I. YEAR 1

as the high slowly started to wear off, things started to get clearer. the first thing you noticed—besides his beauty—was that he was competitive. to a fault.

for every right answer you gave he made sure to give the next two. for every question you asked the teacher, he asked a follow up one. he seemed to know everything.

he was smart. he was good looking. and he knew it.

but what he didn't know was that you both were a match made in hell. so you started your own streak.

finding loopholes in his questions, no matter how petty. finding errors in his answers. sniffing haughtily if he got an answer wrong (that was like one time, so you regret not scoffing and coughing as well. it was a historic moment)

year end exams came. everyone breathed a sigh of relief as normal classes were replaced with study blocks. the classroom did not sound like two teens going into gorilla warfare with intellect instead of guns, anymore. just quiet sounds of turning pages and scraping of pen against paper.

that year you tied gojo as the 1st ranker of year 1. with the exact same marks in the exact same subjects, up to the very .987....E on that calculator.

and somehow, things got uglier.

II. YEAR 2

when petty rivalry escalated to him hiding your chem notes two days before the midterm exam—the ones where you had meticulously noted each derivation, each of the hundred reactions that made phthalimide , and every single word that kohlrausch had uttered in his lifetime about his freaking electrolyte like he was your grandpa leaving behind his journal—you finally snapped.

he topped the midterms.

when the devil works hard, you work harder.

you became quiet in class. no longer participating in his game of 'your 1 is 2 of mine ' . you observed him from afar, scheming the perfect revenge plan.

he tried to goad you when didn't rush to one up on him in class. "what? have you given up studying? couldn't keep up?"

but you held your tongue. even when you wanted to slap that infuriating smirk off his beau—ugly ass face. your time will come.

on the day of your physics final exam, you bumped into him in the hallway, scattering your exam supplies. he laughed at your clumsiness , absolutely unaware of the tiny pieces of parchment being slipped into his pant pockets.

later , as the examiners checked the uniforms of students before letting them enter the exam room, disbelieving gasps rang out. disapproving stern voices were heard. lots of groveling pleas were made.

the golden boy was made to start the exam an hour late.

you topped the finals.

that spot of 1st ranker was another tie for year 2.

III. YEAR 3

the last year of high school brought in new distractions. the other sex.

you were fixated on your studies though. you were determined to come first at least once in your highschool carrer.

it didn't shock you when gojo got a girlfriend. no. what shocked you was that he was letting lose.

he seemed to almost not care anymore. not about topping the class, atleast.

you would catch him staring at you, quickly averting his gaze when you raised your eyebrows at him. or just smirk at you in that arrogant way of his. it infuriated you to new highs everyday.

when before he used to spend his lunch hours studying just 3 tables away from yours, it was now spent holding hands on the bleachers with his girlfriend.

you scoffed to yourself whenever you saw them together. and you ignored the little voice in your head that kept chirping that she looked...kinda nice. with him.

you aced your midterms. yet the victory felt somehow... underwhelming.

it wasn't that his empty library spot taunted you or anything. it wasn't that you missed having an academic competitor. and it definitely wasn't that you were jealous.

nope.

so you said 'yes' when the school's notorious playboy asked you to prom.

and tried to shove him off when started to get too touchy and demanding on the dance floor.

and gaped like a fish when gojo satoru punched the dude so hard the fucker had a bandaged nose for the next two weeks.

and continue quietly on with life after that as satoru started avoiding you like the plague, feigning nonchalance.

finals rolled in. and rolled out . like the tides of the ocean.

IV. GRADUATION

the valedictorian sash was put around you on the graduation day. your speech was full of the usual jazz— motivation, a pinch of humour, a small effort at being relatable, and a whole lot of praise for the school faculty.

but the speech wasnt really your concern. it was the boy loitering against the tree away from the bustle graduates and their parents.

you stomped your way to him, breathing hard at the exertion, "you broke up with your girlfriend."

he looked up surprised. it wasn't really new. it was quite the talk of the school after that 'prom-punch' .

he shrugged as he lowered his gaze. you watched his cheeks colour slightly.

you continued, slightly emboldened by his reaction, "why did you let me get the first place?" he stiffened, almost unnoticeably.

you had seen the merit list. he was second in your year. so he definitely did care about 'mundane' things like studying. even if now he seemed to have taken a liking to acting like he didn't.

