Chapter Text
“Wait, my Lord Strong.”
Luke freezes, every bone in his body grinds to a sudden and violent halt. Aemond’s voice echoes through the hall, firm and taunting, and Luke’s already pounding heart thunders up into the back of his throat as fear cracks its way down each of his nerves.
Even so, he holds his chin up high as he turns back to face his uncle. He’s imposing where he stands, the bright glow of his white hair like a beacon in the dark and dank hall. Luke lets it guide him forward as he steps back past the four knights that flank him, trying to hide the tremble in his knees and unsteadiness of his feet.
“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” Aemond asks lightly as he regards him, his arms casually held behind his back, looking for all the world relaxed despite the sudden tension in the room.
Luke isn’t fooled though. He recognises the coil of a snake about to strike, knows that Aemond has an agenda he plans to see out. He doesn’t know what to expect, he dreads to think where Aemond will take this, but he keeps his shoulders back as he narrows his eyes at him.
“I will not fight you,” he responds, gaze flicking briefly to the wicked sword at Aemond’s hip, well aware his own is but a toothpick in comparison. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”
“A fight would be little challenge.” Aemond huffs as he quirks his head just slightly to the side. Luke feels like he’s being flayed open for his amusement, Aemond’s glare ruthless and unforgiving despite the almost cheerful lilt to his voice. “No.”
He reaches up and in one fluid movement removes his leather eye patch. Luke’s breath hitches, seizing in his lungs as he sees the blue sapphire glinting where Aemond’s eye should be. He’s seen it before, once in Kings Landing before his grandsire died. It had stolen his breath then, albeit for a much different reason than now, and he finds himself unable to look away as Aemond stares at him with a cold fury.
“I want you to put out your eye,” he continues, sounding almost bored as Luke feels a sharp pang of sheer horror rip through him. “As payment for mine.” Aemond reaches for the dagger at his side. “One will serve.”
Luke swallows thickly, his hands shaking by his sides as Aemond throws the dagger at him, the clang of it meeting stone viciously loud as it skids across the stone floor. He stares at it where it lies at his feet, numb to the panic rearing up inside his chest, it’s sharp claws dragging down his sides as his blood starts to rush in his ears.
“I would not blind you,” Aemond drawls, and Luke knows he’s delighting in this. “Mm, plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”
The sudden silence is deafening. They’re not alone in the hall, Baratheon is watching intently from his throne and the knights on either side of Luke are silent and still while the rest seem rooted to the spot. Luke glances around, unable to see a single friendly face, a single ally amongst this madness, but then his eyes fall back onto Aemond.
Aemond.
Luke’s heart stutters. It hadn’t always been like this. They’d been friends once, family. But now a giant chasm spans between them that Luke wouldn’t know how to even begin crossing. So many things have happened, so many words spat, blood spilt. He barely recognises the young man that stands across from him now, the anger and hatred all but seeping off him in torrential waves.
The rest of the room falls away as Luke realises this is the first time since that horrible incident on Driftmark the two of them have been alone together. There’s no one to intervene, not Mother or the Queen, not Daemon or that asshole Cole.
It’s just them. Just them and years of vitriol. Two young boys with years of sinister history culminating in this one decisive moment… and Luke doesn’t see any other option but to take a deep steadying breath before picking up the dagger.
“You’re right,” he says, his voice hardly wavering, and it’s deeply satisfying to see the way Aemond’s gleeful expression crumbles into a frown. “An eye for an eye, as your mother demanded.”
It’s pure dumb courage that makes him raise the dagger and hover it above his right eye, vaguely thinking it will be poetic for him to be the opposite of Aemond, though he doubts his uncle would even care. He doesn’t want to do this, he can’t image the pain. He remembers the blood as it’d flowed out from between Aemond’s fingers, his screams of pain as he’d writhed on the ground, every flinch and broken gasp when the maester had stitched him up. He’d crossed to the chair Aemond had sat in the next morning, run his fingers over the grooves left behind in the wood from Aemond’s fingernails.
But he’s not stupid. The storm is wild and violent as it batters down on the castle unrelentingly, the sounds of their dragons crying out only just heard over the din. The storm has them as unsettled as their riders, and Luke knows that were he to leave these halls, he wouldn’t survive.
