepus."Uncle or Father
Amongst their siblings, Luke is the only omega. It'd earned him Jace and Joff's constant hovering, but not Father's. The Rogue Prince had discerned early on that Luke didn't need anyone's shielding.
Westeros attributes weakness to omegas, to women, for they are mothers. Viserys never could make sense of it. Not when the Mother is one aspect of the seven-faced god they pray to for protection. Not when there are none more ferocious than a nesting she-dragon.
Father scoops up Visenya as she ambles towards her mother. He exhales a warm breath over her red ears which has her crying a protest. “Come my little she-dragon, time for your bath.”
“No!" She kicks her boots, stubborn. "Wanna go with Uncle Aemond.”
“No can do, he’s got his own bath to give.”
“It’s take, Kepāzmus,"Granduncle or Grandsire the young lady corrects.
“Of course, how silly of me.”
Viserys needn't witness the wink Father gives the Queensguard nor the rolling of eye it earns him to determine he implies something else. The theatrical innocence of his tone spells it out.
Small legs knock ceaselessly at Father's flank, insisting to be released into her uncle's arms.
It's Uncle Aemond's duty to keep watch. Stationed at the prince's side from dawn to dusk, he's best equipped to report any misdoings or ills to Mother. Their being just about joined at the hip has permitted the Queensguard to unearthed his charge's routines and quirks, his fears. What often goes overlooked, however, is that Viserys, too, has eyes.
He sees the second of hesitancy as he reaches for those he loves.
Whether he's returning Aunt Helaena's greetings or he's dropping a hand on Maelor's shoulder to hearten the boy's spirits. It's slight. It goes unminded by most, but Viserys cannot disregard how his uncle gasps for air, as though his throat is too tight for oxygen, nor the tremors leeching his eye, his brow. Demons of his own making torments him and they grow louder, more insistent, when the children are involved.
But in these moments where Uncle Aemond has no time to dwell on his sins, where the world is quiet at dawn, where Visenya's radiance livens the world, where her joy are chiming bells in the godswood — he embraces without second thought.
Her adoration comes freely, without ambition, quietening the lies. Lies which the court, and even Viserys whose neglectful words, had cultivated.
Some would say his uncle isn't without blame. He'd slain Arrax in his pursuit of Luke, left the omega's flesh gnarled and rigid. Payment for the eye, Mother had cursed when the ravens had reached Dragonstone. Then, he'd ridden to Rook's Rest. It was at his command Vhagar had clashed with Meleys and Princess Rhaenys. It was his contribution which determined their fate — but such was war. His uncle had fought to uphold his brother's claim. He'd fought to protect Aunt Helaena and her children.
Luke said he'd been misguided. That they couldn't condemn him for choosing family above all.
As Visenya's rioting turns thunderous and her fists launch an assail — as she howls and wails a tempest for their uncle — Viserys sees the pause before the alpha can disguise it. Father wipes away her crocodile tears, well-versed in her tactics. All the while, the Lord Commander's forearm is poised, an aborted motion to console Visenya. It drops to the pommel of his steel, a caution to his own.
There was a time, Viserys had wanted nothing more than to be grown, to be an equal to his siblings and cousins. He's taller than Maelor now. It's been years since Luke last ferried him into his arms. Years since his uncle has as well. None of that matters anymore, he decides, and lifts his forearms. The Lord Commander sucks in a sharp breath when he turns to Viserys, but he doesn't stall in getting to a knee. Rising with the added burden of Viserys must be trying.
His uncle strains to straighten his back and it occurs to Viserys this might be the last he'll fit in the Queensguard's grasp as such. Soon, he'll be too heavy. Viserys chases away the rancid taste blooming on his gums with the waxing of candles. Small fingers thread under the cover of a braid.
“Viserys?”
Uncle must find his behaviour odd. He cups at Viserys' nape, index long and wrapping easily around the girth of his neck. Alphas don't like their necks touched; it's vulnerable. Were it anyone else than kin scruffing him, Viserys might've snarled a vicious song. He does not. Quite the opposite, he softens, releases the air in his lungs. He tightens his clasp. He won't let go.
He cannot.
This close, his uncle's scar is terrible. The tissue near the eye splinters in two. As though it'd broken off, too delicate to hold itself together. He'd only been a boy, barely older than Viserys was now.
