#bitterbees

After that they talked to you, some with clumsy, halting movements due to unfamiliarity, others with a practiced grace that brought the smallest of twitches to your lips. Spencer happened to be one of those people, he would sit with you and his hands would fly around in what could look like a crazed bout, but you understood every gesture. He also found you to be one of the greatest listeners on the team, you would nod along with his facts, glancing up in a silent question for more. He gave it willingly, he always did. 

By the time you had been there a year he hadn’t heard your voice once, and yet he fell in love with you anyway. Or at least he developed some level of infatuation that had gradually grown more complex, the intensity of it deepening with every passing month that crept by. It wasn’t listed anywhere on your files that you’re mute, no psychological report of it, then again, there aren’t that many cases on you. There’s a county that you hail from, but it’s like your identity doesn’t exist prior to eighteen and in college. 

Not even a birth certificate to figure out your birthday, which you’ve remained tight-lipped on despite the many months of knowing these people. Getting information from you that’s about you is like pulling teeth out. You refuse to speak about your family, or anything too deeply personal like your childhood. You’ll give them favorite books, your go-to tea order, the detergent you like to use, but nothing other than that. Spencer accepted your terms and conditions long ago. 

The team has gotten used to you though, learned to recognize insults or curses spoken by hand. They laugh when you smirk after having left a particular good comment in the conversation. Your texts can be hysterical if you allow yourself to indulge in humor. Rossi invites you over to drink wine with him more than any member of the team, the girls use you as a scary dog for girls night because when you glare it seems to fend off the worst kinds of evil. Even Hotch has shrunk a little under the weight of your displeased look. 

Morgan will drag you over to his apartment for long gaming sessions since you’re the best at video games aside from him. You can anticipate his moves and back him up without a single thing spoken, but that sort of trust translates into the field too. It’s no secret you and Morgan are a phenomenal team when it comes to guns and action. There’s that other thing about you too: All your words are intentional, you know where to hit and you know what hurts too. So even though you don’t use your vocals your voice still has that sharpened edge to it. 

When working the case your voice is heard, perhaps more than any of theirs. So when you sign a hard no to them after JJ finishes giving the presentation, they’re confused. Hotch raises his brow at you, “What do you mean no? This is a federal case now, agent, you aren’t in the exact position to refuse.”

Your brows dip lower as your mouth presses into a slightly downturned line. Eyes hardening in a way they all have flinched under once or twice, Hotch shifts a miniscule bit in his seat as the seconds tick by before you raise your hands, “You all can go, I will stay behind for paperwork.”

“We need you in this case, what about it is making you not want to be there?”

“Location. People.”

“You’ve dealt with plenty of unpleasant people and locations, you’re going to have to give us something more if you don’t want to go there.”

That makes you huff, your frustration evident in the way your palms unfurl and curl back up again, a noise made in your throat that has them all flinching a bit. There’s no mistaking that noise as a piece of your voice, marking this the first time they’ve heard your voice in any capacity before you begin to sign again, “Bad relations down there, I will hold the team down if I go.”

Emily pauses, just for a second, “Wait, are you from this town? Is that why you don’t want to go?”

“Yes.”

Hotch sighs, “Then in that case you’ll be vital to this case. If you’re from this town then you know the people, the culture, the surrounding area. It’s quite isolated from everything else, although it’s expanded in recent years, not by much. How long did you live there?”

You’re most definitely sulking now, and very, very unhappy with Hotch, “Long enough.”

Then you pointedly fold your hands in your lap and he knows that there’s not a word more coming from you. If he’s going to make you go then you’re going to put up a fight the entire way, that’s for sure. Morgan looks at Emily, who looks back at him, then they look at JJ, who simply raises her brows. Up until now you’ve been a fantastic agent, always ready to go, never putting up that much of a fight unless it comes to discussing who the unsub may or may not be. You’ve never outright sulked. 

It’s almost enough to make them laugh, if not for the way you seem genuinely upset to be forced to go back to the town that they’ve never heard of. Less than two-thousand people in population, the county boasts a grand five-thousand something in total. There’s no doubt that you’re a familiar face, or that you’ll recognize a few. But to have your knowledge on the area, on the people, it’s unparalleled. There’s multiple girls missing, none found so far, but it’s enough to cause concern. 

“Do you know any of the victims?”

True to your pointed gestures, you refuse to so much as look at him. He has to resist the urge to drag his fingers down his face. Already you don’t use your voice, but if you refuse to use your hands too then you’re cutting communication off with him. He’s forcing you to go to some place you clearly detest, and you aren’t going to make it easy for him. He wants you there because you know the people and the land, but you won’t let it go for the fact that you hate it all. 

The ride over is uncomfortable, mostly because you refuse to look at the files and instead your gaze focuses on the clouds passing by. Nobody approaches you, mostly because your body language screams at them to keep their distance or you’ll flip your shit. Emily looks at Hotch, wearing one of those faces that conveys just how skeptical she is of the situation, her voice drops down to a low murmur. 

“Are you certain that bringing her along is a good idea? She obviously doesn’t want to be here, she requested paperwork of all things. You know how much she hates paperwork.”

Hotch sighs, he’s trying not to make a big deal out of it but you seem to be convinced that if you throw a fit then maybe you’ll get sent back home. You’ve never acted out of line like this, never requested to not be on a case, especially for young missing girls yet here you are. Determined to not step foot back in that land. 

“I don’t know what her deal is with this town, but we need her familiarity with the people and area if we want to get this done. Southern rural Appalachia is no easy place to navigate, the people even less so. Community is tight-knit, religion that ties people together. There’s a natural distrust of the government due to a history of neglect, the people often rely on each other and don’t take kindly to outsiders coming onto their territory. Hence why we need her, she isn’t an outsider, not if she came from this town.”

“She hates this place though, and she’s afraid of it. Look at her, she’s trying not to peel herself out of her skin.”

Hotch pauses to look at you for a second, the way you’re worrying your lip between your teeth, arms crossed and tense, everything in your body saying you’re ready to enact fight or flight. Not freeze though, because freezing isn’t an option for you, it never has been. Even though you’re projecting danger to them it’s clear that you’re the one who feels like you’re in danger here. He mistook that for you digging your heels in the ground as a way to make things difficult for him. 

“I’ll talk to her when we get there, she won’t talk to me right now.”

Emily hums, head nodding at him a tad, “You did upset her pretty badly by denying her apparent love for paperwork back there.”

“She hates paperwork with a passion like I haven’t seen in many other agents in the bullpen.”

“Yet she wanted it over this.”

They’ll find out what you’re so afraid of in this town later, but for now they keep an eye on you, the way you’re trying not to jump out the plane instead of landing. Or why you look like you’re being forced to walk the plank since there’s no other option to get off the boat. Something’s wrong here, but you aren’t giving it up. 

_____________

The plane lands a solid two hours from the community which is located in borderline nowhere. You’re in the passenger seat for once to tell them where to go because despite it all you still have all the directions memorized. Hotch sits at the wheel, his slight familiarity with driving in the mountains giving him a better advantage than most when it comes to the tight roads and sharp curves. Driving in these Appalachian’s (ah-puh-latch-en) is different though. 

These mountains are the oldest in all of the United States, formed before the Atlantic and before the continents split into their modern formation. These mountains are quite literally older than bone. The town is old too, originally it was Native land, then came the settlers and the Trail of Tears too. There’s a reservation settlement that co-exists with the town, it makes Hotch question if you’re Native, he wouldn’t be surprised if you are. 

After the highway comes an hour of backroads that has him questioning his driving skills every now and then because of how difficult they are to drive. It’s October which means that it’s leaf season, and if you weren’t shaking like one Hotch might’ve appreciated the beauty of the place. Because it truly is a pretty place, the mountains are drenched in shades of red, yellow, and orange, looking aflame despite the lack of fire. The air smells fresher here, even in the car, and it’s a pretty enough day that they can roll the windows down too. You’re the only one who doesn’t. 

Thirty minutes before rolling into town you twist your body to face them, snapping your fingers to get their attention. Nobody misses the way your hands shake when you start to speak, “There are rules here, you have to abide by them.”

Spencer reads your words aloud so everyone can hear them, they straighten up, no longer entranced by the pretty leaves and emerald foliage that wooshes by them. You raise your hands again, eyes shut, “Do not whistle in the woods or at night. Do not speak of the creatures in the woods. If you hear a baby crying and you’re alone do not follow the noise. If you hear your name being shouted and you can’t pinpoint the location, turn around and go back to where you were before. Do not try to investigate it. Do not leave your shoes outside at night, do not stay outside at night for too long unless necessary.”

You pause, letting that information sink in for them before continuing, “The people here are opinionated, they will be racist, they will be homophobic, they will not see you in a positive light. Do not pick a fight with the locals, if there needs to be arguing then I will do it. Most importantly do not underestimate or insult the culture here, or the people. You’re in their hunting ground, not the other way around. If we go to the woods we do not split up, and you do not go without me. Non-negotiable.”

Emily’s brows furrow, “Is there something dangerous there?”

“Of course, the entire town is dangerous.”

You turn around then, your silence taut and nervous, your fingers picking at your sleeves as you try not to think about the fact that in less than twenty-five minutes you’ll be back in the town you ran so far away from. You start to pray ten minutes before arrival, head bowed with your hands clasped in your lap. It is a startling sight to see your hands still and your lips moving despite the way no sound comes out. Hotch, maybe, should have let you do paperwork instead. 

There’s no turning back though now, not when the town comes into view. Old buildings from various centuries, the newest at least a hundred years old, they’re scarce and put together in one neat row. You direct them to the sheriff's department, which is ten minutes from the main town and also made of wood. It looks more like a cabin than a station, but nonetheless this is it. The sheriff emerges, short cropped blonde hair and blue eyes, he has a full beard and large leathery hands. Hands that know the weight of a gun and have felt the pull of a bowstring. 

He knows you judging from how his eyes widen when you appear, but he doesn’t give anything away immediately. Instead he reaches his hand to JJ, who steps in front of everyone with an easy smile, “Hi, I’m Jennifer Jaraeu, we spoke on the phone.”

“Yes, I’m Deputy Sheriff Luke Cochran, we ‘preciate y’all comin’ out over here.”

His accent is thick, distinctly southern but not like Georgia or Alabama, there’s something else there that the others don’t have. No drawl like they do in New Orleans, this is something more archaic due to the isolation of the region. Absent-mindedly, they wonder if you have an accent too, or if you even developed one, since this is evidently the place you’ve been born and raised to. 

“Y’all come on in, we got a little space to set up shop. Now we do have some evidence but not a whole lot to go on by. I got my men to gather what they could but truth be told in a place like this, there ain’t ever gon’ be enough information.”

The inside is warm, cozy, it was definitely a cabin at one point due to the layout of it, as if the fireplace wasn’t a dead giveaway to that fact. Luke leads you all to a backroom which is what must’ve been a bedroom, it’s large enough for billboards and a table, a little water dispenser in the corner, a couch to lounge on, and of course, a stunning view of the mountains. The forefront ones are still the picture of autumnal perfection, but as the ones in the back grow more distant they take on a blue hue to them. Coming in various layers that get darker the farther back they go. It’s a beautiful sight, one you turn your back to. 

There’s a box of evidence and pictures ready to be pinned up, right up there with a large map of the county territory. You take a moment to let it sink in that you’re back in the town you swore you’d never step foot in again. You’re standing with a familiar face, in a room you never thought you’d go into, your homeland staring at you from outside the window. You hate it for so many reasons, the comfort of it being one of them. Luke takes a moment to explain things to the team, you’re half-listening, half-drowned in the static rolling through your ears. He approaches you once the introduction is over, hand finding your arm easily as if there hasn’t been years between your last appearance. 

He smiles, strained as it is when his hand tightens almost imperceptibly against your skin, it doesn’t go unnoticed though, not to your team, “Miss.Awiakta, how long has it been again?”

Awiakta. Eye-of-the-deer, a name used by Cherokee people. A surname for you, potentially, which could be why they couldn’t find anything on you like a birth certificate. It never occurred to them that you might’ve changed your name somewhere along the way. You stiffen under his words, but with your arm temporarily restrained it’ll make signing harder, yet you do it anyway, “Better. You?”

His smile twitches, just for a second, “I see you’re still using your hands to talk for you.”

He looks to the team then, hand dropping from your arm as if it was a show of encouragement, “Has she spoken to any of you? With her voice I mean.”

Hotch looks at you, the way you shrink in on yourself a little bit from the proximity of this man in front of you. The way he had held your arm like if you couldn’t use it you’d have to use your actual voice to speak, “She talks plenty. Regardless of whether she needs her voice or not.”

Deputy Luke chuckles, just as he would if it were a well placed joke, except Hotch isn’t joking about anything, “A damn shame, she used to sing so prettily.”

You step closer to the team, uncomfortable with the attention to you now and the you who used to exist. There’s still a guitar in your home, it hasn’t collected dust, but it reminds you of what people used to hear. It takes you back to high school, to the talent show in Sophomore year, the last year you spoke really. You can still feel the stage lights on your skin, can hear your breath in speakers and the weight of the community staring back even though the lights blind you. 

JJ clears her throat, “If you could show us the evidence you have so far?”

“Of course, of course, right this way.”

The police station used to be a small ridge-side inn that people who wanted to escape the world frequented. It had bed and breakfast, two porches, stellar views and the promise of nobody bothering them too bad. It had been converted into a station after the owners died, a gift from their kids who didn’t want anything to do with the mountains anymore. You wonder if they regret it or if they’re thankful they have nothing tying them down here. 

They have you all set up in what used to be a suite, there’s a little kitchenette, a good bathroom, a small divider for the bedroom and the rest of the room. Not to mention the wrap around view of the mountains. It’s a gorgeous picture to see with one's own eyes, the misty fog rolling in and the array of colors on display, the way the clouds roll in to promise a light misting or rain overnight. It smells like rain, you can sense it in your bones that it’ll come. 

Inside are two boxes, the boards are blank save for a map of the area although it remains blank, but it details the county and the trails used, or where homesteads are. You know exactly where the house you lived in is on that map, marked by a small blue dot with nothing nearby for at least three to five miles depending on the direction someone points at. It makes you wonder how long you have until your family turns up, demanding that they see you or that you come home. Except coming home feels like a death sentence to you, and so does the idea of coming face to face with the people you vowed to never speak to again. 

Part of you itches to lock every door, shut every window closed, then to lock yourself in the bathroom with a shotgun locked and loaded. The other part wants to flee, to steal the car and drive all the way back up to Quantico because you’re safer there than you are here. If you did that though then you’d lose your job, get put on a watchlist, and then probably imprisoned or put on intense house arrest. You aren’t sure which one you’d prefer at this point in time either. It all sounds better than staying here in these mountains, being amongst these people. 

As soon as he leaves Emily turns to you, her face carefully neutral despite the way she’s practically frothing for answers, “I didn’t know you sang.”

You shrug, “Not important, let’s get to evidence.”

“Eager to change the subject are we?”

“Yes.”

Morgan, on the other hand, is already trying to see if Penelope can dig anything up on you for singing since there’s your actual surname to go off of now. It doesn’t stop their curiosity about you, and everything you’re attached to, in this town. What happened to you? They don’t know, it’s clear you aren’t willing to tell them either. 

The pictures on the board get pinned up, evidence passed around to be examined. Last known sightings, family details, boyfriends, living locations. All of it, and during the process you fall silent, not in the kind that is easily broken either. By all means things are going as they normally are, the team lulled into the pull of theorizing based on what the evidence presents, the art of picking patterns and connecting the dots. The difference here is the way the officer gripped your arm too tight, the familiarity, your discomfort. 

It is Hotch who decides to ripple the pond, clearing his throat to garner their attention while his eyes remain fixed on you, hands raised to talk in a way you find the most peace. For you the team had learned ASL, had learned the alphabet, then hello, and then by the second month they were practically fluent in your language of motions. Beyond learning it for you it’s made communication in the field easier too, knowing that there can be a conversation held with a back turned and lips sealed. 

“Do you know these victims?”

You hesitate, an indication of yes but you aren’t sure about that even, tentatively your hands raise, movements slow as you try to collect your thoughts, “I did, but it’s been too long to say I know them anymore.”

“Did you grow up with them?”

“Yes.”

“So you know their childhoods and adolescent behavior, we can start with Angela Hackshaw, what was she like?”

This time your hands don’t hesitate, “A bitch who slept her way to graduation, she’d drive three hours to get her hair bleached and told anybody who wasn’t deaf that she was going to be Miss Universe someday. She couldn’t point out Mexico on a map if she tried or cared.”

Morgan stifles his laughter like many of them do, Hotch is the only one who resigns himself to the fact that bringing you here might be a worse idea than he thought, “Can you give us any clear defining traits using the language of profiling? Not petty teenage adolescence?”

You shrug, “I asked for paperwork, need I remind you?”

“Fine, petty teenage adolescence but profile words, yes?”

“Deal. Classic narcissist with a low intelligence, believer of the grandeur and easily disillusioned, slightly sadistic. She believes the people around her are only there to serve her or lift her up. She only associated herself with people in positions of power and preyed on them too in order to elevate her own standing. Her greatest delusion was that she could get away with anything if she said the right words and batted her eyelashes just right. If you ask Officer Marks over there he can tell you exactly how she got out of a speeding ticket when she was seventeen.”

“What about Crystal Hayes?”

Your face softens at her name, none of the contempt you had for Angela Hackshaw present, “She was sweet, rode her horse every morning and every evening. Winter was her favorite season but she preferred Fall foods and sweets. She was good at math and entertained the idea of being a math teacher. A cheerleader, Angela was too by the way, and also on the track team. She didn’t have any signs of narcissism, psychopathy, or sociopathy, no history of mental illness on either side of the family. Her family, as far as I know, are good people, they own a farm.”

“Were you friends with her?”

This is where your face begins to pinch again, “My older brother at the time dated her, they were together for three years before they broke it off. She introduced me to ASL.”

“You didn’t know about ASL until her?”

“I didn’t know a lot of things Hotch, after I stopped speaking I didn’t communicate period. She was the one who taught me the alphabet, she had learned it over the summer when she was working with elementary schoolers, one was deaf.”

“I see, last victim. Kyle Paint.”

This time there’s something a little too close to grief over your face before you begin to speak again, “Annoying, but he wasn’t malicious. The football team, popular, he was friendly with everyone in the school, even the kids who didn’t fit in. Never made fun of anybody because of their socio-economic status, never failed to stop helping even when it wasn’t any of his business. He believed in hard work, being nice to people, and holding your ground.”

“You were friends with him.”

“I was.”

“Were you close?”

“Yes.”

That makes you shift, uncomfortable as all hell with the scrutinization of your past and the relationships you harbored from what feels like a lifetime ago. Kyle had been someone close to you, one of the few you left letters to when you decided to pack your bags for good. You didn’t get a response because there was no address for him to send one to. You regret it, not giving him one, but you didn’t know the address either so therefore you couldn’t. Maybe he’ll forgive you later. 

Emily nudges your side, drawing your attention again, “What was your friend group like in high school?”

You shut your eyes for a second, thinking about it, “Popular. I think we were nice, we never targeted anybody, kept to ourselves, focused on our futures, played sports and stayed involved with the community. We kept up with trends even when adults disapproved of them, we were out more often than not. There was this spot, it’s a locals-only known spot, the prettiest view of the night sky in all the mountains up there. And usually a base for hunting trips.”

Morgan's brows raise at you, “Hunting trips? You hunt?”

This time your eyes stay shut as you recall the many, many hunts you had gone on, “Everyone hunts over here. I learned how to shoot when I turned two, most people know how to hold a rifle by the time they’re five.”

Spencer was reciting statistics when he was five. You were hunting animals in the forest. Except it wasn’t an anomaly for the people of your town, not at all. In fact it was seen as normal, encouraged by many, only very, very few disagreed. It also means the unsub, who is local, knows how to hunt too. Of course, the whole town is dangerous. You weren’t kidding when you said that either. A town raised on guns, isolated with nothing to do but run in the woods and bring home a pretty prize, that boredom gets turned to skill real fast. 

You keep talking though, your hands faltering occasionally but never quite stopping, “Doesn’t matter what or who you are. If there’s one thing that unites the people it’s God, guns, and glory. You learn how to shoot when you’re young, and then you learn to skin something, then you learn how to gut it. Finally, you learn how to carve it up just right, how to polish the bones and how to turn them into something useful. When we get older we learn to preserve the skins, making pellets, make clothes out of fur, thread out of leather. Once we’re close to being teenagers we learn how to make the weapons themselves. It starts with knives, then it turns to spears, arrows, and finally, a bow.”

JJ runs her hand through her hair, mind whirling in how she’s going to deal with the people here, if they’ll even listen to the words of an outsider like her. They don’t take kindly to outsiders, that’s what you had told them earlier. Distrust of the government, neglect from the government, they have no reason to like any of you here. Except for you, because you belong. They do not. 

Spencer, on your other side, taps your arm to get you to look at him, “We need to talk to your old friend group. They might be able to tell us if there was someone hanging around them suspiciously or if they had made an enemy in the past few years since you’ve been gone. Can you give us a list of names?”

You blink up at the ceiling like it might give you strength before you reach for paper while Spencer finds a pen, then you scribble down five names, and you don’t say a word more. 

_____________

The next morning five young adults are sitting in a line at the police station on the couch in front of the grand fireplace. Because again, the station was formerly an inn, and nobody wanted to get rid of the fireplace. Besides, it makes for an excellent waiting area if the community has anything to say for themselves. You dread it though, god you dread it. Nobody comments but everyone notices that you’re a little worse for wear and none of them can blame you either. 

