My Life As Justine

But of course, House Lannister accepted the proposal gladly. Your father even went as far as breaking your previous betrothal to House Reyne. No matter how wretched Aerion was, he was still a prince of House Targaryen—blood of the dragon, and your house had never been one to shy away from greed.

And so when your new, blasted betrothed, with his silver hair and evil violet eyes, let out a derisive snort and told you right in your face that:

“The proud Lady Lannister has fallen to my feet at last… How sad.”

Gods knew you had never lacked for sharp words—but for once, nothing came, because this was exactly what your house had thrust you into.

And nor were you comforted when you would-be goodbrother, Daeron, came to you in his drunken stupor, saying:

“At this point, he’s a lost cause. I doubt marriage could fix him… but you could at least fuck him, yeah?”

Your life would be an utter disaster, you were sure of it. Why? Why must it be Aerion fucking Targaryen? You could understand politically beneficial marriage, but still, there were other Targaryen princes besides Aerion!

There were Daeron (though he might rope you into his drinking habit), Matarys (who might be too young for you), Aerys (who was said to have little interest in women, and way too old for you besides), and even Maekar?

No, no. The thought of being Aerion’s stepmother just filled you with more grief.

Valarr would be the perfect choice. The Young Prince was everything a bride could want in a husband… alas, his princess consort was already living that fairy tale with him.

As the only daughter of House Lannister, you were the perfect piece to be played in this game of thrones—such was your fate.

And whether you liked it or not... your wedding with your worst enemy was fast approaching.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger...”

Your wedding was a grand event in King’s Landing. Held in the Great Sept of Baelor, three days of feasts and a wedding tourney would follow—festivities befitting a royal union between a prince of the realm and a lady from a powerful house.

You stood at the altar, every inch the perfect bride. Beside you, Aerion was draped in Targaryen prince regalia, the very image of arrogance as he recited the vows—

“I’m hers… and she is mine.”

“I’m his… and he is mine.”

The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but when you glanced at him, you caught the triumphant glint in his violet eyes.

“From this day... to the end of my days...”

You almost looked away in disgust, but the weight of a hundred watching eyes held you in place.

The High Septon then bound your hands together, silk wrapped tight, sealing a union that neither of you had ever wanted— and after a very awkward kiss, you became the Aerion Brightfire’s wife, and he your husband.

A union of a dragon and a lion. To the realm, it was a pretty spectacle, but to you, it was a veiled disaster.

. . .

The wedding, by all appearances, had been a resounding triumph. The feasts had been lavish, the tourney lively, the realm thoroughly entertained.

However, the real trial began when doors to your marital chamber closed behind you with a thud, when both of you shed the amicable masks you had worn all day.

At least your new husband had the sense to refuse the bedding ceremony outright. For that alone, you might have been almost grateful.

“I suppose with this, you could consider this the height of your ambitions fulfilled,” Aerion drawled, both hands on his hips, his voice dripping with that same unbearable arrogance you had come to loathe.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “If this is the height, then I should like to return it.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation breaking through his cool. “How ungrateful. Most women would kill to stand where you are.”

“You flatter yourself. Most women would weep to be wed to you.”

“Careful, my lady wife. You shouldn’t offend me too deeply, or I will be inclined to have your tongue.”

“I should hope to offend you thoroughly then. Feel free to get my tongue out of me, if you could.”

That was how it had always been between you—venom clashing like blades. From childhood to now, nothing had changed.

“Gods, what a delightful marriage this will be!”

Aerion scoffed, throwing his hands up in exaggerated delight before turning away. He began shrugging off his coat, then bending to pull at his boots. Another silence fell—sharper this time, brittle at the edges.

Your gaze flicked, unwillingly, to the bed... and realizing that as a man and wife, you would be sharing a bed together. Something in you snapped at the very thought.

“Oh, bloody hell,” you cursed. “If you intend to share my bed, I suggest you don’t.”

He looked back at you, brow lifting slightly. “Your bed? This is Red Keep, you dullard.”

“I refuse to be anywhere near you!”

“As if I would want—”

“Then go and find one of your whores instead!”

Oh no, maybe you had gone to far, but all you could see before you was the little monster who had made your childhood a misery whenever you visited King’s Landing—one who stole your tarts, shoved you aside, and screamed at you without cause.

For a heartbeat, the air seemed to turn icy, something dark flickering in your new husband’s gaze, sharp enough that it nearly made you recoil.

“Just so you wait until we go back to Summerhall.” Aerion’s piercing violet bore through you. “You won’t be so eager to test me then.”

“I shall try regardless,” you replied, still lifting your chin in defiance.

He held your gaze a moment longer, something unreadable passing behind it—before turning on his heel.

“Enjoy your solitude, wench.”

And with that, he strode from the chamber, the door slamming shut behind him. At last you were alone, safe and free from him and the dreadful notion of the first night.

…then, suddenly, you burst into dry, crisp laughter. The sound escaping you as you sank into the chair before your vanity, your limbs heavy with the weight of it all.

There you had it... the first night of your marriage, and your husband really went to the whorehouse.

. . .

“Impudent little wretch…”

Aerion stalked down the corridor, the words slipping through clenched teeth. His temper burned hot, as though the very walls of the Red Keep offended him.

You. Gods, how he hated you. It was not merely the defiance—though that alone would have been enough. It was the way you met every barb he threw with one of your own since you were children of five. You did not shrink, did not simper, did not bend.

And worse, you had been radiant throughout the day, as much as it pained him to admit. The way your eyes widened just so, the softness of your lips, the slim of your waist—

Gods, what cruel jest was this, that his sworn enemy—now inconveniently, his wife—should be so offensively comely?

A bitter scoff left him.

“Impudent little wretch,” he spat, quieter this time, though the words held no less venom.

As astounding a fact as it was, Aerion was no habitual whoremonger nor witless adulterer. He didn’t even frequent the brothels that often!

Which only made this all the more infuriating… because now he found himself striding towards the Street of Silk, driven not by want, but by seething spite.

If that was what you thought of him, then so be it! He would give you a tale worth choking on—he would be tangled in silks and perfumed arms, and by the morning, you would be known as the wife spurned on her very first night.

His lips curled faintly at the thought, satisfaction flickering beneath his irritation.

Aerion slowed at the entrance of a particularly well-appointed establishment. Music drifted faintly from within, low laughter following after it. For a moment, he simply stood there.

Not out of hesitation, but because the absurdity of it all suddenly pressed sharply at his pride. He, a prince of the blood, reduced to staging a petty display all because his own wife had refused him on his wedding night!

Still, his hand lifted—

“Your Grace.”

The voice cut cleanly. Aerion’s expression darkened at once, already recognizing it. Sure enough, when he turned, two figures cloaked in pure white stood just behind him.

Ser Roland Crakehall and Ser Donnel of Duskendale. Of the Kingsguard.

“Explain yourselves,” Aerion demanded coldly, his gaze flicking between them.

Ser Roland inclined his head, far too calmly for his liking. “We are under orders, Your Grace.”

“From whom?”

“Prince Maekar,” Ser Donnel answered with a tone of finality. “To keep you… in order, my prince.”

For a heartbeat, Aerion simply stared at them, utterly incredulous. That his father had foreseen him marching to a brothel from his wedding feast, and thought it necessary to hatch a contingency plan— how and where did the old man get such a wisdom from?

He moved to brush past Ser Donnel, intent on entering the brothel regardless, but Ser Roland stepped neatly before him and blocked the entrance.

“You insolent—”

“Forgive me, my prince. Our duty is to Prince Maekar, and he has made it clear that you are not to incite any scandal on your wedding day.”

And so the night ended not in scandal, but with a very fuming prince walking back to Red Keep, under the watchful eye of the Kingsguard.

When the news reached you that your husband (of a day, mind you) was unceremoniously escorted back from Street of Silk, you burst not into polite titter or a restrained chuckle befitting a princess—

But a fit of hearty laughter that rang through your chamber.

Gods. The image of insufferable, pride-swollen Aerion halted by his own father’s guards was too priceless in your mind that you wished you had seen it firsthand. This marriage might prove to be entertaining after all!

While you were thoroughly amused, this matter proved rather less amusing for Prince Maekar and Aerion on the breakfast table.

“Father, I fail to see—”

“You fail to see quite a great many things, boy,” Prince Maekar spat, not even granting him the courtesy of finishing. You folded your hands on your lap, trying to be the very image of a docile wife, desperately trying not to break into a smile at Aerion’s peril.

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “I was merely—”

“—making a fucking fool of yourself,” Maekar hissed. “On the night of your wedding, no less.”

“It was not—!”

“Do not insult me with excuses.” His father’s voice dropped, colder now. “I know you, boy. I knew precisely where your temper would carry you, but you are not a strapping boy of seven— you are a prince of the realm!”

Aerion stiffened, pointing a hand at you, which made you look at him scandalously. “She—!”

“Enough!”

The single word struck like a lash that you flinched.

Maekar stepped closer, his gaze hard as iron. “You will not shame this house over wounded pride, Aerion. Not now. Not ever. You are wed. You will act like it.”

Aerion’s hands curled at his sides. “And if I will not—”

“You will,” Maekar said flatly, cutting him off once more. “Because I will not have whispers spreading that my son cannot even command his own household.”

Even your hands were getting clammy at your father-in-law's warning tone. Was this how Aerion was always disciplined? Now you were feeling a bit sorry for him.

Then, quieter, but no less final, Prince Maekar left him with:

“Play your part, Aerion. Or you are no son of mine.”

It was a bit strange to see how Aerion took everything in silence as his father strode away from the hall. That was quite harsh, but unlike the fiery man who you knew, he just sat there, jaw clenched tight.

A part of you felt guilty because in a way, you were the one who drove him out last night, and you were not interested in drawing your father-in-law’s ire anytime soon, so you cleared your throat, having arrived at a decision.

“For what it is worth—” you began, but before you could finish, his head snapped towards you at once, violet eyes narrowing spitefully.

“Spare me.”

You crossed your arms. “I have no desire to be dragged into your father’s displeasure, Aerion.”

His gaze lingered, studying your face. You met it, chin lifting just slightly.

“For the sake of our self-preservation… let’s call for a truce,” you continued, voice measured, “I will play my part. In public, at least.”

“Damn it, wench. Don’t pretend to be generous now,” Aerion snarled at you, spitting each word.

But for all his sharp words, there was something almost resembling an understanding between you for the first time since you swore your vows in the sept.

And so, albeit begrudgingly, both of you became the image of blissful newlyweds ever since.

You would walk beside Aerion with demure smile and composed grace, your hand resting lightly upon his arm. He, in turn, played the decent husband well enough—standing close, sometimes a hand on the small of your back, his expression schooled into calmness befitting a royal prince.

“I have heard the two of you were inseparable as children,” Myriah Martell, the Queen of Seven Kingdoms, said with a pleased smile when you were presented to her. “You suit each other beautifully.”

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” you replied, dipping your head with practiced elegance, your fingers tightening slightly against your husband’s sleeve.

Aerion’s lips curved—or more like, twitched—just enough. “We are… well matched.”

The queen seemed to take your responses as a good sign, because she smiled so widely at the two of you.

“Good, good... May the Seven bless you with many children, dears.”

You grimaced for the briefest moment. Aerion coughed.

Little did the court know of what had transpired in your marital chamber.

. . .

Asking a separate room would make servants talk, and it would reach Prince Maekar in due course. You couldn’t have that, so you came up with an idea and requested a dozen of pillows.

It took three maids to carry them all in. You scarcely spared them a glance, too occupied with your task as you arranged yet another cushion upon the bed with precision.

By the time you were finished, a veritable fortress stood—two layers of embroidered silk dividing the marital bed cleanly in two.

Aerion returned from his bath not long after, about to retire to bed… and he was rendered speechless by the sight before him. He kept staring at it, then at you, then back at the barricade.

“You cannot be serious—”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with sweet, dangerous calm. “Cross it, and I will make certain you regret it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“An inevitability.”

A long, charged silence stretched between you. Then, with a scoff, Aerion threw himself onto his side of the bed, turning his back to you with pointed disdain.

“Ridiculous woman.”

“Detestable man.”

And so that was how you slept ever since— back to back, divided by a fortress of pillows the two of you swore to never breach.

. . .

At banquets, however, the performance continued and not a soul in court the wiser.

“My lady,” Aerion grounded out through clenched teeth, extending his hand. “May I have this dance?”

You smiled, sweet as honey and false as it was flawless, placing your hand in his. “Of course, my lord husband.”

However, the moment you stepped onto the floor, both of you pressed your lips thin in unison. You were each a fair dancer—well-trained, as any highborn ought to be—and the steps of waltz were second nature. Yet, where other couples moved with effortless grace, you and Aerion were rigid, like two tin men forcing each step into place.

Aerion’s grip tightened ever so slightly at your waist. “Watch your step.”

“I always do,” you hissed. Then a thought, sharp and petty, slipped into your mind.

You drove your heel neatly onto his foot, and he sucked in a sharp breath in response.

“My apologies...” you said, all syrup and innocence, even as he shot you a scowl.

Moments later, his foot came down on yours—too deliberate to be an accident! You forced yourself to swallow the shriek in your throat, and glared up at him.

“A misstep,” he returned with a taunting smile. “My deepest apologies...”

To all, the newly married prince and lady shared a dance of perfect decorum. Only the two of you knew it for the battlefield it truly was.

Your lips were always soft. The curve of your cheek felt even softer beneath his palm, the quiet of your breath too... but it was the way you had looked at him that did it—not sharp, not cutting, but so unguarded and trusting.

Closing the distance, his hand caught your wrist, pulled you toward him with a force that startled even you. Your breath hitched, your body pressing against his as he leaned in—

And his lips crashed against yours.

Not gentle. That was never him. It was hot, fierce, claiming— like everything else about him. As though he meant to silence you, to steal the very breath from your lungs, to corrupt you—

. . .

. . .

. . .

And then, Aerion jerked awake.

His breath came sharp, his whole body tense as though he had truly been there—truly done that, and damnably, that one specific part of his groin felt hard. For a long moment, he simply stared into the dimness and the pillow wall next to him, disbelief settling over him, while hearing your soft snores.

“What the fuck?” he cursed under his breath.

A dream. Just a dream. But for the life of him, it had felt far too fucking real!

Your first official appearance as a royal couple came three moons after the wedding— a grand tourney at Storm’s End, held in celebration of Lord and Lady Baratheon’s tenth wedding anniversary.

By now, you had fully mastered the art of needling him. Aerion often had half a mind to slip sweetsleep into your tea, if only to spare himself your insufferable remarks—but, to his credit, his restraint had held… thus far.

He could not name precisely what it was about you that set him off. Perhaps it is your stupid hair, or your stupid eyes, or that stupid smile you so freely bestow upon squires, yet so rarely upon him. Sometimes, he just wanted to lock you away from prying eyes and silence that sharp tongue of yours himself... with his.

What...? The scenes from his dream last night filled his mind’s eye, and Aerion shook his head once sharply, as though he could rid himself of it.

The journey to Storm’s End from Summerhall was not long. You rode the carriage, while he remained outside upon his prized stallion. Through the veil of the window, he knew you could hear him swearing at his squire.

