Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The storm raged over Storm's End with a ferocity that matched the tempest inside Lucerys Velaryon’s heart. Lightning crackled in the distance, illuminating the towering stone walls of the castle, while the wind howled like a beast hunting its prey. The sea, dark and unforgiving, crashed against the walls below, as if it too sensed the impending violence.

Lucerys stood at the hall, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body tense and trembling. His hand, still clutching his hood, fell slowly to his side as his eyes locked onto the figure coming out from the shadows. Aemond Targaryen, tall and imposing, emerged from the gloom, his silver hair glinting in the brief flashes of light. His single eye, burned with a mix of anticipation and something far darker.

Lucerys remembered a time when Aemond had been his friend, his uncle, a distant yet familiar presence in the Red Keep, a boy who shared his blood but not his heart. Now, as he stared into Aemond's unyielding gaze, he longed to see something different, something that resonated with the quiet hope stirring in his chest. But all he saw was a man warped by years of resentment, his eye heavy with the weight of an old wound that only he seemed unable to let go.

The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, a force so thick it felt as though even the castle’s ancient walls could scarcely contain it. Lucerys' mind spiraled, disoriented as fragments of another life surged to the surface. Memories of dragonfire scorching the sky, the monstrous maw of a beast closing in, and the sensation of falling into darkness—a fall that should have marked his end. Yet, here he was, standing at the precise moment when everything had unraveled, as if fate had dragged him back, for redemption perhaps, but he did not yet know. The realization was dizzying and he wondered if he was caught in some cruel trick of the Gods.

Aemond’s voice sliced through the heavy silence, sharp and cold as steel. "Wait, my Lord Strong. Did you truly believe you could fly across the realm, scheming to steal my brother’s throne without consequence?" His gaze darkened, the bitterness unmistakable, and as he tossed the dagger to his feet he said. "You owe me a debt, taoba. An eye for an eye.”

The words reverberated in Lucerys' ears, sinking into him like poison. This was the moment, the one that had haunted his nightmares and his final breaths. Now, he understood why he was here: to face the mistake that had changed everything. He had longed to apologize, but after the accident, fear took place—he knew the Greens would never allow him close to Aemond again. So, he wrote letters—many more than he had ever intended—each one an attempt to make amends, to soothe his uncle's rage, and to mend the fragile connection they had once shared. Yet, no replies ever came. The silence was louder than any rejection, and over time, the guilt settled deep within him, buried like a wound left to fester.

Now, standing on the precipice of destiny, something shifted inside Lucerys. The fear that had once paralyzed him, the fear that had driven him to flee, was no longer there. He saw it all. Instead, his fear had become a blade, poised not to strike at Aemond, but at the very fabric of fate that had brought them to this moment. The storm seemed to pause, like it was holding its breath as Lucerys made his choice. His feet moved, not in a frantic attempt to flee, but with the calm certainty of a man who knew there was no other option. If Lucerys Velaryon was to prevent the fate of a war, then so be it.

Something was off, Aemond knew as everyone too, a shift in the tides of destiny. Lucerys caught the hesitation in Aemond’s eye. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, Lucerys was meant to beg, to run, to fall under the weight of Aemond’s long-nurtured wrath. But instead, Lucerys was moving, and he wasn’t moving away. Lucerys Velaryon had run towards the blade.

“No!” Aemond’s voice, filled with a panic he had never known, shattered his paralysis. He lunged forward, reaching out for the boy, no, not like this, not his nephew, who had once been the center of his hatred. But it was too late.

With a shout that was equal parts defiance and despair, Lucerys raised the dagger to his own face. The world narrowed to the cold, unyielding edge of the blade, and before Aemond could react, Lucerys drove it deep into his own flesh. Pain exploded through Lucerys’ skull, a blinding, searing agony that consumed every thought, every sense. He screamed, the raw, primal sound echoing in the storm’s howling wind. Blood gushed from the wound, warm and thick, running down his face, staining his clothes and the stone beneath him.

