Year: 129 AC

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The balcony perched high above the roaring waves of Blackwater Bay offered a breathtaking view, even as dusk settled in. Lucerys Velaryon, standing with an uneasy countenance, watched as the sun's last glimmers bathed the horizon in a radiant display of gold and crimson before vanishing entirely. The fading light cast elongated shadows across the balcony, but the young prince couldn't help but shudder as he turned his gaze toward the inky depths of the bay.

The sea, an endless expanse that both enchanted and terrified him, seemed to hold secrets within its dark embrace. It whispered tales of bravery and adventure, to a true Velaryon anyways, but Luke was not a true Velaryon. His fear of the sea was a shame he bore silently, eventually averting his eyes from the foreboding waters, memories clawing at the edges of his mind. He vividly recalled the funeral of his father, the weight of grief heavy in the air as the sea claimed the coffin, dragging it beneath the waves, swallowing the remains of a beloved man. The sight of the heavy stone sinking into the darkness was etched in his memory, haunting him whenever he stood too close to the water's edge.

The sea had fingers.

Bastard, it called him, reaching out to drag him down.

Bastard, just like his uncle had called them all. The very same uncle who possessed his sister.

Luke wondered if she'd get a Velaryon funeral if the Greens killed her, the waves closing over her unseeing violet eyes, her still lifeless form in a stone coffin that could never do her brilliance justice.

Selfishly, he imagined he wouldn't mind her betrayal all that much if it kept her alive. He was not like Jace, a coiled spring ready to burst into curses at the mere mention of her name. He just wanted her alive, and even if she hated them all now and stood with the enemy, perhaps she might counsel mercy for them if she held the ear of the false king's brother.

Lucerys Velaryon was not Jace, with his seemingly endless supply of courage. No, Lucerys Velaryon was a coward and he did not wish to die. He did not wish for anyone to die.

Perhaps that made him more naive than their youngest brother Viserys, dreaming of a peaceful end to an impending war that only promised violence.

Before his unease could escalate into a nauseating discomfort, a familiar sound, the clearing of a throat, broke his reverie. Luke turned to see Lord Corlys Velaryon, making his slow approach, leaning slightly on his cane. Concern flashed across his face, his instinct to assist the older man instantaneous.

"Grandsire," he began, stepping forward with a worried furrow in his brow. "You shouldn't strain yourself."

Lord Corlys chuckled softly at the young prince's immediate response, patting his cheek affectionately, "Ah, my dear boy, you needn't fret over an old man like me. I've weathered far worse storms than a simple stroll."

"Still, you must be careful."

"I will, if you do the same."

The warmth in Lord Corlys's gaze washed over him, a comforting presence amidst the turmoil within, grounding him in the present moment. It didn't matter that he was unfit to be Lord of the Tides, that the waves made him sick, that he was simply unworthy. His grandfather was alive and for now, it made things a little better.

"Worried about your sister, are you?"

"She would not betray us!"

They were the first words out of his mouth when anyone spoke of her. It didn't matter what she did. She was still his sister. He would defend her good name with his every breath.

"No, she would not," Lord Corlys agreed with a small smile.

Luke nodded, then faltered, as if not expecting him to concede so easily.

"We all have our reasons for doing what we do, and love is the strangest reason of all. I am certain your sister will make her way back to us, when the gods will it."

"I hope that is soon."

"Of course, but what else bothers you, young prince?"

The brunette boy lowered his gaze, suddenly fascinated by his shoes. What could he even say? To regale his grandfather with excuses of his own inadequacy felt improper, but he never had been particularly talented at masking his emotions, at the art of deception.

"The journey to Storm's End..." Luke began, "I may not be able to convince Lord Borros. What if I fail?"

Lord Corlys paused, a contemplative glint in his weathered eyes. With deliberate care, he reached up around his neck, unfastening a leather cord adorned with an iron anchor, tarnished with age yet gleaming faintly in the fading light. He closed his fingers around the thing, squeezing it once before pressing it into Luke's hand.

"Even failures teach us lessons. Whatever happens at Storm's End, there will be a lesson in it for all of us, so worry not."

The prince looked down at the heirloom with a mix of curiosity and reverence, his fingers tracing the intricate contours of the object.

"What is this, Grandsire?" he inquired, his voice soft with awe, unsure of the significance behind the artifact.

