Emma

Your foot caught the edge of the third step. The laundry flew from your grip, sending sheets and towels flying as your weight shifted violently forward.

You launched. Your knee slammed hard against one step, and before you could even register the ache there, the sharp edge another one scraped violently across your cheekbone.

For a second, the world just went completely quiet. You were crumpled on the steps, the breath knocked clear out of your lungs, staring down. The pain in your knee was loud and throbbing, and your face felt… numb.

"Doll, what happened? Are you okay?"

Jack’s voice broke the silence. You looked at him, his gaze sweeping over the scene. Because of his leg, he couldn't just drop to his knees or rush up the stairs to scoop you up; he had to take each step deliberately. The frustration of his own physical limitations was already written in the tight line of his jaw.

"I'm fine!" you managed, your voice sounding small. "Just... dropped the towels. And added another bruise to the collection." You tried to laugh, pulling yourself up to sit straight.

Jack reached the step just below you. "Don't move. Stay exactly where you are."

His tone was rigid. Stripped of all warmth.

"Jack, seriously, it’s just a scrape—"

"I said, don't move," he snapped, his fingers gently but firmly clamping onto your chin to tilt your face upward into the dim stairwell light.

That was when you felt it. A strange trickling sensation creeping down your cheek. Something dripped past your jawline. You reached up to touch it, but Jack caught your wrist mid air, holding it tightly away from your face.

But your fingers were already stained red.

"Oh," you whispered, the adrenaline suddenly spiking. "That's... blood." You tried to deflect with a nervous laugh. "Does the cut matches the bruise on my knee? A matching set for the collection. I'm keeping you in business, Doc."

Jack didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.

"Shut up," he said. "Don't make a joke out of this."

"Jack, I'm just trying to—"

"I don't care what you're trying to do." He snapped, letting go of your chin. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly against your cheek. "Apply pressure. Hold it there."

You took over, pressing the cloth to your face, the sting finally waking up beneath the numbness. "Don't talk to me like that. I just tripped."

"Because you were running! How many times do I have to ask you to slow down?" Jack’s hands were trembling slightly. "You treat your own safety like it’s a punchline. 'Another bruise to the collection.' Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to hear a crash and know I can't run down there to catch you? Do you know what went through my head when I saw you lying here?"

His voice cut through your defense mechanism. You looked at him, he was angry and terrified. And, you knew, he was trapped by a body that wouldn't let him be the protector he desperately wanted to be.

"I wasn't trying to minimize it," you said softly. "I joke because I'm embarrassed, Jack. I'm clumsy, and I hate that I make you worry."

"I don't care about being worried," Jack replied. "I care about you being safe. I spend all day at the hospital patching up people who didn't see the accident coming. And you... you're rushing through our own home like you're invincible. And I can't... if something happens to you, I can't get to you fast enough. You know that."

The silence returned, heavier this time.

Jack gently reached out, taking your hand away from the handkerchief to check the bleeding. The edge of the cut was clean, but it was deep enough that it would probably need a few butterflies, if not a stitch or two.

"It needs to be cleaned properly," he murmured. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah," you whispered, wincing as you shifted your weight onto your bruised knee. "I can stand."

"Good." Jack took a deep breath. Once he was stable on his good leg, he offered you his hand. "Let's go fix you up. No more jokes."

"Okay. No more jokes," you agreed, letting him pull you up into the kitchen.

Jack guided you to a stool by the kitchen island. Without a word, he moved around, pulling a first-aid kit from the cabinet and grabbing a damp washcloth from the sink.

"Keep pressure on it," he ordered softly, setting the kit down.

When he turned back to you, he pulled up another stool, carefully positioning his stiff leg out to the side so he could sit close enough to work.

"Okay, take the cloth away. Let me look."

You pulled the blood soaked handkerchief from your cheek. Almost instantly, a fresh crimson stream welled up from the split in your skin, tracing a rapid path down your jaw and dripping onto your collarbone.