After all, while Arrax is young and strong, Vhagar is battle hardened from wars he could never dream to know of. The storm is unkind to Arrax but it is pittance to a dragon who was forged in the flames of adversity. Hesitance is not in her nature and neither is benevolence, and Luke will not sacrifice Arrax on her altar.
So it is simple. Does he lose his life, Arrax’s life… or an eye?
Jace always said there is a choice in every situation. Luke isn’t entirely sure this is what he had in mind.
He flinches as he feels a sharp scratch of pain, coming back to himself as his shaking hand presses the tip of his knife into the flesh of his cheek. He pulls it back unintentionally, glancing down to see the blade slick and shining red. His cheek burns as a hot tear of blood slides down over its curve, dripping off his chin to land on his clothes. It’s jarring, enough to make him take in a sharp gasp, but he holds firm to his resolve as he fixes his grip on the blade handle before looking back up at his uncle.
Aemond, who is closer than before, having crossed the hall until he’s nearly within arms reach. It makes Luke panic, worried that he’s coming to do the job himself, and he takes a half-step back.
“I will do it, Uncle,” he stutters, bringing the knife even closer to his eye, trying to draw the courage to push it in. “It is as you are owed.”
“Lucerys,” Aemond calls, his voice surprisingly unsteady, and Luke frowns as he reaches out a hand. “Keligon.”
Luke shakes his head though, refusing to stop. “It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
“Lucerys, no-”
Luke doesn’t wait though as he pulls the knife back and with a choked cry, he thrusts it forward.
Only to scream as someone crashes into him, throwing him to the ground. His head bounces off the stone with a sickening crunch, his vision flickers as the air rips from his lungs, searing pain tears through his cheek and his fingers fall away from the knife’s handle.
He sees glowing white hair, a glint of blue, and then the world goes black.
The first thing he feels when he is wakes, is pure pain.
He feels engulfed by it as it spreads out from a sharp point right on the back of his head, agonising tendrils crawling down his neck and over his shoulders. His head is dense and full, like it’s been stuffed with cotton, and his cheek under his right eye feels like a knife has been driven into it.
Which, if his foggy memory serves him right, it quite possibly has.
He takes a moment to try and orientate himself. While Jace is the hard-headed impulsive one of them, Luke is considerably more cautious, always better at accessing a situation before launching into it. Daemon calls him cagey while his mother praises him for being calculated. Frankly, Luke just doesn’t want to die from being stupid, and he’s vaguely aware that the last time he was conscious he was in the hall of a traitor with his murderous uncle towering over him.
So he pauses, forces back the overwhelming pain to take stock of what he can with his eyes closed. He feels a soft bed under his back with heavy sheets covering his body, hears the crack of the storm still raging outside, and he can smell the scent of burning sandalwood mixing with the pungency of dragon still on his clothes and skin. There’s nothing outwardly threatening that he can tell.
So slowly, Luke blearily drags open his eyes, his eyelids heavy enough for the effort to exhaust him. It’s soon chased away though by the realisation, as he blinks up at an unfamiliar stone ceiling, that he’s in fact looking with both eyes.
A wave of overwhelming relief crashes through him, however he still slowly closes his left eye to make sure he’s not delusional. His right eye is just as it was though, clear and sharp enough to see the details of the grouting between the stones lining the ceiling, able to move freely as he flicks it up and down. He’s drunk on the high, ignoring the aching tug all the movement draws from his cheek, and he feels a grin slowly start to split over his lips.
“What are you doing.”
Aemond’s sudden voice makes Luke’s other eye snap open and he sits bolt upright without thinking. It’s the wrong thing to do. The whole world spins beneath him as nausea burns it way up his throat, his head screaming out in agonising protest at the unexpected movement. He squeezes his eyes shut as he tries not to throw up, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him as he sways on the spot. He can hear a high pitched ringing in his ears, taste bile thick on the back of his tongue, and he wills himself to stay sitting despite the strong urge to fall back down on the bed.
He isn’t sure how long he sits with his head hanged, breathing thinly through his nose. Eventually, once the nausea subsides and the pain draws back to its edges, Luke begins to feel steady and stable once more. Aemond hasn’t spoken again, or if he has then Luke hasn’t heard him, and he reluctantly cracks opens his eyes to search for his uncle.