"i guess you are just better than me." faux confidence, the arrogant smirk, loose shoulders as he leaned against the tree. he looked every part the rival from your first three years of highschool.

but you knew him better than anyone. three years of trying to beat, sabotage, and pine after someone makes you quite the body lingo expert, apparently.

so you strode right up into his space and pressed your lips to his after saying "and i think you are full of utter shit"

and somehow your petty school rivalry became something more.

.ᐟ COLLEGE MIDTERM BREAK

you looped your arms around his neck, giggling wildly as he spun you around. the kiss that followed was just as sweet and rewarding after staying away from him for so long.

he pressed his forehead onto yours, " is the grass any greener now that you are so far away from this miserable town?"

you hummed as you kissed him again. "definitely greener. but lacks a certain blue." he grinned at that. then nuzzled your cheek. you whispered in his ear. "and my favourite rival."

and he made up for that by preparing worksheets and racing you on who could complete their assignment first.

much to your annoyance he did, the first time.

so you rewarded him , though much willingly, by riding his cock for an hour.

naturally, the next day you beat him by completing your assignment just mere minutes before him.

and he rewarded you by eating out your pussy for two hours afterwards.

and you swore you never loved him more(okay, perhaps when he did the prom-punch. it was iconic for a reason!)

How were the people going to receive his family now? How were you going to react to his return? It had been many moons since he had seen you, had heard your voice. What if things had changed now? He wanted to slap himself.

Ofcourse things must have changed.

You both had been barely sixteen when he had left. Two years had changed him immensely. When war had changed him mentally, the battle itself had changed him physically. Age had made him taller, broader. The nasty wound on his chest had left its mark as well. How could he expect you to remain the same , when he himself wasn't?

But he still couldn't get the image of the tears clinging to your lashes from the night before he left. The night he told you that he loves you. He had meant every word. And he still does. He had said those words aloud during the lonely nights at Awa'atlu, imagined your blush , imagined you smiling─ not your tears. No, he couldn't bear them. They had haunted his dreams for so many nights.

He had chosen his duty over you. He did not regret it. What he regretted were the circumstances, the timing. He wouldn't blame you if you had found someone else for yourself. Someone who wasn't a coward who left their best friend─ lover behind.

But he was. He couldn't bring himself to drag you into this war. He wouldn't be able to fight knowing you might be out there somewhere, fighting for your life as well. If there was one thing he wanted, it was to come back home to you. Omaticaya was your home, your family. He couldn't take that away from you, couldn't drag you away to Awa'atlu.

So Neteyam didn't know exactly what he expected when him and his family entered the village grounds again. The people had swarmed them. Welcoming them back with open arms. There was happiness and celebration. He couldn't partake in any of it, his heart beating frantically.

His eyes kept scanning the crowd, trying to find a specific pair of yellow orbs. The ones which he couldn't stop thinking about for the last two years. For a second he thought he was up for disappointment. But then his gaze finally landed on yours, as the world blurred around him.

You were trying to make your way to him, being pulled forward and pushed back at the same time. The crowd was eager and happy, swaying like the waves of the ocean.

And so were you. Eywa, were you happy. You had been up and running even before the horn fully sounded. In your heart you knew it was him. He was finally back.

Neteyam had been your first.

He had been your first friend. A friendship made on wobbly feet and with chubby hands. A friendship that had grown to hide and seek in the woods and playful fighting. Loud laughter and nonsense words that made sense only to the childish ears.

He had been your first hunting partner. When your father's had sent you both to train, you had been scared of the wilderness that lay beyond the safe perimeter of the village. But he had been a constant by your side. You had learnt to hold the bow together, learnt to hunt together, completed your iknimaya together. Stood by each other's sides' during failure and triumph.

He had been your first love. Somewhere between friendship and admiration, your heart had fallen for him. You had started noticing things which you hadn't before. How his smile broadened when you caught a bigger game than him. How his eyes sparkled in the glow of the evening fires. How his aim was so good that even older hunters praised him. It had all culminated into this sudden realisation. Something your fourteen year self couldn't quite comprehend.