For this, there had been no question—Aerion would compete in the said tourney. He had always reveled in the bloodlust and the clash of steel, and took no small pride in winning, even if it meant employing tactics others might deem less than honorable.

When his ever-eager squire asked if he would ask for your favor and name you Queen of Love and Beauty should he win, he only scoffed, saying, “No need, and I would sooner put the crown on the elderly Lady Baratheon’s head myself.”

“H-huh? Not Lady Lannister…? Why—”

“No. And stop asking useless question, you witless fool.”

He did not know what he hoped—invoking some reaction, perhaps—but none came from the carriage. What, had he really thought you might rise to it and argue with him?

Aerion clicked his tongue, then drove his heel into his horse’s flank, urging it forward with a sharp kick.

. . .

By the time you arrived, Storm’s End was already alive with celebration. Many highborn lords and ladies gathered for this grand event, and you and Aerion slipped seamlessly into your harmonious facade until the first opportunity arose for you to part ways.

Conversing with ladies your age never held your interest, so you only spared them a few words before excusing yourself. Soon, you decided you had no appetite left for feasting or courtesy, and that the air outside would do you better.

Your husband was an imbecile. Of course you had heard the provoking remarks he’d made earlier, but you left him to his own devices. He was aggravating—so much so that, at times, you had the impulse to give him a good shake to rattle the madness out of him.

You exhaled, kicking the stones in your feet as if they drew your ire. Cool night air brushed against your cheeks and for a moment, you felt better.

“My, why is a fine lady such as yourself out here all alone?”

—so much so that you failed to notice the presence that had crept up behind you.

You went rigid at the sound, whirling around at once. And the instant you caught the sight of a crimson lion, dread coiled low in your stomach.

“Oh, what a surprise... if it isn’t the Lady Lannister.”

Your former betrothed, Rogar of House Reyne, stood before you, tall and imposing, a thin, venomous smile curling his lips.

There was no mistaking the resentment of a man once promised your hand, only to have it torn from him.

You straightened despite yourself, masking the unease clawing at your spine. “Lord Rogar.”

“Look at you now,” he drawled, the sharp stink of wine clinging to him. His gaze dragged over your black gown. “A princess of the dragon’s brood. Tell me, does your prince dote on you as sweetly as they claim?”

House Reyne was a proud and ancient line, long at odds with House Lannister in one way or another. Throughout history, there were many matches made to tie the two lion houses together, and you were considered for it... until your father broke it to bind you to Aerion.

You said nothing, clenching your skirts.

Rogar huffed a quiet laugh. “Ah, silent. How unlike you.” His head tilted, studying your face as though searching for something. “Do you remember, I wonder, how it was meant to be? You, at my side. Our houses bound, our banners flying as one.”

“My father never agreed to such a match,” you replied evenly.

“Strange. I seem to recall him swearing it so. Until a dragon came calling. Until your family decided a title was worth more than honor and handed you off to warm Aerion Brightflame’s bed like a common whore.”

You had always detested this man’s boundless greed. And now, you found one thought almost laughable—Aerion, for all his faults, was still far more tolerable.

Rogar Reyne’s lips twitched, though there was no warmth in it.

“Didn’t they say Lannisters always pay their debts? I’m afraid you owe me a great one, little princess.”

“And didn’t you hear that a Lannister lion does not concern itself with the opinions of sheep?” you returned coldly, lifting your chin. “Lord Rogar, I fear you are not even a sheep... but a roach.”

The crack of his hand against your face came so swift that you hadn’t even realized it. Pain burst across your cheek as you were sent sprawling to the ground, the world spinning for a heartbeat. You tasted blood.

“You bitch,” he spat. “You and your house dare to dishonor mine!”

It was the first time in your life a man had ever struck you. In that instant, your survival instincts took over—driving you to your feet and run.

Your breath came sharp and ragged as you fled through the darkened paths, your skirts gathered in your fists. Behind you, the heavy thud of his boots struck against stone, far too close.

“Stop running, you bitch!”

Something snagged at your leg—thorn or splinter, you didn’t know. The fabric of your dress tore, and pain flared hot along your calf, but you did not stop.

You caught sight of a narrow passage leading to an old door half-hidden in the stables. You lunged for it, fingers fumbling against the handle before wrenching it open and slipping inside. The moment you crossed the threshold, you shoved the door shut with all your strength and slammed the lock into place.

You staggered back a step, pressing a trembling hand to your mouth as you tried to steady yourself. Your cheek still burned, your pulse still raced—but you were safe. For now. Then—

A violent rattling at the door.

You flinched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as the handle jerked sharply, once, twice—then again, harder, as if someone meant to break it down.

“Go away, you bastard!” you screamed, holding the wooden door with your bare hands.

“Open the door!”

“I said go bloody hell—!”

“It’s me!”

You froze. For a moment, you could only stare at the door, your hands trembling where they pressed against it. Then, with a shaking breath, you lifted the latch.

And found your silver-haired husband standing outside.

A vexation wrapped in the flawless guise of a lady. Too sharp, too free, and far too composed for his liking. At times, you tried his patience so thoroughly Aerion thought he might truly strangle the fuck out of you.

And yet... here he was, breathless before you now, having chased you through the night like some fool led more by instinct than reason.

Aerion had not meant to follow you, but when he saw his wife fleeing into the night as though someone was hunting her, how could he leave her to it?

“What happened to you?” Aerion demanded, his violet irises blazing, taking in the sight.

You stood before him trembling from head to toe, your eyes wide with something dangerously close to terror. There was a smear of blood at the corner of your lips, and—

Aerion’s hand came up, firm as he caught your chin and tilted your face toward the dim light. The swelling along your cheek was already rising beneath his touch.

Someone has laid a hand on his wife.

“Whose bastard did this to you?”

“Aerion, it’s not—”

“Who?”

You did hesitate, but in the end, you told him of Rogar Reyne, the broken betrothal, and the wroth he had turned upon you.

By the time you finished, Aerion had gone very still. His expression darkened, something cold and vicious settling over his features—so much so that even you nearly recoiled from it.

“I will have his head!” he snarled then with righteous fury, to your shock. “This is high treason. I will demand a trial—!”

“No!” You clutched his arm, horrified. “Don’t!”

Trial by combat—or any form of trials, really—would spell disaster for the royal family and others alike. You wouldn’t let him, and he glared at you, anger still burning hot in his eyes.

“If you must answer this, then do it in the tourney,” you insisted, holding his fiery gaze. “Redeem my honor on the morrow. Slay him if you must, but do it in the melee.”

Still holding his arm, silence stretched between you. You found yourself looking at him—truly looking—as if you just saw him for the first time.

Aerion was ready to demand blood and call for judgment to see your attacker punished. His jawline was sharp, clenched as his beautiful violet eyes gazed at you in return, internally deciding what the best course of action was.

In the end, he listened to you somehow... but that was also when his gaze dropped. There, beneath the torn edge of your dress, blood had begun to seep down your calf.

“Seven hells.” The fury did not leave him, and now shifting to your sorry state. “You are fucking bleeding.”

“It’s nothing—” you dismissed it, but he ignored you entirely. Instead, Aerion forcefully led you down to sit on the wooden planks before he crouched before you, his hands lifted the torn fabric to see the wound.

With a sharp motion, to your shock (again), he tore a strip from the edge of his own doublet.

“What are you—”

“Hold still, wench. I’m trying to stop it.”

He bound the cloth firmly around your calf, his fingers deft despite the dim light, tightening it to staunch the bleeding.

You watched him, something unfamiliar fluttering in your chest. Throughout all the years you had known Aerion, tenderness had never been something you would attribute to him. But now, not only was he furious for your sake, he tended to you with such focus you would never have expected from a man so proud.

“…Where did you learn to do that?” you asked quietly.

Aerion huffed under his breath, not looking up as he secured the knot. “Daeron used to patch me up whenever I took a fall.” A pause followed. “It will have to do for now. Can you walk?”

You shifted, testing your weight. The sting along your calf answered for you as you grimaced. “…Not well.”

He let out of a long exhale, as if exasperated, and you thought you would force yourself to walk regardless rather than risking his ire, but—

Before you could protest, Aerion bent and swept you up into his arms.

A startled breath left you, your hands instinctively clutching at his neck. “Aerion—!”

“Spare me,” he hissed, already striding towards the way back. “You are not limping back to the castle.”

Your heart hammered traitorously against your ribs. It was ridiculous—utterly ridiculous!

His arm was firm at your back, the other braced beneath your knees, and you could feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the strength he exuded in every step as though carrying you was the most natural thing in the world.

He did not set you down once—not even when the hall fell into a hush, nor when lords and ladies turned to stare, their gasps rippling softly in your wake.

A maester was summoned to tend to you the moment you returned. He worked in silence, cleaning and binding the cut in your calf far more thoroughly than Aerion’s efforts. By the time he finished, you were left sitting at the edge of the bed, exhaustion beginning to weigh on you.

You shared a chamber. That much could not be helped. And this was Storm’s End, where you couldn’t ask the maids for a heap of pillows, but the biggest concern was—

“It is a small bed,” you noted, casting him a sidelong glance.

Aerion gave a low snort, his gaze flicking to you. “You’ll survive.”

When you both finally lay down, it became more undeniable. There was scarcely any space between you. Your shoulder brushed his with the slightest movement, your legs threatening to tangle should either of you shift.

How were you supposed to rest like this...?

You let out a quiet breath, trying to lift the air. “If you so much as crush me in your sleep, I will see it counted as an assassination attempt.”

Aerion scowled beside you. “I would sooner have Rogar Reyne’s head before strangling my own wife in her sleep.”

“Must you sound so eager about it?”

“He dared to lay a hand on what is mine.” His voice sharpened, edged with a snarl. “If I had my way, his corpse would be hanging naked in the streets of King’s Landing. As it stands—he’ll beg for death before I’m through with him.”

His. You ignored the way your heart skipped a beat, and studied him in the dim light. “Why are you so upset about it, anyway?”

Aerion turned his head, fixing you with a look as though you had spoken pure nonsense. Why? Why indeed? Why had this searing anger taken hold of him the moment he realized some wretched cur had cornered you?

His indifferent, infuriating wife you might be, but still his all the same. That was enough reason.

“You are an enduring mystery,” you grumbled, saying this because you wasn’t aware of any of his thoughts, of course. “You told everyone and your squire you didn’t want my favor and all—”

The Bright Prince barked a quiet laugh. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

“How—!”

“Because,” he snapped, “if I asked, you’d spend the night sewing like some overzealous seamstress just to meet the morning. Everyone knows your ribbons are the finest favor amongst the ladies.”

Your handmade favors had always been nothing more than a quiet pastime of yours. And yet, somehow, they had gained a reputation of their own because word got out that you always put so much care in the stitching.

“With your favor or not, I’ll beat the shit out of Reyne.” He shifted, settling in to his side and pressing his eyes shut. “Now stop prattling and go to sleep, wife. You ought to watch me on the morrow.”

You lay there for a moment, thoughts drifting. Aerion Brightflame who had become your husband— who made your life unbearable at times, and yet this same man whose touch had been careful, whose fury had flared at the sight of your injury, and who now swore vengeance upon who wronged you. You couldn’t fool yourself into feeling that you were not flattered in some strange, twisted way.

“Thank you,” you murmured almost shyly.

Aerion’s back remained to you, unmoving. Whether he had heard, you could not tell.

. . .

Aerion lay still, listening as your breathing gradually evened, growing slow and steady. When he finally turned his head, you were already asleep.

In sleep, you looked… different. All this time, that stupid pillow blockade had obstructed his view that it was the first time he saw you like this. The edge in your expression gone, your features eased into softness. Your lips were slightly chapped, and yet so bloody tempting to him he didn’t know why.

He still remembered the little lady with wide, doe-like eyes, clad in Lannister golden dress for her visits to the Red Keep. He remembered the way your face had pinched in irritation when he’d stolen your lemon tarts, clutching the empty plate as though it were a grave offense.

It had amused him then. It still did.

And no insolent fool dared to hurt you would be left alive.

Come the morrow, he would destroy the rat. But now, as he stared at you, his enemy-wife—

Aerion decided he would ride into the melee, crush every last opponent, and place the victor’s laurel in your hands after all.

The stands of Storm’s End were alive with color and noise, the roar of the crowd rolling like thunder beneath the gray skies as each knight lined in the arena.

Unlike most ladies, you did not shrink from bloodshed. You had always enjoyed tourneys—had cheered your brothers rather than fearing for them—and even now, with your husband among those in the field, you only felt a sense of calmness.

Or perhaps… you were simply distracted.

Your mind drifted back to this morning, and a flush of warmth rose to your cheeks.

Aerion’s face had been too close to yours when you woke, his arm draped loosely around your waist. His harsh features were nonexistent in sleep, and his expression almost… peaceful. With that silver-gold hair, he had looked less like terror and more like, you daresay, your protector.

“Good day, my lady.”

You blinked, dragging yourself back to the present as someone took the seat beside you. Prince Valarr’s smile was gentle, his mismatched gaze clear as he inclined his head in greeting.

“Your Grace,” you returned, offering a small smile.

He settled beside you, watching the field below. For a moment, the two of you simply observed the gathering knights.

“You are not competing today?” you asked, glancing at him.

“My lady wife is not fond of me in tourneys,” he replied, a note of fondness in his voice. “And she prefers the quiet of the castle with our son. I would have joined her, but I must stand in place of my father, you see.”

The tale of how besotted the Heir of Dragonstone was with his princess had all the makings of a storybook romance. At times, you found yourself envying them.

“Ah, and how does fatherhood treat you, Your Grace?”

His eyes softened then. “Better than any victory in the lists, I assure you.”

You smiled faintly at that, before your attention drifted once more to the field. It was a melee today—no tilting and just pure strength, steel and survival.

And there, striding into the fray in black and red armor, was Aerion of House Targaryen, the second son of the Prince of Summerhall, as the herald proclaimed.

With the shape of his helmet and spikes of his armor, he cut a menacing figure among the rest. Even at a distance, there was something in the way he held himself—like a blade drawn and waiting.

Valarr followed your gaze. “Are you excited, my lady? My cousin is a fine knight. I would not be surprised to see him emerge champion.”

Truthfully? Yes. You parted your lips to answer but the sharp blare of a trumpet split the air, signaling that the melee had begun.

Your husband drove his destrier forward with ruthless precision, scattering men before him. Steel rang, bodies fell, and in the chaos—he thrived. With that morningstar in hand, he was a force to be reckoned with.

At one point, he forced Lord Tully to the ground, looming over him like something out of a nightmare.

“Tell the Reyne bastard that Aerion Brightflame is after his head!”

Valarr’s lips twitched beside you. “Ah… so someone has offended him yet again. Poor him.”

You remembered an anecdote you had once heard, glancing at him. “I was told Aerion once asked for Her Grace’s favor, and you beat the shit out of him for it... is that true?”

From the meaningful smile he had on his face, it was clear there was more into the tale, but whatever it was, Valarr chose not to disclose it.

“To be honest, I have the Seven to thank for that. But fret not, my lady. Aerion will not lose this time.”

“And why are you so certain?”

The Young Prince’s gaze flicked to you, something knowing in his expression.

“Would you not be the one who knows best? He is the dragon. He ought never lose.”