This is personal whether you want it to be or not. They themselves look anxious, hands wringing and glances traded from across the couch. You cling to your thermos of tea like it’s the one thing keeping you from throwing yourself down the damn mountain. As soon as you and the team enter, the energy changes, like the temperature has dropped ten extra degrees despite the chilly start to the morning. The police force present straightens, their eyes narrowed and yet they tuck themselves away, as if they might camouflage themselves if they do so. 

You recognize the five faces before you, five far too familiar faces that you had desperately tried to forget but couldn’t. There had been six letters sent the day you disappeared completely, no return address, no nothing, just a period at the end of the page as a final farewell. Part of you hopes it hurts for the sheer fact that someone cared about you enough for it to affect them. The other part hopes it didn’t so much as pinch, because selfishly that would make it easier for you. 

Hotch steps forward, hand extended, “I’m Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, thank you all for coming out, if you’ll follow us we’d like to ask you all a few questions.”

You observe them, watching as Kennedy is the one to take his hand and shake it for the group, her face painfully understanding, “Kennedy Combs, we’re happy to do so if it means getting our friend back.”

Spencer conceals you from the group before you all, so does Emily. Sure it’s a cowardly thing to do but you’ve also been dragged to your wits end within twenty-four hours and you deserve to hide a little longer. Even if it is just for thirty extra steps. Spencer, hands behind his back, lets his fingers move, catching your attention instantly, “We’ve got you, no matter what.”

Then you all start moving, for you it’s absolutely death-march. You’re family you can rage at, your friends who you abandoned you can’t even look at. Shame and guilt curl unpleasantly against your soul when you watch the backs of their walking forms. You left them, no warning, barely an explanation, you can’t imagine what they might think of you now that you’re here on the case looking for Kyle. 

They sit at the table and you inch closer to the door, ready to flee at a moments’ notice. They let you stand there, taking the attention by coming to the front. If it were an option you wouldn’t even be in the room, but as the one closest to them you can read their language and bodies better than anyone else can. You have to listen to their words to try and filter if what they said is true or not. Then on top of that, you have to be finding connections that nobody in the room can possibly make. Either they don’t have the skill or they don’t have the background. You have both, it’s on you this time to lead the investigation at a distance. 

In order sits Mason, Bates, Kennedy, Alex, and finally Nancy. They look older but so do you, there’s dark circles that weren’t there before, a tightness to them that looks foreign on their shoulders and faces. Luke is missing, they’ve been frantic, because if they’ve lost him too, then they’re down two people held close to their souls. They don’t notice you back there, they don’t know you’re part of the team either. You prefer it that way, out of sight, out of mind. They’ll give honest answers if you aren’t there. 

Hotch begins the questionnaire, and at first it feels like static when they start to speak. You hadn’t heard their voices in years, too hesitant to call, fear preventing you from dialing their numbers. The job forces the static to soothe itself, makes your mind sharpen to their words, pulling your emotion out of the picture when you do. Spencer’s watching you the moment you switch, when you swallow your history down in favor of throwing up the current version of you, the version he’s familiar with. He knows as soon as the interrogation is over you’ll revert, but the switch is something he hasn’t witnessed before. Not on you. How many times have you done that behind their backs or when they weren’t looking? They get to the part about you. This is where you fight to stay on the job, when Hotch states your name, asks what happened to you. 

Kennedy is, once again, the first to speak, “She disappeared off the face of the Earth, not that I blame her. Just, wish she stuck around to at least say goodbye, she left us letters the day she left. Took near thirty minutes to figure out what she was sayin’. I ain’t ever seen her writin’ look so chicken scrawl before. Wrote like she was runnin’ from the devil. I figure the devil bein’ her Pa.”

Mason nods, as if this is the most absolute thing in the world, “He was a mean thing to her sometimes, but any other time he was a proud father of a baby girl like her. He called her Little Doe, the whole family did, it was understandable too, she was a true doe up until Junior year. We all thought she’d marry James Cochran, they were in love, he was the kind of man who’d carry her grocery bags and season her iron skillets because she loved to cook, she did. She was damn good at it too, she’d invite us for parties, and ain’t none of us ever wanted to say no to her. But then we hit sixteen, and it was like she was shedding knuckle velvet.”

He turns to Bates, nudging the man who breathes in deeply, “We all knew something bad happened to her, but she wouldn’t say, only her Pa got worse too. Her siblings were just as confused as us, not Tiffany, she’s the oldest sister, she seemed to hate her overnight. Not in that rival sister kind of hate, but the kind where one was hoping the other got lost in the woods or heard their name in the dark. Which didn’t sit right with none of us, Tiff had always been close, then she was vindictive. Mean as all hell, thought she’d flown off the damn handle.”

Nancy clears her throat, shifting to straighten her back under the attention she has, “She was the best at hunting out of all of us.”

There’s a murmur of approval, nods and quiet snaps of their fingers. Your stomach turns viciously, they don’t hate you, they don’t hate you at all. They’re remembering you like you’re dead instead, like you’re a ghost who’s been beside them this whole time. As if you haven’t been in Quantico, living your life out in Washington D.C. Not a whole spiritual layer of existence away. There’s no room for your discomfort though, Nancy presses on, she always does. 

“If she wanted to disappear, then by god she was going to disappear. Just like a doe. She could run through that forest and not a thing would snap under her foot, she’d do it too, just run. She spent more time in that forest than anybody ever did, and when she hunted, you prayed for that animal instead. Once she had a target, once she took off running, that bow on her back, you’d know that dinner was about to be fantastic. I ain’t ever seen her lose an animal unless it’s on purpose, some ah, some people would use her as a threat. Loosely of course, they’d say shit like ‘I’ll sick Little Doe on you’, at first it was a joke.”

This is where you want to bury yourself in that fucking forest, light yourself on fire along the way to take it all with you. Part of you is that forest, it forever has a piece of you claimed into its hills and steep cliffs, the rounded peaks and the hidden caves behind waterfalls. It was you at some point, just as part of you is always it. That piece never left the mountains, that piece is somewhere running through the tall trees and clear streams, never stopping, forever content. 

“After she went silent people started sayin’ things, odd things, of course they just thought she was sad, and nobody blamed her for that. Again, her Ma and Pa were a piece of work, they thought she was just tired out from them. What changed was the hunting. We didn’t notice at first, we brushed it off. But, she was getting more precise, more deadly, the way she skinned things. She developed a signature. The arrows she made, she made ‘em a special way, if you were in the woods and you found her arrow notch in the trees you had better make a choice, and a good one too. You could keep going, encroach on her territory, risk a night of hell, or turn around, go right back to where you came from.”

Hotch holds his hand up, “Wait, she shot at people?”

Alex snorts, “Oh yeah, she never got close enough to hurt, she made sure of that. She’d make sure she was close though, that you had offered yourself up as bait for her to practice her skills. By the time you’d come to realize what you had willingly walked into, it was too late, it’d be dark, and she’d be ready. You wouldn't, you’d run, she’d let you, but she’d still chase you. Following you in the pitch dark, out in the woods, the mountains, sometimes you’d stumble into one of the arrows she had left from earlier. It’d get worse from there, but by midnight she was gone, and it was up to you to get out of there.”

“How often did this occur?”

“Depends on who you were, and what you were there for. If you wanted to just be left alone, to just be there with the trees, she’d leave you alone, she might even leave a piece of game for you to take home. Or berries, something good, and once you got your gift it was time for you to turn around and go home. Now, if you were there to have sex, to vandalize, to do anything that disturbed the forest, it was fair game for her. It was all about intention.”

“Was there anybody particularly scorned by her throughout high school?”

“Oh plenty of people, but at the end of the day, she had put her warnings, she had given you a chance. You took it anyway, you knew what you were getting yourself into. We can give you a list of people who were particularly butthurt about this ordeal.”

“Butthurt? They were hunted.”

Kennedy shrugs, “Things work differently here, agent, no offense. But this? She had issued the threat of it after stupid Matthew Hale kept stealing her kills as a way to flirt with her. It’s a big, big issue to keep stealing someone’s kills, she hunted him down as fair game, he never stole another kill again. In high school, occasionally, people would get together, force someone into her neck of the woods, and that’d usually get them straightened out. She was angry, and people found use for it. Are we scared of her ability to hunt so precisely? Absolutely. But we are more proud of her ability to judge someone’s character and act accordingly than that.”

Mason cuts in, eyes steeled right at Hotch, “Whatever happened to her made her a legend when it came to hunting. It gave her the outlet for killing whoever did whatever to her, the town let her have that. She never harmed nobody unless it was deserved, she only helped and provided, still a doe despite shedding her velvet.”

Hotch doesn’t look at you, nobody does, “And then she left.”

“Yesser, it was June 25th, 2004. Nothing out of the ordinary, one day she was here, the next she was gone. Mostofer’ things left behind, car abandoned by the side of the road, no white cloth in the window. None of her things, no gas, just the car, and that’s where the trail ends. No reports of her hitch hiking, no reports of seeing her in the town over, it just goes cold. Uhm, Kennedy has the car still, sometimes we sit in it, most of the time it stays locked. We found our letters that night, she had left them in our houses with her keys in the envelope.”

“She had keys to your homes?”

“Of course, she hated staying with her parents, she was with us more than them, and for us it was anything to keep her out of the woods for a night or prevent her from being beat. God if you’d seen the bruises her folks left on her, we all knew they were there, think her Pa strangled her bad sometimes too, was why she didn’t speak, always wore a collar too. Never showed her neck again. Refused to swim too, and lord she loved the sun. It was June, we had plans to go to the beach soon.”

You can’t bear to hear anything else, instead you turn and open the door, ever so silently letting it shut before you take off for outside. Your heart is going too fast, your mind spinning in obscurity as your past is thrown up against the wall for all to see. The hunting, the barely restrained violence. When you meant you’d end up on their table, you meant it as you being the unsub. If one thing went wrong, you’d be behind bars instead of putting people behind them. 

Everything is wrong. Wrong. Your friends who you abandoned, thinking you’re dead, or alive and treating you as if you died. Like you’re someone to be commemorated. The hunt still thrums in your veins, the urge to run in any direction rampant in your system. You could, you know you’d find a way to manage, that you could return and the thrilling terror would return. Somehow you stay rooted to your spot outside the building where nobody can see you. If you shut your eyes it’s just you and the forest, nothing else. 

Time stills for you. Sixteen falls, away, the dagger and the warmth of blood on your cheek. It’s you, the forest, and everything else is gone. In the moment of stillness, you allow your senses to stretch as far as they can. Your friends joked that you weren’t fully human sometime ago, just because of how well you could sense things. You can smell people and trees, you can smell there’s squirrels, birds, the rain is coming closer, maybe thirty minutes away, a bear came through too. You can hear gravel turning over, footsteps from inside, people talking at the coffee machine and a pair laughing with each other. You make sure you can’t hear the voices in the room. The senses of a doe. A gift, just as it is a curse. 

The five of them are getting up, leaving, you make sure you’re not somewhere they can see you, and if they try to find you then it’s true you’ll vanish, they won’t be able to. You know like you know your hand that you haven’t lost your skill for it.

As soon as you know the coast is clear you make your way back, senses going in and out before you enter the room. It feels like you’re fighting your way through sludge, as if someone is suffocating you badly. Your friends were here, they told the team of what you did, and there’s no way you can lie to them and say you’d never want it again. Some days you want it more than anything. That’s who you are. What you are. Little Doe. 

They look at each other once they see you. That blank look in your eye concerning, your skin pallid, it’s so evidently clear that you aren’t fine. Yet you raise your hands anyway, “Sorry.”

Despite all of it, they still don’t have your timeline, they don’t know what happened when you were sixteen that made you snap so badly. You never harmed, you just chased, but you were clearly respected in the community, even feared from the sound of it. A hunter too good at the skill, a small isolated town where grudges ran deep and spanned generations, and the combination of a rage towards a group of local unknowns. It was a deadly combination, and who’s to say besides you that you never actually killed somebody? You could’ve, and it’s clear you could get away with it too. 

As if sensing their thoughts your trembling hands raise again, “I never killed, I never touched any of them. I let them know I was near, that just when they started to feel safe, I needed to remind them they weren’t. Some people wanted me to go through with it, but I never did. I treated everyone who I felt deserved it the exact same. I’m sorry.”

Hotch is the one to force you to drink water, waiting until you’ve had a few gulps before he speaks again, “I know you don’t want to talk about it but we need that story. This unsub could very well be initiating you or even challenging you. Each victim has some sort of significance to you, the first victim was an invitation, the last two were used to draw you out. You are the target.”

You know they do and still you can’t find the words. A target. You? The feeling is foreign after so long, and while you normally wouldn't mind the feeling, this is personal. You need to see the sights where things happened, the points of connection. This could be beyond the team's territory to interfere in. 

“The locals' only spot they talked about is Rattler’s Point. It’s off the grid, and also serves as a central point for many things, including the old church. That church was abandoned a while ago, but it still had its piano and organ; we would play music up there sometimes. Everyone knew about it, and it was frequented often enough that nobody batted an eye about going up for a night or a date. Or a hunt.”

Remote, no service, no signal, a complete dead zone isolated from just about everything. The perfect spot to do anything between star gazing and murdering. Your heart stutters as your hands seal the deal for you, “I can take you there, to the spots you’ll need to look at. I remember the paths, and I can explain better if we’re over there.”

Two birds, one stone, you think you might’ve just damned yourself. It certainly feels like you have, but it was going to happen anyway, and in truth you probably will recall the scene better by being there. Difficult, yes, but accurate too. They sit with that for a moment, sinking themselves into knowing that this will probably be the most difficult thing you’ve ever had to endure before in your life. Reliving the scene of what made you mute. You can barely keep yourself from falling apart at the table. 

Hotch says okay anyway, and you all head out. You take over the driving for this bit, the roads familiar under your wheel, grounding you to yourself more than you could in the station. They’re glad it’s you who drives to get to Rattler’s Point, the roads too twisted and gnarly for their comfort. It takes closer to an hour to reach your first destination, by then the sun gets closer to the middle of the sky, although the thin layer of clouds blocks a good bit. 

You step out easily, but after a step you sway, just a little as you stumble forward, like you’ve been pulled by some invisible force. This is a clearing, one path for the car to keep moving forward, and another smaller trail towards the trees. It’s higher up here, colder too, much colder. There’s a few trees lining the road, essentially framing the clearing, and a firepit dug out, well used, closer to the middle of the land. It smells of the forest, of trees and rain, skunk and cardinal, gunpowder and fire. Someone was out here shooting yesterday. 

This prompts you to turn to them, “Someone came here for shooting yesterday, I can smell the gunpowder.”

Rossi raises his brows at you, “You can smell yesterday's gunpowder after last night’s rain?”

“Yes.”

“You're a weird kid.”

Spencer, who’s trudged close to the usual shooting section, calls out to them with mild concern, “She’s right, there’s multiple shell cases here, still clean like fresh from firing.”

They glance at you, but you’re staring towards the forest, towards the road. This isn’t the spot, but it’s the start of it. You turn towards the campfire, which they look at too. You point to the road before you begin, “We came down from there, stopped here for the fire, we cooked dinner here, me and James Cochran. I don’t know how many dates we’d been on, I knew anniversaries, I thought I’d get them tattooed one day. We came here often, at least three times a month. My family comes up here monthly, it’s where I learned to shoot.”

Little baby you with a shotgun longer than your body slung over your shoulder. It’s no wonder you had come with a warning that you never miss, and that out of everyone in the entire damn FBI you beat them all when it came to a gun. Like a sniper who could do their job with a blindfold, that’s what they told them when you were being transferred over. The CID had gotten you first, and then the BAU had taken you when they decided you were a little too dangerous even for their tastes. 

This is where it had begun and festered, sharpening into a tool that could be wielded with terrifying grace. Despite the two years in the field with you they hadn’t seen the truest display of your skills. They hadn’t even gone into the shooting range before because it seemed like you were never there. Yet it was that knowledge thrumming under the surface of your daily profile, knowing that you could take down a room full of people with ease if given the tool. Knowing that there was really no need to call a hitman, or a sniper, because you were there. Yet they did it anyway, because they weren’t supposed to be the ones pulling that trigger. 

Perhaps you have resented that. They don’t know. They don’t know anything at all, somewhere along the lines that sharpness in you had dulled in their heads. None of them saw you pull a trigger, not once, and so the rumours of your marksmanship dispelled, and then they were forgotten. Yet every quarter when their results came in you dominated the charts more than anybody came close to. Hotch never forgot that, the rest of them did, Strauss wanted answers on why you were that way, why you never used your skill on the field anymore. 

Maybe he’d finally have an answer for her. The only cost being your expense. It’s all he can think of when you start to drive again, moving further down the road by at least three miles before pulling into a small dirt turnaround. When they step out it feels wrong, like the land is warning them away, that something bad has happened to this place. You lead them to the trail anyway, it’s bordering overgrown, but it doesn’t bother you in the slightest. The trail, to you, is clear as day. 

You take them down the trail, it’s no more than a six minute walk, and the reveal is something that takes their breath away. The church is in no clearing, it’s just there in the woods, the spire reaching amongst the boughs, merging with the trees. Vines creep over the edges, the doors opened wide for welcoming visitors. The stairs bow in the middle, one wrong step away from completely caving in. You take them anyway, the rest simply haul themselves up to the porch. 

The air feels fragile here, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to force it out. Inside are eight rows of pews, rough wood from years of use and a lack of refinement to begin with. There’s a simple stage, the piano to the corner, the podium in the center. The back features a large cross, to the side the small organ and area for the choir. There’s no flags featuring bible verses here, no art, not even a stained glass window. Instead there are thin slates of wood for walls, painted white but now tinged in yellow. Thick rafters and beams that support the high ceiling, there’s even books still stowed to the back of the pews. A book of hymns, a book of Christ, despite the location and age it hasn’t been abandoned. 

You walk down the aisle easily, finger tracing over a pew before you come to the front, to the stage. Your fingers ghost over the keys of the piano, your back turned towards the organ, if you applied just a little bit of pressure the first note would ring out and shatter this particular stillness. The opening note presses down on your mind, the urge to play possessing your hands, just for a split second. You catch yourself before you can start the song. Before it overwhelms you with the need to make music, you step away and back towards the group. 

“You played piano, correct?”

“I did, this one in particular.”

Hotch peers at the old thing, you’re sure the keys are out of tune but none of that matters because it’s a piano where you know what sound each key makes regardless of its accuracy, “What song did you play when you and James came here?”

Your face pinches for a second, just one, “My song. I made it in here, didn’t realize I had made one until I played it often enough that people started to associate the song with my existence. I played it every time I came here. Those that learned the melody would play it if they knew I was nearby, usually to get me to come over or to come home. That night was no exception, we got here and he just waved his hand at me. Smiled and told me to play my song, cut me loose, that’s what he said.”

“Do you still remember how to play it?”

Morgan already has the camera ready, he knew what would happen as soon as Hotch asked if you played the piano. You nod once before brushing the seat off and readying your fingers, not before turning back to him, “This was the last time I got to play my song.”

Then it starts, beginning slow, deliberate, then swelling, and it feels like feeling sunshine underground. Sorrowful despite the light notes that ring out, Spencer stares at you, truly stares, because this might be the first time anybody has well and truly seen you for who you are. The song isn’t long by any means, just enough for that sense of longing to really sink its claws into them. Your fingers slow, the notes petering out until silence overtakes them again. It sounded like a soul being damned. 

You don’t get up, but you do turn to them, “James used it as a signal. His friends were waiting in the woods, I didn’t know, I thought we were on a date. He was being sweet too, when we were here he was telling me about how one day I’d be walking down the aisle and he’d be waiting for me at the other end. How as soon as we were up and done with high school he’d go to my Daddy and ask for my hand. We were going to be the best couple the town had ever seen, he’d take his father’s position in the station one day. I’d be helping run his family’s business, if it had gone the way I thought it would back then I’d be married and made a mother by now.”

Not only had your voice been robbed, but the life you thought you were going to live had been too. A child that will never be born, a white dress you’ll never put on. They had called you Little Doe, sweet and beautiful, you had been perfect to their eyes. The story you’re telling, pieces at a time, the evidence lingering in the way you hold yourself and traces of time. James used it as a signal. His friends were waiting in the woods. JJ’s stomach turns in a way that’s so disgustingly familiar to her when she reads the pleas for help that come across her desk. Young girls preyed upon by even their own peers, innocence leading them like a lamb to their slaughter. You had been one of those lambs, just as the doe instead. 

You stand, walking backwards so you can keep talking to them, “I didn’t know they were there until we got out, they didn’t say a thing, they were just waiting. I thought it was a prank, and I didn’t mind it too much since I was used to them crashing our dates or coming over to hang out. I was friends with them too, I knew their girlfriends and we hung out often, it wasn’t uncommon for us all to be out and about. This time it was just the guys though, and that’s how I knew something was wrong. They were just standing there, dressed in all black, shotguns on their backs.”

They come to the porch and you stop right at the steps, raising your finger to point out around you, dipping it seven times to indicate where seven people once stood, “Hunter Anderson, Elijah Paint, Kyle Ridges, Conner Robinson, Brendon Mills, Casey Wilkins, and Silas Brooks. In that order. When we get back to the station I’ll give you all the details I have on them down, and then we can get the rest too. They were part of this though, they all were. I came out here, James at my back, the boys in front of us, and then James asked if I was up for a game. It wasn’t a question.”

