Lucera
She had known.
Deep down, in that place where children keep their most terrible fears, she had always known.
The realization had come to her the day her grandmother flew to court on dragonback, a vision of ancient power and Valyrian pride.
Rhaenys Targaryen cut the picture of her namesake, clad in gleaming scaled armor with her silver hair braided in intricate patterns that spoke of old blood and older traditions.
She exuded a kind of poise and elegance that left Lucera breathless with admiration.
But beauty, she quickly learned, was only skin deep.
For all her grandmother’s polite conversation with her father, there was no warmth in those pale violet eyes.
She had brought gifts with her to court, beautiful things wrapped in silk and velvet, and when Lucera had asked about them with eager curiosity, Rhaenys had merely arched a perfect eyebrow at her.
“They are for kin, child.”
The words had struck her like a physical blow.
But I am kin; she had wanted to cry out.
I am your granddaughter.
Instead, she had simply nodded and stepped back, her cheeks burning with shame she did not fully understand.
Her words haunted her sleep that night, echoing through her dreams like a mournful dirge.
Lucera could not understand why Rhaenys was so cold to her.
Her grandsire the Sea Snake was leagues kinder, even if his affection could be somewhat stilted and formal at times.
He at least made an effort, asking after her lessons and her dragon egg with genuine interest.
She put the pieces together the next day, though she wished with all her heart that she had not.
A few Velaryon cousins had escorted her grandmother on her visit, fine young ladies and lords with silver hair and sea-colored eyes.
One of them, Delaena, was of a similar age to Lucera, a girl with a ready smile and a musical laugh.
“Look at her!” her father had cooed, bending down to muss the young girl’s silver curls.
“She is the spitting image of Laena at that age.”
Lucera had been watching from behind a drinking fountain, careful not to be seen.
She knew of Aunt Laena, of course.
Her father spoke of his remarkable sister often, his voice soft with memory.
A fierce dragon rider and a great beauty, Laena was wed to their great uncle, the famed Daemon Targaryen, and currently residing across the Narrow Sea with her family.
“Yes, and of you,” her grandmother had replied, her voice carrying across the courtyard.
“You and Laena could pass for twins when you were younger.”
Something about that struck a chord in Lucera, and she squinted at the Velaryon girl with new eyes.
Delaena’s hair was fine as spun silver, cascading down her back in tight, well-defined ringlets that caught the sunlight like a waterfall of moonlight.
Her lips were full and plump, her nose elegantly curved in that distinctive Nubian way that marked the old blood of her house.
Though her eyes were just as dark as Lucera’s, her skin was a smooth tawny color that mirrored her father’s complexion perfectly.
Lucera paused, running her fingers through her own hair.
Her locks curled to be sure, but the strands were more of a loose wave, as dark as saddle leather.
Nothing like her father’s silver coils.
Nothing like Delaena’s perfect ringlets.
It comes from the blood for some.
The memory of Septa Melara’s words echoed in her mind like a funeral bell, and she dashed back to her chambers before anyone could see the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
Some part of her refused to accept it.
Even as she watched Jace and Ser Harwin at their swordplay, their brown curls and pug noses mirrors of each other, the truth of it would not sink in.
She would not let it.
Because if it did, if she truly accepted what her eyes were telling her, then everything she believed about her family would crumble to dust.
Her mother had been unfaithful.
She had broken her marriage vows and dishonored her father.
And Lucera was just as wicked as they all whispered, a creature born of sin and deception.
She had no choice but to be what they said she was.
It does not matter what they think, she told herself fiercely.
They are all just stupid idiots following made-up rules.
The people I care the most for do not think less of me.
“I wish it curled more,” she had told Aemond later, as they sat together in the quiet of the library.
She had come to him in a state of distress, lamenting how her grandmother had denied her affection in favor of some pretty cousin.
Naturally, her darker thoughts she kept to herself, locked away where no one could see them.
“The way my Lady Aunt’s is said to.”
Aemond had blinked at her, then shut the book he was reading with a soft thump.
Reaching out, he took a lock of her dark hair between his fingers, his touch surprisingly gentle for a boy his age.