“I forgive you, Qȳbos.”Uncle
“What for, Trēsys?"Son or Nephew
“Everything. Storm’s End. Rook's Rest. The Gullet. Luke’s alive, I’m alive, so don’t punish yourself anymore.” It comes a mumble, as he nods off in the smoke of his uncle's scent. “You owe us nothing. No more debts.” Viserys thinks he'd fallen asleep, long as it takes for Uncle Aemond to speak.
“No, no more debts.”
The snowfall resumes after dinner. Flurries of snowflakes mist through the night, a crystal whirlwind. They hiss a cold song; a song of ice and needling pain. It cannot reach him in his castle of stone. Firewood crackles and pops in the hearth and its fire leaves his chambers snug with heat. Huddled by its flames, Viserys can almost pretend the egg in his arm thrums and radiates warmth. Its scaled shell soft to the touch.
And cold as the stone which shelters him.
Gilded scales pulse a bronze shimmer in the light. Viserys runs a knuckle the curve of its husk, feels for a sign that the life within hasn't sputtered out. Curled over its firmness, he sinks in the quiet. The world deafens and his breathing evens.
"Qȳbos?"Uncle
Reeling, he find Visenya fitted in a nightgown, hair still damp from her bath and curling near her ears as his does, book in arm. With her other hand, she steers her younger brother forward; Valarr toddles with timid steps, clever eyes perusing foreign terrains. At his feet, collecting dust in its drag, is his quilt.
Viserys recalls how frail his nephew had looked bundled in its snug azure folds even moons after his birth. Its vibrancy has been dulled by saline exhales of Driftmark's shores, but it's no less cherished.
Visenya's likely stolen him from the nursery without anyone's knowing. A frenzy will erupt once his absence is noted.
She knows that and yet.
Her nightgown's hem flutters at her ankles as she comes to a stop. She abandons the tome on the carpeting and its landing rattles the stasis and purls her crisp lavender and his bergamot into a harmonious whole. 'An age of heroes' Viserys deciphers of the fraying foil title. He recognises its polished cover, its metal corners a rich green of oxidized bronze — Princess Rhaenys had read him its tales of Bran the Builder, The Grey King, and more.
Viserys had thought it lost after her death, but it must've been stowed away in High Tide all these years.
Hands fixed to her hips, Visenya mirrors Luke when his patience wears thin. A hollow webs itself at his core as Viserys' fondness deepens to unprecedented degrees.
"Read to me and Valarr." She speaks as though he's one of her subjects; it pulls a purr from his chest. He should not find it so endearing, but he does.
"He should be abed." By her side, Valarr rubs at his eye with a fist as though it might scrape away the fatigue, validating his case. "As should you."
"Not tired!"
He could argue back, but he doesn't. It was a lost battle the moment his first response wasn't a dismissal. With a vanquished sigh, he carefully tucks his egg back in the hearth where the flames will lick at its scales and the creature dormant within. Then, he strips the settee of its pillows and builds them a frame. It isn't a nest, not when it's devoid of borders and of poached articles to melt between, but it'll do. Back against feathered cushions, he beckons her closer.
She fills the space between his legs, head resting beneath his chin. Valarr doesn't require an invitation to cram himself into his sister's arms with a whine. Viserys imagines he won't be awake for long. A dark turquoise wing emerges, a netting of carmine veins along the leather. Silvermist slithers up Valarr's front and twists herself into a lump on his lap. Her horns sprout from the sides of her small head, jutting outwards like that of a buffalo. Or a hammerhead shark. Every which way she squirms has its jutting edges ramming into Valarr.
The brunet takes it as a bidding to stroke at rows of quills. They tremor and fold at his touch, inoffensive.
"Comfortable?"
"Mmn!"
"Which tale do you want me to read?"
"Florian the Fool."
Drawing the tome she'd discarded closer, he flicks through its pages. A familiar fingerprint smears the section of the Winged Knight. Further on, the pages housing the story of Florian and his dearest Jonquil are worn, their edges softened from excessive handling. Most found the tale of a fool and his lady to be the pinnacle of romance — Viserys saw only tragedy. Florian did win his maiden's affection. He'd distinguished himself as a knight of legend, but ultimately, they're torn apart by the unvanquished Stranger.
