MAW OF THE DRAGON - LUCERYS VELARYON

01. The Lion's Den

HIS ENTIRE BODY ACHED. His right side burned, like it was on fire, despite being soaking wet. He didn't know if it was the dragon bite or the sea seeping into his wounds. He didn't know if it was for better or worse that he couldn't feel his leg.

All Lucerys Velaryon knew for sure was that even if he had survived Vhagar's vicious bite, he would most likely still die here, on this shore. The rain pelting down on his mangled corpse only offered more agony, soaking into the sand, which irritated his injuries.

Luke had accepted his death the moment Vhagar bore down on him, shredding Arrax beneath him like a well cooked chicken. Falling through the tempestuous clouds, he had not been grateful to live.

He had been anguished he did not die. As his body slammed into the raging sea, he wished for the first time in his life that he had not been born of Valyrian blood. An ordinary soul would have died the moment Vhagar's jaw clenched around him. He cursed the fact that his body fought the sea like his ancestors fought it to flee Valyria's destruction. He cursed the gods that not even a dragon mangling him and casting him down into to the sea like Icarus falling from the sun did not kill him. That he was in unspeakable pain on this shore, far from his home, his mother, his brothers and anyone who loved him.

How badly Luke wished he would die.

Every moment he was conscious was another moment of suicidal agonizing.

At some point, the rain and the thunder ceased, and the baking sun rose above the sea. Soon, it would warm, and it would bake the sand in his wounds. It delighted Luke, the thought of infection taking him hot and fast. If he was to be robbed a death befitting a dragon rider, then he would rather his death be quick, a fever-induced delirium taking the pain away.

Yet still, the gods mocked him. At some point, under the climbing sun, he felt himself being rolled over, the robber of his easy death uttering a whispered

"By the gods – it's prince Lucerys Velaryon."

The next two – three? - days passed in a haze. Oh, the fever Luke had craved came, but by some mad luck, it passed through him like dream. During his waking moments, he was sure he had hallucinated maesters tending him, maids bathing him, feeding him medicine. Someone, for some reason, was trying damned hard to keep him alive.

And that, to him, was deeply suspicious. This was not his home, his colours or any ally of his mother that he knew.

When consciousness returned to him in full, Luke realized who these colours and banners belonged to. House Baratheon, who had turned their cloaks to the bitch in green. Any reason Borros Baratheon had to keep him alive made Luke strongly consider finding the highest tower and throwing himself off it.

He was planning to slip out quietly, make a break for it, find himself a way back to Dragonstone. As quickly as the thought crossed his mind and he moved to stand, however, he realized his right leg would not move. As though it had been cut off at the thigh. Pulling the covers back, he saw the extent of his injuries for the first time.

His leg, lined with large puncture marks, the bandages covering them turning red with blood, and blackened by whatever else had come from his leg.

"The maesters say you'll be lucky to keep that leg. So don't bother trying to get out of that bed." A deep voice said, and Luke snapped his gaze up to see Borros Baratheon standing in the door way. "And I wouldn't go making plans to get yourself back to your mother, or killing yourself. You are only alive because keeping you so is much more valuable to the King." The older man continued, stepping in closer to Luke.