#lucaerys

to call it a victory, would be unjust. the rebellion had been crushed. Lords that had been guilty of treason against their king had been gathered in the throne room. the likes of houses baratheon, stark, tully and lannister were knelt upon the ground, bound. the remaining complement of his kingsguard had secured the room, among them, his white bull - Gerold Hightower.

despite the efforts of children playing at war - for a northern girl, no less - a Targaryen king still sat the iron throne... a king and his consort.

"wider," Aerys growled against sweat-dampened white curls. his teeth caught upon the tender flesh of his cousin's neck with a starved sound, the taste of iron bursting across his tongue. Lucerys' trousers adorned the throne room floor, pale white thighs are exposed, wet with nectar, spread wide - though not wide enough.

"let them see," he commanded, his hips ground higher into the warm embrace of his cousin's quim - stretched around him.

Lucerys' head sank back, indolent, against Aerys's shoulder.

obediently, willowy legs were thrust as far as his throne might permit, mewling as streaks of crimson spilled in spidery rivulets down the pale flesh. he sucked more readily from the wounds upon the curve of Lucerys' neck, smiling with red-stained teeth at their captive audience. higher and harder he sought release in his cousin's quim. Lucerys bounced in his lap, cooing delicious sounds that hung thick in the air and dripped syrupy from the walls.

his hips rose off the throne in a heedless, savage rhythm. the wet clap of skin on skin, tacky with blood, echoed through the throne room.

his cousin toyed with his pretty little cock, tugged it between his thumb and forefinger as Aerys filled him. his delicate jaw was adorned with pearls of stray, delighted tears.

Rhaegar had fallen in battle. and so too had his legacy been pruned.

he should've been wed to Monford - not some dornish whore, Aerys thought with spite. Lucerys keened a beautiful sound where Aerys struck the aching bud above his quim, his thighs trembled, fresh blood dripping down to bird-boned ankles.

he was without a son, without an heir.

Rhaella had fled to dragonstone following young Viserys' death when kings landing had fallen under an ultimately failed siege, and had remained there with half of the Velaryon fleet and a newborn babe. a girl.

the royalist force, while eventually victorious, had sustained losses in this war. to remain victorious they needed to grow once more, to shore up their succession, multiply, and return their blood - the blood of old Valyria - to glory.

let their enemies bear witness.

"sons," he panted against Lucerys' nape, "you will give me sons."

his cousin babbled, round rear thrust back against Aerys' thighs. quim clenching, in view for all to see.

"pure Valyrian sons."

"ah! - yes, yesss, my king."

"and they shall give each other sons," Aerys panted as Lucerys yowled, the slick walls of his dripping quim were drawn claustrophobically tight around the girth of the king's cock.

Aerys hissed between blood-stained teeth. he witnessed the way bound men squirmed in shame and disgust...and several in arousal.

Lucerys' peak was upon him with a cry, shattering in Aerys' lap, dripping sweat, blood, tears, and come. his stones tensed, swollen and aching, and ripe with generations to come. a new legacy.

Aerys rubbed a clawed hand at the flat plane of Lucerys' stomach, splitting the soft flesh with sharp nails, thin cherry red blood smeared between them; Lucerys whimpered a weak little moan. he snarled, hips pumping in a slow, deep pace as bloated his consort's womb with the future of their house.

Lucerys trembled, dripping seed. Aerys slapped at his aching bud once more, rubbing a few rough circles into the slick flesh until his cousin wept and shivered through a second release.

none in their captive audience appeared more repulsed than his old friend...Tywin Lannister.

he summoned forth his pyromancer with a snap of his fingers, a large narrow-mouth glass flask in his grasp. the contents sloshed viscous, and noxious and green.

