all her paths are peace

The sun hung dim and tepid in the sky above Ashford Meadow, hazy through a veil of milky clouds. The air had not known a mote of quiet since the lists had been erected, and it was in this din that you found yourself.

Aerion Brightflame cantered proudly up and down the lists to raucous applause. He cut a fearsome image in his armour — blackened steel, scaled and spiked like dragon-hide. You knew the helmet that hung back on his skull was moulded into something unholy, half-man and half-dragon, with plumes coloured like flame.

It had been no more than a day since you had bestowed your favour upon Humfrey Hardyng, as your father had instructed — you were, after all, in talks to marry the man, and it was only right he should receive your token.

You had attempted to dissuade your father with all manner of excuses: the betrothal was not yet set in stone, and there would surely be a time more suitable to announce it to the realm — 'twas the Lady Gwyn's nameday, and you had no desire to steal her champion from beneath her nose — but your father was resolute. He'd even gone so far as to raise the issue with Lord Ashford, who had seen no offence in it.

You made no mention of Aerion's displeasure to your father. How could you explain it? You could barely understand it yourself. What could Brightflame want with the daughter of a lesser marcher lord? Your brother would inherit what little land your father possessed upon his passing, and you would be left only with your name — a name which, to be sure, did not measure up to that of the royal family's.

You had made this case before. All you had received was a laugh, cruel and cutting.

The prince trotted past again, his gold tipped lance raised boastfully, and there was no mistaking it. He met your eyes briefly, but it was enough for you to know that you had been right: you had displeased him, and you would be made to regret it.

Your stomach twisted.

"Are you well, girl?" said your father at your side. "You needn't worry about Humfrey. He's a hardy fellow — you saw it yourself!"

Yes. He had bested Tully and Mallister and Beesbury and a whole host of formidable knights, men who had fought fairly and honourably.

Aerion passed once more.

"'Tis the final tilt of the day," your father continued, supping from his chalice. "Brightflame will want a harder fight, no doubt. The Longthorn, perhaps..."

On his final trot down the lists, Aerion finally made his way to the champion's tents, slowing his steed to an idle walk. He lingered by his cousin's pavilion for a moment, crowing something undoubtedly ill-mannered, but you did not bother with hope; you knew where he meant to go, and you could not watch it. You peered down at your hands, picking at the skin of your fingertips until they begun to sting and bleed, and—

"Come out, come out, little knight! It is time you faced the dragon."

The day had turned rancid, as you had both expected and feared. You were whisked away by the end of Aerion's tilt, ushered quickly back to your pavilion as smallfolk flooded the fields in rage. You could hardly remember the journey back — only the cold shock of disbelief that had engulfed you, and the sight of blood spouting from the poor horse's neck, and the yell of agony from Humfrey's mouth as he was crushed beneath it.

You felt sick again. It was your fault. Your fault.

You sat upon your makeshift bed in your pavilion, alone, your father off to lend his support to House Hardyng. Humfrey may have won by a technicality, and gained a fine horse all the while, but he had lost much more. His leg would never be the same, and his victory had incurred Aerion's ire even further.

With the smallfolk on edge and night fallen, your father deigned to leave you behind. It was a mistake. You knew it to be. You wrapped yourself in a woollen blanket and stared at the small fire lit within the pavilion, counting the minutes before the inevitable came.

"There you are."

When Aerion parted the flaps of your tent, you only stared. He had not bothered to act discreetly; had waltzed in the front, uncaring of all who had no doubt seen him. He stood, unperturbed by your glare, and took a leisurely glance around the place.

"Dismal," he noted bluntly. His gaze returned to you, and an eyebrow rose, as if his being here was welcomed, as if he hadn't just maimed an innocent man. "What is it?"

"What did you think to gain?"

A tilt to the head, slow and reptilian. A pang of alarm crawled up the length of your spine, settling in the nape of your neck. "Come, now. Whatever do you mean?"

"You did it on purpose." He opened his mouth, but you did not allow him to speak — the words tumbled from you like water from a dam, heedless of all sense. In your mind, you saw the glint of his eyes; the point of his lance. "You chose to tilt against him."

He shrugged, lazy. "That is no proof of wrongdoing."

