Work Text:
There are two words that Luke comes to despise.
“You’ll learn,” says Aegon to him—Aegon the Second, the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men—as he smirks down the table. Jace is to his uncle’s left, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white around his meat knife. Luke knows that he only does not drive it into Aegon’s eye for the sake of their Aegon, and Viserys, and Joff.
Aegon and Jace are to be married by the end of the day. As the king, his wedding comes before Aemond’s. To Luke.
Aemond is sitting beside him, though Luke has not looked at him once. His future husband. The thought makes him sick. He can see Aemond’s hands in the corner of his eye, cutting into pig, and to him they are soaked red, still crimson with Daemon’s blood. Those will be the hands that hold him down on his wedding night.
He nearly retches at the thought, only just managing to swallow the bile. And then there’s the way Aegon’s words—in reference to Luke being a poor bride-to-be, with the way he wouldn’t even glance at Aemond—were as much directed to his brother as his.
Jace will be married by the end of the day. Queen. Aegon had insisted on that, even though Jace is a man. He will not have Jace be king as his sister, their mother, wished, not even via marriage to him. Not even with her dead.
After this feast is over, Luke’s older brother is going to be taken away and held down and raped. And there is nothing Luke can do but sit there and pick at his food
He is not sure what other lesson there is, to learn. Both he and Jace know they’re powerless to change their fate. They will allow their uncles between their legs—or else be forced to—and birth their heirs, or else their younger brothers’ heads will decorate the spikes outside King’s Landing.
Aegon is standing, cup in hand. His other on Jace’s shoulder, for balance. Luke sees how Jace cringes at the touch. Some of the wine spills over the edge and runs down Aegon’s fingers, to his wrist. Red.
“A gift, for my bride!” he announces. At his words, servants come into the hall, carrying a silver platter with a domed lid.
Luke’s stomach sinks.
It is placed right on the table, in front of Jace. There is a stretch of nothing—held breaths—before Jace realises that, yes, Aegon wishes him to lift the lid himself.
His face is blank, but his hand trembles as it reaches for it. He lifts it and stills. Face still carved of stone. But Luke can see his eyes. Can see the fury, and disgust, and grief in them. Luke does not look at what is on the platter. He does not need to; he already knows what has been laid upon it.
“Your mother’s head,” declares Aegon. Proudly. “I did promise it to you, after all.”
Luke cannot stop the sob from escaping his throat. He is ashamed of the weakness but he cannot stop himself. A hand grips his arm. It is Aemond’s. Luke wants to snap at him to take his blood-soaked hand from him. He doesn’t. There is a fear that if he does not have something to pin him down, to hold him, then he will break, and grab a knife, and drive it into Aegon.
Jace still has not moved. Luke knows why. It is either be still or wrap his hands around Aegon’s throat, and their mother would not want her sons dead. Not even to avenge her.
“Will you not thank me, wife?” Aegon asks. For a moment Luke thinks he has gone too far. Jace has the blood of the dragon, and it has always run hotter in his veins than it has in Luke’s. Jace will turn on him with knife in hand, snarling, and the guards will stop him, and they will have to watch Joff being murdered for the attempt.
Joff would be first. Aegon had told them that. He is a bastard, after all. Only half a dragon. His blood is a cheaper price to pay than Viserys or their Aegon.
But then Jace says, “Thank you, husband.” The words are dull, flat. Empty.
“You are welcome,” responds Aegon. Smug. Satisfied.
Luke watches his husband’s hands for the rest of the feast. It is better than looking at his mother’s head.
The feast ending would have been a relief, if not for it being followed by the bedding.
The morning after, at the family breakfast Aegon insists on, there are bruises wrapped around Jace’s neck, like a collar, and his eyes are dead. After, he and Jace are escorted to their chambers—their younger brothers taken to a different part of the castle—and when they pass through a courtyard there is a bedsheet thrown over a balcony, stained red, and Luke sees Jace pale and he knows whose blood it is.
“You’ll learn,” Aemond tells Luke on their wedding night, “that you are only good for your cunt, or I’ll teach you. Keep your mouth shut.”