"Ser Gerold," Aerys panted, rubbing an idle hand across the swell of Lucerys' belly. his pretty, little cousin mewled a quiet sound as the knight stood before them.

enjoying oneself is such a rarity in the capital, Lucerys has found, having served aboard the small council for nearly a decade.

so a small, personal gift every now and then... well, he is wont to savor those.

myrish lace sits lighter than air upon the skin. delicate. ethereal. sensual.

he shivers at the delightful immodesty of it. the whorls of ivory satin stitched with myrish lace adorns his lissome form. the top portion is tailored to him, adhering to his slender build as though he'd been born with it. were he a woman, the tiny seafoam-like ruffles of chiffon lace would cradle his bust and simultaneously reveal it; however, as he is, it displays only the prickle of gooseflesh where the fabric brushes beneath the tender peaks of little pink rosebuds.

the lower garment is, somehow, infinitely more obscene. the barely-there fabric, ethereal tulle that sits like rolling ocean waves against the narrow shape of his hips. the cut of the delicate smallclothes curve over the swell of his bottom. undoubtedly the centerpiece of the craft are a small thread of pearls that trail down the crease of his rear to the gusset of the silken little smalls.

the mere pressure of them draws a small, aroused sigh from him.

he tweaks a nipple between his fingers with a gasp, his cock twitching against its prison of satin and lace, his quim dampens. he runs his hands over the length of his body, feeling the delightful contrast between his bare skin and featherlight bedclothes.

Lucerys flinches at the brisk sound of a knock at his door.

the custom garment had also come with a flattering silk robe, matching ivory in color.

"what is - cousin?"

the king entered his chambers without preamble. Aerys is eerily quiet, his long white-gold hair is combed loose, falling in a silver sheet about his shoulders. his nightclothes are plain, the tunic unlaced. the scant flash of collarbones and chest leaves Lucerys wet - his mouth, that is.

"your grace, is there something you need?" Lucerys says, clearing his throat. arms crossed over his form. he feels his scarce state of dress more acutely than before. skin tingling and tight.

Aerys says nothing, looking younger in the absence of his crown.

he stalks through Lucerys chambers as though they are his own, and in a fashion, Lucerys supposes they are. every inch of the keep is his. and every individual within, no matter how noble in birth, were his subjects.

Lucerys among them.

his nipples stiffen against the cool silk and chiffon lace.

his cousin idles beside his desk, trailing a finger over a letter written by Monford. the boy's scrawl was shaky, but well-intentioned.

"Aerys," he sighs, "the hour is late-"

"did you think I would not know?"

"cousin-"

Aerys' gaze is upon him at once, violet and wrathful and scorching hot.

"I employ spies in every corner of my courts, there is nothing that transpires in my kingdom without my knowledge."

Lucerys' cheeks heat.

"i am well aware, your grace." he says diplomatically, subservient. everything he knows Aerys' desires.

"what i have not been able to discover is, who?"

"who? - Aerys, i do not follow."

"who is it that you dress for," his cousin clarifies, "is it a man within the keep?"

shame pools in his gut. shame and anger.

"Aerys-"

"you are wearing it now, are you not?" his cousin gestures towards him loosely, dim candlelight bronzing the hollow of his throat. he is outrageously handsome with venom in his violet eyes. Lucerys tugs the material of his robe tighter around his lissome form.

he steps closer, to Lucerys' horror, abnormally warm. a large thumb and forefinger ease the silk of his robe aside, until a slight whorl of myrish lace is visible.

Rhaella has been in Maegor's Holdfast for a fortnight now. Lucerys does not permit his mind to linger on the way his cousin's eyes darken; lascivious and wroth.

"is he very near to your chambers? a guard perhaps?" he asks in a rasping voice.

"how many men do you parade yourself around for, cousin?"

Lucerys hisses, pulling himself from Aerys' grasp.

"none, Aerys, please-"

a hand tears at the silk cord of his robe and the gossamer fabric melts away.

a silver pool around his feet.

he cannot breathe. his skin screams. his quim weeps. Aerys' hand is around his throat. his breath across his lips. his flesh threatens to slough off his bones at the heat of his cousin's touch; bruising, blistering.

his cousin's nose touches his, curled in a snarl.

hotter still is incandescent heat of his gaze, stripping skin from bone with a flutter of long white lashes.

"whose whore are you, cousin?"

heat sticks between his thighs, tears in his eyes.

he thrashes, water set to boil.

Lucerys finds Aerys gaze, cheeks damp.

"Yours," Lucerys answers. his throat is tight with the expectation of his cousin's scorn. the king's eyes are more black than violet.

Aerys' mouth is on his, consuming in a way only fire can. a sharp tug followed by the rattle of pearls against the floor makes his skin burn.

an uncompromising tongue is slipped between his teeth. hard, possessive hands devour him just as readily. plucking at pink nipples and clawing at nude hips. the tattered remains of his smalls hang between his knees.

