Chapter Text
In the smoke-filled halls of the seedy Flea Bottom casino, awash with the mixed scents of cigarettes and triumph and defeat, Lucerys Velaryon meets Don Borros Baratheon.
Borros Baratheon is a big man, all thick coarse hair and wiry beard. He sits before a poker table - chips piling high, whisky at his side, a fat cigar hanging from his mouth - and laughs loudly, with the confidence of one who owns the establishment and can never lose to the house. And he cannot, truly. Amongst the Seven Families of the mafia, it is the Baratheons who control the gambling dens of Westeros.
Even here, outside of their agreed-upon territories in the Stormlands, the Baratheons have a hand in the casinos - a cut of the profits. Don Baratheon is there to claim his share.
If Lucerys plays his cards right, he can claim his, too. He can walk out of there with the Baratheons on his side, returning to Dragonstone with this gift to his mother.
I am in no danger, Lucerys tells himself. The Baratheons will be easy. Mother says so, and mother never lies. Don Baratheon will hear my pleas, for we are kin. I have Baratheon blood through my grandmother Rhaenys.
And yet a treacherous part of Lucerys whispers, Rhaenys Targaryen is not your grandmother.
Lucerys ignores it. It will win him no favours here, especially when so much is on the line.
The casino is packed on this night, bursting with people either trying to escape the harsh rain or escape the harshness of life in King’s Landing. Many will find themselves deeper in debt, but it doesn’t matter, because the house always wins. They will come back again and again, losing every last coin to the syndicate in some form or other. If not to gambling, then to drink. Alcohol flows from barrels and taps, in violation of the decree set by the prime minister. It is not like anyone will complain. Prime Minister Baelor Blessed’s attempts to cleanse the country of its immoral vices have been met with resistance, the people chafing under his proclamations of indecency as they are robbed of the balm of intoxication.
All this prohibition has done is increase the value of the Reach’s alcohol, pouring great sums of money into the Tyrell’s coffers with each cask upturned in the streets. Take something away from the people, and it will become their greatest wish. The Tyrell family has benefitted from their alcohol rackets, supplying precious drinks to the thirsty populations.
And the Targaryens, as their overlords, have benefitted twice as much.
When one family in the mafia wins, all of them do. That is the binding principle of the Seven Families. Aegon “Conqueror” Targaryen saw to this - the man to unify the warring factions into one strong syndicate, with himself as capo dei capi. And Jaehaerys “Old King” Targaryen, grandfather of Lucerys’ grandfather, perfected the intricate web of the mafia.
Now Lucerys is here, a messenger attempting to secure their future for his mother, Rhaenyra.
It is not going well.
“Don Baratheon,” Lucerys bows low, in traditional Valyrian fashion, showing his respect to the boss. He shouldn’t need to be posturing himself like this, as the son of the capo dei capi, but the times have regrettably changed. “I bring a message from Rhaenyra Targaryen,” he enunciates the next words, “the Godmother of the Seven Families.”
If it were not for the subtle quirk of bushy eyebrows, Lucerys might think Borros did not hear him. Don Baratheon adds more colourful chips to the middle of the table, moving the cigar between tobacco-stained teeth. Finally, he speaks.
“Don Viserys Targaryen is dead, gods rest his soul,” Baratheon says, “but I hear his son Aegon is the new capo dei capi, not Rhaenyra. Which is it, Godfather or Godmother?”
Lucerys’ chest constricts, still angered by that betrayal. “From where did you hear this?”
“From me.”
Lucerys’ apprehension melts into fear. He turns, his heart racing as his uncle Aemond Targaryen enters the suite. Rather, Lucerys realizes, he has been there all along, hidden in the shadowed corners of the casino. Leave it to Aemond to haunt Lucerys’ steps, just out of sight. Lucerys cannot say why, but he staggers under the overwhelming feeling that he has lost.
No. He steels himself, bunching his fists. I must do this. My mother’s life rests on it.
Family they might be called, but there have been cracks in the Targaryens for decades. They existed before even Lucerys and his elder brother Jacaerys were born, sown into Westeros’ criminal underworld the moment Viserys “The Architect” Targaryen declared Rhaenyra “Realm’s Delight” Targaryen as the next capo dei capi: the boss of all bosses. In the years since Conqueror created the Seven Families, there have been Godfathers, never Godmothers.
