Vague horror/supernatural lucemond au (don’t take this too seriously it’s just vibes)-
In the days after the events of Storm’s End, Aemond finds himself haunted by flashes of his nephew, glimpses of a dead boy out of the corner of his eye, in the empty space of a room as he walks by, there just behind the glass pane of his window-he’ll go somewhere new and be free of the specter and days later, Lucerys will tease his vision once more. Aemond feels he is losing his mind just the same as the Greens are losing this war, nearly every move they make stopped before it can be taken or defeated so soundly it was as if their plans had been delivered into the hands of the Black Queen herself.
Luke doesn’t speak to him at first, barely looks *at* him even when Aemond shouts and curses but when the one-eyed Targeryen’s words trickle then pour into apologies and whispers, begs for forgiveness, the fallen prince turns and smiles, a sweet thing, gone and there in the flash of a second before he too disappears. Aemond feels his heart break.
The next time he sees Lucerys is when he has returned to the Keep, watches his niece and nephews play together, a moment of respite in these long and bloody weeks when he feels a presence at his back, shivers when a low voice murmurs into his ear. I always wanted children you know, Aemond closes his eye and listens, we wouldn’t have been able to have them ourselves but perhaps someone could have had one born for us-a little heir for our Driftmark, a tear slides down his cheek, too late for that now it seems.
Jaehaerys looks up and wonders why the shadows around his uncle seem so dark.
Vhagar is uneasy around him now. In the days, hours, minutes after she had swallowed a Velaryon son whole, the bond between rider and dragon had shuddered under the strain of such differing, such despairing emotions and it has recovered little in the time since. He rarely flies her out to battle, has little desire to climb up to her saddle, and in turn she shies away when he approaches as of late-a mountain of an ancient beast shying away from a shell of a broken man.
Aemond is unbothered by it, has found himself enraptured by a new creature or perhaps a familiar one is a better description. Lucerys does not disappear so often nowadays, stands by his side or near his back, speaks more now, near whispers that Aemond always strains to hear more of but it is the touch he craves most-soft hands threading through his long hair, light fingers tracing the planes of his face, teasing lips pressed to the line of his scar. He is not allowed to touch back-the scratches along his arm from the first and last time he tried proof of that-but that’s okay. He does not deserve it, more content to let his nephew do and take what he wants.
Lucerys is for his gaze alone, no one else has noticed the slip of a boy who trails after him and who Aemond chases on the occasions Luke grows bored and drifts away-he does not disappear as often anymore and Aemond is grateful for it-no one has noticed until now.
The Targaryen prince is in Harrenhal, one of the few victories the Greens have been able to snatch and he’s been given his orders wipe them from this earth, every last descendant and servant of House Strong, a punishment and a testament to Rhaenyra and her boys and yet he has not done so, instead walks the courtyard of prisoners as Luke hisses in his ear to leave, that if a slaughter takes place, the dead prince will never be by his side again, gone forever but never forgotten.
They both know Aemond wouldn’t-, couldn’t forget him, would most likely chase after Lucerys into the afterlife as well if it was the only way to be near once more. Aemond surveys those before him and pauses-a woman stares at him, no-not at him but at the space by his shoulder, where Lucerys grips him tight and drags his uncle lower. It is the first time someone has acknowledged the presence of the one by his side.
“We will not be murderers of the innocent. Kill Lord Lyonel and keep the rest in chains. That one,” Aemond points at the maid, “bring her to my chambers immediately.”
The kiss Luke presses to his cheek is biting and he leans into the feel of it.
Her name is Alys Rivers and she looks calm even as Aemond is seated before her and senses her terror beneath the cold mask of her exterior.
“They say you see things in the fires. What has come to pass long ago and what will come to pass in the future, things that no one else does. Tell me, woman, what do you see now?”
Aemond growls, “Answer me or it will be your head too on a spike along with your lord’s.”
Lucerys smirks at him, pulls his uncle’s hand to where he sits on the floor spinning the rings on his hand over and over, pleased when Aemond does not deny him the motion and in turn does not acknowledge what is most likely his half-sister.
“I see…I see two princes. One alive and before me and the other-,” Alys looks to Luke, “you should not be here.”
Luke smiles, a fragile thing that makes Aemond ache with sorrow, and addresses the Rivers woman at least, “I should not have died either.”
Aemond lunges for the empty space where Luke has disappeared from, turns to snarl at the only other person in the room now, “What did you do?”
“He should not be here-he is half dead, half alive, stuck between two worlds and belonging to neither. It is wrong,” Alys has grown bold with the source of her fear gone, lifts her head and looks down on the Targaryen prince. She shrieks when he grabs her, drags her to the flames of the fireplace, and presses her near to the heat of it, reminds her what the wrath of the dragon feels like.
“He belongs by my side. Tell me how to bring him back,” Aemond yanks her away from the crackling fire and throws her to floor, turns his back on Alys as he pushes the palm of his hand into the hollow where his sapphire lies, the pain of it near blinding with the action, voice cracking when he continues, “please. I will stop all this, I swear it, tell me how to bring him back to me and I will seat Rhaenyra on the throne myself.”
The smell of burnt hair fills her nose, the sight of a desperate man fills her vision, and it is words that should be left unspoken that fill her mouth.
Lucerys Velaryon should not have been killed by his uncle. Aemond Targaryen should not have killed his nephew. To kinslay is an evil thing, to kill a beloved just as cruel.
It is difficult to sever the bonds between two who are joined in such a way and even death struggles to fully separate the princes. Alys Rivers sees the threads of fate that link them together and she cannot fix what has been cut but she can tell him how to…rearrange things so that what is dead becomes alive and what is alive becomes dead. The Stranger will accept it this one time if the balance is even once more.
Lucerys Velaryon is dead. Aegon Targeryen is alive. Aemond Targaryen grieves.
Lucerys Velaryon is alive. Aegon Targeryen is dead. Aemond Targaryen rejoices.
You cannot be a kinslayer twice over if the death of one brings about the life again of the other. The scales are even and settled-the Stranger nods his satisfaction.
Rhaenyra and her closest guards stream into the throne room just as Aemond finishes cleaning the blood from his blade, wipes it on the overcoat that his brother wears-wore. Aegon is dead now and Aemond does not, can not mourn, not when Luke stands before him looking brighter than he has in weeks, strong and lovely and alive. Barely hears the cries of shock and confusion from the gathering crowd as Aemond takes in the vision of a blinding smile while his nephew’s arms wrap around his neck to pull him down for a searing kiss. Lucerys draws back and Aemond chases the feel of it once more, has traded with death once for the ability to do so and would gladly do it again as finds himself interrupted when the younger speaks.
“Did you miss me, qybor?”
Aemond presses his yes into Lucerys’ mouth.
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