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"Final tribute."
It starts with the same words, the same bile and hatred rising into Aemond's throat, the same contempt.
"To the health of my nephews," he mutters. He's barely heard in the great hall with his voice being naturally hushed as it is, a complete contrast with the one of his brother's; booming yet soft. Whiny, attention seeking.
"Jace-"
His eye stares only two seconds at Rhaenyra's firstborn son. He doesn't have enough time for the do-gooder likes of him. Too righteous, impulsive... Dull.
Then he diverts his attention with some kind of impatience, a kind of hunger, the hunger of a man that has been left starved for quite a while towards -
"Luke..."
How he's grown - so much, in fact, since the last time;
- when Aemond was twelve going on thirteen and Luke was but nine years old. The night the little boy took Aemond's eye - and with it, his mind, every bit of his sanity, the last remnants of hope for fairness in the world. The night Viserys showed all of them that he would never become the father Aemond, Heleana and Aegon craved for, that he would always side with "his only child", Rhaenyra.
But enough thinking of the past. This was more than eleven years ago.
Luke had just turned twenty and one and became a 'proper prince, worthy of his mother's name' as Aemond had learned through the King's praising speech for his 'true' grandchildren during last night's dinner, before Rhaenyra and her boys had arrived on King's Landing on boat.
And the worst part is that it's true. Luke has indeed changed.
The young man in front of him - still a boy compared to him - is the kind of beauty that would make knights, young and old, fight - and die - in his name and honor; with his slim figure that has lost all the baby fat he had in his childhood years, the body which his dark blue shirt, one with long sleeves up to his wrists and even darker pants compliment so well. His shoulders have broadened, his arms gotten stronger. Aemond can see little red blade cuts on the boy's palms, on the inside and on the outside, which Luke must have tried to heal with some kind of ointment that hasn't yet worked fully. His beige skin is full of brown beauty marks like dots; in the underside of his neck and his hands. He has a lovely face; his own maroon irises have specks of honey gold in them, his eyes - untouched - framed by long dark eyelashes bigger than what Aemond remembered, shining with intrigue as he meets Aemond's eye. His nose upturned, his cupid's bow ending in a pair of downward-turned lips of blush pink that has almost turned red with how much Luke bites them. This must be the fifth time since they all gathered around the table made of mahogany. His chin is pointed, his ears are covered behind a curtain of dark brown hair that sets him apart from Jace. While his older brother had kept his hair short with the usual side fringe, the exact same hair since he was a toddler, Luke had grown his own hair out. Now it's long, dark wavy, parted in the middle, framing his face perfectly, almost reaching the middle of his neck. He looks like he has just escaped one of these paintings that depict warriors of Old Valyria, the paintings Aemond had seen before while walking into the dark corridors of the castle during the night hours.
Luke has also gotten taller but hasn't surpassed him yet. Aemond was deemed to be the tallest out of the young princes since he had reached his twenties. But still. Twelve years change a lot of things.
Alas, he cannot admire the boy's beauty for much longer. He cannot afford making any mistakes, especially now. He has to move on and toast to the third of Rhaenyra's boys, otherwise he'd rise the suspicion of the rest of the family members who are present tonight.
"-and Joffrey."
Joffrey Velaryon; Too young and ever so loved by both his mother and Daemon to bear any kind of ill will inside his heart. Eyes big and full of innocence. He's a good child, minds his business, eats quietly.
The exact opposite of Luke. Luke is fire, mischief behind a pretty face. Only Aemond and Alicent know that. The rest, the boy has wrapped around his fingers with his charm and warm smiles. Smiles that are, in truth, rotten if only one looks too closely.
Aemond continues, reaching the end of his toast. This one here, this... is his favorite part. "Each of them handsome, wise..."
"Aemond-"
It's his mother - of course - who intervenes or tries to, at least.
His mother; constantly fighting her inner demons, her affection for the woman she once called her 'dearest childhood friend' and her loathing for everything that woman now stands for - her freedom, her arrogance; high enough to think herself deserving of everything a woman could never possibly possess, her choice of lovers, which was based solely on a whim and not duty like Alicent's, - his mother never had a choice as to who she'd be betrothed to - her children too.
Aemond ignores her as he whispers the final insult.
"...strong."
(And let it be known that what followed after was all his doing.)
****
Luke watches with wariness as Jace's fury lights up as easily as a candle's flame by hearing their uncle's cruel words.
"I dare you to say that again!" hisses Jace, standing up from his own carved armchair walking with confident steps towards the blond man with the eyepatch.
- a fear inspiring man. A man, not a boy anymore. A man who wishes to cause ire and chaos, all in expense of the Strongs. Him, most of all.
Luke saw the change of tone, the obsessiveness in Aemond's eye; eye mauve like a freshly collected amethyst when the moment came to utter his name. He saw it all. He saw -
and pitied him for it.