“My mother is of proper Valyrian blood,” Lucerys begins, appealing to the sense of pride inherent to the descendants of the fallen empire. “She has studied the syndicate at her father’s knee far longer than Aegon has, and-”
“Your mother knows more about the television screens than she does the syndicate,” Aemond interrupts, “and she knows even more about spreading her legs, my lord Strong.”
My lord. It is a holdover from the Valyrian days of antiquity, a title given to capos of the mafia.
Lucerys swallows. I am no Strong. I am a Velaryon, the son of Laenor.
Before his death in an unexpected fire, Harwin Strong had been caporegime - a captain loyal to the Targaryen family. He’d had ties to Westeros’ police, muddying the waters such that law enforcement turned a blind eye to this unsavoury thing of theirs. Harwin’s loss had ripped a hole within their family. It’d ripped a hole within Rhaenyra, too, one that she’d tried to hide. Yet Lucerys still sees it whenever he and Jace trade blows within the boxing ring, coached along by Daemon, his mother’s violet eyes glazing over with a far-off longing.
None grieve for an ordinary capo the way Rhaenyra mourned Harwin Strong.
“Stay a while, nephew,” Aemond says, as Lucerys buries the urge to flee. He gestures to chips. “Play a game of poker with us men. Perhaps you’ll learn a thing or two.”
Lucerys is ready to reject his offer. The ferries will be leaving to Dragonstone as soon as the thunderstorm lets up, and he is anxious to be on the next one. Rhaenyra already hesitated sending him to treat with Don Baratheon, and it will only cause her further worry if he delays.
But, Lucerys thinks, one game won’t be too long, surely. I can always catch a different ferry. Plus, this buys me more time to persuade Don Baratheon before he returns to Storm’s End.
Since the death of Viserys, the Seven Families have been holding their breath regarding his successor. Lucerys can already see where lines might be drawn in the sand. The Tyrells have grown wealthier than ever under Prime Minister Blessed’s prohibition; their support of Aegon could be all but assured on account of his Reach blood. With Otto Hightower’s concerning number of friends in parliament, the Lannisters might very well join them in an effort to protect their financial rackets. To lose the Baratheons, too, would be a painful wound.
Against his better judgement, Lucerys acquiesces.
Baratheon does not protest at his inclusion. He motions for Lucerys to be dealt in, insinuating that surely, as a mafioso, Lucerys would know the rules of poker. Lucerys does, to a degree, though perhaps not so well as Daemon or that sleazebag Aegon. Aemond chuckles, a rolling rumble in his slender chest, as if he senses Lucerys’ reluctance.
To win, one must first lose. Lucerys gives up a portion of the money he’d brought in order to purchase a seat at the table, cheeks pinkening at Aemond’s sneer.
“Is that all the money mommy dearest allows you, taoba?” Aemond says.
“No,” Lucerys feels a boy again, rage boiling in the wake of Aemond’s taunts. One day that rage had spilled over, until Aemond’s blood coloured his hands red, red, red. “She taught me the value of money. I don’t see the point in spending it all frivolously on card games.”
“Mmm.” Aemond threads his fingers. His silver hair glows gold in the tepid lights of the casino. “Let us make a deal, little Luke. If I win, you must give me something.”
Lucerys is promptly on edge. “What do you want?”
“I will tell you when I win.”
Baratheon is a great big ball of impatience. He shouts for the game to begin.
Lucerys has never been great at this. He looks to his hand and cannot tell what to make of it. There is a king and some spades … the king is good, right? His nerves get to him, scrambling his thoughts, making him second-guess every decision. He hopes his face does not reveal the depths of his uncertainty. Across from Lucerys, Aemond makes a sound that is dangerously close to being considered a laugh. That low, almost purr rumbles within him.
Lucerys flushes and looks at his cards again, uncomfortably toying with the piteously small pile of chips aside him. He asks himself what would mother do? and decides that, for a start, she’d know whether her hands were good or not.
When his turn comes, Lucerys folds.
Aemond laughs, biting and cruel. “You can’t hide forever. Soon or late, you’ll have to play.”