Jack’s brow furrowed. He took the damp washcloth and gently tapped around the wound, trying to clear the area to see the actual depth of the laceration. "Hold still. I know it hurts."

The cold water hit the raw nerves, and you gasped, leaning back instinctively. "It stings—god, Jack."

"I know, I know. Don't pull away from me." His hand was firm on the back of your neck, holding you in place. But as he wiped a fresh layer of blood away, the wound immediately filled again, spilling over. The edge of the step had sliced deep, right over the prominent curve of your cheekbone where the skin was tight.

He waited a beat, pressing a clean piece of sterile gauze against it, counting silently under his breath. One minute. Two minutes. When he pulled it back to check, the blood welled up just as fast. It wasn't clotting. The edge of the cut was jagged, grinning open in a way that made his stomach do a sick flip.

Jack let out a frustrated breath. He didn't say anything, but the professional shift in his posture told you everything.

His ER doctor self had completely taken over.

"I-Is it bad?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"It’s deep," Jack said, his voice felt cold. "It tore right through the dermal layer. It’s too wide for butterflies, and because of the location on your face, it’s going to keep opening every time you talk or blink. I can't close this here. It needs a layered suture, and it won't stop bleeding until it gets one."

He packed a thick stack of sterile gauze against your cheek, taking your hand and forcing your fingers to hold it there with heavy pressure.

"We're going to the hospital," he said, already standing up. The sudden movement made his brace click sharply.

"Jack, can't you just do it? You have a kit, you're a doctor—"

"I don't have a local anesthetic or the proper fine gauge monofilament sutures in the kitchen cabinet," he snapped, his voice cracking with sudden panic. He grabbed his car keys and his and your jacket from the hook by the door. "If I try to patch this up with what I have here, you’re going to end up with a massive scar on your face. We’re going to the hospital. Now."

The drive was quiet. He kept his hand firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road, while you sat in the passenger seat, pressing the now heavy gauze to your face.

You looked over at his profile, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle was jumping in his cheek.

"Jack," you whispered, the movement pulling painfully at the cut. "I'm sorry."

He didn't look at you, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Just keep pressure on the wound, please. We're almost there."

-

The doors of The Pitt hissed open, swallowing you both into the familiar air of the emergency department.

Tonight, you were the intake.

"Jack? What the hell happened?"

Robby said from behind the central desk, his eyes darting instantly from Jack’s tense face down to you. He saw the blood soaked gauze you were holding tightly against your cheek and the dark stain on your collar.

"She took a fall on the stairs," Jack said, sounding entirely professional, though the tight grip he kept on your elbow betrayed him. "Laceration to the zygomatic arch. It’s deep. It’s been bleeding consistently for minutes. I couldn’t get it to clot at home."

"Alright, let's get her into Room 4, it's empty," Robby said, immediately stepping into gear, stepping beside you. "Can you walk okay? Did you hit your head? Lose consciousness?"

"My knee is a little banged up, but my head is fine," you muttered around the cloth, feeling a flush of embarrassment as a couple of nurses glanced your way. "Just... really clumsy."

Robby guided you onto the examination bed. "Let’s take a look."

You layed down and slowly pulled the gauzes away. Without the constant pressure, a fresh bead of dark blood immediately welled up. Robby leaned in, using a piece of sterile gauze to gently dab the edges of the wound. He winced slightly, assessing the deep split over the bone.

"Yeah, you really did a number on this," Robby murmured. "It’s a clean tear but it’s deep. It’s definitely going to need a few sutures. I'll get the lidocaine and—"

"I'll do it," Jack interrupted.

Robby paused, looking up at Jack, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Brother, you know the protocol," Robby said softly. "You don't treat family. Let me handle it. I'll make the lines clean, I promise."

"It’s my wife, Robby." Jack said, he stepped closer to the bedside, his eyes locked on the wound. "I’m doing the stitches. I need to do them."