Aemond stood frozen, his outstretched hand hovering in the air, as if time itself had stopped. Deja vu. The dagger slipped from Lucerys grasp, clattering to the stone, a sound lost to the storm. His fierce, vengeful sapphire eye now reflected only horror, as he watched Lucerys destroy himself in a desperate act neither of them had foreseen. With one final, agonizing pull, Lucerys wrenched the dagger free, his blood-soaked eye dangling grotesquely from the blade. The sight was a twisted mirror of the vengeance Aemond had sought for so long. Lucerys swayed, his strength rapidly fading as pain and blood loss overtook him. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees, the dagger falling from his fingers, the severed eye rolling across the cold, wet stone.

He looked up at Aemond, his one remaining eye filled with tears and agony, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. His voice, when it came, was broken, pleading. "Will you leave me be, qȳbor? Is the object of your torment finally settled? Am I free?"

The words, spoken through a veil of pain, shattered something deep within Aemond. This wasn’t the victory he had imagined; it wasn’t the sweet taste of revenge he had craved for so long. Again the gods were mocking him. All that remained was emptiness, a hollow void that swallowed reason and purpose. The debt that had consumed him, that had brought him to this windswept castle, had been paid, but not by his hand, and once again, Aemond was left to witness the ruin of his own blindness.

Aemond’s hand trembled as he reached out, cupping Lucerys’ bloodied face with a gentleness that felt foreign, wrong. The storm around them raged on, unnoticed by either, as they remained locked in the terrible intimacy of the moment.

“Yes,” Aemond whispered, his voice thick with a grief he did not yet understand. “Yes, taoba, you may leave.”

But even as he spoke the words, he knew there was no leaving, no escape from what they had done. The eye, the blood, the pain, these were the bonds that now tied them, forged in suffering and regret. They knelt there, two broken souls, as the storm finally began to subside outside, its fury spent. The chaos of the onlookers in the room crept in, but neither Aemond nor Lucerys noticed. The future lay before them, dark and uncertain, the weight of their choices pressing down like the very heavens. They were no longer just Aemond and Lucerys, rivals, enemies, whatever they might be called. They had become something more, something that defied the simple lines of love and hate, revenge and forgiveness.

The storm outside had passed, but it had washed over them both, leaving them tangled in the web of destiny. And now, a new beginning awaited.

Chapter Text

The storm outside Storm's End mirrored the chaos within Aemond Targaryen’s mind. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the castle's stone walls and casting fleeting shadows over the wet ground. The rain pounded against the ancient stone, as if the heavens themselves were weeping for what was about to unfold. Inside the Hall, plans were being plotted and war was in motion. Uneasiness also settled over Aemond like a heavy cloud, nibbling his thoughts as the conversation drifted on. Then Lucerys Velaryon walked in, and time seemed to bleed into itself, twisting the very fabric of reality. The presence of his nephew, the cause of his rage, was a cruel reminder of the fate that had shaped him. Aemond was no longer just Aemond. Was he ever? He wasLucerys' making, both blades borned from the same iron.

"Wait, my Lord Strong. Did you truly believe you could fly across the realm, scheming to steal my brother’s throne without consequence?" The words tasted bitter, as if they belonged to someone else—spoken once before, in another time. A sudden sense of déjà vu came over him, but the words had already been spoken before he could prevent it again. "You owe me a debt, taoba. An eye for an eye.”

Something odd happened, Lucerys did not flinch, nor did he attempt to flee as Aemond had silently hoped, as he had in another time. Deep down, Aemond had wanted him to flee. Instead, in that exact moment, memories tore through his mind,visions of death, fire and blood, of a dragon’s roar ripping through stormy skies, a sword, a boy's fall and the suffocating pull of the sea. He saw it all: brutal and swift, the consequences of Lucerys’ fall,the boy he had chased in blind vengeance. He was truly back again at Storm’s End, to the exact moment everything had gone out of control, where he had lost everything, his everything. From the look in Lucerys’ eyes—determined yet fearful—Aemond recognized it, the same shared fate, the boy must have remembered too. All happened too fast, Lucerys moved swiftly his hand finding the small dagger in one fluid motion, as if fate were dragging them both into the same inevitable end once more. It was Aemond who had tossed the blade, but just like that stormy time, Lucerys provoked it too, setting everything into motion. Aemond, blinded by his own rage then, had lost control, and now, watching the scene unfold before him again, he realized he was helpless to prevent it once more.