He had been your first kiss. You had kept quiet , kept your feelings suppressed for months. Too afraid of losing a friendship that was more important to you than the possibility of a romance. You had watched as girls started approaching him. You had chased strength for so long, feelings were something you were scared to succumb to. You encouraged him to find someone he likes and follow his heart , all with a smile on your face. So one evening when you both were sitting in the glow of the nightime forest he followed his heart─he kissed you. It had been everything you ever imagined kissing him would feel like. Like magic and promises and a future.

He had been your first heartbreak. Almost a month had passed since that night. Stolen kisses and lingering touches had made your heart flutter. Secretive smiles were shared every time you caught each other's gazes. You were in bliss.

But it didn't last. The bud was nipped off before it could blossom. You had cried and begged him not to go. But it was a selfish thing to ask of him. Even you knew so. That it wasn't safe for them to stay here any longer when the RDA was hunting them. He had reassured you that him and his family would come back.

That he loves you.

So you had held into his words for two years. Imagined those words when tears had leaked out of your eyes during the dark nights. Thought about his face when your best friend's absence had felt too real.

When news had come that the eldest sully son had been seriously injured , you felt like you couldn't breathe. You had prayed until your voice had become hoarse. Prayed that Eywa returned him.

Soldiers had flown to Awa'atlu when Toruk Makto had called again. Battles had been fought. The people had grieved losses. All the while you held onto his promise of coming back home.

And now he was finally here, his legs swiftly covering the distance between you both. Your feet halted before him, as you met him halfway. He stood frozen before you as your eyes locked onto the wound on his chest. The wound which almost took him away.

Your eyes blurred with tears. You blinked, trying to see his face. The face which you had missed so much. Your hand's wiped at your eyes desperately, not wanting to make this reunion morose. But then strong hands pulled you into his chest. You fit in his arms perfectly , like two lost halves of the same soul finally joining together. You couldn't help yourself as you buried your nose into his skin, inhaling sharply.

"You came back home" the words were muffled and watery as they left you. His cheek rested against the crown of your head. "I promised".

Neteyam couldn't help the smirk that curved up his lips as he made a show of biting the fruit from between your fingers. He couldn't get enough of the shy smile that you were desperately trying to hide, but were failing immensely at.

"You are staring , Neteyam" you mumbled as you continued cutting up the fruit. Neteyam couldn't help that either. His eyes had become perpetually stuck on you it seemed.

You had changed.

You had grown stronger. Your gaze had become sharper. Youthful features had given way to distinct muscles and the prominent touch of adulthood. You carried yourself with surety now. Not prideful or arrogant , but someone who is at ease with themselves.

But you had also become softer. You showed your emotions more often now. Cried in his arms. Laughed in them too. You weren't afraid to be vulnerable with him. You embraced your emotions, no longer viewing them as weakness or running away from them. You gave your love freely now. Neteyam seized it .

He couldn't get enough of the way you felt in his hold, how soft your skin felt against his. He wanted to keep you in his arms forever . He had yearned for this. And damn him if he wasn't going to do just that.

You gave a surprised yelp when he pulled you into his chest. Neteyam's heart clenched painfully when he saw the darkening of your cheeks. So beautiful that nothing else mattered , except for the beautiful girl in his arms.

You relaxed in his hold when you saw he had absolutely no intention of letting you go. "I love you" his words made your breath hitch. He had said it a few hundred times in the past month, and said it at any chance he got. But it still felt so surreal to hear it out loud and not imagine his voice when he had said it the night before leaving.

"I love you too" you whispered. Your heart seemed to stitch back together with his every word. He had started presenting little gifts to you. Courting gifts, he said. Said he wanted to do things properly

It made your stomach flip. It was a dream long forgotten, buried within mounds of longing and worry. So when he presented his first big present, your throat had closed up. He wanted you to design your kelku. It was a bold request, a mating request. And you had nodded fervently.

Afterall you had waited too long. Yearned too long.