That chapter is rarely depicted in mummer's shows. Folks prefer to believe misfortune doesn't befall the lovers and that their romance prevails.
Viserys begins narrating.
I know you. You are Florian the Fool.
I am, my lady. As great a fool as ever lived and as great a knight could ever be.
A fool and a knight? I've never heard of such a thing.
His niece echoes Jonquil's response with a giggle. Despite the lack of text for her to read, she recites it word for word.
Sweet lady, all men are fools and all men are knights where a maiden is concerned.
Tipping her head back, she peers at him with vermilion orbs. "Will you be my knight one day, Qȳbos?"
"And your fool, undoubtedly," he concedes. He always does when it concerns Visenya Velaryon.
The door's latch dips without warning and he expects Egg's lean figure or Father's wide shoulders. It's neither.
"Viserys, have you seen —" The conclusion of Luke's question ambles away as his head twists sharply to stare off at something. A slander hand pulls silk across his chest, grip tight to contain its tremors as bitter lime rudely swarms inside. Identifying what's rattled Luke to such lengths isn't a gruelling task when they crowd the gap of his legs. But Luke isn't alone; Uncle Aemond frets at his heel, palm raised and stalking at the omega's elbow where it bends.
Valarr, who'd dozed off only minutes prior, soars to his mother with rekindled vigour. A indignant squawk spills from the she-dragon as she's rudely awakened from her nap. Tumbling from the alpha's lap, she's left to brood by the hearth. With venomous motions, Silvermist slinks, churlish hisses on a forked tongue.
In the boy's enthusiasm to reach his mother, the quilt he'd yet to relinquished, ensnares his legs. Right as the stone tiles readies themselves to welcome him, Luke swipes Valarr into his arms.
Youngest in arm and safe, baneful waves of panic recedes into mellow ripples of citron.
"Here you are, you little rascal," Luke croons, milling the tip of his round nose against Valarr's pointed one. His brown hair drapes over his face, darkened with water. His cheekbones, flushed from the bath's steams or fever. Uncle Aemond pinches at a fallen lash caught on milky flesh. The young alpha squeals cheerfully, grasping for the Queensguard.
"Kepus!"Uncle or Father
With bare hands, Uncle Aemond hoists the toddler up.
There's none of the apprehension which would've usually given him pause. He wears neither his gloves nor his armour, only the nightshirt and breaches from the night before. The sleeves of his tunic are rolled up, exposing sinewed forearms and a long silver scar. Some areas of the linen is left damp with moisture, as are the ends of his fine hair. The rest of him is dry.
His uncle hasn't bathed yet.
A plump cheek drops onto a steady shoulder as a wide yawn escapes Valarr, his canines protruding ever so slightly more than the rest of his milk teeth. The lean tip of his nose prods at a scent gland, chasing for burning birch. Its twin nudges at a crown of chestnut locks.
Luke's children carry fragments of their loved ones.
Visenya resembles the Queen more with each passing day, but she surveys the world with their uncle's eyes. She braves it with Father's mettle. Valarr favours Luke in his colouring, but the indigo of his eyes are all Egg's. His shy demeanour, Jaehaera's. His nose, Uncle Aemond's.
When his brother joins them, Silvermist uncurls to snap and nip at his bare toes in warning, cross that her rest has been interrupted once more. But at her size, she's no more than a disgruntled pup with more bark than bite.
"Visenya." It's stern, but not unkind. His niece shrinks into herself, fingers twiddling with the lace trim of her nightdress. At least, she has the decency to appear shamefaced. "Look at me, sweet girl." Misty magenta turn to Luke, earning her a tickle to the chin. The wetness in her eyes sweetens as she giggles. "I'm not upset, my love, but you cannot go and traipse around the keep after nightfall unaccompanied. And Valarr doesn't count. On the contrary; he looks to you for guidance."
"Avy imundan, Muñus."Forgive me, Mother
Viserys decides that meekness doesn't suit his niece.
He watches as short nails pick at a cuticle, plucking at the skin, and pulling. He snatches at smaller hands before they can inflict further pains. Visenya's hurts are red-hot at the touch. These motions aren't her own, not fully. They're an echo of a woman who'd waltzed into a widow's chamber, green. Evergreen gowns, jade eyes — but her nail bed bled red regardless.