So when Jace punches Aemond - accomplishing nothing in the process - and earns a shove with such a force he ends up face to face with the floor, Luke is quick to avoid Aegon's try to slam his face onto the table. He pushes his chair aside and practically runs to avoid the oldest Targaryen who almost grabs him by the shoulders, his face distorted in annoyance rather than hatred like Aemond's.
Aegon must think that this is all a game.
(A game that is invisible to everyone in this room besides Luke and the one eyed prince.)
Luke sees his brother, Jace, struggling to get to his feet after that push, he sees Aemond picking up his dagger, the one he had on the left side of his belt and aiming Jace's neck with the tip of it; the same dagger Luke used to take out his eye twelve years ago, the dagger he had somehow lost after the night of the incident. He never saw it again.
So he runs. He runs to his brother's defense once more, his own dagger drawn, ready to aim, to scar flesh, to draw blood. Aemond's blood.
Aemond...
Regardless of the blond being half a head taller than him, Luke can reach for his neck rather well to raise his blade against the pale skin.
(It all happens so fast that Aemond doesn't see him coming. His good side is still focused on Jace that is still sprawled on the cold floor. But he feels the metal and the sharp pain of a knife on him.)
"Let him go," says Luke, voice low but firm, undisputed. "Now. It's me you want - so release him."
Aemond doesn't have to be told twice; not because he's the kind of person who easily obeys orders - unless they come from Alicent - but because now that Lucerys is here he cannot care less about Jace.
So he softens his grip with a "How lucky you are, Jacaerys, to live with a brother who's ready to yet again maim for you..." and allows the oldest Velaryon to scramble away from him, crawl to his mother like a kicked dog, one of the small kind.
One can say there is jealousy hidden in his words. Others will think of it as a simple tease.
Aemond may have spoken Jace's name, but his eye never wavers from Luke.
"Aemond, let go of my son at once!" It's Rhaenyra's voice, unintelligible and distorted as if coming from afar, as if she isn't in the same room with them.
The one eyed Targaryen ignores her. Everyone else in the hall has become blurred to him. Only the boy before him matters. Only Luke.
Luke Luke Luke-
Luke still has him on dagger point.
Aemond grins. The smile is nothing short of pleased. "You just have to make everything about you, don't you, my Lord?" The 'Strong' is at the tip of his tongue but he doesn't say it.
But Luke can hear the word floating around them; in the air, in his ears, his brain. He is wiser than his brother to ignore the implication of the false legitimacy of his very existence.
"You're pointing fingers at the wrong person, Aemond. I'm not the one who started this, now am I?" whispers the boy with the dark hair, the beautiful hair that are framing a Saint's face with a God's wrath upon it.
"Oh, but you were, remember?" drawls Aemond. He might as well be purring like a cat. "Twelve years ago - and I have yet to hear an apology for that."
"You want me to apologize for defending my own brother? You would have killed him."
"No."
"You would have. I know you. You're a heathen like that. You craved violence then and you still crave it now."
"And you don't? Don't be a hypocrite now, Luke. Everyone else thinks they know what you are. They don't know shit, in truth."
Luke arches a brow, genuinely impressed by his uncle's boldness to state such an accusation. He isn't exactly wrong. "Is that so?"
There it is again; that grazed look in that jewel of an eye. "Yes."
"And what is it I am then, uncle?"
'The object of my ire and my torment,' thinks the blond, 'the bane of my existence, my sweet and vengeful prince who commands seas and skies alike.'
Of course, Aemond can say that if he so desires. But he doesn't.
Instead he says, "Mine. You're mine. You've been mine since that night. The night you left your mark on me, so it's only fair for me to level the odds. You can't deny the truth of what I'm saying."
He can see the boy's eyes widening in surprise, not in fear or disgust. He wants. this. Whatever it is they're doing right now, Luke wants it as much as he does.
Aemond forgets the dagger he has in his right hand for a moment. He lowers it and lets his fingers wonder, touch the skin on the younger man's neck until they stop on his jawline. "You made me into this. You see, I don't have any other choice," he mutters, "but to look at you."
"Then look at me and me alone," says Luke and there's something tender in his voice as if he's praying inside a Septon to the old Gods.
Their families know better than to interrupt whatever it is the two princes are whispering amongst themselves, their daggers by their side, threatening to cut, their eyes caring for no one else but each other.
So no one moves.
Not even Daemon, who holds Dark Sister, as if he'll pounce at Aemond at any minute if he much nicks Lucerys' chin with his blade.
Or Alicent, who has freshly dried tears on her cheeks, who has already recognized the person her beloved son took his obsessive nature from. It's as if she's looking in a mirror right now. She doesn't dare to turn her head and meet Rhaenyra's eye.
Luke brings his dagger in front of his nose, the blade glimmering, the dim light reflecting its shadow on the brown of his yet whole pair of eyes.
"I take it you want my eye then?" he asks.
"Indeed."
"Which one?"
An all too familiar smirk. "The same as mine."
The left one then. How poetic.
