salt and sea.

I expect you will receive a very warm welcome.

Time stood still, it seemed, when one could not reliably count the minutes, without sunlight or a schedule to adhere to, something so different from his now 'former' life. Even the timings of his meals seems sporadic, either as attempt to keep him weak, an attempt to keep him from keeping track, or really, what he believes is the truth, that he is half-forgotten. It would not surprise him - it had been said to keep him alive until they could discover how best to use his capture against his mother, but as time passed, it seemed they had thought of nothing, or that his mother was still waiting for more of an army to build.

It did not matter. He was still wounded, weak, and healing slowly due to the poor conditions, and he had not spoken in what seemed like weeks.

Even if he did not know it, the truth was only a fortnight had passed, and he had not allowed himself to speak to the guard that brought the sparse meals to him at random. There was no need to act the fool, desperate for news, merely a joke. He did not wish to hear the jeers, the taunts, or even worse, to be ignored entirely. If he did not ask after news of his mother, then he did not hear it, or did not see the guard smirk, or smile, or walk away without word.

Sleep is just as oddly timed, though that is not a new oddity, as he had been ill-timed in his sleep patterns for several years now, even before the war. Now, with a stone bench for his bed, clothes been worn for days, that still smelled of salt water and his own blood, it was even more difficult to even attempt it, only recoiling into exhaustive fits of sleep when his body was unable to stay up longer. Even now, he's fairly certain that will be soon, ache and exhaustion weighing heavy in his bones.

Perhaps it's the fever he's felt brewing the last few days, a combination of poor conditions and still healing injuries, that cause him to be blinded by what must be a hallucination. After all, the light does not illuminate anything around the cell, seems solely fixated on the figure before him. If this is a ghost instead, rather, he always thought they might be more dim, but then again, his brother always was like a beacon of light for him, before his murder.

Luke had always loved the water, remembering days at Driftmark where he and Jace would swim out from the shore and dive down to try and see the coral reefs below the cold water. He loved the silky feel of water over his skin, the refreshing sharpness of jumping into her cold embrace, and the sensation that he was flying. It was ironic now that he couldn't feel anything. He was only aware of a dim ache in his stomach that persisted long after his demise. Luke supposed it was grief having combined itself with perpetual longing. For that reason Luke remained motionless, having been made glowing and golden in death. Time stood still, it seemed, when one could not reliably count the minutes, when one sank to the bottom of the ocean where no light could ever reach them.

Being a spirit he could move freely, but remained anchored to the abyss. He couldn't fathom visiting Dragonstone or his siblings. Would they even be able to see him? Luke humored that this was his own personal hell, being forced to endure eternity without the company of his family he had loved so much. It was an unfamiliar current that picked Luke up and off of the ocean floor. He had resisted at first, convinced that he was deserving of an eternity of nothing but darkness. But he had been carried all the way to the very surface, where for the first time in months, Luke had seen the sun. It provided him no warmth, but the familiarity of it made him smile. Slowly he picks himself up, floating above the waves that had claimed his very life.

Luke frowns, "If you're down there, Arrax. I'll come back and find you. I promise." He whispers in High-Valyrian, finally plucking up the courage to escape the icy embrace of the sea. Luke travels quickly above the waves, his clothing and hair appearing dry despite his time submerged beneath water. Luke appeared as he did just before departing Dragonstone. His cape billowed behind him, his curls bouncing in the wind. Luke couldn't feel the wind but he could imagine it caressing his pale golden flesh as he traveled to King's Landing. Some primal part of him felt compelled to travel there, that he would find something within the Red Keep. Luke was almost certain that it was hope that had inspired him to abandon his resting place at the bottom of the ocean.

Inside of the Red Keep, Luke isn't surprised to find that he is unseen or unnoticed by the courtiers and guards within. Rumblings of a captured prince reach his ears, urging Luke to sink into the floor so he could venture into the dungeons. He illuminates the space around him, providing him with enough light to traverse the cramped halls. Luke was lucky he couldn't smell for he was certain the place stank of death. Passing through each cell he isn't certain what he's searching for until he reaches the last one. Jace. His older brother. His confidante. His very best friend. Luke touches down on the floor, pulsing with a warm golden light. His fingers curl into the fabric of his trousers, as his throat goes tight. Luke was certain he would never see him again.

Jace speaks, but Luke doesn't hear it. He immediately drops to his knees in front of his older brother, and reaches for him. Luke passes right through him, of course. "Jace! I-I never.." His shoulders tremble as tears as big as pearls dribble down his cheeks before dissipating into the air. "--I'm sorry for putting everybody through this. For failing. For not coming back." Luke rambles, rubbing at his eyes while grief swirls inside of him. But now he was back! Sort of. Luke was literally there in spirit, unable to touch anything but definitely able to communicate. When his shoulders finally stop heaving, and his tears slow to a slight sprink, Luke finally gets a good look at Jace. Concern washes over his features, making the prince surge forward to get a better look. "What happened? You look awful."