Alicent Hightower's grit had long wilted in that too tall tower where only walls answered her.
Visenya has never met the Dowager Queen. She's never beheld at ravaged, weathered fingernails and the rust needled on skin. Before the fevers took her reason, Alicent Hightower strove to uphold appearances. No matter the occasion, her hair was combed and coiffed. Her skin was scrubbed free of dirt, scrubbed until the skin was ruddy. Even as war decimated the realm and her body turned gaunt, she'd held her chin high. Now, her attendance is scarce. When she does venture from her sequestered palace, it's on worse days.
It's on days where Grandsire sits the throne and Uncle Aemond has both eyes.
Madness devours her in a way it never did House Targaryen. She leaves her rooms as Queen and not Dowager, auburn curls unkept and unwashed, blood crusted at the nails, allowing nobody near. Not her maidservants, not her children. Not when Aunt Haelaena has her older sister's figure and Uncle Aemond is drawn in Father's image.
They are the blood of the dragon. The depth of their kinship is what gives them strength, what binds them to each another. It resonates through their colouring, their temper. It resurfaces across their lineage, tying.
Viserys is grateful none of his siblings' children have inherited the Usurper's steel blue eyes.
As to how his niece had fallen into such habits, he cannot say.
It likely had to do with her father; there is no one's validation Visenya craves more than Daemion Velaryon's. Watching her stretch herself thin for that man's approval pains him.
A heaviness pulls at Luke's lips as his daughter wears the Dowager Queen's mangled cuticles. It mustn't be the first he sees of it. The edges of her nails are well chastised. It doesn't lessen Luke's grief as she worries it now. The brunet lifts his daughter onto his lap, lifts her petite hands to his lips, kisses away her qualms.
Although Alicent Hightower had only ever been courteous to Viserys and his brother during their captivity, she'd not been quiet in her beliefs. Her lip would often curl with scorn when the Usurper paraded the omega as his prisoner. Viserys knows of the lies, knows of the falsehoods which'd been spread to invalidate their mother's claim to the throne. Harwin Strong had been taken by Harrenhal's ghosts long before his birth, but he need not have seen the man to know that he wasn't Luke's sire.
His brother might've not had Princess Rhaenys' raven locks, but he has her hands. Steady, attentive. True.
Its with those hands that he soothes the tightness in his daughter's brow.
Visenya held to his heart, he rises and paces the length of the bedchambers. The song on his lips isn't one he's heard before. It isn't a hymn nee from the mains, but one of foreign soil where hills roll green and sand dips red. He twirls a quick step, slip twinning at his ankles, wresting joy from Visenya's belly.
A large hand fastens itself to Luke's waist and lures him into a valse with a thin smile.
Uncle Aemond's thumb skims the curve of the omega's ribs. It must tickle because he laughs. Then they're rocking side to side, orbiting each other. Two fragments fitting near seamlessly. Visenya and Valarr melt between them, wearied, secure between a mother's protection and a Queensguard's devotion. With a bow, Uncle Aemond's chin lands at his nephew's jawline, nose dipping at his cheek — it would be improper were it not Visenya's crown his smile graces upon.
Had they been married, Visenya would've been Uncle Aemond's daughter. She would've known a father's love, comes bitterly.
They arch into the other's bends, swaying to the storm's pattering and the children's slumbering breaths. Rills of stardust catch on burns, fluttering at Visenya's exhales. They teeter quietly, easily. Familiar. Once again, Viserys feels he's intruding. This dance is theirs. A peace they've stolen.
And as all things, it ends.
When they part, it's quiet, slow. Their waltz has ended, but the peace endures.
Viserys hears the strain of Uncle Aemond's knees as he joins him. At the Queensguard's feet, Silvermist doesn't waste the opportunity to nip at cowhide boots. The she-dragon's charge is more persistent, likely a result of the precious cargo he carts. She claws her way up Uncle's pant leg, up Valarr's back, scarlet quills lining her spine. The she-dragon's tail sways a sharp pattern, barbs quivering with budding aggression. When Uncle Aemond adjusts his hand to better support Valarr's softly snoring head, she strikes, planting juvenile fangs into the meat of his palm.
