Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The hearth crackled with low-burning embers, casting red-orange flickers against the stone walls of the solar. A northern storm had been building since morning, its howling wind scratching against the high windows, but within, the silence was heavier than the snow outside.

Lord Cregan Stark sat at the long oaken table, fingers laced, jaw tight with thought. Before him were parchment stacks—grief made paper. Tithes lost to rot. Widows left without firewood. Fatherless children, whole villages half-gutted by the recent fever.

The Winter Fever, as it was coming to be called.

Ser Jorlan, his old friend and bannerman, leaned forward with a sigh.

“The crofters in Last Hearth say their stores won’t last the month. They lost every man between twenty and forty to the sickness. Only old men and boys left to till frozen ground.”

“Send grain,” Cregan said, low and sure. “From Winterfell’s reserves. Enough to carry them to new sowing.”

Ser Jorlan nodded. “The widows in the Rills—”

“Coin and smoked fish,” Cregan interrupted. “And a mason for the roof of their sept. The gods may not have helped them, but they’ll need shelter to curse them in.”

It was nothing new, after the loss of his mate in childbirth, it had become easier for Cregan to bury himself in duties.

a better alternative to thinking – whether it be about the loss, or about how is son was motherless before he even had a chance to open his eyes properly.

Even Maester Hareth gave a brief smile at that, though the look he cast Cregan was edged with fatigue. “And Deepdown?”

Cregan hesitated. That one hurt.

“Send word that we remember them,” he said, voice quiet. “And riders. It may be the fever spared them. Or it simply hasn’t reached them yet.”

The silence that followed was respectful. Grieving.

It was Hareth who eventually broke it, shuffling a smaller, pale scroll into view—its seal already broken.

“One more matter, my lord,” he said cautiously. “A raven came this morning. From the Eyrie.”

Cregan’s brow twitched. That was all. But those who knew him—like Jorlan and Hareth—recognized it as the North’s version of a groan.

“What,” Cregan said flatly, “is that woman up to now?”

He didn’t need to hear the name. Lady Jeyne Arryn. That meddling hawk. A thorn in his side since they were both children of important names.

Always writing letters, making suggestions, asking favors. Always poking her long beak where it didn’t belong.

She called him “Creggie” once in court when they were fourteen. He’d never recovered from the disgrace.

“Does she want a favor?” he muttered. “A marriage pact? To sell me another bloody moon tea remedy she claims cures gout?”

Hareth cleared his throat gently. “No mention of marriage or gout, my lord.”

“That’s worse.”

Cregan rubbed his face, for all the troubles of the north, nothing irked him more than that woman.

“Gods help me. What has she done this time?”

Both his advisors exchanged a glance.

Cregan turned back to the hearth with a sigh that sounded closer to a growl. “Well? Spit it out, Hareth.”

The maester adjusted his sleeves and pushed the scroll forward, its fine Vale parchment already unfurled.

“I thought it best you read it yourself, my lord,” he said carefully. “It… bears Lady Jeyne’s particular signature.”

Cregan gave the scroll a suspicious glance, as if it might bite him. Then he took it between two fingers, inspecting it.

The parchment inside carried the faintest scent of lavender — of course she’d scented it.

“To my favorite glacial-faced wolf—

You may thank me now or later, but thank me you must. Since you refuse to see sense and find help for that poor, motherless pup of yours, I’ve done the sensible thing and sent it to you instead.

The omega boy is young, yes — but he is bountiful where it counts. Milk-rich, well-fed, and well-read, which is more than I can say for most of your bannermen.

He’s served in the Eyrie nurseries these past two years and never once dropped a babe or spilled a cup of milk. I’m told your Rickon is still at the breast — and as you’ve yet to grow a set yourself, I’ve done the next best thing.

He’s sweet-natured, gentle-handed, and frankly wasted in the Vale. Consider this a gift, or a rescue. From both ends.

Don’t frighten him. Or do. If he flees back to me in tears, I shall take it as a personal triumph.

Yours in eternal torment,
— Jeyne Arryn, Falcon of Mercy, Wind Beneath Your Sulking”

There was a long silence.

Jorlan cleared his throat once. Maester Hareth shifted uncomfortably.

The fire cracked. The wind howled.

Cregan stared at the parchment for a long moment after reaching the end, then placed it gently on the table as if restraining the urge to rip it in half.

There was a vein pulsing at his temple.

“Milk-rich,” he said slowly, as if tasting the words and finding them poisonous.

“Indeed,” the maester replied diplomatically.

“Well-fed,” Cregan continued, voice low. “Well-read.”

“Which is more than she says for me,” Jorlan muttered, earning a sharp look.

Cregan leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That woman. That airborne menace. That smug-feathered serpent—”

“She means well, I suppose.’” Maester Hareth offered, trying not to smile.

Cregan gave him a glower that could ice a river. “She sent me a milk-laden omega nursemaid without my consent.”

He grunted before he could help himself.

“She’s going to tell everyone I needed help. That I couldn't handle one small boy without a wet nurse.”

“She already has, I imagine,” Jorlan said. “In writing.”

Cregan pointed a finger at the letter like it personally insulted him. “She knows I hate surprises.”

“She does,” Hareth said mildly. “She also seems to enjoy them.”

Cregan scrubbed a hand down his face, then pointed sharply at the maester.

“Write her back. Now.”

Hareth blinked. “My lord?”

“Tell her we have wet nurses in the North. Tell her my son doesn’t need—what did she call him—‘milk-rich blessings’ from the Eyrie. Tell her if she sends me one more gift, I’ll start sending things back. Sharp things. Dire things. Preferably still growling.”

“I see,” the maester said, already reaching for his inkpot. “Should I keep it civil?”

Cregan narrowed his eyes. “Use your judgment.”

Just then, the solar door creaked open and one of the serving maids peeked her head inside, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” she said, eyes darting nervously between the men. “But there’s… a guest.”

Cregan’s head lifted slowly, the kind of stillness that preceded a storm.

“A guest?”

“Aye, my lord,” she said quickly. “A carriage just passed through the gate. Men with it, bearing the falcon of House Arryn.”

The silence was instant.

Maester Hareth lowered his quill with a sigh. Jorlan covered his mouth with one hand, but not fast enough to hide the smirk.

Cregan did not sigh. Cregan seethed.

“Of course she did,” he muttered, pushing back from the table. “Of course she bloody did.”

**

The hall echoed with the steady stomp of Cregan Stark’s boots.

Snow still clung to his shoulders as he barreled down the corridor, his bannerman Jorlan trailing behind, trying not to slip on the stone or the tension.

“Cregan,” Jorlan called, his tone annoyingly reasonable, “you haven’t even met the lad yet. Maybe he’s a decent sort. Could be this helps more than hurts.”

Cregan didn’t look back. “He’s an omega nursemaid Jeyne hand-delivered like a crate of lemons, and I don’t need either.”

“She says he’s well-trained.”

“I don’t care. He’s going back.”

He had a plan, he was going to tell this boy —whoever he was —to take his belongings, and leave like he was never there — provide compensation, or threats if necessary.

Jorlan grinned. “Then why are you marching like you’re off to war?”

“I am.”

Then Cregan turned the corner and entered the hall where the omega was supposedly awaiting an audience, pushing the door open with a firm hand.

And then—gods help him—the scent hit.

Warm. Gentle. Sweet as milk and soft pinewood and some underlying note that tugged at something behind Cregan’s ribs.

Omega.

Cregan froze like a hunted stag. Jaw slack. Shoulders locked. Blood trying to remember how to move.

There stood a boy no older than seventeen, bundled in fine wool, with a thick cloak trimmed in dove-grey fur. His cheeks were flushed red from the wind, his lips slightly chapped, and a few brown curls peeked out from beneath his hood.

The figure approached with small, careful steps on the wood, but without hesitation.

The boy — the omega — lowered his hood with a smooth motion, and bowed with grace too natural for a southerner.

“My lord Stark,” he said politely, “I am Jace Waters. Lady Jeyne said I was expected.”

The boy looked up—

—And smiled.

A warm, open, unguarded smile that didn’t belong in a place like Winterfell.

Cregan blinked. Gods, no. She didn’t—

Oh, she did.

"Damn you, Jeyne," he muttered beneath his breath.

Chapter Text

All Luke had ever known was the life of a bastard—a bastard of the Eyrie.

The Vale had been his home for as long as he could remember, and under Lady Jeyne’s watchful, unconventional care, he had never truly wanted for anything.

He was fed, sheltered, and—by some miracle of her temperament—seen.

For the most part, he had been content.

But lately, there was a restlessness in him. A strange itch beneath the skin, as if the stones of the Eyrie had grown too familiar, the mountains too repetitive in their grandeur.

Perhaps he was simply weary of looking at the same endless green landscape.

Or perhaps it was because Jace had left him behind—set off for Winterfell weeks ago, leaving Luke with a quiet that felt too loud.

Either way, he did what he always did when his thoughts grew too heavy.

He picked up a sword.

The clang of steel echoed off white stone walls, sharp and bright as birdsong. The courtyard air bit cold against exposed skin, crisp enough to sting the lungs, but Luke Waters barely noticed it.

He darted forward, sword raised—not with the smooth precision of a seasoned knight, but with the eager bite of someone who meant it.

His breath came quick, curls damp against his brow, cheeks flushed from the cold and the effort.

He tugged his collar higher as he moved, fingers quick and practiced, a thoughtless habit born of need.

Ser Corryn laughed as he parried. “Seven hells, boy, you swing like you’re fighting ghosts.”

Luke grinned, teeth flashing. “Maybe I am. They die the same.”

“Not this one,” Corryn replied, stepping in—and with a twist of his wrist, Luke’s blade went flying. It clattered against the stone with a shamefully loud ring.

Luke blinked, then looked down at his empty hands.

Ser Corryn lowered his sword, chuckling as he clapped a hand to the boy’s shoulder.

“Better. You lasted longer this time.”

Luke huffed, brushing dust from his sleeve. “Longer isn’t winning.”

“No, but it’s not bleeding either. Which, considering your grip, is a miracle.”

Luke bent to retrieve his sword, eyeing it as if the blade itself had betrayed him. As he straightened, he adjusted his collar again, subtly checking that it still sat just so at his neck.

“You’ll see. One day I’ll have you on the ground.”

“Only if I fall asleep standing up.”

Luke smiled despite himself. His legs ached. His wrists were sore. He had a bruise forming somewhere beneath his ribs. And yet—he wanted to go again.

The fight, he was slowly learning, was not just about strength. It was about control. Timing. Patience. He could be good at this—he would be. Someday.

“You’ve got heart,” Ser Corryn said, tossing him a waterskin. “And gods know that counts for something.”

Luke took a long drink, the cold water washing away the taste of frustration.

“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.

A voice called from the edge of the yard.

“Master Luke!”

They both turned as a young servant girl hurried toward them, cloak trailing behind her like a banner.

“Lady Jeyne requests your presence. She says… now, if possible.”

Luke exchanged a glance with Corryn.

“Trouble?” the knight asked lightly.

Luke only shrugged, wiping sweat from his neck. “With Lady Jeyne, it’s always possible.”

**

The solar was warm despite the winter wind brushing against the glass panes. Lady Jeyne Arryn sat at her writing desk, quill in hand, but her smile lifted the moment Luke stepped inside.

“My little falcon,” she greeted, waving him in without setting down the quill. “You look windblown. Have you been flinging yourself at Ser Corryn’s sword again?”

Luke grinned, brushing the dust from his shoulders and bowing with practiced grace.

“Only until he sent mine flying across the yard.”

“Progress, then.” She set her quill aside and gave him her full attention. “Come, sit. You look flushed with something—ambition, or bruises.”

“A bit of both.” Luke perched on the edge of the seat across from her, still catching his breath. “Has there been any word from Jace?”

“Ah—yes.” Her tone warmed further. “He reached Winterfell safely three days ago. I’ve had a raven from Maester Hareth. Apparently, Lord Stark is already glowering at him in secret, which I consider a great success.”

Luke let out a breath of relief, one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“I’m glad. I was starting to think the North had swallowed him whole.”

Lady Jeyne’s gaze lingered on him then, softer. “It’s not easy, I know. Being left behind.”

Luke smiled, though the corner of it wobbled. “I’m used to it. The Eyrie is hardly a punishment.”

He knew his brother needed the time away. After everything the winter fever had taken from him, Luke understood—Jace deserved a place where he could begin again.

“Still,” she said, rising, walking toward a cabinet near the hearth, “I’ve not forgotten you.”

Luke blinked. “My lady?”

She opened the cabinet and pulled out a sealed scroll, tapping it lightly against her palm before turning back to him with a proud, almost smug glint in her eye.

“I’ve found someone,” she said, “for you to squire under. A proper swordsman. Respected, powerful. A chance for you to step into the world and make something of yourself.”

Luke straightened, hands curling on his knees. “Truly?”

He had asked her for it about a week ago, he hadn’t expected her to work so quickly

She smiled. “Truly. You’ll be leaving the Vale within the week.”

Excitement surged through him, mingled with nerves. “Who is it?”

Lady Jeyne held out the scroll, savoring the moment.

“You’ll be squiring for Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

Luke froze.

He blinked once. Then again.

“A prince?” he echoed, as if the word had arrived in a different language. “The Prince Aemond?”

Lady Jeyne gave a satisfied little nod. “One and the same.”

Luke sat back, trying to process. He had imagined himself squiring for a hedge knight.

Maybe someone grizzled and half-forgotten, with more scars than stories. Or a younger son of a minor house, quietly tucked into obscurity.

But Aemond Targaryen?

“A prince doesn’t need a squire like me,” he said quietly, still stunned.

Lady Jeyne arched a brow. “Every knight needs a squire. Even princes.”

“He’s a Targaryen,” Luke added, brows knitting. “He’s… He’s the Commander of the City Watch. They say he trains with real steel. That he never misses a blow.”

“They also say he once rode his dragon over the city in silence just to watch the people scatter,” she said, not unkindly. “But I don’t put much stock in gossip—except when it serves me.”

Luke glanced down at his hands. “Why would he accept me?”

“Because I asked,” Lady Jeyne said simply, as though it were obvious. “And because your name carries less weight than your potential. Goldcloaks need discipline. They need order. You, my little falcon, need edge. You’ll find it in King's Landing, or die trying.”

Luke huffed a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh.

It wasn’t that he was frightened—he was—but beneath it all there was something else: a flare of purpose.

He was a bastard. He’d always known that. His name, his birth, his place in the world were all reminders.

But knights could rise.

And sometimes, they died with honor—clean and remembered, beneath banners they didn’t carry by birth but by bloodshed.

“I’ll make the most of it,” he said at last.

Lady Jeyne smiled.

“I know you will.”

Luke hesitated, fingers tracing the hem of his sleeve. His voice, when it came, was lower. Careful.

“There’s something else.”

Lady Jeyne tilted her head, watching him closely.

“I’m an omega,” he said plainly. “You know that. So does Jace. No one else.”

He reached up, fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the collar beneath his tunic.

“The salves mask the scent. The tea keeps the worst at bay. I've never—I've never had a heat after my first. I never let myself.”

He had chosen to hide this part of himself. It didn’t come as easily to him as it did to Jace—this acceptance, this ease in one's own skin.

He couldn’t bear it—the stigma, the stares, the way the alphas he trained beside would change if they knew.
The same alphas who’d praised his footwork today would likely tell him to trade his sword for a needle.

Lady Jeyne’s gaze softened, but she did not interrupt.

“I didn’t want to be... just an omega,” he continued. “Didn’t want doors closed before I’d even reached them.”

“You’ve never had anything handed to you,” she said gently. “You’ve earned every scrap of what you are. There is no shame in the body you were born into, Luke. But there is danger.”

