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.