For Neteyam, so many things were just the same. The way you smelt , the way you laughed, the way you looked at him. Neteyam knew his own eyes reflected the same emotions. The first week, you both had spoken until your jaw hurt . There were so many things to say, so much time lost. He had shared every little thing about his adventures in Awa'atlu. Shared stories about his new friends there. Shared the stories about war and his injury, on your insistence.

He didn't want to make you unhappy or dampen the mood but you wanted to know everything about him. From his happiness to his pain. You wanted to share the burden. And Neteyam couldn't have been more grateful.

So when the stories ran out, the ensuing silence wasn't suffocating. So much had changed, but at the same time so much was still the same. You and him and your hearts were still the same. You were still his best friend, just as he was yours.

"I was scared. I was scared that you wouldn't come back. Scared that you wouldn't love me anymore." Neteyam kissed your forehead, the raw emotions in your voice made his gut twist. You both had had this conversation many times too. The fears still persisted in the corners, when the kelku got too dark. Sometimes it was him who was taken with disbelief and in need of reassurance. And sometimes it was you.

But one thing was the same, the promise to be there for eachother. No more leaving. Not without the other half.

"I will always come back home to you, because I still love you."

You had only one carry on, your passport and visa and your old cracked phone when you boarded the business class. The ripped jeans and mcr tshirt definitely made quite the statement. The food was something that you couldn't help but applaud. Highend dishes and expensive meat that you hadn't eaten for years? Truly a blessing. So imagine your shock when you finally stepped out of the cab and stared up at the literal mansion before you. You expected the queen to step out of something. But instead it was your mom. And her husband. He was quite the striking man , even at his age.

Your mom reached out for a hug. "thanks for taking me in." you replied as you avoided her embrace. She pressed her painted and plumped up lips into a fine line but complied. The valet took charge from there. "Let me show you to your room, Miss." On the way, He informed you of your new homeschooling schedule which your mom had planned without your intel. Typical. The room was as extravagant as the halls, which were decorated with paintings of dragons and fire. The luxury of it all was baffling you. And just when you thought you didn't mind it all that much, everything came crashing down. Because then you met him.

Homeschooling was easy and quick. So you had taken to exploring the mansion during the afternoons. That day you had wandered off to the farthest wing and as curious as you were ,you took the stairs which led to you standing infront of a door. The door was carved beautifully and you couldn't help opening it. Then you heard the faint sounds. Screams. You followed the sounds , your feet moving on autopilot. Your eyes widened when you came face to face with a man tied to a chair, blood both dried and fresh caked on him and pooling in the stone floors. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen almost shut. Your gaze slowly slid from the tattered man to the one standing before him.

White blonde hair, exactly as your mother's husband's. Tall and broad frame, the white undershirt stained with blood, scars littering his arms, knuckles bloody and bruised. Your gaze slowly moved up toward his face, and as if on cue, his neck twisted as his lilac eyes met yours. You weren't someone who was easily scared. You had seen too much of life . But never had you seen a gaze as his. Those weren't eyes, they were a vortex, macabre , manic. You flinched back as if he had raised his hand against you although he hadn't moved a muscle. The fear on your face made him twist his neck like a snakes—no dragons. Like the tattoo on his back peeking out from the undershirt. The injured man gurgled out something, but only more blood spilled from between his lips. He watched you watch the injured man. Your gaze met his eerie ones again.

You didn't think twice as you ran.

But that was stupid. In a city you had never been to, without your phone you were lost within an hour. But your brain didn't quite register as you staggered around. At some point you realised you had walked downtown, if the smell of alcohol and rotting food wasn't telling enough the plethora of pubs lining the streets with their neon signs was. You leaned against a wall as your fingers tangled in your hair. "fuck. fuck. fuck" you whispered as you dug into your pockets for some cash . Maybe you had enough for a cab or something.

"Sure darling."

Your head snapped up. "Get away from me!" You yelled at him, walking backwards. You didn't even have your knife on you. But he kept moving towards you anyway. "I said, stay back psycho."

"it's Aerion Targaryen." He said as if it was a casual greeting between strangers. As if you wanted to know. That stunned you for a second. It was a blur of movements from there. He had your back pressed against his chest, his arm firm against your windpipe. Not choking, just im-mobalising because the fear of choking from one wrong movement was enough to still you. He was trained. His voice was deep as it vibrates against your ear. "Now darling. I can take you back home and you will be safely tucked under your warm blankets within half an hour. Or I can leave you here where I assure you, you won't survive the night. Your choice".