“I know.”

“If you want to remain undiscovered, you must be careful. The capital is not the Vale. There are eyes there. Noses, too.”

Luke gave a nervous laugh. Unease coiling deep in his gut

“That’s what worries me. How will I even find what I need? The salves, the draughts—they’re not easy to come by. Not discreetly.”

Lady Jeyne smiled then. Not unkindly—more like a wolf who’s seen the trap long before it was set.

“I’ve thought of that,” she said, turning to her desk and drawing out a small folded letter sealed in blue wax. “There’s a maester in King’s Landing. One of mine. Discreet. Loyal. He’ll provide what you need—and he knows better than to ask questions.”

Luke blinked. “You’ve already written him?”

“I wrote him the moment I decided to send you.”

There was silence between them for a beat, not heavy—but full.

Luke rose from his seat at last, still cradling the letter with the maester’s name tucked safely inside.

He bowed his head respectfully. “Thank you, my lady. For… all of it.”

He turned toward the door, but paused just shy of crossing the threshold.

There was a flicker of hesitation, then he looked over his shoulder.

“Lady Jeyne?”

“Yes, my falcon?”

He tilted his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

“How in the world did you manage it? Getting me—a bastard—to squire for a Targaryen prince?”

Lady Jeyne smirked, folding her arms over her chest. “You forget, dear boy. I share blood with the Queen.”

Luke blinked. He knew of the face, he just didn’t know how close the two women were until now.

“There are many perks to an illustrious bloodline,” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Especially when one chooses to use them as I do: wisely, and for sport.”

Luke laughed—genuine, caught off guard.

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, brief but firm, like she always had since he was small and half-starved from nerves.

“You'll do well, Luke,” she said into his shoulder. “Just remember who you are—and who raised you.”

He nodded into her velvet blue gown. “I will.”

Then he pulled back, straighter than before.

There was still fear in him, yes. But there was fire too.

He turned and left the solar, heart beating faster with every step.

Kings Landing awaits.

Chapter Text

Cregan was still staring.

Not at the boy’s curls—though they were soft and chestnut-brown, barely reaching his shoulders.

Not at his eyes—though they were warm, a gentle sort of brown that shouldn’t have stood out but somehow did.

No, it was the smile. That unguarded, sunlit thing. It made something lurch in Cregan’s chest, and he resented it immediately.

The omega stood there patiently, his posture proper, hands clasped before him, the faint scent of milk barely noticeable beneath the herbs he must have steeped in. Everything about him was composed. Measured. Modest.

Except the face.

Cregan swallowed, tried to speak.

Nothing.

The silence stretched just a second too long.

“I—” he managed, then stopped, jaw twitching with irritation. He was Lord Stark. He was Warden of the North.

He did not lose his tongue because of a pretty southern face and a scent he wasn’t even supposed to notice.

Jace tilted his head slightly. “My lord?” he prompted, with polite concern.

Gods help him.

“I—”

“You’ll have to excuse him,” came a low, amused voice from behind. Ser Jorlan stepped up beside Cregan, his grin completely unapologetic. “He’s not used to receiving such charming gifts from the Eyrie. Usually it's just birds and bad advice.”

Jace blinked, then let out a soft laugh—quiet, but sincere.

“Welcome to Winterfell,” Jorlan added. “Long ride, I’d imagine?”

Jace nodded. “Three weeks, with the snows slowing us through the Neck. But the men were kind.”

Cregan still hadn’t said a word.

Which was deeply irritating, because his thoughts were saying many words. Most of them unhelpful.

The he finally managed to clear his throat, straightening as if his spine could save his dignity.

“Well,” he said brusquely, “I hope Lady Jeyne didn’t send you just because you can smile nicely.”

Jace blinked once, then offered a polite, noncommittal smile.

“I assure you, my lord, I was sent for my skills.”

Cregan folded his arms, grasping for some shred of authority. “And you’ve… experience? With infants?”

“Yes, my lord,” Jace replied, unruffled. “Nearly two years in the Eyrie’s nurseries. I looked after the children of the household staff, and some of the lesser bannermen. The highborn babes were always seen to first, of course, but I was trusted to step in more than once.”

Cregan grunted. “Trusted not to drop them, I suppose.”

“I’ve never dropped a babe in my life,” Jace said simply, “though I have caught a few mid-tumble.”

That earned a quiet snort from Ser Jorlan.

Cregan ignored him. “And you can… feed?”

“Yes, my lord. I still have milk.”

That was said without embarrassment, without flinching, and somehow that made it worse. Cregan’s mouth opened, then shut again. He cleared his throat, again, far too loudly this time.

“Well.” He adjusted the fall of his cloak even though it hadn’t moved. “We’ll see how you manage.”

Jace inclined his head. “Of course, my lord.”

Behind Cregan, Jorlan coughed gently into his fist. It sounded suspiciously like he was hiding laughter.

Cregan did not dignify it with a glance.

Just when he was about to dismiss them all—likely with some curt order to have the boy shown to the nursery—when old Maerin, one of the keep’s long-standing midwives, stepped forward from where she’d been standing watch near the hall’s edge.

“I’ve already looked him over, my lord,” she said matter-of-factly, squinting at Jace with her usual blunt affection. “He’s a bountiful creature, this one. Milk enough for two babes, and steady hands to match.”

Jace’s ears turned pink almost instantly, though he bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said gently, voice composed despite the flush. “I’m glad to have your confidence.”

Cregan looked as though he’d rather take a spear to the chest than endure this conversation any longer.

Jace glanced toward him, then back at Maerin. “May I… meet the child? My ward?”

“Little Lord Rickon, aye,” Maerin said with a nod. “He’s in good health—big for his age, strong lungs. No trouble latching, and near sleeps through the night already.”

She cast a sideways look at Cregan, her tone edging into dry humor. “But I’m not twenty anymore, and rocking a growing babe after every feed is no small task. Some of us were due for a bit of relief.”

Cregan’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing. Maerin had seen him red-faced and squalling once—he knew better than to argue with her now.

He cleared his throat. “Very well. You may see him.”

Jace bowed slightly. “Thank you, my lord.”

Maerin was already gesturing for him to follow. “Come along then, pretty one. Let’s put those soft hands to proper use before the little lord wakes and starts howling for mine.”

Cregan watched them go, Jorlan just behind him, lips twitching with mirth.

He didn’t speak. But the look on his face said it all:

Damn you, Jeyne.

**

The nursery was quiet, save for the soft creak of wooden toys hanging from the rafters and the distant snap of firewood. The air smelled faintly of milk, lavender, and powdered herbs.

The little lord lay bundled in his crib, round-cheeked and wide-eyed, fists curled at either side of his flushed face.

Maerin approached the cradle first.

“There he is,” she said softly, with the fondness only those who’ve survived midnight feeds can summon. “Little frostling, giving the keep hell since you started teething.”

She stepped aside to let Jace approach.

Behind them, Cregan folded his arms, setting his jaw in preparation.

“He’ll scream,” he muttered under his breath, mostly to Jorlan beside him. “He always screams. Took Maerin three weeks to figure out the right rhythm for rocking.”

Jorlan hummed, amused. “And you two are the only ones who can hold him, aren’t you? Poor lad.”

“Don’t act like he didn’t shriek in your arms.”

As they spoke, Jace stepped to the crib.

He didn’t reach for the babe right away. First, he leaned in slightly, letting Rickon see him. Letting him smell him.

Rickon’s nose scrunched. His bottom lip wobbled. He made a soft, warning sound in the back of his throat—a cry threatening to bloom.

Cregan smirked, arms still crossed.

But Jace moved carefully, deliberately. One hand cradled Rickon’s neck, the other his lower back. As he lifted the infant against his chest, he let his scent open—not full and rich like it would be in heat, but soft and warm and milk-sweet, blooming gently from his skin like a lullaby. Controlled, intentional.

The whimper died against his collarbone.

Rickon blinked.

Then sighed.

His fists relaxed. One tiny hand curled around a lock of Jace’s hair, and the other rested against his chest. The baby burbled once, then settled fully, nestling into the cradle of the omega’s body like it was the only place he’d ever known.

Maerin raised a brow. “Well.”

Cregan’s mouth twitched.

“Not you too, Rickon,” he muttered under his breath.

Jorlan hummed again behind him.

Jace didn’t even look smug. He only rocked the babe slowly, gently—his body swaying to a rhythm older than any nursery rhyme.

“Would you like to hold him, my lord?” he asked politely.

Cregan grunted. “No.”

Absolutely not.

And then....

Rickon began rooting.

Aggressively.

Jace froze, blinking down at the baby headbutting his chest with all the determined grace of a drunken puppy.

“Oh—” Jace blinked, startled. “He’s, um—”

Rickon let out a frustrated little grunt and slapped at Jace’s collar with all the wrath of a Stark denied his prize.

“Looking for his breakfast,” Maerin said cheerfully, hands on her hips. “Knows where the milk is, that one. Always did have good instincts.”

Cregan choked on air.

Jorlan coughed into his hand, though it didn’t hide his grin. “Well. He’s not shy about his needs, your little lord.”

Jace flushed a deep red, his composure holding by threads, but his arms never faltered. “I—I can feed him, if that’s permitted.”

Cregan looked like someone had just asked him to take off his boots and recite a poem. His gaze flicked from Jace to the baby now gnawing determinedly at the fabric over Jace’s chest, then to Maerin, who looked entirely too pleased.

“Fine,” he said abruptly, already turning toward the door. “Feed the boy.”

He didn’t wait for acknowledgment, striding out with a stiffness that was meant to be dignified and ended up more like retreat.

Jorlan followed behind, chuckling quietly. “Milk-rich, well-fed, and well-read, wasn’t that what the letter said?”

“Don’t start,” Cregan muttered.

And still, as he left the nursery, the image clung to him: the gentle way the boy held his son, the soft hum he’d begun to make, like a lullaby under his breath. It was too warm, too soft—it unsettled something inside Cregan he hadn’t named in years.

It didn’t matter.

He’d allow the boy to stay, for Rickon’s sake. But that was it.

He wouldn’t let the omega’s presence bother him.

He wouldn’t get attached.

He wouldn’t—

Ever.

(Famous last words.)

Chapter Text

A few days later, Luke arrived in Kings Landing.

The Red Keep loomed above him, its towers stabbing at the bright afternoon sky like spears of stone. Luke Waters stood at its gates, clutching the strap of his satchel with one hand and trying not to look as wide-eyed as he felt.

It was louder than the Vale. Hotter, too.

The air was thick with the scent of oil and horse, sweat and baked stone. People bustled past him in every direction—servants in livery, errand boys, armoured knights, even two maesters arguing over a scroll as they walked. Everyone had purpose. Everyone knew where they were going.

Everyone but him.

A pair of guards stepped aside as he entered the courtyard, their golden cloaks catching the light. Luke moved through on instinct alone, absorbing what he could: the layout of the halls, the positions of the guards, the clang of steel from a nearby training yard.

He passed it quickly but couldn’t help glancing in. Knights circled one another in the dust, barking orders and striking hard. It was rougher than the Vale's style—more aggressive, less elegant—but no less skilled.

He lingered half a second too long before moving on.

His hand drifted to his throat, fingers brushing over the smooth line of his collar.

Still there. Still hiding what it needed to. The familiar weight of it calmed him. Almost.

The name and location of the city’s discreet maester were folded into his pocket, scrawled on a scrap of parchment by Lady Jeyne herself.

He intended to visit—soon. As soon as he was settled. As soon as he could slip away without raising questions.

He didn’t notice the knight approaching until he was almost upon him.

“Luke Waters?” the man asked, voice smooth but authoritative.

Luke snapped to attention. The knight was tall and broad, his white cloak pristine despite the heat. Ser Lorent Marbrand, if he remembered the names Lady Jeyne had given him correctly.

“Yes, ser,” Luke replied, bowing his head politely. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Ser Lorent smiled faintly. “You’re expected.”

Luke straightened. “Should I report to the barracks, ser? Or—?”

“No,” Ser Lorent cut in easily, turning on his heel. “You’re to meet the queen.”

Luke blinked.

“…Pardon?”

“The queen,” Ser Lorent repeated, already beginning to walk. “She’s asked to see you.”

Luke stood frozen for a full breath before stumbling into motion. “Wait—wait, me?! The queen wants to see me?!”

Ser Lorent said nothing.

Luke hurried to catch up, eyes wide, heart already starting to thud like a war drum behind his ribs.

His boots thudded softly against polished stone floors as he followed Ser Lorent through winding halls and up a short flight of stairs. The Red Keep was a maze of shadows and red banners, sunlight filtering through high windows like blood through silk.

He was going to die. Or worse—be reprimanded. Or outed. Or executed. Or—

He swallowed hard, his fingers brushing his collar again. Had he made a mistake? Had someone from the Vale sent word about him?

Did they already find out he was an omega and unfitting for the position of a squire?

Was the queen the sort of person who personally dismissed unworthy squires?

His mind chased its own tail, spiraling.

You haven’t done anything wrong, he told himself. Unless breathing counts. In which case, you’re doomed.

Ser Lorent stopped before a grand set of carved oak doors. Two guards stepped aside.

The knight knocked once, then opened the door with the confidence of someone long used to royal company.

Luke stepped in—and forgot how to breathe.

The solar was warm with golden light, its high windows open to the breeze, letting in the scent of sun-warmed thyme. But none of it registered—not the room, not the fire, not the soft rustle of silks.

Because the Queen sat at the center.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was not dressed in court finery, but even in simple black and red, she looked every inch the ruler she was.

Her silver-blonde hair caught the light like a crown, her eyes—purple, sharp, and unknowable—fixed on him with something far too soft to be indifference.

She was beautiful. Beautiful in the way dragons must be—dangerous, ancient, divine.

Luke blinked, realizing that behind her, a man stood with arms crossed, a shadow carved in iron.

Daemon Targaryen.

The Rogue Prince. The Queen’s consort. Her uncle.

He was everything the stories said—tall, severe, and faintly amused, as though the world itself were something he tolerated with mild irritation.

Luke had heard the whispers, of course. The marriages. The bloodlines. “Targaryens are different,” they always said.

He didn’t expect them to look so... united.

The Queen rose slowly, the corners of her lips curling in something that could’ve been mistaken for restraint—but her eyes gave her away.

They shimmered.

“Luke Waters,” she said, her voice a bell.

Luke bowed low, eyes to the floor.

“Your Grace,” he replied, carefully, politely. “It is an honour to be in your presence.”

And he meant it. Even if his heart was hammering like a smith at a forge.

“Please”, she gestured towards the seat opposite to her, velvet couch, expensive, “You must sit.”

Luke sat, stiff and unsure, in the chair the Queen had so eagerly gestured him toward. The cushion was far too soft, the room far too quiet, and the woman before him far too attentive.

“Please, have something,” she said warmly, waving to the tray of small, delicate cakes laid between them. “Lady Jeyne wrote to me that you favor lemon cakes.”

Luke blinked. “She… did?”

The Queen smiled—soft, proud, and somehow… aching. “She did.”

He hesitated, then reached for one with careful fingers. His appetite was floundering under the weight of nerves, but the tart sweetness as he bit into it was familiar enough to soothe the worst of the tightness in his chest.

“You’ve come a long way,” Rhaenyra said after a moment. “And I imagine the Vale was very different from this place.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Luke replied, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “It was quieter. Colder. But… peaceful.”

“Did they treat you well?” she asked, her voice low. Almost hesitant.

Luke nodded. “Lady Jeyne was kind to me. Always.”

Rhaenyra’s smile twitched. “She always did have a soft heart.”

Luke tilted his head, unsure how to answer that, so he didn’t.