The two doctors locked eyes for a long moment. Robby knew Jack, he knew his friend's frustrations, he knew how much Jack hated feeling helpless.

Letting Jack treat you wasn't standard, but Robby knew that forcing Jack to stand by and watch someone else patch you up would be worse.

Robby sighed, stepping back. "Fine. But I'm staying in the room to assist. And if your hands shake even a millimeter, I'm taking the needle."

"They won't shake," Jack said.

He moved to the side of the bed, carefully adjusting the stool so his rigid leg could extend comfortably.

Jack snap on a pair of sterile gloves, and when he pulled the tray of instruments closer, where a nurse put all the necessary.

"Look at me," Jack murmured softly. He picked up the syringe of lidocaine. "This is going to burn. A lot. Hold my knee if you need to. My good one."

You reached out, gripping his good knee tightly. He didn't flinch as your fingernails dug into his skin. "Okay, you're going to feel a little pinch."

The needle pierced the edge of the cut, and a sharp burning sensation flared across your cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut, gasping as the medicine flooded the tissue. Jack’s was completely steady as he repositioned the needle to numb the entire perimeter of the wound.

Within a minute, the burning subsided into a heavy weight.

Jack worked in absolute silence. He used a small suction tip to clear the pooling blood, exposing the deep layer of tissue beneath. With a needle driver, he began the meticulous process of closing the deep dermal layer first.

You only could feel the gentle tugging of the thread as he pulled the edges of your skin back together. You watched his face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes entirely locked on the millimeters of flesh he was mending. The anger from the stairwell was gone, completely replaced by an aching tenderness.

Every movement of his hands was incredibly precise, deliberate, and gentle.

Robby stood by, cutting the sutures as Jack tied off each knot. "Nice tension," Robby commented quietly, validating his friend's work. "That's going to heal beautifully."

Jack didn't reply. He just kept sewing, treating your face like the most fragile and precious thing in the world.

By the time he tied off the final knot, the wound was closed, reduced to a thin black line across your cheekbone.

Before Jack could even reach for the dressing supplies, Robby quietly stepped into his line of sight, a non adherent telfa pad and a strip of medical tape already in his gloved hands. "I've got the dressing, Jack. Step back for a second."

Jack blinked, the sharp medical tunnel vision breaking as he looked up at his friend.

He didn't argue.

His hands were just starting to develop a microscopic tremor from the adrenaline crash, and he knew it.

Robby offered you a warm smile as he leaned over the bed. He placed the small protective gauze pad directly over the neat row of black stitches, securing it firmly to your cheek with the clear tape. "There you go. That’ll keep it clean and protected. Excellent handiwork, by the way. You won't even be able to see the scar in a few months."

Jack dropped the instruments onto the tray. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, and took a deep breath.

"All done, baby," he said softly. "You're okay."

"Thank you," you murmured, with an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

The ride back home was calm. The dashboard clock glowed a late hour as Jack pulled the car into the driveway and cut the engine.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

"Let's get you inside," Jack said softly. He had the night off.

He got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and offered you his hand. As you stood up, your leg wobbled, and Jack immediately caught you. He held you close, bearing your weight as he carefully guided you into the house.

He led you straight to the living room, easing you down onto the couch. He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he returned, he was carrying a plush blanket, a fresh ice pack, and a glass of water.

He carefully lowered his weight onto the couch beside you and draped the blanket over your lap, then gently held the ice pack against your bruised knee.

Looking at him, seeing the dark circles of exhaustion, the faint smear of dried blood on his forearm that he hadn't fully washed off, and his unconditional care, the dam broke.

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

"Hey," Jack murmured, his brow furrowing as he set the ice pack down and instantly reached for your face. "Hey, what’s wrong? Is the local anesthetic wearing off? Is it hurting?"

"No," you choked out, your voice thick and trembling. You shook your head, immediately regretting it as the movement pulled at the tight stitches. "No, it doesn't hurt. Jack, I'm so sorry."