You clutched at your skirts so tightly your knuckles ached. "Do not dishonour us both with a lie — I saw murder in your eyes."

There was a scoff. Aerion stared at you, eyes narrowing. Displeased once more.

"Murder," he echoed. He stepped closer — took a slow, ambling path around the fire, brushing closer than was perhaps comfortable or necessary — until he stood before you. Your neck craned painfully backwards to hold his gaze. "That is a vile accusation, my lady. Treasonous, even."

Fear gripped you. In fact, it had since he had stepped foot in your pavilion — but fear had been a companion of yours for years, hadn't it, since the very first time Aerion Brightflame's treacherous eyes took note of you? You had learned to live with it. You had learned the patterns and shapes of him, the sharpness of his cruelty, the boundaries he constantly pushed and toed at. He would not harm you — had never harmed you, materially — and could not, now, in any case. How many had seen him enter? Should you appear bruised and bloody, there wouldn't be a soul around who doubted their source.

At this, you forced a good front.

"Do not take me for a fool," you uttered. "I... I know your cruelty. I should go to my lord father, and—"

In an instant, he bent — his face level with yours, so close his nose nudged yours, and his breath fanned hot against your face.

"And what shall you do?" he whispered harshly, grinning. "Hardyng is a cripple and a craven besides. Your lord father would not dishonour you with such a match."

"A cripple and a craven who bested you," you hissed, anger flaring, "and took your horse—!"

As quick as the cracking of a whip, Aerion seized your jaw in one hand, fingers pressed so firmly into you that your mouth was forced shut. Roughly he pulled you forward, and it was all you could do to let out a muffled gasp. Your heart thudded terribly in your chest — your hands scrabbled up to grasp his, as if to stop him from some unknown evil, but he did not move.

He only kept your gaze, unblinking. The plumpness of your cheeks pressed about his fingers. His lips were close enough to skim yours.

As if remembering the words that had left you, his mouth made an ugly shape. His grip tightened painfully for a moment, abating only when you whimpered.

"'Tis true," he mused. For a moment, he seemed far away; though his eyes remained on you, they did not see you. "The dragon ought never lose... but I have gained far more than I have lost."

A second passed. His grip loosed, but did not remove itself entirely; he stood again to his full height, and the breath returned to your chest.

"I imagine it was a fright," he said finally, an annoyed sigh filtering through his chest. You were dizzied, not for the first time, by the fickleness of his humour — his thumb stroked over your cheek now with an odd, uncharacteristic tenderness. "To see the horse fall. Women have no appetite for these things, and I will thus forgive your accusations. The dragon may be ferocious, but he is, at times, merciful..."

You could only stare, incredulous. Your jaw ached. Your heart was loud in your ears, and your hands trembling over his.

Aerion smiled. It appeared too kind for a man as cruel as he; no doubt he had practiced it, and it would absolve him of all wrongdoing as it always did. Hopelessness swept over you, and so engulfed with it you were, you hardly noticed him procure something from his pocket. Only when he lifted it to tuck it into his doublet, did your eyes flit to it.

It was your favour. Your favour, which you had given Ser Humfrey Hardyng, which had been looped beneath the vamplate of his lance. It was caked in mud and crusted red, but you knew it.

"My spoil of war," he said, following your eyes. That thumb continued its gentle caress of your cheek. "Take heart. There is no greater honour than this; to be coveted by the dragon is to be cherished by the gods. Is this not the dream of all ladies?"

Coveted. Yes, that was right. You were not a woman; you were a hoard of gold to be conquered, a crown jewel to be displayed. Prey that he had hunted and pounced upon and now kept to bat idly between his paws.

You would never escape him. You would never be without him.

Even as he released you, you despaired. Even as he retraced his steps around the fire, whistling a jaunty tune to himself, a melancholy like no other took hold of you. Self-preservation stilled your limbs and forced you to still, and your tongue almost stayed with it; but as he lifted the flap to your tent once more, the outline of him edged in firelight, your mouth could not help but move.

"My father is no fool," you said. "Nor is any lord here today. You crippled Ser Humfrey, and now you seek the hand of the woman he was meant to marry."

Aerion blinked.