Aemond knew that his thirst for retribution had clouded his judgment back then, consuming him until he could no longer see anything beyond the boy’s face. As if It was Lucerys who had led him into the storm, into the chaos, and Aemond, driven by fury, had followed blindly, seeking an eye for an eye, not realizing that in doing so, he was sealing his own fate. Now, the weight of that moment, and the guilt that clung to him like a shadow, had left him hollow again. He had thought himself in control, but in truth, he had been blinded by Lucerys all along. He imagined this moment countless times, dreamed of the satisfaction that would come with finally claiming his revenge. But now, standing there, with the memories of another life still burning in his mind, the satisfaction was gone. It was never just about his eye, taken as a debt he never wanted to pay. What he truly wanted was for Lucerys to be accountable, to take responsibility for his mistakes, for anything, really. An apology, even. But nothing ever happened to the King’s favorite grandchild.

“No—” Aemond’s voice broke, he lunged forward, desperate to stop him, but he was too late. The boy had already fallen. Then, the weight of it all settled over him, and he realized that the vengeance he had once so desperately craved felt hollow. All he could see was Lucerys, crumpled on the ground, the eye that lay discarded beside him like a broken promise. Lucerys looked up at Aemond, his voice barely a whisper.

"Will you leave me be, qȳbor? Is the object of your torment finally settled? Am I free?"

The question cut through Aemond like a blade, will he really hold to his word? Would it truly change anything? What had he truly gained from this confrontation? Lucerys lives, but for how long?. The Greens had secured Storm’s End, Lord Borros had exchange a marriage pact, an offer of alliance, but with what had just happened, that promise seemed fragile at best. And for all that Lucerys was bleeding, alone, no new alliance had been won for his mother. Except, perhaps, if Borros reconsiders, fearing retaliation from the Blacks or the inevitable chaos that had unleashed in his hall. So, if both lose Storm’s End, what then? Aemond could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, suffocating and relentless. Had time stopped, or was his mind racing too fast to keep up? Thoughts swirled chaotically, Lucerys was alive, the debt was paid, but what did it matter now? If the boy somehow made it back to Dragonstone, what good would it do? He would return without an eye, stripped of his pride, with no support, and no closer to ending this war. Would any of this prevent what comes next?

His thoughts drifted to his sweet Helaena, whose innocence had been shattered by the violence set in motion the day Lucerys died. Aemond’s actions had sparked a brutal chain of events, his sister’s despair, the murder of her children, and the unending bloodshed that followed. If Lucerys lived now, would it change anything? Could they stop this before it escalated beyond control? Did Lucerys even understand the chaos his so-called father had unleashed in his name? Perhaps Daemon would seek retribution not for Lucerys’ death, but for his son’s mutilation instead. And maybe, just maybe, Lucerys living wouldn’t change anything at all. So, what end was there in either of them returning? Though the end was written, could their actions change the course of it? Could Aemond and Lucerys, standing at the edge of this storm, alter the path just enough to avoid the worst of it or was it too late? If they turned their backs on their families, choosing peace over bloodshed, would they be seen as traitors by their own blood? Aemond’s mind raced, confusion clouding his thoughts. What was he supposed to do? Could we ever truly stop it? Aemond wondered.