It happens right before the feast ends, after Luke turns to him and pleads to let him walk to their bedchamber instead of being carried. Despite his words, he still glares at the men who go to carry Luke and the women who go to carry him, and commands that there will be no bedding. There are groans of disappointment, the loudest of which came from Aegon, but no one dares to voice their complaints.
There is jealousy on Jace’s face, as he watches from his seat next to Aegon. He is trying to hide it but he is his brother. He cannot hide much from him. Guilt eats at Luke’s stomach. Jace had not been spared the hands of strangers, undressing and groping him. Giving him over, naked, to Aegon.
Luke had tried to ignore it, but he had seen Aegon’s hand on Jace’s thigh, dipping under his dress, the entire feast. Aegon has been forcing Jace to wear dresses, ever since their wedding, and he rarely does not take advantage of the access it grants to Jace’s thighs and cunt. Aemond permitted him the more traditional bride-groom’s clothing of a lengthened tunic, but he is afraid that will change after they are married.
Luke trails behind Aemond, as he leaves the hall. He wants to run, to escape into the maze that is the Red Keep’s corridors, but doing so would only delay the inevitable, and worsen it in the process. Still, he cannot bring himself to look any higher than Aemond’s boots.
As soon as they are in the bedchamber, the door closed behind them, Aemond is slamming him to the ground, tearing at his clothes. Luke cries out, and thrashes, only to freeze when he feels the cold of a blade to his skin.
“I should take my eye, and then take you,” Aemond says. Luke’s lungs seize. The dagger traces his cheekbone, parting skin. Hot blood trickles down his face. “It is what I am owed. But I desire that you keep it, so that you may use both eyes to see what your cunt looks like when it's stuffed full of my cock.”
The blade is still cutting into his skin.
“Are you not going to thank me, husband?”
“Thank you,” Luke manages to say, the words slipping past the fear blocking his throat.
The dagger leaves his face to cut at his tunic, and Luke breathes again. There are bursts of pain, where his skin is sliced along with the clothing, and soon he is naked and trembling, lines of crimson scattered across his body.
The dagger traces his body, not quite breaking skin. All the way from his throat, to a nipple, down to his thighs. Its steel slides under his cock, lifting it slightly.
Luke’s trembling grows, a new fear flooding his veins. He looks to his uncle—his husband—pleadingly. His heart beat hare-like in his chest.
“What? It is not as if you will have much use for it,” Aemond jests. It is jests, because as soon he has said the words—and seen the terror grip Luke’s face—he withdrew, sliding the dagger into its sheath.
“Thank you,” Luke says again, unprompted, even though the words burn his throat and mouth and tongue. Like acid. Like wildfire.
“For what?” Aemond asks, as he unbuttons his doublet.
Luke’s eyes catch on his maiden cloak, thrown on the ground next to him. It is red and black and white. He’s a Targaryen—a dragon—at last.
“For not taking my cock,” he answers. Aemond hums—Luke does not know if it is done in approval or amusement—and continues to undress. He is standing now, to free himself of his trousers.
Luke is still on the floor. The stone is cold and hard beneath him. He goes to stand, to move to the bed, but a boot on his stomach stops him. Pressing down on his organs. Luke swallows and stills. Forces himself to go limp.
Is he to be taken on the floor then?
He had imagined his wedding night before—when he was still on Dragonstone, when his mother and Daemon were still alive—and it had been nothing like this. It had been to Rhaena, and he had use for his cock, and it hadn’t been on the fucking floor.
In that moment he curses the gash that lies between his legs, the thing that saw him married to Aemond instead of killed with his mother.
Aemond removes his foot, to take off the boot, and then he is on the floor with Luke, pressing him into stone. His cock slides against Luke’s thighs. It feels massive, and Luke does not know how it will fit in him. Aemond makes no move to bring them to the bed.
He is to be taken on the floor then.
Something breaks. He snarls, suddenly bucking. Nails catching on skin, teeth snapping in the air.
Aemond rears back, taken off-guard. Luke uses the opening to slam his skull against Aemond’s. His head rung from the impact but he keeps going, forcing Aemond off him. He scrambles to be the one pinning Aemond down. A hand shoves at his face and he bites, drawing blood.