He finds him at the end of the bed, somehow managing to make the plush armchair he’s sitting in look deeply uncomfortable. He glowers furiously at Luke, arms firmly crossed over his chest and back rigid straight, his imposing eye patch back on. Luke stares back at him for a long moment, taking note how he’s still dressed in his own leathers, his ink black coat lending him a formidable silhouette despite his seated position, but the lack of sword at his side makes the nerves rolling in Luke’s stomach ease.
Aemond’s question, more of a statement really, hangs between them. “I wasn’t sure I’d wake up with both my eyes in tact,” Luke admits quietly, wincing when the drag on his jaw as he speaks antagonises his aching head.
“Despite your best attempts otherwise.” Aemond replies flatly, his glare unwavering.
Unbidden, Luke’s hand strays to his right cheek, wincing as his light touch makes it sting something fierce. There’s a gash there, bring back the hazy memory of a knife driving into his flesh, and while he feels no stitches, there’s still the pucker of torn skin beneath his eye. Aemond watches him the entire time, his gaze burning with something cool and angry even as he stays firmly seated.
Luke has to look away, dropping his hand back to his lap as he does so. He glances around the room, surprised to see that they’re clearly in some sort of guest suite, much like the quarters for traveling guests back on Dragonstone. It’s dark with the endless stone of the walls, floor, and ceiling, and what few windows are covered by heavy grey drapes that add a certain kind of dreariness to the room. However there are plenty of flickering candles dotted around in an attempt to bring a warm glow and the furnishing are a mix of the rich greens and yellows that make up the Baratheon house colours. It’s not quite enough as the crashing sounds of the ongoing storm outside diminishes the few comforts, but Luke can appreciate the attempt.
Although, just why Aemond is in here with him is a question he would like an answer for.
Aemond, who’s unblinking glower leaves Luke feeling strangely vulnerable where he lies in bed, and he drags his knees up to his chest before wrapping his arms around them. It’s painful but tolerable as his head is jostled, but he swallows it all back as he meets Aemond’s stare once more.
“Why are you here?” he asks, and Aemond arches a perfect eyebrow at him in response.
He pauses before answering though, his tone dripping with pure derision. “And just where else should I be?”
Luke’s lip curls up in agitation. “Gone,” he spits, unable to stop his bitterness. “Swallowed up by the storm on Vhagar’s back.”
Aemond watches him impassively for a moment before he sighs, something surprisingly uncharacteristic of the usually stone-like man. “As if I could. Baratheon has us locked in this room until he sees fit to find the key.”
Luke frowns. “We can’t leave?”
“No.” Aemond shakes his head. “Word has already been sent to our mothers that we are staying as his ‘guests’ until such times as a decision has been made on who he intends to support.”
The sarcastic way he calls them guests is distracted by the rest of the sentence. “Decision?” Luke demands, sitting up straighter. “House Baratheon swore an oath to House Targaryen!”
“Yes.” Aemond leans forward in his seat to curl an unkind smile at Luke, his hands falling from his chest to grip the armrests of the chair, “and now there are two Targaryen’s claiming the throne, one of which is the true heir and the other an usurper.”
“One?” Luke scoffs, and Aemond sneers at him.
“Your mother is a whore and half her children are bastards,” he snarls, seething with barely restrained rage. “She deserves nothing short of execution for high treason while you bastards rot in the gutters of Flea Bottom.”
Luke feels sick, a wretched feeling right to his very core. His breathing wavers, hitching in the back of his throat as he squeezes his arms around his legs until it hurts. Aemond’s glare is full of vitriol and hatred, his words hang heavy and vile in the air, and Luke struggles to find his own in response.
“You can’t mean to tell me you intend to stay here until Lord Baratheon decides what to do with us,” he finally settles on, unable to bring himself to address Aemond’s sick insults. He’s surprised though when Aemond huffs at him.
“No,” he responds. “But I can’t leave you behind either.”
That startles Luke and he glances at him in surprise. “What?” He shakes his head, wincing at the pain. “Why? There is no love loss between us. Surely you would feel no regret leaving me at his mercy.”
