Chapter Text
Luke remembers the moment his life gets shattered to pieces. He recalls, with the stark, crystal clarity, the day of the hearing, the way Vaemond's head fell, separated from the body; not even a whole head, even that remnant of dignity Daemon could not allow him.
Granduncle's words still ring in the air as Lucerys gasps and clutches for his abdomen, not capable of holding back a pained groan.
It has started on the ship on the way to King's Landing; the strange, pulling, long pain at the bottom, aching in a way his insides never did before, grasping for his attention and holding onto it.
He tried to hide it, for as long as he could, tried to think of that could cause such a sharp suffering. Bad food? Poison perhaps? A new, unknown to Luke prior version of damned sea sickness?
Whatever it was, it only got worse the closer they got to the keep, and at some point Luke decided it had to be nerves and nerves alone. He felt awfully ungrounded by the approaching hearing and knew not if he has it in him to go through it with stiff lip and head rised high.
Turns out, he was right.
"What?" mother asks in a whisper as he causes a scene on top of already caused one. "What, Luke?"
"It's alright," it is decidedly not, and it feels like there's a bloody blade churning in his stomach, relentless and sharp. "Just сramps. I must have overdid it with sweet cakes," he gives his mother a watery and uncertain smile and, by her returned one, knows she doesn't truly believe him.
But it's neither the place nor the time, and when the king speaks, they turn around, straightening, mother's hold still lingering over his arm.
Luke tries to ignore the mocking look Aemond sends him, he tries to avoid looking at that side of their family at all, and the churning in his stomach grows, awfully so, invisible pins and needles biting into his tender flesh.
It's only in the solitude and comfort of guest chambers when Luke realizes what's the matter.
He stares at his breeches, dragged down his ankles, and his smallclothes, marred red. His hand reaches out on its own accord, touching the red spot and dragging it up to his nose.
It smells of copper.
He falls out of the chambers, trousers barely fixed, awful, chocking feeling overfilling his senses, his lungs constructing, the thundering panic rising in his ears.
"Excuse me," the guarding his door knight turns. "I- I am not feeling well," he sees the man's expression turn troubled. "Could you...Would you be so kind to fetch my mother?"
Then falls back into the room, closes the door, staggers for the bed and falls into it.
The irony of it is not lost to Lucerys; at the same very day Ser Vaemond petitioned against his right to inherit Driftmark, at the same very moment when this man screamed about Lucerys' mother being a whor* and him - a bastard, he, Lucerys, proved himself to be a true Velaryon blood.
Like their sigil seahorse, those of old Valyria descend that became House Velaryon posses one unusual, uncanny ability, as miraculous as it is rare.
A true sign of Velaryon blood, the one no one can contest.
Mother rushes through the room, hair unmade.
"What is it?" her eyebrows are already knit together, worry plausible on her beautiful, yet weary face. The heavy belly supporting Lucerys' unborn siblings slows her down, and it is evident mother finds annoyance in that, and yet she follows to Luke's bed, her steps heavy, hand on her stomach. 'What is it, my love? Tell me."
He falls into her embrace, sobbing in the most ugly of ways, with snoot and sounds so undignified it shames his entire house.
"Mother," he lets out into the linen of her dress. "Mother, I bleed."
"What," her voice trembles as her hands around his shoulder tense. "My darling, what do you mean by that?"
"Like a girl," cursed be the knowledge instilled into their minds my maester Gerardys, whom Corlys insisted to teach his grandchildren the specialties of Velaryon blood and all it might bring.
A miracle, someone would say. No better proof of his claim for Driftmark.
Luke finds it just another one in the long line of inheritances he didn't ask for.
"I bleed like a maiden would," he wipes at his face and sees his mother's face change. Surprise, unease, uncertainty, all of it settles over her regal features, cutting in like a blade.
"Luke," mother's voice is soft and gentle. "Are you sure?"
"I had these...pains for a while," he winces as his belly reminds of itself once again, with a jolt so sharp it sends him trembling. "And then I went to change my clothes...There's blood everywhere. Mother," he raises his eyes, meeting her widened gaze. "What will happen to me now?"
"Shh, my love," her embrace is sure and comforting. "My dear son. Nothing bad will ever happen to you. Nothing bad."
The feast for the future Lord of the Tides goes well for as long as Aemond, being, possibly, provoked by Lucerys' reckless, bitter chuckle - give him a break, he has an internal bleeding his mother and maester Orwyle called a natural process of the growing body - over the sight of the pig.
And of course that, being no less than the taunting of the bloodthirsty - do you feel the irony? - beast with the piece of meat, sent one-eyed uncle into a fit of righteous fury he expressed with that bloody toast.
They all - Jace, standing by the table, and Luke, sitting uncomfortably in that he feels is a puddle of his own blood, and even Rhaena with Baela, first to be informed of Lucerys' unusual condition and the only ones offering any useful advice - tense.
A heavy quiet descends over the table as everyone's eyes turn to Aemond, then to Luke, then to Jace, then back to Aemond.
Aegon clears his throat, trying to stiffen a giggle.
Something inside Lucerys' snaps.
The table trembles when he hits it with his palms, and the fury of his gaze would've turned Aemond to ashes if only looks alone could do it, and his words, bitter, festering inside ever since the moment he saw his own blood, come spilling out of his mouth faster than he can control them, faster than he thinks about it, about his dignity, his mother's honor, about everything right and proper.
Words spill out of his mouth and with them he can feel another portion of blood seep out of his body and he's so disgusted by that mere friction - the air in his lungs burns.