You move down, breathing in deeply as you retrace your steps, “We got into James’ truck, he took us farther down, out to the firetower.”

They move again, leaving the church behind in favor of the fire tower, which is an extra twenty minutes away, and looks as if it’s a stone's throw away from falling down. For a moment you all stand there, staring at the old thing with varying degrees of concern or remorse. From down here they can’t see what it looks like inside, they can’t picture what might’ve gone down. You’re frowning at it, arms folded over your chest as you draw upon the memories from before. They look at you after a moment, prompting you to speak up again. 

“This is a common spot to hang out at. Whether it’s used for parties or sex or both, nobody really bats an eye at it. We came up here first, I could tell something was wrong, but they were acting like everything was normal. They’d brought beers, their guns, I saw the camo jackets and I thought, just for a handful of minutes, that maybe we were going on a night hunt. That maybe I was over thinking things, that they were just here for a good time. Nothing more, nothing less. I was wrong.”

You begin to walk again, finding yourself at the base of the stairs, you reach for the railing, feeling the rusted metal beneath your palm, and ever so cautiously you step up onto the first stair. It creaks, but it doesn’t budge. For a moment you feel yourself running, the chill of the mountain air in the dark, the blindness of the night, that frantic fear thrumming in your body, heart pounding against your chest and the terror of being caught. When you shut your eyes you can hear their footsteps behind you, the stairs shrieking and building shuddering for a terrifying second. Their laughter, the hollers of a hunt coming on. 

“James tried to fuck me in front of them, I wasn’t having it, and they started closing in. They wanted to touch, they tried goading me, attempting to lure me in because they wanted a piece of me too. I kept denying, James shot at my feet, I bolted, and they followed. They tried shooting me from the stairs too, but I was too fast for them to catch. I ran into the woods.”

Then you begin to move, your pace fast, urgent as the trail becomes clear to you all over again. They take off with you, following you in a single file line as you head straight into the woods. To them they cannot see the trail, they don’t know your route but they see what you ran through, even if you didn’t at the time. Thorns and branches, large rocks, you keep them moving though. Eventually coming to a creek, it isn’t very wide, but there’s no way to leap across the water either. 

“It was too dark for me to see, I didn’t have anything but the clothes on my back, and so I fell into the river, busted my knee up pretty bad on the rock over there. But they had heard me flailing in the water, and I couldn’t afford to stay in one place for too long. I kept running despite it all.”

You walk across the rocks this time, your steps sure and your body graceful as you step across like it’s a game of hop-scotch. Spencer slips once, yelping before you snatch his arm and righten him up. He stares at you for a second too long, but you do too so it doesn’t really matter in the end. You all keep moving, up hills and through corners, over a thick tree that fell over another section of the stream, and finally, nearly an hour and a half later, into a small area that’s flatter than the rest of the terrain. 

Slipping down a hill to what seems to be a base of something. There though, there’s a large rock with a flat top to it, and on that rock is a large brown stain. The years have weathered it, but there’s no mistaking it for what it is; A blood stain. More specifically, your bloodstain. This is where your composure starts to weaken, your hands regaining that light tremble that they have not missed when you stop at a certain point in the area. 

“This is where they caught me. James shot my in my thigh and I went down hard. It wasn’t long before they were on me. I couldn’t do anything, I had been shot, hunted down, exhausted beyond my limits. I wasn’t wearing the right things either, by that point I’d lost my shoes, my feet had been torn to hell. They took pictures of it, of everything. They recorded and used their flashlights as a light source for when they each took a turn, but they weren’t satisfied yet. They needed me for something more than just a hole to use.”

Rossi and Hotch look at each other, a silent pact that no matter what they’re going to get that evidence, and those boys will be going behind bars. Your story is nothing short of horrific, to know all that has been done to you and still it isn’t over, it isn’t enough. Not for whoever has taken those three people, who has drawn you back out to the mountains, to these woods. They still want more from you. It’s selfish and greedy of a magnitude they struggle to comprehend sometimes. 

Emily looks at you, the way you fit these mountains in a way that they never will, knowing that if you hadn’t gone through what you did then you’d still be here. You would still live and breathe the mountain air, wear camo in a daily outfit and you’d be speaking, you’d sing with your song and play piano for the people. It’s a life you deserved to live, but that choice was violently ripped away from you, “Do you have any idea what the motivation behind this might’ve been?”

You sigh, although it’s more a huff than a sigh, “I wanted to wait until marriage to have sex. That was the kind of girl I had been, and I wanted to go to college, get a degree. James wanted me here, said I didn’t need a degree when I had him, that the life we had in-store for us didn’t require my absence. I disagreed, I wanted to be a woman and I wanted to know what it was like outside of these impossibly tall borders. I was leaving, James couldn’t stand that.”

“So he took you to the forest, where he and his friends hunted you down before forcefully assaulting you in a place nobody would come.”

“It went beyond that, James felt like he was losing control over me, which he was. I can admit that I was starting to get the sense he wasn’t all that he seemed to be the closer we got to the finishing line. It had me questioning if we were going to last throughout my college career, I didn’t tell him that though. It’s also important to know that this is the year James was made football captain, and they wanted to ensure a victory. Casey suggested a sacrifice for God, something pure.”

You point at the rock as understanding starts to dawn on them, “James agreed because he would rather have let me die under his control than let me live in my freedom. James dragged me up to the rock when it was over while the rest started to pray. They had made up this absurd chant, nothing from a book or even a website, just the power of a man doing what he can to get what he wants. James slit my throat when I started screaming.”

“How did you survive?”

“I didn’t. I died that night, right there on that rock. James and the rest went back down to the town, they’d torn themselves up a bit, pretended like a bear had come for them, said that I was missing, the bear had separated all of us. The town searched and looked and James led them to me, he pretended like he was concerned, he wept over my body when they airlifted me out. They stuck me in the hospital, realized that my pulse was still there, somehow, and they brought me back to life. If you ask the town they’ll tell you they shouldn’t have brought me back because I came back wrong.”

So you had been forced to pretend like your murderer was your savior, because nobody would believe you otherwise. No wonder you had gone off the rails like you did. Hunting people down so they’d stay away from you, specific people, helping those that got lost or forced into your neck of the woods. 

“How did they explain the gunshot wound to your thigh though?”

“James admitted to that, he said he heard the grunting, the sounds of a bear, he shot blindly and when he heard the shriek he thought it was a deer he had shot. They believed him, because why would a guy like him have shot his own girlfriend? He tried to keep us together after it, but I refused, he was the first I hunted back.”

“If you get the chance to hunt him again, would you?”

“Yes.”

They know if given the opportunity, you would kill him. You don’t say it, but they feel it coming off of you, the lines within your words, how your hands didn’t shake when you gave confirmation. James Cochran, the Deputies son, you’d shoot him in the throat if you were allowed to do so. That rage never stopped boiling, you had only managed to keep it from spilling over. Such tight control over yourself that you stopped speaking, because if you spoke, it would all come bubbling back. 

It hits Spencer right then and there that you don’t speak because you’re afraid, or anxious, but because you’re enraged. One wrong move, and you’ll snap. A twig breaks twenty feet away, and that snatches your attention, all of their attention. There stands a doe, white tailed and beautiful amongst the colors, she’s looking directly at you. Time stalls again, it’s you, the doe, them, and the forest. The spell only breaks when the deer turns around and leaps off to the forest, not a trace of her to be seen after only a few seconds. 

“We need to go back now.”

It’s faster this time going back, mostly because there’s no pit-stops, but by the time you’re all back in town it’s dark out and everyone’s starving. An order gets placed at a restaurant, one of the few in town, and Rossi is the one to go pick it up, mostly because he’s the only one with pocketfulls of cash. There’s no hotel, only houses to rent when you’re here in the mountains. It’s that small of a town, you can’t imagine why anybody would want to stay overnight in a place like this. Despite it all you still think it’s beautiful. Maybe you shouldn’t. You do anyway. 

____________

Your father is at the station the next morning. He sits there with his twin braids and a cup of coffee in his hand looking like for all the world he belongs there. It takes just about everything in you not to turn around and head back to the house you’re renting. Your father is a big man, even when he’s in that oversized leather jacket of his, the red button up he wears and the rings on his fingers. His features are sharp, you’ve inherited his nose. 

Officers glance at him before looking at their paperwork, but the glances are frequent, even if they never linger. Half of it is fear, the other half is respect. Your father’s name holds weight in a conversation, his words taken as law if it is needed. If he says something, then it will happen. That is the way things work in this town, and that rule was held absolute over your head as a teenager. You hated that when you started to come into your own, but you had obeyed. Then sixteen happened, and you listened to nobody but your gut. 

Hotch stops when he sees the man because there is always something about men in seats of power when they face another in a similar position. You know what it looks like when two absolute powers collide, and this is one of those moments. Hotch, the outsider, versus your father, who is in his territory. You of all people know the importance of keeping people out of one's own land. You want to reach out to Hotch, to tell him to just keep moving forward, but that also means drawing attention to yourself, which means your father’s eyes will be on you. 

“Can we help you?”

Your father, sometimes called Big Bear, sometimes called Taylor, depending on who was speaking to him. Stands, he’s drawn himself up to his full height and the years away haven’t done anything to weaken the muscle in his body. His hands are powerful things, they have taught you how to carve your first arrowhead, and they have also given you your first bruise. His face remains impassive, much like Hotch with sternness etched into his resting features. Taylor is silent for a moment, a long one, as he eyes Hotch up and down. 

A fight, that’s what you all deduce in the span of a few moments. Hotch, of course, shifts to ensure he won’t be knocked off his ass if Taylor does decide to swing. This catches the attention of others who begin to murmur to each other, fingers pointing and heads turning at the potential showdown in the room. Luke, from his spot at the top of the loft, sees it too. He clears his throat loudly as he starts to walk down the stairs, voice very pointedly light, “Big Bear! What brings you down to the station?”

Taylor turns and you choose to yank Hotch back while Taylor is distracted, although you duck into your team just as quickly. He looks at you, brows furrowed while you hide from behind Spencer, your fingers, lighting fast, spell father at him. He looks back at the man. Hotch nods once before turning to Rossi, “Take the team up, I’ll stay here and see if I can offer our aid.”

“Of course.”

You walk carefully, keeping distance to ensure that Taylor won’t see you sneaking away. How you managed to slam doors in his face when you were a teenager is beyond you, although if given the right tools you’re sure you can find it in you to do that again. Spencer nudges your side as the door closes, “Who was that?”

You sigh, shaking your head as you sign, “My father. He’s here because either he has information, or he wants me to come home. If it’s the latter that means word has broken out that I’m back in the mountains.”

“What does it mean if people know you’re here?”

“People might try to come by in an attempt to talk to me. It also means that the unsub will escalate.”

“So we’re running out of time.”

“Yes.”

“Based on his body language, what do you think it is?”

“I don’t know, he’s…I could always tell if he was in the mood to hit someone, or if he was in the mood to give gifts, but nothing else. I could never read him any other way.”

“Hotch will tell us when they finish up talking. Whatever it is, we'll deal with it, but you’ll never have to be in a room alone with him again.”

You don’t smile, but you press yourself close to him for a moment, “Thanks.”

“Of course, and if he tries anything I’ll have my gun on him before you can even blink.”

The last bit is for you and you alone, the quiet threat something not to be heard by a room full of agents who Spencer knows would let him get away with it, but he still shouldn’t be saying it. Yet he says it anyway just to see your shoulders loosen and your head to be held a little tighter. They look over the footage that they had gotten yesterday, your blood stained rock and the piano. Penelope had made Morgan sit with her on Skype while she listened to it, she then made him swear not to tell anybody that she ugly cried while converting it to a file so they could keep listening to it. 

Morgan had listened to it over and over again last night, that one specific clip isolated and repeated until your melody ingrained itself into his mind. Today they’d be bringing in the boys you had named individually, they planned on using that song to gauge their reactions. Emily, for one, is looking forward to interrogating the boys on what they did to you, to force a confession out of them if it’s her last breath. What they had done to you is inexcusable, no matter how good of a boy they might be. She wonders what the community will say, what they might do. 

It takes Hotch ten minutes to come back in, face carefully unreadable when he looks directly at you, “He said that he felt you nearby, he’s left you a gift.”

“A gift?”

Luke steps back inside, this time with a bow and a quiver full of arrows. The wood is made of black walnut with white wrappings around it. You’ve carved symbols and patterns into the wood, decorated it with a raven feather and a small string of beads. Your quiver is made of horseskin and lined with boar fur, the underlayer of it though, the tusks are attached to the ends of the bow. In your haste to leave you had left behind the two precious items, and now they have been returned to you. A gift, according to your family. 

He knows. The thought nearly sends you to your knees, but once it manifests you know it’s true. Your father knows what happened, he knows what you’ve become, it makes you wonder when he figured it out. Was it before you left? Or was it after, when the nights stretched long and he sat out on the porch looking for something that would never come. Did he regret it? The day you left. 

You still haven’t told them what happened. It feels like it doesn’t matter anymore though, not when your fingers curl around the familiarly sleek wood that you had carved and crafted to perfection. By instinct your fingers find the string, your body contorts, and you pull. The wood bends deliciously underneath your hands, the string straining just right as your eyes narrow in on a target, but you do not let the string fly, instead you ease it down again. 

The taste is still there, the arrows waiting for the right chance to be used again. You can hear the whistle of an arrow, your arrow, in the wind before meeting the satisfying thunk of a target you didn’t miss. An arrow gets pressed to your palm, Morgan is the one who put it there, his eyes betraying how curious he is, “Take a shot, somewhere, anywhere. If you shoot an animal we’ll eat it.”

You don’t want to kill anything tonight, not today, but there’s row upon row of animal heads mounted to the wall in the station because they display their biggest kills in there. Like it’s a memorial or something like that to the things they hunt down. You step outside onto the porch, you already have something in mind for it too when you notch the arrow and draw it back, your team behind you, waiting patiently as you find your angle, and then you let it fly. 

The arrow is audible, the shriek of it like a ghost whispering in an ear, the sound makes the station go quiet. Just in time for there the sound of the arrow hitting home to sound. You’ve picked a doe, shot her directly between the eyes, angled so it shoves down towards her neck. They know whose arrow that is with the quail feather used as the fletching. Luke stares at you, because you’re staring at him, you didn’t even look at the target to see where you were shooting. He shudders under your gaze, he had seen it before, long ago. 

Back when you were sixteen, when you were seventeen, then eighteen and nineteen. He knows that there is something wrong with you, that James had had a hand in making it happen but he’s never gotten the full truth of it, of what made you the county hunter. He also knows that if he or his men ever stepped foot into your territory without asking then they’d be the doe you just shot, no questions asked. You’re reminding them at that moment that while you’ve been gone you never let your skills dissolve. You’re still the huntress, you can still kill them without blinking an eye about it. 

“Glad to see you didn’t get rusty.”

You sling the bow over your back, a practiced movement, easy, “I never quit shooting at things.”

“Will you go back to Doe Run?”

Doe Run. That’s what they called your territory. A combination of your nickname and the fact that anybody who stepped foot into the place needed to start running, and run fast while they were at it. You look at the arrow, satisfaction blooming in your chest when you see your shot landed perfectly, then you look back at him, “Have people been invading recently?”

He pales, just a smidgen, “Of course not, Doe Run is yours, everyone knows that.”

“I’ll hold you to your word.”

Then you turn to head back inside the room, your team following you closely behind, but the arrow remains lodged in that doe’s head. 

______________

They have the men you named in the station by afternoon, they sit and shuffle, looking for all the world like a strapping group of men ready to spend the rest of their lives in the woods. Camo printed everything, they have guns across their backs and knives in their pockets. Luke called them in, said it was important since they had plans to go hunting. You’re hidden away on the other side of the interrogation room, because somehow they managed to get that in this station. 

The first round is to see group dynamics, who will look at who, who will remain isolated, that kind of thing. It’s a crowded room, but they manage to fit all eight of them into the space. Morgan is in there with your arrow that you shot earlier laid on the table. He isn’t even bothering to try and make nice with them. 

“This was found between the eyes of a doe that Deputy Sheriff Luke Cochran shot in November of 2000, reportedly it belonged to a young huntress who we hear was quite territorial over her ground. When we went to a spot she used to frequent, namely Rattlers Point, we were also guided to a church. When we got there we heard someone playing music from inside, we’d like you to listen to this piece and tell us if you recognize it.”

He slides the recorder out to them before pressing play, and upon the first few notes there’s such a violent shift in the group that they have to pause it ten seconds in. James, namely, shakes as he points at the thing, “Where did you get that? Where?”

“Like I said, the church, by the time we got into it nobody was there. Now sit down, you haven’t even heard the full thing.”

“No I know who played that song, that has to be her, it has to be.”

“Who?”

“My ex-girlfriend, god I loved her, she was everything. Then that fucking bear happened and our future was ruined, took her voice, took her loveliness too. She wanted nothing to do with me, or anybody, she just wanted her woods, her arrows, and the thrill of blood on her face.”

“You think the bear caused that much damage to her?”

“It took her damn voice. You know how much that woman loved to sing? Music was everything to her, the piano, the guitar, the fiddle, she played like her life depended on it. In those quiet moments, the ones between everything, she was always humming something, or just singing to make a noise. Prettiest thing you ever did hear too, any man would’ve been grateful to come home to something like that. Something like her.”

“You still love her?”

“I never moved on, I couldn’t, not from her.”

Morgan eyes him for a moment, he doesn’t let anything show, he doesn’t flinch, not even when the image of your rock pops up in his brain. He just presses play, and the music keeps going. The buildup, the crescendo, and that shattering come-down that had made Penelope burst into tears. You couldn’t see your face when you played, but you looked like you were about to cry when you did. They had yet to see you cry too, you’d come close, sure, but not like this, or like that. 

It had been a special sort of hell to recount your story to her. To tell Penelope of how you looked so small next to that rock, your eyes glazed over in what he knew was the memory of your murder. Because you had been murdered, you had, he doesn’t know what allowed you to survive, but he knows it took some of your humanity with it. He had to tell her of the way your fingers trembled when you told them you were raped, violently, by a group of men you trusted. Your torn up feet, the date night sent from hell, how you knew you weren’t walking away alive. 

Finally the song finishes, and they sit in silence for a long moment until Conner turns to James, “I think that’s proof enough that she’s returned, anybody talk to Big Bear about the arrow?”

Morgan clears his throat, “He came by this morning, both bow and her quiver of arrows are gone. The arrow came through this morning.”

Silas tilts his head, teeth having gnawed on his lip, “No wonder your old man called to tell us to come in, if she’s out in the forest Doe Run is completely off limits.”

Brendan scoffs, “Oh please, that whole damn forest is off limits now. You know she doesn’t do the whole forgive and move-on thing.”

Morgan raises his hand, letting them fall silent, “Actually, we have a favor we need from you eight.”

“You want us to go to that forest?”

“Yes, and we want you to go to Doe Run. Act like nothing is wrong, let her have the element of surprise, we want to study her movements, how she works. If she is the one behind the kidnappings then we have to understand her as best as we possibly can. But, to ease your worries, we’ll be in there too and we’ll have people set up and ready on standby. We also need a working map of where her territory lies, and what to expect when we confront her directly.”

They go silent, all seeming to have silent conversations with each other before their final gaze lands on James, who’s silent for a moment, his mind steady as he thinks it over. Then he groans, rolls his shoulders, and leans forward, “I’m game, but in order for this to work you’ll have to stay at least half a mile away.”

“Why so far?”

“Because that’s how far she can hear things. If we’re downwind she can hear even farther.”

“That’s not possible for a human.”

“She’s no human, I tell you that. She died by the bear, she had to have, but something brought her back. I don’t know what did, but it wasn’t God, that’s for sure.”

“You think the devil brought her back? Satan?”

“I don’t know, she wasn’t Christian, she believed in her ancestors and their rituals, their gods, their magic. I don’t know what she is anymore, but I swear she could smell lies and hear the truth. It’s why she got so good at hunting people, especially at night, she’s not a human no more.”

“Well whatever it is she’s human bound, and we need to stop her as soon as we can. We’ll do the half-mile distance, but you’re going to need trackers. They’ll serve as an emergency beacon.”

“When do we do this?”

“What time do people normally hunt?”

“Morning, early morning, it can go on for hours too. But we can’t do the night, she’ll kill us if we’re out past sunset.”

“You sound sure that she wants to kill you, any reason why?”

“Her last spoken words were to me, it was graduation, I tried to talk to her and she pulled a knife on me. Then she told me if I ever, and I mean ever, came near her after the sun had set then she’d kill me and tell people the bear came for my dick this time since it was apparently going after our most important attributes.”

“Why would she say something like that?”

“I shot her, during the whole fiasco, I thought it was the bear, she never forgave me for the truth.”

“Mm, we’ll head out tomorrow, don’t alert anybody that she’s back in town, it might cause panic, it might force her hand and by tomorrow we’ll have more bodies than there are missing. Stay home today and say you all got a bad feeling about going out today, or have someone feign sickness. Just something believable, then say you’re trying again tomorrow morning.”

They get pulled for individuals next, some show remorse, some are held tightly, one shows anger; Brendan. They watch him a little closer. 