Luke pretends to think about it, as if he hasn't made up his mind already. Then he offers his dagger to the older prince as an invitation of peace. "Do you want to do the honors?"
Aemond shakes his head. "No." The grin hasn't yet left his lips. It probably never will with his mouth corners shaped upwards by nature. "I want to see you bleed by your own hand, to finally feel for yourself the pain you've caused me..." Then he leans in and whispers, his breath hot to the younger's ear, "Be a man, Luke. Take the dagger; in, out, and then it will all be over."
The dark haired boy draws a breath in. "Alright..." The blade is touching the surface of his left eye. No blood has been spilt yet.
Aemond is holding his breath, waiting. Finally, after all these years he will have his revenge - the boy, too, with it.
"But I need a favor," says Luke in a hurry.
Aemond's curiosity perks up at that. "What kind?"
"Kill Otto Hightower for me." Luke has never looked more determined about anything in his life as he is at this very moment. "After this. Bring me his head and his fingers on a silver plate. Do that and my eye is as good as yours."
Aemond hums before asking "Why?" He doesn't exactly mind the killing - as long as it's not his mother or Heleana, he can kill anyone in cold blood.
"He's been poisoning your mother's mind against my mother and her family for years," hisses Luke. "He doesn't care about you and your brother or Heleana. If you want your mother to be happy, then kill the bastard who was the cause of her unhappiness in the first place."
'Huh. Interesting... It seems that little Luke also gained a politician's mind along with the privilege of beauty as the years passed.'
Aemond once again smiles and this time around the smile is full of teeth. "Well played, Lucerys. Well played. I accept your terms. Now..." he glances at the little red veins on the other's eyeball, one still filled with blood that grands him the grace of sight. "The eye."
Luke doesn't waist another second.
He plunges his dagger into the eyeball - the pain that overcomes him is as sharp as if someone had thrown a spear into his skull - and draws it out as swiftly as his screams start to fill the great hall.
Rhaenyra cries with him.
Jace's and Joffrey's faces are ashen and Daemon looks like he wants to chop the blond one eyed prince off to pieces.
Luke ignores them as he walks with slow steps at the table, stopping right in front of the Green Queen.
"Alicent-" he gasps, gulping down blood, feeling his throat full of it. He spits some of it on the floor. He tries not to think about it. "I believe..." He places the ruined eyeball, bloodied and sticky, on the Queen's napkin, before doing his best to look her in the face. "This belongs to you."
Alicent has gone white with horror. She cannot speak, merely stares at that - that thing. She couldn't imagine that Aemond would actually make his long time threat a reality and yet, here it is. Reality staring her in the face; Luke's eye. Then why doesn't she feel at peace?
She doesn't know the answer to that. What she does know is that after seeing that horrid display of insanity from both her son and Rhaenyra's boy, she takes a napkin and positively vomits in it the veal and beans she had eaten previously.
"T - take this thing away from me," she mumbles, getting up from her chair, the table, as far from the 'offering' as she can.
Luke, feeling satisfied, hears his mother sniffing. She is still standing behind the table with Daemon whispering to her words of comfort. Then that satisfaction lessens. He doesn't wish to cause her pain, but sacrifices are to be made if he is to ensure that both families won't simply eat each other if a war were to happen.
Unfortunately, at that moment, dizziness takes over him. His knees feel like jello and the floor... the floor becomes a blurred mess -
but he doesn't land on the tiles because a pair of strong arms are there to catch him at exactly the right time.
He grins, though it hurts like a bitch.
It's Aemond. Of course.
"Well... you got your eye," mutters Luke gently placing a hand on the marred flesh of the other man's cheek and feeling the eye patch with it. "Is there anything else you want? My tongue, perhaps? You already have my heart, so... we can cross that out of the list."
He hears a sigh, though a not very convincing one. "Someone get this fool a Maester. Now."
****
When Otto Hightower is beheaded and has his fingers cut off by his own grandson while Luke is being tended by the grand Maester, no one in the hall bats an eye.
They have already guessed who Aemond must have done it for.
Only Daemon gives Alicent a meaningful look that goes along with a lopsided grin while Rhaenyra is in the chamber into which the Maesters have placed Luke so to check on how he's fairing. Aemond had also insisted to be in the room when his nephew would fully wake up.
"What?" she asks him coldly.
"Nothing. Just..." He comes closer. He sees her feet backing off the barest bit on instinct. "I happened to notice that your son, Aemond, takes after you in his fixation with certain people."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she replies, choosing instead to look at a family portrait of a maroon haired Viserys and a much younger Rhaenyra. She must have been about fourteen when that portrait was painted...
Alicent is filled with a strange sort of sadness that is accompanied by bittersweet feelings, like each time she's reminded of Rhaenyra and the life she has now. A life that doesn't include her anymore.
Daemon follows her gaze and hums non-committedly. "Right..."
He definitely knows something. He always does. Alicent finds herself not caring about that fact.
*****
All will be fine.
All will be - well... as fine as two young fire breathing dragons can make it be.