“What of your interests?” she asked next, resting her chin on her hand. “I know Lady Jeyne made sure you received an education, but tell me—what do you enjoy?”

Luke blinked at the question. “Swordplay,” he admitted. “I'm not the best, but I’m… learning. I like the structure of it. The way your body remembers things, eventually. Like music, but sharper.”

The Queen hummed, a pleased sound. She was watching him too closely, not with judgment, but with something gentler. Hungrier.

Like every word he spoke was water in a desert.

Daemon shifted behind her, arms folded, saying nothing—but Luke felt the man’s eyes on him too, appraising but not unkind.

“And your brother?” Rhaenyra asked then, gently. “Jace… Have you had word?”

Luke blinked, caught off guard. It wasn’t a question he had been expecting.

“You… know about him?”

Something flickered in the Queen’s eyes—pain, maybe. Luke didn’t understand it.

“Of course,” she said softly. “He was sent north, wasn’t he?”

Luke nodded slowly. At this point he assumed the woman was a sentient being who knew everything.

“Yes. He… needed it. After all he went through.” His voice lowered. “Jace is the best older brother anyone could have asked for. I miss him. But… I hope the North brings him peace.”

Rhaenyra didn’t speak for a moment. She only looked at him with something raw and distant in her gaze. Then she smiled again, faint and full.

“You’ve grown so much,” she said eventually. “You're… beautiful.”

Luke froze. The cake nearly dropped from his hand.

His pulse jumped to his throat as he scrambled, “I’m not— Your Grace, I mean— I’m not an omega.”

She tilted her head, feigning surprise with masterful grace. “No?”

He forced a steady breath. “No. I’m a beta.”

The Queen’s expression softened with something that might have been amusement.

“Silly me,” she murmured. “I suppose I must’ve mistaken the sweetness for something else.”

Luke nodded, unsure how else to respond.

The silence that followed was warm and oddly weighted—less like judgment, more like something being memorized.

The tension in Luke’ shoulders had started to ease—just barely—when the Queen reached for a goblet and said, rather casually.

“You’ll be serving under my brother. Prince Aemond.”

Luke straightened instinctively. “Yes, Your Grace. Lady Jeyne told me.”

Rhaenyra's lips curved into a proud smile.

“You’ll learn much under him. He’s commander of the City Watch now. A strong leader. Dutiful. Steady-handed.”

She spoke like she believed every word. Like she’d made peace with her brother's iron nature and saw only the honor in it.

Daemon, still leaning in his usual half-bored sprawl against the window, made a low sound in his throat.

“Steady-handed, maybe. Reckless too. The boy wields justice like it’s a sword meant to be drawn at every whisper of offense.”

Rhaenyra gave him a withering glance, but Daemon didn’t flinch.

“What? You want him to walk in blind? He should know what to expect.”

Luke blinked between them, trying to piece together the image. He’d heard of Aemond, of course—everyone had. A prince with a dragon, a soldier with a sharp tongue, a sharp eye, and no lack of conviction.

Still, it was strange to hear two royals speak of their own family this way.

“Should I be concerned?” Luke asked, tone careful.

Daemon tilted his head. “Only if you’re soft. But you don’t strike me as soft.”

Luke bit the inside of his cheek to hide the small, startled smile.

“No, my prince. I try not to be.”

“Good,” Daemon said. “Then keep your wits about you. Aemond respects strength—but he doesn’t coddle it.”

Rhaenyra sighed, brushing her hand over the edge of her seat.

“Ignore my husband. You’ll be fine. It’s a fine opportunity. You’ll learn discipline. Purpose. A place in the capital.”

Luke nodded, the weight of it beginning to settle on his shoulders. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The Queen rose, graceful as a swan, and rang a small bell. “Ser Lorent will show you to your rooms.”

Luke blinked. “Rooms?”

Rhaenyra smiled. “Yes. You’ll not be staying in the barracks.”

“I won’t?”

Was it not customary for the squires to live together?

“Don’t be silly,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Squires to princes are afforded a little more comfort. Besides—those barracks are filthy. Ser Lorent has arranged everything.”

Luke bowed again, a little stunned, his thoughts already spiraling. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but private rooms in the Red Keep hadn’t been on the list.

But it was a convenience nonetheless, it would mean more privacy, and he could definitely do wit more of that if he was going to ide his nature.

Luke rose when Ser Lorent reappeared in the doorway, golden cloak catching the light. The signal was clear—it was time to go.

He bowed low once more.

“Thank you for your time, Your Graces. It’s… been an honour.”

“Luke,” Rhaenyra said, voice soft and strange. “If ever you’re unhappy, or mistreated, or need something—anything—you may come to us directly. There’s no shame in it.”

Luke blinked. That was… a lot. A monarch's concern, personal and warm, for a squire of no name?

“I—of course, Your Grace. That’s very kind.”

Daemon gave a small nod as well, arms crossed but expression unreadable.

“We mean it. Goldcloaks or not, anyone gives you trouble—you speak. Don’t keep it inside and rot.”

Luke nodded quickly, heart thumping again. “Yes, my prince. Thank you.”

He turned to go, but—

“Wait,” Rhaenyra said gently.

Luke paused as she stood. For a moment, she looked as if she’d stepped out of a portrait—graceful, radiant, and just barely holding something back. There was a shine in her violet eyes now, and a tension around her mouth as if she were holding back words. Or something else.

She stepped closer, slowly, like she didn’t want to spook him.

Then, with careful hands, she cupped his face.

Luke froze. He did not expect a woman of her stature to touch him, and he could feel her fingers trembling for reasons he didn't understand.

“My Queen—?”

Rhaenyra leaned in and placed a kiss against his forehead, soft and reverent. When she pulled back, she smiled through eyes that shimmered too brightly.

Her voice, when it came, was soft—achingly warm.

“Welcome to your new home, sweet boy.”

His throat was dry. His collar felt too tight. “Th-thank you, Your Grace.”

When he exited the room, he was walking in a daze—cheeks flushed, steps unsure, heart full of something he didn’t quite have a name for.

Gods.

He was going to die of embarrassment before he ever met Prince Aemond.

Chapter Text

Cregan stalked down the corridor like a man going to battle — jaw set, shoulders squared, gait swift with grim purpose.

A week. A whole week of this pretty little southern omega floating around his hall, wrapped in furs like a doll and somehow still managing to look delicate.

As if fate came wrapped in silk with eyes like storms and lips meant for lullabies.

He pushed open the nursery door with unnecessary force.

“I see you’re still—”

And then he stopped.

The words turned to ash in his throat.

Jace stood near the hearth, gently bouncing Rickon against his shoulder, murmuring soft nothings under his breath as the babe squirmed and snuffled. A rag was tossed over his shoulder with practiced ease.

Jace’s hair was mussed, his cheeks pink with warmth. There was a quiet glow to him, as though the fire behind him lived inside his skin.

Maerin sat nearby in her spindle-backed chair, cheerfully recounting the history of the old weirwood grove by the frozen lake.

“—and Lord Rickon, the first of his name, he claimed he saw the gods' faces in the bark, he did. Came back white as snow, and swore never to lie again. Not once. Not even to his wife.”

Jace laughed softly, his palm rubbing gentle circles on the baby’s back.

“That’s quite the punishment. What did the poor woman do to deserve such honesty?”

“She married a Stark,” Maerin said with a huff.

Jace chuckled again — but his eyes stayed on Rickon, utterly tender, utterly present.

Cregan forgot to breathe.

Maerin noticed him first. “Oh! Lord Cregan.”

Jace turned, blinking — and smiled. “Good morning, my lord.”

Cregan cleared his throat. “I… came to check the firewood stores. For the nursery.”

Jace turned back toward the fire. “Plenty for now, but if it’s a harsh wind tonight, we might need another bundle brought up.”

“Right,” Cregan muttered. “Good. Yes.”

Cregan stood there, betrayed by a sigh that slipped out before he could catch it.

Then he saw the way Jace was holding the babe over his shoulder, and cleared his throat.

Jace glanced over his shoulder. “My lord.”

“You’re holding him wrong.”

Jace blinked. “Am I?” His voice held no defensiveness—just quiet curiosity.

Maerin, still seated on the old stool by the hearth, raised her brows. “He’s done nothing of the sort, pup.”

But Cregan strode forward, brows drawn.

“The babe’s neck—he needs more support. You can’t just—” he made a vague, rigid gesture in the air, as though he might seize the baby himself but dared not.

“I was told to let him rest his head against the shoulder,” Jace said mildly. “It helps him breathe easier while burping.”

“He’ll strain something,” Cregan muttered, crossing his arms.

Maerin opened her mouth to protest, but before she could, a loud, wet buuurp cut through the air.

All three adults froze. Rickon blinked sleepily, utterly unconcerned.

Then Jace smiled, warm and radiant, gently patting the baby’s back in approval. “There we go. Brave lad.”

Maerin let out a hearty snort and adjusted her shawl with a smug little tug. “Looks like the lad’s technique is just fine, my lord.”

Cregan didn’t reply. He cleared his throat.

Rickon let out a smaller burp, then hiccuped.

“I have—council matters to attend to.”

And with that, Cregan turned sharply on his heel and left the room, cloak swishing behind him like a man going to war.

No one’s perfect, he thought grimly. There must be a flaw somewhere. And I will find it. Soon.

**

It turned out that soon enough couldn’t come soon enough.

It was supposed to be a routine inspection. A brief visit to ensure his son was well cared for, nothing more.

Cregan strode into the nursery with the conviction of a commander entering a war council—but he stopped short at the sight before him.

Jace, the wet nurse from the south, was ducked, his sleeves rolled up, and was expertly wrapping Rickon in a neat, snug bundle of velvet and soft wool.

The babe lay on the changing table, blinking sleepily, cooing up at the omega with unmistakable delight.

Cregan narrowed his eyes.

“Too tight,” he said, crossing his arms. “He won’t be able to breathe.”

Jace didn’t look up.

“He can breathe fine, my lord” he murmured, calm and soft, folding the final flap and tucking it with surgical precision. “Swaddling soothes newborns. I learned in the Vale—it keeps them from startling themselves awake.”

“Hm.” Cregan stepped closer, expecting to see signs of discomfort: a scrunched face, a wriggling arm, at least one rebellious limb escaping the cloth.

Instead, Rickon sighed like a king in a feather bed and closed his eyes, content.

Jace smiled down at him, adjusting a fur-lined bonnet with gentle fingers. “There we go. Safe and warm.”

Cregan squinted. “His foot’s turned.”

“No, it’s not,” Jace replied without missing a beat.

“It looked turned.”

“It’s tucked.” Jace lifted the babe carefully, cradling him against his chest. Rickon didn’t even stir. “Swaddling’s about pressure at the right points—never the joints.”

Cregan’s lips pursed into a flat line.

It rankled, somehow. The man didn’t belong here. He should have looked misplaced. But instead he looked like he’d been born for it.

“Have you done this before?” Cregan asked flatly.

Jace blinked. “Swaddling?”

“No. Wet nursing.”

Jace looked around like he had been caught doing something wrong

“No. But ….I have taken care of babes before. And—I learned fast.”

Cregan made a noncommittal sound that might’ve been a growl. Jace looked up, brow lifted, as if sensing the unspoken judgment. He offered a faint smile.

“Would you like to hold him?”

Cregan recoiled like he’d been offered a wasp nest. “No.”

Jace shrugged gently, turning back to place Rickon in his crib. The babe barely stirred. Jace even adjusted the blankets with a kind of reverence that made Cregan’s throat feel dry.

Silence stretched between them. Rickon let out a little sigh in his sleep.

“Anything else, my lord?” Jace asked politely.

Cregan said nothing. He simply turned on his heel and stalked off, jaw clenched.

As he stepped into the hall and shut the door behind him, he exhaled in exasperation.

One day, he swore to himself. He’ll make a mistake. A flaw. A fault. Something.

He did not, in fact, find one.

**

It was late at night, the castle was asleep.

Cregan hadn’t meant to walk this way. Not consciously, at least. He told himself he was checking the fires. That the wind had shifted and he wanted to be sure the nursery hearth hadn’t gone out.

That it had nothing to do with the way his feet always found this path, night after night.

But he stopped before the door.

There was a sound coming from inside. Low. Gentle.

A voice.

Cregan stepped silently toward the window, where a small slit in the thick curtains offered a sliver of light. Through it, he could see the soft glow of the hearth illuminating the nursery in gold. And there—in the old rocking chair near the fire—sat Jace.

He was humming.

Cregan didn’t recognize the tune. It wasn’t one the northern wet nurses sang, nor any lullaby his mother had ever crooned. It was soft, slow—strangely mournful. Not sad like grief, but like remembering. Like longing.

Rickon was curled in his arms, wrapped in thick wool and velvet, fast asleep. His little mouth was parted, lashes brushing flushed cheeks, a fist curled against Jace’s chest. He looked utterly content. As though he'd never known a moment of discomfort in his short life.

As though he belonged there, held in those arms.

Jace looked down at him, still humming the tune, swaying just faintly. His hand smoothed over Rickon’s hair once, twice. The motion was instinctive. Familiar.

For a moment, the Lord of Winterfell simply stood there. Just listening. The melody had no words, but it caught at something in him anyway. It pulled. It softened.

He might have stood there longer—might’ve let himself enjoy it—had the tune not shifted.

There was sorrow in it now. A mourning tucked beneath the notes. Cregan’s brows drew together, and his gaze lifted to Jace’s face.

The young man wasn’t watching Rickon anymore.

He was staring out the window, past the nursery, past the snow-laced grounds of Winterfell—past everything. His eyes held no tears, but they looked hollow all the same.

Like he'd lost something he couldn’t ever reclaim. Something Cregan would never understand.

The ache came sharp and sudden.

What happened to you? he thought, unmoving. What did the south take from you?

But he didn’t ask.

He just watched. And listened. Until the hum faded into silence.

Then he turned, and left the door quietly as it was.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep’s long stone corridors echoed with the steady clink of Ser Lorent’s armor and the softer, lighter footsteps of Luke beside him.

Luke walked with his back straight, head held high—doing his best to appear composed. It didn’t fool anyone.

After all – who else could claim they were currently going to meet Prince Aemond Targaryen and squire for him?

Ser Lorent side-eyed him as they rounded a corner.

“You look like a man walking to his execution.”

Luke forced a swallow. “Do I?”

“A bit,” Lorent said cheerfully. “Relax, lad. He’s not going to eat you.”

“I’m not nervous,” Luke lied instantly.

He was merely panicking out of his wits – subtly.

Lorent snorted. “Of course not. Your face is just naturally that pale, and your hands tremble from joy.”

Luke quickly tucked his hands behind his back.

“Listen,” Lorent continued, more gently now, “Prince Aemond… he’s many things. Sharp. Commanding. Not a man of idle chatter. But he’s fair.”

Luke nodded once. That didn’t sound too bad.

“Except for that one time,” Lorent mused, “when a Goldcloak under his command pocketed silver from a brothel bribe. Aemond had the man flogged in the square. Personally. Said it was about setting an example.”

Luke blinked. “Oh.”

“And then there was the other time,” Lorent went on, warming to the stories, “when a knight insulted the Queen’s honor at a feast. Aemond didn’t say a word. Just—took his eye.”

Luke’ eyes widened.

“His left one” Lorent clarified. “and no one helped to stop the bleeding either. And we haven’t seen him around since.”

Luke wilted slightly.

“And of course,” Lorent added thoughtfully, “there was that incident with the Dornish envoy. But we don’t talk about that. Too many feathers. Too much blood.”

Luke stopped walking for a moment.

Lorent turned to face him with an apologetic grin. “Right. None of this helping, is it?”

“Not really.”

“Good news is, he’s been in a good mood this week,” Lorent offered, clapping Luke lightly on the back. “Only growled at me once.”