"This, my dear boy, is something that has brought me good fortune for years. It is why I have survived all the battles I have so far. It belonged to my father, and to his father before him."

He hesitated for a moment, a fleeting shadow passing over his expression. It was all a superstitious hoax, but regret still lingered in the old man's chest, at not being able to pass it along to Laenor. Perhaps the thing might have brought him some luck too. Perhaps it might have saved him from his fate.

"It belonged to my father, and his father before him," Lord Corlys continued with a shake of his head, his gaze distant for a moment before returning to the brunette before him. " I want you to have it now, Luke."

"But, Grandfather, I couldn't possibly accept such a precious item!"

He looked slightly alarmed at the gravity of the gift. He was not worthy. He wasn't even Lord Corlys's true kin, he did not deserve a family heirloom.

Lord Corlys chuckled, a warm sound that echoed against the cool evening breeze.

"I'm only lending it to you, for luck on your journey. I'll want it back when you return, mind you. I have many battles left in me before I meet the Stranger, you see."

"Of course Grandsire."

"But in time, as these old bones grow weary of the sea, it will return to its rightful place, with you, so that you may pass it on."

With a solemn nod and a grateful smile, Luke pocketed the iron anchor, feeling its weight against his chest, a tangible reminder of his duties, his responsibilities.

There wasn't much time to dwell on his grandfather's words because just as he had left, his mother arrived, accompanied by Jace, Baela, and Ser Erryk. In her hands, Rhaenyra held two scrolls, while Jace bore his trademark scowl.

"It's been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men," she began, her voice instantly putting him at ease. "And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms... we must answer to their gods."

The children exchanged a curious glance. It was rare for their mother to speak of the gods, but now as she gestured toward Ser Erryk, and as he brought forth an old almost crumbling copy of the Seven-Pointed Star, their gathering became a little more solemn.

"If you take this errand, you go as messengers... not as warriors," she continued sternly. "You must take no part in any fighting. Swear it to me now under the eyes of the Seven."

Ser Erryk stepped closer, presenting the holy text to them.

Luke hazarded a glance back at Jace who held himself stiffly, eyes flickering between the book and his mother. Rhaenyra watched them expectantly, both a request and a command in her eyes, and it was at that moment, that Luke shot his hand forward to meet the brittle cover, his fingers splayed across the gilded star at its center.

"I swear it."

It didn't even matter to him what book lay beneath his palm. Not when what he really swore on was his mother. His mother's name, his mother's command.

His mother. His faith.

She could have replaced the Seven-Pointed Star with one of Viserys's picture books that he had haphazardly scribbled all over, and Lucerys Velaryon would still have sworn that oath, and he tried to convey that in his earnest gaze.

Baela joined him soon after, "I swear it, Your Grace."

They all turned expectantly toward their oldest brother, Baela raising an expectant eyebrow at him until he too finally echoed their words begrudgingly.

"I swear it."

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms nodded, dismissing the knight with her gratitude before returning her attention to her children.

"Cregan Stark is... closer to your age than to mine," she addressed the older two first, handing Baela a scroll. "I would hope that you can find some common interest."

"Yes, Your Grace," the two chimed, taking their leave with a deep bow.

Rhaenyra smiled. It was one thing to hear the title from her subjects, from the various lords and residents of Dragonstone, but another entirely to hear it from those who held her heart in the palms of their hands.

She was their mother first, then their queen. Perhaps she'd remind them of it when they returned.

Her younger son remained behind, and she coulda almost feel the thundering of his heart just as surely as she could feel her own pulse. He was scared. She saw it in his furrowed brow that she smoothed away with her thumb, and in the frown that marred his lips.

"Storm's End is a short flight from here," she reassured. "You have Baratheon blood from your grandmother, Rhaenys."

Lucerys did not utter a word of protest, but he could hear the sea below them deny her words. He had not a drop of Baratheon blood.

Bastard.

Bastard.

Coward.

"And... Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honoured to host a prince of the realm... and his dragon. I expect you will receive a very warm welcome."

When she reached out to clasp his hands and give him his scroll, he could not help but smile. He remembered how Jace would scoff at him for always needing someone to hold his hand, a trait that followed him through childhood. A trait that his brothers teased him for and his sister indulged.

"Yes, Mother...er-" he closed his eyes, groaning internally at his slip of the tongue. "Your Grace."

Rhaenyra chuckled outright now.

"I am still your Mother, Lucerys."