____________

You know in order to sell it you’re going to have to hunt down your team members too, but they have explicit consent for you to do this, because one of the unsubs was here yesterday. They just need to figure out which one it is, and for the sake of figuring it out, you have to draw blood. You went ahead of them, geared up in ways they hadn’t seen before, and a promise not to permanently maim them. The rest of the joining crew members? Not so much. For you it’s fair game, they don’t argue with you over it. 

They outfit you with a camera woven into your shirt collar, your usual earpiece, and nothing else. The trackers they give the eight potential unsubs have recorders in them too, ready to pick up any conversation that might result in confession. You leave an hour before they do, setting yourself up as you wait for them to reach your designated area. By the time they do get there you’ve killed a deer and you’re in the process of skinning it. When the first step reaches your ear, nearly done with your kill, you pause. Then you listen. 

Five people within a half-mile radius, the hunt is beginning. Then in an act that can only be described as slightly barbaric, you drape the freshly departed hyde of the deer over your body, all so you can allow that inhuman piece of you to emerge. It isn’t physical, not yet, but the blood still runs over your body and the smell sharpens your nose to everything else, your ears twitch as you listen to everything. 

You find Hotch first, poor man, but you do what needs to be done, and you shoot directly between his feet. His head shoots up, but you’re nowhere to be found, he knows he needs to move, and so he runs, you let him, retrieving your arrow first before you take off after him. You nearly shoot him once more ten minutes later, the arrow grazing his shoulder, cutting the shirt open and making him bleed a little bit as a gash, not deep enough for stitches but not shallow enough to truly brush off, appears too. It’s his dominant arm too, which means he’s incapacitated out here. 

Different prey has you more interested though. Silas. You take off while Hotch keeps running, and after fifteen minutes, when you haven’t struck again, he reaches for his earpiece, clicking it on as he sucks his breath in, “I got on her radar, she shot two arrows at me, one between my feet, the other grazed my right bicep, I’m bleeding but it’s not the worst wound, just a nasty cut.”

Penelope’s voice comes through after a moment, “Copy, you’re close to Casey by the way, and oh, Silas is on the run.”

“Garcia stay on the line, I want you to tell us where her movements are, and how fast she’s moving. Who she spends time with and who she moves on quick enough from. When she starts chasing someone for a long period of time then we have our unsub.”

“Of course sir. She’s basically on top of him, but they’re still moving, she’s letting him run. Then, oh, they’ve both stopped, she’s just shot at him, he looks terrified, and sir, she’s wearing a deer skin.”

JJ cuts in, her voice slightly strained, “Where did she get the deer skin?”

Penelope pauses, then on her end there’s a horrible squick noise, a sharp gasp, then a click before she swallows, “It appears she didn’t wait around doing nothing this morning. She shot a deer and skinned it, that’s how she got the new addition to her wardrobe. The deer is gutted, and she was in the process of cutting it up.”

“Leaving evidence of her return, the skin is an intimidation factor. She’s waiting for one of them to find the carcass and to get scared enough to confess to nobody. They think they’re alone enough to say whatever they want.”

“Exactly, JJ, she’s getting close to you but she’s still on Silas.”

They keep moving because it’s the only thing they can do. The woods are your playground, the hunt your favorite activity. By noon you’ve grazed Hotch, chased Emily into a river, shot Silas, Elijah, and Hunter in the thighs, right where James shot you, and pinned Morgan to a tree through his pants. Spencer is the one to see you. Correction, he’s the only one you’ve allowed to see. Penelope’s voice crackles in his ear, her voice trembling slightly, “Spencer, she’s directly in front of you.”

He looks up, and there you are. It is one of the most terrifying things he has ever seen in his life. You’re up in the tree, he can barely make your face out underneath the head of the doe, half her jaw is missing, your head tucked into where her brain should be. There’s blood on your face, your hands, running off the arrow you have pointed directly at him. Deer aren’t meant to be in trees, you’ve brought one up anyway. This is not you, not the woman he knows from the bullpen. This is a predator in the element, and he is the easiest prey imaginable. 

  “Oh god.”

The arrow flies, another follows closely behind, one between his legs, the other directly above his head. He whimpers, eyes shutting close on instinct as he curls in on himself in an attempt to make him a smaller target. It’s only when he feels your hand on his cheek, gentle despite it all, that his eyes open. You might be covered in blood and a fresh deer skin, but you’re still you, still the girl he fell in love with over a year ago now. Your control is precise, you’d never harm him, he knows that. The arrows are proof enough. 

Maybe it’s the strangeness of the moment or the trust that has cracked him open, or maybe it’s because of how you are doing everything you can to still be gentle despite the violence. Your knuckles on his cheek, delicate despite their shedding velvet. He leans into the touch, one hand coming to hold yours against his face for longer than necessary before releasing you. In the next instant, you’re gone, and Penelope’s voice comes in his ear for him and him alone. 

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That-That look of tenderness, Spencer Reid when did you two start dating?”

“We aren’t dating!”

“Then what was that?!”

“That was-that was-fine, I’m in love with her, I’ve been in love with her and I’m confident she loves me too. We slept together once, we never talked about it again.”

“Spencer, she can’t speak.”

“She has hands.”

“You need to start moving by the way, Hunter’s coming close.”

He didn’t even notice you had taken your arrows with you, it’s only when he looks down to see how to get out that he notices he’s free, he taps his com twice, letting him come to the main channel, “I just had a run in with her.”

Morgan whistles lowly, “How’d it go?”

“Survived, she shot at me twice in one go, she was ah, directly in front of me.”

Penelope joins him, “She was, I barely realized it too until I looked at their bodycams and saw they were facing each other. That was honestly terrifying, she was just up in that tree, her weapon already drawn, blood all over her.”

“For a second I forgot it was her, I just thought that it was it, that I’d be done for now.”

Emily is next to come through, her breath coming in short bursts and the sound of twigs snapping behind her, “She’s-ugh- she’s on me right now. Except she’s making it obvious that she’s following me. Who am I near right now beside her? She’s already ran me into the river.”

“Kyle Ridges, try turning direction to see if she’s following you or going after him.”

“On it.”

“She’s turning, she turned, and our doe is still on her warpath. Emily wasn’t being chased, she was just running with her.”

“Good to know, so she can differentiate targets.”

“Yeah and I don’t know how because there’s no sign of him and he’s still at least four-hundred feet away.”

JJ cuts in, “They said she wasn’t human, not fully, and not after she turned sixteen. They said that she was returned by something from her spiritual side of the river, and she’s Cherokee, right?”

“Correct.”

Spencer nearly chokes when he spits out, “Deer woman! She’s a deer woman!”

“Care to explain, pretty boy?”

“A spirit of a woman born out of betrayal, murder, or rape, she is sent to serve justice against those with ill intent. She is a powerful shape-shifting spirit with the abilities of a deer and may often be seen as a form of vengeance. She’s been telling us this the whole time, the hunting, the senses, the deer skin, her death. She is a real, living, myth.”

They’re silent for a moment, a long one too, before Morgan breaks the silence, the strange moment when they realize that the supernatural exists, simply because you exist, “Is her technically not being a human going to be an issue?”

Hotch, on his end, thinks of all the paperwork that might entail, and the dangers that could put you in, his decision comes fast, “Absolutely not, because this is going to be a government secret that the government does not know about. Is that understood?”

“Yessir.” “Of course.” “Absolutely.”

The hunt continues, even when Penelope opens your line, her voice shaky, “I know what you are, we all do, we know you died on that rock. We know you came back as a real deer, and that’s okay too, just, just let go. We’ll be here for you when you’re ready to come back. Keep your body cam on, okay?”

Her line goes dead and you go still for a second to process her words. They figured out your secret, finally. Finally. You could nearly weep with the knowledge that they’re okay with it, that they still accept you into their fold even when you aren’t how you’re supposed to be. You are still their girl. 

Just let go. And you do. With the change your mouth opens, vocals contract to let out this noise that can only be described as animalistic. It sounds like an elk, long and shrieking as it echoes through the forest. It is the first change, the one that alerts the woods you are here, that a deer woman is on the hunt. Earth responds to your touch, animals to your call, the spirits of the land you have claimed for yourself. You are something more than human. 

But it is important to remember that once that’s what you were. Night will fall quicker, but with the remaining daylight you let yourself become what you have hidden for far too long. Those men sacrificed something pure, but they defiled you before they did it. You were no longer pure when they sacrificed you, you were tainted by their touches, your tears which might’ve been holy water at some point burned instead. You were made wrong, and you came back the demon they feared. 

Your skin splits, your skull cracking open as the antlers emerge, your ears morphing and for a few terrifying seconds, vanish completely, which renders you deaf too. Your hair changes, so do your eyes and skin. White spots emerge on your face and arms, lining your face like contour while white grows from your roots down to the ends of your hair. Your body begins to stretch, your shape still visible but your fingers are too pointed, your legs a little odd, your arms too long. The deer skin is still draped over you, the head still over yours but further down now, her eyes covering yours. Yet your features are still yours, you’re just a little different now, a little more monstrous. It is only the reflection of their actions. 

When the sun sets, when the terror starts to spike, you begin to move. They are still because they do not see you, they do not sense you. It is well into the dark when Penelope whispers in their ears, “She’s moving again. She-I don’t know what was going on, she made that noise earlier, and then things started squelching and cracking and now her cam footage shows she’s at least a foot if not two taller than before. I don’t know what you’ll be looking at when she arrives.”

Rossi drags his hands down his face, so very done with the whole ordeal, but he isn’t about to tell the mythological being to hurry it up. Not when it’s well deserved either, but really, he’s getting too old for this. It still doesn’t overtake the inane but human terror that has gripped his stomach since you began to hunt them down, knowing that you were purposefully exhausting them before forcing them into the real shitshow; Night in your domain. 

“She’s moving at at minimum forty miles an hour. All of you need to regroup and hunker down, you’re going to get in her way all spread out. I’ll direct you all where to go, but I’m so, so serious when I say you all need to draw as little attention to yourselves as possible right now. Do you understand? You are in the woods with a predator whose purpose is to enact vengeance and justice with the ones who created her through violent means. She will harm you right now.”

They agree, and Penelope begins to direct them to the car again while you start to chase. It is tedious work to work around everything. Your territory is vast, and it is difficult to navigate, especially in the dark. There are other things beside you here too, and no doubt your call has attracted various creatures. Hotch runs into a bear once, they stare at each other for five long minutes, the bear a mere five feet away, and then it turns, vanishing into the woods. He picks his pace up after that. 

It takes three hours to get out of your land, and it is some of the most treacherous three hours of their life. They hear the screaming occasionally, or the groan of a branch with something too heavy on it. There’s still the thwack of your arrow on something, sometimes it’s soft, sometimes it’s hard. Penelope forces them to be still when you’re within two-hundred meters of them, allowed to move to where they can get as small as possible and somewhere with coverage. 

Sometimes they run into the path of destruction, seeing where you had rampaged your way through and decimated some shit. They don’t miss the bloodstains, or the arrows. What is happening in the forest is beyond government jurisdiction, or their call for that matter. What is happening here is you and your revenge, quite literally spiritual on a level that they have just barely begun to understand. 

They make it to the car, collapsing with harsh breath, cuts, bruises, clothes ruined beyond repair, and they wait, because that is the only thing that they can do. They try to block out the screaming from outside, they don’t speak of what went down in there either. Spencer thinks of your hands on his cheeks, the confession silent but there, he had held you there a moment longer, and now he wonders if you’ll be coming back for more, or if that was it. If that’s all he’s allowed for the rest of his existence. Nothing but the fleeting softness of your blood soaked skin on his. 

It’s close to three in the morning when the trees shake, when the screaming gets too loud to ignore. The doors lock, instantly, all cells off as Penelope whispers to them, her voice laced with terror, “She’s here. She and James are here.”

James, right on cue, stumbles to the road, he’s clutching his gun, face bloodied and hair messed up, he’s got a gash on his side and his eyes are wide, terrified beyond belief. They get a second where it’s nothing but them and him, the snot running over his lips, and then the dip of weight in the car. Everything goes absolutely still, and then a hoof presses against the hood of the car, followed by another, and then you’re there. But you also aren’t. The deer skin is still there with you, dangled and clinging, your clothes are torn, but you’re unharmed. 

You’re just. You’re just wrong. You move like an animal, slow, deliberate, they see the proud crown of antlers upon your head. They’re elk antlers, not deer, but you’re still a deer woman. James whimpers, stumbling back as you creep nearer to him, and then in the next instant, you’re gone. Like you vanished out of thin air, nobody dares breathe. Then you’re back, but you’re behind him, hands curling over his middle and yanking back into the darkness, they see you, the front of you. Blood stained with too sharp teeth, the spots and the white hair. For a moment you look directly at them, your eyes fully black, and there’s blood coming from your mouth. 

You disappear again, although you mustn't have gone far, because when James screams it sounds like you’re right above them, and honestly, you might be. His arm thuds in front of the car, and then his screams subside too soon, too clean. Penelope’s voice breaks the silence, trembling and cautious, “Time to go home, she’s a mile away now.”

Hotch doesn’t argue, he just starts the ignition. 

____________

Big Bear is sitting on the porch, waiting, because he knows there will be a visitor tonight. The family sits inside, waiting too, but they do not know what or who is visiting so late at night. It’s closer to sunrise when you emerge from the tree line, and that is when he stands. The family shifts uneasily, but they do not move, you do. You are smaller now, your normal size again, but the eyes, the antlers, the spot, the ears, they have not faded, nor have the hooves. You have your bow and arrows over your back, you do not draw them. The blood is unmistakable. You will not need weapons to finish them off if you wish to. 

“Would you like to come inside?”

He moves towards the door, and you move towards him, you do not attack, he opens the door. Your hooves clack on the stairs and the porch, and then the floor. Your father follows you in, and you look at your family for the first time in five years. Brothers, sisters, none of the small children are here, some of the ones that were small when you left are now big and sitting with the rest tonight. You stare at Tiffany, she’s put on some weight since you left, baby weight, but she’s more or less the same as you left her with. 

There is no mistaking you for what you are. The antlers, the spots, Tiffany can only swallow under your weighted stare, “Little Doe.”

You tilt your head at her, even if it is just to see her squirm, “Where have you been?”

You don’t dignify any of them with an answer, instead you head upstairs, to your old bedroom, and they don’t hear a single thing from you. Only the shower is starting to run, and that is when Taylor looks at his eldest daughter, “You knew something about her being deer woman, didn’t you?”

She haunches in on herself a little bit, “She told me a tale, it made no sense.”

“You knew she had become something else. You knew she had died.”

“She blamed eight boys, one of them was her boyfriend. You think James Cochran turned her into a deer woman? Him, the guy who made homemade corn nuggets and frybread for her. The guy who searched for her for three days, no sleep, barely anything to eat or drink, was the one to do the deed. Why the hell would he do that to her?”

“Because she was leaving! She was leaving and we gave her hell for that too, of course James was going to do something drastic to keep her by her side. No wonder she fucking left us here.”

He pinches his nose, shutting his eyes as he thinks of you in that forest, alone and bleeding and hurt and you weren’t coming home. He knew that you had gone into that forest one night and who walked out wasn’t his daughter. You weren’t his anymore, and he didn’t know how to handle that. So you made it official. He remembers the day you had left, when he had gotten that first glimpse of something wrong in you. He had argued with you, pressed to hear your voice instead of the angered flick of your hands. He didn’t even know how it devolved to you shedding your name like velvet, and your already scarce words turning into a man-made drought over the course of five years. 

It had though, and now you’re back, the stink of revenge just as pungent as the blood on your body. Whatever has gone down in the woods tonight is the work of you, work of the spirits. Because that’s what you are now, a spirit. His daughter died in the forest that night, he knows that now. It doesn’t hurt any less, maybe it hurts more, knowing that Little Doe has been dead for a long time. Part of him feels like he’s just gotten the news that his daughter’s missing body had been confirmed and found, that she’s coming home. The shower upstairs shuts off. 

He turns away from the stairs, he can do nothing but breathe. His daughter died in that forest, Little Doe no more, but there is a woman upstairs with your face and your scars. Older and wiser, black hair and eyes, spots too. Your antlers are almost porcelain white, different even in the realm of the spirits. Again, there is no mistaking what you are, and they know how a deer woman is born. Nobody speaks when you step down the stairs, the jingle of your skirts breaking the silence. He sees the beads first, and then he sees your outfit. 

It’s an older, more matured version of your regalia from when you were nineteen, altered to fit you as you are now. You look like something from a legend, something old and something that they cannot touch. Exactly how you are meant to be. For a moment he sees you in this dress when you were sixteen, dark hair and smiling lips, two weeks before you went silent. If you had been given a funeral the pictures of you used would’ve been his memories come to tangible evidence. Then he sees the child version of you in your regalia, the gummy smile and awkward posing, it’s hard to think that she is you. 

He has the urge to reach out to you, beg you to come sit down and just be with them tonight, but your business is not finished for the night. No, you still have one remaining task, and that is to find three souls taken to your forest. Your regalia looks as if there is a sunset upon your body, the two layers of jingles clinking together despite how still you stand. Then in a blink the door is swaying, and you are gone. 

It is unmistakable that you were staring directly at Tiffany, your truth spoken in your pointed silence. Because even though you didn’t speak, had used your hands rather than the voice you were given, you had told them something was wrong. You had shown it in so many ways, and they had punished you for it instead. Little Doe died in the forest eight years ago. Angry Buck died in the forest as soon as you shed your human velvet, and now what remains they do not know what to name, what to call. 

_____________

You find Angela, Crystal, and Kyle stored in an abandoned mine close to the edge of your territory, but just outside of it. Smart, not to put people who meant something to you within your boundaries. They look up when they hear your hooves against the ground, and then when you appear they go dry. You know you must look like a sight, the regalia and the antlers, the everything. Kyle whispers your name, voice hoarse and cracked, you only incline your head towards him. 

There is something special about being a deer woman. The laws of modernity do not apply to you. Constitutions and handcuffs do not mean a thing in your book. There is only you, a spirit of justice, a paragon of revenge, and what you deem fitting for the people. Crystal and Kyle had never done you wrong. Angela, on the other hand, has wronged you, and there is no shared blood between either of you. You reach for Crystal and Kyle, fingers curling around their wrists as you pull on your power, drawing it and directing it to where you need to go. 

There’s an uncomfortable lurch, and then the smell of something sterile. You blink, looking around the room to find yourself in a medical storage unit. Kyle and Crystal lay on the floor, weakened and quiet, you can tell they’ve been starved, dehydrated, beaten too. There’s also no way you’re walking out there on your own, you need someone to come in. That you can do, a little tug of power, a little pull, you let the hook dangle. 

Two minutes later, there’s a bite. The door opens as a resident steps inside, he’s young and nervous, and then he freezes when he sees you standing with two bodies beside you. The door shuts behind him, and when he blinks, you’re gone. He makes a noise, weak and strained as he looks around for any sign of you, but you’re gone, just like you were never there in the first place. 

You return to Angela, to the way she looks ready to plead. Part of you feels bad that this has happened to her, that she got caught in the cross-fire of it all. The other part, the greater part, remembers what she had done to you in your teenage years. You were popular, yes, but so was she, and you were coming for her spot on the hierarchy. Even in your silence you had been revered by the student body. Angela had whispered in people’s ear that you were a whore, a slut, that you were taken to the woods to shut you up. So many men had tried to fuck you without asking after her rumour had spread. 

They had taken her word as gospel, they had taken it as the truth and ran with it. You can still feel their hands on your waist, on your ass, a memorable time where one had gone up your skirt from the front. Of course you had fought it, had done everything in you to make sure nobody touched you again. That didn’t mean you were always successful though, sometimes they managed to get what they wanted, and each time your silence was only solidified. 

She had done that, all because you were getting more popular than her. You stare at her, the messed up hair and the way she’s bound, you don’t wish rape upon her, you wish it upon nobody. That doesn’t mean that you don’t want to see her dead. In these woods, these mountains, you are justice. The woods do not belong to man, nor do they have boundaries to divide provisions and jurisdiction. They belong to nobody but themselves, and the laws here are different. 

Angela never quite understood that either. You’d make sure she did after tonight. It’s easy to unclasp her from her chains, she gasps when she’s released, body crumpling to the dirty stone floor. She says thank you over and over again, but you aren’t here to rescue her. They say there are no more wolves in the mountains, you know better than that though. She does not, because she is not deserving enough of the forest. She does not know them well enough to find her way out even in the daylight, and unfortunately for her, the sun will not come to save her. 

You do not say anything to her, even when she drags her body to you, her cries of thanks turning into pleas for help and you do not lift a finger. Not even when she is there at your hooves, tears she cannot afford to shed running down her face, her grimy fingernails reaching to tug at your hands as she pleads. For a second, you let her believe that she is being heard, then you take a step back, harsh enough to where her body falls forward in an effort to keep hold of you. You don’t let her come close enough to touch you again. 

“Why aren’t you helping me? Why? I-I can barely move and you’re just standing there!”

She does not deserve a response, she does not deserve your mercy. You stare at her, that blank faced look and you used to be so sweet, she remembers that. You used to be kind to the animals, no matter which ones came across your path, she remembers your code when hunting, how all parts must be used for something. You used to have the loveliest voice of the forest, and it has been eight years since anybody has heard of it. She remembers using that against you. 

“If-If this is about high school then I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was stupid and young and I should’ve apologized earlier. I should never have done that, nobody deserved it, especially not you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please help me.”

You tilt your head at her, slow, calculated, she knows she is being judged by you. She had never thought that her life would depend on your forgiveness, and yet here she is. It’s dark, well past midnight, and the forest is so intimidating to her. She can see the outlines but she cannot see detail, she knows that her survival is tied with your kindness. Except you haven’t been kind in a long time. 