Although the bite looks vicious, no blood beads where Silvermist attaches herself to the alpha.
Uncle Aemond makes no effort to disengage her, only chuckles a low sound. “Feisty as ever, aren’t you?” Ruby eyes glower, obstinate. She does release him, when it becomes evident her bite cannot deter him. Viserys has never seen a dragon more dissimilar to their bonded than Valarr and Silvermist. Where his nephew is all timid tenderness, the she-dragon is a knot of animosity and territoriality.
His uncle must notice his staring because he asks, “Does she scare you?”
Does she? “No," he decides. "She’s too small.” And she is — so small. Barely bigger than the length of Uncle Aemond's arm, her teeth no bigger than a fingernail. So small, yet so irritable.
“That she is," Uncle Aemond affirms with a fondness only Targaryens carry for these precarious creatures. "She’ll grow in time. As will this little one." Valarr whines a protest as the Queensguard hefts him closer. His handle of the boy is prudent, as though he's made of glass. Mayhaps he is. His nephew is slight thing with a body which leaves him fevered and bedridden more than not. Silvermist hisses seething steam where she coils around her bonded one's nape. “They make us stronger.”
They do; Viserys has studied their histories. “King Aenys was born frail and sickly, too.”
“Yes. He grew stronger once Quicksilver hatched." Valarr has grown stronger, too, with Silvermist bolstering his energy. But it's insufficient. His body is slow to grow, slow to overcome illness. Nestled in their uncle's arms, Valarr's breaths are gentle murmurs. There's none of the wheezing he'd arrived with mere days ago. Beneath a cleft chin, the fledgling warbles a pleased song as she scrapes her spine against the softness of flesh. Her prior foulness, quelled by Uncle Aemond's easy dominance.
Luke grabs at the duvet on the settee and wraps Visenya its in warmth. She slumbers through it all, rosy lips pursing as a content sigh is swallowed by the rising of her mother's chest. "That one fights everything that moves. Except for Valarr, that is,” Luke crows softly, careful not to rouse his daughter. He lowers himself to a knee, descent measured. Visenya doesn't stir.
“A dragon will never harm the one it's chosen to share its soul."
It's a truth all Targaryens know, but it comes as a confession. Uncle Aemond has chosen them. He's vowed to give his life for theirs. And he has. He can never marry, never sire children. He will have no legacy other than his deeds; the righteous and the heinous ones alike.
He will forevermore be defined by the white of his cloak. By his titles. Lord Commander. Queensguard. Kinslayer.
One-Eye.
Luke rearranges the cushions, fusses with the spare quilt. His heat hasn't broken just yet. Wrists pour the tartness of citrus along fabric, dousing it in his scent. Under his seasoned attention, Viserys' crude structure begins resembling a proper nest.
Children settled and snug in his nest and huddled by an alpha he trusts, Luke yields to his instincts.
Daemion should've been the one sharing Luke's nest and tending to the appetites a heat brings about. He should be the one lulling their children into dreamland. Instead it's Uncle Aemond who receives the demanding omega and his greedy hands. It's he who offers his gland for scenting, who fixes the persistent strap of Luke's silk slip.
It's his knuckles nursing the fire of his skin, unhurried in their pursuit of tousled chestnut ringlets.
When Luke's hand draws a larger one to the meat of his thigh, it's his grip flexing at supple flesh. The cream slip rides up the omega's thigh, uncovering strips of unblemished surface. Fingers, ivory against the tan of sun-kissed legs. A wanting mewl is swallowed by the alpha's jaw.
It's instinctive; were Luke lucid, he would've never chanced such indecency. But he isn't.
Scraping the sleeve of his shirt, Viserys clears the cloying scent of lust from his nostrils.
Were it anyone else than his uncle, Viserys would fear ill intent on their part. But Uncle Aemond would never tarnish his brother's reputation and honour. It doesn't prevent him from grousing a childish, "Gross."
It earns him an amused laugh, one that thaws at his guts.
"Oh, shush," his uncle rebukes. "My sister and uncle have done much worse in front of you."
"That doesn't mean I wish to see you fondling my brother."
