Luke...
<<—The idea that we control the dragons... is an illusion.>>
The voice of your late father, back when he could still think straight before the milk of the poppy took over, echoed in your mind. It was just as loud as the rain pouring down on you that dark night. But that phrase didn’t matter; you weren't about to doubt the bond you literally sacrificed an eye for.Vhagar was smart—smart enough to understand the cold, firm command that left your lips in your father's tongue.
Kill Arrax apart. Dig your claws into flesh...
Your dragon obeyed without hesitation, maybe because she’d already been through three great riders before you. She was a good companion, loyal, someone who would never fail you or push you aside. That’s why she didn't disappoint you. That’s why she pulled off exactly what you told her to do.
But you couldn't deny that, at first, you panicked when she caught the little silver beast. It wouldn't stop whimpering, cornered in the wet sand while your dragon kept digging her claws into its scaly chest. Getting down from your saddle was especially brutal; the rain made it way harder to slide down the ropes your grandfather had ordered to be put on the bronze creature, a creature that now belonged to you.
You walked along the wet shore until you saw him. It was obvious he was hurt, but thanks to the gods your mother never stopped bringing up in every single lecture, he was still alive. Vhagar had snatched your nephew's mount right out of the air and was careful bringing him down to the beach...well, until she got sick of Arrax’s whimpering. With terrifying precision, she slowly crushed the young creature's head while you untangled Luke from the saddle ropes.Thank the gods they fell sideways, because otherwise, nothing would have saved the dark-haired boy from the massive weight of his small mount.
Even so, you could hear and feel that several of his bones had snapped and broken, mostly in his legs and left arm. Dragging him was tough, but Vhagar leaned down as low as she could. Even though getting him up with the help of her wings was an incredibly tedious pain, you managed to do it.Your grandfather would be proud of you.Not only had you locked in House Baratheon's loyalty with young Floris’s betrothal to Daeron, but now you’d gotten rid of one of the pretender's dragons and were bringing her son right in your lap to the capital...The trip was quieter than you expected.
He didn't move, but you watched over him. Vhagar’s slow flight helped make the journey more bearable. Plus, the massive back and the hundreds of ropes gave you an extra sense of security.
Dawn broke just as you caught sight of the castle where you grew up, and you looked down at the boy who had once taken a piece of you. If it wasn't for how pale he was, it would look like he was just fast asleep; you prayed internally that some fever or internal injury wouldn't snatch him away from you.He was yours now.
Finally yours, and yours alone.You only had to look at him to know where he came from... just looking at that perfect nose, those dark curls, and the freckles, strangely soft in the morning light, was enough to know the boy wasn't Ser Laenor Velaryon's son...but his legitimacy never really mattered to you. You cared about what he had stolen from you. A fierce urge washed over you: you hoped the little Valyrian blood running through his veins, thanks to your half-sister's mistakes, would kick in, and he’d open those almond eyes that kept you up at night again.
The welcome wasn't what you expected, though you didn't even know what you were expecting anyway. Almost everyone was there, most of them in fine clothes, but it was obvious they’d all just rolled out of bed. You carefully brought down his weakened body, which made everyone turn pale.Only your grandfather asked about Arrax.
You didn't hesitate to answer, and nobody else asked another question about what happened while the servants carried Lucerys Velaryon off to chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast. Illegitimate or not, you weren't going to let him out of your sight. Aegon suggested just letting him die, but before you could even argue back, your grandfather's slap cracked across the left cheek of the man who now called himself king and protector of the realm.
You changed into dry clothes, just that, without showering. Still smelling like the beasts, you weren't hungry, but your stomach ached from the cold your body endured during the trip. A tea from Tyrosh would soothe any stomach cramps, according to one of your mother's maids. Nobody spoke to you, not even the so-called king or his Hand. Maybe they were all figuring out what to do, since you’d just brought them a major bargaining chip.A piece that changed everything.You watched them strip off his clothes; you saw his pale flesh covered in bruises, and how they wrapped his legs and arm in bandages soaked in ointments. You didn't budge from there, and you wouldn't for a long time, not until his eyes opened again.
<<—Will he be able to father children?>>
Your voice shattered the sacred silence the healers had set up. Grand Maester Orwyle looked at you. It wasn't with terror; it was worse. He looked at you the exact same way your father did after that stupid childhood fight where your nephews dared to question a claim that, unlike their birth and paternity, actually was legitimate.
He looked at you as if the weight of your choices was too big for you, like you couldn't handle it. The man looked back at the boy, who was now dry and being dressed in comfortable linen clothes.
<<—Once the bones in his legs heal, the young prince will have no trouble returning to his usual activities or sharing a bed. His manhood is intact.>>
His voice didn't change; it never did. He always spoke in that calm, peaceful tone that drove you crazy. It was the same tone he used with your mother years ago, back when you were writhing in pain while they put that foulsmelling, burning cream on the scar over your right eye.You just nodded, standing right by the bed where he rested. Nobody questioned you; none of them had the power to. The ones who could question you were outside...distracted by their own plans.
Plans that wouldn't happen if they weren't to your liking.
Your mother was probably praying for the boy to recover. How ironic, considering you knew she’d spent hours on her knees in the sept praying for the death of every single one of those bastards. Your brother Aegon was likely with your grandfather, planning, complaining about Ser Otto Hightower’s "weakness" because of how cautious he was with every single decision.
Helaena was probably with the little ones; she wasn't built for war, she never was. The only time she ever contributed anything to the council was to stop Aegon from sending assassins to Dragonstone in his madness, backing your mother’s idea to send emissaries with terms instead of men with sharp swords. Daeron didn't even cross your mind, at least not like that. You just pictured him serving your uncle as a squire or getting his blue dragon ready to scout the territory they needed to lock down before the Hightower army marched.
Nobody was here.
Just you, and him.
The few women healers left turned and walked out, leaving behind the smell of herbs and incense.
<<—Aemma.>>
Your grandfather's voice broke the silence, but you only glanced at him over your shoulder before looking back down at the young boy resting on the soft pillows.
<<—The Maester informed me of your...concerns. Concerns that alarm me.>>
His voice was condescending, which pissed you off. He used that exact same tone whenever Aegon came back wasted from the streets in Ser Arryk's arms, covered in vomit, sweat, and questionable bodily fluids.
<<—We can't hand him back, grandfather. And he owes me a debt. The moment she gets him back, she’ll rise up against her rightful king again, and all our efforts will be for nothing.>>
You whispered flatly, leaning against the headboard of the bed as you watched Luke’s chest slowly rise and fall, though with more strength than a few hours ago.The gods seemed cruel; you never understood why they let creatures born of sin and dishonor live however they pleased. But now...his strength would be your strength.
The old man dressed in dark green with silver accents stared at you, just like Orwyle, just like your pathetic father, just like Aegon whenever you said something about his beyond shameful behavior.
Like the mistake was yours. Like you were completely blind.
Your grandfather's mouth opened to say something, as if he could control you, as if you were your mother when she was young...but you never listened. Maybe they were right; maybe you acted before you thought. So, you saved him the trouble of trying to convince you.
<<—He’s staying with me.>> you stated, moving from your spot until you stood directly in front of him. You didn't let him interrupt. Otto would never admit it, but sometimes he saw in your left eye the cold, determined look that Aegon was missing.
Or your mother.
<<—If anyone tries to take him away from me, I will leave this castle to its fate and go to Essos. Vhagar and I won't protect a roof that demands our protection without giving us anything in return—least of all what we caught ourselves. Something that was always ours.>>