There is hidden meaning in his words. Aemond is speaking of more than just cards.
“Don Baratheon,” Lucerys says, at the start of a fresh round of betting. He is excited this time, for he holds a pair of fives. A reasonable hand. “Might we resume our prior discussion?”
Baratheon grunts his affirmation.
Lucerys’ fledging confidence wavers as Aemond beats his hand, sporting a pair of sixes.
“My mother bids me to remind you of the promise your family made to mine,” Lucerys says, recalling the odd proposal that Aemond set forth.
Glass splinters as Borros sets his whisky down on the table heavily. Lucerys jumps in surprise. Aemond’s ever-present smirk grows wider as Borros’ hands squeeze around his cards.
“Remind me?”
Lucerys flinches. “A-a poor choice of words. I only meant-”
“Aye, I know what you meant.” Baratheon leans forward with a fierce scowl. “Your mother has spent too much time in showbusiness. She’s grown used to waving her hand and having whatever she wants appear in it. A negroni when she’s parched, or,” his eyes glint, raking over Lucerys derisively, “a man to warm her bed when her husband is preoccupied. How can some pampered socialite woman rule the Seven Families?”
Lucerys feels lightheaded from the smoke. Someone somewhere has lost a game, and their anguished cries make Lucerys’ pulse unsteady. “She was chosen by Viserys Targaryen. She is wise, intelligent, perfect. You cannot find a person more qualified to lead the Seven Families.”
Aemond is all snark as he asks, “Why not?”
Baratheon is not so amused.
“You expect me to put my men’s lives on the line for the whims of a dead man? Send my capos out to die for a woman who gains a new masculine friend with every turn of the moon? I’ve businesses to run, debts to collect, daughters to see married to good proper men,” Baratheon snarls. “Be gone after this, pup. I’ve better things to do than babysit Rhaenyra’s whelp.”
Lucerys has to remind himself that he is nearing twenty, a man grown, and far too old to cry.
Viserys’ time as Godfather continued the era of peace put forth by the Old King, due in no small part to his right-hand man, the consigliere Otto Hightower. Otto’s brother, Hobert Hightower, maintains an important seat in parliament. Otto’s connections to politicians have been invaluable to the Targaryens, for why would the ministry wage war on Westeros’ crime lords, when they could ignore a few mishaps for the benefit of everyone? But now Viserys is gone, and Lucerys cannot see Otto extending that same level of dedication towards Rhaenyra. Not if he can have his own grandchild climb to the top of the Targaryen family.
With Don Baratheon’s resounding refusal, Lucerys watches another ally slip from his fingers.
“I shall take your answer to the Godmother.”
Lucerys is proud of the strength in his voice, even if it is false. He finishes the game, seething as insult is added to injury. Earlier Aemond had bet all of his chips, a move that Lucerys found unnecessarily risky. Yet it paid off, for now Aemond has just won the final match, blowing past everyone at the table with a royal flush.
“I imagine you did not see that coming,” Aemond says.
Lucerys is too annoyed to be tactful. “I see more than you do, in any case.”
“Hmm, yes. But that can be remedied.” Aemond stands, pulling a knife from beneath his black raincoat. He twirls it between lithe fingers, removing his eyepatch to reveal a glittering sapphire. Lucerys’ stomach turns at the sight of Aemond’s scar, despite the fact that he put it there. “I have won. I demand my prize. Debts are to be collected, and you owe me an eye.”
Lucerys stands as well, backing towards the exit. “No.”
“If you do not give it to me, I will take it.”
Aemond makes to leap across the table, but he is stopped by the Baratheon’s soldiers. Borros Baratheon’s face is enraged, even more so than when Lucerys had made the misstep of reminding him of the true leader of Westeros’ underground empire.
“Not in my casino!” Don Baratheon declares.
It is still raining, Lucerys can feel it, but he’d choose the storm over remaining near Aemond a moment longer. He flees the casino with as much dignity as he can muster, uncaring as to the riches he has lost in playing the stupid game. Aemond does not follow, a small blessing.
Outside, the storm has grown worse. It rages.
This was a mistake.