“Then you are ignorant,” Aemond snaps. “Leaving you at the mercy of an undecided liege lord could spell disaster for either one of our families.” He sniffs derisively and turns his head as if to ignore him. “I have not the time to educate you on why if you are too foolish to know yourself.”
Luke tries not to feel the sting of his words. “I could at least offer some help if you shared your thoughts.”
Aemond snorts. “As if a boy like you would have any helpful ideas.”
Luke glares at him. “We have dragons,” he points out rather obviously. “We get on them, fly away, and forget about this whole ordeal.”
Aemond’s head snaps to him and Luke tries not to reel back at the sudden attention as Aemond’s eye glints sharply. “Forget about it?” Aemond demands. “You tried to put out your eye.”
“For a retribution you demanded six years ago!” Luke’s own anger flares viciously. “Something you seem unable to let go!”
Aemond clenches his teeth, tightly enough that Luke can see the muscles working in his jaw. “You know nothing of what you speak.”
Luke shakes his head, refusing to acknowledge the burning behind his eyes, the wetness he feels gathering in their corners. “I have lived in fear-”
“Fear?” Aemond shouts, making Luke’s mouth snap shut. “Is that what bastards call it?” He leans forward in his chair as his lips curl back into a contemptuous snarl. “You have been nothing but cocky and unrepentant since the moment you took my eye. I’ve felt your vindictive gaze for years upon my back-”
“And your glare upon mine!” Luke interrupts desperately.
“Half of what it should have been!”
Luke throws his hands up in frustration, feeling woozy as the movement nearly sends him sprawling backwards onto the bed. “I offered you my eye,” he cries, “I have tried to give you what you want, and you have refused it. What more can I possibly give?”
Aemond huffs and looks away. The air rings around them, their furious words filing the room uncomfortably, and Luke feels a sob building in the back of his throat he desperately wills away. To break down, to show weakness… he would never forgive himself.
“Why are you so cruel?” he asks meekly, his voice soft in comparison to their previous hateful words. Aemond stares at him as Luke shakes his head slowly, reluctantly meeting his uncle’s eye. “What has twisted and warped you into this… this hateful monster?”
Aemond laughs, sharp and humourless. “Oh come now, my Lord Strong,” he jeers. “You were there. Don’t think you don’t remember.” His splayed fingers are white-knuckled tight on the armrests. “I see the way you smirk whenever a roasted boar is anywhere near.”
Luke’s mind races, memories pouring past. “Because of that prank?” he blurts disgracefully, Aemond flinching at his words. “All because of a meaningless prank we pulled-”
“It wasn’t just a prank,” Aemond interrupts with a snap, and Luke stares at him in disbelief.
“Aemond, we were children-”
“I was dragonless!” Aemond roars, his voice echoing in the room as he launches to his feet, storming forward until he’s towering over Luke with the baleful glare of a thousand suns. “I was the only one of Targaryen blood to be without a dragon! I wasn’t treated as you and your bastard brothers, nor even my brothers or sister.” Aemond’s hand flies out as if to snatch at Luke’s shirt, only for him to curl it into a fist and drop it back to his side. “I wasn’t given an egg in my cradle to hatch and grown with me, nor was I gifted the chance to claim one for my own. For some reason my sire,” he spits the word and Luke flinches, “didn’t see fit do to the same.”
Aemond turns, stalking away from Luke towards one of the windows, his breathing ragged and heavy as his shoulders drag up and down with each one. Luke aches for him despite everything, knowing what it’s like to feel as if your chest is turning against you, what its like for it to contract until not even a single wisp of air can grace your lungs.
“I was dragonless,” Aemond repeats tightly as he leans against the wall, looking for all the world like its the only thing holding him up. “Half a Targaryen, worthless in the eyes of our ancestors….” He glances back at Luke, a glistening sheen to his eye as his voice catches. “Yet you saw it as a joke to play to your fucking pleasure. And when I chose to challenge the lot I’d been dealt, well.”
He gestures at his eye, the one hidden beneath the leather patch, and Luke feels such a phenomenal wave of pure shame crash over him that he has to look away.
In all honesty, Luke has never thought of it that way. He’s spent recent years so wrapped up in himself and his family, barely considering his aunts and uncles as part of that, that he’d forgotten that they are human too with their own history and expectations. Just as he feels the brunt and weight from the expectation of Driftmark, Aemond had felt it too as the only one of their family without a dragon.