"Sweetheart, you don't need to-"

"I do," you interrupted, a sob catching in your throat. You reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I'm so, so sorry. I know I make a joke out of being clumsy, but I hate that I frightened you. I hate that I made you feel... helpless. I know how much you want to protect me, and I was careless. I didn't think about how it would affect you to hear me fall and not be able to just run down there. I'm so sorry for being reckless with myself."

Jack stared at you, his eyes softening.

He reached out, his thumb gently catching the tears on your cheek, careful not to touch your wound. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne.

"Thank you for being honest with me" Jack whispered into your hair, his hand gently stroking your back. "But you don't have to carry that guilt. I was angry because I was terrified. When I'm at work, I can control things. I have a team. But when it’s you... here... Seeing you hurt, and knowing my own body slows me down from getting to you... it scares me, baby."

He pulled back to look into your eyes.

"I know accidents happen," he said softly. "But I just need you to take care of yourself, because you are the most precious thing in my life. Okay?"

"Okay," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the edge of the blanket. "No more running on the stairs. I promise. I'll take them like a snail."

A smirk broke across Jack’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the first time he had smiled all night. "A snail might be a bit too slow, but I'll take it."

He leaned in, carefully placing a kiss on the uninjured side of your face, then another on the tip of your nose. "I love you, doll."

"I love you, my Jackie."

"Lay back, you need rest," he commanded gently, helping you settle on the couch. He placed the ice pack back on your knee and tucked the blanket securely around you. He picked up the TV remote and settled back against the cushions next to you.

As the soft sounds of a night time program filled the air, Jack's fingers gently stroked your head, lulling you to relax and close your eyes.

After a few seconds, you drifted off to sleep, feeling completely safe and secure in the tranquility of home.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

You speed up. Which means you know exactly what you're doing, which means this was premeditated, which means Bobby's being played and he knows it.

He goes after you anyway because he's never once in his life backed down from something stupid.

He catches you in the hallway, his arm hooking around your waist from behind. His chest lands flush against your back, and he's faster than you'd think for someone whose lungs are basically decorative at this point.

The momentum carries you both sideways into the bedroom doorframe—his shoulder takes the hit, he swears, you're laughing too hard to stand up straight—and then you're falling onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs, the bedsprings protesting beneath you.

Bobby's half on top of you, breathing hard and grinning, and he's got the hem of the Metallica shirt fisted in one hand like he's genuinely going to reclaim it. His rings are cold against your stomach.

"Give it back."

"Make me."

And the thing about Bobby—the thing people don't get when they write him off as just some mouthy stoner with a nice face—is that he's all talk right up until the exact moment he isn't.

The grin doesn't disappear. It just changes. Sharpens at the edges. His eyes go heavier, lazier, and the hand gripping the shirt stops pulling and starts pushing it up instead, his knuckles dragging slow up the curve of your ribs.

"Yeah?" His voice drops into that low rough register that sits right behind your sternum. Late light's coming through the window and catching his earring, the thin silver hoop throwing a pin of light onto the pillow beside your head. "You sure about that, baby?"

You hook your leg over his hip. Pull him in tight. Bobby exhales hard through his nose. Sharp, punched-out, like you knocked something loose in his chest. His jaw clenches and you can feel his hips twitch forward before he catches himself.

He kisses you hard. Not cruel, but not careful either. Bobby doesn't do careful unless you're hurt or frightened, and right now you're neither. Right now you're smiling against his mouth and he bites your lower lip for it, just enough sting to make your breath catch in your throat.

"You're trouble," he drawls into the dip of your jaw. His weight settles between your legs and you can feel exactly how not-annoyed he actually is, the thin cotton of his cutoffs doing absolutely nothing to hide it. "You are a genuine fucking menace and I want my shirt back."

"So take it off me."

He does. Fast enough that the collar catches on your chin and you yelp, and he laughs—this low, stupid, delighted sound—and then you're laughing too, breathless and tangled and ridiculous. Until his mouth finds the side of your neck and his teeth scrape your pulse and the laughing dissolves into something a lot less innocent.