A cry, and then a fist hitting his face. It stuns him long enough for Aemond to fling him off, and then to grab his wrists and pin them. Luke hates how it only takes one hand to hold them. He tries to kick, but Aemond is wedged between his thighs. There is something pressing to his cunt, and then Luke is howling with pain and indignation and humiliation. Aemond grunts, forcing his cock in another inch even as Luke writhes below him.
Luke looks at his uncle and he sees that Aemond is enjoying this. His eye blown wide, his lips wet, his cock hard inside him. Despair claws at Luke’s throat. He grits his teeth, spiteful, and goes limp.
Disappointment crosses Aemond’s face and there is some small satisfaction in that.
“Giving up so soon, nephew?” he asks. “Is that all you have to offer?”
Luke jerks his head to the side. Let that be his answer.
He expects more pain. He expects agony. What he gets is a hand on his cock, stroking.
Luke moans, and then snaps his mouth shut. His body is confused, by the sudden sensation of skin, heat, pleasure, even as his cunt still burned. He is confused as his uncle’s fingers playing with his cockhead, circling it with a pressure that lay just between soft and hard.
“I thought my cock has no use now?” he asks, and does not know how he is coherent enough to do so.
Aemond responds by shoving three fingers into his throat, plunging them deep enough to scrap the back of it. Luke chokes until they relent, withdrawing to simply push his tongue to the bottom of his mouth and hold it there.
His cock is filling, a heat beginning to pool in his gut. He feels something wet on his thighs. Something that isn’t blood. The pain lessens. Luke hates it.
Maybe it would be better for it to be cut off, severed from his body. One less weapon to be used against him. He considers biting down. If he does it hard enough he might slice through bone. Three fingers seems a fair trade for a cock.
Except Aemond hardly cares about fair.
The hand goes from his cock and he whines around Aemond’s fingers before he realises what has happened. His body flushes with shame.
Aemond smirks and takes his fingers from Luke’s mouth. Strands of saliva stretch and then break. He wipes his hand on Luke’s thighs, smearing drool across his skin.
There is a thrust, and his cock slides in another inch. There is no tearing, but Luke still feels like he is about to break.
“I can’t—it’s too big,” he gasps. “It won’t fit.” As if Aemond cares.
“It will,” Aemond says, and it slides in another inch. Luke whimpers. “You’ll learn, that your cunt is made to take my cock. Soon it’ll feel empty when I’m not fucking into you, and you’ll beg me to fill you. And because I am your husband I will do my duty, and stuff you full of cock and seed and babies.”
Aemond grabs Luke’s hips and pulls him down onto his cock, and Luke’s cunt gives. Luke chokes on his own spit. He can feel Aemond’s hips pressed to him, his cock in his guts.
"Look," commands Aemond and Luke does and he hates that sight of Aemond's cock disappearing between his legs. Swallowed by his cunt.
All of it is inside him now and Luke wishes it broke him because then he wouldn’t have to feel this.
Aemond begins to move, dragging his cock against Luke’s walls, and Luke sobs. His body tells him what he’s feeling is pleasure but it's too much, burning through him, and he’s wet. So fucking wet. It’s staining the sheets beneath them. When it's flung over the balcony, everyone will see the stain. Dwarfing the red. They will see, and know that Luke sobbed on Aemond’s cock.
A hand goes to his throat, cutting off his breathing. He is almost grateful for the pain. Aemond’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of his neck and he writhes on his cock, desperate.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Aemond growls into his ear, even as his hand presses down on his throat. “Your cunt is sucking me in. Hugging my cock.”
The edges of Luke’s vision are going black. For a second he thinks the gods will grant him this mercy, but then Aemond’s hand is gone from his throat and his lungs are sucking in air. And the heat hits him, washing over him like a wave, sweeping him up. He is powerless against it as it floods him.
He hears himself crying out, his cunt clenching around the cock inside him. And then he is left trembling as Aemond continues to fuck into him.
Aemond licks the skin of his shoulder, and then bites down. Pain, a small trickle of hot blood. And then he’s groaning into his flesh, and a heat is filling him. Leaking out of him.
His body aches. With pain, with shame.
He thinks he hears Arrax wailing. But maybe that is his imagination.
He does not sleep that night. It is not even the pain that stops him, but the arms that trap him against Aemond’s chest.