If Valarr mirrored Prince Baelor’s impeccable duty and honor, then Aerion was the living image of Prince Maekar’s finest lance and fury—though sharper, fiercer, and far more unforgiving than his sire had ever been. His height might prove to be a challenge, but he more than compensated it with aggressive stances and lightning-fast strikes.

Below, as if to prove the point, the Bright Prince cut through another opponent with brutal efficiency, swinging his deadly mace mercilessly.

Soon enough, he cleared out all the combatants and found his target: Rogar Reyne.

Your former betrothed had barely time to react before Aerion’s destrier crashing forward with terrifying force. The swing of his morningstar came swift and brutal—striking so hard that sent Rogar flying from his saddle and into the dirt below.

The crowd roared, and Aerion did not stop. He had only just begun.

He dismounted in a breath, advancing like a man possessed. Lord Reyne scrambled to defend himself—but the Brightflame fought with something far worse than skill. Entitled fury.

The morningstar came down again and again, each blow denting armor, drawing blood. And when Rogar Reyne’s guard finally broke—

Aerion pulled out his sword. He drove the man back, slashing without mercy, carving through what little defense remained. Blood spilled freely, staining the ground, staining his hands— each strike was meant to answer for the wrong he did to you.

A gasp rippled through the stands. You also felt the shock and horror, but beyond that—

The sight of your husband, stained with blood of his own doing, and knowing that he did it because of you… it was not as repulsive as it ought to have been.

If anything, it felt gratifying.

Rogar was barely conscious when Aerion seized him by the collar, dragging him across the dirt like a carcass. The field fell into a stunned hush as he hauled him before the stands and forced him to his knees.

Your husband loomed over him, tearing off his skull-like helmet—his face unmarred by blood, yet no less fearsome. His presence overwhelming as his voice rang out across the arena:

“This cunt right here dared to dishonor my wife.”

A murmur swept through the crowd. You could feel the weight of eyes turning towards you but the crowd’s attention quickly snapped back to the broken man at Aerion’s feet.

“And now let it be known—”

His violet gaze burns anyone he laid eyes on—until it found yours. For a fleeting moment, you thought the corners of his lips curled ever so slightly.

“—any lowlife who dares the same will answer to me.”

With a single, vicious kick to his face, Aerion sent him sprawling into the dirt once more. The stands erupted at once, their roars rising for the champion they had found.

That day, Aerion Brightflame stood victorious… having claimed justice in the name of his wife.

Lord Corlys Velaryon once said that history remembers names. The fools of the Red Keep and Casterly Rock might argue over how it was that you and Aerion came to despise one another—but on this, both they and realm would agree:

When the Bright Prince dethroned Lady Baratheon to name you the queen of beauty in the grandest tourney in its time—

At first, the court had been overwhelming.

Too many people, too many rules, too many eyes watching to see if you would stumble.

But you did not. You learned. You sat in lessons with princes and princesses, your back straight, your voice steady even when you stumbled over the words. You learned how to move through halls without drawing attention, how to speak just enough and no more, how to listen.

Somewhere along the way, you found him.

Valarr. He had been just a boy with careful manners and a softness that the others did not always notice. He had been kind to you when others were merely polite. He had shared books with you, helped you through lessons, laughed quietly at things no one else seemed to find amusing.

You became inseparable without meaning to.

When his mother died, you were there.

You remembered that night. He had sat too still, hands clenched in his lap, as if grief might shatter him if he moved too suddenly.

You had not known what to say. You barely remembered your parents. His grief was different. So you had simply sat beside him. Close enough that your shoulders touched.

He had leaned in to you, and so you had stayed.

When he grew older and was expected to speak before the court, it was you he came to. Nervous, though he tried to hide it.

“I’ll forget,” he had muttered, pacing before you. “I know I will.”

“You won’t,” you had said, seated with your hands folded neatly, though your heart had been strangely tight in your chest. “And if you do, no one will dare laugh.”

He had huffed a soft, disbelieving breath. “They will.”

“Then they’ll answer to me,” you had replied, and something in your voice had made him stop.

He had looked at you then, not as one looks at a friend, but something searching. Something warmer.

He had smiled.

He had rehearsed the speech in front of you until his voice stopped trembling.

You had clapped for him when he finished, grinning despite yourself.

When he had his hair cut short for the first time, he sought you first immediately, asking if you thought it suited him well.

So after a few years of residing in the Red Keep, you had fallen in love with him. It had been gradual. Certain. Inevitable. Like realizing the tide had come in only when you were already standing in water. How could you not fall in love with Valarr?

You had thought, foolishly, perhaps, that he might feel the same.

Or that even if he did not, your bond would be enough. That the closeness you shared would naturally lead to something more. That when the time came for him to wed, he would look at you and think...Her. Of course her.

You had not entertained other offers. Not seriously. Not truly.

Why would you, when your heart had already chosen?

The news came to you from court whispers, not even from Valarr's own mouth.

A merchant’s daughter from Tyrosh.

You remembered the way your stomach had dropped, though you had kept your face perfectly composed.

You had gone to him, trying to not let what you felt show on your face.

“Is this what you want?” you had asked.

He had looked at you, surprised. Then shrugged.

“I don’t mind.”

You had waited for more. For something. A hesitation. A confession. A flicker of regret.

There had been nothing.

Not even the consideration of you. Not even the thought.

And in that moment, something in your chest had cracked, fractured and ugly and devastating.

You, who had not even looked at another man.

You, who had shaped your future around him without ever saying it aloud.

You had not even crossed his mind.

You decided to leave.

You did not belong here if you could be so easily overlooked.

If all your careful learning, your presence, your loyalty meant nothing in the end.

But you had made a promise. And Baratheons did not break their promises. Maekar Targaryen was coming to court with his children, and you had sworn to his daughters, Daella and Rhae, that you would spend time with them when they arrived, given you had not seen each other in so long.

So you stayed. Just a little longer.

They were a welcome distraction.

Daella was bright and warm, quick to laugh and quicker to pull you into mischief. Rhae was something else entirely: intense, forever hunched over some scroll or mixture, convinced she possessed the makings of a great Valyrian sorceress.

Most of her potions smelled terrible. None of them had ever worked.

One evening, you found yourselves tucked away in a smaller chamber, far from the prying eyes of the court.

Wine flowed freely. Too freely.

Daella leaned against you, laughing, her cheeks flushed. You felt warm, pleasantly untethered, the tightness in your chest dulled by drink.

Rhae sat nearby, entirely sober, muttering to herself as she carefully stirred something in a small vial.

“I swear,” you said, your words loosening before you could stop them, “it is an insult.”

Daella turned toward you, blinking. “What is?”

You laughed, though it came out sharper than you intended. “That he did not even think of me.”

The words spilled out after that, messy and unrestrained.

“I have been there for him for years, Daella. Years. And he chooses...what? Some merchant’s daughter from across the sea? Not even a noble house here, not even...” You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together before continuing, quieter but no less bitter. “Am I so little in his eyes?”

Daella’s expression softened, but before she could speak, you pressed on.

“I wanted to be a princess,” you admitted, the words heavy with something raw and proud and wounded all at once. “I am a Baratheon. I am not meant to be overlooked. I will not be some…forgotten lady, passed over like I was never even a possibility.”

Rhae’s head snapped up.

Her eyes gleamed.

“I have something to remedy your anguish,” she said.

You and Daella both turned to her.

“The potion,” she continued, holding up the vial triumphantically. “I made it for Egg. So he would fall in love with me.”

Daella snorted.

You laughed outright.

But Rhae only frowned, stubborn.

“It works,” she insisted. “I know it does.”

“You say that every time,” Daella said, waving her hand dismissively.

Rhae ignored her, her gaze fixed on you.

“I will give it to you,” she said. “For Valarr.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “No. No, that is not necessary...”

“It will make him love you,” Rhae said simply.

The wine dulled your better judgment.

The hurt in your chest sharpened something reckless.

Daella rolled her eyes. “Fine. Fine. Let’s do it. For the story, if nothing else.”

You should have refused.

You found Valarr in his chambers, already half in disarray.

Daeron was drunk out of his mind, slumped in his chair as Matarys tried, with questionable success, to tie his hand to the table leg.

“Stay,” Matarys muttered, as if Daeron were a particularly unruly animal.

Valarr stood beside, looking faintly amused, though he made a half-hearted attempt to intervene.

“Perhaps you should let him go...”

Rhae moved silently, unnoticed. You barely paid attention as she poured the contents of her vial into a goblet of wine.

She handed it to you.

Your heart beat a little faster as you approached Valarr.

“Here,” you said, as casually as you could manage, offering it to him.

And in the very next moment, everything went horribly wrong. It happened so quickly that you struggled to recall it afterwards.

A hand. Sudden, uninvited, pinching your hip hard enough to startle, to make you jolt.

You turned sharply, heat flaring in your cheeks.

Aerion. Who else would've done such a thing.

He had always unsettled you. From the moment he arrived, the way he had looked at you: openly, boldly, his tongue dragging slowly across his lip in a gesture so obscene it had made your stomach twist.

Now he stood far too close, smirking.

“Tavern girls serve better,” he said lightly, though his eyes lingered on you in a way that made your skin crawl.

Before you could react, before you could even gather your thoughts, he snatched the goblet from your hand.

“Waste not,” he added.

And drank it.

All of it. In one swallow.

You stared. Rhae made a small, horrified sound behind you.

Aerion did not notice.

He grabbed Daeron by the arm, hauling him up with ease.

“Come,” he said sharply. “You’ve embarrassed yourself enough.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The goblet gone with him.

The potion gone with him, now in his stomach.

You stood there, stunned. Then you laughed. Because what else could you do?

“It would not have worked anyway,” you said, dismissing it, even as Rhae looked like she might faint.

Daella laughed with you.

The matter, you thought, ended there.

You woke late the next morn, your head pounding, your mouth dry.

You missed breaking fast. Your handmaidens had long since learned to not wake you the morn after you had drunk the previous night unless the King himself would be present at the table. You would have slept longer, if not for the sudden, frantic burst of noise as your chamber door flew open.

Daella rushed in first, breathless. Rhae followed, nearly bouncing with barely contained excitement.

“You will not believe...” Daella began.

“Aerion...” Rhae interrupted.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your temple. “If this is about last night....”

“He is in love with you,” Rhae exclaimed.

You froze. “…what?”

“He has been asking for you all morning,” Daella added, eyes wide with disbelief. “Praising you. Your beauty, your wit...everything.”

“And then,” Rhae said, almost vibrating, “he told his father.”

Your stomach dropped. “What did he tell him?”

“That he wants to marry you.”

Your ears rang.

Daella and Rhae continued talking over each other, though you could barely register the following words.

Maekar had agreed. A raven had already been sent. Your uncle would be receiving the offer.

The room seemed to tilt.

“This is not...” you began, shaking your head. “This is not real.”

“It is!” Rhae insisted. “My potion worked!”

“Do not say that again,” Daella snapped, grabbing her arm. “To anyone.”

Your head swam.

Marriage. To Aerion. The very thought made your insides chill with dread.

A knock sounded at the door.

Before you could respond, it opened.

Valarr stepped inside. He looked unsettled, confused, almost hurt.

That made your blood boil. He had the audacity to look like he'd been betrayed and left in the dark when he had done the exact same thing with a mere shrug.

“Is it true?” Valarr asked.

You met his gaze. And for the first time, you did not soften for him.

“Is what true?”

“That you are to marry Aerion.”

There was something in his voice. Something you had once longed for.

Too late.

You straightened, lifting your chin. “Yes.”

A flicker of something crossed his face.

You held his gaze. Let him feel it. Just a fraction of what you had.

“Yes, I am,” you repeated.

a/n: Okay, I know there hasn't been much of Aerion here but there will be in chapter 2!

part 2: see here

a/n: My inbox and messages are open for commissions. You can also donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

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Summerhall burned without her.

Not with dragonflame, not with the great conflagrations his ancestors had commanded, but with a dull, suffocating emptiness that crept into every corridor, every chamber, every breath Aerion Targaryen took. The hearths were lit, the servants moved in their endless silent procession, his brothers' voices echoed somewhere in the courtyard and yet the world had lost all color. The very stones of the castle seemed to sigh, as though they too mourned the absence of their lady.

She had been gone three days.

Three days since Y/N had ridden for King's Landing with her escort, off to visit her family, off to leave him behind in this grey mockery of a palace. Three days since the sun had last shone, or so it felt. Three days since Aerion had last tasted peace, last drawn a full breath, last felt his heart beat with anything other than the dull, persistent ache of longing.

He stood at the window of their chambers, his chambers now, though he refused to think of them that way, staring out at the rolling hills of the Reach with an expression of such profound tragedy that any who saw it might have thought the realm had fallen. His doublet was carelessly fastened, half untied at the collar, as though he could not summon the will to dress himself properly. A goblet of wine sat untouched on the table beside him, which was perhaps the most alarming sign of all, for Aerion Brightflame had never been known to refuse wine.

His boots were still unlaced. His rings, the gold and onyx band she had given him on their wedding night, the small ruby she had pressed into his palm with a smirk and a command to wear it always so everyone knows you belong to me, sat in a small dish by the bed. He could not bear to put them on. Could not bear to look at them without her there to see them on his fingers.

He had not slept. Not truly. He would lie in their bed, in the hollow where her body should have been, and press his face into her pillow, breathing in the fading scent of her, something floral, something sharp, something that was simply her. He had forbidden the servants from changing the linens. When the maid had come that morning with fresh sheets, he had snarled at her so fiercely that she had dropped the bundle and fled, and Aerion had spent the next hour smoothing out the rumpled side of the bed where Y/N had last slept, arranging the pillows exactly as she liked them, preserving the shrine of her absence.

He was being dramatic. He knew this. He did not care.

"My prince," came a hesitant voice from the doorway. A serving girl, young and pale with fear, her hands clasped so tightly before her that her knuckles had gone white. "Your father requests your presence at the midday meal."

Aerion did not turn. His voice, when it came, was distant, thrumming with barely suppressed anguish. "Tell him I am indisposed."

"My prince, he was most insistent—"

"Tell him," Aerion's head snapped toward her, violet eyes blazing with such sudden ferocity that the girl took a stumbling step backward, "that my wife—my heart—has been torn from my breast and carted off to that stinking city, and I will not sit at a table pretending to enjoy the company of men who still have their wives beside them while mine languishes in absence. Tell him that I am in mourning. Tell him that the light has gone out of Summerhall. Tell him—" His voice cracked, and for a moment he looked less like a dragon prince and more like a man utterly undone. "Tell him that I cannot."

The girl fled. He heard her footsteps echoing down the corridor, a panicked staccato, and he almost felt a flicker of satisfaction. Let them all know. Let them all see what her absence had done to him.

He turned back to the window, pressing his palm flat against the glass. His breath fogged the pane, and for a moment he fancied he could trace her name in the condensation. Y/N. He traced it once, twice, a third time, watching the letters blur and fade, and something in his chest constricted so painfully that he had to brace himself against the window frame.

Gods, but he missed her.

