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humanpurposes · 1 year

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Karma is a God

Chapter 5: Shipbreaker Bay

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: grief/mourning, other than that we're good.

Words: 2800

A/n: Originally posted on AO3, posting to Tumblr before I get back to regular updates.

Something drags her through the darkness and she wakes with a deep and desperate gasp.

Her eyes dart open. The sky is a glaring grey.

Her lungs burn, fighting against the air she knows she needs.

The surface of her skin is numb but every other part of her body hurts.

Everything hurts.

Her hands find the ground beneath her, clawing at something cold and grainy, scratching at her fingers like tiny shards of glass.

She just about has the strength to turn onto her side to wretch up an impressive amount of seawater, some of it from her gut, some of it from her lungs.

A roaring rushes over her ears and she freezes. She blinks through the haze in her vision. She sees water, a greyish green, washing over the shore.

Her eyes turn up to the sky. Her lids are heavy but she forces them to stay open. She sees no movement other than the clouds drifting on the wind.

Something is missing, she can feel the absence in her chest.

Eventually she starts to remember in fragments. The open jaws of a dragon, a burst of red as her cloak flew from her shoulders, the weightlessness as she fell. It still feels like she’s falling.

And Arrax…

A warmth runs down her cheeks that stings her skin.

Her dragon is dead.

And she is alive– she takes another burning breath to make sure– but she is not safe. If Lord Borros has declared for Aegon, nowhere in the Stormlands will be safe.

What of her family? Perhaps they will come looking for her, but how will they know to? The only person who must know what has happened is the very same man who tried to kill her.

The same man who wouldn’t stop looking at her. Who dragged her through the Red Keep, called her “bastard”, coaxed her pleasure and left her on the floor of an empty chamber.

Who demanded her eye.

Who let his dragon tear Arrax to pieces.

What if Aemond comes looking for her instead? What will he do when he discovers his work is not done? Will he take her eye as a prize?

She turns her body over and tries to shift her weight onto her arms but the pain is too great. She slumps back against the ground with a strained grunt. Too weak to crawl.

But where would she crawl to? She has no dragon, she cannot swim back to Dragonstone, and when she looks up all she can see is a thick line of forest. Her neck goes limp and her brow meets the sand. Too weak. Too weak to even lift her head.

So she lies there, not bothering to spit the sand out her mouth, waiting for the pain to fade but it doesn’t. It doesn’t even ease, it just seems to fester.

She closes her eyes. She does not sleep, but somehow she dreams. She dreams she is back in her bed. She can hear the gentle crackle of a fire and feel the weight of a throw over her body. Familiar fingertips drag over her cheek, the cut beneath her eye, her lips… “NO!”

A face looks down at her. A woman, with wrinkles around her brown eyes and flecks of silver running through her raven hair. Luke’s hand is clamped around her wrist, digging through to the bone.

“There, there,” the woman says shakily, stroking her palm over Luke’s temple, “you needn’t fear me.”

Luke doesn’t believe her.

Her body still feels weightless, like she’s floating between this world and another.

She’s vaguely aware of arms wrapping under her shoulders and legs before she’s lifted from the ground and carried from the beach, groaning and growling through the pain of the movement.

Her body settles against something harder than sand and softer than stone. It sways, rises and falls, and the sound of the sea crashes around her. The sky above her is golden now, as the sun crawls to the West and darkness starts to creep in.

An eternity passes and she’s lifted once again. When she’s placed down once more her head falls against something soft. A warmth starts to swipe over her face. Her skin feels alive underneath it, writhing and burning but it’s strangely comforting. Her chin is tilted up and fresh water runs into her lips, washing away the sand and the vile taste of salt and bile. She still shivers under her sodden riding leathers.

Voices hum in the back of her mind, grating and unfamiliar.

“Highborn?” This voice is low and coarse.

The woman answers him. “She must be, look at her clothes.”

“How in Seven Hells did she end up here?”

“Shipwreck? Looks like she nearly drowned.”

“But there was no ship. No crew. Why don’t we ask-”

“No. The Gods must know how the poor thing has suffered, just let her rest.”

Luke dreams of the sky and the sea. One moment she’s soaring, cutting through a storm and unrelenting winds. Then she dives, hurtling down and plunging beneath the waves as swift and sure as an arrow.

Her pain is still present, but duller, splitting between intervals.

Hurts, she thinks, why does it hurt?