He had spent years chasing revenge, but now he was lost, unsure of what came next. Aemond’s resolve wavered as he stood over Lucerys, staring at the boy’s tear-streaked face. He had dreamed of balance, but nothing about this felt right. It felt pointless. The eye lost, the blood spilled—none of it would bring back the horrors that had unfolded. And even now, with Lucerys maimed and begging, Aemond couldn’t see a way out of this endless cycle of pain and retribution. When they walk away from this, Lucerys would return to Dragonstone, missing an eye but still a symbol of the Blacks’ defiance. His mother would see his wound as a call to vengeance that would only fuel the flames already burning within her. And what of Aemond? He would return to King's Landing, as a victor only in name, with Storm’s End sworn to their cause but with nothing gained in his heart. His grandfather would likely praise him for securing the Baratheon allegiance, and his poor mother might look upon him with concern, seeing the blood on his hands and the growing darkness in his soul. In the end, they were both marching toward the same fate. The dance had already begun, and neither of them could stop it.

Aemond glanced down at Lucerys beneath his touch, and he noticed: his boy, his nephew, his enemy—was as trapped as he was. They were bound by blood, by duty, by the choices of their parents, caught in a cycle neither of them had ever truly controlled. Was it the shared burden of their lineage, the invisible chains of expectation, or the cruel irony that both were prisoners of a war they never chose? Even now, Lucerys likely hated him, feared him. And as he looked into his nephew's eyes, Aemond felt, for a fleeting moment, something dangerously close to understanding.

And yet, there was something more, something that tethered them together in this moment, something unspoken and unsettling. What is it? with his fingers still gently brushing the bloodied curls from Lucerys’ face. He had hated him for so long, blamed him for everything. But now, with Lucerys trembling beneath his fingers, Aemond saw something he had never allowed himself to see before. Those big, round eyes, people always said they were plain, but now Aemond could see that there was nothing plain about Lucerys Velaryon. He was every inch his mother’s son. The Targaryen blood flowed in him indubitably, his dark curls now damp with sweat and blood, falling into his one remaining eye. Beautiful

He gazes at those curls—dark and untamed , clinging the boy's face. A strange urge crept into him, an absurd longing to run his fingers through them, to feel their softness despite the blood and grime, wanting to touch the very hair that symbolized everything he had hated. He resisted the urge, but the thought lingered, unsettling. They smell of salt and sea, and at that moment, he almost laughed. It was indeed a mockery. There was something about the boy that always tied him to the waves, to the endless expanse of water— the sea did claim him, he recalled, just as it had Luke when he fell from the sky. The boy belonged to the sea as much as any Velaryon. bound to its depths, just as Aemond was bound in his doom. The sea had called them both, and perhaps it was always destined to tie them again.

“Yes,” Aemond whispered, his voice thick with a grief he did not yet understand. “Yes, taoba, you may leave.”

Aemond could see Luke's hesitate, his one remaining eye searching Aemond’s face for any sign of deceit, but there was none. His gaze softened; his usual cold resolve melted away, replaced by a flicker of regret—or perhaps the glow of a truth neither of them could name. He watched as he rose unsteadily, the pain from his missing eye a sharp reminder of the cost of this encounter, yet Aemond made no move to stop him. They were no longer hunter and prey but simply two souls adrift in the storm of their families’ making.

As the crowd began to close in around them, Aemond heard distant echoes, voices swirling in a haze, but he couldn’t quite distinguish the sounds. His focus remained locked on Luke, astonishment coursing through him as he processed the gravity of the moment. And then it happened, He had fell to the ground, but this time, Aemond was right there to catch him.

"Luke," Aemond breathed, a mix of urgency and despair, his heart racing as he held the boy steady. “I won’t let you fall again. I regret it all”

Chapter Text

Now, only silence remained, a silence so dense it pressed against the walls of Storm’s End like a second storm. Behind them, thunder rolled like a war drum struck by the Gods themselves. The hall, once filled with tension and too many eyes, had emptied quickly. The echo of fleeing footsteps and murmured prayers lingered like ghosts in the stone. Whether it was fear or some shared, unspoken understanding, they had all known: this moment was not meant for witnesses. The debt had been paid, steady in its giving, unflinching in its taking, and then gone.