Found this painting on Pinterest, and it is so Lucerys and Arrax coded! The two of them falling into the sea begging to stay alive… my pretty boys

 ⠀  ⠀  ⠀  ⠀⠀  ⠀ ⠀  ⠀  ❛  ⠀  ⠀she  has  .  .  .  ⠀  ⠀❜⠀  ⠀ a  short  and  simple  answer  that  came  out  almost  breathlessly  as  the  image  of  the  smaller  dragon’s  remains  was  still  fresh  in  her  mind  ⠀ ―  ⠀ syrax’s  wails  still  echoed  in  her  mind  from  time  to  time  ,  ⠀ a  shared  pain  between  dragon  and  rider  .  the  way  the  boy  needed  to  lean  against  the  dragoness  did  not  go  unnoticed  by  her  ,  ⠀ her  heart  clenching  in  her  chest  and  arms  reaching  out  almost  as  if  to  hold  him  herself  .  nevertheless  ,  ⠀ hands  just  end  up  hovering  over  his  shoulders  ,  ⠀ nearly  too  afraid  to  touch  him  ⠀ ―  ⠀ it’s  too  soon  ,  ⠀ she  had  told  herself  ,  ⠀ discomfort  would  just  drive  him  away  .  it  seemed  syrax  had  sensed  the  feeling  of  unwellness  washing  over  him  ,  ⠀ because  just  as  her  rider  ,  ⠀ she  had  turned  her  head  to  glance  at  him  with  a  soft  rumble  ⠀ ―⠀  ⠀  ⠀  ⠀&&⠀  ⠀at  this  ,  ⠀ rhaenyra’s  hand  runs  along  golden  scales  for  comfort  .

 ⠀  ⠀  ⠀  ⠀⠀  ⠀ it's  his  response  ,  ⠀ the  excitement  in  his  words⠀  ⠀  ⠀  ⠀&&⠀  ⠀the  sparkle  in  his  eyes  that  have  her  lips  quirking  up  into  a  tender  smile⠀  ⠀  ⠀  ⠀&&⠀  ⠀a  nod  of  her  head  is  given  .⠀  ⠀  ❛  ⠀  ⠀i  do  mean  it.  syrax  has  taken  quite  a  liking  to  you  as  i  said  ,  ⠀ she’ll  certainly  let  you  on  her  saddle  someday  .  ⠀  ⠀❜⠀  ⠀  just  like  in  the  past  ,  ⠀ when  he  was  a  small  boy⠀  ⠀  ⠀  ⠀&&⠀  ⠀she  had  strapped  him  in  on  the  saddle  .  rhaenyra  still  remembers  the  look  on  his  face  as  they  took  off  ,  ⠀ the  breeze  hitting  their  face  ,  ⠀ their  shared  laughter⠀  ⠀  ⠀  ⠀&&⠀  ⠀the  eagerness  to  climb  on  the  she-dragon  again  just  right  after  landing  .  the  expression  on  her  face  shifts  momentarily  ,  ⠀ from  that  happiness  that  bubbled  in  her  chest  to  almost  realization  .  he  did  not  remember  much  ,⠀  ⠀  ⠀  ⠀&&⠀  ⠀yet  ,  ⠀ what  were  the  odds  of  him  knowing  of  his  home   ?⠀  ⠀  ❛  ⠀  ⠀do  you  know  of  .  .  .  dragonstone   ?  ⠀have  you  heard  of  it   ?  ⠀you’d  like  to  see  the  dragons  freely  flying  above  the  island  .  ⠀  ⠀❜⠀  ⠀ 

Elliot Grihault as Lucerys Velaryon and Emma D'Arcy as Rhaenyra Targaryen

Whatever tension had been building inside of Luke dissolves into the salt-sweet breeze. For the first time in hours he affords himself a smile. Luke straightens his back, sticks up his nose and says in the most insufferable tone possible. "You're right. But a lady deserves a proper greeting." Even alone Luke would play the part of the chivalrous prince. It was what was expected of him now that he was an emissary. Luke lets out a laughter, dropping his rouse as an uptight courtier. "That sounded really stuffy." Luke wrinkles his nose in distaste. He still had years before he became Lord of the Tides and didn't care much for formality. Luke looks back at Arrax who had a small pack attached to himself. Unlike Jace who was making multiple stops he only had one destination in mind and would be back before they knew it. "Aye, I've gotten enough to make it to and from." He mulls over the content of his bag mentally, checking off a list.

It was the same melody. The town played it on a loop in his head, mocking him with each step, reminding him of all that had been lost. He gripped his blade tighter, feeling its cold weight in his hand, an anchor in the shifting madness. The dolls moved closer, their porcelain skin shimmering in the dim light, each crack in their surface exposing raw, twitching muscle underneath. Their hollow eyes stared forward, unseeing, yet unrelenting in their pursuit.