She heaves herself up, fighting the way her legs threaten to fall underneath her, body swaying dangerously before she leans against the wall, breathing hard when she does. Like a newborn fawn. You move to the end of the mine shaft, she makes it there, a little stronger than earlier, but nowhere near fit enough to make it out of the woods. For a moment you and her stare at each other, you, the product of actions with consequences, and her, the one with the actions. 

“What are you doing? Can’t you-Can’t you just whisk us away like you did to Crystal and Kyle? Please just get us out of here, please. Do you have any idea what it’s been like in there? What they’ve done to us?”

There are a thousand questions you can ask her back, but she is not worthy of your voice. She is not worthy. That sound from earlier, the sound of an elk rather than a deer, spills out of you. This time there is power curling in the noise, stretching and touching everything the noise touches. She clutches at her ears, wailing as the noise makes her drums bleed, but you don’t care. You don’t. You move, faster than she can think, and then you wait for her to realize that you are gone, that you might’ve freed her but you aren’t saving her either. 

She stills for a moment, eyes wide and breath heavy as she thinks of what to do. Fear makes her sluggish, too sluggish, she barely has time before she hears the first howl, the scratch of claw on stone, branches bending for what is coming. Her eyes go wide, body going absolutely still, and then she bolts. She’s not very fast, stumbling blind and panicked in the dark as she tries to navigate her way. The wolves get closer, you can smell them in the air, their hunger loud in the way that they start to enclose on her. 

You are up in the trees the moment it happens, when she stumbles into the clearing you were killed at, when she climbs your rock as if it will save her from her fate. This is when you make your last appearance, your face close to hers as your fingers spell out words in her palm, “I died here, you will too.”

Then the wolves burst through the clearing, yipping with their jaws snapping, she whimpers, curling in on herself in an effort to not be found, but it’s useless. They take her by the ankles, teeth gnashing into flesh and digging into bone. She screams, but they are overtaken by the sound of her flesh tearing, a wet sound that would make men puke, but you are no man. You watch as the layers of skin are pulled apart, the pinkness exposed and run with red, which sprays and pools. The wolves tear her apart until she is nothing but a memory that the forest will hold. Her blood on the ground is a reminder that silence can be kinder than words. In the case of you and her, that’s what it was. 

There is a certain sort of satisfaction in you when it is over, when the wolves leave the scene with bloodied paw prints on the crunchy foliage below. Angela is no more, you know she won’t be coming back either. Not like you did. Not like you. You do not return to the station, or to the airbnb, or the home that you were born in. Instead you sit on the rock and you stay on that rock. 

You think of the BAU, the profiling work that you’ve done and the cases you’ve attended to. Hotch, Rossi, your team, Spencer. He is kind, soft in the ways you need him to be and hardening where it is vital. His intellect is not to insult you, but rather a soother when you find yourself out of your depth. There is resilience in his statistics and his mind, strength in it that you find comforting. He is sweet to you too, you can hear the way his heart speeds up when you are near, you can smell his attraction to you from half-a-mile away. Yet you do not mind it, you bask in it, because you cannot smell ill-intent on him. 

If you ever leave this forest, you don’t know what it’ll look like for you. The team knows what you are now, what you are capable of. Will they report it to the government? Will you be put under experimentation or review? Would it be safer to be as you were made to be? A spirit of the forest to enact justice and get revenge. Your revenge has been satisfied though, that thirst finally quenched. You are content in the forest, but you are also content when you are away from it. 

The forest is where you were born, where you grew, and where you died. It does not mean you must spend an eternity with it too. Your forest is understanding, especially of the inhabitants. You will always be welcomed, you will always have that link to your identity and what you are. If you leave again it will not harm you, but merely say see you later. You lay on that rock in the same position that you died in, the memories no longer burying you like they used to do. Instead you think of them, and you do not flinch away. The tightness in your throat subsides. 

For hours you lay there, even when the sun has risen and the animals come and go. You are perfectly still when a fox sleeps on your stomach or birds comb through your hair. You listen to the wind and the trees, they whisper memories to you that predate your town, they tell you of your ancestors that roamed these lands. They tell you of the deer women in your lineage, how they were saddened to see you join them like you did. They tell you of these women and the hell that they brought upon the ones that made them like that. They tell you they understand. 

You are there for two days, just you and the rock. You listen and you think and it is in the dead stillness of sunrise on the third day that you do not raise your hands when you open your mouth. The noise that comes out is one you do not recognize, older, more mature, you suppose you have to thank your status as a spirit because it does not hurt to talk and it does not sound weak. Instead it sounds like you, just grown up. 

“I am going home.”

Just because you haven’t used your voice in a long time and it doesn’t hurt doesn’t mean it’s easy to speak. Four words nearly have you puking, but you don’t. Instead you rise from your headstone, because that’s what it is. A headstone. Little Doe died here, and this is where she rests for eternity. The memory of her shown in a fading bloodstain upon rock made billions of years ago. There has been blood spilled on this rock in the past, long before you were even an idea to think of, and there will be blood spilt on it in the future, long after humanity forgets you existed. 

For now though there is you, warm and alive to rest on the boulder. You don’t know what’s happened in the last few days since you’ve been gone. Maybe you’re classified as missing in action, maybe you’re being hunted down. Either way you aren’t there, and you wonder if they’re searching for you. You’d like to think that if they are Spencer is the one leading them in. He is, after all, the one with eidetic memory. Therefore, he’s the one who knows the path best. So you sit, and you wait, and maybe you’d wait a lifetime on that rock for somebody who didn’t want to look for you, but that is not this life. 

This time, on the morning of the third day, you hear your team in the forest cursing as Spencer drags them through the foliage. You choose to tune them out, but you’re aware of their presence, and so you leave the rock. But you purposefully leave a trace of you on the rock. A ring, one of yours that you rarely ever take off, still warm from your touch. You leave it there when they get close, right when they’re about to crest over the hill and see you. The ring, when the sun hits it just so, is hard to miss despite the size of the thing. 

All of them stand there in a uniform line, panting and clearly exhausted, but they’re there. They see the ring, Spencer is the one to take it though, “Still warm, she knows we’re here and nearby.”

They scan the forest, searching for you whom they cannot see. They’re not wearing vests, nor do they have any weapons drawn, not that they could kill you, you wouldn’t let them. They do not put their hands up in surrender, they merely wait and glance at each other before Hotch clears his throat, “The government doesn’t know about what you are, we have no intentions of disclosing that information either.”

He pauses, and then he continues, “We’d like it if you were on the plane with us going back home.”

You had told the forest you were going home. Where is home though? Is it here, in the forest with the sprawling greens and forever scent of rain. Or is it the city with the bright lights, the people and the bustling hub of action. If you stay here you’ll never be one of the people in the town, you’ll forever be the huntress of the forest, something sweet turned sinister. If you go back to Washington, to the FBI, you have purpose with the underlying fear of discovery, of them deciding that you aren’t worth the effort of secrecy. 

Emily tries next, “We know what they did to you, we know you operate on a system that the government, that we, have no right to question or control. We have no intention of doing such a thing, we don’t judge you for it either. I would’ve done the same to them if they did to me what they did to you.”

Her word is truth, so is Hotch’s. Ever so quietly you emerge from your space behind the tree, the jingle of your skirt alerting them of your presence. They find you immediately, a stark contrast to everything in the forest that surrounds you. Spencer is the first to approach you, he takes his steps slowly, gingerly, as if you are just a deer and he’s doing his damndest not to startle you. Delicate, because with you he is always delicate. 

Not in the way that he bubblewraps you or cradles your emotions like they are custard that hasn’t been set properly. But in the sense that you are something precious to him, something he wants to treasure properly. You’ve had years to get used to it, and still it surprises you whenever you find it so brazenly on display. You let him come near, because you’ve never been able to hold him further than arms’ length away. He looks at you, not like you’re something to mourn but something to revere instead, “Are you satisfied?”

Are you? You can still feel the anger lining your bones, the hatred you have for their faces and souls lingers in the crevices of your identity, leaking through your actions and judgements. You had been too angry to speak, their deaths had loosened the rope around your neck. 

“I am.”

Spencer chokes, just a little, and it takes everything in the team to not follow suit. Your voice, the one you had been forced to tramp down on, is finally heard. They had slit your throat to silence you, but they remain in pieces on the forest floor and you are here in your regalia with antlers sticking out of your head. You aren’t sure who got the better deal, but at the moment it feels like you’ve won a long war you hadn’t known you were fighting. 

“You’re speaking.”

That makes your brow quirk up, lips tilting up too, even if it is the barest bits of a smile, “Really?”

“Oh my god.”

His eyes are growing wet, teary, and you could joke, could ask him for me? But you don’t, instead you just sigh, a fond sound really, your thumb reaching up to swipe the first tear that spills over away, “Spencer.”

He drags you into a hug, fierce and tight and it startles you at first, but you give into it within a matter of seconds. You have to think of your antlers, but none of it matters when he’s clinging to you like a lifeline, and you are too even if you wouldn’t admit it. You can feel his heart stuttering with how fast it’s going, you can smell the relief coming off of him. He loves you, that you’re sure of. 

Eventually he does pull back, he doesn’t kiss you right then, now isn’t the time. Instead he just stares, memorizing your face in the daylight especially now that isn’t covered in blood, “Come home?”

You sigh, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you weigh the choice, but it’s an easy one despite it all, “I’m coming home.”

____________

While you can hide the antlers, the whited out eyes, the hooves, you can’t hide most of the spots, or the white hair. You aren’t sure why you got the white out version of a deer woman, but you also aren’t complaining. You just have to get used to having a blanket of snow atop your head instead of a coat of raven feathers. The white spots are seen closer to your hairline, peeking out under your cheekbone but never going too far. What also won’t go away is the claws you have at the ends of your fingernails, it’s like pointed pieces of deer hooves have stuck themselves on. 

What goes down officially is that James Cochran orchestrated the entire ordeal, when he was found out he took his friends to the woods under the guise of a hunting trip and shot them all, including Angela, then himself. He also allegedly kidnapped you, but you survived the encounter. Is the bureau pleased? No, but there’s only so much they can be mad about when it comes to a lack of cell-service and a group of hunters versus their back yard. When it comes down to it though the team found out who it was a day after James had taken them up to the woods. 

On the final day your family appears on the porch of the station, your father at the lead. Hotch tells you, ever so gently, that they are waiting for you there, but you are not obligated to see them. You go anyway because you aren’t sure when you’ll come back to this town, to these particular woods. Or if you’ll even come back at all. At nineteen you swore you wouldn’t, at twenty-four you broke that vow. Spencer comes with you as backup, just in case things start to go wrong, you let him tag along too. It feels better with him by your side. 

Luke Cochran watches as you two descend, you aren’t wearing your regalia, you had to change before being taken in by the medical people, when questioned how you weren’t suffering any you told them that the woods would protect you. They provided food, water, shelter, if one couldn’t survive the woods they had no business being in the woods. Nobody questioned you after that, even if they maybe should’ve done so. 

Your father, when he sees you without the antlers and the hooves, or the ears, you had forgotten about the ears, he looks ready to bend over with his grief. As if seeing you with the white hair had confirmed his nightmare of that night to be true. For a moment nobody says anything, Spencer stands beside you, too close to be professional, or even just friendly, but distant enough to where he’s not smothering you. You tilt your chin up a little, a small indicator for him to speak. 

“Little Doe, we hear you’re leaving today.”

Ever the wise man, ever the torchbearer of torturous truth whenever it comes to you. You don’t know how to feel about him most of the time. How good he is when he’s good, how mean he is when he’s bad. You’ve felt the strength of his hands in forms of bruises mottled black and blue against your skin and you’ve felt his love in the way he’s braided your hair as you grew up. He loves you, that you know, but his love wasn’t enough to deter his anger either. 

“I am.”

There’s a ripple of whispers in your family, you even see your mother start to weep. Your voice which had been shut away for so long finally came back to life, it is no coincidence that with the nine recent deaths your voice has returned to you. Again, you do not know what you are anymore, what your title shall be. Little Doe is dead with a bloodstained boulder as a gravemarker. Angry Buck is dead because all the velvet of her has been shed. Now there is you, and whatever you are. 

This your father seems to understand too judging by the little gleam in his eyes. You aren’t sure why the nicknames are so important to your family, no other Native family uses names like it anymore, except for perhaps the elders. Yet your father has always insisted on using Cherokee names for him and his family. They are more ceremonial, but everyone uses them as if they are your names. You have gone through two names, and now you wait for your third, and final, name. 

“Go where you need to be White-Antlered Elk, it is not here.”

White-Antlered Elk, straight-forward, yes, and a little on the nose, but you do not shy away from the title either. The white elk are rare, far and few between, you know it is something special for you to bear a crown of them. You think maybe something went even more wrong in their victory ritual that night, it brought you back as something even worse than the average deer woman. You don’t know, frankly, you don’t care either. You’re alive, you have your blood soaked revenge, and you’re going back home. 

Maelys wrinkles her nose, nudging her foot against yours as her voice drops to a whisper, “I see you have gotten the pleasure of my cousin.”

Cousin. You nearly bite your tongue when you remember that the Blackfyre’s a joint branch of the Targaryens’, even though there’s a very public feud going on between the two families. It had started with Aegon the Fourth claiming all the children he had sired from his nine mistresses, who were once again never kept from the public eye unless they had displeased him or were dismissed. Maelys’ father, Daemon Blackfyre, had grown up in the Red Keep alongside Baelor, had laughed and learnt the traditions of a Targaryen. 

You remember the photos that resurface every now and then in blogs and tik toks from people far too invested with the ancient Targaryen line. Of Baelor and Daemon, born mere months apart, in their childhood and adolescence, there were even photos of them together in the mid-eighties laughing with arms slung over each others’ shoulders. The details of what happened to create such a rift between the pair was beyond you, and you didn’t exactly care to find out either, it had nothing to do with you. 

It still doesn’t. You have a project to do and Valarr happens to be the one you’ve been paired with. Carissa taps her pencil against your wrist, bringing you from your quiet musings, “You can always request a different partner.”

True. Nothing says you have to have Valarr as your project partner, even though the professor has stated that switching partners will only be done out of absolute necessity. If you have learned anything since becoming a daughter of house Lannister then it is that nothing is permanent as long as there is a large sum of money involved. Except where you hold the funds Valarr holds the political weight. He is a Targaryen, but unlike Aerion who’s tenth in line, Valarr is second. 

It would not do you any good to slight the crown prince of Westeros over a school project. So you shake your head, grip tightening on your pencil by a fraction as you resolutely look anywhere but him, “No, we will work together just fine.”

They both look at you as if you’ve decided to cover yourself in red and step into an arena with a bull, but then they shrug after a moment and return to listening to your professor. It is not their business nor their grade at the end of the day, and once you’ve become determined about something there is very little that can sway you in any regard. Although for the rest of class all you can think of is how you’re going to have to spend hour after hour with him, debating and researching, putting together a creation that states you’re both better than everybody else in the room. Not better in an inherent sense, but that you’re two of the smartest, most eloquent prospects for future politics and business deals. 

Because that is how it is, and how it has been from the moment your mother signed the papers that erased one piece of your identity to fill it with another. Lannister. Sometimes you speak the name aloud, your full name, and most of the time your surname tastes like ash on your tongue for it is not yours. Not really. It is not the one you were born with, not the one your mother whispered to you over and over again in the dark of the night when she had to make sure you were real. 

You are a Lannister now though, and a Lannister is a prideful thing, intelligent and put together, never a hair out of place. That is what you have been moulded into since your arrival, haircuts you didn’t pick out and a wardrobe you didn’t design. Women teaching you how to do your makeup just right as soon as you turned sixteen because your parents knew the media would begin to look at you and criticize the woman you were shedding your baby fat for. Everything in your life, from what you eat to what route you take is in none of your control. 

Every move is deliberate, every friendship crafted to perfection. Your parents will never allow you to post a picture of you with Maelys Blackfyre, but they’d have you pose with Hannah Frey and Aianna Hightower holding twenty dollar smoothies that tasted like medicine. The last time you picked out a nail color was when you were thirteen, the last time you got something you begged for was when you were sixteen. Perhaps you have grown complacent in the enclosure your parents have crafted for you and your siblings. You cannot bring yourself to care either, not when you have better things to do than bemoan your existence as a rich girl living in the most expensive city of the continent. Not to mention the heir to the throne is your project partner, and that seems to make you curl even deeper in shame. 

_____________

Valarr had not gone to private school with you from the age of five until eighteen like he had with a great deal of other future lords and ladies. There is no memory of a playground spat or a lunch trade where it’s your small face next to his, pudgy hands and fingers on his own. There is none of that with you. But he does remember the first time he had seen you. High school, his freshman year where he was finally allowed to joust. 

He had glanced up at the box where all of the high school nobility sat, all the sons and daughters of rank who wore the exact same uniforms and followed the exact same rules. Valarr had glanced up to see who was in the box, hoping to see some of his friends, and he had seen them. You were just the one he saw first, and his initial thought was that you looked wildly uncomfortable sitting up there like an ornament to gawk at. 

There wasn’t anything that made you stand out from the other girls, not really. Of course there was beauty, especially in the polished effect you carried with you. Hair slicked down and styled, uniform crisp and not a blemish in sight, done exactly how the dress code demanded. Valarr remembered looking away before he could get caught staring at the latest Lannister girl to emerge from wherever she came from. For that was a mystery all on its own. 

One that still hasn’t been released to the public. Whatever your origins are, they're kept under careful secrecy, but he doesn’t want to pry them out of you. He doubts you’d appreciate it if he did. He had caught his glimpse of you earlier in class, hair held back by a red headband, your clothes black and white, tailored perfectly to your body in a sleek business formal style. The clothes didn’t stand out, blending in with everything else much like your uniform had all those years ago. 

Valarr wasn’t going to comment on your choice of clothing though. If you enjoyed wearing pantsuits to class then so be it, he wasn’t going to get between you and your red-bottomed sole. However, it made him wonder how you were going to approach this project with him. Would you warm to him? Or would you treat him like a co-worker on thin ice? 

He wasn’t dulled to the tensions between his family and yours. Aware of how your family had longed for the throne, for putting their blood on that seat of swords. They had the wealth but they lacked the influence, and that grated on them worse than poor-quality silk ever could. But the Lannisters held double the wealth of the Targaryens’, and that fact never seemed to stop chafing them. Which is part of why your plain wardrobe vexed Valarr. Minimalistic jewelry and cuts, you lacked the embroidery and beadwork your family couldn’t get enough of. 

At the end of the class he stood up, packing his things away quickly and easily before turning around to find you, hoping to catch you before the crowd swallowed you up. He knew you preferred to disappear like you were never there to begin with, and had an exceedingly good skill at it. Which was only proven by the fact that when his eyes trailed where you would be you had long gone by then. How you slipped away so easily was beyond him, and something that he envied more than he should have. 

Gawan Swann elbowed his side, forcing him to look away from where you would have been, “You’ll be alright, she’s barely a Lannister as it is.”

Valarr nodded even though he didn’t believe a word his friend had said. He would survive you, that he was mostly sure of, but he had no clue how his wellbeing would be at the end of the semester, and he certainly believed you to be a Lannister. True you were the quietest of your siblings, the one farthest from the spotlight your parents had put on the rest of your siblings. But Valarr understood what someone looks like when they’re done up in someone else’s image. You, in his opinion, are the prime example of being forced to adhere when you should not have. 

If he were Aerion then Valarr would call you a pathetic woman. A lioness taken from the wild and forced into captivity, starving for freedom and the life she had once been living. Forced to entertain people behind a glass wall, upset when they don’t find her as thrilling as she used to be. But Valarr does not know you, just as you do not know him. He has no clue who you are behind perfectly generated PR and carefully crafted publicity, and really, he is the same as you. 

Pitiful as that may be, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care either. Not in comparison to the rest of the intrigue surrounding your existence. Valarr felt a buzz against his thigh coming from his phone, the familiar notification of an e-mail. He fished his phone out easily enough, silently hoping his next class was cancelled, only to find it was sent by you. Attached to it a number and your schedule, so he’d know when you were available and could find a time you could work with. 

You: I look forward to our project

The only indication that you weren’t going to be outright hostile to him. Despite it Valarr grinned, saving your number into his phone before sending you a text as quick as he had put it in. Gawan raised a brow at him, but Valarr merely shrugged, “She e-mailed me with her number and a schedule.”

The other boy rolled his eyes, muttering something about stupid men that Valarr didn’t quite catch. He didn’t care to, and why this pleased him so he did not know either, but he did know he had your number, even if it was for a project. 

_______________

You both had agreed that meeting out in public was out of the question. A Lannister and a Targaryen spending time with each other, even in the name of studying, had not been seen before yet. Especially not with the ongoing feud. The last thing either of you needed was to be caught in scandal with each other, because even if it was innocent the public had an uncanny ability to twist it into something truly vile. 

This left the option of each others’ homes, and really, you preferred that. Within your walls you held dominion, a sense of control that didn’t actually exist. Much like your appearance, your apartment and the decor inside had been chosen for you. According to your mother it was so that if you ever had important guests over or if she and her friends came to visit you that they’d be impressed by your taste. She said it made you respectable, like a true lady of nobility who was raised to enjoy clean lines and grey furniture with black accents. 