And you were a fool. Because you followed him right back to his expensive car, and right into his lair.

The Targaryen's weren't ordinary rich people. They were , in layman terms, criminals. The elitists of society. Your mom was part of their world. And she had dragged you in too. You had screamed at her until your voice had gone hoarse. But she kept assuring you that you would not have to witness any of the dirty business. But to you all this money—the mansion and everything in it—was dirt. But she didn't understand that. She was happy to dress up and attend the different galas and events on her husband's arm.

You were required to attend as well. A show of loyalty to the Targaryen's . Your new family. When the fear of having a bullet put through your head for one wrong move, there was very little autonomy one could have. So put on the expensive gowns and jewellery and followed right along with your new family. All the while your step brothers gaze followed you. The talks ranged from business, to felony to murder. Sometimes the weather. The women laughed with eachother, the epitome of hapiness and luxury. Perhaps this was hapiness for them, they were born into it. You were an outcast. And they didn't hesitate to make you feel just like that. It was suffocating.

You kept your gaze downwards as you walked towards the restroom. Strong arms pulled you into a hallway, your heels making you lose your footing as your back slammed into the wall. You recognised the scent immediately, though his usual cologne was now masked under expensive cigarette smoke. You struggled against him as you gritted your teeth, "let me go."

But the sudden force on your lips made you lose your breath. He tasted like he smelt , cologne and expensive cigarette. Bitter champagne.

It was addicting. You wanted more. You kissed him. You reeled back. You slapped him. Your eyes tracked the small split on his lip, the blood lining the cut.

And just like you always did. You ran.

Not very far though. Because he kissed you again next month. Then two weeks later. Then next week. Then after four days.

Then everyday.

You were a depraved little whore. You liked the thrill of the chase.

On your 18th birthday he fucked you.

He said he loved you.

You booked your plane tickets the next morning while he was still asleep. Your fingers shook as your thighs ached. You kept glancing at the bathroom door every few seconds, praying for the payments to go faster. Your gaze involuntarily went to the large mirror. Purple bruises lined your milky skin, your eyes rimmed red. Your nails had blood under them. His blood.

When he slammed open the door and carried you back to bed for another round you didn't refuse. And when he said he loved you, you said you loved him too. And when your nails dug into his back reopening the cuts, you believed yourself for a moment. You imagined a lover—your step brother, and you imagined your life in college. And you imagined him picking you up from said college and then taking you on a date. Maybe one of those cafes you worked at back at home. And then maybe a family of your own one day.

Then the next day, when your lover was gone to manage the family business , you boarded your flight. Words couldn't describe the anxiety that threatened to choke you counted the seconds until you landed. You retrieved the small amount of money you had saved up over the years you had been living with your dad and checked into a hotel. There were bigger things to worry about. Like a phone , which you had decided to leave behind in London. And a job to feed you and cover rent. Maybe college. But at that moment, when your back touched the mattress, your eyes shut as your brain blacked out without a second thought. Safe. Away.

Things started to look up for you for a few months. You found some more odd jobs and a small studio apartment—a showbox really. You even signed up for a community college. You were over the moon. But you were cursed to eternal darkness.

Your eyes blurred with tears as you stared at the two red lines, so stark against the white. You threw up all over the floor.

The pills in your palms weighed no more than a few grams. But they seemed like the weight of the world. Your fingers trembled as you slowly brought them to your lips. You could. You couldn't. You couldn't. You hurled them against the mirror as small cracks bloomed on its surface, distorting your reflection.

Blood filled in your mouth as you bit into your tongue to hold in your sobs. Tears streamed down your face.

You didn't know what you were crying for. Or perhaps , you knew exactly what you were crying for. That was the problem . You knew. You wished you didn't. You wished he didn't.

A week later, when you came back from work your wishes came true. He was casually seated in a chair, cigarette between his lips. His fingers toyed with the pregnancy test as he looked up at you. You stood frozen. You couldn't help the tears that started gathering in your eyes. He approached you then , as if approaching a scared animal that could flee any second.