Luke let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh or a gasp—it was hard to tell. He straightened his tunic, adjusted his collar, and followed as Lorent led him toward the training yard.

He had faced dueling drills, high winds on mountain passes, even a gryphon once—well, almost. He could face this.

Probably.

The clang of blades faded behind them as Ser Lorent led Luke through the archway and into the open courtyard of the Red Keep’s secondary training yard—a more private space than the main one Luke had passed earlier.

Two men stood beneath the overhang of a tiled pavilion. One wore the golden cloak of the City Watch, his helm tucked beneath his arm. The other—

Luke froze for a heartbeat.

Prince Aemond Targaryen was exactly as the rumors described—tall and severe, with a presence that pulled the world taut around him. His silver-white hair was half tied back in a sharp tail, the rest falling past his shoulders like silk. A black leather eyepatch covered the left side of his face. What remained of his expression was cold, handsome, and unreadable.

His golden cloak hung over one shoulder, a dark tunic beneath, marked by House Targaryen’s sigil stitched in crimson thread. He was reading through a folded parchment, gloved fingers stained faintly with ink, brows drawn low.

Luke’s first thought was that if there were an epitome of what an alpha should be, it was this man—his scent sharp and strong, his posture unyielding, his presence undeniable. He hadn’t spoken a word, yet he commanded the entire room.

Beside the prince, the other goldcloak spoke quickly, updating him in clipped tones.

“The fighting in the Flea Bottom pits continues, your grace. A new gang calling themselves the ‘Ash Rats’ have taken half the lower tunnels. One of the younger recruits claims they’re led by a woman who poisoned a patrol with cooked eel.”

Aemond didn’t look up. “Cut off access to the tunnels and let the rats starve. Set patrols at the three main exits. If any of mine die, we set fire to the alleys they came from. They’ll crawl out screaming.”

Luke blinked.

“Also,” the officer continued, “the prisoner from Cobbler’s Square—the one who confessed to killing his neighbor’s child—what’s your will?”

Aemond glanced up, casually. “Execute him at first light. Publicly.”

“Very good, my prince.”

Luke swallowed thickly.

Gods.

What did he just walk into?

He barely noticed when Ser Lorent came to a stop and bowed. Automatically, Luke mirrored him, lowering his head, though his eyes couldn’t help flick upward again.

Aemond had yet to acknowledge their presence—but Luke could feel the prince’s cold authority like steel across the spine.

He was starting to regret all of his life choices.

Ser Lorent cleared his throat, his tone smooth but respectful.

“My prince,” he said, inclining his head. “May I present your new squire. Luke Waters, formerly of the Eyrie.”

Aemond didn’t look up immediately. He finished the note he was jotting in the margin of his parchment before finally lowering it and turning toward them.

His gaze landed on Luke with a sharpness that made the boy’s shoulders tighten.

“Bring him forth,” Aemond said simply.

Luke stepped forward, spine straight, and offered a quick, clean bow. “My Prince,” he greeted.

A beat of silence.

Aemond looked him over slowly—top to bottom, like a merchant judging the cut of a cloth. Then one brow arched.

“This is meant to be my squire?”

Luke didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked subtly. His voice remained even, practiced.
“Yes, my Prince.”

Aemond exhaled through his nose, clearly unimpressed. “Hn. Fine.”

He stepped closer, circling the boy with the deliberate grace of a hunter—not threatening, but not warm either.

“Name?”

“Luke Waters.”

Aemond hummed at that, stopping just behind him.
“A bastard then. Of course.”

It wasn’t cruel. Just… observed, noted, filed away. But the word still scraped something inside Luke raw. He kept his chin high.

“Yes, my Prince.”

Aemond took a step back, folding his arms, his golden cloak catching a whisper of wind. He regarded Luke with that same analytical gaze, as though peeling back layers with every blink.

“You were raised under Lady Jeyne of the Eyrie?”

“Yes, my prince,” Luke replied steadily. “Since I was a boy.”

Aemond hummed in acknowledgment. “Any family?”

Luke hesitated just for a moment. “A brother. Jace. He’s—he’s in the North.”

The prince’s mouth twitched—whether in amusement or surprise, Luke couldn’t tell. “The North is cold.”

Luke gave a small nod. “He… needed the quiet.”

Aemond made no comment on that. Instead, he shifted. “Why become a squire? Why serve?”

Luke met his gaze. “Because I want to be a knight. I want to earn it, truly. With honor.”

A pause.

“I see.”

Then Aemond’s voice dropped just slightly, becoming sharper, more inquisitive.

“Do you ride?”

“Yes, my prince. I trained with the house’s knights… I’m not the best, but I learn quickly.”

Aemond tilted his head, unimpressed by modesty. “And your sword arm? You have one, I assume?”

Luke’s back straightened. “Yes, my prince. I've trained in the yard for years.”

Aemond nodded slowly, looking him over again. Then he turned slightly, his tone still neutral, but edged like a blade dulled from frequent sharpening.

“And do you faint when blood is spilled? Or shake when someone screams beside you?”

Luke’s answer was quiet—but unwavering.

“No, my prince.”

Aemond held his stare a moment longer, as if weighing the truth of it.

Aemond paced a slow circle, boots silent against the packed dirt of the yard, before coming to a halt behind Luke.
His voice was quieter now, almost casual—though no less sharp.

“You’ve squired before?”

Luke didn’t flinch. “No, my prince.”

Aemond raised a brow. “So you’re untried.”

“I’ve never squired for a knight, no,” Luke clarified, “but I know the duties. I can sharpen blades, polish armor, dress a knight for battle. I’ve learned how to tend to a horse, saddle it, groom it. I understand what’s expected.”

He kept his voice firm—not defiant, but not meek either. Meekness would get him nowhere.

Aemond considered that, his expression unreadable. “Hm.”

Just that. A hum of acknowledgment. No approval, no disapproval. But the weight of it still landed like a judgment.

Aemond looked him over again, slower this time. Luke could feel it — the weight of those sharp eyes crawling from head to toe.

“You’re smaller than I expected,” Aemond remarked.

Luke stiffened. “I’m quick, my prince,” he replied evenly. “Smaller doesn’t mean weaker. It means harder to hit.”

That earned a soft huff of amusement — barely audible.

Without warning, Aemond stepped closer. “Give me your hands.”

Luke blinked. “My—?”

But Aemond had already reached for them.

Large, gloved hands engulfed his bare ones. A jolt went through him, sharp and unwelcome — instinctual. Every nerve in his body seemed to go taut. He didn’t dare pull away.

Aemond turned them over, inspecting them like a smith might examine a blade.

“Hm.” A long pause.

The silence pressed on Luke’s lungs.

“Dainty,” Aemond said at last. “But calloused. You’ve worked.”

Luke swallowed. “Yes, my prince.”

Aemond didn’t return his hands right away. For a beat too long, he held them — as if weighing something in silence.

Then he let go.

Then Aemond’s gaze narrowed as he stepped a fraction closer again, tilting his head — like a hound sniffing out something that didn’t quite make sense.

“You have no scent.”

Luke blinked. “My prince?”

“I said,” Aemond repeated slowly, “you have no scent. None that I can catch.”

Luke kept his face carefully blank, even as cold sweat prickled at his back. His hand flicked to his collar, casually — too casually — fingers brushing the leather as if it itched.

“I’m a beta,” he said quickly. “We don’t have strong scents.”

Aemond hummed. It wasn’t agreement. It wasn’t disbelief either. Just… considering.

“A beta,” he echoed, voice laced with amusement. “And yet you’re quite—” his eye flicked over Luke again, one silver brow arching, “—pretty. For a beta.”

Luke stiffened.

Was that a compliment? A threat? A test?

Mentally, he noted: Visit the maester. Immediately. Get the tea, the salves. Gods help me if he catches even a whiff—

“I train harder to make up for it, my prince,” he said, cool and crisp as he could manage.

Aemond gave a quiet laugh through his nose. “Relax, Waters. I don’t bite.”

(That was debatable.)

Luke gave a thin smile and said nothing.

Aemond turned, reaching for a scroll on the table nearby — something official, perhaps, but he paid it no mind as he rattled off instructions like scripture.

“You will rise before dawn,” he said. “You will eat when I eat. You will sleep when dismissed, and speak when spoken to. You’ll follow orders precisely, and if you do not know something—”

“I will learn,” Luke cut in — then realized too late he had interrupted a prince. “I mean—yes, my prince. I will learn. Quickly.”

Aemond didn’t scold him. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Good. Because you said you would. You will train until your hands bleed, little beta. You will not disappoint me. Not unless you wish to be sent back to the Vale in disgrace.”

The words should have struck fear into him — and they did, a little — but mostly… Luke felt giddy. Purposeful.

“I won’t fail you, my prince,” he said earnestly, bowing low. “I swear it.”

Aemond gave a sharp nod, already turning back to his companion, the golden-cloaked officer who had remained quiet through the exchange.

“You’re all dismissed. Supper’s served for the household. Go.”

Luke didn’t need to be told twice. He bowed again, spun on his heel, and walked away — back straight, steps quick, heart hammering. Every word of Aemond’s commands repeated in his head like a litany.

He would learn. He would endure. He would prove himself.

And he would not — under any circumstance — get caught.

Chapter Text

The yard rang with the sound of steel on steel. Two of his younger men circled each other, snow crunching under their boots, their breath steaming in the sharp winter air.

Cregan stood with arms folded, barking instructions when their footing faltered or a grip slipped. It was routine—solid, predictable, the kind of work he preferred.

Still, his mind drifted.

It had been a moon since the omega from the Eyrie arrived. Jace Waters—slim and soft-spoken, with that strange, careful way about him.

Cregan told himself he hardly noticed him beyond the duties of master and servant.

And yet… the memory lingered.

That night in the nursery, when he had paused outside the door to the sound of low humming—sad, like a song from a place far away. Jace had been in the rocking chair, the babe curled content in his arms as though he had been born to hold him.

The omega’s gaze had been fixed out the window, and something in his face… gods, it was a look Cregan couldn’t place.

It haunted him more than it should have.

Not that he cared. He didn’t. Absolutely not.

From the corner of his eye, a flicker of movement caught his attention—small, deliberate, out past the edge of the training yard. Cregan turned his head and felt his stomach tighten.

Jace Waters was walking through the snow. And in his arms—or rather, bound against his chest in some sort of sling—was Rickon.

A hot stab of alarm shot through him. What in the seven hells was the man thinking?

The babe was four moons old—too young to be trundled about in the freezing wind.

This was exactly the kind of foolishness he had been expecting. Sooner or later, the pretty southern omega would slip, reveal himself unfit to nursemaid a Stark’s son.

Cregan strode toward him, every intention set on a sharp, cutting rebuke. But before he could speak, Jace turned, the movement smooth and unhurried.

He bowed his head, the faintest of smiles curving his lips.

“My lord,” Jace said warmly.

And for some reason, Cregan’s tongue stilled.

The rebuke died on his lips.

Rickon was snug in a sling of deep grey wool, layered over with velvet and furs so thick that not a breath of cold could reach him.

Only a tuft of dark hair and a pair of bright grey eyes peeked out, the boy wide awake and cooing softly, as though the bite of winter air were nothing more than a novelty to be admired.

Jace glanced down at him, the corners of his mouth softening.

“Ah, there’s my brave little lord,” he murmured, voice warm and lilting in a way that made the babe kick once beneath the layers. Rickon’s answering gurgle was high and happy.

Something in Cregan’s chest stumbled—no, not stumbled, not at all—and he told himself it was only the cold.

He cleared his throat, meaning to demand an explanation, but the words snagged.

“A walk in the fresh air will serve the young lord well, my lord Stark,” Jace said instead, meeting his gaze with polite ease. “He has been much indoors.”

Cregan found himself nodding before he could stop it. “Aye,” he managed gruffly.

His gaze then dipped to Jace’s hands. The fingers curled lightly against the sling were bare, flushed a raw pink from the cold.

No gloves. Foolish.

Jace bowed again. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord—”

“Wait.” The word left him before he’d thought it through.

Jace turned, brows lifting in quiet confusion.

Without another word, Cregan stripped the fur-lined gloves from his own hands and held them out.

“Wear these.”

“That’s—” Jace began, shaking his head, but Cregan cut him off.

“My son will be better tended if the one carrying him has the use of his fingers,” he said, the concern hidden neatly behind his usual hard tone.

After a pause, Jace accepted them, sliding them on. They dwarfed his hands, but the warmth seemed to please him.

The omega smiled—soft, open, bewildering—and inclined his head once more. “Thank you, my lord.”

Cregan watched him go, the babe snug against his chest, the dark hair vanishing into the swirl of snow. The smile lingered in his mind far longer than it should have.

This was not good.

**

On another day, Cregan found himself in the nursery again.

Cregan pushed open the nursery door, the familiar creak of its hinges swallowed by the soft hush of the room.

The fire crackled low, bathing the space in a golden glow. He told himself he was here for Rickon—nothing more, nothing less.

Certainly not to check on the Eyrie-bred omega tending him.

(Absolutely not)

But the sight of the omega was unexpected today.

Jace sat near the hearth, swathed in thick furs the color of fresh snow. His dark hair had been plaited in the northern style, small braids woven neatly among the loose waves.

The picture caught Cregan unprepared, as if the air in the room had thinned.

He had no name for the strange shift in his chest. Couldn’t place it. Wouldn’t try.

Jace glanced up, eyes warm in the firelight. He rose at once, setting aside the small rattle in his hands, and bowed with the same measured grace as always.

“My lord.”

Cregan’s gaze drifted past Jace to the crib.

Rickon lay curled on his side, small chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Peaceful. It struck him that the boy had been doing that more often of late—sleeping without fuss, playing more, crying less. Since the omega had arrived.

His attention snapped back when his mouth moved before his thoughts caught up.

“You’ve changed your wardrobe.” The words came out gruff, almost like an accusation.

Jace’s hand instinctively smoothed over the fur-trimmed tunic, eyes dropping for a moment.

“Maerin was kind enough to give me some garments better suited for the snow,” he said softly, as if explaining himself.

Cregan said nothing. Admitting aloud that the northern cut and heavy furs suited Jace would be unthinkable. He’d rather be buried beneath the snow.

But he couldn’t bring himself to leave, he lingered by the crib longer than necessary, arms folded, gaze fixed somewhere over Jace’s shoulder.

He was not here for conversation, yet the silence pressed uncomfortably between them.

“How… have you found the North?” he asked at last, the words halting and stiff.

Jace looked up, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

“Cold,” he said, a touch of humor in his tone, “but… peaceful. The snow makes everything quiet.”

Cregan grunted, unsure how to reply. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat, tried again.

“The snow hides much,” he offered.

Jace tilted his head, as though about to ask what he meant, but before he could speak, a soft whimper came from the crib.

In an instant, Jace was on his feet, his steps quick and sure. He leaned over the sleeping bundle, murmuring something low and sweet.

Rickon blinked awake, eyes bright and searching.

“Do you want your father?” Jace cooed, slipping a hand beneath the babe and lifting him gently.

The omega then turned, the sling of furs framing both his and the child’s faces, and held Rickon out.

Cregan accepted his son without thinking, the boy warm and smelling faintly of milk and pine.

He looked down—his son was content, not a trace of distress, every inch of him cared for.

Cregan’s jaw worked before he spoke.

“Thank you… for your service,” he said, the words formal but heavy with something quieter—approval.

For all his arguments and refusal to accept him—Cregan had to acknowledge the truth. The omega was helpful, and good at his job.

Jace’s smile deepened, just enough to trouble Cregan’s thoughts.

Chapter Text

The corridor curved into a quieter wing of the Red Keep, the stone floors softening beneath thick carpets, the torchlight gentler here — almost warm.

