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DAY 6 – THE PROPOSAL
The Iron Throne had a new king.
Aegon was dead, his body shattered on the stones of Maegor’s Holdfast after his final desperate leap. The city had burned, and so had many of its people. Entire districts vanished in green fire. The Riverlords called them war crimes, the Reachlords whispered of madness. But none challenged the crown when Aemond mounted Vhagar before the Dragonpit and demanded silence.
He had won. Through blood and fire, he had won.
When Rhaenyra fell to her knees in Dragonstone, it was not for her own sake.
“Swear to me,” she said, her voice hoarse from days of resistance, “that you will not harm my sons.”
Aemond’s eye gleamed.
“I will not harm them,” he replied. “So long as you never give me a reason.”
Then came the proposal.
“You will keep your title as Princess of Dragonstone. Joffrey will be your heir. But Lucerys,” he turned to the middle boy, who met his gaze with reluctant defiance, “Lucerys will remain at the Red Keep. As my... guest. I would keep him safe,” Aemond added smoothly. “He will dine well, dress well, and visit you once a moon’s turn. Unless you betray me.”
Rhaenyra nearly refused.
But Lucerys placed a hand on her arm. “I’ll go,” he whispered. “Let me do this for our family.”
He did not know, then, that the war would only change its shape.
Lucerys arrived at the Red Keep expecting chains wrapped in silk. He thought he would be mocked, scorned, followed by guards, and used as a warning to his mother. He braced himself for sneers from Lords and wary, bitter glares from servants.
But none came.
The noblemen lowered their eyes when he passed, bowing deeper than necessary. The stewards spoke to him with a softness usually reserved for royalty. The guards did not trail him like captors but protected him like sworn shields.
He was not escorted to a tower cell, but to his mother’s old chambers, refitted with fresh velvets, new books, and tapestries of Driftmark and Dragonstone. His favorite foods were served without request.
Then came the clothing, soft, rich silks embroidered with Targaryen reds and blacks, sapphires polished until they shimmered like water under the moon. Jewels adorned his hands and neck, more than he had ever worn.
No one questioned his presence.
No one dared speak of the past.
And Aemond was everywhere.
At first, he arrived unannounced: after dusk, after council, after the keep fell asleep. He never asked for entry. He didn’t need to.
He brought food. Books. Old histories. Driftmark legends. Maps.
The king would ask questions about Driftmark, about Lucerys’ youth, about his thoughts on matters of governance. When Lucerys mentioned that he played the harp, he found one in his chambers the following day.
Luke was cautious. Polite but distant.
Aemond never once apologized for Storm’s End. Never said Arrax’s name.
But he watched Lucerys with a hunger he barely tried to hide.
It began with gestures.
Silk shirts in his size, sapphire buttons and red velvet linings. Jewelry shaped like seadragons. A silver dagger carved with Old Valyrian.
“I had it commissioned,” Aemond said one morning, placing the dagger in his palm. “Your name is etched beneath the hilt.”
“You treat me like a consort,” Lucerys muttered, testing the blade’s weight.
“No.” Aemond smiled faintly. “A consort would share my bed, not my time and attention.”
Lucerys flinched.
But he said nothing.
Because deep down he felt it, too. The tension. The way Aemond’s gaze stripped him bare in rooms filled with lords. The way he was the only one allowed to speak without kneeling.
Later that night, he awoke to find a fire still lit in the hearth. He sat up, groggy only to find Aemond there, sitting on the floor beside his bed.
Not asleep. Not armed. Just watching.
Lucerys’s voice broke the silence. “What are you doing?”
“I dreamt you vanished,” Aemond said softly. “So I came to see if you were still here.”
“You’re the king. You could order ten men to watch my door.”
“I’d rather do it myself.”
Lucerys didn’t speak. He turned away, pretending to sleep.
Aemond remained until dawn.
Aemond’s obsession was quiet, elegant and absolute.
When Lucerys danced with Jahaera during the Stranger’s Feast, Aemond watched, unmoving, his eye locked to the boy like a vow.
That night, he waited outside Lucerys’ chamber until the firelight dimmed. He left no word. Just a pearl ring, still warm from his hand.
Lucerys didn’t wear it, but he kept it.
It wasn’t love. Not then.
It was captivity dressed in silk. Hunger masked as devotion.
But Aemond was careful. Patient. He never touched Lucerys without permission. Never kissed him unless Lucerys leaned first.
And that made it worse.
Because the longing, slow, smoldering, burned away resistance like frost beneath dragonfire.
The first time Lucerys kissed him, it was to punish him.
But Aemond moaned his name like a prayer, and Lucerys broke.
The kingdom noticed the change.
When Lucerys entered the throne room, Aemond stood.
When Lucerys disagreed with a decree, it was rewritten.
When a Lord questioned the prince’s right to speak, Aemond exiled him and his family from the capital.
Alicent raged. “He is your weakness!”
Aemond replied, without flinching, “He is my strength. And you will speak of him with reverence, or not at all.”
Lucerys became Aemond’s lover. And then officialy his Hand.
And Lucerys, once a reluctant hostage, began to understand the true nature of power.
Aemond didn’t want obedience.
He wanted him.
His smile. His scorn. His pleasure.
So Lucerys gave it. In pieces, at first. A touch. A sigh. A whispered word in council. And when Aemond trembled under his hands like a boy desperate to be seen, Lucerys smiled.
He wore the ring, eventually.
He took his place beside the Iron Throne, unchallenged.
People named him the King’s Siren, for his voice could calm even the king’s fury.
He rewrote law, reshaped alliances, and had the king name his brother Aegon as heir. A gift to his mother, whose blood would sit on the Iron Throne. To seal the future, he also arranged Aegon’s betrothal to Jaehaera, uniting both sides of their divided house under one red and black banner.
Joffrey ruled Dragonstone in peace.
Rhaenyra visited the Red Keep without fear.
The Seven Kingdoms flourished.
And at night, with the crown set aside and sword forgotten, Aemond would kneel between Lucerys’ knees, silent and devoted, his whispered words of worship, tracing every line of the body he cherished above all else.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
And Lucerys would smile, fingers tangled in his silver hair.
“I know.”