When she breaks through the surface she circles around the bay, over a castle with a single drum tower. She flies on, until the storm begins to fade and she can see green sprawling below her. She starts to descend, her eyes fixed on a stretch of shore at the edge of a forest.

The beach is empty. Something tells her this isn’t how she left it.

Gone.

She stalks along, looking for whatever it is she has lost. She stops when she sees markings in the sand.

Gone where?

Her hosts are generous enough. She supposes the very fact they have allowed her into their home and offered her bed and food from their table is a charitable gesture, one not taken lightly. For that she is grateful.

The woman, whose name is Tilda, ensures she is kept warm, tending the fire and tucking the throw up to her chin. She brings hot stew, sometimes with bread, though Luke can hardly stomach anything that isn’t thin and watery.

Kindness can only do so much. Her body burns from within but her skin is tight and shivering. Tilda does what she can, wiping the sweat from her brow and whispering assurances. “You’ll be alright, we just need to keep you warm.”

The pain in her limbs starts to fade, but worsens when she tries to move.

The pain in her chest is different. It cuts deep and it persists. She twists and writhes, biting into whatever she can get her hands on to take the edge off, the edge of the throw, her tongue, her fingers. She finds little relief. Breathing is still uncomfortable and the skin underneath the shift Tilda has leant her is painted red and purple with swollen bruises.

Tilda tells her what she can. They are fishers, and had been on their usual sail of Shipbreaker Bay when they spotted her limp figure, lying on the shore along Rainwood. Alone.

Luke can see the questions forming in the woman’s mind. Sometimes she’ll open her mouth as if to speak, until she stops herself.

Perhaps she should tell the truth. If they have a boat they may be able to sail her back to Dragonstone. But suppose they follow their Lord Paramount? Suppose they bow to the usurper and not her mother?

She remains silent where she can.

The man, Duncan, appears only a voice drifting in through from the main area of their house. There are no walls or doors to obstruct their words from the bed she lies in. The pair are careful to speak in whispers, and only when they believe their guest is asleep.

Luke closes her eyes and lies still as she listens.

“She cannot stay here,” Ducan says, to his wife’s protests. He hushes her. “She’s been here almost a fortnight and she’s getting no better! We don’t want a dead girl on our hands, and besides, we can’t afford to spare the food, not with winter approaching.”

“We cannot simply abandon her!”

“She needs more than we can offer. Her body is broken, she needs a Maester.”

Tilda hums in agreement.

“I wonder, if we took her Griffin’s Roost, or Storm’s End…” Luke holds her breath, “someone might pay a reward for returning a Lady to her home.”

Or a bloodthirsty, treacherous uncle…

The journey is a risk they’re both willing to make. They agree to leave the next morning.

Night falls. Luke waits until her hosts are settled in their beds and snoring. With quivering hands she peels the throw from her body. The icy night air stabs at her skin, but it is nothing compared to what will follow.

She goes to sit up and pain shoots through her torso. It’s tempting to scream but she can’t. She can’t. Her face twists and grimaces through it. All she can do is breathe and bite down on her lip.

She props up on her other arm and hauls herself up to sit. She digs her nails into her palms. The pain dwindles. Then she brings her legs over the bed, planting her feet on the floor. She hasn’t attempted to stand since she’s been here, let alone walk.

She thinks of Jace. She wonders where he is, if he will have left the Eyrie by now. She huffs through her nose. If her brother can venture to the Vale and the North on his own, then surely she can make the short distance to the door.

The first step is uncertain. She reaches behind to lean on the bed until her legs stop shaking.

The second step comes with more pain, sharp and sudden. She tastes a warm metallic tang on her tongue as her teeth sink deeper into her flesh.

At the third she can reach the wall. Her hands catch her against the stone and she keeps holding on as she continues.

Tilda has left her boots by the door. She manages to tug them on and hesitates as she reaches for a cloak. They’ve offered her so much already. She leaves it where it hangs and slips through the door.

The village is small, far smaller than the village on Dragonstone. She waits for a few moments. There are no lights, no voices, just the wind and the sea. The moon offers little light, but it is enough to spot the water’s edge and three boats stowed at the dock.

Her stomach churns. Ser Laenor was never quite able to defeat her aversion to sailing, despite all their trips around Blackwater Bay. She hated those lessons, stumbling around on the deck, burning her palms against the ropes and through all of that, vomiting over the side of the boat. She always begged not to go. She would have preferred to take Arrax for a flight, sit with her mother in her solar or go to the library to find her favourite uncle.