Luke trailed behind Ser Lorent, trying not to gawk like a common tourist, but it was difficult. Everything in this place was so... polished. Heavy with wealth. With expectation.

They came to a stop outside a tall door banded with dark iron. Ser Lorent turned the handle with ease and stepped aside.

"Here we are," he said.

Luke stepped in.

And stopped.

The room was—gods—this was his?

Velvets. Actual velvets, draped across the bed, the curtains, even the cushioned chair by the hearth.

The bed itself was enormous, covered in what looked like fox-fur throws and thick woven quilts. A carved armoire stood against one wall, gleaming in the candlelight.

There was a writing desk with fresh ink and parchment, and a modest dining table already set with a jug of water and two clean goblets.

The fire in the hearth crackled as if it had been waiting for him.

"This—" Luke turned slowly, brows drawn. "Are you sure this is mine?"

Ser Lorent quirked a brow. “Expecting straw and a chamber pot?”

“Well… yes,” Luke said honestly.

The knight chuckled.

“The queen appointed this herself. Said her brother’s squire wasn’t going to sleep in the barracks like some flea-bitten page.”

Luke blinked. “Oh. I—thank you. That’s… very kind of her.”

He stepped further into the room, brushing his fingertips over the fabric of the bedding as if it might vanish under his touch.

Even the air smelled like lavender and beeswax. It was too much. He felt like an intruder in someone else’s life.

Ser Lorent lingered in the doorway a moment longer, arms folded casually.

“Oh, one last thing.”

Luke turned from inspecting the desk.

“Yes?”

“The prince’s chambers are next door.”

Luke froze. “I’m sorry—what?”

Lorent gave a crooked, mildly sympathetic grin. “Aemond. He’s your neighbor. So, you know… try not to scream in your sleep.”

Luke stared at him, agape. “You’re jesting.”

“I never jest,” Lorent said, already backing out into the corridor. “Sleep well.”

The door shut with a quiet click.

Luke stood in the middle of his luxury prison, heart hammering, mind sprinting in wild circles.

Next door. He was next door to him.

Luke stared at the wall separating his room from Prince Aemond’s.

It was just a wall. Stone and plaster. Probably thick. Possibly. Surely thick enough.

He stepped closer. Stared harder.

It didn’t look like it would let sound through. But still—what if the prince coughed and he heard it? Or worse, what if he snored and Aemond heard that?

Gods, what if Aemond snored?

Luke shook his head violently. Focus. There was no use spiraling. The queen surely had a reason for placing him here. Aemond might want his squire close by. That made sense. It was practical. Efficient.

Yes.

Nothing suspicious at all about being assigned chambers so close he could probably hear the prince breathe if he stood at the wall long enough.

Still, just in case, he made a mental note: no muttering to himself at night. No dreaming out loud. And absolutely no singing of any sort, no matter how happy he was.

He turned away and began his small routine — grateful for something to do with his hands.

He opened the armoire, which creaked with wealth. Inside was enough space to house a small family.

He placed his modest satchel on the shelf and began unpacking the few clothes he’d brought — clean tunics, spare trousers, two undershirts, and a pair of worn boots.

All of it looked terribly out of place. Like a peasant’s belongings tucked inside a nobleman’s chest.

He tried not to let it get to him.

At the very bottom of the satchel, tucked between folded linen, was a square of faded cloth.

A soft grey handkerchief, worn thin at the edges. The stitching wasn’t perfect — a few loops too long, the corners slightly crooked — but the little crest in the corner, a small hawk in flight, had been sewn with the utmost care.

Jace had made it. Years ago, when they were barely more than boys.

Luke held it carefully, thumb brushing over the thread.

He remembered Jace’s proud smile when he’d given it to him.

“You’re the hawk, remember? One day, you’ll fly off without me.”

Luke had rolled his eyes. “You’re the one with the wings, idiot.”

His throat tightened unexpectedly. He hadn’t thought he’d miss Jace this much this quickly. But now, in this quiet room with velvet curtains and walls too close to the prince, he felt a hollow ache settle in his chest.

Jace deserved the North. Deserved the peace. After everything, he’d earned a place where he could breathe.

And Luke… Luke would learn to breathe here, too.

He folded the handkerchief neatly and placed it in the drawer by his bed.

After a bit more of work, Luke set the final tunic into the armoire and dusted his hands off, as though that would settle the dust storm in his mind.

He crossed the room to the writing desk — polished, well-lit, absurdly elegant for someone like him — and pulled a small leather-bound journal from his satchel.

It was worn, its corners softened with use. He placed it carefully at the corner of the desk, a grounding object amid all the finery.

Next to it was a folded square of parchment. The note Lady Jeyne had given him — the one with the maester's name, the directions, the promise of discretion written in her neat hand.

Luke unfolded it slowly, reading over the lines again even though he already knew them by heart.

Maester Rylund. Copper Street. Blue door. Third floor. Ask for calendula oil.

He closed his eyes and repeated it once more silently, committing it to memory. Then he folded the parchment again, tucking it between two blank pages of his journal.

Tomorrow. He would find the place tomorrow.

He moved to the washbasin near the window and dipped a clean cloth into the cool water. With careful fingers, he reached for his collar and undid the clasp.

The moment the leather came off, he felt the ghost of relief. The air touched bare skin, and with it came a whisper of vulnerability.

He wiped the collar clean first — gentle, practiced — removing the residue of the day’s salve, now slightly discolored from heat and wear.

Then he opened the small tin from his bag, dipping two fingers into the thick, greenish balm. The scent was sharp and herbal, not unpleasant, but strong — masking.

He dabbed it across the gland at the base of his neck with the precision of someone who had done this hundreds of times.

Always the same. Always controlled.

When he went to scrape out more, his fingers scraped bottom.

Luke frowned, holding the tin up to the light. Nearly empty. Maybe one, two more uses, if he stretched it. Definitely not enough for the week.

He would have to visit Maester Rylund. Tomorrow. No delays.

He poured himself a half-cup of water from the jug on the dining table and pulled a small paper-wrapped bundle from his satchel. The tea inside was bitter, dried, crushed to powder. He dumped it into the water and stirred with a silver spoon.

The smell alone made his nose wrinkle.

He drank it in two swallows, fast and grimacing. Like medicine. Because it was.

It wouldn’t stop a heat entirely, not if it came early. But it would suppress it — weaken it. Mute it. Combined with the salve, it had worked so far.

So far.

The room was too nice. Too quiet. But Luke sat at the edge of the bed and took a slow breath, pressing a palm to his chest.

He wasn’t in the Vale anymore.

He was in the Red Keep. The dragon’s den.

Lady Jeyne had called him her falcon once. Had said he was meant to fly.

Well… he was flying now.

And gods help him, he would not fall. Not here. Not now.

The sky outside was still painted in shades of deep blue, the stars not yet fully chased away by morning.

Luke Waters stood in front of his mirror, collar fastened neatly, tunic smoothed down, boots polished to a shine.

His sword was buckled at his hip—not for use, just for form—and the taste of bitter tea still lingered unpleasantly on his tongue.

He was ready.

Gods, he was ready.

It was barely dawn, but he’d already gone through half his morning routine with military precision. His collar was secure, his scent was masked, and his nerves were… mostly steady.

Surely it was better to be early than late. That’s what knights did, wasn’t it? Rise with the sun and—

He stepped into the corridor just as the door clicked shut behind him. The air out here was cooler, quiet except for the distant whisper of servants beginning their rounds.

Luke turned toward the direction of the training yard, unsure if he should head there or wait for instruction, when voices floated from around the corner.

Low. Stressed. Definitely annoyed.

“Why must I take it to him?”, one female voice asked

“Why must I? I did it yesterday!”, the second feminine one retorted.

Luke paused mid-step.

Two maids stood a few feet ahead, both dressed in soft grey livery, both gripping a breakfast tray as if it were a live animal. One held the tray, the other clutched a small carafe of what looked like spiced tea.

The tray was extravagant—silver, with a covered dish, fresh fruit, a polished spoon, and a folded napkin tucked just so. It looked more suited for a noble banquet than a morning meal.

“He looked straight at me,” the first maid whispered harshly. “Straight at me, like he could see into my soul.”

“You think that’s bad? Last week he sighed when I knocked. Just sighed. I haven’t known peace since.”

Luke frowned, still half-hidden by the hallway’s curve. Was this—

“I’m not going back in there,” the second maid hissed. “I don’t care if he’s a prince. You wake him!”

“No, you! It’s your turn—”

“Seven hells, I barely survived last time—”

They were bickering like children over who had to wrestle a manticore. Luke’s eyes flicked to the tray again. Then the name slipped.

“He’s probably still shirtless. Like always. Why does Prince Aemond never wear a shirt to bed?!”

Luke stiffened.

Oh.

Oh no.

Luke hesitated only a moment longer before straightening his shoulders and approaching the two maids.

He cleared his throat softly, offering his best I-am-a-reasonable-young-man-and-not-a-threat smile. “Good morning.”

Both women startled like he’d shouted, turning to stare at him as if he'd risen from the stones.

“…Good… morning?” one said, blinking.

Luke nodded toward the tray.

“I couldn’t help overhearing. Forgive me—but may I?” He gestured, not quite touching it. “I’m Prince Aemond’s new squire. I’d be happy to take it in for him.”

The second maid stared. “You… want to?”

“I do.”

He supposed it was his duty after all.

The tray wobbled slightly in her hands.

“It’s just—we’re supposed to bring his breakfast in by the first bell. Precisely the first bell. Not before. Not after. If it’s late, he…” Her voice trailed off, clearly remembering something horrible.

The first maid added helpfully, “He doesn’t shout. He just… looks. And the room gets very cold.”

Luke blinked. “Oh.”

“But!” he recovered quickly, “It won’t be late. I’m early. Right on time, in fact.”

He hadn’t recalled a bell being rung yet, unless he had gone deaf.

They exchanged a glance. There was a moment’s pause—both of them clearly trying to be dutiful, and failing spectacularly to hide their relief.

“You’re sure?” one asked, already handing the tray over.

Luke accepted it carefully, balancing the silver weight in both hands.

“Absolutely. It’s my duty, after all.” He smiled again. “Thank you for preparing it.”

The maids, now trayless and miraculously free of impending death, nearly glowed.

“Bless you,” one whispered.

“Good luck,” added the other, with a pitying look, before both made an extremely strategic retreat down the hallway.

Luke watched them disappear, then looked down at the tray in his hands.

Hot tea. Fresh bread. Spiced fruit. A perfectly folded napkin.

He exhaled.

Right. Just breakfast.

And Prince Aemond.

No problem at all.

Luke walked over and stood outside the prince’s chambers, tray in hand, and knocked gently.

Nothing.

He waited a beat, cleared his throat, then knocked again—slightly firmer this time.

Still silence.

One more. Three sharp raps, like a question with too much hope behind it.

"...My prince?" he called, voice low but clear. "Forgive me—breakfast."

The hallway echoed back at him like a polite rejection.

Luke stared at the door. Then the tray.

The bell would ring any moment. And the last thing he wanted was to be the reason Prince Aemond went without his perfectly timed breakfast and made a servant cry again.

So he shifted his grip on the tray and carefully turned the handle.

"...Pardon me," he murmured as the door creaked open. "Entering now. Please don’t skewer me."

He stepped inside.

And stopped.

The room was dim—curtains drawn against the still-bluing sky—but it wasn’t dark. The soft flicker of a dying hearth lit the space just enough to see everything. And there was… a lot to see.

The walls were adorned in deep crimson, trimmed in black and gold. A massive tapestry hung behind the bed, stitched with three dragons mid-flight—fire curling from their embroidered jaws.

A line of portraits ran along the opposite wall, some oil paintings, some sketched in rich ink. All of them depicted dragons. Flying, sleeping, burning.

Even the curtains were red and black. The bedding, too. Thick and heavy and luxurious.

Luke swallowed. It felt like walking into a holy place. Or a battlefield.

He took a step forward, then another—and that’s when he saw him.

Prince Aemond Targaryen, sprawled across the center of the bed, face turned toward the window.

The sheets were twisted low on his hips, exposing the bare expanse of his back, pale and smooth save for a few faint scars that caught the firelight. His silver hair spilled across the pillows and down his shoulder like something painted.

His good eye—the only one visible—was shut. Peaceful. Still.

And fuck, he was pretty.

Nope. No. No thank you. Who said that? Not me.

Luke blinked hard, face warming, and forced his eyes away before they could do anything else treasonous.

That’s when he noticed the sword.

It lay within reach, propped against the nightstand. Long, sharp, and unmistakably well-used. The kind of blade that was too heavy to be decorative and too worn to be ceremonial.

Of course he slept with a sword beside him, within arm’s reach.

Because of course he did.

Luke crept forward with careful steps, placing the tray gently on the nightstand beside the bed—beside, not on, because the prince’s sword sat in a clean line along the edge. He made a point not to touch it. Not even brush it.

The steel looked like it would bite back.

He had just straightened when the man in the bed stirred.

“Who is it?”

The voice was gravel and smoke, rough with sleep and unused muscle. Aemond didn’t open his eye—just spoke into the air with the quiet authority of someone who expected answers regardless of whether he was awake.

Luke flinched anyway.

“Luke Waters, my prince,” he answered, quick and deferent. “Your squire. I—brought your breakfast.”

He didn’t mention that they’d met just yesterday. That seemed… impolite. Especially when the man was still horizontal and technically capable of murder.

Aemond hummed—a soft, considering sound. Then, with the grace of someone long practiced, he sat up.

Luke caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. Aemond reached for his eyepatch on the nightstand, fingers finding it instinctively.

Before Luke could properly see the left side of his face, Aemond turned slightly—angling himself away just so—and fastened the strap in one clean movement.

The angle wasn’t accidental.

Luke noted it, quietly. Aemond hadn’t wanted him to look.

Noted. Logged. Never to be spoken aloud.

And then the gods, in all their cruelty, decided to test him.

Because Aemond—half-dressed, half-awake, and fully dangerous—raised both arms above his head and stretched.

Shoulders flexed. Muscles moved like sculpted cord beneath pale skin. A faint scar trailed along one side of his ribcage and disappeared beneath the sheets.

And Luke—traitorous, exhausted Luke—glanced directly at it before jerking his gaze away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

Nope. No. We’re not doing that. Bad omega brain. Go to the corner and think about your behavior.

Aemond didn’t speak at first. He simply turned his head toward the tray, eye narrowing at the covered dishes before his gaze landed on the carafe.

“I prefer to start with tea.”

His voice was smoother now—less smoke, more steel. Still low. Still commanding.

Luke blinked once. Then nodded quickly. “Of course, my prince.”

He stepped forward, lifted the silver lid with care, and poured the spiced tea into the waiting cup. No spills. No clinks. Smooth and silent.

He stepped back and placed the filled cup within reach.

Aemond picked it up without comment and took a slow sip.

And another.

Languid. Controlled. Regal, even in partial undress.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Just studied the cup between his fingers before glancing at Luke again—this time with a look that was… not quite approval. But not far from it.

“You’re up early.”

Luke straightened, smiling just a little. “I wanted to be prepared.”

Aemond made a soft, thoughtful sound. He sipped again.

“Eager little beta,” he murmured, mostly to his tea.

Luke’s ears went pink.

“I take my duties seriously,” he replied, as levelly as he could manage. “Lady Jeyne said I’d learn discipline here. I intend to.”

Aemond gave the barest nod. “You will.”

He set the cup down, the clink soft but decisive, and reached for the tray’s covered plate without asking for assistance.

“We begin with weapons drills,” he said, slicing a piece of fruit with his knife like it was a throat. “Then you’ll accompany me into the city.”