You both knew you couldn't flee anywhere.

"Darling..." He cooed as his thumb swiped against the apple of your cheek, wiping away a stray tear.

And when his lips touched yours, you couldn't help but press closer.

You had missed his warmth. You wanted to push him away.

You had dreamt of his touch, his taste. You wanted to run.

Your frantic heartbeat matched the rhythm of his. The outline of the gun on his belt dug into your belly.

You sighed against his lips as his hands firmly held onto your waist. Bitter alcohol. Expensive cigarette smoke. The underlying hint of his cologne. You wanted. You wanted so much. You craved so blindly.

He took you home.

You married your step brother. But no one dared question the young Targaryen prince. The next in line to the Targaryen fortune. No one who valued their life would stand up to the elite. In this world if you have the misfortune of not being the god , you either have to do it out of your own volition, or they break your neck—but they will make you bow either way.

He stopped smoking near you as your pregnancy progressed. Registered you for online college courses of your choice. In return you stopped trying into his business. You didn't want to. You liked the peace, the bubble you created for yourself. This illusion of your life, of him.

But when your son was born, you spiraled. Reality crashed into you. You screamed at him. You became hysterical. You didn't want your son involved in this business. You will not allow him to have blood on his hands like his father does.

So you tried to do the only thing you knew. You tried to run.

But you didn't go far. He found you like he always did. Like the red string of fate that you both were bound with. He carried you both back to your room , your son clutched to your chest. Your son, feeling his father's warmth stopped crying immediately. Fate really was cruel. You cried into your husband's chest, guilt clawing at you every time you looked at your sleeping son's face. You had tried to take him away from his father. It wasn't in your right to decide.

He never said anything. Because he knew he would find you every time.

You could run to the end of the world. And he would still find you.

It was fate after all.

The thump of the fine edged knife embedding itself into the extravagant oak table. All conversation seized immediately.

You chanced a look at your husband then. His fingers were white knuckled from where they were tightly gripping the knife.

"Return them all." His voice gave the fallacy of calmness but the small jagged hole that stayed behind when he pulled the knife back into his sheath gave away his ever present temper that still ran hot and white.

The most courageous one, the kings right hand Ser, spoke out. "But my lord, the last prospect has amassed huge wealth and—"

"Did I hesitate?" Your husband laughed. The well known cruel and harsh tone was enough to ensure no more remark on the subject. He did not wait for an answer as he swept out of the council room, no doubt heading to the training grounds.

Leaving you to deal with wounded prides and tattered dignities. And the half eaten apple .

You sat there for a minute—or two, staring at your fingers as they fiddled with your wedding band. You loved it very much, the red ruby was just as fiery as your husband and daughter.

When you glanced up though, the smile that had graced your lips at the thought of your lover and child had to be suppressed—unwillingly ofcourse.

"Ah..yes." Expectant eyes bore into yours , though they should know by now that you were not going to go against your husband's wishes . You were quite in agreement with him actually. "Do be gentle in the refusal correspondences." You swiped your hands against the soft silk of your gown, smoothening the creases that had appeared after hours of sitting stagnantly. As a last resort to avoid unnecessary altercations you bowed before the council "I bid you farewell, learned Sers"

You were greeted with the sight of your husband and your daughter. One would expect the picture to be peaceful —a daughter stitching and father sitting nearby engaging in polite conversation befitting their status.

But no.

Your daughter was fitted in a knights practice apparel, dirtied and sweaty from hours under the tiring sun with a sword gripped in her palms as if a mere plaything. Her hair was unbound, the white blonde strand catching the rays of the sun as they gleamed—the only indication that she was a girl at all. And her father was right there, his own sword pushing ruthlessly against hers . He disarmed her easily enough, pressing the sharp edge against the milky skin of her throat.

Your feet carried you swiftly to the particular spot where all these ridiculous events were transpiring. Though after years of witnessing them together at each other's throats , you were quite used to the madness of it all.

"Stop. You will hurt her." You put force into your words. Though you were quite sure your husband was physically incapable of doing anything that could ever hurt his little darling princess. But the word 'you' and 'hurt' in the same sentence were enough to make him flinch—very slight, almost unnoticeable— but he removed his sword from her throat.