"Oh, I wish I was Strong," his voice has a shrill quality to it, and something in his face has to show the depths of his turmoil, for Aemond's expression trembles, unsure, his self-satisfied smile falling off his lips, and for a moment Luke doesn't see Aemond "One-Eye", but Aemond as he used to be, a boy with dusting of freckles over his cheeks and deep, unsettled downturn of his lips.
Then the image shatters.
"I wish I was blood of river and not the sea," besides him Rhaena tries to pull him back, smother his ire, but she cannot, and Baela cannot, and Jace just stands there, frozen, face aghast because he, of all of them, has a glimpsing suspicion of what Lucerys is going through.
No doubt he's wondering if something like that could happen to him as well.
"I wish I had not a droplet of Velaryon blood."
"But how is it possible-"
"Velaryon blood is in his veins, one way or another, let's not forget the history of our House."
"But Daemon, the possibility of it is so small."
"I propose we look on the bright side of it, this way we can move forward-"
"Daemon, this plan is pure madness, you can't expect-"
"It's the easiest way to avoid the war, and Viserys agreed. Rhaenyra, we need to be smart, and this is the smartest choice of them all."
"But what you're suggesting would send my son into-"
"Our son. And he would understand. He was to be wed, one way or another."
"Not like that!"
"We all have our sacrifices to make for the crown. This one is his."
"Sometimes I hate this crown. Sometimes I wonder if my father's throne is even worth it."
"It doesn't matter if it's worth it or not, it is yours, and yours it will remain. Think of the future of our children, Rhaenyra. Think of their lives. This is a small price to pay to ensure they all survive."
"But Lucerys is-"
"-the future Lord of the Tides, and he knows his duty. He will meet it with stiff lip."
"I hate it. I feel myself no better than Otto."
"This is how we outplay him, my love. Trust me. Trust me always."
"...I trust you."
"Lucerys," grandmother, her voice low and warning. She was invited to the dinner by the king, and the conversation his parents had, conversation they thought Lucerys didn't hear, had to be the cause. She too knows, of course she does.
"I am Luke," his voice trembles and there's an awful, red wetness in between his thighs, and damn it, this is not what he meant when he prayed to be more like his father- "I am Luke and I wish I was less Velaryon than I am," there's a look of confusion in Aemond's features, the bleeding of surprise over his cheeks, and Lucerys hates it, hates how Aemond hadn't been taught about the things Lucerys and his brothers were, how he never had to worry about that to happen to him.
"Luke," his stepfather's voice is loud and commanding. "Sit down."
He doesn't want to, but he collapses into his chair, wet thighs and wet cheeks and awful, bitter lump in his throat, and Aemond looks bewildered now, there's not a glimpse of his previous satisfaction, not a shadow of his dark, foreboding expectation.
Just a pure, clear surprise.
"Lucerys," Queen Alicent's voice is quiet and gentle, much different from the voice she had when she lurched at him with a dagger in hand. "Are you well?"
"No," he brushes his tears off with a napkin Rhaena offers. "No, I am not."
Mother clears her throat, preparing herself for the announcement that will tear Lucerys' life at the seams.
Luke feels Rhaena's hand close over his in a grip of death. Oh, how he wishes he could just marry her as Jace is to marry Baela. How he wishes he could be who he isn't meant to, and how he wishes this new, unsettling role would just slip off his shoulders.
Being Velaryon is a great honor and duty.
Sure. Easy to say when you're not the one bleeding from within.
"Lucerys has flowered," he wants to die. No, really. Does Aemond want his eye? Luke thinks he can have it. Both of his eyes, actually. He needs no eyes and no blood, which is a good thing, because with the way it's going, he will have none of it left in a day or two. "He has shown himself to be a true Velaryon."
Luke wants to be unleashed on the training grounds with nothing but a hunting knife in hands. He wants to draw blood and not loose it.
"And it's with this great news," mother please, "That my lord father," Viserys nods. "My husband," Daemon salutes to Otto who looks like a man bracing for some danger he can't yet see. "And my good mother," Rhaenys gives a polite acknowledgement. "Agreed upon a prosperous alliance between our Great Houses," a heavy, tight silence hangs in the room.
King Viserys claps his hands together in the vision of pure delight.
"I am happy to announce the betrothal," Luke grimaces. "Of Prince Lucerys Velaryon, the future Lord of the Tides, and my oldest son," it brings him some amount of satisfaction to see Aegon choke on his wine. "Prince Aegon Targaryen."
The Queen's eyes round.
"Viserys-"
The king waves her off.
"It has been decided," his single, unmasked eye, glints. "Once I've already agreed with your estimation about betrothal between our two families. And I believe I was wrong. We have only grown more apart in these years, the notion I greatly mourn. But I am still the king, and it would make you all good to remember that."
Aegon looks like he wants to crawl down the table and stay there for unidentifiable amount of time.
"Congratulations," Luke almost flinches when he hears a ghostly-quiet whisper by his ear. He raises his head to glance at his aunt, who walked by his side by the time the king held the speech. She leans in closer, whispering right into Lucerys' ear. "I do hope it's not too bothersome," she tilts her shoulder. "The red haze you're in."
"It's awful," he shares in a feat of sincerity. "I feel like I'm floating in a pool of my own blood."
Besides him Jacaerys chocks on his own spit and starts coughing.
"Strong flow, then," Helaena nods. "Try river moss."
"I...What?"
"River moss," she smiles. "In your smallclothes. It helps with aches."
And with that she leaves, and Luke stays there contemplating her words and refusing to admit the reality in which he was just betrothed to his uncle Aegon.
The only thing that somehow soothes the ache is the look of righteous indignation on Aemond's face.