Luke blinked. “Into the city?”

“An execution,” Aemond said, calm as the tea he drank. “Public. One of the murderers from Cobbler’s Square. His sentence is due. As Lord Commander, I’m expected to witness it.”

A beat.

“You will too.”

Luke’s throat felt a little tight—but he nodded. “Yes, my prince.”

“Wear your cloak,” Aemond added, finishing the fruit. “And sharpen your nerves. We’ll ride.”

Luke’s chest buzzed with nerves, but beneath it… something steadier. Pride.

He was in. Truly in.

Serving a prince. Preparing for training. And… watching a man die by royal decree.

Gods. What had he signed up for?

Chapter Text

The council had been dragging like a lame mule for the better part of an hour.

Cregan sat at the long table in his solar, back to the window where pale light filtered through frost-clouded glass.

Maester Hareth’s thin voice droned on about firewood allocations, and Cregan answered in grunts and short nods, his mind half on the words, half on the sound of the wind worrying at the tower stones.

“—and the Rills report they’ve lost three more oxen to the cold,” Hareth was saying, tapping the scroll with a bony finger. “If we cannot spare hay, we should at least send salt for meat, else—”

“We’ll send both,” Cregan cut in, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “They kept men on the walls last year without asking for coin. I won’t see them starve for beasts now.”

Across from him, Ser Jorlan stretched his long legs out under the table, chair tilted onto its back two legs.

“You’ll empty our stores at this rate,” he remarked, though the fondness in his tone took the sting from the words. “Soon you’ll be carving pieces off the Great Hall to feed to the Rills.”

“Better they chew oak than freeze,” Cregan muttered.

Hareth made a note in his tight, spidery script. “Very well, my lord. I will draft the orders.”

There was a rustle of parchment as he shuffled the stack, then a small, portentous clearing of his throat.

“There is… one more matter, my lord.”

Cregan’s answer was little more than a noncommittal rumble. “Mm.”

“The Moon of Song approaches,” Hareth continued. “We are near to the last hard moon of winter.”

Jorlan straightened, his chair landing on all four legs with a solid thud.

“Ah,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth, “finally. Something that isn’t turnips and rotting roof beams.”

Cregan shot him a flat look but said nothing.

Hareth folded his hands over the scroll in front of him, expression settling into its mild, informative lines.

“As is custom,” he said, “the omegas of the keep will gather in the yard at dusk, to sing and dance the ring-circle. The smallfolk expect you to attend, my lord.”

“I always do,” Cregan replied. The festival was older than the stones of Winterfell; even grief had not given him excuse to ignore it.

Jorlan’s grin widened.

“No one forgets. Half the alphas will be watching you instead of the circle. Pack wolf and all that.”

“It’s not about that,” Cregan said sharply. “It’s about the gods and the old songs.”

“And the pretty omegas,” Jorlan added blithely. “Don’t leave them out of your piety.”

Hareth coughed into his fist, but it sounded suspiciously like he was hiding a smile.

Cregan resisted the urge to rub at his temple again.

The Moon of Song: snow piled high in the courtyard, torches burning in iron brackets, the air thick with cold and woodsmoke.

Omegas wrapped in bright-dyed ribbons and white furs, moving in slow circles as they sang the old verses—prayers stitched into melody for endurance, for safe births, for summer to come at all.

Alphas and betas ringed around them like a living wall, watching, listening, keeping back the wind.

Necessary. Good for morale, Hareth would say. Good for the soul, Maerin would insist. Good for the eyes, Jorlan would no doubt add.

“We must see to provisions,” Hareth went on. “Bread, stews, ale. The singers will need their throats warm. And there is the matter of who will stand in the ring.”

Cregan frowned.

“The same as every year. The household omegas who wish it, and the smallfolk. I won’t force anyone to dance.”

“Of course,” Hareth agreed. “But we should be sure they are informed. Maerin, two of the kitchen girls, the tanner’s omega… and the one from the Eyrie.”

Cregan’s answer came too quickly. “He’s not from here.”

Jorlan’s brows climbed.

“He’s been nursing your heir and freezing under your roof for a moon,” he said. “Sounds ‘from here’ enough.”

Hareth inclined his head slightly.

“Besides, the festival is meant for all omegas under a northern roof, highborn or low. If he wishes it, he has a place in the circle.”

Cregan did not immediately respond. His mind, unhelpful traitor that it was, conjured an image it had no business holding:

Jace Waters in white furs and woven ribbons, dark hair braided in the northern fashion, voice lifted with the others as he turned beneath the torches.

He pushed it away with irritation.

“He… may not wish it,” he said at last. “He’s Vale-born. Their customs are different.”

“All the more reason to offer it,” Hareth replied gently. “The keep watches him, my lord. Some with curiosity. Some with doubt. Seeing him dance the circle might set them at ease. He tends the Stark babe; it will matter to them that he stands under Stark sky as one of their own.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened. He did not like the idea of his people doubting the man who fed his son.

He did not like thinking about the man, full stop.

Yet he did it often enough these days—Jace in the rocking chair at night, singing something low and sad as Rickon slept on his chest; Jace in borrowed wool, cheeks pink from the cold, offering a soft “my lord” as though it cost him nothing.

“And who is to tell him?” Cregan asked, the words coming out more sharply than intended.

Hareth looked down at his notes, then up again.

“It would… help, my lord, if you did. I suspect he would decline, otherwise.”

“I’m not a herald,” Cregan said flatly.

Jorlan snorted. “No,” he agreed, “but you are his lord. And the father of the babe he tends. Hard for a man to say no to that.”

Cregan scowled at the table. They were right, damn them.

If Hareth sent some servant with the news, the Eyrie omega might well hide himself in the nursery and claim duty as excuse.

Cregan could picture it: Jace tucked near the fire, babe in his arms, using Rickon’s comfort as shield from the eyes of the yard.

The thought annoyed him more than it should.

He exhaled, slow and reluctant. “…I’ll speak to him,” he said.

Hareth inclined his head, satisfied. Jorlan’s grin flashed again, quick and wolfish.

“Good,” the knight said. “I’d hate for the Moon of Song to pass without our southerner catching so much as one ribbon in his hair.”

Cregan gave him a look that promised retribution.

**

The nursery was too warm.

The fire in the small hearth had been stoked high to chase away the deep-bone chill of Winterfell’s stones, and the air had gone close and soft, thick with the scents of milk and herbs and baby powder.

Shadows rocked gently on the walls, keeping time with the slow, steady sway of the man at the room’s center.

Jace Waters paced barefoot on the rug, Rickon in his arms.

The babe’s cheeks were flushed a deep pink, eyes watery, mouth working in miserable little gnaws.

Every few steps, Jace switched him from one shoulder to the other, murmuring something low and soothing—“brave lad… little wolf… I know, I know, it hurts, sweetheart, I know”—the words more breath than voice.

On the table by the crib sat a small wooden bowl, water gleaming inside it, faint shards of ice bobbing lazily.

Jace dipped a strip of clean cloth into it one-handed, wrung it out with practiced ease, and guided the damp edge to Rickon’s mouth.

The babe latched onto it immediately, chewing with furious determination, tiny fists clenching and unclenching against Jace’s chest.

Jace only sighed, a quiet sound, and began humming some aimless tune under his breath.

He looked worn—dark smudges beneath his eyes, hair escaping its simple tie—but there was no impatience in his touch.

Just tired, endless patience.

Cregan stopped in the doorway.

For a heartbeat he simply stood there, listening to the soft, wet fret of Rickon’s gnawing and the thin whimper threaded between breaths.

Then Jace glanced up, sensing him without being told, and dipped his head in greeting even as he shifted the cloth back into better position.

“My lord,” he said.

Cregan stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him.

“He sounds,” he observed grimly, “like someone is cutting his leg off.”

A ghost of a smile touched Jace’s mouth. “Just his teeth, I’m afraid.”

Cregan moved nearer, boots whispering over the rug.

Up close, he could see the dampness on Rickon’s chin, the sheen of sweat at his hairline, the way his gums worked desperately around the cloth.

“What are you giving him?” Cregan asked, nodding at it.

“Cloth dipped in cold water,” Jace replied. “It numbs the gums a little. The maids at the Eyrie used it on all the babes.” He glanced down at Rickon, who was gnawing as though he meant to destroy the offending fabric. The crying had eased to low, unhappy grunts. “Better than screaming for hours, at least.”

Cregan grunted, which in this case meant he accepted the logic.

Rickon’s face screwed up suddenly, a brief flare of discomfort rippling through him.

Jace adjusted his hold without thinking, sliding one hand up to cradle the back of his head, pressing the babe gently into the curve of his shoulder.

He began to sway again, a slow circle on the rug, and the little body against him slowly softened, the whimpers thinning out into soft, wet snuffles.

Cregan watched the whole thing in silence.

Watched the way Jace’s fingers stroked once, absent-minded, over Rickon’s fine hair.

Watched the way his eyes closed briefly, as though just standing was an effort, before he blinked them open again and kept humming.

“How long,” Cregan said at last, quieter, “does this… phase last?”

Jace huffed a tired little laugh.

“Gods have mercy, a few moons. Off and on.” He bounced Rickon gently as he spoke, drawing a faint, hiccupping sigh from the babe. “He’ll forget all about it once he has a mouth full of trouble.”

“So this is just the beginning,” Cregan said.

Jace’s mouth curved, not quite a smile.

“Most good things scream at the beginning,” he murmured.

Cregan had no answer to that.

There was a pause, filled with the soft crackle of the fire and the sound of Rickon’s damp chewing.

Cregan shifted his weight, remembering Hareth’s thin, pointed voice in the solar, Jorlan’s grin.

He cleared his throat. “There is… a thing,” he said.

Jace blinked, looking up. “A thing, my lord?”

“A festival,” Cregan amended, immediately irritated with himself. “In three days. The omegas dance. The alphas watch. There is food.”

That earned him a genuine flicker of amusement. “That sounds very… organized,” Jace said.

He bounced Rickon once more, then carried him carefully to the rocking chair, settling down with the babe still in his arms.

The cloth went back to the sore mouth; Rickon accepted it with another determined gnaw.

“Shall I keep the little lord inside during it?” Jace asked, eyes dropping briefly to Rickon, then back up. “So he isn’t startled?”

“No,” Cregan said. “You’re to join them.”

Jace went very still.

“Me?” he asked, after a beat.

“You’re an omega under this roof,” Cregan replied, brusque to hide the warmth creeping up his neck. “That makes it your festival as much as theirs. The household will expect to see you there.”

Jace’s fingers tightened slightly on Rickon’s blanket. His voice, when he spoke, was softer.

“I didn’t think… I would be included, my lord.”

“You nurse my son,” Cregan said, sharper than he intended. He forced his tone back down. “of course you would be.”

Jace exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“I… don’t have anything fit for such a thing,” he admitted, glancing down at his plain wool tunic and cloak.

“Maerin has chests full of nonsense from old festivals,” Cregan said at once. “Ribbons. Furs. She’ll find something.”

Now Jace did smile, small but real. “You’re very certain.”

“Maerin always gets her way,” he said. “You’ll see.”

Rickon chose that moment to let out a tired little whine, his face scrunching, legs kicking weakly against Jace’s lap.

Jace shifted him again, lifting him higher, murmuring quietly.

“Hush now, little wolf, we’re nearly through,” as he rubbed small circles into the babe’s back.

Cregan stepped closer without thinking, close enough now to feel the heat of the fire on his own hands, close enough to see the fine tremble of exhaustion along Jace’s fingers.

He reached out and laid his palm lightly against Rickon’s back, just below Jace’s hand.

“Will he be well enough?” he asked, softer than before.

“If we’re lucky,” Jace said, not looking up, “he’ll have one tooth by then and be very pleased with himself.”

“And if we’re not?”

Jace’s tired smile crooked a little wider.

“Then you and I will both be walking him in circles under the moon, my lord.”

Their eyes met for a brief moment over Rickon’s downy head—just a shared, wry understanding between two men equally held captive by one small, unhappy wolf pup—and then Jace looked back down, humming again.

Cregan didn’t move his hand.

Chapter Text

The city looked different from horseback.

From the Eyrie, King’s Landing had always been a smudge on the horizon of stories—a place of smoke and gold and danger.

Up close, from the back of a horse, it was narrower. Louder. Dirtier.

Luke rode slightly behind and to the right of Prince Aemond, just where Ser Corryn had drilled into him a squire ought to ride.

The goldcloaks fanned out around them, their cloaks catching the thin morning light as the group wound down the hill and into the waking streets.

The sun hadn’t fully crested the city walls yet. The air still clung to a chill that would burn off by midday.

Below, life was already beginning.

Butchers were throwing open their shutters, hanging strings of sausages and slabs of meat that dripped faintly onto the cobbles.

A fishmonger shouted half-heartedly to no one yet.

A woman hurried a sleepy child inside by the scruff of his shirt as she caught sight of the column of guards, eyes narrowing with caution.

People watched them. They didn’t bow, not here.

But they moved out of the way quickly, eyes dipping to the prince’s gold cloak, to the sword at his hip, to the empty socket hidden behind the leather patch.

“They always come early for blood,” one goldcloak muttered to another, just loud enough for Luke to hear.

Luke’s fingers tightened briefly around his reins.

Ahead of him, Aemond didn’t slow. Didn’t look around. He rode as though the street belonged to him by default, spine straight, gaze fixed on some invisible point beyond the buildings.

“Crowds gather for spectacle,” he said, matter-of-fact, not bothering to lower his voice. “But they leave with a lesson.” His head tilted, just enough to let his eye flick back toward Luke. “Today you will as well, Waters.”

Luke made himself meet that look. “I… won’t look away, my prince.”

Aemond’s mouth curved into the barest approximation of a smile.

“We’ll see.”

They turned off the main way and into narrower streets.

The further they rode, the more the city smell changed—wind and stone giving way to sweat, smoke, spilled ale, something sour lurking in the cracks.

Here, people didn’t just move aside. They scattered.

A goldcloak drew his horse up alongside Luke’s for a moment. The man’s beard was shot through with grey, his nose bent from an old break.

“First time seeing one, lad?” he asked.

Luke flicked him a glance. “An execution? Yes.”

“Hm.” The man scratched his cheek. “Man from Cobbler’s Square. Strangled his neighbor’s boy over a debt. Confessed to the septon and the Watch.”

Luke swallowed. “Did he… show remorse?”

The goldcloak shrugged. “Remorse doesn’t unkill a child, lad.”

Luke had no answer to that.

The square announced itself before they saw it. The press of bodies, the murmur of voices—low, thick, expectant.

By the time they emerged into the open space, a crowd had already gathered, a rough ring of humanity around a raised wooden platform.

The condemned man knelt near its center, wrists bound behind his back. His shirt had been stripped away, skin pale against the stained wood.

An executioner stood a few feet behind him, heavy sword resting point-down, hand on the hilt.

Aemond dismounted with a fluid swing of his leg, passing his reins to a waiting guard. Luke followed, a touch less graceful but steady, boots landing solidly on the cobblestones.

“Come,” Aemond said.

They walked together toward the platform. As they approached, the murmur of the crowd shifted—tightened.

People made space, eyes dipping, some with open curiosity, others with the flat resentment of those used to watching justice hurt more than help.

Aemond chose his spot with care: close enough that the executioner could see him, central enough that the crowd could not pretend to ignore his presence.

Luke took his place half a step back and to the side, as he’d been told to.

“You stand here,” Aemond said, voice low. “You will not fidget. You will not retch on my boots.”

Luke’s throat bobbed. “Yes, my prince.”

A town crier stepped forward, unrolling a parchment. His voice cut through the square, sharp and nasal.

“By decree of Her Grace, Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, First of Her Name…” he began.