Bobby's hands are rough. Camera calluses, sun-dark knuckles, silver rings he never bothers taking off. He knows what he's doing with them, which is infuriating, because it means he also knows exactly when to slow down. When to drag his thumb across the jut of your hip bone and just wait, patient as anything, until you shift underneath him and try to pull him closer.

He likes that part. Likes watching you get impatient. It's the same energy as when he's behind the camera, all steady focus and perfect timing, except right now the thing he's paying attention to is the sound you make when he finally slides his hand between your thighs.

"Bobby—"

"What's the magic word, baby?"

"Bobby."

"That's not it." He presses his mouth to the soft skin below your ear. You can feel him smiling. "But I'll accept it."

He drags your underwear down with one hand, easy, tossing them somewhere behind him without looking. Presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh, slow and warm, and then he looks up at you. Those ridiculous pale eyes, the hoop earring, the permanent half-smirk he can't seem to turn off even now, and says, low and rough, "You look better in nothing, for the record."

You tug him up by his chain. He comes willingly, grinning. Somewhere between his mouth on yours and his hand fumbling with his own zipper the cutoffs end up on the floor.

It was 7:30 in the morning, and you were happily devouring a stack of thick pancakes practically drowning in maple syrup, flanked by a side of chocolate chip cookies and a mug of hot cocoa.

Not exactly a balanced breakfast, but Jack didn’t even blink.

He knew your cycle like the back of his hand, and right now, the rules of nutrition didn't apply.

"Morning, sweet thing," Jack murmured.

He walked over and leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. He inhaled deeply, replacing the hospital smell with the comforting scent of your shampoo and sugar.

"Morning, handsome" you mumbled around a mouthful of pancake, suddenly feeling a little self conscious. "Don't judge me. The cravings hit hard today."

Jack let out a chuckle, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your shoulder. "I didn't say anything. You eat whatever you need to, love."

He pulled away just enough to look at you, his gaze instantly softening when he noticed the slight paleness of your face and the way you were subtly hunched over.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his hand reaching out. "Are you okay? Bad cramps today?"

"A little," you admitted, leaning into his touch as his hand found its way under your oversized sweatshirt.

He began to trace slow, soothing circles right where it hurt the most. The heat of his palm felt like an instant balm against the knots in your abdomen.

"Did you take anything for the pain yet?" he whispered, stepping closer so your back was pressed against his chest while he continued the comforting caress.

"Not yet. I wanted to get some food in my stomach first."

"Good call." He kissed the side of your neck, his thumb lightly sweeping across your hip. "Finish up. I'm going to jump in the shower, and then I’m all yours. I'll grab the heating pad on my way back."

You turned your head to look at him. "You just worked a twelve hour shift, baby. You should be sleeping."

Jack just smiled, leaning down to catch your lips in a sweet kiss. "I can sleep while holding you. Best of both worlds."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

You arrive at Ashford the way you do everything: early, quiet, and already watching.

The Stark party is not large. Your father sent you with a maester who is already sweating through his robes, two guards whose names you know because you bothered to learn them, and a septa who has not stopped praying since you crossed into the Reach. The specific gods she is petitioning are left unnamed, and you’ve chosen not to ask.

The tourney grounds are a physical wall of sound. In Winterfell, noise travels and dies in the cold air, swallowed quickly by the expanse of the North. Here, it accumulates. It bounces off heavy canvas pavilions and limestone walls until the bright, blinding quality of Reach sunlight seems to physically press the chaos against your skin like a weight. You notice it all without judgment. You will acclimate. You always do.