“I like it like this,” he said, his voice low and sincere.
“It suits you just fine.”
“You do not think it is plain?” she had asked, hating the tremor in her voice.
“No, it is…” The words died on his lips, and a soft flush kissed his ivory cheeks.
“It suits you.”
Lucera giggled at his stilted attempt at a compliment but thanked him all the same.
The reassurance comforted her and gave her strength to endure her grandmother’s silent scowls.
There was no shielding her from the others, though.
Lucera could scarce move about the castle without vile whispers trailing her every move, following her like shadows she could not escape.
Servants would fescape from.ent when she passed, their eyes sliding away from her face.
Courtiers would exchange knowing glances, their lips curling into smirks she pretended not to see.
Her mother was so wroth at the development that she bid Lucera and Jace to stay confined to her chambers while she ventured out to speak with their grandsire.
The conversation must not have gone as well as she had hoped, for the expression she bore when she returned could make a grown man cower in fear.
Her face was pale, her jaw set, and her purple eyes blazed with a fury that Lucera had never seen before.
The whispering grew worse after that, not ceasing even when they were out of sight.
Not even Ser Harwin leaving for Harrenhal could bid the gossip to die.
He had arrived at their chambers some days after the incident, bundled in riding leathers with his sword at his hip.
Jace was distraught when he informed them that his father had resigned his post as Hand and that they were returning to Harrenhal.
Her brother immediately pulled him aside to the balcony, hissing something about promises and oaths.
The knight bore Jace’s rage with quiet dignity, his face a mask of patient endurance.
When her brother had finished his screaming, Ser Harwin knelt to whisper something to him.
Tears shone in Jace’s eyes, and he collapsed into the man’s arms, silently weeping with a grief that seemed far too deep for a boy his age.
When it was done, they stepped back into the chamber where she and her mother were seated.
Rhaenyra rose from her cushions, babe in hand, as the knight approached Lucera.
Crouched at the foot of a writing desk, she shrank into herself, shying away from his attempt to muss her hair.
The hurt that flashed across his face made her pause, but he did not press her further.
“Take care of your mother, Princess,” he announced, a sorrowful smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Lucera gave him a quick nod, a lump forming in her throat.
His eyes held hers for the longest time before he rose back to his feet and turned to her mother.
Rhaenyra cradled Jace to her chest in one arm while rocking the babe in the other.
Her silver hair hung loose around her face, and her eyes were downcast, yet she could not hide the tears staining her pale cheeks.
“Chin up, lad,” Ser Harwin said, lifting Jace’s head with a gentle hand that lingered to brush his cheek.
“I told you.
I will return.”
“You promise?” her brother hiccupped.
“Yes.
Only the Stranger himself could stop me.
I promise.”
The way Jace scrunched his nose left Lucera convinced he would weep again.
But he steeled himself, giving the knight an enthusiastic nod that belied the trembling of his lower lip.
Ser Harwin smiled, his gaze pivoting to her mother.
Rhaenyra could not bear to meet his eyes.
She bounced the babe vigorously, each breath she took shakier than the last.
When the man bent down to kiss Lucera’s little brother, she squeezed her eyes shut, tears falling freely down her cheeks.
The sight was too intimate, too painful to witness.
“A fine Prince you are,” Ser Harwin whispered to the babe, his voice thick with emotion.
“I will be a stranger to you when we meet again.
But know I always have you in my heart.”
Just then, the babe cooed, a small hand breaking free from the bundle.
Ser Harwin chuckled, letting Joffrey squeeze his index finger.
The infant’s palm was so small it could hardly close around it.
“Princess,” he announced, pulling away.
This time Rhaenyra answered his gaze.
Her purple eyes pinned his, and she sucked in air as if she were drowning.
A thousand things swirled in those amethyst pits, regret and sorrow, bitterness and love.
Love most of all.
The knight seemed to read it all and returned the sentiment with equal ferocity.
However, instead of bending down to kiss her like in the songs, he turned on his heel and marched out.
Jace could not resist running after him.
He burst out into the corridor to watch his departure, his cheeks devoid of color.
Their mother followed, her walk a half-hearted shamble that spoke of exhaustion and heartbreak.