Luke listened as the crime was read aloud. The words were clinical. A name, an age, a street.

The way a neighbor’s quarrel had turned into hands around a child’s throat. A debt unpaid. A drunk rage that hadn’t ended until the boy’s lips went blue.

This is justice, Luke told himself. This is necessary. This is awful.

He thought of Jace. Of Lady Jeyne telling him that knights rose by bloodshed not their own.

“Any last words?” the crier asked.

The kneeling man mumbled something Luke couldn’t quite catch. It might have been a prayer, or an apology, or nothing at all.

The executioner hefted his sword.

Luke’s hand twitched at his side. His stomach rolled. The instinct to look away surged, pushing at him from inside his chest like a tide. This was really happening.

He felt it then—a weight. Not a touch, but the prickle of attention. Aemond’s gaze sliding sideways, checking him without moving his head.

“If you cannot stomach justice,” Aemond said, very quietly, “you have no business swinging a sword.”

Luke swallowed hard.

He didn’t look away.

The executioner glanced toward the prince. Aemond gave a single, small nod.

The sword came down.

It wasn’t like in stories, where everything slowed.

It was fast. A blur of steel, a dull thud, a splash more heard than seen. The body jerked, then sagged. Something round rolled a short distance before coming to rest against the wooden block.

The crowd reacted as one creature with too many throats—gasps, a few approving shouts, a child sobbing somewhere near the front.

Someone did retch. Not Luke.

His stomach lurched, bile burning at the back of his throat, but he stood his ground. His jaw locked. His fingers dug into the folds of his cloak until his knuckles ached.

The square smelled suddenly and distinctly of blood.

For a few long heartbeats, no one spoke.

“You went pale,” Aemond said at last, still looking at the platform.

Luke’s voice came out rough. “I… won’t pretend I didn’t, my prince.”

“Good.”

He blinked. “Good?”

Aemond turned his head then, finally meeting Luke’s gaze. His eye was cool, assessing, not unkind.

“If it didn’t disturb you, I’d be concerned,” he said. “But you watched. You didn’t flee.”

Luke held that gaze as long as he could. Something in his chest, tight and cold since the sword had fallen, eased just a little.

“Remember how this feels,” Aemond added, turning away again. “It’s what you stand behind when you wear a sword at your hip.”

He lifted a hand in a brief gesture, and the goldcloaks began to move, dispersing the crowd, clearing the square.

Aemond stepped down from the slight rise, already striding back toward the horses.

Luke followed, legs shaky but obedient, the image of the falling blade still bright behind his eyes.

He had not looked away.

He wasn’t sure that made him stronger. But as he caught the faintest flicker of approval in the prince’s profile, he knew one thing for certain:

He’d passed a test.

**

The meat on Luke’s plate at supper had been perfectly cooked—pink at the center, crusted with herbs—but it might as well have been straw.

Every time he blinked, he saw the sword falling. The way the body jerked. The way the crowd had exhaled as one creature when it was done.

He’d managed three bites. Maybe four.

By the time the bell rang for the prince’s evening meal, his stomach was a tight, sour knot.

Now he carried Aemond’s supper tray through the familiar corridor—roasted meat, small loaves of bread, a wedge of cheese, sliced fruit, a cup ready for wine.

The tray felt heavier than it had that morning.

He knocked once, with the same polite firmness as before.

“Enter,” came the prince’s voice, clear and awake.

Luke stepped inside.

The chamber looked much the same as it had at dawn—dragon tapestries, red and black drapes, the ever-present sword within reach—but the fire was brighter now, throwing gold across the room.

Aemond sat at the small table near the hearth, still in his black tunic, hair tied back, eyepatch in place.

He looked very much like a man who had not been at all disturbed by watching a life end.

Luke approached, set the tray down, and began laying things out with neat efficiency. Plate, knife, bread, the jug of wine.

His movements were precise. It was easier to focus on angles and placement than on the memory clawing behind his eyes.

He reached for the wine, unstoppered the jug, and began to pour.

“You’re silent tonight,” Aemond observed.

Luke didn’t spill, but his hand tightened on the handle.

“Long day, my prince,” he said lightly.

Aemond’s gaze did not waver. “The execution?”

Luke hesitated, then inclined his head once.

“It… stays with you,” he admitted. “Even when you don’t want it to.”

Aemond hummed. It wasn’t quite agreement, but it wasn’t dismissal either.

Luke finished pouring, set the jug down, and stepped back to his usual place—half a pace behind and to the side.

The position of a squire. The position of someone meant to be useful, not seen.

He folded his hands behind his back so they wouldn’t tremble.

Aemond picked up his knife and fork, cutting into the meat with slow, methodical strokes.

“The first time I watched a man die by sentence,” he said, tone almost conversational, “I vomited afterwards.”

Luke blinked, startled enough to look at him properly. “You did?”

“I was twelve.” Aemond carved another slice, not looking away from his plate. “My mentor, Ser Crison, thought it would harden me. Make me into something sharper, sooner.” A faint curve touched his mouth. Not a smile. “It didn’t. It simply made me… precise.”

Luke swallowed. The image of a younger Aemond—thin, furious, sick behind some stone pillar—lodged itself in his mind with surprising ease.

“I didn’t look away,” he said quietly. “Today.”

“I know,” Aemond replied. “You went pale. But you stood your ground. You didn’t interfere. That’s more than I can say for half the men in my command when they first started.”

Heat pricked Luke’s cheeks, a strange mix of embarrassment and pride. He hadn’t realized that had been… noticed.

Aemond took a bite, chewed, swallowed. Only then did he flick his gaze back toward Luke.

“You ate earlier?” he asked.

Luke’s first instinct was to lie. To say yes, of course, like a proper soldier who wasn’t shaken by a single execution.

“I… tried, my prince,” he said instead.

“Tried is not ate.” Aemond set his fork down with a soft clink. “Come here.”

Luke stepped closer instinctively.

Aemond took up the knife again, sliced off a piece of meat, then tore a chunk of bread and set both on the edge of another plate—closer to Luke than to himself.

“You’ll be of no use to me if you faint during drills tomorrow,” he said. “Sit. Eat a little. Then go.”

Luke stared at the plate. “I couldn’t, my prince. It’s yours.”

“That wasn’t a request, little beta.”

There was no heat in the words—no sharpness. Just simple, immovable fact.

Luke hesitated a moment longer, then pulled out the second chair at the table and sat down gingerly, as if expecting the wood to reject him.

He picked up the bread first, tearing off a small corner.

His stomach protested at the idea of food, but he forced himself to chew. The meat followed.

It tasted like nothing, at first. Then slowly, like something real. Something solid.

Aemond went back to his own supper, speaking as he did.

“It will get easier to bear,” he said. “The sight. The sound. The way the body moves when the sword lands.”

Luke flinched slightly at that, but didn’t stop eating.

“It should never become easy to enjoy,” Aemond added.

Luke looked up at him.

Aemond’s expression was unreadable, but his voice was clear.

“You understand the difference.”

“Yes, my prince,” Luke said softly. “I think so.”

“Good.” Aemond cut another slice. “You’re not meant to be untouched by it. Only able to stand steady when it happens.”

They ate in a strange, quiet companionship for a few minutes.

Luke took small bites, more out of obedience than hunger at first, but as the knot in his chest loosened, the food settled more comfortably.

The roaring in his ears faded, replaced by the softer sounds of crackling fire and clinking cutlery.

When he’d had enough that he no longer felt hollow, Luke pushed his chair back and rose.

“Thank you, my prince,” he said, a little awkwardly. “For the meal.”

Aemond gave a short nod, as if it were nothing. As if he hadn’t just ordered him to take care of himself.

Luke gathered the empty dishes that were his, stacking them neatly back onto the tray. His hands were steadier now.

“We train early tomorrow,” Aemond said, reaching for his wine. “Try to sleep.”

“I will, my prince,” Luke replied.

He turned and made it almost to the door before Aemond spoke again.

“And Waters?”

Luke paused, tray in hand, and looked back. “Yes?”

Aemond was staring into his cup, watching the red surface ripple faintly. He didn’t look up as he said, “Don’t lose the part of you that went pale. Just learn to stand on it.”

Luke’s fingers tightened around the tray’s edge.

“Yes, my prince,” he said, voice low.

He left the chamber and walked the short distance back to his own room. His legs were still a little shaky, but there was a strange lightness in his chest beneath the lingering dread.

He set the tray down for a passing servant, then closed himself in his chambers.

The bed waited, the handkerchief in the drawer, the faint smell of salve still clinging to his collar.

The image of the execution was still there, sharp as a blade—but it no longer owned the whole of him.

He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face.

He saw me, Luke thought, heart beating slow and heavy. And I didn’t fail.

For tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The yard had been beaten flat with the morning’s boots, the snow packed down to a hard, pale ring around the great heap of logs piled at its center.

Torches burned in iron brackets along the walls, their flames snapping in the cold air, and boys moved back and forth with armfuls of kindling, feeding the bonfire until it flared high and sure.

Along the edges, trestle tables were being laid—trenchers set, cauldrons of stew steaming, loaves of dark bread stacked in rough towers, jugs of ale sunk into snowdrifts to keep them cold.

The air smelled of smoke and meat and frost.

And everywhere, omegas.

They came in twos and threes from the keep doors and stairways, wrapped in furs and wool, ribbons threaded through braids and pinned to shoulders, laughing in low, excited voices.

A fiddler plucked at strings near the far wall; someone tested a pipe, the thin note rising and falling as they warmed their fingers.

Cregan stood near the edge of it all, cloak drawn tight, arms folded.

He told himself he was inspecting preparedness—counting heads, measuring how many torches had been lit, noting where the snow might turn treacherous when the circle began to move.

Beside him, Jorlan let out a low whistle.

“The gods are kind,” the knight said under his breath. “I was prepared for nothing but frostbite, and they send ribbons instead.”

One of the younger omegas glanced their way, caught Jorlan looking, and broke into a grin. She nudged her friend; the two of them giggled like girls at midsummer.

Jorlan tipped an invisible hat in their direction, all easy charm.

Cregan rolled his eyes.

“You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on the gates,” he muttered, “not undressing half the keep with your eyes.”

“I am keeping an eye on the gates,” Jorlan replied cheerfully. “Conveniently, all the omegas are walking through them.”

Cregan’s gaze swept the yard again. Clusters of colour against all that grey and white, faces flushed pink from the cold, hair gleaming with oil and ribbon and bits of dried flower.

He counted almost without thinking—two kitchen girls, the tanner’s omega, Old Jon’s daughter, Maerin’s niece—

His eyes kept moving.

If he asked himself, he would have said he was making sure everyone was turned out properly, that no one slipped through without a cloak thick enough, that no fool tried to stand too close to the flames.

Still, he was aware of the empty space where a particular figure was not.

Jorlan watched him watch the crowd. After a moment, his mouth curved.

“If you’re searching for your Eyrie stray,” he said, voice sly, “Maerin hasn’t paraded him out yet.”

Cregan scowled. “I’m making sure everyone’s accounted for.”

“Of course you are,” Jorlan murmured. “With that very… intense gaze of yours.”

Before Cregan could answer, the bonfire caught fully, a rush of sparks leaping up into the twilight.

The first notes of an old chant rose from the musicians, a simple, steady rhythm. Cregan’s jaw tightened.

Still no sign of—

He caught movement at the far door.

The small side-entrance from the inner keep swung open, and Maerin stepped out first, wrapped in her old brown cloak, hair braided back like a girl’s despite the grey in it.

Beside her came Jace.

For a heartbeat, Cregan forgot how to breathe.

The omega was dressed in northern finery, or as close to it as Maerin’s chests allowed—pale wool that fell well on his slight frame, trimmed at collar and cuffs with soft white fur.

His hair had been plaited in the northern style, half-braided, half loose; thin ribbons of white and blue wove through the strands, catching the torchlight when he moved.

The cold had painted his cheeks a soft pink, but there was a touch of nerves in the colour too.

In his arms, Rickon was bundled almost beyond recognition in furs and wool, only his round face and one flailing fist visible.

Maerin stood on her toes to adjust a last ribbon at Jace’s temple, then rapped lightly at Rickon’s reaching hand.

“No grabbing at your nursemaid’s braids till he’s had one dance, little lord,” she scolded, mock-stern. “Let me admire my work while it lasts.”

Rickon immediately swatted at a ribbon anyway. Jace caught the tiny hand with an indulgent smile, tucking it back into the safety of the furs.

Cregan’s breath hitched in a way he absolutely refused to acknowledge. He covered it with a short, annoyed-sounding cough.

As they approached, Jace dipped his head in a small bow, careful not to jostle the babe.

“My lord,” he said. “Ser Jorlan.”

“How is he?” Cregan asked, eyes flicking over Jace’s outfit only briefly before fastening on Rickon.

The boy’s cheeks were still a little flushed, but his eyes were bright and alert, not shadowed with misery as they’d been the last two nights.

“Still fussy in the evenings,” Jace replied, voice gentle, “but better. We had… a small milestone today.”

“Milestone?” Cregan repeated.

Jace shifted Rickon, sliding one hand under his head, the other under his back. He tickled lightly at the babe’s chin, coaxing a giggle.

“Show your father, little wolf,” he murmured. “Go on. Open wide.”

Delighted by the attention, Rickon laughed, his mouth opening in a gummy grin wide enough to show the tiniest, sharpest sliver of white breaking through the swollen gum.

Jorlan leaned in with unabashed interest.

“There it is,” he said. “First Stark fang.”

Cregan found, to his mild horror, that something in his chest softened.

“Hnh,” he said. “He looks very pleased with himself.”

“He screamed for two days to earn that tooth, my lord,” Jace said, smile bright with quiet pride. “I suspect he feels he’s conquered something.”

“So have we all, boy,” Maerin put in dryly.

Someone near the fire clapped three times in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

The musicians answered with a stronger thread of melody, and omegas began drifting toward the cleared space around the bonfire, forming the start of a ring.

“Come on, then!” one called. “Before the stew goes cold!”

Maerin shifted, turning toward the circle, then looked back at Jace and held out her arms.

“Give him here,” she said. “You can’t dance properly with a teething wolf pup hanging off you.”

Jace’s hold on Rickon tightened instinctively. “Are you sure?” he asked. “He’s been—”

“He’ll fuss if you don’t dance,” Maerin snorted. “He’s a Stark. They like watching their own make fools of themselves.”

Jace hesitated. Then, with one last brush of his lips to Rickon’s temple—quick, instinctive—he let Maerin take him.

“Eyrie boy!” a younger omega called from the forming circle, her braids flashing as she waved him over. “Come on, we’re not dancing with a gap in the ring.”

“We’ll show you the steps,” another chimed in. “It’s only three left and three right. Easier than calming a screaming babe, I’d wager.”

“I’ll only ruin your pattern,” Jace protested, a bit shy, though he was already being tugged forward.

“Then we’ll all look foolish together,” the first omega said. “Better that than pretty without you.”

They pulled him into the ring, arranging him between them. Someone took his hand, guiding his foot through the first of the steps as the music settled into a steady, old rhythm.

Maerin, now with Rickon, marched toward the line of onlookers as if on another kind of battlefield and thrust the bundled babe toward Cregan.

“Here,” she said briskly. “You can hold him while I fetch myself some proper food. I’ve earned it.”

Cregan instinctively reached out, taking Rickon against his chest.

“I thought you were minding him,” he said.

“I am,” Maerin replied, already turning away. “I’m putting him in his father’s arms. That counts.”

She vanished toward the tables, calling something about stew over her shoulder.

Cregan adjusted his grip, one large hand spread across the small of his son’s back, the other cradling his bottom.

Rickon’s head turned immediately, eyes locking on the moving circle of omegas.