He missed the sound of her voice, sharp and commanding, telling him his hair was a mess and to sit still while she fixed it. He missed the way she would sprawl across their bed as though she owned it, as though she owned him, with that imperious tilt to her chin and her feet bare and her hair spilling everywhere. He missed the fire in her eyes when she was displeased, which was often, and the way she would make him work for her smile, which was everything. He missed the weight of her hand on his arm when they walked together, the possessive curl of her fingers.

He missed her in the morning, when he woke and reached for her and found only cold sheets. He missed her at night, when the candles burned low and the quiet of their chambers became unbearable. He missed her at meals, when he looked to the seat beside him and saw it empty, and his stomach turned at the sight of food he could not share with her. He missed her in the training yard, where he had no one to impress with his prowess, no one to roll her eyes at his boasting and call him a preening fool in that tone that meant she loved him. He missed her in his blood, in his bones, in the very marrow of him.

She was perfection. She was the sun around which his entire wretched existence orbited.

When she walked, flowers bloomed. He had seen it himself, well, perhaps not seen, but he knew. The grass grew greener in her footsteps, the air itself became sweeter, the very sky seemed to brighten. Birds sang when she passed. The clouds parted. The Seven themselves must have looked down upon her and marveled at their creation. She was a vision of grace and gentleness, his lady wife, his dragonness, his beautiful, beautiful—

"Brother."

Aemon's voice cut through his reverie like a blade. Aerion did not bother to hide his scowl as the younger prince entered the chamber without knocking, as was his irritating habit. Aemon was ten, small and serious, and he looked at Aerion with the particular expression of a child who had long since grown accustomed to his elder brother's eccentricities.

"What," Aerion said flatly. He did not move from the window.

Aemon leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms in a gesture that was far too old for his years. "The servants are saying you've refused to eat for two days."

"I am not hungry."

"You're always hungry. I've seen you eat an entire pheasant by yourself."

Aerion turned, finally, and the full force of his tragic countenance fell upon his little brother. His eyes were red rimmed, his pale skin even paler than usual, his jaw shadowed with the barest hint of stubble he had not bothered to shave away. "My appetite has departed with my wife. How can I be expected to eat when she is not here to grace the table with her presence? When I must look upon your face instead of hers? When every bite I take is ash in my mouth because she is not beside me to share it?"

Aemon's expression did not change. "She's been gone three days."

"Three centuries." Aerion pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in a gesture that would have been comical if he were not entirely sincere. "Three eternities. I have aged a thousand years in her absence. Look at me, Aemon. Look at what has become of me."

He did look. Aerion was, objectively, still the same sharp featured, silver haired prince he had always been, perhaps slightly more disheveled than usual but otherwise unchanged. Aemon seemed to reach this conclusion as well, because his eyebrow arched with the precision of a courtier twice his age.

"You look the same."

"I am wasted," Aerion insisted. "I am a hollow shell. A ghost haunting these halls. Without her, I am nothing. Less than nothing. I am—" He paused, searching for a word sufficiently dramatic. "—diminished."

Aemon sighed. It was a heavy sound for such a small boy. "Father is concerned."

"Father can concern himself with his own marriage." Aerion finally moved from the window, but only to throw himself into a chair with all the despair of a tragedy hero in his final act. He let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling, one arm draped across his eyes. "You do not understand. None of you understand. You have never loved."

"I'm ten."

"Age is no barrier to understanding true love. I knew I loved Y/N from the moment she threw a candlestick at my head during our first meeting. It was a magnificent throw. She has such strength in her wrist, such precision, such—" He let out a shuddering breath. "Such perfection."

Aemon, who had been present for that first meeting and had witnessed Y/N hurl a candlestick at Aerion's head because he had made some comment about her family that was, in retrospect, deeply offensive, said nothing.

"Do you know what she said to me, the night before she left?" Aerion asked, his voice going soft and distant. He did not wait for an answer. "She said, 'Don't be a fool while I'm gone.' And I said, 'I am always a fool for you, my love.' And she—" His voice cracked. "She laughed. She laughed, Aemon. The most beautiful sound in all the Seven Kingdoms. And then she kissed me, here—" He touched his lips "—and she said, 'I know.'"

He was quiet for a moment, lost in the memory. Then he surged up from the chair, suddenly animated, pacing the chamber with wild, restless energy.

"Her hair," he said, "do you remember her hair? The way it catches the light? and when the sun hits it just so, it glows, Aemon. It glows like embers. And her eyes—gods, her eyes—they are like nothing else in this world, and when she is angry they darken, and when she laughs they lighten, and when she looks at me—"

"She usually looks at you like you're about to do something stupid," Aemon observed.

"With love," Aerion corrected fiercely. "She looks at me with love. The love of a woman who has chosen me, who has bound herself to me, who has—" He stopped mid pace, a thought striking him with such force that he went pale. "What if she decides to stay longer? What if her family convinces her that King's Landing is more pleasant than Summerhall? What if she—what if she forgets me?"

"That seems unlikely."

"You don't know! You don't know the power of her family's influence. Her mother, that woman—she never approved of me. She said I was—" He lowered his voice to a pompous imitation. "—'volatile and overly dramatic.' As though those are insults."

"They might be."

"They are virtues," Aerion declared. "I am a Targaryen. Volatility is in my blood. And yet her mother looks at me as though I am a stain upon her daughter's gown. What if she spends this fortnight whispering in Y/N's ear? What if she convinces her to—to—"

He could not say it. Could not even form the word leave.

He sank back into the chair, all the manic energy draining out of him. His hands gripped the armrests so tightly his knuckles went white. "If she does not return to me, I shall burn something. I don't know what. Something important. Something that will make them all regret taking her from me."

"She's visiting her family, Aerion. No one took her."

"They took her from me." His voice cracked again, raw and honest in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see. "They took her from me and I am here alone, in this cold place, without her warmth. Do you know what it is to share a bed with someone for a year and then have it empty? Do you know what it is to reach for someone in the night and find only a pillow? Do you know—"

He stopped. Swallowed. Looked away.

Aemon, to his credit, did not mock him. The little boy crossed the room and stood beside his brother's chair, and after a moment, he placed a small hand on Aerion's arm.

"She'll come back," Aemon said quietly. "She likes Summerhall better than King's Landing. She told me so. She said—" He paused, clearly debating whether to share what he had been told. Then: "She said the food is better here and her mother gives her headaches."

"She said that?"

"She said the roast lamb here is better than anything in the Red Keep. She said—" Aemon's voice dropped to a whisper. "—she said she married you for your family's kitchens."

"She did not."

"She did. I was there." Aemon's expression was solemn. "She said it to Mother when she thought you couldn't hear. She said, 'At least the food is good, even if my husband is a madman.'"

Aerion pressed a hand to his chest, overcome. "She adores me."

"She said you were a madman."

"A term of endearment." He was smiling now, a real smile, the first in three days. "She calls me a madman because she finds my passion invigorating. She finds my intensity—my focus—she finds it romantic. I know she does. She told me once that I loved her more fiercely than any man had ever loved anything, and that she—that she—" His voice caught. "She said she would not have it any other way."

He looked toward the window again, but this time his expression was softer, almost hopeful. "Do you think she misses me?"

Aemon considered the question with the gravity of a maester pondering a philosophical treatise. Finally, he said: "She said you were annoying before you left. But she also packed your favorite doublet. The blue one. She told the maid to make sure it was clean for you while she was gone."

Aerion closed his eyes, overwhelmed. "She does miss me."

"Maybe."

"She does. She packed my doublet. She thinks of me, even when she is away. She carries me in her heart, as I carry her in mine. We are bound, Aemon. Bound by something greater than marriage, greater than duty, greater than—" He opened his eyes, seized by a sudden thought. "I should write to her."

"You said you wouldn't. You said you wanted her to come to you first, to prove that she—" Aemon paused, clearly trying to remember the exact phrasing. "—'yearns for you as desperately as you yearn for her.'"

"I changed my mind." Aerion was already moving, crossing to the writing desk that sat by the window, the desk where Y/N usually sat when she wrote her letters, where her inkpot still sat and her quill still lay, where he could see the faint scratch marks she had left in the wood from pressing too hard when she was angry about something. He dropped into the chair—her chair—and pulled a sheet of parchment toward him.

His hand trembled as he dipped the quill. He had so much to say. So much. How could he possibly contain it all in a single letter? How could he capture the depth of his longing, the breadth of his devotion, the way the world had dimmed without her in it?

He began to write.

My love, my life, my dragonness—

He paused, reading the words. Too small. Too insufficient. He crumpled the parchment and threw it aside.

To the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms, without whom I am nothing but a shadow, a ghost, a man already dead—

Too dramatic? No. No such thing. But perhaps she would roll her eyes, and he loved when she rolled her eyes. He loved the way she looked at him when he was being too much, because even then, even when she was exasperated, there was something in her gaze that said I see you, I have you, you are mine.

He wrote again.

Y/N—

I am dying. Not the slow death of age or illness, but the swift death of absence. My heart has stopped beating. My lungs have stopped drawing air. I exist only as a vessel of longing, a monument to my own foolishness for ever allowing you to leave my sight.

The sun has not shone since you departed. I have looked for it. I have searched the sky each morning, hoping to see it, and each morning I find only grey. The flowers in the garden have wilted. The birds have stopped singing. The very stones of Summerhall have grown cold, as though the castle itself knows that its lady is gone.

I have not eaten. I have not slept. I have not done anything but think of you, dream of you, ache for you. Your pillow still smells of your hair. I lie in your place in the bed and pretend you are beside me. I speak to you in the empty chambers, and sometimes, sometimes I can almost hear you answering.

Do not stay away too long. I fear I shall not survive it.

Come back to me.

Come back to me.

Come back to me.

Your devoted husband,

Aerion

He read it over three times, making small adjustments, crossing out a word here, adding a flourish there. Then, seized by a final impulse, he turned the parchment sideways and drew a small dragon at the bottom, breathing a heart shaped flame. Y/N had once told him his drawings were terrible. He had been offended. He was a Targaryen. Dragons were in his blood. The fact that his dragons looked more like deformed lizards with wings was entirely irrelevant.

He folded the letter carefully, pressed his seal into wax—his personal seal, the three-headed dragon encircled by flames—and held it to his lips for a moment before setting it aside to be sent.

"There," he said, satisfied. "Now she will know. Now she will understand the depth of my suffering, and she will return to me, and everything will be right again."

Aemon, who had watched the entire process with the expression of a child who had long since learned not to question his brother's peculiarities, picked up one of the crumpled attempts from the floor. He smoothed it out, read it, and looked at Aerion with an arched eyebrow.

"You wrote 'my dragonness' with two n's."

"It is spelled with two n's."

"It is not."

"It is when I spell it. She is not a dragoness, like some common beast. She is my dragonness. The extra n signifies—" He waved a hand vaguely. "—grandeur. Magnificence. The ineffable quality of her being."

Aemon stared at him for a long moment. Then, with the particular weariness of a child who has long since given up trying to understand his brother, he said: "Father wants to know if you'll be joining us for the rest of the week, or if you intend to waste away in here until Y/N returns."

"I shall waste away," Aerion declared, settling deeper into her chair, pulling her shawl, which had been left draped over the back, around his shoulders. It smelled of her. He breathed in deeply. "Let them bury me in my wedding cloak. Let them say: here lies Aerion Targaryen, who loved too much and too well. Who could not survive the absence of his beloved. Whose heart, like his ancestor's before him, turned to ash without the fire of his—"

Aemon, ten years old and already possessed of more sense than his elder brother, crossed his arms. “Y/N threw a book at your head the morning before she left.”

“It was a love note.”

“It was a history of House Targaryen. She threw it because you said her new gown made her look ‘pleasantly round.’”

Aerion clutched his chest. “And I was wrong. She is not pleasantly round. She is exquisitely formed. Perfect in every proportion. A goddess descended from the heavens to grace unworthy me with her—”

“She also called you a ‘silver haired fool’ and said she hoped the journey to King’s Landing took twice as long as usual so she might have some peace.”

The words landed, but they did not land as Aemon intended. Aerion’s eyes went soft, dreamy, a smile curving his lips for the first time in three days.

“She was teasing,” he breathed. “She does that. She teases me because she loves me. Her wit is so sharp, so brilliant—do you know how fortunate I am to be married to a woman of such intellect? When she calls me a fool, it is affection. When she throws things, it is passion. When she—”

“She broke your nose last moon.”

“A light passion.” Aerion touched his nose fondly. “It was an accident. She was aiming for the vase.”

Aemon stared at him for a long moment. Then, with the particular weariness of a child who has long since given up trying to understand his brother, he said: "She's going to be back in a fortnight, Aerion. Try not to die of heartbreak before then."

The door closed.

Aerion sat in silence for a long moment, wrapped in his wife's shawl, surrounded by her scent, her things, her absence. He picked up the letter he had written, unfolded it, read it again. The words stared back at him, inadequate as they were, but they would have to do. They would have to carry the weight of everything he could not say.

He thought of Y/N. Of the way she would wrinkle her nose when she was displeased. Of the way she would snap her fingers at servants and nobles alike, expecting obedience and receiving it because she was his wife, because she was his, because she was terrifying and magnificent and the most beautiful creature to ever draw breath. He thought of the way she would push his hair back from his face when he was brooding, the way she would kiss his forehead and tell him to stop being so much, the way she would say it like it was not a criticism but a compliment, like his excess was something she treasured rather than tolerated.

He thought of the way she had looked at him on their wedding night, with something like wonder in her eyes, as though she could not quite believe that this ridiculous, passionate, infuriating man belonged to her. He thought of the way she had said his name—Aerion—as though it was a secret only she knew. He thought of the way she had fallen asleep in his arms, her breathing soft and even, her hand curled against his chest like she was holding onto him even in sleep.

He missed her. Gods, he missed her.

He lifted the letter to his lips, pressed a kiss to the folded parchment, and set it carefully on the desk to be sent with the morning's ravens.

"Come back soon, my dragonness," he murmured to the empty room, to the lingering scent of her on her shawl, to the hollow space beside him in the bed. "The flowers are wilting without you. The sun has forgotten how to shine. And I—I am nothing without you. Nothing at all."

He pulled the shawl tighter, closed his eyes, and pretended, for just a moment, that she was there.

Meanwhile, in King's Landing:

You sat in your family's solar, feet propped on an embroidered cushion, a plate of honeyed figs balanced on your stomach, and a look of supreme contentment on your face. You were sprawled across a chaise in a manner that would have horrified your septa, one hand trailing lazily through a bowl of grapes you had commandeered from the kitchens, the other holding a cup of wine that you had refilled three times already.

Your mother, seated across from you with the rigid posture of a woman who had spent her entire life cultivating proper manners, watched you with the particular resignation of a parent who had long since given up trying to impose decorum.

"Must you sprawl like that?" your mother asked, not for the first time.

"I am comfortable," you said, not moving. "You should try it. Loosen your stays. Unlace your boots. Live a little."

"I am a lady of the court. I do not 'live a little.'"

You snorted. "Your loss."

You bit into a fig with relish, letting the honeyed sweetness coat your tongue. The figs in King's Landing were good, better than Summerhall's if you were being honest, though you would never admit it. The wine was passable, and your mother's servants were efficient and unobtrusive, and for the first time in months you were not being followed around by a silver haired shadow who watched you with the intensity of a dragon guarding its hoard.