But it wouldn't be your husband if he didn't get his last word in. Didn't leave his mark.

"Still weak." he shook his head as he turned to leave. You winced at that, watching him drop his sword on the hard training ground.

Your daughter was anything but. Not even the most skilled knights could stand before your husband for more than a few minutes. And ladies? unimaginable. Your girl though, she was a beast with the sword defeating almost all the royal knights. She was a force to be reckoned with.

But it wasn't easy to defeat the very person who had taught her how to hold a sword in those small palms. Who had picked her up when she had fallen down from the force of the blows. Her mentor whom she had learnt all that she knew about swordfight.

Your daughter glared after his retreating back. Her purple irises sparkling with rage as her whole body remained taut with tension. With that same clenched jaw and squared shoulder, she was the spitting image of her father. Down to that fiery temper that glowed white, hot just like the signature Targaryen hair.

In that moment, there was not any doubt that she was Aerion Targaryen's.

You immediately went to calm that wild temper, not wishing to be on the receiving end.

" He rejected all the offers, you know." She looked at you then, teeth digging into the soft flesh of her lips. But you caught the way her eyes softened slightly. Imperceptible, as is customary of Targaryen features to always be vague about their feelings—it is just that you had years of training in the art of discerning them.

You sighed when she nodded once. A win in your books.

The room was illuminated with the soft yellowish glow of the candles and the sweet fragrance of the perfume you always had to force your daughter to apply. It was not becoming of a lady to smell of lingering sweat and training grounds and leather.

A wide smile graced your lips , cheeks bunching up slightly as you fiddled with the ring on your ring finger.

Your daughter was asleep in her bed. And at the foot of it , seated, was your husband—his fingers massaging the sole of her foot as it stuck out of her blanchet. One could never associate the cruel, apathetic man with the one now before you, whose fingers were reverent as they tried to relieve the knots and pains in his only daughter's feet, despite the callouses that marred his own fingers.

"You need not be so harsh with her. She is ahead of her age." And ahead of almost any woman . But it wasn't the end goal. You clearly understood that.

"No. Not until her sword is pressed against the throat of her father." A beat of silence passes. Then he gets up.

There's humour in his voice . "Not long though. I felt it." Then pride. "She is mine after all. My dragon".

His arm comes around your waist as he guides you out towards your own bed chambers. You glance back over your shoulders once before the grand doors to your daughters room shut.

And as keen as your eyes have become after years of dealing with the Targaryen's and their inherent trait of suppressing their emotions—you do catch the way your apparently 'sleeping' daughter's lips curl up, almost imperceptibly, just a bit.

genuinely sorry for the horrid mess this is. I wrote it under an hour because I was procrastinating my hw. But girl dad-aerion nation WE STAY WINNING!

The council had only started to retreat and the way the loose strands of hair that had escaped from the bun were sticking to your sweaty neck was not doing much to relieve you of the summer heat.

That was when the royal guard had come, uncharacteristically out of breath.

"My lord and lady. The young princess has been mixed up in a brawl with the young boys of the commanders. Please come."

Confusion overcame you. Your daughter had never been embroiled in a fight before, never been the type to initiate one either. She was as prim and proper as they came.

So you imagined the worst, imagined her hurt and crying. Your heart had twisted as worries clouded your mind.

But your husband's rage was palpable from the way his jaw clenched.

From the moment she was born, screaming and tiny and red, he had been taken by the little being—wholly and infinitely. No one could have predicted that the harsh, cruel, ruthless Targaryen prince would sit his daughter on his knees as she slept against his chest . How His fingers would always linger in her hair just the way they did on your belly when she had still been in your womb. Or the way he would shift almost imperceptibly before her—shielding her whenever someone came too close.

He was gentle with her, unused to being a father much less to a girl. And he was protective. Mad protective.

He wouldn't let even a single strand of that soft hair on her little head be touched, much less let her be injured. No one dared to hurt Aerion Targaryen's little girl.

And there was no one more dangerous than a father who was convinced his darling girl was hurt.

You rushed behind him as he almost sprinted to the gardens where the guard had disclosed the information about the scrabble.