Valarr doubted you had even chosen the art work on the walls. Of course it was comfortable, the perfect entertaining apartment for a significant young lady of the realm. It spoke of understated wealth and prestige not easily earned, yet it felt cold and untouchable. Nothing like the warmth he had been accustomed to in his own private home. It made him wonder if you even actually lived in the place. 

He didn’t ask any of that though, not when he was sitting on your couch looking over topics to research, doing the same as you did while you sat there in house slippers and sipped on lemon water. Did you even like lemons? It made Valarr wonder if you even had junk food in your fridge, or whether that too was made from plants and gluten-free ingredients with no sugar. Based on everything he had seen he wondered when the last time you ate a slice of cake was. 

You, on the other hand, had no idea about Valarr’s plight over your lifestyle. Content to delve into various topics, some more uncommon so that there’d be an extra challenge you and he could deliver. There was no way you and he would choose an already highly researched point to present about, it felt like cheating, and worst of all it made you feel lazy. Everything seemed to be fine, you were set up nicely, appropriately, and there were refreshments. Notes around you and laptop before you, you had gone so far as to settle on the couch. 

Of course the peace was interrupted by your mother calling, her ringtone making you flinch a little before you excused yourself and stood, answering her before she was sent to voicemail, “Mama, how are you?”

She clicked her tongue at the other end, “My darling, I am well, how are your studies going? How is the project?”

You glanced at Valarr, who remained steady in his work, but you could tell he was listening in on your conversation, “I’m researching which topic I would like to present, I do not wish to use one that has already been covered enough. This is my last year, and I need to make myself stand out against the rest of the classmates.”

“Good girl, if you need access to anything, call your father, he will take care of it.”

Your nose wrinkled at the mention of your “father”, but you didn’t comment on it, “Thank you Mama, I must return to my studying now. I have more work than just the project.”

“Of course, of course, we will see you for dinner sometime this week, alright?”

“Okay Mama, I will see you soon.”

The phone call ends not long after that, and you return to your seat on the couch, not even sparing him a glance, “Apologies, my mother does not like to be kept waiting when she calls.”

Valarr waved his hand, “No need, my father won’t say it but he is similar.”

He pauses, letting his questions sit on his tongue before he commits and turns his head to look at you, “What language was that? I’ve never heard of it.”

Your mouth parts slightly when you look at him too, surprised he would take interest in anything beyond the project, “Oh. I…well it is my native language.”

Valarr learns the name of the country you’ve hailed from, the name of the language, but your mouth shuts firmly before you can give any more details away. He watches as your body seems to curl in on itself, almost like you’re ashamed but you aren’t, not when he hears the pride and love woven into those few sentences. No, it is more like you’re afraid, of what he does not know, but he is aware that this sort of information is not public, nor do you speak this language with your mother outside of your home. 

In a way it reminds him of High Valyrian, not that they sound the same, but that it’s a private language used between family. Remnants of a culture lost to doom and time, there are few who speak it and speak it well. Valarr had long grown accustomed to the tongue of his ancestors, knowing that no Targaryen heir would do well if they couldn’t even speak the language of dragons. But it is a lonely language, once spoken by millions, reduced to less than a hundred. He wants to ask what other languages that you know, if you would speak them how you spoke in your native tongue. 

Voice seeping into every pore as unknown syllables and clicks of your tongue made reading hard to focus on. Valarr can speak High Valyrian at you, even if it's just to see how you’d react. Although he doesn’t understand why he is so infatuated by languages in the matter of minutes since hearing yours. At the end of the day it does not matter what secret words you have kept under your tongue. Valarr is not meant to decipher you, he is here to work on a project, to prove his worth as the heir to a dynasty, even if it’s to seventy-five other people who are in a similar boat to him. He returns to his work biting his tongue to keep it still with more questions than answers about you pressing against his teeth. 

It has been eight years since you came to King’s Landing, and came to be a person at the edges of his memory from the beginning of teenagedom to adulthood. He has jousted under your gaze and not once made you queen of love and beauty, he has never considered your name for prom or homecoming. Truthfully, he has never considered you in much of anything, except now that he’s sitting here on your couch that you clearly detest, maybe he had been mistaken not to. 

_________________

You find yourself sitting in a cafe with Maelys, Carissa, and Breniell Baratheon, younger sister of the infamous Lyonel Baratheon (a frat legend). The four of you crowd into a round table far from the window on the second floor, where the light is warm but dim, and hides the four of you well enough. Quietly, you wonder how much money is sitting on the floor around you all. Prada, Hermés, Balenciaga, Valentino. Nothing quite the same but nothing out of the ordinary for girls like the four of you. 

They have tall drinks with teas and coffees mixed by sugar, cream, and flavor, and you are stuck with your plain chamomile tea, no added sugars including honey, no cream either. Maelys is wearing a skirt she thrifted over a pair of baggy jeans, Carissa has charms hanging out of her belt loops, Breniell has the biggest star earrings you have ever seen in your life. You are cream dress pants and beige button up, pointed toes and two inch heels, pearl earrings and dainty gold jewelry. You try your very best not to be envious of the three sitting around you, their choices so clearly on display. 

When you had woken the outfit was already picked out for you, and the makeup set out in the exact order needed for you to use it. You knew what you would eat too, the exact ingredients kept in a fridge you had never opened in your entire time living in the apartment. Not that anybody would know, you didn’t bring anybody to your apartment. Except for Valarr. Who had seen your pristine walls and sat with you in near total silence save for your phone call and the discussion of a topic that you both settled on eventually. 

You’re brought out of your thoughts when Carissa clears her throat, her excitement felt as she looks at you, “So how was studying with the prince? Was he as gentlemanly as they say that he is?”

The other two lean forward, Maelys with her feigned indifference and Breniell with undisguised interest. Valarr is something of note, even if the interactions were unproblematic, something to discuss at the very least. A prince in your mysterious living room, for you preferred to go to their apartments rather than bring them to yours. It felt like too much of a risk, like you were inviting your parents ire should they see a Blackfyre or a Locke cross into your threshold. 

“He was fine. We decided on a topic to research. I will go to his apartment at the same time this week, and we will start our project outline.”

Brenielle blinks for a moment, and then Maelys grunts, taking a pointed sip of her drink, “I told you that she would give us a sentence or two and be done with it. She’s a proper Lannister, and he’s a proper Targaryen.”

Carissa groans, leaning into you as she looks up with her wide eyes, and she is beautiful. Hair like ink, stark against pale skin and deep blue eyes. Someday she will make for a fine lady wife, as all of you will, for it is inevitable that you will all be married off to make connections for a house or to start a new one. Although it is Maelys who has the most freedom in her choices out of all of you, and therefore she is perhaps the one you are most envious of. 

Maelys sports the look of a true Targaryen woman, with golden white locks kept in a long braid, delicate yet sharp features, her indigo eyes and the sun-kissed skin. She is not a woman to be crossed, and you have seen videos of her getting into fights with frat bros at their parties. You think her to be quite similar to Aerion, although you haven’t interacted with him much, you have heard his stories and seen the videos that circulate throughout campus. Quick witted and horrifyingly intelligent, you think of their tongues made for lashing and the claws that adorn their fingers. 

You shrug at their dissatisfaction, there is no need to discuss Valarr more than he already is. His visit to your home, which was strictly professional and had gone as smooth as you hoped for it to be, is nothing to delve into. They have far more interesting stories than you. Parties and boys, girls with cherry flavored lips and stolen hallway quickies. You know what they prefer to do for fun, spending money as if it will never run out, lavish trips and expensive tastes. 

Activities you have never partaken in, and yet you are desperate to get a taste of. You want to accept their shopping invitations, eat ice cream on a hot day, go to the fair because you can. Yet every offer goes declined, every outing you witness through the swipe of your thumb across a screen, watching in real time as you slip away into something rather ghostlike. You don’t understand why these things are off the table for you, why you can’t be you instead of this image the Lannister family has created for you. 

During your teenage years you rebelled, of course you had, and after that very, very short-lived rebellion you didn’t have anything left in you to rally. You let them cut your hair and do your makeup, pick your closet and decorate your room. Everything soon fell out of your control, and you found yourself wishing for the pre-rebellion days when you were given more leeway than you have even now. Valarr, you think, is a rebellion in a twisted sort of way. 

He is royalty, but he is a Targaryen, and your family forever wants in with the Targaryens and forever wants to see all of them dead. You haven’t told your parents about the project you and he have been assigned to present together. There is no intention of telling them that either, knowing damn well that they would pull you from that class so fast you wouldn’t have time to process it. Which would be unfair to Valarr, and you know it would only further tensions with his family. 

Maelys snaps her fingers in front of your face, her brow furrowed and it is then that you realize they are all staring at you, like they’re waiting for you to answer. Warmth comes to your cheeks as you quickly take a sip of your tea, “Sorry, I zoned out a little bit.”

Brenielle snorts, “We called your name about three different times, what pulled you so far away?”

You refuse to tell them it’s because you’re so jealous of everything around you that you could puke. You also doubly refuse to tell them it’s because Valarr has come and disrupted your usually coherent thoughts, “Nothing, just worrying about my studying, that’s all.”

A blatant lie that the three of them see too easily for your tastes, they know you are fading away at the table for reasons you will not indulge them with. You indulge nobody with your secrets, and that is a fact they have come to learn over the years together. It grates on them, you know it does, that you hold every interesting fact about you in a safe somewhere they cannot access, that you refuse to be known despite being a constant presence. 

Professors talk about how diligent you are, good grades and an even better work ethic. Every assignment turned in early, reviewed, and then re-submitted with improvements. Never getting below a ninety-five on a test or a quiz, essays with perfect formatting. Students say that you’re either a saint or the biggest prude on campus, they say you are arrogant for never coming to events or crowds, thinking that you’ve put yourself on an untouchable pedestal. Others say you’re chronically ill, that the disease makes you too tired to participate as a functioning member of society. What they have correct is that you’ll live alone and die alone. 

The thought used to feel unbearable, but you have come to shape yourself around that fact, making yourself comfortable despite the way you contort. You fall deeper into your silence though, your mood rapidly becoming more and more sour until you clear your throat and stand, slinging your purse over your shoulder as you grab your still half-full cup of tea. It’s flavorless and not at all-soothing, a hint of flavor in a cup of boiled water. You don’t look at them, you can’t bear it, instead you tilt your head, “Sorry to cut this short, I forgot I have an assignment due soon.”

You do not wait for their protests, you don’t listen to the calls of your name. Instead you leave as quickly as you can, throwing the tea away before you exit the cafe entirely. Your driver is nearby, always ready for you to call and you know you need to go, you know that you cannot linger on the sidewalk for just anybody to see because sooner than later they will realize young lady Lannister is here. But for a moment you linger, allowing your eyes to drift over trees that are starting to turn into flaming red and apple yellow. 

Everything is becoming cooler, and it is not so cold that it is unenjoyable. Two young parents walk with their toddler, one parent on each side, there’s an old man at the corner, a teenage couple holding hands as they pass by you. It is enough to push you away from the sidewalk so you can make it to your driver, biting savagely into your lip in an effort not to cry because it is not yours. Not the hand holding, not the old age, not the family, you will have none of it, and that makes you frustrated you nearly scream. 

The car door slams behind you, and your driver, a lovely older man named Criston, eyes you sympathetically. He has seen you in all sorts of sorry states, and is perhaps the only one to have ever seen you lose your composure. As soon as he had caught sight of you stalking towards the car he had known that somehow things had gone wrong, or something had gotten into your head. He does not look at you when you shriek into your hands, the most undignified you will ever be in public. Even then there are windows tinted dark enough to where they cannot see you, and this is a parking garage. 

As soon as you are done you fold your hands into your lap, fingernails digging into the meat of your leg as you clench your jaw. Criston pulls out of there quickly enough, but he does not go to your apartment, instead he drives away from the city, and slowly, you begin to unwind as the city begins to fall away. There is a section of the forest just outside of king’s landing that is usually empty, and it allows for you to roll your window down so you can stick your head out. 

Cool, crisp air floods your airways, making you feel clearer than you have in a long minute. You see the trees and their evolving colors, the sunshine that streams through the branches, illuminating pieces of the forest floor in golden light. The sights make you think of deer running with their fawns and bears meandering over fallen trees to get to the other side of a white river. Then you think of the people that must have lived there at one point. Of course the ancient indigenous people who had loved the land before the andals came. 

Then the Targaryen’s who hunt in this forest, and they have hunted here  since they arrived in Westeros all those centuries ago. When you think of the Targaryen hunting parties you think of Rhaenyra Targaryen. A young princess at the time who returned to camp covered in the blood of the boar she had slain after running into the forest. She had supposedly seen the white stag, and according to the legend the stag had bowed to her as well. You envy her in that regard, and little else about her life. 

For an hour Criston drives through the forest, letting you feel the wind and the freshness, knowing your imagination has run rampant again. A break from everything that pollutes it in the city. It is strange sometimes, how Criston was assigned to be your driver from the beginning, he never quit, rarely ever missed a day at work, and has seen you grow. It saddens him, even if he won’t say it, how you went from excitable child to grieving adult despite having no major deaths in your life. So he offers you reprieve in the forest and allows you to scream into your hands, hoping that it will make you feel less rotten from the inside out. 

By the time you are stepping out of the car you are the picture of composed, perfectly windswept hair and a fresh coat of lipgloss. There is no stain of your anger earlier, nothing that would indicate something is amiss. Besides, it’s Saturday at two p.m. and you’re scheduled for a lunch that will consist of one cup of edamame, three cut up strawberries, half a cup of almonds, and half a cup of grilled chicken breast. It is the same that it has been every Saturday for the last decade, and you know next Saturday will be the same. 

You take lunch on your balcony, watching people walk below as you make sure you’re chewing everything, ensuring that you do not choke. 32 times you are meant to chew your food, and you count every one that you make. As always your gaze goes to the grocery store across the street, you don’t know what it contains, and you fear if you go in you’ll be tempted to buy damn near everything. You look away from it, focusing back on finishing whatever section of your plate that you’re on. It’s presented prettily, but you barely taste it, you wonder when everything lost flavor to you. 

This is part of the reason why you invite nobody over. There’s no food to eat, and snacking isn’t a part of the diet your mother designed for you. Halfway through your meal you’re approached by Angie, the woman who makes sure everything runs smoothly in the household, “My Lady, is everything to your liking?”

You nod, swallowing your bite before you look at her, “Textbook Angie. Thank you.”

She says her thanks, but she lingers instead of immediately turning away like she has always done. You raise an eyebrow at her, questioning what she wants to say but refuses to say it still. Angie glances behind her shoulder, then she comes to kneel beside you, “My Lady, if you ever do wish to eat something else, I’d be more than happy to make it for you. We are…human, and it is natural if you would enjoy having variation in your meals.”

Angie means well, she always does, and you would like variety, you would enjoy having something more than portions determined by weight and ounce and nutritional value. Your mother, when she had introduced you to the diet, had framed it as a mindless thing. Eating was no longer as important as your appearance, it was to be treated like a chore, an obligation. Something you had to do but not enjoy. Which only made you miss your home country more and more, the dishes you had left behind a ghost underneath your tongue. The want for them so astute that it made you cry sometimes, and that only served to further your guilt. 

When you turned eighteen you fantasized about what you would eat, what sort of cake you would have at your birthday party. Except there was no cake, there was no sweets, and your birthday party was a ceremony of gifts after you had eaten your steamed cod with bok choy and garlic. The same thing you ate every Thursday for dinner. It was that night where it became clear that you would never escape the life your mother had molded for you, and you could do nothing but be grateful for it. She had crossed the ocean with you by her side, had worked to secure a good husband, to put you in a place of prestige. 

You had to be grateful, happy, content. It is an open secret to your family that you are fraying at the edges where it matters. The staff watches you, they see how when you are done with your tasks you sleep as if it hurts to be awake. Your sentences are carefully constructed, picked as if you had three options in your arsenal you just had to select to get through an interaction. Everything is done in muscle memory, your eyes glaze over more than they are bright and it is haunting, seeing how you are withering away before their very eyes. 

“Thank you Angie, but I am satisfied.”

She nods once before she retreats, “Of course, just, even if it’s the middle of the night, I’d be happy to get you something to eat.”

There’s a journal beside you, one dedicated solely to your meals, your calories, your weight. Your mother asks to see it every time you see her, and she spends a solid ten minutes looking through everything to ensure that everything is going according to plan. The book goes with you everywhere, living in your permanent hold through whatever bag you need to carry for the day. Angie, you know, would like to burn that book more than hold it, and somehow it is one possession you would claim if your apartment ever caught on fire. 

There are neat rows of dates and timestamps, of numbers written in neat as a printer all to do with you and your consumption. In the other notebook you carry with you no matter where you go is the schedule you keep. Events, campaigns, ads, modeling gigs, appointments, all of it is in there. Now Valarr has a slot in your planner, his name written in lilac ink and permanent. You find yourself staring at it a beat too long when you check to see if you do have any other assignment for today. There’s none, and you think you might go to bed despite it being four in the afternoon, you’re not very hungry. 

________________

Valarr is, inexplicably, nervous. His brother nor his cousins should be anywhere near him, but there is simply no telling when it comes to his family. They do as they please with no regard for anybody or each other, which means that if one of them wishes it they’ll simply waltz in through his door. Which means the living room isn’t going to work, and that leaves the second floor of his apartment. He’s thankful that there’s a second living room up there, one that overlooks the city and the godswood. 

He startles at the knock on his door, turning just in time for you to step into the room, dropping into a polite curtsey, “Your highness.”

It feels wrong, but he knows it is what status demands that you address him like that. Nonetheless you are a peer at his university, and in the privacy of his own home the formality is stifling, “Just Valarr, please, you know this.”

You have yet to heed his request at being called Valarr, but you also refuse to outright call for him with or without title. He motions for you to sit on the couch, it is a rather comfortable thing, lower to the floor but wide with soft leather, filled by what he does not know except that he could easily sleep on the thing. To your credit you do not comment on his awkwardness, because even though it has been a month since the project began he still feels as if he’s meeting you for the first time. 

Instead you sit at the edge of the couch and begin to get your affairs in order while he cautiously sits an entire six inches closer to you than he ever has. Your eyes flick to his once, holding the stare for a few seconds before you turn back to your laptop. It is a begrudging acceptance, and yet it feels like sweet victory, especially when you reluctantly shuffle your shoes off and settle further back into the couch. Valarr holds still, resolutely staring at the laptop in front of him, notes and files scattered everywhere as you tentatively rest your back against the couch.

He does not dare speak, knowing that this is already pushing your limits more than you like them to be pushed. Occasionally you’ll shift your laptop towards him to show something, or you’ll send him a website link and vice versa so you both can read the article. Valarr hadn’t quite known how you’d treat the project, he had wondered if you would leave the brunt of the work towards him or if you’d insist on doing it all by yourself. He had leaned towards the latter, but your cooperation, no matter how stilted it may be, is a boon he didn’t expect to have. 

Valarr had looked, once, to see the top students of the major. He had known you’d be in the top three, he hadn’t expected you to beat him for top spot. Yet that pleases him in a way he does not know how to describe. Maybe it is the challenge, knowing you are striving to be as cut-throat as your family is known to be, but you’ve simply hidden your own claws and fangs away. Or perhaps it is proof that you are not there to be a pretty face for your house to tote around. 

He has come to the conclusion over the past month that you must be in the belief that a project not perfected is a death sentence. You greet him, you thank him, you occasionally put in a few sentences but they pertain strictly to the project. There is no talk of the week, or friends, or parties. Valarr can probably keep all the words you’ve spoken to him on a google doc page and have room for more, and that is like trying to write but having no words to speak anymore. 

It is only when the laptop slips from your hold, falling to its side on the couch that he stills. Valarr turns, slowly, and he finds you fully slumped into the couch, your head tilted to the side, mouth parted slightly as your chest rises and falls steadily. Asleep. Totally, absolutely, dead to the world asleep. Even in the throes of slumber you manage to look put together, your hair falling around your head like a frame, clothes with no sign of wrinkling. Valarr does not dare move from off the couch, fearing that you will stir if he does. 

Instead he whips his phone out to text his father, who will surely know what to do. 

Valarr: She is asleep on the couch, her research tab is still open, what do I do 

There’s no response for a few terrifying minutes, and then Baelor responds. 

Baelor: Let's start with who she is first of all 

Baelor: Second, close her laptop and do not extract yourself from the couch 

Valarr: Young Lady Lannister, we were assigned to work with each other on a school project. 

Valarr: She doesn’t speak much at all so her silence was not unusual, however, I saw her laptop fall and when I looked she too was asleep

Valarr: I am still on the couch 

Valarr watches as his fathers’ text bubble appears and reappears multiple times, which only makes his worry increase. He risks another glance at you before he silently opens his camera, and as quickly and stealthily as he can manage takes a short video so his father can see the layout of the room, and the proximity to you. Baelor falls silent for a moment longer, no doubt observing the video before he can form a proper response to his son. Who is clearly panicking over something he has not ever become flustered from. It’s eyebrow raising, but he does not comment on it, not yet at least. 

Baelor: The way I see it you can either work on your project some more or take a nap with her. She’s not going anywhere

Baelor: What are the Lannisters feeding her? My god she’s sallow

Valarr: When I come to her house she drinks about four glasses of lemon water and I do not know if she even knows the contents of her kitchen

Baelor: Feed her when she wakes, at the very least offer her something to drink. 

Baelor: Your late aunt Dyanna was always ravenous after her napping spells, I think that’s where Daeron gets it from 

Valarr: What if she is allergic or does not like the food 

Baelor: Have you ever seen her eat? 