Lucerys gasps as he is thrust over the wood of his desk, the edge pressing the air from his lungs.

he stares at his son's letter, lip held between his teeth as Aerys presses at his quim.

large and thick, Aerys slides in with mortifying ease.

his cousin laughs, "you are my whore. wetter than the fucking ocean."

Lucerys arches back against the ache of his cousin' cock stretching his hole.

Aerys' pace is brisk and punishing. Lucerys feels the edge of his desk beat the beginnings of a bruise beneath his ribs with each thrust.

pain and pleasure fray his edges, tacky with sweat and nectar. the scraps of lace and snapped thread of pearls lay limp around his ankle - like a shackle. his feet arch to find the floor with Aerys hiking him higher with each thrust.

pleasure tingles to his toes. every touch is a reminder burned into his flesh.

he bounces back against the motion of Aerys' body, the slick plunge of his manhood that bloats Lucerys' belly. a hand dips between his thighs, fingers swallowing his erection.

Aerys tugs in time with each pulse of his hips. he whines as his release ripples through him. his body screams, overworked. sweat-slicked and shaking.

his cousin finds his peak, hot and messy. it drips wet and searing between tacky thighs. a large hand is too hot when it pats his back like an exhausted palfrey after a long journey.

"sleep well, cousin," Aerys pants before the sound of his footsteps recede.

torn myrish lace hangs off of his shoulder, ruined. Lucerys discovers minute pearls and his ruined smalls upon the ground.

Rhaegar paced in the nursery, he and half the castle lay awake from the cries of a dragon.

Aerion and Alyssa were abed, while Maekar wailed loudly in his nursemaid’s arms.

“Hush now, sweet prince,” she hummed as she rocked the babe, to no avail, the boy continued his shrieking. At times, his father jested that the boy was entirely his in temperament, though mother argued that while Rhaegar tended to frown as a child, he had been much quieter.

He and the king disagreed on much in the years passed, but a strong line of succession, of pure Valyrian blood had seen them closer of late.

There had been a time when Rhaegar had presumed his father to be beyond saving, half-feral at all times. Yet in recent months, he appeared to have turned a corner; caged away his darkness. Nails filed to a dull point and hair oiled and combed free of tangles, his beard cropped close to his square jaw. The people rejoiced at the recovery of their king.ﾠ

Rhaegar had been a widower a short time after Elia’s passing. Her health had always been a worrisome thing and she had died in her birthing bed. Their daughter was small and very beautiful, with hair more gold than silver, and he too joined his mother, gasping his last a mere hour later. He had learned no physical wounds could ever amount to the agony of losing a child. He had felt such sympathy for his father then, having recalled the way he raged with each babe mother had lost.

His grace had arranged a union immediately after, without so much as a sennight between the burial of his son and the return of Elia’s remains to Dorne, and his second wedding, between Rhaegar and his cousin and Lord of the Tides, Lucerys Velaryon.

They could be distant toward one another at times, but Lucerys had given him three healthy, beautiful children. At times he could not find sleep unless Rhaegar sang to him, and would sleepily slink into the prince’s chambers with a guilty smile for just that - while their union began quite loveless, it had grown into something more.. 

“I’ll fetch Lucerys.”

The nursemaid blanched.

“Forgive me, your highness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, the young prince is especially inconsolable.”

With that, he departed to find the boy’s mother. The faith tended to frown at the vernacular, but they wouldn’t dare cross father and speak out against the union he arranged.

He crossed the keep to Lucerys’ chambers, his rooms were kept separate to the prince’s chambers. The space permitted him the chance to maintain his duties as Lord Admiral and Master of Ships, sometimes well into the night.

He did not begrudge his spouse. Sleeping alone suited the prince at times. His dreams could be troubling things, far easier to process in an empty room than with his cousin’s waifish body in his arms.

The door was shut and hall glazed copper with lit sconces.

It cracked open with the slightest touch, as if welcoming him inside.

The rasp of wet breaths slithered out through the gap in the opened door. Rhaegar glanced inside his spouse’s rooms through the scant gap. A single tallow candle flickered upon the windowsill, bathing Lucerys’ delicate silhouette in a gauzy glow.

