Chapter Text
When he awakens to see the dark shadow of his uncle leaning over him, Luke’s first instinct is to believe that he is still dreaming. He cannot conceive of any reason Aemond would deign to put his pride aside to approach Luke, much less touch his face with such impossible gentleness. He can’t help nestling closer, revelling in the warmth and safety that he has missed so dearly.
It is the mention of the dinner that pulls him rudely out of the fantasy.
Sickness roils in him, not only at the memory of his humiliation but at the knowledge that he has let his family down. He has brought shame to the Targaryen name and marred the glorious beginning of his mother’s rule. Worse, he lacks the strength to even get out of bed to face his own mistakes.
The tears refuse to stop flowing, yet another sign of his damnable weakness, but Aemond does not seize the opportunity to comment on the impurity of Luke’s blood. In fact, he says nothing at all, neither derogatory nor comforting, only awkwardly attempts to pull Luke closer as if to wrap him up in a hug.
He is less than successful, and Luke ends up weeping draped across Aemond’s lap while his uncle pats him gingerly between his shoulder blades.
“You will tell me every word they said, and you will tell me who said those words,” Aemond says with terrifying malice in his voice, even as his palm rests absently against Luke’s back. “Someone has disobeyed the queen’s express orders and that cannot be allowed to stand. These common folk cannot be allowed to think that they can disrespect a member of the royal family without punishment.”
“They were noblemen, not common folk,” Luke corrects him with a sniffle, turning his head so that his cheek is resting comfortably against Aemond’s thigh.
“They are not Targaryens,” his uncle says dismissively. “It must be one of the maesters who talked. I shall see to it that they are all questioned.”
As upset as he is, Luke thinks that Aemond is getting ahead of himself. He also thinks that it is far too late for preventative measures.
The whispers of his Strong heritage have followed him all his life, and will continue to do so even after his mother’s ascension. It is a fact that he has long come to terms with. Rumours once started cannot be so easily halted in their tracks, not unless Aemond puts the entirety of King’s Landing to the sword.
Word of the true nature of his attack will already have spread beyond even his mother and Daemon’s ability to douse, although his uncle’s obvious anger leaves Luke feeling strangely relieved. It tells him that he hasn’t been making a fuss out of nothing, even if at the end of it he can do little but get up and go on with his life.
“I will tell my mother of what I overheard, and she will make these rumours punishable,” he says quietly. “That is all that can be done. I suppose everyone will still know, but at the very least I will not have to hear of it.” It is easier to find a measure of conviction with Aemond beside him. Even if the man is hardly the most reliable presence given the volatility of his temper when it comes to Luke, he does not believe his uncle means him any harm.
After all, only two people have ever killed for Luke. Daemon, who is in love with Luke’s mother, and Aemond.
“That hardly seems adequate.” Aemond sounds decidedly annoyed, and Luke can feel the slight pressure of his fingers curling in the fabric of Luke’s nightshirt as if with the urge to throttle someone. “This is not the time for softness, nephew. I may have expected it of your mother, being a woman, but not of you.”
Luke stiffens, pushing himself up and tugging his nightshirt roughly out of Aemond’s grip. “It was adequate for Grandfather when it came to the rumours of my Velaryon blood,” he spits, “and it will have to be adequate now. You cannot be torturing innocent maesters, and Mother cannot be recklessly removing tongues or heads a moon into her reign over such a trifling matter.”
“This is no trifling matter. This is treasonous slander against a prince of the realm!” Aemond snaps back, and somehow Luke can feel the furious blaze of that single violet eye on his skin despite the fact that he can make out little but his uncle’s silhouette in the dim gloom of night.
He feels suddenly tired, exhaustion sweeping over him at the thought of having to confront Aemond’s fiery temper when his eyes are still puffy from crying himself to sleep. He will never come out triumphant in a battle of any kind with his uncle, be it with blade or words, and he does not care to try now.
“It may be treasonous, but it is true,” he says quietly. “I do not wish to speak of this any further.”
Turning, he lays back down on his side with his back to Aemond. It is a childish escape, the kind of flouncing tantrum he used to throw after quarrelling with Jace, where he would throw himself onto his bed and refuse to turn around despite his brother’s contrite apologies.
Aemond, naturally, does not apologise for anything.
“Do not be a coward, Lucerys,” he says spitefully. “You have the blood of the dragon in you. Act like it.”
Luke’s body cares little for how tired he is of crying, and wetness wells up almost immediately in his eyes. Stubbornly, he turns his face into the pillow without answering. Behind him, Aemond is still for what feels like a long time, and then Luke feels the mattress shift beneath him, springing back beneath the removal of Aemond’s weight, leaving him alone once more.
More tears squeeze out of Luke’s eyes and he digs his fingers into the soft down of his pillow, expecting to hear the telltale drag of a heavy door against thick carpeting.
Instead, he hears the rustle of clothing, a muffled curse when Aemond bumps into some furniture in the dark, and then the bed dips behind him again. The blankets are dragged roughly out from under his legs with a wordless grunt and settled warmly atop him.
“We will speak further on this tomorrow, when you are well-rested,” Aemond says shortly. “Go to sleep, nephew. You certainly look like you need it. I will be here.” His voice sounds very close by, only a pillow’s length away from Luke.
He doesn’t know if it makes him brave, or merely a coward seeking comfort, but Luke rolls over abruptly, almost bumping into Aemond with how close they find themselves. Aemond flinches back with a sound of wary surprise, but Luke is already burrowing in close, nudging his way between Aemond’s arms so that he can tuck his face into his uncle’s bare, muscled chest.
He can feel Aemond’s heart pounding, and Luke falls asleep with that strangely comforting rhythm beating steadily against his skin.