Chapter Text
When Autumn comes Lucerys finds himself in his own bed, in his own room. Dragonstone is cold. Even in the summers it manages to keep this chilling breeze soaring through open doors. He pushes himself up once more. His tan is almost gone once again, but it doesn’t hide his roots. He is not pale, just lighter than what he had been before. Though Luke hadn’t gone back to their family vacation house the previous summer. Despite how much his mother had tried to convince him to come with them.
Perhaps he was weak. A lovesick puppy, who was not enough for the master he had chosen. Still, he wished to be leashed, muzzled, and trained. Feel that steady hand on the leather strap that connected to his collar. A control that he could not exude himself but was so natural for his uncle’s heavy hand. And perhaps that was all he was, some kind of needy mutt, whimpering and begging for attention. The thought of it made him sick to his stomach. To see how far he had fallen from where he once was.
His uncle who he had half blinded. And they were supposed hate each other. Luke isn’t quite sure that they don’t.
Perhaps the night they had spent together was fueled by the heat.
The weeks of wine and fruit, the sun shining down from up above, warming their skin. Every dip in the lake and pool, water dripping from skin. Nights that turned into early mornings and then mornings that turned into lazy afternoons. The sound of the bees and wasps buzzing around the trees. The old vacation home which complained with every step they took on the old floors. A house that was made for secrets and quiet whispers. It wasn’t unthinkable that their environment had played into their embers sparkling up. A dull fire that was only kept alive by the idyllic nature of their habitat.
But now the leaves are dead, and the waves come crashing in on the beaches of Dragonstone. His uncle somewhere on mainland. Painting, that is what Luke imagines. His long slender fingers covered in paint, on the skin and beneath his nails. Hair pulled up on a low bun. Leading his brush across canvas like he hadn’t done a single other thing as long as he had had control of his hands. His pretty hands. Pale, faintly scarred, big. And so often cold. Luke remembered it. Even in the summer heat, his uncle’s hands had been ice cold, sending shivers across Luke’s skin.
Still now, the thought of it is felt on his shoulders, his nipples perking up beneath his covers. The rain hammers on his darkened window. Storms never brought him any rest, his head heavy, dizzy. His mouth dry and tongue sticking itself onto the roof. This reprieve he had given himself, only allowing himself the small glimpses he had created himself of his uncle, it was about to end. A confrontation imminent, like it had been between them ever since they were only children.
They never spoke of it. Yet it hung in the air, always following them as the ghost of a past sinner. The past sinner that Luke had been, and for all anyone else knew, still was. He had thought for a long time that it was because of his age that his mother had refused to bring that night at Driftmark up with him. How no one ever brought it up. Though whether or not anyone brought it, the memories were still clear in Luke’s mind. Kids weren’t supposed to hurt each other the way he had hurt his uncle. He wondered, occasionally, what would have happened if he had just let Aemond have at it at Jace. Would his brother still be his brother? Would the hit to his head have caused something so fatal it took him away from him, rendering him empty of what he once had been as a boy? Or perhaps the worst, taken the life from his body? If Luke had just let it happen, if he hadn’t reached for the knife.
He supposes that either way, their relationship wouldn’t have ended in something warm anyway. They weren’t meant for that. Their whole family was hidden in this prickly, cold shadow, with no way of seeing the exits. And in a way it is familiar, safe. If a smile was a regular inhabitant of his uncle’s face, Luke wouldn’t know what he would do with himself. Such an unfamiliar sight to him.
He figures that even if he has felt Aemond’s hands upon his body, it had failed to bring him any closer to the man. He knows nothing of him, not anymore than he already had, except for the confirmation that he wasn’t so repulsed by his bastardy that he wouldn’t lay his hand on the most sensitive parts of Luke. Even if he supposes that means nothing when he remembers the unfortunate one-night stands, he had had one summer when he visited his grandparents on Driftmark. The island offered many things and one of them were eager sailors and fishermen, jus there for the season. Young men earning their way through school by unwanted summer jobs at sea. Luke remembered the smell of fish, tang and saltwater as he gripped a wooden crate down at the docks, the waves hitting the large tires that were secured on the side of the wood where the boats could dock.