"Excuse me, my prince, I hadn't meant to offend your sensibilities." The proud curl at his uncle's lips betrays his mirth. Viserys responds with one of his own, if only shier.
Moist mumbles and puffs heralds Valarr's rousing. Small fists flex and clench around air, thumb finding the warm wetness of a mouth. The Queensguard captures those soft fingers, dwarfing them with a wide palm and the toddler calms at once.
Since his first breath, Valarr has sought Uncle Aemond's closeness. His scent, the comfort of his arms, gravitating towards him as a son might a father. Had Daemion held an ounce of honour, he would've been the one whom the boy reached for with grasping hands.
A galaxy of teal and ruby slithers, looming as the prince's cupid's bow brushes too soft flesh in a kiss. They linger a moment, considering.
Whisper, “You aren’t any less a Targaryen if you choose to never claim a dragon, Trēsys."Son or Nephew
Had Father spoken those words to him, Viserys wouldn't have believed him. Coming from Uncle Aemond, he can. There's no one else in their family who better understands the breadth of his soul's appetite. The need to belong.
But worse even is disappointing Mother.
She doesn't say it, not so loudly, but he can read it in the whiteness of her pinched lips. The memory of it has Viserys disappearing into the fold of his arms. “Mother disagrees," he mumbles. "She pushes constantly for me to claim Vermithor.” Just like her disappointment, she doesn't voice it. Instead, she offers it as though it might comfort him.
It doesn't.
He hasn't told her nor Father that his muscles seize when he envisions facing the Bronze Fury. That he'd rather be dragonless than claim a vector of wrath. Their house relied on fury once before and it tore them apart. They'd lost Princess Rhaenys to it, nearly lost Luke to it. Viserys has no need for resentment. A knot twists itself in his throat that Mother considers Vermithor to be his salvation.
Visenya, Valarr; neither have known a day of war, yet Mother lives it to this day. For her, it never ended.
Loose golden locks pour into his world as his uncle bends to brace a temple to his crown. The night prior, Uncle Aemond had argued for distance; now he closes it. There's little else for Viserys to look but into the deep keenness of cobalt. It dissects at him, leaves him flayed open and picked apart.
“There’s much you don’t know, Trēsys."Son or Nephew A bare and calloused thumb sweeps at the ocean welling in his eyes. Uncle's whispers are accompanied by the warmth of his lungs, rivalling Silvermist's. But it isn't threatening. Far from it. He's reminded of the confession. He thinks, mayhaps this is what it means to be bound to a dragon, to be under its protection. "My sister wishes for a strong house. To prove our father was not wrong in choosing her as successor. But your mother would never forsake you if you remain as you are.”
His uncle speaks as though those are two different people.
In a sense, they are. The Mother who'd cleaned his scabs when he fell on the rocky shores of Dragonstone before the King's passing and the Mother who dons the Conciliator's crown are the same — but not.
The egg which'd been placed in his cradle sits cold in the flames across from them. Mother had chosen it for him. She'd believed him worthy of a dragonbond. Viserys has dreamt of a scaled snout breaching the shell, ivory as Arrax had been. He would've named it Meraxes, in honour of Queen Rhaenys' dragon. In honour of the Goddess of the Moon and Dreams. Of destiny.
His destiny isn't one of warfare.
“Would it…" he hesitates, feels the weight of magenta. He considers the dichotomy of his soul and Vermithor's, considers the fears he'd admitted to, and asks, "Would it truly not matter?”
A battle hardened palm cups at his chin, thumb pressing into its cleft. “You are perfect as you are, Viserys." The young prince bites at his lip, curbing a sob. He's a man near grown, tears are unbecoming. Viserys doesn't cry, but his breath hurries. It stutters as his uncle affirms, "And if one day you were to decide otherwise and lay claim to Vermithor, I will be by your side when you do.”
Viserys had seen him once; the Bronze Fury. Mother had summoned the dragonseeds so they might attempt claiming King Jaehaerys' dragon. Vermithor had answered his mother's call, but he'd left in his wake the nauseating scent of cindered flesh and hair, the viscera of men crushed below his weight. Viserys had stood by Mother, just tall enough to peer over the banister. Jace had covered his eyes with a hand, but he couldn't silence the terror of their screams nor could he purge the foulness in the air.