“Do not fret, husband,” Aemond says to him when he wakes up. “I will not hurt your brothers for your insolence, as long as it stays in our bedchamber.” More shame, that he had struggled with no thought of his family, of how they might be hurt because of his pride. “You’ll learn that your place is beneath me, eventually, and I’ll enjoy being the one to teach you.”
“Thank you,” Luke says. And, when Aemond has left, he pulls the chamber pot out from under the bed and vomits into it.
“You’ll learn,” Alicent tells him, a week into his marriage, as she clasps his hands. It sounds like it is meant to be a comfort.
He wonders if it is guilt that brings the words, or some ghost of the love she once held for his mother. Or malice, hidden like steel beneath the silk of her apparent kindness. She never forgave the eye, after all.
“Viserys was not the man I imagined, when I imagined a husband. But I came to love him all the same, and I… love the children I bore him.” A hesitance. Was it from her children’s birth that she was unsure in her love, or is it more recent? Luke does not think he would love his children, if they raped and murdered like Alicent’s do. “You will be the same.”
Except Viserys never killed your mother, or your father, or any blood of yours. Except Viserys’ hands never purpled your wrist, or hit your cheek, or choked you. Except it was never a matter of letting him fuck you or watching your younger brothers die.
Luke rips his hands from her grip, jaw clenched. He has not yet learned how to force a smile that does not look like a wolf’s teeth bared.
Alicent’s mouth twists into a frown, but she does not admonish him or call for the guards to take him away. Or to beat him. So maybe it is a shadow of kindness, small and dark and a mockery of the real thing, that Luke sees on her face, rather than cruelty. It is hard to tell; there is not much of a difference between the two.
There are dark bruises, on his face and neck and arms. He has a split lip. His eyes are dead, just like Jace’s. She knows, what her son is. And she still asks of Luke to love him. Or maybe it isn’t a matter of asking, but of knowing.
Luke tells himself he will throw himself from the Red Keep if he ever feels even a flicker of affection for Aemond. He knows it's a lie; the price his family would pay is too high.
“You’ll learn,” says Jace. “As I will. For the sake of our family.”
Luke’s fingers tighten around the cup in his hand. He knows Jace is right. The survival of their brothers is all that matters now, and the only thing left to them is their bodies. Pleasing Aegon and Aemond is a matter of life and death. But it has been a month, and it hasn’t become any easier to swallow the humiliation. He still cannot bring himself to smile at his husband, or lean into him, or act as if he wants his cock in his cunt.
Aemond has kept his word, at least. Any struggle, as long as it is kept behind closed doors and ends with Luke moaning on his uncle’s cock, goes unpunished, aside from the bruises that litter his body.
Jace bites into an apple, only to wrinkle his nose in disgust. “Do these taste strange to you?” he asks.
Luke shakes his head. “They’re fine.”
“Well you think figs taste nice, so your judgement can’t be trusted,” Jace retorts, chucking the apple away.
“Figs do taste nice!” he says back, and he is grateful for this. Being able to talk to Jace, without Aegon’s hand sliding up his brother’s thigh or Aemond’s eye piercing him. They have begun to be allowed to see each other outside of meals, while Aegon and Aemond are busy with matters of state, and even to visit their brothers.
Luke does not want to know what Jace had to give—or will have to give—for Aegon to permit it all.
He knows he needs to do more. Jace will be with child soon, or him, or both of them. More lives to worry about, and protect with their bodies. They, and their family, are at the mercy of their uncles, and Luke has done nothing to endear himself to his husband, to the man whose eye he took. Aemond’s affection is protection, and they need it.
You’ll learn. You’ll learn. You’ll learn. You’ll learn. You’ll learn. The words echo in his mind as Aemond fucks into him. So he looks into his husband’s eye, and asks him to fuck him harder.
The look his uncle gives him is nothing less than pure lust.
He finishes quickly that night, and doesn’t even choke him once. And he is almost gentle, when he cleans their bodies.
Maybe it will be easier than he thought.
Aemond’s nameday approaches. He should be able to find a dagger by then. An eye seems a fair trade, for affection. If anything will endear him to his husband, it will be his eye held in a bloody hand, ready for him when he returns from his duties.