Lucerys stood, swaying slightly, his hand braced against his thigh for support, blood streaking down his cheek like war paint. Lucerys Velaryon, still barely more than a boy himself, had stepped into the world like a ghost made flesh, returning to a place that no longer recognized him.

He didn’t speak—there were no words left for either of them. The dagger remained on the floor, forgotten between them, a child’s weapon now, its purpose long lost.
Aemond Targaryen followed the boy’s movements with his eye, still kneeling, still unsure of what he had done. He had let the boy go—he needed to let him go. There shouldn’t be no business between them. Lucerys Velaryon was meant to die, not stand before him now. Aemond didn’t know if he would stop him, he wanted to, or again if he should speak some final word to undo what had just happened.

He remembered the way Luke was, trembling in the storm, above the clouds, eyes too wide for war, lips parting as if to say something he didn’t yet know how to mean. Aemond had ended him then. Shouldn’t have, perhaps. Still, Aemond had wanted fury. He had wanted screams, defiance, a fight to feel alive in. He had that. He had wanted to regret it, but rage stains deeper than blood.

He never told anyone. Not Helaena, not even his mother, who would’ve pressed a prayer into his palms and called it providence. No, Aemond buried that moment the way he buried every moment that made him feel too much—deep, out of sight, under bones and scars.

Lucerys was now reaching for the doors, blood trailing behind him, his breathing shallow. At the threshold, he turned back once, not to speak, but to see. To see if Aemond would stop him. If he would speak. If he would feel.

Aemond Targaryen only stared back, frozen. And for the first time in many years, he didn’t feel strong, or wrathful, or righteous, not even feared. He felt small. Like the boy he had once been, before dragons, before swords, before the bitterness that had become his armor.

And that disarmed him more than any blade ever could.

“Why?” Aemond’s voice broke on the edge of the question. “Why would you do that… to yourself?”

Lucerys didn’t flinch. “Because you were going to do it anyway.”

The words hung in the air. Aemond looked troubled, his usual confidence, the sharpness in his eyes, now distant. Lucerys stared, unsure of how to respond to this version of his uncle. He had always known Aemond, through whispers and brief encounters, as a figure of power, a man who commanded respect with every glance, every word. But now, standing before him, Aemond, despite his pride, seemed just as lost, almost human.

“You always were” Lucerys replied, his tone soft, but final. “Even when you didn’t know it.”

“You should hate me” Aemond said.

“I did” Lucerys admitted. “Until I remembered you were a boy once. Like me.”

“I’m not that boy anymore.”

“Then perhaps” Lucerys said quietly, “neither am I.” His hand hovered near the door. Then paused again.

“I didn’t come back for vengeance, qȳbor” Lucerys said softly. “Not even to survive. I came because… because someone had to end it before it began.”

He was looking down now, trembling, bleeding, his voice fraying. “But I’m scared,” he whispered, barely audible. “I shouldn’t be here. I know that. And I know you know it too.”

Aemond stood “You think this makes you free?” voice low, almost to himself, aimed at the echoing emptiness of the corridor. “Makes us free?” He pointed to the space between them.

Lucerys lifted his eye, blood smudged like ash on his face. His voice cracked. “Would you still follow… to finish it?”

Silence

“We’re here again, somehow I did what I did and... I don’t even know why, I…I don’t want you to hate me” He paused, chest rising and falling unevenly. Then, in a hoarse murmur, almost childlike, he added, “I’m sorry, Aemond.” Then again, softer:
“Avy jorrāelan, Aemond” And then he cried.

Aemond moved without thinking. He knew what crying would do, how it would pull at the wound, how pain would crept in. He knew it too well, dreadfully well. And he still crossed the space between them.

Lucerys reached out at the same time, his hand ice-cold, skin pale and damp. Dragons were not supposed to be cold, Aemond thought. Every nerve in his body flared to life, his senses were on edge, his mind racing as time seemed to slow. The hall was still empty, save for the distant sound of Vhagar’s roar, unsure.