The groan of wood wept into the hall.

He wasn’t alone.

Perched atop his desk, parchment adorned the floor; Lucerys was dressed in a nightdress that melted off a single ivory shoulder, the flesh reddened with teeth marks. Thrusting between pale thighs was a tall man, silver of hair, much like Rhaegar was..ﾠ

And Lucerys.. was no innocent, rutting and gasping and clawing at a broad back and shoulders; incensed.

His lover’s head was lowered to Lucerys’ sweat-dampened fringe, where they panted, open-mouthed, over the same dewy breath.

Large hands swallowed up Lucerys’ narrow waist, guiding him into every thrust.

Milk white legs tensed around his lover’s hips, heels finding purchase in his lower back, like the squeeze of a rider’s spurs against a destrier’s sides. The result was the same, the canter of his lover’s hips grew harder and faster.

“Fuck,” Lucerys panted, mouth wet with saliva.

“Kepa” he said in a breathy little whisper.

Father.

Realization dawned upon him.

There was no word for good-father in High Valyrian.

The irony was sharp and metallic in his mouth. A hand came around Lucerys’ pale throat with a deep snarling sound. The hips laboring between his thighs hastened. Lucerys bounced madly with each thrust, the wood of his desk groaning; his round little bottom likely burned with fresh bruises.

Rhaegar found it was eerie in a way, how unrecognizable his father was in the absence of his crown.

He watched, spellbound, as Lucerys tugged insistently on the hand around his throat, not to unburden himself of it, but rather to lift a broad thumb between waiting lips, to flick his tongue along the pointed nail. His spouse moaned around the digit, the sound spreading into the hall.

The pair shuddered through a shared release, Lucerys’ teeth clamped around his father’s thumb, heart-shaped mouth painted ruby red with dragon-blood.. pale thighs shimmering pearl white with dragon-seed. Lucerys’ shoulder was held captive in his father’s mouth.

They moaned in unison, breath shaking, nose to nose.

As his father and spouse sighed contentedly into one another’s mouths, short of breath, he recalled every moment Lucerys had pleaded for spontaneity that did not come naturally, when they lay together, and callousness that did not come at all.. 

Pull my hair, bite me, devour me..

He watched as his father licked across broken skin upon Lucerys’ shoulder with an indolent smile, a bitterness filled his mouth at the realization that Lucerys had never truly been begging for him.

He had been begging for this, for his father, his kepa..

Every part of Rhaegar burned too hot; overcome with what felt like illness.

Maekar still wailed loudly, in need of his mother.

He pressed upon the door, letting it swing open, the humid scent of skin and sweat and semen hung in the air.

Rhaegar cleared his throat, arms folded behind his back, mouth bitter as Lucerys’ easy smile melted instantly. Their eyes met, lilac on indigo. His hands raised to his mouth, trembling. His face had gone colorless.

“Rhaegar!” he gasped, swatting father’s hands away as though they burned.

“I-”

“Maekar needs you,” was all he said in explanation.

His spouse gave a jerky nod, “of course,” he murmured, sliding from the desk, nightdress stuck to tacky thighs.

His father, the king, remained silent. Only raising an arm for Lucerys to steady himself upon as his feet touched the stone floor, an arm that was ignored.

Lucerys wobbled about on coltish legs, unsteady. His father, who could often be smug and arrogant and self-aggrandizing, strangely, said nothing. He merely stood in Lucerys’ chambers, mostly dressed, as Rhaegar’s spouse stepped into silk slippers and a robe.

As Lucerys followed him into the hall, he thought of the smallfolk that had rejoiced at the returned health of their king, and wondered what the smallfolk would do if they had seen what he did in that moment - the utter madness that flashed in Aerys Targaryen’s eyes; snarling behind dark violet like a caged animal.

Lucerys idled before the nursery, a dainty hand with delicate fingers like fishbones curled around Rhaegar’s wrist.

“We should- we should speak about this, shouldn’t we?”

He held open the door of the nursery in lieu of a response, where Maekar’s cries took precedence over all else.

Lucerys seemed to find his footing then, bustling into the nursery.

The nursemaid offered a small wince at the sight of them both.