“We will exchange letters by raven,” Ser Harwin called back over his shoulder.
“Won’t that be fun?”
“Is Harwin Strong my father?”
Lucera shut the book she had been pretending to read, her eyes pivoting to her brother.
His brows were creased in concentration, his plump cheeks trembling with quiet fury.
“Am I a bastard?”
Though her mother’s back was to her, Lucera recognized the tension in Rhaenyra’s muscles.
She watched as her mother mussed her brother’s hair, her eyes scanning the hallways as if searching for something she could not find.
“You are a Targaryen,” Rhaenyra announced, her voice strained to the breaking point.
“That is all that matters.”
Jace ogled her for a moment, his face emptying of all feeling.
When he locked eyes with Lucera, she knew he had gotten his answer.
Not long after, they were forced to flee.
Lucera had not known exactly what was said or who had said it.
The servants claimed it was Lord Dondarrion’s young page who had let slip a comment about Ser Harwin not taking her and Jace with him to Harrenhal.
“It seems cruel to break such strong bonds,” the boy had supposedly quipped.
The remark earned the Dondarrions the same treatment as the Florents.
Her royal grandsire banished Simon and his uncle back to Blackhaven, despite Aegon’s fierce protests.
This time, their departure did nothing to stop the tide of rumors.
Unable to bear it any longer, Rhaenyra announced they were to move to Dragonstone.
Lucera was not pleased.
Though the island was lovely in its own stark way, there was not much on it save fishermen, volcanic rock, and dragon droppings.
Still, she knew better than to argue with her mother when she was in such a state.
Dejected, she gathered her things, a heaviness squeezing her belly like a stone.
She was putting away her riding leathers when she heard the soft click of a lock.
The dragon tapestry to her right swung open, and a familiar head of silver hair stepped out of the darkness.
“Aemond, what are you doing here?” she hissed, her heart leaping into her throat.
“You cannot sneak into my chambers in the dead of night.
Your mother will kill us both.”
“Is it true?” he barreled past her, rushing to seize her hands into his.
“You are leaving?”
Lucera let go of the sigh trapped in her throat and lowered her gaze.
“Yes.
We are to go to Dragonstone on the morrow.”
“For how long?” His brows furrowed into a sour frown.
“I do not know.
Mother did not say.”
Straightening his back, Aemond lifted his head high with a determination that made him look older than his years.
“I shall speak to my father.
He has already sent the Dondarrions away.
There is no reason you should leave as well.”
Lucera kneaded his fingers, the knot in her gut tightening.
“There is though.”
Silence was her answer.
Though the way Aemond’s face went slack let her know that no answer was necessary.
She tried to force lightness into her voice.
“It will only be for a little while.
Just until Joffrey has grown a bit.”
He kept staring at her with those intense violet eyes.
Lucera gritted her teeth.
“We can write to each other.
Mother tells me Dragonstone has a large rookery.
I am certain I can make the Maester send a few ravens your way.”
The stiffness in his face abated, and he squeezed her hand back.
“You promise?”
The knot in her gut loosened, and she allowed her lips to peel into a sweet smile.
“I promise.”
This time, it was he who embraced her.
His hands crushed her body to his until her flesh felt like nothing but pumpkin mush.
When he finally released her, he pressed his lips to hers so forcefully she scarce had time to swallow a breath.
She thought he would let her go after a few moments, but he lingered, kissing her again and again until she felt lightheaded.
After at last they parted, Lucera felt as if she might faint.
The expression on his face was striking.
His purple eyes were wide, alight with the ghostly trace of dragonfire.
The crease between his sparse brows was determined, and its ferocity mirrored the redness ravishing his cheeks.
“He does not think you are family.”
Jace was wrong.
Of course Aemond thought they were family.
It was plain that he loved her, she dared say just as much if not more than Jace did.
Composing herself, she smiled again.
Her heart was thundering like a racehorse, but she dismissed the flush as just simple content.
We have each other.
The vile courtiers could spit their poison all they liked.
As long as Lucera had her family at her side, she could bear it all.
She could, and would, weather the storm.
Also, feel free to check out