The Targaryen pavilion is less a tent and more a declaration of violence. Crimson silk and cloth-of-gold trim flap aggressively in the warm wind, a sharp, bleeding contrast to the heavy, deep cobalt wool of your own Northern cloak. A personal sigil is worked into the canvas in thread so fine it shimmers when the fabric moves; a three-headed dragon rendered in a way that manages to be both heraldic and appetitive, as if the embroiderer had distinct opinions about the creature's hunger. Two guards in matched livery stand at the entrance with the heavy stillness of men paid to be ornamental. One is handsome enough; the other, not so much.

You are escorted to a holding position near the edge of the Targaryen enclosure. It is the only honest phrase for it. The maester hovers, the septa mutters her endless prayers, and you watch the pavilion.

He comes out before you expect him.

You haven't actually seen his type before, but you've heard enough descriptions to construct a version of him in your mind. The gap between your imagination and the physical reality of him is what you notice first. You expected the swagger of a spoiled prince. What he actually possesses is a contained, intentional grace. It is the fluid, unhurried movement of an apex predator who has never needed to run because everything waits for him to arrive. Silver hair catching the noon sun, crimson and gold layered over his broad frame, with heavy rings on nearly every finger. He seems eager to have some type of blunt weight on his hands, as if the dagger strapped to his belt simply isn’t enough.

He is clinically, objectively beautiful. You keep that strictly to yourself.

He's speaking to a lord who is trying very hard not to appear to be trying. Aerion Targaryen listens with his chin slightly lifted, wearing an expression of such highly polished courtesy that it takes a second to identify the absolute contempt beneath it. He isn't looking at the man he's speaking to. He watches the tourney field, tracking the movement of the horses, as though giving the lord his eyes would imply the man actually deserved them.

The lord finishes a sentence with an ingratiating laugh. Aerion smiles, a sharp curve of his mouth that doesn't come anywhere near his eyes. The lord's laugh immediately subsides, dying in his throat, and he finds somewhere else to be within the minute.

What a coward.

You watch Aerion turn back toward the pavilion. For one half-second, his violet gaze drags across the space between you. It doesn't stop. It doesn't quite register. But the air shifts, and you understand, abruptly, that you need to lock in.

A man in Targaryen colors materializes at your elbow and murmurs that Prince Aerion would like to receive you now. You arrange your face against the sheer entitlement of it all, and move.

Up close, the jeweler's attention is suffocating. He watches you approach. He isn’t aggressive, but he is entirely devoid of warmth, thoroughly turning you in the harsh light to check the gemstone for flaws. You've been looked at before by men from your father's bannermen who thought a girl of marriageable age in a great house must want something from them. You know how to hold your spine under a heavy gaze. You look back sternly.

He recovers the gap with the ease of someone who has been performing composure since before he could walk.

He hums, a low vibration in his chest, before speaking. "My lady Stark," he finally says.

The pause before my lady is deliberate. You hear it, noting the condescension alongside the heavy gold rings and the hollow, perfectly cordial smile he is currently wearing.

"Your Grace."

You do not add anything to it. You were not raised to fill empty air with useless noise, and you are not going to start now to manage his comfort.

Aerion's thumb catches against the heavy gold of his signet ring, the metal scraping faintly.

There are lords watching. A cluster to the east, two more near the Fossoway banners, and someone important standing twenty feet away, attempting to look casual. You are both performing for them. You are both performing for each other.

The formal business is brief. Words about honor and alliances are delivered by the maesters in the dry, practiced tones of men who drafted the language carefully. Aerion stands through it with a rigid patience that somehow communicates utter, mind-numbing boredom. You stand with your hands folded and your eyes forward, projecting an aura that indicates you find this entirely satisfactory.

When the droning ends, there is a heavy pause.

"I understand," Aerion says, "that you have not attended a southern tourney before."

His voice isn't the weapon you expected. You'd been told about the cruelty and the incident with the puppets, expecting something jagged and sharp. Instead, his elocution is so thorough, so perfectly measured, that the melody of it becomes its own kind of edge.

"You understand correctly."

"Then you'll find it a great deal to take in."

"I expect I'll manage," you say, matching his exact, unhurried register.