"Yes, Your-"

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow in amusement as he struggled to find his words.

"Yes, Mother."

She patted his cheek affectionately before sending him off, watching him descend the stairs with a mixture of pride and apprehension, her heart fluttering with maternal concern for all three of her envoys.

Just as he disappeared from her line of sight, an unexpected rush of movement surged back toward her. Before she could register what was happening, he came hurtling back, his frame crashing into her with astonishing speed. She staggered slightly but quickly wrapped her arms around him, feeling the thunderous rhythm of his heart against her chest.

Rhaenyra felt a strange pang of grief. She had carried seven children in her lifetime, but none had a heartbeat as strong as her Visenya and Lucerys. In fact, during the later days of her term, if she sat very still and silent, she could feel the steady pulse of their life, and now in the frantic hummingbird's thrum of Luke's heart against her ribcage, she felt an echo of Visenya's too.

She held him even closer then, feeling the warmth of his embrace, relishing the spontaneity of his affectionate gesture. With a tender smile, she pressed her cheek against his tousled hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her son, finally planting a soft kiss to his temple.

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Aemond Targaryen had been uncertain what sort of welcome he would receive when he set out for Storm's End, his head clear enough to maintain a semblance of sobriety, but the reckless abandon that always accompanied alcohol remained, humming in his bloodstream with the promise of destruction.

He was not going to do it initially, in fact, he already refused his grandfather when he had first asked him to visit Lord Borros and offer himself up to one of his daughters. He thought it beneath him, to fly about the kingdom to gather allies while his brother continued to waste himself in his drinks and his women.

Then his mother made the request, hands clasped, supplicating, pleading, and he could not refuse her.

He would be lying if he said that his arguments with both his wife and his sister earlier in the day had no bearing on his behaviour, but the truth of the matter was that he needed to escape the Red Keep for a little while, unable to bear the faces of disappointment that shadowed his every move, his every waking thought. There was an energy in him that he did not know what to do with and he'd drive himself pacing the empty halls.

His mother was the only one who did not treat him like he had let her down somehow, so he would continue to prove to her how much more worthy he was, and how he'd never be the one to disappoint her.

Whatever he was expecting from the lord of Storm's End, it was not this, an itinerary filled with feasts and hunts and jousting. He had only just arrived, but Lord Borros proved more than willing to entertain his suit.

"I have four daughters," he told the prince. "Choose any one you like. Cassandra is the oldest, so she's already flowered but Floris is prettier. And if it's a clever wife you want, there's Maris."

His daughters accompanied him in the great hall and Aemond recognized the oldest one by the scathing glare she threw her father's way when he mentioned her by name.

Lady Cassandra Baratheon. The one-eyed prince had heard much about her over the years, and her calculating gaze was exactly as Daenys described, shrewd, enigmatic. He couldn't quite make out what she thought of the whole affair.

"The marriage pact is for my nephew Prince Jaehaerys, Lord Borros," Aemond clarified. "I doubt he would care much for a clever wife, so your youngest will do."

He saw Floris Baratheon stiffen, eyes widening at his selection while Cassandra reached down to squeeze her hand reassuringly. He found that a part of him enjoyed their unease. He wondered if Helaena knew of this proposal concocted by their mother, in an attempt to placate him into obedience, for Alicent knew he would not have gone if he was meant to offer himself up to Lord Borros's daughters. He wondered what Helaena would think if she knew, would she acquiesce as she often did to demands made by their mother, or would this be the thing that drove her to action?

See, he wanted to tell her, I am always thinking of you, I have always cared what you think.

Perhaps she would turn her ire onto him, for carrying forth the deal when she had practically begged him to keep her children out of it.

"Your nephew, my Prince? I was under the impression that..." Lord Borros frowned in contemplation before thinking better of his next words.

"My nephew is the heir to the Iron Throne. Your daughter would be the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms if you choose to support my brother's rightful claim."

Rightful claim.

The words were bitter in his mouth but he said them anyway.

"Of course, I meant no disrespect. The true king will have our support. Princess Rhaenyra has taken House Baratheon for granted for too long. Aye, Princess Rhaenys is kin to me and mine, some great-aunt I never knew was married to her father, but both of them are now dead, and Rhaenyra...she's not Rhaenys, is she?"

"My brother will be pleased to hear it, my lord."