What should they do? What could they do? Seeing Lucerys like this awakened something unfamiliar, a guttural feeling that he hadn’t known before. He could feel the anger swelling, but it wasn’t toward Lucerys. What was he supposed to do now?

“Stop crying,” Aemond said, his voice rough. “You’re wounded.”

Lucerys only looked up, lips trembling.“It… It hurts.”

Aemond didn’t speak right away. He couldn’t. His hand hovered near Lucerys’s shoulder, unsure if it was allowed to rest there. Touch had always been a weapon to him, never a comfort. He searched for something to clean the blood, finally finding a piece of cloth in his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, then pressed it gently to Lucerys’s cheek.

Lucerys didn’t flinch. He just stood there, breathing shallowly, blood still trailing down his temple in a slow path. At least he had stopped crying.

“I don’t know what to do,” Aemond finally admitted. The words tasted foreign, bitter. “I’ve never known.”

Lucerys gave a faint, broken laugh, the kind that sounds like it’s trying not to cry. “We were never taught, were we?”

Aemond furrowed his brow, troubled. “Taught what?”

“How to stop.” Aemond’s jaw clenched and turned his face away, as if shielding it from a blow that never came.

“I thought ending you would bring peace,” Aemond said. “To the realm. To me.”

Lucerys tilted his head. “Did it?”

“No.” Silence again. Not empty this time, but dense.

“I’m not here to be forgiven,” Lucerys whispered. “I just... didn’t want to die with nothing said. Not again.”

Aemond looked at him, really looked — not to the ghost, not the boy he’d feared or hated or tried to erase with a scream from above the clouds. But the boy who had come back anyway. Bleeding. Afraid. Still standing. And something inside Aemond cracked — not loudly, not all at once.

“You said you were scared,” he said. Lucerys nodded.

“So am I.”

The words hung between them, unthinkable and true. Aemond took a step closer. No blade drawn. No armor raised.

“If I don’t finish it,” he said quietly, “then we have to carry it. All of it.”

“I’ve been carrying it,” Lucerys said, “since the sky split above Shipbreaker Bay.”

War would still come. Aemond’s mercy, if mercy it truly was, might only sharpen the coming storm. Would his family see it as weakness? Would the Blacks take it as defiance? Or was it simply fate bending in a new direction, pulling all of them toward some fresh horror just beyond the horizon?

He thought then, not of honor, nor House, nor vengeance, but of that final glance Luke had given him. Not hatred. Not gratitude. Something quieter. Something closer to understanding. Something outside the script fate had carved into their bones.

Still, he knew it would not matter. The Dance would begin. It had always been coming, etched in every silence Viserys allowed to linger, in every wound left without care. Lucerys’s survival had not broken the curse. If anything, it had changed its shape, like the waves reshaping the shore, unpredictable and ever-shifting, altering with each new tide. Perhaps they, too, should change, like the waves, unable to settle, caught in the pull of an uncertain future. Though they fought against it, in some strange way, they were always drawn toward it. The sea had swollen them both, pulling them closer to the storm, whether they were ready or not.

Aemond grabbed the bloodied cloth again and resumed cleaning Lucerys’s cheek. He needed a maester, and Aemond would find one. Slowly, he reached for Lucerys’s chin, settled him. Eye to Eye

Then, in the quiet of the moment Aemond said “I won’t let you fall again. I regret it all, I mean that. So let me carry it with you.”

Lucerys’s lips parted, but no sound came out, just breath. Then he smiled “You are a mad man, Aemond Targaryen.”

“You fool” Aemond whispered. It wasn’t clear if he meant Lucerys or himself. He murmured, but Lucerys could see, could feel, he was not jesting.

And then, for the first time since they were boys, Lucerys Velaryon leaned forward and let his head rest against his uncle’s shoulder.

Aemond didn’t pull away. There, in that fragile silence, was a way out—a choice that would echo louder than any scream.

And that, perhaps, was enough for now.