Luke tries to imagine himself without Arrax and finds he simply can’t. Arrax hatched in his cradle, has been with him from the very moment he opened his eyes, the two of them had breathed and moved in perfect sync even long after Arrax grew to big to fit inside the walls of Dragonstone. Even now he can feel the pull for Arrax deep in his chest, tucked somewhere between his heart and ribs, an indescribable feeling he will never be able to put words to no matter the language.
To be without that… Luke aches.
For so long he’s been angry that Aemond stole Vhagar from Rhaena, but as he glances up to see Aemond has turned away from him, his trenchcoat casting his back into one long shadow, he realises that perhaps that wasn’t the case after all. Vhagar isn’t a dragon to be trifled with and he doubts that she would accept a rider she would not consider befitting of her. Truthfully, despite his love for her, Luke doesn’t believe that Rhaena carries the fire in her that could match Vhagar’s own.
Aemond though, Aemond’s fire burns fiercest than most. The picture perfect Targaryen, and yet to be without a dragon to complete him? Luke feels the lingering tendrils of those years of anger finally ebb away to be replaced with something he would dread to consider pride.
But then Aemond lets out a shuddering breath and Luke blinks away all thoughts as his uncle curls in on himself, as if the fight has rushed from his body. Suddenly, his coat is too big on him, heavy as if to drag him down, and Luke’s gnawing guilt grows larger as Aemond’s hand clenches into a fist where it’s pressed against the wall while the other comes up to grip his hair tight at his scalp.
For the first time, Luke sees Aemond for who he is, a young man teetering on the edge of war, playing with its fringes as if he has any say in how it will proceed, moulded by years of mockery and grief he’s warped into a rage so thick he wears it as a coat of armour, not understanding it holds him down more than it will ever protect him.
He sees someone wounded and scarred and realises his part to play in it is no small thing.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the room, nearly drowned out by the crashing storm outside, and he sees Aemond flinch in front of him. “For the grief I’ve caused you, the harm. I was a child, but I should have known better.” He bites his lip before he lets out a shaky laugh. “I will offer you my eye in retribution again-”
“No.” Aemond cuts him off, and Luke sees the defeated slump to his shoulders. “I will not ask for it any longer.”
“But you were right,” Luke insists, not entirely sure why. “It is what is owed.”
“It is not what I want.” Aemond turns then. His face is ashen and drawn, his eye downcast and dull. “I believed I did. For a long time I have thought of nothing more than watching you rip your eye from your skull and presenting it to my mother.” Luke shrinks away but he doesn’t see even a hint of satisfaction from Aemond. Instead, there’s only a deep tiredness. “As it turns out, it was not as satisfying as I thought it would be.”
Luke frowns. “I did not do it.”
Aemond sighs. “And for that, I am grateful.” Luke opens his mouth, but Aemond holds his hand up with a shake of his head. “Lyka,” he orders, “let us speak of this no more.”
Luke does as he’s instructed, falling quiet without argument, and Aemond gives him a wary look before he crosses back to the armchair. Luke watches him as he sinks down into it, his heart beating timidly in his chest, but Aemond doesn’t look at him again.
He waits though, just for a moment, before he lets the quiet swoop in, filling the air between them, pushing them away from one another once more.
Eventually, the silence drags on for too long.
There’s no way to tell how much time goes by as they sit, stony and still. The candles continue to melt and the storm still rages outside. There’s a crack between the heavy drapes that shows nothing but pitch black darkness, however Luke isn’t entire sure whether it’s day or night. Storms End has never been known for its sunny days and bright skies, and Luke finds himself resting his unwounded cheek on his knees as he watches to see if perhaps maybe this time it will be different.
No one comes to see them and the door remains closed on the other side of the room. Luke strains his ears at one point to see if there is anyone behind it only to hear the muffled sound of the clinking of armour. Guards, most likely, and Luke knows that even if the door were unlocked, they would be hard pressed to get far without weapons of their own.