"I have nothing against women," Lord Borros went on to say hastily. "I love my girls, and a daughter is a precious thing to be sure...but a son, ahhh..." — he sighed dramatically throwing his hands up into the air — "should the gods ever grant me a son of my own blood, Storm's End would pass to him, not to his sisters."

Aemond watched Lady Casandra grit her teeth, and even as she kept a placid expression on her face, he could sense the indignation in her gaze. Perhaps they had something in common then, although to be passed over for a brother who did not even yet exist was a different sort of pathetic.

"Why should the Iron Throne be any different?" Lord Borros was still rambling, "And with a royal marriage in the offing...Rhaenyra's cause is lost, she will see that when she learns that she has lost Storm's End. I will tell her so myself...bow down to your brother, aye, it's for the best" — he pointed toward his daughters — "my girls fight with each other sometimes, the way girls do, but I see to it that they always make peace afterward..."

It was an amusing conversation, but just as the one-eyed prince was about to excuse himself out of boredom, his night became significantly more interesting.

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Lightning danced and jagged streaks lit up the eastern horizon, casting an eerie, electric glow that painted the darkened landscape of the night sky. Heavy rain cascaded down in torrents, turning both ground and boy into a sodden mess.

Prince Lucerys, his figure illuminated by the sporadic flashes of lightning, slid off his dragon, the droplets of rain glistening on his determined countenance. In his hand, he tightly clutched a parchment, the ink of his mother's message surely smudged by the relentless downpour.

As he landed on the muddy ground, his eyes scanned the tumultuous sky. A shiver coursed through him, not just from the biting cold of the rain but also from the foreboding silhouette that loomed against the storm. Vhagar was here, her hulking shadow casting an imposing figure that seemed to devour the very darkness around her. Her bellowing roar reverberated through the air, a deafening sound that shook the very foundations of the earth and the sheer force of her call resonated deep within, causing even Arrax, brave as he was, to quiver.

Lucerys Velaryon stood his ground, his resolve unwavering despite the overwhelming display of might before him. He wanted to return home. He wanted to return home so badly, to the warmth and safety of Dragonstone and his mother's embrace.

No, he would not be a coward. He could not fail his mother.

Clutching the crumpled parchment tighter, he steeled himself against the elements, making his way toward the castle where he knew he most likely would fail to convince Lord Borros, especially if his uncle was already there, but at least no one would be able to say that he hadn't tried.

Briefly, he was filled with a surge of hope that if Aemond was here then Daenys might be too, but as Lord Borros's knights led him inside, those hopes were dashed when only the one-eyed prince confronted him in the Round Hall, before the eyes of Lord Borros, his four daughters, septon, and maester, and twoscore knights, guards, and servants.

Everyone was here, except the one person who needed to be.

Perhaps if he was being so brave already, he'd be a little braver and pay a visit to King's Landing after concluding his business in Storm's End. Perhaps he'd be able to meet his sister there, and no one would have to know. It was her name day after all, and he had promised her that he'd come to see her.

"Prince Lucerys Velaryon, son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen," a knight announced.

Luke swallowed, eyes carefully focused on the lord who lounged on his stone throne.

"Lord Borros... I brought you a message from my mother... the Queen."

"Yet earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King," Lord Borros answered, Aemond's lips twitching in a half smile. "So, which is it? King or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it."

He chuckled, gaze flickering between the two princes, as if waiting to see their reactions.

"Look at this sad creature, my lord," Prince Aemond drawled. "Little Luke Strong, the bastard." To Luke, he said, "You are wet, bastard. Is it raining or did you piss yourself in fear?"

He could imagine the twin expressions of dismay on the faces of both his wife and his sister, and the thought only served to enrage him further. He would call the bastard by its name all he liked here. Just the presence of the brunette boy brought back the terrible memory of the night in Driftmark, his eye throbbing in response.

My brother should have taken out both your eyes.

"What's your mother's message?" the lord demanded of the steadfast boy, who handed the parchment scroll to one of the accompanying knights.

Never a man of letters, Lord Borros handed the queen's letter to his maester, who cracked the seal and whispered the message into his lordship's ear. A frown stole across his face, and he stroked his beard in contemplation, scowling at the young princeling eventually.

"Remind me of my father's oath?" he thundered. "King Aegon at least came with an offer, my swords and banners for a marriage pact. If I do as your mother bids... which one of my daughters will you wed... boy?" — He gestured at the four girls with a sneer — "Pick one."

Luke blanched, eyeing the Baratheon girls and then his uncle.