Valarr: I think she eats air sometimes 

Baelor: Just have soup for dinner, and take a nap 

Baelor: The gods know you need one 

Valarr huffs, but he does text the cook to prepare a soup dinner for two tonight, no beef and no pork, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you eat either of those meats. Then he glances at his laptop, there’s work to be done, but he’s also been doing said work for hour after hour now. The couch is comfortable, and he does have a very valid excuse to shut his eyes, even if it’s just for a few minutes. He sighs, settling before he risks another look at you. It’s almost eerie how still you are, like you’ve trained your body not to move a muscle even in sleep. 

Just a few minutes he decides, and then he’ll get back to work. He has a paper to finish reading, a slide to complete. There’s work for other classes too, and he’ll do it, he swears he will, he just needs five more minutes to rest his eyes, to think of anything else other than schoolwork and schedules. Valarr shifts once, getting him into a more comfortable position, and that proves to be the thing he succumbs to, his mind joining yours in the void of unconsciousness. 

Time slips away after that, the sky getting darker and darker until it is officially night and it is only when Valarr is woken for dinner that you wake too. He reaches blindly for the lamp, groaning when the light hits his eyes as you make a small, discontent noise. Right, because you are here too. He turns, still groggy but more awake than you are. You shift, body being towards unwanted lucidity, then instinctively your body stretches. Arms raising as you extend your legs, toes pointing outwards before you melt again. 

Then your eyes blink awake, still glassy and mostly unaware, you inhale deeply before you shift your head upward to look at the ceiling, and then you’re looking at him. For a moment he is all you focus on, the lamp a halo around his face, darkening the features pointed towards you. This lighting makes it harder to tell he has two different eye colors, they are the same pair regardless, and they’re looking at you. Valarr stills, and so do you. 

It is only for a moment, and nothing more. He stands, twisting his spine so it will pop, “Dinner is ready, are you hungry?”

You yawn once, then you sit up, quietly processing his question. You are hungry, starving actually, but there is a dinner waiting for you in your apartment. It’s 338 calories, and you know you will wake in the night because you are still hungry. Here though, a prince is offering you food, and your stomach clenches a little at the thought of something other than Wednesday night dinner. How many calories are within the food though? How much will you gain from it? Would it be treason to refuse? Probably. 

“Maybe a little bit.”

Valarr extends his hand towards you, and you take it, letting him lift you to your feet as you sway a little bit. Still addled by sleep, you don’t even bother with your shoes as you follow him down the stairs to where his dining room is. The first thing you can smell are spices, and it is undoubtedly warm to the touch. You try not to salivate too much as you are made to endure the scent. Valarr pulls your chair out for you, the motion fluid, like he has always done this for you. 

“What did you request?”

He offers you a small smile, “Soup, a simple one, and chicken based if that is alright. It is getting cold outside now and I thought it would be nice to eat something of the sort.”

There is no soup on your weekly meals, none at all, and you have missed the comfort of warm broth sliding down your throat. The comfort that came from certain soups, and another memory comes to you. A coconut milk base with spices and herbs, the taste of peanuts and lime and cashew mixing together with the tinges of a bay leaf. It is another taste that has been stolen from you, another thing to miss beyond your understanding. 

“Soup sounds lovely.”

You will have to eat slowly, and deliberately, if you wish to fill your belly properly. The desire for the soup will not make you a fool to the fact that you have a grand total of fifteen different meals that you have eaten every week without break for the past three years, technically five. You just hope he will not be offended when you struggle to eat past a certain line. 

It comes in beautiful dishes imported from Yi Ti, artwork of clouds and dragons decorating every inch it has to offer. Inside is noodles, lime, pieces of fried tofu and a dollop of chili on top of it. For a moment you stare at it as if it is beautiful and horrifying simultaneously, Valarr pauses too, brows furrowing from your reaction. Then slowly, you reach for the lime, and it has been so long since you last felt lime beneath your fingers. Much less the juices as they run over the tips of your fingers, it is a messy affair, but Valarr’s is worse. 

He just didn’t expect you to bring a finger to your lips, letting your tongue flick out for a split second so you can taste it. His cheeks feel like they burn when he tears his eyes away so he can concentrate on his own food. You begin to mix your noodles up, letting oil and juice and broth mingle together before you grab a spoon. Valarr does note the tremble of your hands, it’s like you have a tremor, one he failed to notice before. It’s almost shameless how he watches you when you take the first bite, a delicate spoonful with about three noodles on it. 

You nearly cry when you take the first bite, and it is as if your appetite has just flared back to life. It tastes similar to your childhood foods, refreshing and flavorful in the ways you have salivated so deeply for that you gnawed on your pillows to keep your mouth occupied. The fact that you will likely be able to handle less than half of what has been offered to you is frustrating enough that it contributes to the near tears. You want to eat it all, to savor it as you should but also stuff yourself as fast as you can in fear it will vanish on you. 

Valarr sits across from you, wondering how bad Wednesday night dinners are if you’re the closest to falling apart anybody’s ever seen after a bite of his food. He thinks of his fathers’ question, about what the Lannisters feed you, and he’s starting to think that maybe they don’t. Especially when you tell him, voice shaky and quiet, that the food is perfect. 

________________

“Right, so we’ll keep this short, I just wanted to check in and see how the project is going. Everything is alright so far?”

You and Valarr are standing in front of your professor's desk, Professor Royce, she’s close to her mid-thirties and already sporting a streak of white from her temple. She’s a distant cousin of Lord Royce of the Vale, you think the two have the same nose as each other. Over the past two weeks she had been meeting with students at various times to discuss their projects, and now it was time for you and Valarr to speak with her. You glance at him, waiting to see if he will go first. 

He does, although he spares you a glance too, “Everything is going as it should be, we’re projected to finish our project with time to re-work any section that might need better fleshing out.”

Professor Royce smiles, it’s the one she uses when she’s pleasantly surprised by something, you know it’s about you and he being cohesive together. Maybe it’s a test to see how two highly ranked and titled people would work together in a setting like this one. Or maybe, and you’re willing to bet a little bit on this one, maybe she did it so that the KLU staff would have some entertainment and maybe you and he would have some sort of headlining defining moment caught by paparazzi. 

There is truly no telling, and you find yourself slightly annoyed, not that you would outright say anything. You dip your head politely towards him, your voice even as you select the words you had planned to say, “I am in agreement, together we are a compatible choice of project partners, I am pleased by our joint efforts.”

You know that everyone is looking at the both of you, voices for once in a hush as they attempt to listen in on you and he. The partnership is not only a source of entertainment for the staff, but the student body as well. They want the details of your collaboration, if you’re meeting up in each others’ apartments or out in public at rented out cafes. Even your friends are in on it too, they glance at each other from across the room, their ears perked for any stray comment. 

Professor Royce blinks once, twice, “Is that all you have to report?”

Valarr, for one, is trying not to laugh, and when he glances at you he finds that your lip is twitching, just a little. But it’s enough to give away your amusement at the plight they face. The less information you and he offer the more interested they become, and the more desperate to glean something they find themselves. This is amusing for the both of you to deny what the masses so clearly want. 

He dips his head, an easy, disarming smile splayed for her, “Yes professor, and will that be all? Or were there other parts of our project you wished to discuss with us?”

Your head tilts a little towards him, fingernails tapping against your wrist as you do, “We have time.”

She does not. At least if she doesn’t learn how to extort information out of King’s Landing rich kids better. Instead she shakes her head, summoning a smile from her stomach, “Of course not, you both are doing excellent. Don’t let me keep you from your work any longer than I already have.”

Neither of you say thank you when you both turn around to head back to your table. She calls for the next team as you and he sit back down in your seats, restarting the flow you both had earlier of reading through articles before contributing to a shared document to write on. Though it’s true you’re both working on different elements of the project it is ensured that every aspect is learned by the other. The gods know that you and Valarr would rather be caught dead than unprepared for something. 

When the chatter picks back up again after seeing how you and Valarr weren’t going to give the crowd anything else to pick up on, he begins to type in the doc as if it is his text to you. Mostly because he knows you’d never get your phone out in class. 

What class do you have after this

[Globalization document] None why 

Lunch? 

Please? 

At yours? 

I mean, we can grab something to eat and take it to my place, sure

Do you have a preferred takeout spot? 

You falter, and for a moment you think of when you first arrived at King’s Landing where you and your mother had absolutely nothing. When you and her shared a bed where you felt every spring in it, living with candles because she couldn’t afford electricity and filling water up in community fountains. The only thing that you had consistently was food, specifically from the few restaurants in the Yi Ti section of the city. There were few places where you had the food you had left behind, where people spoke the same language as you, looked like you. 

There’s no telling if the spot is still there, and the thought of it not being there feels like a punch to the gut. If the restaurant you frequented the most as a child and tween are packed up and replaced by something else then that just means another frail branch of your freedom has been snapped away. You do not answer Valarr yet, instead you pull up a new tab and begin to frantically type the key words you need. Five red pins appear, and your shoulders sag when you see the name of the restaurant. Judging from pictures, not a thing has changed. 

Without a doubt it is exactly where you need to be, what you need. The urge consumes you, already making you twitch with wanting, ready for the class to be ended. You turn your laptop towards him, and he raises a brow, “If you insist.”

“We’re sitting down.”

Valarr sighs, but he doesn’t protest, and you wouldn’t have heard it anyway. He could have left you stranded on the sidewalk and you wouldn’t give two damns, not if it meant walking through those doors just one more time. Class creeps by, practically tortuous as you struggle to focus on anything you’re meant to be studying, you scroll because you need to, knowing that you’ll be rereading those articles later. Valarr can tell you’re distracted, that evidently this is another important thing for you. 

He doesn’t know what your relationship with food is, but he has a haunch it’s not exactly the healthiest one. Getting lunch together was just a way to get you to eat something, especially since you had only seemed to stomach nearly a quarter of the noodle dish before you abruptly stopped eating. It was just a little unexpected when you selected a restaurant he would have blinked twice at. Stairs led down to the entrance, and the restaurant seemed tucked under a row of other businesses and restaurants. 

Yet he had already agreed, and whatever this place was he was sure was significant to you in some aspect. If it let him learn a thing or two about you then so be it, he’d sit in the peeling red booths with yellowed walls. When class ended you and he were one of the first out of there, not bothering to find either of your friends as Valarr led you to his driver, looking every part the project partners about to part ways. Only you got in his car, and you typed the address to the place in before you settled into the backseat with him. 

“So, I didn’t expect the Lannisters’ to eat in basement restaurants.”

You glance at him, mouth twitching, “They don’t. Lannisters eat in restaurants where their names are carved into table charts and offer food the size of a coin for someone’s bi-monthly wage.”

“Are you not a Lannister doing the same?”

“I believe I’m the only Lannister without a place carved into the table.”

Valarr falls silent as you continue to stare out the window, watching everything pass by you, the buildings slowly starting to show more personality, the colors coming to life in a different way from everything else. Truthfully Valarr does not often come to the Yi Ti section of King’s Landing, even when he knows it holds more than just the Yi Ti culture in it. He has seen the vibrancy, the holidays, he had partaken once and had a night he refuses to speak of. 

It feels different in this section of the city. Where valarr frequents he sees suits and ties, drab colors and sleek signs with perfect posters. Here he sees crates of various colors stocked with fresh fruits and vegetables, vendors with their shop doors folded up, showcasing the items kept cool by wall fans. There are food carts on bicycles, people on the sidewalk selling jewelry. There is color everywhere, even through the chipped paint there are murals of traditional and modern art. Posters stapled to telephone polls advertising bar bands and lost pets, odd jobs and roommates. There is noise everywhere too, motorcycles and overlapping televisions, kids playing in the alleyways. 

You bask in all of it, soaking in the language and the reminders of what you had once. At some point you were one of those kids, you shopped from these vendors, you bought snacks from the stores set up on people’s porches. You didn’t love it as much as you loved your original home, but it was loved with everything you could give to it. Valarr sticks close beside you as you take streets you haven’t walked in for too long, knowing that the people will not recognize you for the girl you used to be. He takes it in too, knowing that these are the people he will govern over someday, the people you clearly have an adoration for. 

It doesn’t take long for you to reach the restaurant, and here is where you hesitate. When you walked along the streets earlier you hadn’t cared that they couldn’t call your name out with fondness, but this is different. These are the women and the men who helped care for you from the moment they found you and your mother. They helped you learn the Westerosi language, math, all sorts of things. Your mother had promised to keep in contact with them, and for a while she had, and then she slowly began to stop, and therefore you did too. 

“Is everything alright?”

You glance at him, and then you nod, taking a step down, “Yes, it has just been a long time since I have been able to come here. I am excited.”

“I thought you were going to run away for a moment.”

“Then you’d unfortunately come to discover I make for a poor runner.”

The door swings open, and you are eleven years old again, backpack slung over your shoulder with your best friends trailing behind you, chattering about the recent middle-school gossip. You are eight and crying over proper grammar for sentence structure. You are ten and staying up far too late but it’s new years eve, and there’s nothing quite like a party in the restaurant. You are nine and eating rice with your fingers in a tutu from ballet class. You are twelve and sitting with two boys who you will become a sibling to. You are thirteen and sulking as you think of how your friend got asked to the dance instead of you. Finally, you are fourteen and sobbing as you leave the restaurant for the final time, your mothers’ hollow promises of coming back ringing around in your head. 

You turn your head as a woman approaches, and although her face is older and her hair streaked with grey you know her face. You know her. She smiles, and for a moment you cannot breathe. All you wish to do is take her by the arms and shake her, screaming that it’s you. It’s you. You came back, you’re here, and you never want to leave again. That you hate your family and you hate how your life has turned out. How Westeros is killing you as cruelly and slowly as Viserys the First died. But you don’t, you request a table for two. 

The booth creaks beneath you both, and the number 23 is peeling away, the portraits haven’t changed, nothing has. Even the tables are still sticky. Valarr opens the menu like it might bite him, and you lay yours out flat, already knowing exactly what you want to start with. It is all entirely too much, and yet it is exactly what you have been missing for so long. You doubt you will ever forgive your mother for taking this from you too. 

“Do you have any recommendations? I’m not sure exactly what I want to get.”

You grin, just a bit as you begin to point to different things, explaining the spices and taste, along with the textures. Valarr tries to listen, and he does for the most part, but part of his brain is also haywired on the way your voice creates syllables and notes he has never heard. How you’re even showing teeth from how pleased you are by the food that isn’t even before you. 

“Will you order in your language?”

“If you wouldn’t mind it, my mother is the only one who I regularly converse with here in Westeros.”

“Please, by all means.”

Valarr will not admit it is because he wants to hear you speak the language again. That is shameful, and it is only polite for him to let you and the woman speak the languages that bring you both comfort. He knows it is he who imposes this afternoon, but he is content with it. Mostly because you are more at ease than he has seen you during the entire time of knowing you.

The woman returns bearing cold water and hot tea that lacks any sugar and cream, but you eye it eagerly regardless. Valarr thanks her, right before she asks if either of you would like anything to start with. He listens, and there are your words. They come easier to you like this than Westerosi, he sees it in the way your body seems to open up, even if it is just from a few different words. She leaves soon after, leaving you and he to be alone again. 

He leans forward a little, examining the place again, “So how’d you discover this place since Lannisters’ don’t eat in places like this?”

You lean back, fingers starting to play with your rings, “When my mother and I moved here we didn’t have anything, but we had these people, this community. I think this restaurant was the reason why my mother and I didn’t starve to death sometimes. Especially in the winter, all our money went towards heating.”

Valarr had always wondered how you were living before coming to the world of nobility, but he hadn’t expected poverty. On the extreme side of it too it sounded like. He couldn’t imagine living in a situation like the one you gave hints towards. You crack a smile at the memories though, remembering pressing your body in the thinnest shirt you could find to the kitchen floor in hopes of cooling down. Or huddling with your mother as she told stories of your culture’s old myths and legends in the dark. 

“I used to be one of the alley kids you saw earlier. Ratty ass shirt and barefeet, my friends and I would get up to anything and everything. We were stupid little things, but we were fun too, so I’d say it was worth it.”

You don’t know why you’re telling Valarr all of this, you doubt he really cares about it, but it comes rambling out of you regardless. It’s like there’s this need for him to know your history, as if you want him to ask these questions so you can keep answering him. It’s easy to point at the bar, the feeling of paper underneath your hand and lead coating the side of your hand, “I learned Westerosi at that bar, and I learned how to multiply and divide right there too.”

Valarr turns his head, looking at the bar which boasts shelf after shelf of liquor on it, the dark wood and the strip of red LED lights. He can’t picture it, a smaller version of you in colorful but poor quality clothes, messy hair and teeth in the process of becoming permanent. You speak with no accent now, but he imagines you trying to make your mouth form the correct sound in order to meet Lannister standards, he doesn’t know how frustrating that must have been for you. 

There is a whole life to you that has been untouched by the media and the gossips of the society you both belong to. He has heard nothing of Young Lady Lannister running around with no shoes in Little Yi Ti, or how she came from a completely different country to start with. A carefully guarded secret, one you’ve given to him. Valarr knows, without any doubt in him, that it is a secret he cannot spill without losing you and invoking your absolute ire. 

“When did you come to Westeros?”

Your eyes return to your hands, focusing on your bracelets this time, “I was eight by the time we got to Westeros.”

“Where were you before?”

“Everywhere.”

That is true too. Before Westeros, but after abandoning your home country, your mother slowly worked her way towards King’s Landing by taking various jobs in different cities. You were in the heart of Yi Ti for three months, you were in Asshai for one, you had stayed in Mereen for two, it went like that really. Some parts you remember as clearly as your favorite movie, other parts you forget, and you don’t want to remember them. Not really. It’s the year you don’t speak about, the year where you were everything and nothing all at once. 

You crave it more than anything sometimes, and other times you hate it like you’re frothing at the mouth for vengeance. There is no telling where you will settle your feelings on the matter at, you have no capacity to think about them either. So you wave your hand like the matter will fly away with a flick of your wrist, and you hope he drops it, you will not speak of it even if he pries. 

“Where else have you traveled to princeling? Surely you must have ventured far and wide with your family, or even by yourself.”

Valarr huffs, but before he can say anything your drinks and appetizers are being brought back, the woman does not look at you, and you try not to stare at her. You desperately want her to look at you and shout your name, but you know she does not recognize you, and you do not even know if she has kept you in her memories. If she would look at you and feel betrayal or relief that you are back again. You do not know, you cannot bring yourself to figure it out either, you would rather have this than nothing at all. 

She leaves, and as you start to distribute the food to Valarr and you, he begins to speak, “Truthfully, I have not seen as much as I would like to. I have been across Westeros, but even then it isn’t often enough that I leave this city behind. My visits have always been short, diplomatic, which I suppose is the purpose of such visits. We visited my mothers’ home in Blackhaven, and we have stayed on Dragonstone for getaways, but we’ve never seemed to go further East than that.”

“Would you go to other places?”

“I would like to, everything sounds far more interesting when it isn’t in King’s Landing or to do with my family.”

“Then you must go before you take on too many responsibilities.”

“Do you have recommendations?”

You hum, getting your first mouthful of food ready, “Maybe, and maybe not.”

Everything goes a little blank after the first bite, for it is exactly as you have imagined it to taste. The textures and flavors meld into one where you are sitting at a plastic table on the side of the street, smoke and meat, a grill so hot it seems on the edge of catching fire. There is fresh fruit twenty feet away, and the sun is bright, the air sticky with warning for the rain to come. You can hear cats and birds, the roar of traffic and the voices of your language all in one. It had been background noise at the time, now it’s what you focus on to calm yourself down. 

Valarr on the other hand makes a pleased noise as he begins to eat, the food unexpected but good, really good. Restaurants for Valarr have always been made with prestige and secrecy. Elevators that would take him up high for the best view of the city with food sourced by the best and made by the best. Except this is better than half the restaurants he has ever stepped foot into, and the meal will be far too cheap for what it is worth in his opinion. But the accessibility is part of the charm too, he sees it now. 

This place is obviously beloved by many in the area, he sees it in framed newspaper clips of awards and other aristocracy photographed with the cooks and servers. There are walls full of memories, telling of immigration and culture reformed to make a mark on the people here. Valarr and you have been speaking of travel, of seeing different cultures and people and yet he has never even made an active effort to see what the other communities his city has to offer. 

It has taken him an embarrassingly long time to come to the conclusion that he’s been too tucked away into his castle to come down and see the masses for who they are. Not digits on a screen that he’ll have to make happy somehow, someway. He looks at you from across the table, how you reach for things without hesitation, and how you roll up your sleeves so you can use your fingers to aid you when silverware has become too bothersome. Valarr has never, not once, seen a lady of your standing use her fingers to break apart something fried. Then he looks at what he has in his hands, the fork and knife, and the things that obviously do not need them upon his plate. 

You raise your brow as he silently sets his utensils aside, tentatively taking hold of a wooden stick where chicken has been skewered and grilled. It is messy, it is odd, and he feels momentarily unwell but it fades when he gets his first bite of it in. There are seasonings that have been marinating into the chicken for some time, the char on it only adding to the entire thing, and your eyes are practically shining. Valarr feels his cheeks warm, but he doesn’t look away, instead he cannot help the breathless little laugh that comes from him. 