After all, Aemond’s intimating blade is missing alongside Luke’s own. It appears they’d been frisked before being locked away like damsels. While Aemond is still dressed in his leather ensemble, dark and foreboding, Luke’s red cloak is strewn over a nearby chest of drawers alongside his belts, his boots lie abandoned near the door, his leather gloves on the table beside the bed, and he’s been undressed down to his doublet and leather pants, his father’s golden medallion necklace thankfully still sitting heavy on his chest.
He isn’t entirely sure he’d be quite so calm were he to have lost that.
Tired and restless, he finds himself sighing as he lifts his head to see Aemond hasn’t moved an inch where he sits stiffly in that armchair, staring unseeingly into the middle distance. It’s almost frightening just how motionless he is, only the sight of his chest slowly rising and falling giving away the fact he’s not a statute.
Luke would consider him one too, perfectly sculpted out of flawless white marble, all sharply cut angles… cold.
“This is getting us nowhere,” he says before he can catch himself, his voice much too loud even for his own ears. Aemond doesn’t move, doesn’t even give a sign that he’s heard him, and Luke lets out a frustrated noise. “Like I said, we have dragons-”
That makes Aemond twitch, and he swings his head around to Luke, cutting him off. “They’re gone, Lucerys.”
Luke’s mouth falls open as a frown creases his brow. “Gone?” he repeats, feeling foolish as Aemond simply stares at him. “How?”
Aemond purses his lips. “It appears Baratheon has been preparing for a Targaryen war longer than we have, or at least anticipated an unrest.” He tilts his head towards the windows. “While you were unconscious, his men drove them away with the colossal scorpions he has mounted on the keeps battlements.”
Luke stares at him, his heart thundering in his chest. “No…” he whispers, but Aemond gives him a strangely pitying look.
“They are not dead, Lucerys,” he reassures him gruffly as Luke blinks teary eyes at him. “Can you not still feel Arrax?”
Luke takes a steadying breath and closes his eyes, willing away the fear and terror that’s plaguing him deep in his chest. He seeks out the bond he shares with Arrax, the deep golden glow that surrounds the long thread connecting them, binds them, and as his racing heart starts to slow… he finds it still radiating strongly out from his core.
He nearly crumbles with pure relief before he sends feelings of warmth and love down it, desperate for Arrax to know he’s okay. The roar of anger and concern that comes tearing back is nearly instant despite how far away it feels, and Luke breathes easier when he realises the pain that mingles along their shared bond is solely from his own side.
“He’s okay,” he breathes, opening his eyes to give Aemond a grateful smile. “Worried, but okay.”
Aemond doesn’t respond, just remains as cool and impassive as ever, before he turns away. It seems that’s the end of their conversation, but Luke refuses to let it be so. They have to get out of here, both of them, and he’s aware that if Aemond is not going to leave him behind then it will have to be together.
“Fine,” he says as he lowers his legs back to the bed, ignoring the ache in the backs of his knees from having held his curled up position for so long. “No dragons then. What about horses? We find the stable and ride out of here.”
Aemond lets out a deep sigh as he turns in his chair to face Luke again. “We do not know where the stables are-”
“I do,” Luke cuts him off, satisfied at the way it makes Aemond’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “I saw them when I flew in. They’re just past the main courtyard, halfway between the keep and the front gate.” He glances back over to the door though. “The guards, however.”
“I can deal with the guards.”
Luke scoffs. “Without a weapon?” He gives Aemond a pointed look. “I remember you fight well, uncle, but against armed opponents without your sword?” He shakes his head. “I do not believe you have the odds.”
Aemond glowers at him. “You underestimate me, nephew.”
Luke holds his gaze before he inclines his head. “Fine. You deal with the guards.” He swallows, suddenly nervous even as he tries to remain confident. “I’ll get us to the stables.”
Aemond considers him for a long moment. Luke can see he’s trying to remain as stony as usual, his mouth pursed into a flat line, but he can see the war going on behind his gaze. There’s a doubt there clear as day, and Luke knows Aemond will be weighing up the odds of taking a chance on him. In all fairness, there’s no other option, especially not if they wish to leave together and in one piece. Aemond has the fighting prowess that Luke lacks and Luke has at least a reasonable knowledge of the layout of Storms End.
It seems Aemond comes to the same realisation too as he finally lets out a huff and nods.