Aerion shifts his weight, the stiff silk of his doublet whispering. "Of course. The Stark constitution is famously resilient."

"The Targaryen constitution," you reply pleasantly, "is famously… exceptional."

The pause before exceptional is the exact length as his before my lady. You watch him hear it.

He does not smile. The assembled, flawless performance of him simply halts. Then, he tilts his head, violet eyes narrowing by a fraction, and offers his arm. "Shall we walk, my lady?"

The walk is staged with the transparency of a morality play for the lords gathered at the edge of the tourney field. His sleeve is heavy silk, the kind that costs more than your septa makes in a year. You rest your hand lightly against it, acutely aware of the rough calluses on your palms, hoping your axe hands won’t rip the delicate fabric apart by some miracle.

"You have brothers," he says. You are far enough from the cluster of lords to speak freely, but not far enough to be private. The tension of the audience remains. "I've heard things. They say the second one has your father's temperament."

"They're not wrong."

"And the third?"

"A different sort of temperament."

"How diplomatic," Aerion says, his gaze fixed straight ahead on the lists. "You answer questions about your family the way a maester answers questions about medicine. Technically accurate and completely uninformative."

You permit yourself the ghost of a smile, but absolutely nothing more. "What would you prefer, Your Grace?"

"Honesty would be a novelty."

"I'm honest frequently. I'm simply precise about what I'm honest about."

Aerion’s eyes flick from the dusty tourney field down to you. "A valuable quality in a Stark."

In a Stark.

This little asshole.

"And in a Targaryen," you reply. "I imagine."

He turns his head then, bringing the full, crushing weight of those purple eyes to bear directly on your face. Aerion lets the silence stretch. His expression is a carefully blank mask, but the air between you suddenly feels thick enough to choke on.

"You've been briefed about me," he says plainly. It is not a question.

"Of course," you say. "Have you not been briefed about me?"

"Extensively. The reports were incomplete."

"Reports always are."

You reach the end of the stretch they've set out for you, turning together in smooth choreography to begin the return walk. The ambient noise of the tourney, the sharp clang of practice armor, the shouts of the crowd, the whinny of a destrier, rumbles heavily beneath the murmur of the watching lords.

"May I ask you something, my lady?"

"You may."

His thumb brushes across the back of your hand where it rests on his heavy sleeve. It is a motion so brief and so agonizingly light it might have simply been the friction of walking.

"What did they tell you," he says, his voice carrying the same unhurried, dangerous music, "that you should expect from me?"

You consider the trap for three steady steps.

"They told me you were brilliant," you say. "They told me you were cruel. They told me you had no interest in being managed. They told me you believed yourself to be something other than human."

Silence hangs between you, suspended in the heat.

"And," you continue, using the exact, flat tone you would use to note a change in the weather, "they told me that you had hurt people. Badly."

Aerion says nothing for a long moment, letting the raw accusation bleed into the bright air.

"And you came anyway."

"My lord father asked it of me."

Aerion’s arm flexes subtly beneath your hand, the muscle hardening under the silk. "That is a coward's answer from a woman who doesn't appear to be one."

Somewhere down the line, a horse screams briefly and then cuts off. You look out at the dirt field.

"I came because it seemed interesting."

"Interesting," he repeats.

"Most things are, if you're looking at them correctly."

You are nearly back to the machinery of the formal introduction. The walk will end, the performance will conclude, and you will not be alone with him again today.

"My lady Stark," Aerion says. He places the syllables carefully, like setting broken glass on a table. "I find I am looking forward to knowing you better."

The lords are close enough to hear a Targaryen prince expressing genuine, courtly pleasure at a prospective match. The escort materializes at your elbow to separate you. Aerion releases your arm with a slight inclination of his head, his heavy rings catching the brutal sunlight as he withdraws his hand.

You do not watch him walk away, because you are not that careless. But you hear the deliberate, predatory crunch of his boots against the gravel until he disappears.