With yawning wings, Vermithor had filled the cavern of the dragonmont, but even he couldn't measure to Vhagar's breadth.
He'd seen grown men and women alike cower before the Bronze Fury, but his uncle had been a child when he'd challenged the old she-dragon. Now the width of her existence fills him. There are no dragons alive which can rival her in size. Nor in wrath, a vestige of conquest as she is.
But his uncle is not a man ruled by anger, not anymore. His hand is calloused. It has known bloodshed, but it's kind. Viserys slips fingers between the gaps of the Queenguard's hand, simpers as his tethers them together.
He asks, not so afraid anymore, “What does it feel like? To feel her with you?”
“Fuller. She amplifies me. My peace is her own, as are my fears, my anger, my grief.”
“It sounds…" he thinks it sounds like drowning, but settles on, "overwhelming.”
A hum. “It can be.”
There is another dragon which could be claimed, but Viserys is queasy at the thought of tying his soul to the Usurper's mangled beast. Before the war, before Rook's Rest, Sunfyre was said to be the most magnificent amongst his kin. With pleats of gilded scales, shimmering under dayspring. The battle had left the beast torn, no more than a wyrm. By the time he could unfold the full width of his wings, his master had gurgled to death, wine on the lip.
Some of the dragonkeepers had whispered it was he, and not the Cannibal, who'd left Grey Ghost's carcass by the shores. That he'd turned on his own. The he'd never heed a Targaryen's command again.
Uncle Aemond's brothers had left another; Tessarion. While Sunfyre had turned feral subsequent to its wounds and the war, the Blue Queen had vanished with crestfallen cries for her fallen prince. His uncle was wrong; a dragon could harm its rider. Prince Daeron had perished, crushed by Tessarion's bulk after an arrow left the she-dragon half-blind.
“Does it hurt?”
He doesn't need to specify what it is he means; Viserys eyes do all the telling. Around the cabochon sapphire, the eyelid is puckered and bloodshot. The tissue is discoloured where the cut from a knife has severed it. There's no eye-patch to conceal the worst of it.
A hand goes to feel the contours of flesh. “Some days it does.”
“Luke wouldn’t tell me what happened.”
“It isn’t a pleasant story to tell.” A pause. “I fear you’ll see me differently for it.”
There was a time where Viserys saw his uncle differently. Where he saw him not as a protector, but as the Kinslayer. His brother's captor. He was the root of their misfortunes. Mother had determined it safer if he were fostered in Pentos until the end of the war. She couldn't have known the Triarchy would intercept the Gay Abandon. None of them could've known Prince Aemond would fly to the Gullet and take another prisoner.
Viserys had known only terror as he'd beheld the man and the hardness of his eye. He'd never met his uncles, but he needn't to identify him. Not with the wanness of his lashes and the tan patch cutting his features. Viserys hadn't known him then, but he does now.
“The person you were when you lost your eye isn’t the person you are today, is he?”
His eye slinks to Viserys, slow, dragonlike. He must find something in the young prince, for he concludes, “I will never be that boy again.” He turns to Valarr and the she-dragon who clings to the infant's back. “There was a time I’d wanted a dragon more than anything else. When my cousins lost their mother, Vhagar became a dragon without a rider; selfish, I lay my claim under the cover of night while my cousins still mourned their mother.”
One-eye, Baela still spits, burdened by an insult dealt to her kin. He understands why now.
“Vhagar’s songs awakened them from their beds. Rightfully furious over the offence I’d dealt them and their kin and me drunk with triumph, we came to blows. And I raised a stone, intent on bashing Jacaerys’ skull with it.” Viserys' breath stutters in his lungs. He sees his uncle falter at his gasp. He reminds himself that his uncle is no longer a man ruled by anger. “Fool that I was — I spoke treason, named my nephews ‘bastards.'”
The hand he holds to the sapphire clenches. It shakes violently.
“What followed was an agony unlike any other. It came sudden, bloody. That hurt, the shame… I’ll carry for the remainder of my days. A reminder of my sin.” Viserys fits his palms around its heft, contains its tremors. It stills. “I thought forgiveness was inconceivable. But —” He squeezes onto the boy's forgiving hand. “No more debts,” he whispers to himself.
Viserys smiles, shy. “No more.”