But the sight that greeted you made both you and your husband stop dead in your tracks. There were three young boys about her age. One was still lying flat on the grass. The other two were so badly beaten and bruised , eyes swollen and lips split that their features were barely noticeable. Their father, respected generals of the Targaryen army, stood behind their sons with their heads bowed.

And your little girl.

She stood there as if the world owed her—jaw set and shoulders squared, a single bruise colouring her cheek ,one braid undone, the cream silks of her dress dirtied—a clear indication of involvement in a fight.

But there was little left to assumption as to who the winner of the fight was. As to who her father was , as there was no mistaking that haughty stance and narrowed eyes.

Your daughter's eyes widened though, when she saw her father and you, demeanor softening. You glanced at your husband beside you then , wanting to gauge his reaction to this surprising turn of events.

His eyes were narrowed exactly the way your daughter's were just mere seconds ago, taking in the injuries on her face and her disheveled appearance. Then his gaze moved on to the boys.

You didn't miss the way the corners of his lips twitched as his eyes assessed their injuries as well .

"Take her with you to our chambers. I will speak to the generals." His gaze never left the boys'. You nodded anyway, beckoning your daughter to follow with a dip of your chin.

She kept her eyes downcast as you applied the salve to her bruised cheek slowly, the silence lingering.

The doors to the chamber flung open soon after, as your husband walked in. You got up from your knelt position as your girl climbed off the settee hastily.

"Papa..." She started hesitantly but he cut her off as he gestured for her to sit down again. With a timid glance at you , she sat back down again as your husband knelt down before her the way you were before.

"Do you enjoy stitching and needle work?" Your daughter's blond eyebrow's twisted in confusion, clearly taken aback by her father's stray inquiry. You knew he was not going to be too harsh with her—she was his world. But you couldn't understand the relevance of the question to the current situation.

"I.."

Your husband's tone softened a little at her hesitance. "Don't be afraid. Be honest."

This was the tone your daughter was used to hearing from her father. Confidence returned in her voice as she answered steadily, "No."

Taking her little fingers in his palms, he continued on with his erratic questions "—and do you like swords?"

She nodded slowly, colour rising in her pale cheeks at the admission. It was a scandalous thing for ladies to admit to. But it was him, who hung the stars and the moon in the night sky for her. Surely , it was alright to make the confession?

Your husband stood up abruptly then. You tried to step in, wanting to mitigate any potential damage and calm down his temper.

But when he turned back to look at you, the manic glint in his eyes and his wide smile made your heart flutter. He looked like a child who had just discovered a hidden treasure trove.

He addressed his daughter, though his gaze remained locked on yours as if sharing a secret, "No more stitching and etiquette lessons from tomorrow. We will play with the sword"

You laid on your side, one arm bent under your head as you took in the sight of your daughter curled on top of your husband's chest, uninjured cheek pressed against his skin. He was leaned back against the mahogany head rest, fingers curled into her downy hair as his other hand stroked the bruise on her cheek.

The smile that had curled his lips that afternoon was still present.

You sighed worriedly, "My dearest, she is a girl after all. How will we find suitors for her-"

"She is mine. My heir—my little dragon. Suitors will line up for her, not the other way round."

The pride in his gaze made all the protests die in your throat. With a strong grip, he pulled you against his chest as well , pressing his nose against your forehead. A silent gesture, but one as loud to you as spoken words would be.

A request, willing you to understand. And understanding was all you have ever had for him.

No one knew his tells better than you. No one knew the way he loved better than you. Not when you have been in the receiving end of said love for years.

He surely looked a fierce sight in that moment. With his whole world tucked in his arms, he looked every bit the dragon he descended from.

A father, proud of his girl. A father, willing to defy the norms and give his daughter the autonomy that many girls will only ever dream about.

You smiled despite yourself—despite the utter madness your husband was suggesting.

You had been aware who you were marrying, had been known when he had taught you how to fight. His stubbornness, his will, his craze. And you knew there was no stopping him now, not when his daughter was exactly like him. Not when he saw himself everytime he looked her.

His blood was running through her veins.

His madness. His skills. His temper.

And who were you to stand in the way of greatness?