You loved Aerion. You did. Fiercely. But the man was exhausting.

He looked at you like you were the sun and the moon and the stars all rolled into one. He followed you from room to room like a devoted puppy, except puppies did not usually compose epic poetry about the curve of your neck. He touched you constantly, your hand, your hair, your waist, as though he needed the physical reassurance that you were still there, still real, still his. He was dramatic and possessive and utterly, completely mad, and you would not have him any other way.

But seven hells, a fortnight without him was a vacation.

"You have been here three days," your mother observed, breaking into your thoughts. "Should you not be writing to your husband?"

You popped another fig into your mouth. "I will."

"When?"

"When I feel like it." You stretched, languid and comfortable, your arms reaching above your head in a gesture that made your mother wince at the impropriety. "He is probably moping around Summerhall writing me letters. He gets dramatic when I am gone."

"And that does not concern you?"

You considered the question. You thought of Aerion, beautiful, mad, your Aerion, pacing your shared chambers, composing florid verses about your eyes, refusing to eat, driving his family to distraction with his theatrical suffering. You thought of the letter that would inevitably arrive in a day or two, covered in his cramped, urgent handwriting, filled with declarations of undying devotion and descriptions of his agony in your absence.

A slow, pleased smile spread across your face. "He will survive. He always does. Besides, it is good for him. It reminds him what it is like without me."

"Y/N." Your mother's voice was sharp. "You are a terror."

"I know." Your smile sharpened, affectionate and wicked all at once. "He loves it."

You thought of the way Aerion had looked at you before you left, his violet eyes wide and tragic, his hands gripping yours as though you were being led to the executioner's block rather than a carriage. Do not go, he had said, and he had meant it, had meant it with every fiber of his being, had meant it so fiercely that you had almost, almost considered staying. Do not leave me. I cannot breathe without you.

You had kissed him, soft and quick, and told him to be good, and then you had climbed into the carriage and watched him grow smaller and smaller in the window until he was just a silver haired speck in the distance, and you had felt not guilt, exactly. Not guilt. But something that might have been tenderness, if tenderness was the sort of thing you admitted to.

You missed him. You did. You missed the warmth of him beside you at night, the ridiculous things he said that made you laugh despite yourself, the way he looked at you like you had hung the moon. You missed the weight of his arm around your waist, the sound of his voice calling your name, the way he would press kisses to your shoulder in the morning when he thought you were still asleep.

But you also enjoyed the silence. The absence of constant, overwhelming Aerion. The ability to eat a meal without being stared at. The chance to sleep without someone wrapping around you like a starfish.

You would go back. Of course you would go back. You would go back in a fortnight, and you would find him in your chambers, pale and dramatic and probably unshaven, with a stack of desperate letters on the desk and your shawl wrapped around his shoulders like a security blanket, and you would kiss him, and he would weep, and you would call him a fool, and he would agree, and everything would be exactly as it should be.

But for now, you were going to enjoy your figs.

Your mother sighed, the sound of a woman who had long since accepted her daughter's nature. "Your father wants to host a dinner tomorrow night. Several of the courtiers have asked about you."

You wrinkled your nose. "I do not want to see courtiers. I came here to escape."

"You came here to visit your family."

"I came here to eat your figs and sleep in a bed that does not contain a five foot man who radiates heat like a furnace and twitches in his sleep." You reached for another fig. "The family is a bonus."

Your mother's lips pressed together in a thin line. "You have responsibilities. Appearances to maintain. You cannot simply"

"I can," you interrupted, "and I will. I am the wife of Aerion Targaryen. If I want to spend a fortnight eating figs and ignoring courtiers, I shall. Who is going to stop me? My husband?" You laughed, bright and sharp. "He would thank me for resting. He would probably compose an ode to my repose. Behold my dragonness, who reclines in splendor, her beauty outshining the very sun itself." You pitched your voice into a ridiculous imitation of Aerion's dramatic cadence. "See how her fingers curl around a fig, how her lips part to receive it, how the heavens themselves weep with envy at her grace."

Your mother stared at you.

You grinned. "I am going to write that down. He will love it. He will probably frame it."

"You are both utterly mad."

"Perhaps." You settled back against the chaise, closing your eyes, a smile still playing at your lips. "But we are mad together. That is the important part."

You did not write to him that day. Or the next. On the third day, a letter arrived from Summerhall, sealed with red wax and Aerion's personal sigil, and you read it in bed with a cup of tea, laughing aloud at the extravagant declarations of suffering and the tiny dragon breathing a heart shaped flame in the corner.

You folded it carefully and tucked it beneath your pillow, where you could feel it when you slept.

On the fourth day, you wrote back. Your letter was two lines long:

Do not starve. I will be back when I am back.

Y/N

--

From Prince Maekar Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Daughter Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

To Y/N, Princess of House Targaryen, Lady of Summerhall,

I hope this letter finds you well and that your visit with your family has been pleasant. I trust the capital agrees with you and that you are enjoying the comforts of your mother's home.

I write to you now with a request that I offer with as much dignity as I can muster, which is to say: please come home.

I am begging you.

Your husband has been moping through the halls of this castle for a week now and I cannot endure another day of it. When you are here, Aerion is a terror. He picks fights with his brothers. He argues with the household knights. He sets things on fire when he is bored. He is loud and obnoxious and he drives me to drink. These are his good qualities. These are the qualities I have, over the course of his life, learned to tolerate, even to expect. They are the qualities that have prepared me for the indignities of fatherhood.

But this?

He has not argued with anyone in six days. He has not set anything on fire. He has not even raised his voice. Instead, he drifts through the corridors like a ghost wrapped in your shawl. He sits by the window in your chambers and stares at the horizon for hours. He refused to attend meals for three days, and when I finally forced him to appear, he sat in your chair and pushed food around his plate with the expression of a man who had lost his will to live.

It is unbearable.

I have seen Aerion angry. I have seen Aerion cruel. I have seen Aerion so drunk that he tried to challenge a horse to single combat. I have seen him at his worst, Y/N, and I have weathered it all with the stoicism of a father who knows what his son is. But I have never seen him like this. I have never seen him sad. I did not know he was capable of it. I thought the emotion was foreign to him, that he was built for fury and passion and nothing in between.

I was wrong. He is capable of sadness. He is capable of a deep, theatrical, utterly pathetic sadness that is somehow ten times more irritating than his usual behavior because at least when he is terrorizing the castle I can yell at him. What am I supposed to do when he looks at me with those violet eyes and asks if I think you still love him? What am I supposed to say when he tells me that the birds have stopped singing because you took the music with you? What am I supposed to do when my son, who once tried to drink fire, begins to cry because he found a hair ribbon of yours under the bed and it still smells like you?

I am not equipped for this.

I had to watch Aerion sit in the rain for an hour because he said the sky was crying with him.

The sky was not crying with him. It was raining. It rains at Summerhall. It rains often. This is a normal occurrence that has never before prompted my son to stand in the courtyard with his arms outstretched like a man awaiting divine intervention.

The servants are talking. The household knights are uncomfortable. Your brother in law Daeron has taken to hiding in the library, and I cannot blame him.

I need you to come back. I need you to come back soon. I need you to restore my son to his natural state of being an insufferable, arrogant, occasionally violent menace because I have discovered that I prefer that Aerion to the alternative. I prefer being terrorized to being mourned. I prefer the chaos to the silence. I prefer the Aerion who makes me want to lock him in his chambers to the Aerion who makes me want to hold him and tell him everything will be alright, because I am a warrior, Y/N, I am a prince of House Targaryen, I have fought in battles and seen men die and I do not know how to comfort my own son.

I am not asking. I am begging. Come back. End this. Save us all.

Your good-father,

Maekar Targaryen

P.S. He has taken to sleeping with your shawl. He wears it around his shoulders like a cloak. I saw him walking through the garden at dawn with it wrapped around him, speaking to your favorite rose bush as though it might answer. I am not making this up. I wish I were making this up.

P.P.S. If you tell anyone about this letter, I will deny everything. I will claim it was forged. I will have you removed from the succession. I will do something dramatic and irreversible. Do not test me on this.

Letter the Second: From Prince Maekar Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Daughter Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

Y/N,

It has been three days since my last letter. I am writing again because the situation has deteriorated.

Aerion has begun composing poetry aloud. I do not mean that he is writing it down. I mean that he stands in the great hall, in the courtyard, in the corridors, and recites verses about your eyes and your hair and the way you walk. His voice carries. There is nowhere in this castle that is safe from declarations of his undying love for you and his profound suffering in your absence.

The servants are requesting transfers. Two of the kitchen maids asked to be reassigned to the Dornish border. The stable master has offered to take a pay cut if it means being sent to literally any other holding. I am running out of places to put people who do not want to hear my son describe the precise shade of your eyes for the fifth time in a single afternoon.

This morning, he cornered me in the armory to ask whether I thought you would be pleased with the poem he composed about your laugh. He read it to me. It was forty lines long. It described your laugh as a "silver bell that shatters the darkness" and "a melody that would make the Seven themselves weep with envy." I have heard you laugh. It is not a silver bell. It is a sharp, wicked sound that usually precedes someone being verbally eviscerated. I say this with affection. You are a good match for my son. But your laugh does not shatter darkness. It shatters egos.

I told him it was beautiful. What else was I supposed to say? He had tears in his eyes, Y/N. Actual tears. My son, who once laughed when I broke my arm falling from a horse, was on the verge of weeping because I might not appreciate his poetry about your laugh. I told him it was the finest poem I had ever heard. I told him you would cherish it. I told him I would personally ensure it was delivered to you with the next raven. He thanked me. He thanked me with such sincerity that I felt something twist in my chest, and I realized that I would rather have him set something on fire than look at me like that again.

Please come home.

Your good father,

Maekar Targaryen

P.S. He is now composing a poem about your hands. I overheard him telling Aemon that your fingers are "delicate as rose petals" and that he dreams of them every night. I do not know how Aemon tolerates this. I do not know how any of us tolerate this.

Letter the Third: From Prince Daeron Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Sister Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

Y/N,

Father does not know I am writing this. He has forbidden any of us from contacting you because he says it is "beneath the dignity of House Targaryen" to beg, which is ironic because he has sent you three letters already.

Do not tell him I wrote to you. He will be angry. But I cannot stay silent any longer.

I am hiding in the library. I have been hiding in the library for four days. I bring food with me in the mornings and I do not emerge until nightfall. The measters have stopped questioning it. They simply leave a candle for me and pretend I am not there. I am becoming friends with the dust. I am starting to understand the appeal of being a maester. Anything is better than being in the same room as Aerion right now.

He is unbearable. You know how he is when you are here. He is loud and arrogant and he follows you around like a dragon with a favorite treasure. It is annoying, yes. It is irritating. He picks fights with me for no reason. He calls me a drunkard. He says I have the personality of a wet scroll. He once challenged me to a duel because I suggested he might want to visit a brothel. These are the things I complain about when you are here. These are the things I tell Father I cannot tolerate.

I was wrong. I was so wrong. I would take a hundred duels. I would take a thousand. I would let him call me a drunkard every day for the rest of my life if it meant he would stop looking at me like that.

He does not pick fights anymore. He does not call me boring. He does not challenge me to duels. Instead, he finds me. He finds me wherever I am hiding, and he sits beside me, and he asks me questions. Questions, Y/N. He wants to know about my day. He wants to know what I am drinking. He wants to know if I am happy. He has never asked me if I am happy. I did not think he knew the word.

Yesterday, he put his hand on my shoulder. He has never touched me voluntarily in his entire life unless it was to shove me. He put his hand on my shoulder and he said, "Daeron, do you think she misses me?" And his voice was so small, Y/N. I did not know his voice could be small. His voice is always loud. His voice is always demanding. His voice is the sound of something about to be set on fire. But yesterday, his voice was small, and I did not know what to do, so I lied. I told him of course you missed him. I told him you probably thought about him every day. I told him you would be back soon.

He smiled. He smiled, Y/N. It was not his normal smile, which is sharp and cruel and usually means someone is about to be humiliated. It was a real smile. A soft smile. A smile that made him look like he was not a menace to society but just a man who missed his wife. It was the most unsettling thing I have ever seen.

I want my brother back. I want the brother who calls me boring and challenges me to duels and sets things on fire. I want the brother who makes me want to throw things at his head. I do not want this brother. This brother makes me feel things. This brother makes me want to help him. This brother makes me want to be kind to him, and I do not know how to be kind to Aerion. I do not know how to be kind to someone who has spent our entire lives making kindness feel like a trap.

Please come back. I am begging you. Come back and restore him to his natural state so I can go back to hating him in peace.

Your good-brother,

Daeron Targaryen

“Clearly.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to dinner. I had a fever, I went unconscious-” you tried to apologise before she could fire the bullet of accusation.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” she asked.

“That was wrong, I know, but I just needed time to recover, and I was going to call you as- as soon as I got home, I swear,” you stuttered through every word, your fingers clinging around Leon’s hoodie tightly.

“You embarrassed us.”

“I know and I swear next time this won’t—“

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” you said louder, making your mother’s eyes widen.

“You don’t show up to a dinner with important people, and instead you go running off with your boss over the weekend and don’t contact me at all!” she raised her voice, but her body remained still, “I was worried sick. But you’re busy flirting your way up the ladder I see.”

“It wasn’t like that, Mom, he was making sure I was okay after I collapsed, please, believe me,” you begged, wanting her to believe in the best version of you, but all she ever saw in you was your mistakes.

One big body of mistakes and wasted potential.

Her eyes narrowed, sharp and unyielding. “And yet, you didn’t tell me. You didn’t even answer my calls. Do you know how that looks?”

“I was sick!” you exclaimed, meeting her eyes but the pure force of her stare brought yours back to the ground.

“Excuses! Always excuses with you! Have some respect for your family before you go sleeping around with your boss!” she yelled and added, “God, your brother would’ve never done that.”

You hated how she was twisting Leon into something ugly. You hated how she had to compare you to your brother as one final twist of the knife. You hated how she only ever filtered you for your errors.

“Stop comparing me to him, I will not and will never be him!” you hissed, pointing at her with a trembling finger, “Leon was just making sure I was okay, I swear it wasn’t anything more, you know I earned that position!”

She eyed your clothes. You tensed, bracing yourself for the next criticism because that’s all you ever did when you lived with her.

“How am I supposed to believe that? I saw you kissing him.”

Your heart dropped.

“K-kissing him?”

“Don’t lie to me, I wasn’t born yesterday y/n,” she sighed, already reaching for her handbag.

“I just- he looked after me and I- it was a reflex,” you explained, the words sounding weak and pathetic even to your own ears.

“A reflex? Oh, so a reflex makes you behave like a teenager and totally disregard your parents’ feelings.”

You were bringing shame to your family’s name. Just behave like an adult for once.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for humiliating you and dad,” you apologised, folding yourself up and letting her step all over you.

“Next time, no disappearing acts. Your brother was leading teams on broken ribs and could still contact us, you have no excuse for a fever,” she said coldly, sliding the bag strap over her shoulder.

“Yes, Mom,” you mumbled, your eyes beginning to sting.

“Good. Now rest.” She said, pausing halfway through your door. “You’ve clearly had enough excitement for the weekend,” she muttered and shut the door behind her, leaving you with tears in your eyes in the darkness of your house.