A marriage pact?

His uncle had been married to his sister in the ways of the Faith in front of hundreds. Still, he was here to offer his hand for the sake of an alliance? For the first time, Lucerys Velaryon felt the tendrils of bitter resentment creeping into his heart. Daenys had betrayed them for such a man. She had chosen to stand with a husband who did not even honour her or their union.

He refused to entertain the other notion that whispers at the edges of his consciousness — that the only reason Aemond would be seeking a new wife would be if his previous one was dead.

"My lord, I am not free to marry," he finally replied. "I am betrothed to my cousin, the Lady Rhaena Targaryen."

"So you come with empty hands? I thought as much. Go home, pup, and tell the bitch your mother that the Lord of Storm's End is not a dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes."

His voice echoed in the chamber, and Luke resisted the urge to flinch at the fury in his words.

"I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord," the princeling bowed his head.

As he turned to take his leave of the Round Hall, he was interrupted by a familiar voice.

Aemond Targaryen wasn't going to let his fun end this early.

"Wait... my lord Strong..." he murmured, his voice dangerously low. "Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother's throne at no cost?"

"I will not fight you," Luke tensed, remembering his oath to his mother. "I came as a messenger, not a warrior."

"A fight would be little challenge... no... I want you to put out your eye... as payment for mine."

Then he tore off his eye patch and flung it to the floor, to show the sapphire beneath. He had never publicly disclosed his disfigurement in such a way but a thrill ran through him at the appalled expression on his nephew's face.

Regret and fear warred for a place in Lucerys Velaryon's eyes.

"One will serve. I would not blind you."

You may even choose which one, a privilege you did not grant me.

His thoughts echoed the words his mother had uttered all those years ago, and when he plucked the dagger from his belt and flung it toward Luke, the younger prince's flinching form made him grin.

"Plan to make a gift of it to my mother."

Later he would tell himself that he wasn't quite in control of his actions, that the entire evening was just one mishap after another, that he did not mean the words that bled through his lips or the actions actions committed by his own hands. He would beg and plead but the truth of the matter remained, and no amount of self-reproach or forgiveness could erase the past.

Luke lifted his chin in defiance, "No."

"You came here as a craven and a traitor," Aemond answered. "I will have your eye or your life, Strong."

Aemond Targaryen was a storm in human form.

"Give me your eye, or I will take it!" his voice cut through the air like a blade, the words laced with a chilling intent. His eyes gleamed with an unsettling fervour, a manic glint that sent a shiver down Lucerys's spine.

The younger prince instinctively recoiled, his trembling fingers involuntarily tightening around the hilt of his sword. He had promised his mother he wouldn't engage in violence, but fear gripped him, and his resolve wavered in the face of his uncle's menacing demeanour.

Aemond surged forward with alarming speed, his hand reaching for a dagger he had carelessly tossed onto the floor earlier. His movements were frantic, driven by an unsettling determination that sent a chill through the room, and Lucerys staggered backward, a mixture of fear and apprehension flooding his senses.

With a shaky breath, he drew his sword, the glint of steel a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere. His hand trembled slightly as he held the blade, the promise made to his mother weighing heavily on his conscience.

"I will not fight you," Luke said again, his words a plea this time.

Aemond's laughter filled the chamber, his voice dripping with malice, "You won't fight, princeling? Not so Strong now are you? Just a scared little boy playing at being a man."

"Not in my hall!" Lord Borros slammed his fist down on the stone of his throne before anyone could advance further. "The boy came as an envoy. I'll not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Take Prince Lucerys back to his dragon. Now!"

Only when the guards put themselves between the princes and escorted Luke from the Round Hall, back to the castle yard where his dragon, Arrax, was hunched down in the rain, awaiting his return, did Aemond Targaryen put away his dagger, replacing his eyepatch with a disgruntled sigh.

The matter might have ended there too perhaps, if it weren't for Maris, the secondborn daughter of Lord Borros. The girl was a creature of curiosity, one to find amusement where she could and the one-eyed prince's display only piqued her interest.

She approached him with a coy smile, not acknowledging her father's approving nod or her older sister's warning glare. Let them think that she was trying to seduce the prince. Let them think whatever they liked.

Maris Baratheon would not be denied her bit of fun.

"You know, my father hoped to marry one of my sisters to you, my Prince."

"I am already married," Aemond replied gruffly, already exhausted. He needed to return home.