Jorlan sidled up again with a cup of ale, following the direction of Rickon’s gaze. His eyes found Jace in the ring, then flicked back to Cregan’s face.

“If Lady Jeyne could see you now,” he murmured, amused, “she’d be insufferable for the next decade.”

“What are you prattling about?” Cregan muttered, not looking away.

“The way you’re looking at her precious gift,” Jorlan said. A beat. “You’d think she’d sent you a second sun instead of one soft omega with a teething trick.”

Cregan’s scowl darkened, but he didn’t bother denying it. His eyes were already caught.

Jace moved uncertainly at first, shoulders a touch stiff, brow furrowed in concentration as he watched the feet of the omegas beside him.

The circle turned left, then right, hands linked and lifting, and slowly the tension eased out of him. His steps fell into the pattern, light on the packed snow; his mouth opened on the refrain, voice blending with the others—quiet, then steadier.

The ribbons in his braids flared when he turned, white and blue snapping in the firelight.

The flames painted his cheeks gold and turned his brown eyes almost amber when he glanced up toward the moon.

Rickon let out a delighted babble, little fist punching the air in the direction of the dancers.

“You see him, little wolf?” Cregan murmured, dipping his head so his words brushed warm against his son’s ear.

Rickon gurgled again, utterly enraptured, eyes wide and blinking as the circle flowed around the bonfire.

Jace stumbled once on an uneven patch of snow and laughed—properly laughed—as the omegas on either side of him caught his elbows and steadied him.

The sound carried across the yard, light and unguarded.

There was no sad shadow there now. No hollow-eyed grief like Cregan had seen in the nursery on sleepless nights.

Just warmth. Just light. Just a young man in ribbons and fur, singing an old northern song as if it had been his since birth.

The smile suits him, Cregan thought, with a small, unwelcome pinch in his chest. The braids, the finery, the way the fire kissed his skin and made him look like he belonged here.

It all suited him more than it had any right to.

The song swelled into its last verse.

The ring tightened, the dancers drawing a little closer to the fire, hands lifting briefly toward the dark sky in the old gesture of petition, voices rising together on the final held note.

Cregan held his son and watched the Eyrie omega dance in the snow among his people.

He told himself he watched to be certain the southern boy did not slip on the ice, did not falter, did not fail.

But the truth—quiet and stubborn as a new tooth pressing through tender gum—was that he simply could not look away.

Chapter Text

The sun had climbed high enough that the stones of the secondary yard were warm beneath Luke’s boots.

Sweat had already gathered at the back of his neck from the drills Aemond had set him through—footwork patterns, stretches, the kind of repetitive motions meant to strip away nerves and leave only muscle memory.

It wasn’t working. His nerves were very much alive.

Aemond stood across from him now, a blunted practice sword in hand.

The prince’s own warm-up had been silent and efficient; he’d rolled his shoulders once, stretched his neck with a sharp tilt, and that was that.

“Take it,” Aemond said, holding the second practice blade out by the grip.

Luke stepped forward and accepted it. The sword was heavier than the training blades in the Eyrie, better made, better balanced.

He tried not to look impressed and failed instantly, his fingers tightening around the worn leather.

Aemond’s eye flicked down to that small tell, then back up. He drew his own blade and raised it in a loose guard, testing Luke’s stance with a light tap against his lowered sword.

“You said you’ve trained for years,” Aemond said, almost idly. “We’ll see if that was time well spent.”

“Of course,” Luke replied, forcing his voice steady.

Aemond didn’t bother to explain anything further. “Come at me.”

Luke swallowed once and obeyed.

He stepped in with a simple diagonal cut—one Ser Corryn would have parried in his sleep.

Aemond blocked it easily, barely moving his wrist. The impact rang up Luke’s arms, wood striking wood with a hollow crack.

He tried again, testing a different angle, adjusting his footing—

Aemond moved like a predator.

There was no wasted motion. No showmanship. His steps were quiet on the packed dirt, the sweep of his blade economical, controlled.

Luke struck, and Aemond met him. Luke feinted to the right, and Aemond’s sword was already there, glancing his blade aside and forcing him to pivot awkwardly to keep from stumbling.

Luke heard the distant clink of goldcloaks’ armor as they pretended not to watch.

The only real sound between them, though, was the sharp rhythm of strikes and the roughening cadence of his own breath.

This was nothing like sparring Ser Corryn.

Corryn barked corrections, laughed when Luke overextended, let him regroup.

Aemond simply… pressed. Testing him the way weather tested mountains—relentlessly, without comment.

He attacked again. Aemond stepped aside, deflecting, making Luke chase him. A sudden feint at Luke’s shoulder sent Luke’s balance lurching.

He stumbled, boots skidding, and barely managed to twist in time to bring his sword up against the returning blow.

His palms burned. The wooden grip bit into softened skin, each impact sending a dull throb through his fingers.

Aemond’s breathing remained even.

The tempo shifted.

Without warning, Aemond moved faster, his blade a blur. He drove Luke back with a short, brutal flurry—high, low, side, forcing him to block, pivot, retreat. Luke’s lungs began to ache. Sweat slid down his spine.

His arms grew heavy, the sword suddenly too much.

“You drop your shoulder when you’re tired,” Aemond observed in the middle of it, as calmly as if commenting on the weather.

“I’ll… fix that, my prince,” Luke managed between breaths.

“Do it now.”

He tried. Gods, he tried—dragging his shoulder back into line, squaring his stance, forcing his feet to obey even as the ground felt unsteady.

For a moment, he found a rhythm—parry, step, counter, breath.

And then Aemond took it away.

A twist of his wrist knocked Luke’s blade sideways. A clipped kick to his ankle—precise, not cruel—sent his leg out from under him.

Luke hit the dirt hard, air punched from his lungs, and before he could even think of rolling away, the blunted tip of Aemond’s sword rested lightly against his throat.

He stared up at the prince, heart slamming against his ribs, chest heaving. From this angle, the sky sat behind Aemond’s shoulders like a pale, unforgiving halo.

The single visible eye was cool and clear.

“Dead,” Aemond said.

“Yes, my prince,” Luke answered, breathless.

Aemond stepped back, lowering the sword. His breathing was only slightly elevated.

He looked Luke over for a beat, then offered him his free hand.

Luke stared at it for half a second, as if his brain needed time to catch up, then placed his own in Aemond’s palm.

The prince hauled him upright with effortless strength.

“You held longer than I expected,” Aemond said.

Luke blinked at him, still trying to find his breath. “I… did?”

“Your footwork is decent,” Aemond continued, tone cool and assessing. “Your grip is poor. Your guard is lazy when you tire.” A faint pause. “But there is potential.”

Luke’s heart stuttered traitorously. Praise. Real praise. From him.

“That means nothing,” he told himself, sternly. It meant everything.

Aemond released his hand, stepping back just far enough to reset their distance.

“We’ll make something sharp of you yet, little beta,” he said quietly.

Luke tightened his hold on the practice sword, heat still burning in his lungs, in his face, in the place just below his ribs that had nothing to do with exertion.

“Yes, my prince,” he said.

And he meant it.

The blood still ringing in Luke’s head when a discreet throat-clearing cut across the yard.

He turned just in time to see one of the white cloaks at the archway straighten.

“Her Grace, the Queen,” the man announced, voice carrying easily over the scrape of practice blades.

Aemond lowered his sword at once and stepped back, the change in his stance subtle but immediate. Authority yielding, just enough, to a higher one.

Luke dropped into a bow so quickly he nearly overbalanced, head bowed, practice sword held tight at his side.

He heard the soft drag of fabric over stone before he dared look up.

Rhaenyra crossed the training yard with the easy, measured confidence of someone who had been born to be watched.

Her cloak trailed behind her like a dark, rippling shadow, the red and black of House Targaryen catching the late-morning sun.

Her hair was pinned back from her face in shining silver waves, the rest falling down her back like a spill of light.

At her side, half-hidden in the folds of her skirts, clung a small boy.

Luke caught only a glimpse at first—dark eyes, a flash of silver hair, small fingers curled tight into the queen’s gown. He ducked his head again.

“Brother,” Rhaenyra said, warmth threading through the simple word. “Already putting the boy through his paces?”

Aemond bowed, only a small incline of his head but deeper than he offered most men.

“Your Grace. If he’s to serve with steel, better he learns early where he stands.”

Luke tried not to glow at that. The boy could have been anyone, but the way Aemond said it made his chest go tight.

He forced his legs to move, stepping forward to bow more deeply. “Your Grace,” he murmured.

When he straightened, Rhaenyra was looking at him—not with the distant politeness a queen might give a servant, but with a warmth that almost startled him.

“Luke,” she said, smile softening her features. “How are you finding the Keep? Has my brother worked you to the bone already?”

A flush prickled up his neck.

“It’s… an adjustment, Your Grace,” he admitted. “But I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

“Are your chambers comfortable?” she asked at once. “You’ve everything you need? They are feeding you well?”

Luke blinked. Those were not questions kings and queens usually asked squires. Not in any story he’d heard.

This is… a lot of interest for someone like me, he thought, a flicker of confusion warming into something he didn’t quite want to name.

Rhaenyra seemed to sense it. Her mouth tilted, and she added lightly,

“Lady Jeyne wrote to me recently. She asked that I see to your welfare. I’d hate to disappoint her.”

Oh. That… made sense. Of course Lady Jeyne would make certain he was looked after.

Relief loosened something tight in his shoulders.

“Of course, Your Grace. Lady Jeyne is… very kind.”

“She is,” Rhaenyra agreed, but there was a shadow in her eyes that didn’t fit the conversation. It passed quickly.

She glanced down at the small weight tugging at her skirts.

“Viserys, sweetling,” she coaxed, “this is Ser—” she stopped herself, a little smile touching her lips, “—Luke Waters, the new squire to Prince Aemond.”

Luke almost choked on the “Ser,” but filed the slip away in his heart.

The boy peeked out, just for a heartbeat. Wide, solemn violet eyes in a pale face, silver hair falling into them.

Then he ducked back behind his mother as if the world were too bright.

Luke, not wanting to frighten him further, lowered himself into a crouch. The packed dirt of the yard creaked under his boots.

He bowed his head, bringing his gaze closer to the boy’s height.

“Your Highness,” he said gently. “It’s an honor.”

There was a small, muffled “Hello,” from somewhere around the level of Rhaenyra’s elbow.

Rhaenyra huffed a soft, amused breath. “You may look at him properly, darling,” she murmured to her son. “He doesn’t bite. That’s Aemond’s domain.”

Aemond made a quiet sound that might have been disdain or faint agreement. Luke didn’t dare check.

After a moment, Viserys peeked out again. This time, he held the gaze for longer—a shy, measuring look—before the corners of his mouth twitched up, the smallest, hesitant smile.

Luke’s heart went soft in his chest.

“Hello,” he repeated, just as quietly, and found himself smiling back.

Their conversation was beginning to wind down when a shout cut across the yard.

“Your Grace! I’ve got it—just in time, I swear!”

Luke turned toward the sound.

A small figure was pelting across the packed dirt, weaving through two goldcloaks like a darting cat.

The boy couldn’t have been more than eleven—tunic slightly crooked, brown hair mussed by wind and speed, clutching a tightly rolled parchment in one ink-stained hand.

He skidded to a halt a few paces from Rhaenyra, boots sliding, chest heaving.

“I’ve got it,” he repeated, still breathless. “Didn’t even smudge the seal this time.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth softened. “I see that, Joff. Miracles do happen.”

She took the parchment from him, her fingers brushing through his hair in a quick ruffle that was far too familiar for a random servant.

The boy’s grin only widened.

“Nearly tripped over Ser Arryk,” Joff reported cheerfully. “But I think he’ll survive the insult.”

Rhaenyra tried and failed not to smile too much. “You took long enough, Joff.”

“Only because your guards insist on existing in doorways, Your Grace,” he shot back, all bright-eyed impudence.

One of the goldcloaks snorted under his breath. Aemond’s expression did not change, but Luke thought he caught the faintest spark of amusement in his eye.

Luke straightened from his slight bow, finally really looking at the boy.

He wasn’t dressed like a prince—plain brown tunic, patched at one elbow, boots dusty.

His hair was common, brown curls, same as his.

There was ink smudged on his thumb, a scuff on his chin, and a confidence to the way he stood beside the queen as if he’d been orbiting her all his life.

Viserys certainly seemed used to him.

The little prince had edged closer without Luke noticing; his small hand had already found the hem of Joff’s sleeve, fingers curling there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Across the yard, two maids who’d been pretending to arrange a basket of linens were watching with fond, badly concealed smiles.

Not a noble, Luke thought. Not a prince. But clearly… cherished.

Joff felt his stare and turned, dark eyes flicking up and down Luke in a quick, assessing sweep.

Then he flashed a bright grin.

“Haven’t seen you before,” he said. “New face?”

Luke, caught off guard, then amused, nodded. “New squire.”

“Oh.” Joff straightened and, with a ridiculous amount of flourish, swept into a half-bow that was exaggerated but—somehow—oddly elegant for a page.

“Joff, at your service. If you need boots shined, messages run, or a leftover pie rescued from a cruel fate, you can find me near the kitchens. Or under a table. Depends on the day.”

Luke couldn’t help it. He smiled. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes heavenward, but the look she bent on Joff was soft enough to ache.

“He’s very convenient,” she said, tone fond. “Aren’t you, Joff?”

“I exist solely to be useful, Your Grace,” he declared, utterly smug.

“And occasionally insufferable,” she added.

He grinned wider at that, unoffended. No one commented. It was a small, forgettable movement to any other eye.

Luke filed it away without quite knowing why.

Rhaenyra turned back to her brother, exchanging a few more words about training and the City Watch that Luke only half-heard. Then her gaze flicked down to her younger son.

“Joff,” she said, “be a dear and take Prince Viserys back to the nursery. I’ve council in an hour.”

Viserys’s response was immediate. He released his mother’s skirt to reach for Joff’s hand instead, small fingers slotting into his with clear, practiced ease.

Joff’s expression softened, all bravado smoothing into something gentler.

“Come on, little dragon,” he said, squeezing Viserys’s hand. “If we’re quick, we can steal a pastry from the kitchens on the way.”

Viserys looked up at him, hopeful. “Lemon cakes?”

Joff’s mouth curved into a conspiratorial smirk. “Is there any other kind?”

Rhaenyra shook her head, but she was smiling as she did. “Go,” she said.

Joff gave her a jaunty little nod, then dipped his head politely toward Aemond and Luke.

“Your Grace. My prince. New squire.” He wiggled his brows at Luke as if they’d known each other longer than two breaths, then turned, leading Viserys away with a swinging, unhurried step.

Viserys stayed glued to his side, head tipped up, listening intently to whatever nonsense Joff was murmuring as they crossed the yard.

Rhaenyra watched them go for a breath longer than necessary, something shadowed and tender in her gaze. Then she turned back to Luke.

“Train well, Luke,” she said. “The capital needs steady hands.”

He bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

With that, she swept away with her small retinue, color trailing after her like banners.

Silence settled again over the yard, broken only by the distant ring of steel from another practice ring.

Aemond didn’t watch her go. He turned instead back to Luke, raising his practice sword.

“You can gawk at the court’s strays later, Waters,” he said dryly. “Pick up your blade.”

Heat climbed up Luke’s neck. He reached for the practice sword, fingers closing around the worn grip once more.

As he moved to take his place opposite the prince, his gaze flicked, just for a heartbeat, to the archway where Joff and Viserys had vanished.

There was a small, strange tug in his chest he couldn’t name.

Then Aemond stepped in, sword raised, and the world narrowed again to the smack of wood, the burn of his muscles, and the sharp, relentless focus of the dragon he served.