You couldn’t have one nice thing without your parents ruining it all for you. As if everything you ever wanted was a stack of plates, and with each plate they smashed on the floor, was another dream of yours shattered into smithereens.

The insecurity she had planted within you soon began to seep into your mind, because maybe it was best to resign from your position. You couldn’t handle it. You were messing around with your boss. Kissing him, what were you thinking?

Your professionalism was inadequate. It was the right thing to transfer from your position.

You buried those thoughts.

You were indifferent to Monday mornings but specifically today you had a shared bitterness with the orange cat that hated Mondays.

It was pointless trying to hide the bags under your eyes and how pale you were, maybe you could gain sympathy from Head Office so they wouldn’t fire you in your meeting today.

Leon being there too was just the cherry on top of the cake. After you kissed him. Unprompted.

You slumped into your car and groaned and cursed before taking a deep breath in, straightening your back, and driving off.

The office was still the same. Still the same women dressed in long skirts and men in ties, the same hum of the vending machine and the clicking of keyboards. No one batted an eyelid at you, just the way you liked it.

“Hey—you must be the lady who keeps this place running,” a light, younger voice called out, footsteps padding behind you.

“Huh—?” you turned around to be met by a man who was about your height, maybe a little taller, dressed in a blue long-sleeved shirt and a deep red tie. His chestnut hair was neatly combed back and in the seeping morning light it had flecks of a deeper auburn.

“Oh sorry, y/n, right?” he apologised, offering you a crooked smile and extending his hand.

“Yeah… yeah that’s me,” you mumbled, observing the confident character in front of you as you shook his slightly clammy hand.

“My name is Julian. I just transferred here,” he began, seeing your posture continue to crumble, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I hope it’s only good,” you let out a nervous laugh, your shoulders bouncing up and down too dramatically.

“From what I’ve heard you’re essentially the backbone of this place,” he explained, his hand weaving through his hair. “I was told if I got lost or confused, I should come to you.”

“I mean… I can try.”

A deep voice cut through the room, calling your name. Your head snapped in the direction of the familiar sound; you didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.

“Coming!” you yelled back, giving Julian a small smile, hoping he would notice the dynamic between you and your boss, and disappear.

“Your boss?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow, slightly amused.

“Yeah. I have a meeting. It was nice meeting you Julian—“ you brought up your hand to wave, but he stepped forward.

“Well, how about coffee, me and you sometime?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Oh- I’ll, um, have to see I’m quite busy at the moment, kind of, you know. I’ll let you know,” you stammered, how could a rookie be more fluent than you?

“Busy, huh?”

“I—I need to go, my boss, you see—”  you gestured to behind you, a heat crawling on your cheeks.

“I guess I’ll see you around then,” he winked, shoved his hands in his pockets and whistled away from you.

You let out a sigh of relief, heels clicking rapidly as you made your way over to Leon. He was stood outside the meeting room, back in one of his suits. It was hard to imagine him in his professional persona, considering you broke those walls only a couple of days ago. Considering you kissed him.

His eyes lingered on you for seconds too long, squinting at you, and then back at Julian who had strolled back to his desk.

“Who was that?”

“Just the newbie,” you mumbled, avoiding any topic of the kiss, “His name is Julian, I think.”

Both of you were now looking at Julian’s surprising nonchalance.

“Just the newbie,” he repeated, making you roll your eyes. He noticed your incredibly controlled breathing, softening his expression, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just- just a little nervous about this meeting,” you attempted to ignore the swirling anxiety in your stomach, your fingers picking at your hands.

“Hey, it’ll be okay. Remember what I said on Saturday, I’m not letting them fire you. They’d be a bunch of damn fools to even consider it,” his hand squeezed your shoulder.

“Then why are they calling me in for a meeting?!” you whispered, meeting his concerned stare.

“Because you collapsed in their elevator,” he said, “You won’t be alone, okay?”

“Okay,” you replied, your breath still shaky, but you nodded anyway.

“Good,” his hand gently held your lower back and guided you into the meeting room.

The two of you filed in after the other, ignoring the kiss that happened on Sunday, ignoring the resignation form, because he would rather never address any of it than lose you forever.

The glass table was long; three officials sat together on the end, opposite to two empty chairs. In front of them was one folder. You imagined your DSO ID photo sitting in front of them all tiny and scared.

“Morning Miss l/n. Mr Kennedy. Thank you for joining us this morning. Now, we are here to discuss the elevator incident that occurred on Friday evening,” one of them started, sliding out a piece of paper, all three of them now staring at it.

You gulped.

“You’ve been with us for almost a year now, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Your performance has been regarded as exceptional,” the other official said, their voice nasally, “However, there’s been a significant decline as of recent weeks.”

“I—” you stuttered, but took a deep breath in and then continued, “I understand that.”

You suddenly felt the hardness of Leon’s leather shoe against your ballet pump.

“We aren’t here to undermine your past work but the incident on Friday has raised concerns.”

“Concerns?” Leon questioned, leaning forward, “It should be a medical concern. Not a disciplinary concern.”

“Mr Kennedy, we appreciate your… perspective, but when your assistant, our employee, collapses in a government building it becomes a matter of reliability. We need all our employees stable.”

“I didn’t mean… for it to happen. I’ve just been under a lot of pressure recently,” you spoke up, trying your hardest to not let the shy girl you were, or still are, to come out of your mouth. You were certainly not going to lose this battle, not after the one with your mother.

“Yes, pressure that both we and Mr Kennedy were not aware of.”

Papers shuffled.

“That’s because she handles her work,” he said, his tone controlled but firm. “She doesn’t make a habit of complaining.”

“Honesty is key when it comes to maintaining a secure workplace, Mr Kennedy and if your assistant fails to do that, then your office will fall apart.”

“It’s not falling apart. Neither is she,” he said coolly, nothing slipping in his calm exterior.

“Well, then, Miss l/n. Do you think you are fit to continue working for Mr Kennedy?”

“Yes—yes I do.”

“To ensure our personnel is fit for duty we suggest that you undergo a medical and psychological evaluation.” Papers shuffled again. “And we are going to implement two weeks mandatory leave. We cannot rely on reassurances. We must rely on certainty, and we all believe this will be best for us and you.”

Something ugly boiled within you. You had devoted your entire life to this line of work, to this job and now they label you as unstable and needing a psychological evaluation. All because of some stupid collapse in the elevator.

You couldn’t trust yourself to be alone over the weekend. Let alone two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours.

“Two weeks? But I’m better, I can—,”

“This isn’t up for discussion, this is mandatory.”

“But—"

“You collapsed,” Leon stated, his words swiftly saving you from getting into an argument.

And that was that.

“I’ll see you in two weeks then, I suppose,” you said, outside of the meeting room. Your hand clutched tighter around your bag strap, glancing at his shoes.

Two weeks sounded easier when you said it. You saw the days stretching out ahead of you, unstructured by no routine and no purpose. It was petrifying.

 “Yeah… I’ll,” he cleared his throat like the words sat wrongly, “see you in two weeks.”

You nodded and turned your body, but something in his expression looked like he was going to say more, with the way his mouth stuttered open. There was something within him that was reluctant, but clearly determined the environment wasn’t correct for the topic and so he relaxed and decided on something else.

“Take care of yourself,” he said. An exhale followed.

“You too,” you smiled faintly at him and walked down the hallway.

He could see it all falling apart, everything the two of you had built in the spring, the shared evenings, the shared lunches, the shared lifts home. All of it had to unravel due to the hardships of life. Peace didn’t last long in his experience, he had become used to it by now, but there was something in his chest that twisted when he saw you walk away.

It’s only for two weeks. Get yourself together Kennedy.

His gaze lingered on you until you were out of sight, until Sherry had to grab his attention to break him out of his thoughts.

The office was grey. Autumn had begun to turn leaves into a flurry of oranges and browns and yellows, covering the pavements in a wet blanket. The flowers on your desk had wilted; the coat hanger now held Leon’s scarf.

The absence of your rapid typing and tapping of your foot was far too loud for Kennedy. His office felt so wrong only containing him. He enjoyed the way people entered his office to find you, their expressions warm and amiable, but when they walked over to him, they became hardened and cold. Now everyone entered with a seriousness on their face, and it bored him.

He wanted to see the smile on your face when he would tell you he bought cake from your favourite bakery, he wanted to see the relief in your posture when he would speak up for you in presentations, he wanted to see you.

He even noticed your sweet scent disappearing from his office. It soon was overpowered by the smell of leather and gun oil. You were falling through his fingers like sand, and there was nothing he could do but wait.

You weren’t having any better of a time either.

The laptop kept opening and closing. You organised your entire bookshelf, deep-cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed your entire floor and cleared out your cupboards. You wiped the picture frame of you, younger, in a pastel-pink frilly dress, held by your brother in his military uniform. You folded up Leon’s hoodie and placed it on your kitchen table.

It was still day one.

Rain gently pattered against your windows, streaking down and joining together before dripping off.

What did people usually do on their days off? The idea of sitting around and doing nothing scared you more than anything, because the mountain of your thoughts seemed too large to conquer, to come to peace with.

You certainly didn’t tell your parents about your mandatory leave.

Something in you missed the peace of walking out the DSO building with Leon, knowing the two of you would be together again the next day.

On one of your days off, people around your village were hanging up colourful bunting, setting up ladders. Women walked past you carrying shelves and boxes of books. An older man, greys now overwhelming his hair, was fiddling around with tying up the bunting on a ladder.

“What are you guys doing?” you asked curiously, your heart rushing already.

“Preparing for the book fair this weekend,” he replied, walking down the ladder to be on your level. His eyes crinkled as he smiled, gesturing to the large abundance of people manoeuvring books, signs and stalls, “Very busy time for our village! Families love our events.”

“Can I help?”

“’Course you can, Miss. C’mere and wrap this around for me, I’m sure your fingers will be much better than these sausages!” he laughed, wiggling his fingers before handing you the ribbon to the bunting and holding the ladder securely in place for you to climb up it.

Both of Leon’s hands were on his steering wheel, two fingers drumming along to the rock music he had blasting through his speakers. Buildings sporadically disappeared, and soon he was into the green fields that surrounded the city, coincidentally, the route to your village.

It wouldn’t hurt to check on you, it could just be a totally friendly thing, he thought as he indicated into your village.

As he drove further down the road, more and more families and kids appeared, the increase in decorations intensified. A sign read ‘Book Fair’ painted neatly in big blue letters.

He scoffed quietly to himself, thumb tapping once against the wheel.

His speed dropped as the road narrowed, tyres crunching lightly over gravel. Stalls lined the sides now, half-finished and bustling with life. Children darted between adults, laughter carrying easily through the open air.

You were right. Things seemed…  quieter out here. Small cottages and houses circled around the square. Patches of tender flowers reflected the sun, somehow holding a vividness in autumn. It was the type of village that belonged in a fairy tale.

Leon’s gaze ran over the crowd absentmindedly until his eyes landed on you.

Your demeanour was significantly different; he had to do a double take. Your hair wasn’t held in the same professional way you always styled it, it had caught the sun, softer than he has ever seen it before . It wasn’t the you he saw in the office, and it wasn’t the you he saw in his home.

A real smile was painted on your face, not the kind that was tight and forced when greeting co-workers or the nervous one when you were overwhelmed. It was perfectly you.

His fingers loosened around the steering wheel.

You were sat on a chair, holding open a book with colorful illustrations, a group of children sitting cross-legged in front of you on a rug. They weren’t fiddling or chasing each other around, they were totally entranced by your reading. As you turned the page and kept reading, some kids burst out giggling at your attempt at a dragon’s voice, and one small girl’s hands clung around your leg, your hand softly patting her head.

“Who’s that man over there?” one of the kids asked, your smiling expression shifted into something tight as you noticed the man dressed in black, leaning against his car.

Leon.

He looked out-of-place, alone at a family event. There was something in his face, the way he held himself, that something was weighing on him.

“Yeah, he keeps looking at us!”

“He’s looking at y/n! Do you think he has a crush on her?”

“Is that your boyfriend?”

“O-oh, uhm, no, sweetie, but maybe we could invite him over here?” you suggested, feeling a warmth touching your cheeks, and it definitely wasn’t the sun. He shifted, noticing that he had been caught, pressing his lips together. He walked over, standing awkwardly a few feet away.

“Do you want to come and read with us mister?”

“If that’s okay with you,” he replied, flickering back to you and the cluster of children at your feet.

“Of course it is,” you smiled, watching him place himself on the grass. You tried not to laugh at the sight of your boss sat at your feet with a bunch of children, but you didn’t want to embarrass him even more.

There were no strings holding you into the tight, nervous assistant that he sees on the daily, you were happy. Smiling. Radiant, almost. He wanted to convince himself it was just because you weren’t in your usual office wear, but it wasn’t. You were happier outside of work, happier without him around.

He had been thinking about you all week, and yet here you were, not a single worry holding you down. He thought that maybe what you said in your argument was true, that he was dragging you into his nightmare of a life because you had been the closest thing to warmth and closeness he had seen for so long.

You snapped the book shut.

“The end!”

“Another one! Another one!” the children chanted, clapping their hands with delight.

“I’m sorry but I think you parents will be wanting you back now!” you stood up, hearing the children groan and push themselves upwards.

You waved goodbye to them, feeling Leon’s presence at your side as the last of the children scattered to their parents. You wanted their effortless laughter to carry on within you, but something heavier settled in your chest.

“Thanks for staying,” you said, looking up at the towering man in front of you, his broad shoulders cutting out the beaming sunshine.

“Of course,” he put his hands in his pockets, “I didn’t know you did that.”

“Just something to keep me from going insane in my house,” you said, laughing nervously.

“You’ve got a way with them.”

Some kids ran past the two of you, shrieking and giggling, balloon animals in their sticky hands.

“Oh, it’s just reading to some kids, it’s nothing really.”

People behind stalls kept calling out the different food they were selling.

“They listen to you,” he assured.

That warm feeling in your cheeks happened again.

A silence occurred, but not a loud one, it was soothed by the laughter of children and parents. The cold wet smell of autumn was overrun by the sweet smell of candyfloss and popcorn.

The kiss and the resignation letter were still wavering in the air.

“About Sunday—” you started, feeling yourself drown already.

“Don’t,” he said, “This isn’t the place.”

“I mean, my house isn’t far away, we can always speak there,” you stammered, sharp pains beginning to grow in your chest as you tripped over the words.

“Don’t.”

“I just, I thought that you—"

“I know what you thought,” he said, not a recognisable emotion in his voice. Nothing you could cling on to or help you stay afloat.

“Leon— I don’t understand.”

“I think we both know that I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“And what is that?”

“Keeping this simple,” he stated.

“Simple,” you repeated, nodding your head slightly, more to yourself than him.

“Well,” you said, turning your back to him, “thanks for stopping by. I’ll see you around.”

Wallow. You wallowed. For the rest of the day. You despised letting a man have such control over your feelings, but you figured it was better to let it out than keep it inside. Face swollen and pink from crying, you felt like one huge idiot.

You collapsed in the elevator after working yourself into the ground, you’ve been assigned a mandatory psychological evaluation and now the man who you’d found yourself in love with for the past 6 months doesn’t want anything more to do with you.