"To the bastard Strong's sister, so I hear. Cass attended the wedding," Maris grinned, glancing back at her still-seething sister. "The bastard Strong's sister must surely be..."

The Targaryen prince stilled, his amethyst eye flashing dangerously, "I would advise you to tread carefully. That is still my wife you speak of."

"I meant no disrespect, my Prince. I was simply curious."

At his noncommittal hum, she continued.

"As for what I was curious about...It's just that, I cannot fathom how one such as you would marry the woman whose brother took your eye," Maris grinned then, her voice sweet as honey. "But perhaps it was an act of charity on her part. Was it one of your eyes he took, or one of your balls? I am sure any other lady would want a husband with all his parts."

When Aemond Targaryen's mouth twisted in rage, she knew she had won, and she sauntered away with a wink, back to her sister who would later dig her fingers into her skin until she told her the details of their exchange.

For now, the one-eyed prince was seething.

An act of charity?

Was that why she had married him, as some sort of penance for her brother's actions?

I would have given you mine in a heartbeat, I would have done anything to make it right.

She would have given him her eye, but when she couldn't, she had given him the next best thing. She had given him herself. Was this her twisted idea of doing whatever it took to make it right?

My brother should have taken out both your eyes.

It didn't matter.

He turned once more to Lord Borros, asking for his leave, and the Lord of Storm's End shrugged and answered, "It is not for me to tell you what to do when you are not beneath my roof."

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Outside the storm was raging. Thunder rolled across the castle, the rain fell in blinding sheets, and from time to time great bolts of blue-white lightning lit the world as bright as day. It was bad weather for flying, even for a dragon, and Arrax was struggling to stay aloft.

Lucerys Velaryon should have returned home. He knew he should have returned home but there was one more place he had to be, one more person he had to see, rain be damned, and so instead of charting course back to Dragonstone, he instead directed Arrax toward King's Landing, sending a silent prayer up to any god who'd listen that he would arrive before his uncle.

A prayer that went unanswered when Vhagar's haunting roar echoed above him, louder than the crackle of the storm.

Rain lashed against his face, stinging his eyes as he struggled to maintain his grip on the dragon's saddle. His fingers clung desperately to the leather, slick with rainwater, as the wind whipped around him, threatening to tear him away. Still, he continued to murmur soothing phrases in High Valyrian to his agitated mount.

Above him, a foreboding figure loomed, its outline barely visible amidst the sheets of rain. Before Luke could ascertain its identity, it vanished from view, leaving a momentary sense of relief that was swiftly replaced by a surge of dread.

Without warning, the sky seemed to split asunder, and the deafening rush of wings tore through the storm. Vhagar swooped down upon him with terrifying speed, its massive form barreling through the storm clouds with lethal precision. Luke's heart leaped into his throat as Vhagar narrowly missed him by mere inches, the gust of wind from the dragon's wings buffeting him violently, throwing Arrax off course.

Aemond's laughter reverberated through the storm, a chilling sound that resonated against the backdrop of thunder. His very presence, hovering ominously nearby, sent waves of anxiety coursing through Lucerys, and he realized with dread that his uncle was toying with him, relishing the fear he instilled.

The relentless rain continued to blind him, obstructing his view and disorienting his senses. Fear and anxiety knotted his stomach, each thunderous beat of his heart matched by the pounding of the storm around him. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to seek shelter from the wrath of nature and the looming threat of his uncle.

He needed to return home. He needed to return to his mother.

But there was a gnawing persistence within him, a burning desire that pushed him forward despite the terror clawing at his mind. He needed to reach King's Landing, to see his sister, to beg her to return, to beg her to leave behind this monstrosity of a man she had bound herself to.

He was her brother. He had to see her.

It was her name day. He had promised.

Lucerys Velaryon was not a liar.

Through gritted teeth, Luke fought against the panic threatening to overwhelm him. He willed Arrax onward, urging the dragon to brave the storm and the snapping jaws of the old beast on their heels, despite the terror gripping them both. Even as he was able to maneuver Arrax's smaller form into one of the narrow stone formations, he could still hear Aemond's braying laughter.

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The storm was Aemond Targaryen's domain, a canvas upon which he painted his dominance. Mounted atop Vhagar, he rode the tempest with an exhilaration that bordered on euphoria. Rain cascaded around him like a curtain of fury, drenching him to the bone, yet he revelled in the chaos, feeling an intoxicating rush of power coursing through his veins.