“See to it you get us there,” he growls, although it lacks his usual attempts at intimidation. “I don’t want to be stranded in the middle of this forsaken fort with the wrath of the Baratheon’s surrounding us while you dally over your lefts and rights.”
It’s a weak insult but Luke pretends it lands as Aemond clearly intended it. “Of course, uncle,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of leading you astray.”
Aemond’s attempt at rolling his eye would have more effect were he to have both, something that Luke thinks haughtily only to feel a pang of guilt, but he follows it up by swiftly getting to his feet. Luke is wary as Aemond crosses the room to Luke’s side, even more so when he offers a hand down to him.
Luke stares at it for a moment until Aemond lets out an annoyed huff. “Take it,” he grumbles and Luke glances up at him in surprise. “Escape is just a vague concept if you cannot even cross the room without passing out.”
Luke grits his teeth, well aware that the display he put on sitting up earlier must’ve been dramatic enough to warrant such thoughts. Embarrassingly, it’s why he’s not moved from his position this entire time, terrified he’ll stand and drop immediately to the floor. The pain has subsided in the back of his head to a dull roar, but he knows it will come back with a vengeance the moment he attempts to move.
Nevertheless, Aemond is right, and Luke reluctantly reaches out to take his uncles hand. He expects it be cold and smooth, like the marble Aemond so clearly was carved from, but he’s surprised at how warm it is as the rough callouses of years of wielding a sword scratch across his palm. He tries not to focus on how small his hand is as Aemond’s own dwarfs it in comparison, and he swallows down his nerves before using Aemond’s firm grip on his hand to pull himself to the edge of bed.
As predicted, his head protests violently. A sudden bout of nausea rips up his throat and Luke claps his spare hand over his mouth as if to stop it. He freezes where he sits, closing his eyes and willing the pain and sickness back, begging himself to not show this kind of weakness in front of Aemond.
However, Aemond doesn’t let go of his hand, even squeezes it as if to reassure him, and Luke blinks watery eyes up at his uncle to see him looking back with a guarded expression.
“Māzigon va,” Aemond coaxes him, and Luke takes in a thin breath through his nose before he pushes forward again.
He gets his feet on the ground, the stone cold and chilling even through his thick woollen socks, and he takes just a moment to collect himself. Somehow, he knows that Aemond won’t let him fall, and it’s only because of the conviction he feels in that belief that he grits his teeth and stands in one quick flourish.
Agony strikes through his head, driven like a knife burying itself between the plates of his skull, and Luke’s knees buckle as he starts to collapse back down. He dreads the hard floor rushing up to meet him, feeling a sudden flicker of fear that maybe he was wrong to trust Aemond… but then a firm arm wraps around his waist and halts his inevitable fall.
“Careful now, Lucerys.” Aemond’s arm tightens around him. “We wouldn’t want you to crack that pretty little head of yours again.”
Any gratitude immediately vanishes and it’s only the throbbing in his head that stops Luke from shooting Aemond a filthy glare. He ignores him instead before reorienting himself and standing up straight, using Aemond’s arm around his waist to balance against. He still feels wobbly and ill, but his determination is stronger and once the world stops spinning, he takes his first step.
It’s painstaking to cross to the other side of the room, but it grows easier with each step. His head still smarts and the odd jostle has it feeling like an ice pick is driving its way through his skull, making his eyes twitch and his knees falter. He perseveres though, his jaw clenched and his hand tight around Aemond’s, until soon his gait becomes smoother and his strides longer.
Through it all, Aemond stays at his side, his arm unfaltering around his waist, his hand warm and strong as it grips Luke’s back. He doesn’t say a word, even if Luke quietly wishes he would offer some encouragement, but his presence is heartening if not a warning not to fail.
It seems a handful of laps around the room is enough for Aemond, and Luke nearly weeps in relief when his uncle finally brings him to sink down into his vacated armchair. He’s reluctant to let go of Aemond’s hand, confused as to where that urge has come from, but he pushes it to the side as Aemond releases him and steps back with his arms firmly crossed over his chest.
He purses his lips when Luke looks up at him, well aware he’s pale and sweating, but Aemond doesn’t seem moved. If anything, his eye narrows and he gives Luke a sharp nod.
“We may just survive yet,” he mutters, and Luke sinks back into the chair in relief.