It had not been unlike his time with Aemond, his hands on the trunk of a tree, eyes directed forward as a hand was buried within his dark curls tugging at him like they meant to hurt him. Despite Aemond being more familiar his hands were a lot rougher than any strange young man he had met in the dark bars of Driftmark. They always seemed in a hurry, of course, but Luke didn’t mind. Aemond however, it seemed more that he wanted to unravel him in his hand, break him down, leave marks on him. Which he had and had been particularly hard to explain to his mother, why there were purple marks on the nape of his neck. His explanation hadn’t been satisfactory, but his mother hadn’t pushed it further.
The confrontation still laid imminent in the air. His grandfather’s latest piece was to be unveiled in just a couple of days. His family was a lot of things and one of those things were actors. Experts at putting on clean and sparkly plays for the patrons of the art world. A family so deeply woven into the world that there were rumors of blood magic being the reason for their talents. Which Luke had found out to be untrue, all his years on this earth and he was still to see a single blood ritual being preformed in the studios that his family occupied. He had seen other things though. Naked bodies, coiled in strange positions on the floor. Wine splattered on canvas, smoke circling. But no blood.
The flight over to King’s Landing is quiet. His brothers both sleeping. His mother and stepfather, whispering between themselves as if they are discussing sensitive information about the country’s future. Luke presses play on his Walkman. It takes him away and suddenly they have landed, taken into the hotel. Daemon has scolded an undeserving serving girl. Luke had sent her an apologetic look, but it didn’t seem to calm her nerves. Which Luke can’t blame her for.
Instead of joining his family for lunch, Luke heads straight to the museum. Hoping to perhaps understand some of that Targaryen greatness that has been hammered into him since he was young and that still seemed to loosen from his roots every now and again. He pushes the large wooden doors open and the first thing that greets him, is his grandfather’s sculpture. A large dragon, coiling around a spire. It’s scales harsh and pointed, like blades. Its large teeth hiss down at him, and for a moment Luke thinks perhaps it will come alive and tear him to pieces. Leave him a mangled mess on the entrance floor, blood and guts and bones.
He waits, but nothing happens.
His feet carry him to the paintings just two rooms away. Some of his mother’s old once hang on one wall. Daemon’s take up three. And then on a pillar in the middle of the room hangs a smaller one.
The painting in question, a small seven by five canvas, slathered in mossy greens, greys, brows and black. A dark cavern and within it, glowing eyes, and the outline of the beast. Bigger than life despite the small surface it had been painted on.
Underneath it on a neat little plaque, it says;
Vhagar’s Cavern by Aemond Targaryen.
“Nephew,”
“Uncle,” Luke responds without even thinking, more to the painting than the new voice that has called upon him. Summoned by Luke’s mere and meek presence. Though his uncle is behind him, Luke’s eyes remain on the painting.
“You’re early, it doesn’t start for a few hours,” Aemond says, remaining a fair bit away from the boy. Luke can feel how he seethes in the corner. Like he always does. The man is too predictable, unsure of how to greet people properly, especially people who he had buried his whole length into.
“It is our family’s museum, I have just as much of a right to be here as you,” Luke says, no longer staring at the painting, but not turning towards Aemond either. Even if he knows that this was what he had hoped for. A private glimpse of his uncle, still everything hangs heavy in the air. Like it always does, and it is exhausting. No room to breathe between them, no room to move between them. Not even a small space to properly look at each other. The fear is that if he turns his head then Aemond’s eyes will flee from his gaze. Not able to look at him. He had to regret it, if not he would certainly have spoken to him before. Luke pulls his coat closer without thinking of how small it makes him look. Trying to hide, despite he is a fully grown man who stands there.
The confrontation is imminent.