The wind whipped at his hair and cloak, Aemond's laughter melded with the thunderous roars of the storm, a symphony of primal exhilaration. His eye gleamed with unbridled glee, mirroring the savage intensity of the storm around him.

Chasing his nephew through the storm was more than a pursuit—it was a display of his sheer authority. The sight of the smaller dragon fleeing from Vhagar filled Aemond with a heady sense of superiority, a sense of control he rarely felt.

As he rode, the thrill of the chase surged through him, fueling his adrenaline, as he watched the young dragon and his cowardly owner flee like a mere speck against the roaring skies.

"You owe me a debt, Stong boy," he growled in High Valyrian. "Only cowards try and escape their debts."

With a wild, almost feral grin, the prince tore off his eyepatch, letting it flutter away into the howling gale.

This is what he was, the truth of him. A man with only one eye riding the mightiest dragon in existence.

His moment of glory was interrupted by an unexpected burst of fiery brilliance, as an eruption of flames pierced through the darkness. Vhagar reared back in shock and fury as the flames surged towards her, originating from Arrax. The flames, insignificant against the gargantuan, merely served to enrage her.

"No Arrax!" came his nephew's frantic cry. "Serve me Arrax!"

Aemond felt the tremors of Vhagar's fury ripple through her massive frame and he sensed her lose control before she uttered the earth-shattering cry, beginning her relentless pursuit of Lucerys and Arrax in earnest.

"No, no, no, no, no! No, Vhagar! No!"

Desperation laced his voice as he pleaded with her, demanding her obedience, but the dragon, blinded by fury and the chaos of the storm, paid no heed to her rider's words, her primal instincts eclipsing any semblance of obedience or allegiance. Aemond's voice, normally commanding and authoritative, wavered with an edge of panic as he tried in vain to regain control.

He had begun this game, and Vhagar would finish it for him, but there was only one way this would end.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Foolish Lucerys Velaryon was still heading toward King's Landing, despite Vhagar's renewed fervour of making him her next meal. At least he hoped he was still heading there — it was hard to tell in this storm.

In a stroke of fleeting luck, Arrax broke through the dark clouds, soaring into a patch of clear sky above the storm. The roiling clouds churned below them, a chaotic tapestry of darkness and for a brief, hopeful moment, Luke dared to believe that he had outpaced Vhagar. The silence that hung in the air felt suspiciously promising, a false whisper of respite amidst the chaos.

But the illusion of safety shattered in an instant. A deafening roar resounded through everything, tearing apart the fragile hope that had blossomed within him. From the depths of the storm, Vhagar and his uncle burst forth like a vengeful force of nature, hurtling toward him with unrelenting speed and a promise.

Time stood still.

It is strange how long a single moment can last, if you hold on to it with enough ardour.

In that single moment, he thought of everything.

He thought of his mother's three kisses to his temple, he thought of his sister's candied sugar plums — in his last moments he could not imagine being angry at her for her perceived betrayal — and he thought of Jace and his bravery.

You're going to have to be brave enough for the both of us now.

He thought of Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys, and he wondered if they'd forget all about him, time having rubbed his face smooth and featureless in their memories.

Lastly, he thought of his father, as he glanced down at what surely must be the sea beneath him. He would die a true Velaryon after all, swallowed by the waves, never to be seen again.

He hoped his mother would forgive him for not being able to sway Storm's End. He hoped his sister would forgive him for not making it to her for her name day. He hoped his grandfather would forgive him for not returning his heirloom. He hoped his brothers would remember him for his better traits and not his weaknesses.

Then he pressed his palm to his forehead.

Muña jorrāelagon.

Your mother loves you.

Your sister loves you.

The kissing hand.

He felt silly but a boy was allowed to be silly when he was about to die.

Summoning every bit of honour he'd seen in his mother, the strength he'd learned from his fathers, the dignity he'd observed in his sister and brother, he tried to look his uncle in the eye, but in the end, he was not any of them.

He was just Lucerys Velaryon and before everything went dark, he curled up into Arrax. Perhaps if he had been given the time, he might have allowed the tears to fall as well.

Lucerys Velaryon was a coward who did not wish to die, but die he did, with all the bravery his heart could muster.

A true dragon rider's death.

And with his death, the war of ravens and envoys came to an end, and the war of fire and blood began in earnest.