VAGUELY PLOTTED WITH @perzonye [ft. rhaenyra targaryen]
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, not that luke had ever truly doubted him. he was healing, albeit slowly, and could now walk without desperately clinging to someone else. he was learning to walk with the cane daemon had gifted him: a sleek blackwood cane with a valyrian steel tip and handle, the handle having been shaped to the likes of arrax and plated with the scale luke had taken from the shores of shipbreaker bay. luke thought he had lost the scale, he might have convinced himself he'd made it up had his hand not still bore the scar of when it dug into his flesh like butter as he clutched it on the eventual journey home. his hand was getting used to the fine detailing on the handle, trying to understand his new gait and wincing every time he stepped too far or too fast. it was a slow process, but he was learning.
he did not much feel like walking the halls of dragonstone during daylight hours; there were too many prying eyes, he felt everyone to be staring at him, even now. he hated it. but today, he cast those feelings aside. he had given himself a task today, and would not allow himself rest until he had finished it. his little self-inflicted tasks now seemed to be the only things keeping his head above the crushing waves of his insurmountable grief and guilt, though he seldom ever spoke of it.
finding his mother's study, he knocked sharply on the door and waited until he was granted entry before making inside. his eyes immediately found her as he entered the room. he'd spotted an empty seat by his mother, though did not feel today he was worthy of even a single moment's rest. his words then came from the common tongue, having studied it frivolously in his days of rest. he felt himself to be betraying his fallen dragon by speaking its tongue, the pain of high valyrian burning each time the words of his ancestors passed his mouth.
❛ muña? i... i have come to apologise. ❜
these thoughts had been gnawing away at him. his dreams were now all nightmares of that journey to storm's end, forever compiling an endless list of what if's. what if something had been different? would arrax still be here, would luke not? would they both? would neither? his guilt was swallowing him whole, he firmly pressed his thumb into a sharp point on the handle of his cane to bring him back to the present.
❛ i... i am sorry. i did not secure house baratheon for your claim. lord borros swore fealty to aegon. ― and i - i... i am sorry for acting as... more than an envoy. ❜
in truth, luke did not fight aemond. he had drawn his sword but once in the halls of storm's end, though only to show his uncle that he would no longer cower like a pup behind his mother. he had drawn his sword to show aemond that he would defend himself if needed, he would defend his self, his dragon, his honour ― his family. he had not even crossed his sword against his uncle's, he put it away so soon as he had drawn it, and yet he felt guilt for even that. he had fled the scene as fast as arrax would carry him.
❛ i am sorry for acting as a knight when i swore to you, to the gods, that i would not. i have failed you on both accounts, your grace, and for that i am sorry. ❜