Your mother’s disapproving face had been burned into your mind and now it was overlapping with Leon’s. Cold and distant.

You turned off the television and scrubbed at your face with the sleeve of your sweater, pacing around in the kitchen. You felt like one of those hamsters in tiny enclosures. Silence was too loud and the walls were too close.

The only person you could rely on was yourself, and you had been reminded of that over and over again, yet you couldn’t get it to stick in your mind. You couldn’t even say you were unacquainted to that hurtful internal wound in your chest, the one that throbbed when you were rejected by the people around you, because you were very familiar with it.

People were flawed, yes, it was hard to find someone perfect, but being hurt this way was something you never wanted to experience again.

The impulsive thought of running away seemed pleasant, you imagined yourself sitting on a beach in one of those picturesque postcards. Just to escape it all.

The ticking of the clock was mocking you.

Simple.

Right, because that’s what it was. Simple.

Nothing about the way he looked at you like you were worth something to protect, like you brightened his days—was simple.

His hoodie was still folded neatly on the table, his scent faintly embroidered on it.

You should have never kissed him. You crossed the line and now he was fixing it. Because that’s what he always did. Fix things.

A knock sounded at the door. You paused, to make sure you weren’t mishearing things.

Another knock, firmer this time. You slowly approached the door, and as you opened it, a sliver of navy was seen. The familiar chest pains twisted again.

“Hey,” Leon said, his tone quieter than usual.

“Leon?” your eyes traced around his open collar and wonky tie, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I was… nearby,” he cleared his throat, holding himself upwards by leaning on your door frame.

“…Leon.”

“Yeah. Alright. I wasn’t.”

There was the faint scent of alcohol woven on him, you were close enough to put a finger on it. His composure was slipping, and in his pale eyes there was the shine of something vulnerable.

“Are you drunk?”

“I just had a few,” he mumbled, running his fingers through his dishevelled hair.

“Why are you here?” you watched him cringe and then relax his face, like he was trying to process how he even got on your doorstep, as if his body moved before he could think.

“I—I just… I didn’t like how I left things,” he explained, his blue eyes lingering on your face. He was engulfed by the dark shade of the night, and your home was golden, like the light at the end of the dark tunnel.

“You told me to not talk about it,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“I know. I was being an idiot; it was a mistake.”

“This isn’t fair Leon—I couldn’t even explain myself,” you muttered, exhausted from feeling everything.

“Because if we started talking, then it wouldn’t stay simple.”

“I didn’t ask for simple.” You stated coldly, arms crossed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“I know,” he repeated, quieter this time, his eyes flickering to the floor and then back to your warmly lit face.

The space between you was fragile, like one wrong word could splinter it and it’ll tear apart.

“You can’t drive home,” you sighed, “just… come inside.”

You stepped aside, gesturing him to come in.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, his eyes lazily darting around your home, “Nice place…”

Everything was organised and structured to a meticulous degree. But there was a homeliness to it, the blankets on your couch were clearly handmade, on your fridge were fridge magnets from different places and there were books stacked everywhere, bookmarks poking out the edges.

“Thanks,” you replied, unsure what to do with your boss in your home, “Do you want me to get you some water and food?”

“That would probably be a good idea,” he followed you into the kitchen, observing your paintings that you hung up.

You started to open cupboards that you didn’t need to open, grabbing ingredients that never made any sense, because God, anything to stop your hands from shaking.

“I meant what I said at the fair,” he cut the silence.

“What?” you turned your head to him.

“About you… being good at it. You look different. Better,” he nodded towards you.

“Better without work?” you huffed, “Everyone thinks I can’t handle it.”

“Not everyone.”

“Leon this isn’t fair—you tell me to not talk about Sunday and now you come to my house like nothing happened like—“ you snapped, your eyebrows furrowing.

He walked towards you, driven purely by his desire.

“I don’t want to ruin what we have,” he murmured, a profound sadness in his eyes.

You looked back at him, your expression undeniably less sharp.

The space between you was barely there anymore—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of alcohol and something distinctly him, the scent that made you ease in the office.

Your voice came out softer than before, your lips slightly parted.

“Leon…”

A warning, a question, an invitation.

He exhaled slowly, eyes dropping for just a second, to your soft lips, before forcing themselves back up.

You could see his control slipping, his careful exterior being stripped. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.

“Tell me to leave.”

Note: Okay, it's finally here. This is the LONGEST chapter yet omg and I finally found out how to use em dashes. This chapter was going to be much longer but I decided to cut it up and make another chapter. Sorry for the wait and false promises, I am definitely not promising anything ever again LOL. I really struggled to know what to do next but I hope this is satisfactory. I hope everyone is okay, the UK is currently being blessed by the sun and it's sooo nice. Couldn't think of a song for this chapter but I did write it while listening to I Love You by Fontaines D.C. so maybe there's that. Wrote this instead of studying...

There will be 3 more chapters I believe, the part 7 will be preparing for Sherry's wedding, part 8 will be Sherry's wedding and part 9 will be... ykw. Chapters will come out slower because I don't wanna burn myself out and I gotta study booooo...

If you guys have any questions or anything let me knoww1!!!! I love talking to you guys.

The fucking insane taglist omg:

@babygirl-panda19 @musegonemad @cherry-4200 @mmeerraa @cautioniwillbite @whoskeiraaa @aliidarling @frazzled-soul @onebatch--twobatch @jeewhat @connoresque @girlwithadragonheart @qngelical @djoslola @wastedpanda @mara-brekker @rednnedy @applerpi @404creep @mommafirefly666 @brooke1228 @justvalkyrie @animegamerfox @theuncommoncorner @callme-amaya @itsjustbell @brightestflame @sharkalina666 @iheartdaenerys @keopio @zea-is-queen @youkoden @youmake1mistake @caroline-the-cat @deo-data @toorulee @linsweetgirl @stinkystick @parasuchus @doribtw @chocoismasochist @toastloverr

@princeintheshadow @saewya001 @oceanwoozi @kiraraperv @stickyhoney @icelatte-tea @non-binarybee @ambitions-like-ribbons @amphiroxx @whoisgami @lkittys @heavensknows @non-binarybee @imonmy8thhusbandanditsthesameman @sunsethw4 @sirenpearldust @meg-cosplay @jaescafe @dez93006 @anfervaldez @n1nia @riasjams @helplesssrain @ordelixx @radioactive-ocha @kissesforjeannie @cjafjatkstke @limitless-matilda @my-drvidess @jujube311 @sinnamon-bunn @sanniesfavoriteprincess @shrimpchipcookie @thiskingdomwillendure @itsyogirlx @astraioses @glocuseguardian3rd @drag0nl0v3rlol @a-small-batch-of-dragons @sandiaholland @tasias-world @fa0nz6ain @anonomouswriter-blr

You keep reading the latest DSO reports that Agent Birkin sent you. They’re not particularly important except that, maybe… she shouldn’t have sent them to you, like the rest she’s sent already.

You swallow as your eyes move as fast as they can across the lines. You try to retain the most important information, anything that might help with the research you’re carrying out and that could be a significant breakthrough in…

The sound of another email notification interrupts your focus. You sigh, quickly switching your computer screen and going straight to the newly received message.

You open it, surprised to see it doesn’t have a subject line…

Only your full name.

You frown slightly, confused, hovering the cursor over it, unsure whether to open it or not. You know it’s probably one of those spam e-mails that didn’t go to the spam folder, but you also think that, maybe, it could be one of those Sherry’s e-mails… 

You end up opening it anyway, even when your nerves are driving you crazy.

It’s a short message, but direct enough to put you on alert:

“Stop trying to have faith in the future. We are the future.”

You shift in your chair nervously, pulling your legs up and hugging them. You read it over and over again, trying to find some hidden meaning, doing everything you can to read between the lines and figure out who it might be, or what could be the reason behind it…

You sigh, giving up. There’s no information you can extract from it, but it doesn’t worry you either. It’s not the first time something like this has happened to you.

If there’s one thing you hate about your field, even though you’ve come to accept it, it’s that threats never stop coming when your career revolves around dismantling networks that seek to rule the world through fear and control over the population.

In all the years you’ve been working as a scientist, you’ve seen much worse, especially since you began working closely with the DSO and the BSAA about five years ago.

You decide to not dwell on it any further and go back to that damn report about what happened in Eastern Europe with Ethan Winters, and how, even now, certain events remain somehow… unsolverd.

Minutes pass as you start noticing patterns with other information you’ve received from Birkin. You begin forming hypotheses, thinking of possible solutions to what could you do about…

The email notification sound interrupts you again.

You glance sideways at your phone to your right and see the notification, though you don’t dare open it.

Now, you feel a pressure settling in your chest. A knot forms in your stomach, too. You’re aware of the acidity rising in your throat, the urge to vomit becoming stronger.

You feel panic take over your whole body, and you let yourself be consumed by it. Two emails in half an hour seem very strange unless something serious is happening, but if that was the case, you would’ve received a phone call by now.

You bite your index fingernail as you wait for the email you just opened to load. When it does, you see that, once again, the subject is only your full name.

However, the message is way more detailed this time.

Clearly, directly, and without any apparent remorse, it lists everything you’re going to do tomorrow morning. What time you’ll wake up and have breakfast. What time you’ll leave your house, including your exact address, as well as your scheduled meetings with several members of the DSO, including who they are. It even mentions that you plan to take a backup phone, the one you always use to talk with Sherry about your research, to meet her at your usual café so you can tell her about your progress.

A chill runs through your entire body.

“Fuck…”

You don’t hesitate.

You shove your chair back, stand up quickly, and clumsily start gathering your belongings. You make sure you have your phone, log out and clear the computer history, and grab your car keys.

You don’t even think about the fact that you didn’t take your coat as you cross the doorway and run toward the parking lot, freezing.

Your mind’s racing. The silence around you makes your thoughts drift elsewhere, even as you stay alert to everything around you.

Your breathing grows faster… and then seems to disappear the moment a hand clamps over your mouth, catching you off guard.

Your body reacts instantly, and your instincts take over.

You struggle violently, trying to break free from the stranger’s grip, which only tightens as you feel their nails digging into your skin.

They pull you backward, pressing their free arm against your neck. You try to scream for help, but it’s useless. You can’t breathe, and panic completely takes over you.

Your vision blurs and, little by little, you lose control of your body until the sound of a gunshot, immediately followed by another one, snaps you back to reality.

You fall forward onto your knees as the hands holding you suddenly release you. You can’t stop coughing as air returns to your lungs, a crushing pressure in your head making you vomit onto the asphalt.

You do it again when you see a motionless figure on the ground and when you feel the stickiness of blood on your hands.

You try to recover as quickly as possible and run. Even as you keep vomiting, you force yourself to keep your eyes open, searching through the darkness for a way out of this nightmare.

You get even more nervous when you hear footsteps, fast ones, approaching you. 

You try to stand up, but collapse onto the ground, completely exhausted.

“Fuck, come on…” you mutter under your breath, though you know any attempt to encourage yourself is useless.

You flinch when you feel a hand on your shoulder. You get up quickly and run a little, but it doesn’t help. You fall again, so you start dragging yourself backward as a figure, one you can’t identify, keeps approaching you until you hit a wall and can’t go any further.

“Hey… Hey, listen to me.”

The voice, a male one, sounds firm and far too self-assured.

You say nothing, of course.

“You gotta leave. Now.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to see who might be since that voice sounds quite familiar to you. 

At this point it’s not just the darkness, but your inability to keep your eyes open… not to mention the growing dizziness.

“What…”

“You’re not safe in here. They’re tracking you. They know where you’re going.”

Your lips part to respond, but your voice won’t cooperate.

“But—”

You feel the stranger kneel in front of you and, without hesitation, help you to get on your feet. You let yourself be guided, already giving up, and no longer caring whether these are the final moments of your life or not.

One of your arms wraps around what seems to be his neck, while one of his arms wraps around your waist, forcing you to walk with him.

“How you feeling?” the man asks.

“Fine…” you manage to say, though you cough. “But I need to get to my car…”

“No,” he says immediately, interrupting you. “You’re not good conditions to drive right now. Not to mention you definitely shouldn’t be alone.”

You don’t argue, because you know he’s right. Also, you don’t even have the strength to do it…

You close your eyes, letting yourself be carried away completely for who knows how long.

The only thing you’re aware of when you open them again is that you’re in your room, slightly propped up on the bed, with a message from your parents telling you to meet them at the DSO offices that same day.

[...]

🗓️ October 10th, 2023 📍 Washington, USA

“Tomorrow morning. DSO. Important.”

You can’t stop thinking about that short but, definitely, intense message from your mother as you walk decisively through the reception area of the DSO offices, trying to draw as little attention as possible.

You keep a neutral expression, and your head held high. Even though you don’t look at anyone, you know too many eyes are on you… and, today, you know it’s not because your parents are two of the most important members of the institution since its founding.

At the DSO, rumors spread like wildfire, so it doesn’t surprise you that they’re already aware of what happened the night before.

You try to stay calm and composed. You need answers, whether they’re good or bad, not panic.

You sigh. You’re probably just overthinking. 

You don’t even know why your parents would want you here, today…

The receptionist, whom you know perfectly well, looks up when she sees you approaching. She adjusts herself in her seat, visibly uncomfortable, trying to remain professional even though you know she’s analyzing you.

All you can do is give her a fake smile and say your full name, even though she already knows it.

“My parents told me to meet them,” you explain, knowing she should already be aware.

She doesn’t answer. Simply, she looks at her computer screen, typing quickly who knows what. After a few seconds, she looks at you again while still typing, and you feel even more judged than before.

“Is there a problem?” you ask, uneasy and slightly annoyed.

The woman blinks quickly, clearly a bit flustered. She looks back at the screen again, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

“Oh, no. No… Sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything else, but she doesn’t need to.

You start to notice she seems worried. Too worried.

You see her swallow. Avoid your gaze. It’s as if she wants to tell you something but holds herself back. As if she knows something you shouldn’t know.

As if someone told her something and begged her to keep quiet.

Of course she knows something you don’t, you idiot, you mutter to yourself.

That only makes you more nervous.

“They told me they’d be waiting for me in their offices,” you speak again, your voice trembling slightly. Liar… “I think—”

“Yes,” she interrupts quickly, adjusting herself in the chair again.

“Do I need a badge, or—?”

“They asked you to go to the meeting room and wait for them there.”

Neither of you says anything for a few seconds.

You frown, confused.

“What do you mean the meeting room?” you repeat. “I’ve been coming here for years, and this is the first time I’ve heard that. Yes, I’ve gone to the meeting room before, but only for important meetings about shipments with—”

“They were very specific about that,” the woman interrupts, uncertain. “You know how higher orders work—”

“Why?”

The question comes out sharper than you intended, and although you want to blame your nerves, it wouldn’t be fair.

You immediately murmur a quiet apology and try to relax your body.

The receptionist presses her lips together and gestures with her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she replies, regretful. “I don’t have any more information I can give you.”

“Yeah, sure… Sorry, it’s just that…”

You’re a bit nervous.

The woman hands you the lanyard with the badge you’re more than used to wearing. You take longer than usual to hang it around your neck, using the moment to study her face, now trying to be the one analyzing her for any hint of what might be going on.