The weight of responsibility hung heavier than the blade. The town was showing him everything at once, how it twisted memories, manipulated emotions. It had turned the past into a labyrinth, one where he could never truly find his way out. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead buzzed and sputtered, casting the hallway in brief flashes of eerie blue light, revealing just how many of them there were. It was endless. They were endless.

Each strike he made splintered porcelain, but the moment one fell, another took its place, always more, always pressing closer. The ground beneath them creaked, metal groaning under the weight of the fight, the sound of it reverberating through the walls, mixing with the dripping of something unseen. Every instinct screamed at him to protect what was in front of him. Not again. Never again.

The walls pulsed, as if feeding off the struggle, off the impossible weight of the moment. There was no room for weakness here, not in this place where the past breathed down his neck. Yet for every swing of his blade, every shattered doll, the town seemed to grow stronger. It didn't want resolution. It craved the struggle, the suffering, feeding on it like a parasite.

The air felt thick with expectation. There was something more, there was always something more in Silent Hill. It was never satisfied. His every movement felt like it was being watched, judged, as though some unseen force was taking notes, waiting for the moment when he would falter. The dolls were just the beginning; they were the prelude to something far worse.

Yet still, he kept going, the sounds of cracking porcelain and metal footsteps blending into the oppressive silence that followed every kill. He couldn't afford to stop. Not here. Not now. The town might take everything, might bleed him dry, but it would never take this. This, he could control. This, he could fight.

The pulse of the town continued, slow and deliberate, each beat a reminder that no matter how many of these things he cut down, the past still remained, looming over him, unrelenting.

Luke carefully retreats, "We gotta get out of here. There's no end to them." He says breathlessly as more and more dolls clamber out of the darkness. Bravely he steps in front of Aemond, lifting the broom in preparation of an attack. "Go! I can hold them off." He sounded uncertain but wouldn't let these things hurt Aemond. Luke looks back over his shoulder at his uncle, "I'll see you soon." That was a promise. Nothing would befall the boy until Aemond had suffered thoroughly.

Overhead the roof began to crumble, cutting Aemond off from Luke who was now trapped with dozens of those things. Rafters fell from the ceiling, coating the hallway in dust and debris. The walls continued to pulse with the gratuitous violence just out of sight. Luke was still fighting, evident by his labored breathing and the sound of breaking glass. Aemond would have no choice but to abandon his nephew and find another way around.

Midwich groaned as the man explored it, as if aware of his presence inside of it. The walls rumbled, shifted, and bled with each step. Hallways twisted confusingly, creating a nearly inescapable maze for Aemond to navigate. As he ventured deeper and deeper the school become more macabre. Figures drenched in bloodied sheets were strapped to the walls and on occasion they spasmed.

Somewhere nearby Aemond would be alerted to the sound of somebody giggling. Then footsteps echoed off of the rusted walls. "How do you do it? How do you hold it all inside? How do you hide your guilt in plain sight?" Luke's voice rang through the hall but he was nowhere to be found. Aemond would have plenty of time to answer or contemplate as he was once again left in silence. At the end of the hallway a familiar shape waited for him, illuminated from behind by a flickering light. "Why're you still looking for me? You know I'm dead. You saw to that. You remember what happened. N̶o̵ ̵m̸a̷t̴t̷e̸r̸ h̸̙͖̆o̴̼̊ẅ̸͓͓́̌ ̴͙͗̇d̷̡͈̾è̶̟͈e̴̩̫͐̊p̷̢̄l̴͚̾ỳ̵͇͠ ̵̨̈́͘͝ŷ̵̡͓̈́̆͜ơ̶͖͌͆̕u̶̝̖̐̍̐͐ ̸̣͕̼͉̈̎t̶͎̹͈̾͛̆̆ř̸̡̬̻͓y̶͓̱̋͘͝ ̶̜̒͒̂͘t̵̮̪̔̇͠͝o̵͚̹̭͐͂͆͌ ̸͎̤̇̓͜b̶̗̲̌ũ̸̻̱̘̥r̶̝͙̔y̴̧̠̝͇̒͗̾̂ ̸͕̬̼̒̃̈́̚ͅi̸̡̢͒́͐ͅt̵͎͌."

Lucerys Velarion as Warlock prince of Harrenhal

“ There are rumors about the boy. That at night he whispers with the ghosts of the old cursed castle and feeds a pack of local dogs with pieces of fresh human flesh. That those who ever wanted to kill him were suddenly choking on their own blood like sea water. That he is a bastard not only of the lord of these lands, but also of another, more ancient house.

Aemond doesn’t care about the rumors. But he cares about the boy, the mystery he keeps behind his smile and the dark look in his eyes. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ— I can help you get the crown. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ — And what do you want in return, bastard? 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ — Your eye. ”