Lucerys hates himself for crawling back to Dragonstone empty-handed, tail-between his legs. What’s worse is that he knows Rhaenyra will forgive him, a fact that bites at his insides. He is not some child to be coddled for their failures.
His motorcycle, affectionately nicknamed Arrax, is where Lucerys left it. Rhaenyra was not fond of her boys learning to ride so young, but she’d given few protests when Daemon proposed to teach them. Rhaenyra was often weak where Daemon was concerned. If there was one thing that Lucerys was glad for after her controversial marriage after the death of her husband Laenor Velaryon, it was how permissive his stepfather was.
Lucerys glances up at the rain, anxiety welling in his chest. He is a good rider; maybe not as good as Daemon or even Jace, but he can hold his own.
In fair weather.
I will be home soon. He comforts himself with his mantra. Dragonstone is not far from King’s Landing. The name Velaryon goes a long way atop the sea. All Lucerys has to do is make it to the ferry, and then get Arrax loaded within the ship’s bowels. From there, he can sulk in the safety of a cabin as he sails to his mother’s island.
Lucerys sets off with that hope, eyes narrowed against the beating rain.
The journey is difficult, arduous. The chill kisses his bones, his clothes stick to him incessantly. His hair is a tangled mess of dark soggy curls. Arrax’s lights scarcely illuminate his path.
Then his path becomes too bright. Lucerys gasps and makes a sharp turn, throat closing as he barely avoids collision with an automobile.
Which madman drives so fast in this weather? Lucerys wonders.
His question is answered swiftly, in the worst way imaginable.
“You owe me a debt!” Even with the loud thrash of water, Lucerys can tell it is Aemond.
Aemond rides the vehicle he’d reconstructed, a nightmare of metal he’s dubbed Vhagar. It was once the standard size of an automobile, but Aemond has tinkered with it so much that it resembles a war machine more than something one would ride around the city in. The automobile reverses, tires screeching on the wet asphalt. Lucerys is better prepared to dodge this time, but it brings him close enough to hear more vitriol from his uncle. The man’s surviving eye is wide and mad, the sapphire glowing so unnaturally bright in the darkness.
“An eye for an eye.” Aemond is practically singing as he speaks in High Valyrian. “Your pretty eye belongs to me, my lovely little Luke. How I have dreamt of ripping it from your skull.”
An automobile versus a motorcycle. Should Aemond catch him, it is clear who shall win.
Lucerys steadies himself, grip tightening on Arrax’s handles. Then he shall not catch me.
So begins the most sickening game of tag Lucerys has played. Arrax is fast and nimble, able to slip through the winding corners and alleyways of Flea Bottom. But Aemond is persistent, somehow always managing to track Lucerys down. The rain is relentless as it beats upon them, making Lucerys’ mad dash all the more difficult. No matter where Lucerys goes there is Aemond, laughing, gleeful as he throws the full weight of Vhagar against Arrax.
Lucerys takes a page from Aemond’s book and undertakes a risky maneuver, passing through two buildings spaced so closely together that there is no way their inhabitants do not hear unwanted noises. Vhagar cannot fit in that alley, and with the way the street winds languidly, it will take Aemond some time to catch up to Lucerys.
He believes he has gotten away as he looks back. All he sees is rain. Lucerys dares to relax.
He is punished for this oversight.
Lucerys is a deer caught in headlights as the world turns white.
He is frozen in shock, in fear, as he watches Vhagar approach him. Had he had even a minute more, Lucerys might’ve wondered how Aemond tracked him past the alley. More wisely, he would have swerved to safety. But he does not have so much as a minute, and so Lucerys stands frozen and dumbfounded as that monstrosity rapidly closes the distance between them.
The last thing Lucerys hears is Aemond screaming, ‘no!’
The last thing he sees is the whites of Aemond’s eye, his uncle’s hands moving frantically as he attempts to turn the wheel of the automobile. It does not work. Rain splashes up over the asphalt in a wide arc. Vhagar’s tires screech, metal crunching metal as its bonnet meets Arrax.
In the next moment, Lucerys is weightless. Arrax is no longer beneath him as he is sent flying.
Then the weight returns, gravity remembers to exist, and Lucerys’ body meets the earth. The gods show him mercy for the first time today, for Lucerys Velaryon is not awake when it does.