“Don’t worry. You’ll see everything will be fine.”

Sure.

You turn before she can say anything else, quickening your pace through the hallways you know so well until you reach the infamous meeting room.

You don’t hesitate to open it.

“Oh…”

It slips out before you can even think about saying it.

You expected your parents to already be there, but not him.

You freeze at the doorway, not daring to step in, noticing how he’s leaning against the edge of the table at the back of the room. His arms are crossed, and he looks tired as fuck. Not to mention it looks like he’s been waiting there much longer than he would’ve liked.

“Leon?”

“Hey… I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, straightening up slightly.

“I could say the same about you… especially not when I have a meeting with my parents.”

He avoids your gaze, and the two of you don’t dare to say anything else.

You take the opportunity to step into the room, crossing your arms, unconsciously mirroring him. You start to wonder if, maybe, you’ve gone into the wrong meeting room, but you know that’s impossible.

Your parents wouldn’t make that kind of mistake, and neither would the receptionist.

Besides, Leon being here…

“What are you doing here?”

Leon sighs lightly when you stand in front of him. He keeps his composure, though he can’t help the slight curve of his lips, almost forming a smile.

“Funny. I was just about to ask you the same.”

You raise an eyebrow, making it clear this isn’t one of the many casual conversations you’ve had since you started working together.

He seems to understand what you mean with that. Immediately, he sighs, runs his hands over his eyes,and  then crosses his arms again before slipping them into his pockets.

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

You watch him carefully.

You’ve spent enough time working with agents of this caliber, you’ve even been raised by two of them, to know exactly when someone’s choosing their words too carefully. 

You can tell when someone is lying, and that’s exactly what you’re looking for in Leon’s face.

You don’t find even the slightest hesitation.

If he’s lying, he’s very good at it, a skill not all DSO agents can show off.

You sigh, giving up.

“Well, that makes two of us,” you mutter, glancing briefly around the room you already know by heart. You’re not sure whether to keep talking, but… “Last night, after I got home, I received a message from my parents telling me to come here as soon as possible today,” you leave out the part about almost being killed, of course. Leon doesn’t stop looking at you, nodding, now slightly more concerned. “Apparently, it must be serious… considering I can’t even talk about this at home with my own parents.”

Leon’s expression shifts from concern to seriousness as he hears that. If he already seemed interested in why you were there, now he seems even more so.

“Are you serious? They didn’t tell you—?”

“No, nothing. All they told me was to come here. You know… direct orders from above, or whatever shit they say to look professional...”

His gaze lingers on you longer than necessary, but instead of making you uncomfortable, it sparks your curiosity.

You know there’s something more.

Even if he’s good at hiding it, you have the feeling he’s deceiving you, and that his presence here isn’t just a mere coincidence.

“That sounds… interesting.”

“It sounds like I’m in serious trouble, Leon,” you correct him, half-joking.

He’s about to say something else, but the door opening makes you both turn instantly, putting a bit more distance between you.

Leon’s the first to move, heading decisively toward your parents as if it had been planned. You notice how the completely relaxed attitude he had with you disappears the moment he walks past you, becoming much colder. He even adjusts his posture when he stands in front of them, placing his hands forward and lifting his chin.

“Sir,” he says, his voice lower and more professional.

You don’t move, but you watch as they begin to talk. Their voices are raised, but not enough for you to catch everything from where you stand.

Even so, you pick up fragments that don’t quite make sense.

That they have information. That the situation is under control. That the timing isn’t ideal, but they’ll try to do something about it.

Unease suddenly washes over you as you realize you don’t even know what they’re talking about.

You take a cautious step forward, looking for a way to join the conversation without intruding too much. Maybe it’s just a private matter they’re working on together, some virus that appeared somewhere in the world in the last few hours, but you know that’s not the case when they turn toward you, their faces reflecting a mix of concern and uncertainty, along with a strictness from your parents that you can’t quite place.

“Leon, she doesn’t know anything yet.”

It’s your mother who says those words.

He nods, stepping away from your parents and looking at you with pity.

“What’s going on?” you ask timidly, fear in your voice, something that doesn’t represent you.

You don’t look at your parents, and the question isn’t meant for them.

You know Leon’s the only person in the room who can give you the answers you need.

The way he looks at you makes it clear that he was lying earlier. He knows exactly what’s happening, and you’d swear he might even know more than your parents.

Leon Kennedy doesn’t look at people like that unless the situation is very serious.

“What’s going on?” you ask again, much more firmly, demanding answers. Now you’re looking at your parents. “You send me a message without telling me anything, telling me to come here… and now this?”

You gesture toward them. And then, toward Leon.

“What’s all of this about?”

They don’t answer, of course, which makes everything even worse.

You narrow your eyes, feeling a mix of frustration and pain that threatens to make you break down, tears threatening to spill.

“You didn’t even call me after the engagement with Mark,” you keep going on. “You didn’t even bother to check how I was, or how my first days in the new house have been… And then you send me that fucking message?”

They still don’t answer.

You’d even swear your father lets out a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes when you’re about to speak again.

That’s your last straw.

You take a few steps and stop in front of Leon. The height difference makes you feel smaller than usual, but you don’t back down.

You lift your gaze to him and realize that, out of the four people in the room, the three who could give you the answers you so desperately need, he’s the only one who actually can.

“You know something, don’t you?”

It’s more a statement than a question.

Leon tightens his jaw slightly. When you step back, you see him glance toward your parents, as if asking them for permission to say whatever he’s about to say.

What  worries you even more is that he doesn’t even seem  have the authority to decide for himself.

“I don’t think I’m the one who should—”

“Then, who?” you cut him off, a storm of emotions spilling out. “Because, clearly, no one seems willing to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Your voice echoes through the room.

“Tell me what’s happening, because if you don’t, I swear—”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Now it’s your father who finally speaks.

His tone is firm, too firm, and carries a sharp edge you haven’t heard from him in years, except on very rare occasions.

Anger.

“What was I supposed to tell you?” you snap back, exhaling sharply.

“About the threats.”

You feel a knot form in your stomach.

“What…?”

“The whole situation with the emails,” your father continues. “The attack you suffered last night in the parking of the lab.”

Your heart rate spikes instantly, and the pressure in your temples becomes more intense.

“How…?”

“They try to kill you last night and you don’t even tell us anything?” your mother adds sharply. “Saying we expected more from you would be an understatement.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the stomach.

You stare at them, completely in shock.

No.

It was impossible. You didn’t tell them because you knew they’d react like this…

Besides, you didn’t tell anyone, not even your fiancé…

“I was going to…”

You try to find the words, a good enough excuse for them to believe you. But your mother doesn’t let you finish:

“If it hadn’t been for Leon, you would have been killed last night.”

“But—”

You turn toward Leon, your gaze locking onto him again.

“What do you mean if it hadn’t been for Leon…?”

“I was the one who killed the person who tried to kill you last night,” Leon explains. “I also put you in my car and took you home because you weren’t in any condition to go on your own. Not to mention the danger you were in, of course. Your fiancé was the one who opened the door and let you in,” he adds. “Let’s just say… he wasn’t exactly happy to see us show up together, especially not that close.”

You can’t help but curse yourself internally… not to mention how much you’re overthinking everything now.

It had to have been either your fiancé or Leon who informed your parents, which is exactly what you didn’t want.

“It was you?” is the only thing you manage to say to Kennedy.

He nods.

“You took me home…” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

“Yeah. I wasn’t going to leave you there on your own.”

You feel your chest rising and falling unevenly.

You try to process the information, but… it’s hard.

You don’t know what to do or say. You just stand there, between the three of them, feeling their gazes practically devour you, making you feel smaller and more defenseless as the time goes by.

“There have been multiple assassination attempts against members of the research group you work with,” Leon continues. His voice is calm, though you can clearly hear the professionalism in his tone. “They’ve also tried to kill several DSO members, field agents, support staff… basically, anyone with even the slightest connection to the latest investigations we’ve been working on,” he looks down briefly, shakes his head, then looks back at you. “In some cases, they’ve succeeded, but we haven’t made any statements about it yet.”

Your stomach churns at the thought.

“So…”

“We’ve been trying to track everything in detail,” Leon explains. “People, groups, possible BOWs that could attack soon… Redfield’s team is working very closely with us, although no one knows about it.”

“This has to stay between us, sweetheart,” your father says firmly. “We don’t know what’s really behind all of this or how dangerous it might be, so the fewer people who know, the better.”

“We still don’t have enough information to confirm anything,” Leon adds. “Every time we think we’ve got something, every time we track them… it turns out to be useless. They move faster than we do.”

“If we had something concrete, you’d know by now,” your mother adds.

“What does any of this have to do with me?”

“Everything, actually,” your father replies.

“But… Wait, no, that doesn’t make sense,” you shake your head, hugging yourself slightly and instinctively stepping a bit closer to Leon, who subtly moves aside to give you space. “I’m not an agent. I’ve never worked in the field…” your voice breaks, and you can no longer keep your composure. “I’m just a scientist. I do research, analyze data… That’s not—”

“That’s exactly why.”

Leon’s voice cuts you off.

You don’t even bother trying to argue. You know it's pointless.

Your mind tries to process the mess of information you’ve just been given. You realize that just hours ago Leon saved you from dying and that, somehow, all of this is happening because of you.

You’re aware the pieces don’t fully fit, that something still doesn’t add up… but it’s better than nothing, even if it feels like you’re suffocating right now.

Your silence, and especially your demeanor, doesn’t go unnoticed.

Your mother walks toward you, determined, softening her face in a way that doesn’t comfort you at all. If anything, it makes things worse, with that toxic positivity you’ve always been so used to from her.

“I know this is a lot to take in, and I know this is a shock right now, but—”

“That’s precisely why we’ve decided that, from now on, and until further notice, you’re classified as a high-risk subject.”

Your father’s tone is firm and decisive. He says it without any softness, leaving no room for negotiation.

He knows you to well, and knows you’d argue otherwise.

In fact, that’s exactly what you were about to do, but given the situation…

“Additionally, as of this moment, Agent Kennedy will be in charge of your protection,” he adds.

Those words hang in the air as you try to process them.

No one says anything else.

You turn to look at your parents, who are now absorbed in a conversation of their own, clearly not meant for you or Leon, whispering as they show each other reports you can’t read from where you stand.

Hesitantly, you turn back to Leon, who still stands rigid, his hands clasped in front of him.

He looks at you too… again with pity, as if he truly feels sorry for the hell your life has become in just a matter of hours.

You’d swear you even see him mouth a quiet “I’m sorry.”

“Why…?” your voice breaks. You swallow and try again. “Why’s he in charge of my protection? Why Leon?”

Of course, your parents ignore you, still wrapped up in whatever they’re discussing.

Leon, however, just shakes his head and looks at you with that same apologetic expression.

You clench your jaw and bite your tongue, holding back your temper.

“Don’t do this,” you insist, raising your voice slightly. “Don’t drop something like that on me and then don’t even give me an answer… What are you hiding from me?”

You see your parents exchange a look. Then you watch them gather all the reports they’ve been reading, slip them into a folder, and walk decisively toward the exit, without even looking at either of you.

“Dad… Mom…”

“We don’t have time to explain you. There are more important things to do in here, sweetheart,” your father replies firmly.

“We can meet another time—”

“I’m sure Kennedy can explain everything much better than us,” your mother interrupts, her tone softer, but just as firm.

You stare at them in disbelief, your frustration and disappointment growing.

“So, that’s it? You’re just leaving after telling me all this, and leaving Leon in charge of me? Just like that?”

“Yes,” your father says without hesitation. “We’ll talk soon.”

Soon.

They don’t say anything else, and neither do you when you see them open the door and walk out without even turning back to say goodbye.

You don’t even think about it.

You turn toward Leon, who finally drops what was clearly his bodyguard stance and slowly relaxes. You notice how his body had been tense, and how now he starts moving around the room until he sits on the edge of the table, crossing his arms and looking at you more calmly.

You walk toward him with determination, swearing he already feels like a completely different Leon than the one from just a minute ago.

“I’m sorry…” he starts in a low voice. Then he sighs. “If your parents—”

“What’s going on?” you cut him off immediately, by now with little patience left. Your eyes lock onto his, demanding answers. “Don’t bother softening it or leaving things out…” you add, tense. “I just want to know what’s really happening.”

Leon doesn’t know how to say it. He runs a hand over the back of his neck, nervous, pressing his fingers as if trying to release the tension he’s been holding in.

“Someone wants you for something not so good,” is all he says.

“That’s not telling me anything new,” you reply, exhaling sharply, a hint of frustration in your voice.

“I know,” he admits. “But I don’t have more information, I swear. You know that, if I did, I’d tell you. That’s all we’ve got for now.”

And it’s true.

“Does Sherry know?”

He nods without hesitation.

“And Chris does too, like I told your parents,” he adds. “We’re investigating everything: why some of the antivirals you sent never reached their destination, why some of the research you worked on was leaked when you never even talked about it…” he explains. “We think there are more people involved than it seems at first.”

“Are they connected? Do you think it could be related to…?”

You can’t say it.

Leon, just like Sherry and Chris, knows exactly what your current research is about, and why you’ve been keeping it secret.

And also the reasons you’ve been investigating them beyond the biological scope.

“The Connections? Yeah, possibly. Also with some of the files and the unreleased interview with Alyssa Ashcroft that Sherry sent you. You did receive them, right?”

You nod, uncomfortable.

But you can’t bring yourself to tell Leon that you never received any of what he just mentioned.

“And now… what? What happens? Are you going to investigate them, or…?”

“For now, I’m staying with you,” Leon says firmly. “24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Don’t take it the wrong way, but… you’re not safe anywhere.”

“Not even at my house?”

“Not even at your house,” he repeats. “I’d dare say you aren’t safe anywhere.”

“And you’re saying you have to be with me… all the time?”

“Exactly,” he confirms. “Except when you go to the bathroom, or want some privacy with your wonderful fiancé… I think you know where I’m going, unless you might want me to…”

You roll your eyes.

He can’t help but suppress a smile, which makes you smile too.

“Well. I guess the guest room will finally get some use. I didn’t expect you to be the first one using it, but…”

“I don’t think you’re complaining about it either,” he finishes for you.

You sit down beside him shyly, leaving only a few centimeters between you.

“I’m going to stay with you until we find out who’s behind all this and why, alright? I know this isn’t something you expected, but…”

“At least it comforts me knowing it’s you who’s this sort of bodyguard shit or whatever,” you blurt out, completely honest.

You look at Leon. A small, shy smile appears on his lips.

“As long as you’re with me, you’ll stay alive. Besides… we’ve got Redfield and Sherry on our side… I think we make a pretty good team.”

Now it’s your turn to smile.

“As long as no one knows what we’re involved in…”

“To be honest… that might be the hardest part,” Leon admits. His eyes narrow slightly, and his body language turns colder. Yours does too. “Especially considering who seemed to be the one who tries to kill you…”

That sends a cold chill all over your body.

You pull back slightly from Leon, nervous, but you don’t break eye contact.

“What do you mean…?”

“Sherry tracked the phone of the person who tried to kill you last night, and we found multiple calls from a burner phone near your house.”

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