Now those hours spent on the sea might just be enough to get her home.

She trudges on, dragging her feet through the pain and the weight of her boots. The waves of the bay are tumultuous enough, she dreads to think how harsh the open sea will be. But it has to be done.

She stands on the dock before the smallest boat filled with nets, pikes and fishbones. She looks over at the endless tangles of ropes. She can hear Laenor’s voice and his gentle chuckles as he guides her hands along the lines and through the manoeuvres. Jace was always better at this than her.

“What are you doing, girl?”

The voice is sudden. Her heart almost leaps out of her skin.

Duncan stands at the end of the dock. He is tall and broad, like Ser Harwin was, but with longer black hair and a grey beard. At the best of times he doesn’t seem to be an overly warm kind of man, but there’s something about the way he stands that puts her on edge, his legs a little apart, arms hovering by his sides and knuckles twitching.

“I’m sorry,” she utters through a dry throat, “I am grateful for what you’ve done for me but I cannot go to Storm’s End.”

The wood trembles beneath her feet as he starts to stalk towards her. “Why not?”

She presses her thumbnails into her fingers. Because the realm is descending into war. Because my uncle thinks me a traitor and will have my head if he finds me. “I fear I would not be welcome there.”

“And why’s that?” He’s halved the distance between them now. She takes a step back and he compensates for it, edging closer and closer.

“Please, I just want to go home.”

“And where is home, girl?”

Her eyes start to sting.

Home was Ser Laenor binding the rope burns on her hands and feeding her ginger cake when they returned from their voyages. Home was Ser Harwin cradling her in his arms whenever she said she was too tired to walk. Home was dancing lessons with Helaena. Home was exchanging peculiar faces with Aegon through courtly functions and giggling until neither of them could breathe. Home was the rare occasions she could get Aemond to smile.

Home is her mother, her family, her brothers, Jace and Joff.

Home is scattered now.

Duncan takes a final stride towards her and takes a fistful of her hair. She screeches at the sensation pulling on her scalp and the searing pain in her chest. “GET OFF–”

He twists her around and presses a thick hand over her mouth. “Now,” he huffs into her ear, “this doesn’t need to be difficult. We will make for Storm’s End and your family will pay a pretty price for your return I’m sure.”

She fights as best as she can, jabbing at him with her elbows and knocking her head against his chest but each strike drains her.

He starts to drag her back along the dock. “Stop fucking struggling,” he hisses, pressing down on the bruises over her ribs.

She screams against him, pushes against his arms, tries to clamp her teeth into his skin, but nothing dispels him.

Her body feels weightless, lost, like she’s not truly where she is.

Her eye is drawn to a movement across the bay. Perhaps her mind is still addled. Perhaps it is the tears pooling in her eyes, because when she looks up she sees nothing but black.

And then she sees something on the water. At first she thinks it is a boat, but the shape is wrong. It hurtles closer and closer, appearing larger with every moment that passes, until she can see that it isn’t on the water at all, it’s over it.

A figure swoops up before it meets the dock, dragging a colossal wave of water up with it.

A dragon hovers before them, the beat of its wings sending them both stumbling back.

It's no dragon she recognises. It is large than Arrax, closer in size to Syrax so she guesses, with a long, round snout and its scales are a pale grey, like morning mist.

It opens its jaws and unleashes a harrowing, screeching roar that pierces her ears and rumbles through her bones.

Luke drops unceremoniously as Duncan flees. She curls over herself, panting through the agony, but she keeps her eyes on the beast before her.

The dock creaks under the weight as the dragon settles. It glares at her, through black slits in wide yellow eyes.

There are gashes all over its flesh, all old, brown and mostly healed. There is one above its mouth to reveal the teeth and bone underneath. It has no saddle, she wonders if one might even fit with the spikes lining down its spine.

“Dohaeragon,” she whimpers. Help.

A clawed foot steps towards her, and the dragon bows.

With the last of her strength she drags herself to its side and climbs, settling at the base of the dragon’s neck, where she can sit without being impaled. She falls against it and her eyes flutter closed.

She parts her lips but the words will not come.

Nevertheless the dragon takes flight, climbing higher through the wind until they break through the clouds and the sound of the sea is gone.

It’s not her own thought but she hears it. Home.

The wind is harsh against her skin but there’s warmth too, radiating through the dragon’s hide. She has never felt so weak, but here, above the clouds once again, clinging onto the final dregs of life that she has, she has never been so aware of her own heartbeat.