“Apologies, my lord.” She said, still rocking the babe in her arms.

“That’s quite alright, give him here.”

Rhaegar watched as their youngest son was passed to his mother. He looked especially large for a child of three turns in his mother’s arms. The nursemaid was given her leave.

Lucerys gently bounced the boy in his arms, carefully cradling the babe’s soft head.

His jaw tensed as an ivory shoulder littered with teeth marks came into view, a pert teat was offered and their boy latched on readily.

“He was hungry,” Lucerys hummed as he settled into a cushioned seat, “He refuses to feed from the wetnurse.”

He could think only of how he had found his spouse, thighs parted for his good-father while their child had howled, hungry.

“Why was he not fed sooner?” Rhaegar asked in the stiff silence, the only sound was of their child eating. He felt a surge of outrage, anger, betrayal. He had always been slow to anger and quick to forgive, he was not his father. He had no desire to hold onto the feeling that resided within his chest.

Lucerys mouth hung open for a brief moment, his offense was obvious.

“He was, he is larger than Aerion and Alyssa were at his age, he eats more..”

Lucerys stared down at their son, rubbing a tender hand across the downy silver-blonde wisps atop his head.

“That is not the question you wish to ask,” Lucerys murmured, lilac eyes knowing.

“That is true,” He admitted, watching as Lucerys carefully dabbed away a faint trail of milk from Maekar’s cheek, the boy asleep soundly in his arms.

“Then ask it,” Lucerys bade, eyes round and framed with long white lashes, perfect heart-shaped mouth still red with his father’s blood; the evidence of their coupling remained likely wet upon his pale thighs.

Maekar was placed upon his small cot and left to sleep. A gentle kiss was pressed to his delicate silver-blonde crown.

“Whatever it is, Rhaegar, ask it.”

The past years of marriage flit through his mind like a dream, grains of sand that melted between his fingers under new scrutiny.

“Sleep well,” He said instead.

. . .

In eight turns of the moon the kingdom has welcomed yet another young prince, another Targaryen; seed of the dragon, just as Rhaegar was. The boy was called Aurane, Lucerys had declared, waxen in his birthing bed as his fourth child was placed in his arms.

The king spared no expense in the orchestration of a tourney at Harrenhal to commemorate the birth of another grandchild.

The boy is small, with blue-green eyes like the sea and father doted on him endlessly, as he did with all of his grandchildren.

“Will you be riding in the tourney?” Lucerys asked, having cornered him in the hall. Rhaegar nodded.

A soft, hopeful smile tilted on heart-shaped lips.

“I will have Alyssa make a favour for you.”

Eight months and they had seen startlingly little of one another. Rhaegar’s dreams had grown more dire with every passing night.. And Lucerys remained where he always had, by father’s side.

His son, his true son was to be the prince that was promised, he whose song was destined to be one of ice and fire. As he stared at his spouse, doublet embroidered with a likeness of the sea, teardrop pearl hanging from his ear, he realized how foolish he had been.

. . .

The stands roared as he rode in, wearing his dragon helm and night-black armor studded with rubies atop golden ringmail.

In a royal box above the smallfolk, the king presided, mother by his side, her belly round, Lucerys upon his other. Aerion and Alyssa screamed gleefully, little hands braced against the railing of the royal box.

Maekar was bounced upon Lucerys’ knee. Aurane had been too small to attend.

He sat astride his destrier, sweat bubbled in a layer of foam over her black coat, her hooves gouged scars in the tilled soil.

He had unseated many men.

His final tilt was against his dearest friend, at times, his only friend. He stared down the field as Arthur Dayne sat atop his horse, a gorgeous pearl white beast.

He kicked his horse into a gallop, lance held at the ready.

The wood splintered upon impact, a thousand splinters erupted. The Sword of the Morning lay in the soil, a smile upon his face despite the loss as the arena boomed with delight.

His horse was kicked into a calm trot as countless favors reigned down from the stands. Yet he had a favor of his own.

A wreath of winter roses..

He rode past the royal box, past Lucerys and the children that called for him, past his father whose eyes glowed with envy. He rode towards his destiny.

His horse’s hooves crushed Alyssa’s favor into the soil.

Lyanna Stark stared at him as the stands fell silent, her eyes like a winter’s storm.