It is just shy of absurd, really, for you and him to be like this. He is a prince and you are a daughter of one of the most prominent houses in the realm, and together you are eating with no utensils in a restaurant with a sanitation rating of 87%. But he would not change a thing about it, especially not when the main dishes are provided and those look even better than the appetizers. He savors your rare lapse of demeanor, the clinical simplicity of your answers having given way to dry wit and subtle insults. 

There is something far more entertaining about this side of you, when you are not under the weight of cameras ready to capture you at your worst angle. When you are not the woman your family has depicted you to be. Valarr is finding that the more time he spends with you, even when it is just studying, the more he learns that what you present yourself as is a lie of your character. Which makes his confusion on you grow, because why does your family insist on making you into a lifeless creature whose only drive is to please? 

Valarr wonders if you will fall silent as you did before, if you will become shut off and he will have these handfuls of facts about you that nobody else has. If he will be forced to know a truth to you that is so deeply ingrained into your being that when you are in a space where it cannot be touched upon you become a walking corpse. Intelligent and beautiful, a corpse is still a corpse, still rotting, still clinging when all they want to do is rest. 

He will take advantage of your willingness right now though. As if he did not look at the menu when he ordered he asks you what you have selected for you and he, what ingredients, what meats. You answer him each time, an unmistakable warmth in your tone that he finds is like turning his face to inviting sunlight after a cold winter. There is patience in your explanations, each one with its own brand of adoration that has clearly never been forgotten. 

Dessert is a similar affair, the items not as sweet as he had thought they would be. But there is delight in seeing chocolate on the side of your lip, a marker that there is a side to you that cackles and blemishes. He does not reach out to get the chocolate off your face, but he does think of it, a thought as fleeting as a shooting star, and just as breath-snatching. Valarr’s arm jerks, like he will actually go through with the motion and aborted it at the last second, he passes it off as reaching for a spoon instead. 

Payment is done up front, and it is there that Valarr sees it, sees the picture of you and your mother from when you were young. You must’ve been twelve or thirteen in the picture, but there you were wearing a pair of skinny jeans, vans that had seen better days, and a hoodie from a band he didn’t recognize. Your hair pulled into a rather severe pony-tail, thick black framed glasses, a backpack. Then in the corner a date written in white ink 11-14-2017. Your mother, the current Lady Lannister, standing with a pea-coat and skinny jeans tucked into a pair of stiletto ankle boots. He doesn’t think she wears them anymore. 

You’ve just finished signing the check when Valarr points at the photo, his own small smile already there, “I didn’t know shoes like that existed.”

You turn towards what he’s looking at, your mouth parting when you see your mothers’ outfit, and unbidden, you start to giggle a little at it, “Oh gods.”

Together you both begin to walk out, but before you get to the door, you’re still chortling when you look at him, “The worst thing is that Mama still has those damned stilettos, they were a gift from Father.”

Valarr nearly chokes, trying to imagine Lord Lannister, the Grey Lion, gifting his future wife a pair of shoes like that. Just as you both step out the door, your auntie from a lifetime ago reads your signature, sees the Lannister last name, and your voice floats over her head. Your explanation, and because it is true, she remembers the day her friend came home squealing that her rich boyfriend had bought her a new pair of shoes. She remembers you looking at them with mild horror, the same face you wore when Valarr pointed them out to you. 

She watches, eyes wide, as your shoe vanishes out of sight to the sidewalk, and she is too stunned to run after you. 

_______________

“Papa, have you ever gone to Westeros?”

Unreadable eyes, a heavy hand, “No, and I do not intend to, there is nothing for me over there.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Why?”

Deep breath, shifting weight, the stars that are no longer visible under the smaug of pollution and overcrowded civilization, “Because everything I need is right here. My home, my ancestors, my wife, my children. I need for nothing, I want for nothing. Now why do you ask?”

“Mama told me of the dragons, how she wants to find a real one.”

“Did she now?”

“Mhm.”

“Well there are no more dragons, they died out a long time ago.”

“Why?”

“Because their family became divided, and they turned on each other.”

“Why?”

Laughter, deep and rumbling, like magma boiling beneath the surface, “You ask far too many questions, and you stay up far too late. Come, you have been comforted by the stars for long enough.”

Shifting, the world changing as you’re picked up, he’s big, sturdy, and you are small enough that bedtime is a thing, “Your Mama has no need for dragons, nor do you daughter of mine. Not while I am here.”

She steps forward, “My Lady are you sure calling the prince is-”

“Hello?”

He sounds obviously confused, and oddly delighted at the same time but you are quick to the point, “Is Lyonel Baratheon hosting a Lisa Frank themed gala?”

For a moment there’s silence, until he coughs politely and goes, “Sorry, but what’s Lisa Frank?”

“Oh for the gods sake did you ever see the coloring books with the billion animals covered in glitter and beautiful sunset colors? The dolphins with rainbows and sunshine?”

On the other end Valarr is beginning to snicker, which is catching the attention of his family that waits for the festivities to begin, “Oh uhm, no I don’t believe so. Send me a picture?”

You snarl, a sound of pure frustration and contempt, but a minute later Valarr has three pictures sent to his phone, and that makes his eyebrows climb as he steps outside of the room. Putting you on speaker, “Okay, I got the pictures, and no, Lord Baratheon is not hosting a gala with this theme.”

“Was there a theme?”

“Vintage glamour I believe, I’m certain it’s why I’m wearing a suit that goes multiple generations back. Now what exactly has been selected for you to ask such a question?”

He’s greeted by a facetime request in the next moment, and then he’s being propped up. It is, technically, his first look into your private rooms, but all he can see is you backing up in your Lisa Frank gown monstrosity. Valarr instinctively bites into his lip to prevent himself from laughing, but there is something about the dress combined with your glower that is setting him off. You hold your arms up, doing a slow spin and truly, somehow, the back is even worse. 

There’s no helping him when he finally cracks, his laughter starts loud, but it soon turns wheezy and more silent as he heaves for air while you snatch your phone again, glaring at him, “Don’t laugh! Oh you are so rude.”

Valarr’s still laughing even through his words, motioning for you to turn around again, “Have you-Have you seen the back?”

“I am dressed like a little girl from 2006’s teenage fairy godmother, and you are laughing.”

“I’m so sorry, so sorry, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen something quite like that, who picked out that dress for you?”

“My mother! She picks out everything that I wear and I don’t know what brain-eating amoeba has been eating her prefrontal cortex but clearly they’ve been feasting. Oh I cannot believe she set me up for this.”

Valarr hums, his grin still present, “Just wear a different gown, surely you have something timeless in your closet.”

You’ve picked the phone up again, coming to your closet as you set him down to where he can see everything inside, “That’s the thing, I don’t have any gowns. I don’t get to do that, whatever I wear that’s for a gala gets dropped off before the event and by the next evening it’s gone. I’m not allowed any of my own jewelry, or shoes, or purses, or anything.”

Valarr’s grin is starting to fade as he hears the panic in your voice, the frustration of having nothing to your name despite your wealth. Not allowed anything of your own, which means you have no choice but to wear whatever your mother has approved for you. If you have none of these things then that means you will have no other option but to show up in the outfit you called him to complain about. It’s clearly meant to humiliate you, and then he thinks of all the other dresses that you’ve worn to a gala. 

None of which had stood out, but there was always something unflattering about them. People did talk about your outfits, how they didn’t seem to align with any of your other family members’ outfits, how it seemed your stylist had hits and misses. The media, he knew, tore you apart for this too. They spoke of your donations, your put together presence, and how you never looked like a Lannister. He’s beginning to think that may be intentional from your mothers’ end, as cruel as that may be. 

He steps away from the room, making his way to where he knows his father will be, “You don’t have anything?”

You’re raiding your closet on the other end, not even glancing up, “I don’t think so. Nothing that will suit a gala at least, unless I decide to wear a suit, but they’re not good enough for a gala.”

“What sizes are you?”

That makes you pause as you return to your phone, “Don’t.”

He pauses, blinking down at your face in the camera, “I will.”

“You’re going to cause a scandal.”

“I can manage that, and besides, it’s only a scandal if people make it one. I won’t brand you or anything, but there are plenty of dresses in my family’s wardrobe, and jewelry, and shoes. It will not bring us any trouble to lend you something, please, it will be a service to all of us if we do not have to witness that ghastly dress.”

He’s pleased by the twitch in your mouth, “My mother will know.”

“Good, let it be known to her that you will not always abide by her demands. Now send me your sizes so we can hurry.”

“Fine, I’m trusting your judgments.”

Then you hang up, and as he walks he gets a list of sizes from you. Then he calls for his four female cousins: Aelora, Daenora, Rhae, and finally Daella. The faster he can get this done, the easier it will be, and he trusts them to put together an outfit better than he can. Should he bring options? No, they’d probably stress you out more if you had to pick something out too. They meet him outside of the family clothing vaults, unimpressed and curious as he stands at the door. 

Rhae cocks her hip out, arms folded over her chest as she stares him down as if he’s a particularly disgusting mealworm, “So what have you brought us here for when we ought to be finishing getting ready?”

Valarr sighs, “I have a favor to ask of you all, and I’ll owe you four favors after this. But I need you to put together an outfit with these particular sizes for the gala tonight, and I need it done within fifteen minutes.”

Aelora snatches the phone out of his grasp, reading over the measurements before she passes it over to her sister, “We’ll get it done, but we need you to not say a word. Understood?”

“Got it.”

“And who’s the outfit for?”

“Will you promise to keep your mouths shut?”

They shift, and then Daella nods, “Fine.”

“Promise it with your hands visible.”

All four groan, but they do as told, promising not to say, and he grins, knowing that they’ll flip their heads over this, “Young Lady Lannister. Her mother picked a truly terrible outfit for her, and she has nothing to wear in replacement. I’ll try and get a picture of it later, but right now I need that outfit.”

Rhae glares at him, “Oh you asshole, you can’t just say we’re picking an outfit for Young Lady Lannister and send us on your way. We want those pictures.”

Then they’re taking off in different directions after a brief discussion of what to look for, and in fifteen minutes, after a madness he has never seen in his life, Valarr has a dress, a pair of shoes, and another armful of accessories in his arms. There’s also not that much time left, and so he’s forced to start running, his cousins close behind him as the walls blur away. He doesn’t even notice Aelora making a tik tok in the back, filming him as he sprints to get to his car. 

They leave him at the entrance, doubling over in fits of laughter and giggles as their brothers slowly come to join them. The running had caught attention, and they had only seen glimpses of Valarr with his cargo, the girls running, and Aelora’s phone held in the air. They stand at the entrance of the castle just as Valarr gets into the car, watching it speed away towards your apartment. 

Daeron glances at his younger sisters, bewildered, “Was that a pair of heels he was running with?”

Rhae snickers, “Oh yeah, and about 200,000 dollars worth of jewelry, and a dress that Aunt Rhaenys wore when she wanted revenge on her husband Corlys.”

Matarys scratches his head, wondering what’s gotten into his brothers’ mind over the past few months, “Has he been checked for a tumour?”

Daenora shrugs, “I don’t know, he probably should.”

Daella huffs, shaking her head, “He doesn’t have a tumour, he’s just falling in love with a woman, whose name we’re not allowed to say, but you’ll know who she is, it’ll be obvious.”

“What will be obvious?”

Everyone shrieks as they whirl around, and standing there is Baelor and Maekar, who had only caught the tail end of the conversation, but plenty of whispers from the staff. Word spread apparently as fast as Valarr ran. They had come to see the commotion, only to come upon their children staring at the ghost of a spectacle, talking about a woman it seemed. 

Daenora, head-strong of a woman as she will be, smiles sweetly at them, “Oh nothing, just that cousin Valarr has ran off with an entire outfit from our family closet for a woman.”

Baelor pauses, and then he looks at his brother, who merely lifts his brows, innocent, but he can feel the smugness, because for once it is not any of Maekar’s children who have caused a stir. It is Valarr, perfect son, perfect heir, running off with clothes for a mystery woman, “And do not worry, she will be in attendance tonight.”

Maekar pointedly looks away, and Baelor shuts his eyes, telling himself that Valarr has never gone and done something of the sort before. There is no telling who will show up wearing a Targaryen dress tonight, and Baelor can only hope she is a respectable member of society, that she will not be his child’s unraveling. He sighs, shrugging, “How bad can it be? Truly, although I have not heard anything of this woman he is apparently seeing?”

Aelora shook her head quickly, stepping forward, “Oh no uncle, they’re not dating yet, but he’s head over heels for her, trust me.”

Which explained why Valarr acted like a fool, running like he did, as if he was carrying a message during war. They did not know it, but Valarr had reached your apartment in record time, and you were impatiently waiting for him upstairs, you were cutting it far too close for your liking. He came up without any issue, and you greeted him at the entrance wearing nothing but a robe, having done away with the dress while you waited. 

“I had help picking the outfit out, so hopefully it’s to your tastes.”

You wave your hand, “No need, no need, thank you Valarr, you have no idea what you’ve saved me from.”

“All I require is one picture of the dress, not even you in it, just the front and back of it. It is my favor.”

He earns himself an eye-roll for that, but it satisfies him nonetheless, “Fine, and then I’m burning that damned dress. Or perhaps I will give it away, surely it is to someone’s tastes.”

“I wouldn’t go banking on that, now go, see if the dress will fit.”

You take the bundle easily, bounding up the stairs as Valarr debates getting back in his car and returning to his family, or if he should wait and arrive with you. That would, however, invoke all sorts of issues that he has no desire to deal with. Instead he will keep his mouth shut, and he will depart sooner than later. Only, time seems to have slipped away from him, or you’re just really fast at getting ready. But while he had torn himself up over waiting or not you had transformed yourself.

Your hair and makeup stayed the same, but your dress, jewelry, and shoes are completely different. There is a coat made from blood red lamé fabric decorated by various precious gems stitched to create a matching pattern over the billowing sleeves. There’s long red tassels at the bottom point of the sleeve, and then it comes to create a sharp V down to your navel, where it has been ruched and held together by a large black square. The skirt itself is long and column-like, the end trailing behind you and split from behind up to your lower thighs. You wear nothing underneath the top of it too, using fashion tape and the coat to lift and cover your breasts. Then there is the jewelry, long and dangly but ornate, necklaces drip from your neck and go down to your belly button, bangles cover your wrists as your ears are encrusted by gold and jewels, your fingers in a similar state. 

Rhaenys had the dress commissioned when she was fighting with her husband over her daughters’ first engagement, having worn it to a movie premier in 1927. Now you are wearing it to a gala, you even have her strands of pearls wrapped around your forehead, draping off your hair and tumbling down your back. You have a clutch in one hand, a fan in the other, and Valarr cannot speak. Not when you are wearing an item that is only described as iconic by the people, his cousins have chosen the best and the worst option for you. 

It is unmistakably a Targaryen dress, and that is where the issue lies, especially since it has not been seen since Rhaenys wore it to the movie premier. There is not one person at the gala who will not know what you are wearing, and Valarr said he would not brand you, but this feels like he is anyway. On the other side of things, you look beautiful in a way he had not imagined you to be before. Of course there is the knowledge that you are attractive, your features perfect in their harmony with each other. This is different though. 

Valarr knows it is something that he cannot come back from either. Not when his heart is thumping two beats faster than it had been before you came down the stairs. He feels like the guy picking up the girl for prom in a movie, when he’s so enamoured that he’s stuck in his words and movements. It’s like his mouth has dried, any words he wishes to say turning to ash before they get the chance to flee. You stand there at the base of your steps, uncertain of it all, “How do I look?”

An innocent question, and it is his opinion you find that matters the most out of anybody. Valarr wants to say that you look like a Targaryen, that you look like you belong by his side, walking down a red carpet together. He wants to tell you that you are the most damnably beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on, that you in this outfit will haunt him in ways he is not proud of. Instead he clears his throat and dips his head towards you, “You look perfect.”

You finish stepping down the stairs, and he comes to you quietly as you take a few tentative steps forward. Neither of you get too close though, he pauses, just close enough that he can take in the details of your face and the makeup you’ve applied to yourself. Your lips are darker, your eyeliner bolder, the bronze more prevalent than the blush. He wants to take your cheek into his hand, to tilt your head back so you’ll have to look at him, all so he can kiss you. 

The thought of kissing you is dizzying, how would it feel? He does not know, but he wants to, desperately. Valarr’s breath comes out shuddery, like he is waiting to jump and nervous, you do not miss it. Your eyes flick to his lips, and then to his eyes again, you know what he wants. But you do not give it to him, not yet, instead you speak, voice breathy and low, “Thank you.”

He refuses to break eye contact, intent on devoting every detail of your eyes to his mind. It takes all of his restraint to not reach out, to take you by the waist and pull you over to him, instead he nods and takes a step back, “Of course, if you are ever in need or-or want of dresses and jewelry, know I have plenty to spare.”

Valarr pauses, brow furrowing, “Not that they are in my personal collection or anything like that. I digress, I will see you at the gala? Yes?”

You nod, lips stretching wider as he turns on his heel, cheeks flaming, “I must go now.”

The door shuts behind him, and for a moment you stand there, looking at the shut door, and then you burst into a fit of laughter that echoes throughout your entire apartment. Valarr Targaryen, he will be fun to tease, if only your heart would calm itself down too. 

________________

As soon as you step from your car, the paparazzi practically explode. They recognize your face, and they know you’re wearing a dress that will be talked about anew. Your parents are inside already with your youngest three siblings, you doubt Gowan will show up, and Tybolt has to have arrived with his wife already. The lights are flashing more than they ever have in your life, and you strike your poses with practiced ease before you’re directed to Olenna Redwyne, sister to Loras. 

She is not someone you’re particularly excited to see, having gotten enough of her in high school. Olenna is but a few years older than you, but she has always been of a particular beauty that she lorded over anybody she deemed beneath her. Of course she never did it with you, not when you were addressed as Ms.Lannister wherever you went. Instead she had chosen to go the opposite way, attempting to big sister her way into your life with insults disguised as helpful tips. A little motivation, that’s what she said to you after she commented on how your thighs bulged from your socks. A little motivation to get legs like hers. 

Now she has a polite following of a few devoted million who know nothing of her truth. Featured on talk shows and invited to different pod-casts, you see her featured in different collabs all across social media. If there is one thing you can bring yourself to respect her by, it is that she has dared to step away from the conformity of everyone else around her. A Redwyne daughter is a prized daughter, one who would catch the attention of the likes of your brothers. 

For a moment, as you are coming towards her, you think of calling her your good-sister, having to make nice with her in the name of family. Having to deal with her no doubt incorrigible brats, especially depending on which brother she will pick. It relieves you that as far as you know, there is to be no such event to take place. Surely you would have heard if one of your brothers had gotten himself engaged. It helps, knowing she will not be permanently part of your life in such ways. You are as eased as you can be in a public setting, your face carefully relaxed but anybody can tell you are tense. 

This is nothing unexpected. There are all those stories of the good you do, and then there are the stories that you are abrasive, standoffish, that you are not one for mingling. Which you don’t deny, you are all of those wrapped up in silk, but they do not know that you are aware of what they say of you. Just because you rarely ever make appearances on social media doesn’t mean you aren’t kept up to date on everything going on around you. 

She dips her head politely, her body going with it as you simply nod your head towards her while she forces a smile into the camera, “In case none of you have guessed who this is, this is Young Lady Lannister, we went to high school together, didn’t we?”

Your smile turns sharp, fingers twitching around your fan as you grit out, somehow smooth and measured, “Indeed we did, it is a shame I have not been able to keep up with everything as you have, busy as I unfortunately am.”

Olenna hums, strained, “Of course, of course, you have many duties to attend to I am sure, especially with your ongoing studies, and although I would love to catch up with you later I must ask about the dress. Where did you get such an exquisite dress from?”

You stare right into her eyes as you draw yourself up a little more, because tonight you are something akin to untouchable. Perhaps it is Valarr, knowing he is flustered by you. But it doesn’t feel right, and then you think it is perhaps because you feel more present in your skin than you have in a long, long time, and you are beginning to remember what it used to feel like. There is strength in your steps that you had not carried before, your ribs are harder to feel beneath your fingertips. 

It feels less like you are shackled to the path laid before you, as if there has been a detour you were unaware of somewhere along the way. You’ve only just begun to realize it now though, now that you’re wearing something priceless, something worthy of royalty. She swallows, once, before you answer her, “I had a fashion emergency earlier, and it just so happened that my friend and peer at KLU, Valarr Targaryen, had a dress to spare.”

Then before she can ask you anything else, you reach out to squeeze her forearm, perhaps a bit too tight as you lean delightfully close to her, all in the show of old bonds never dying. She follows, knowing she can’t do a damn thing about it as you speak to her, “I must go now, but it was lovely seeing you again Olenna. Perhaps we will run into one another later.”

It feels like a threat, and for you and her, it is one. Not that her viewers would know any different, instead they speak of your subtle intensity, and how ethereal you looked in such an outfit. They do not know that Olenna is no longer actually “invited” to galas anymore. She does not grace the dance floor as she once had, and you know it will be a very, very long time and only if it never will happen again for her to dance once more. You wonder if she truly knows what she has traded herself for, a spectator when she once was part of the art. 

Some part of you feels bad about it, knowing that she will not thrive as she thinks she is right now for as long as she wants it. Olenna had taken the opportunity for fame, she had sacrificed plenty for it, that you can feel sorry for. But you remember her comments, her nails digging into your skin until you had crescent shaped scabs over your arms. You know she remembers you in high school, early into your assimilation with everyone, unsure and uneloquent, still struggling to suppress an accent you had let mould your tongue since birth. 

All thoughts of Olenna Redwyne are thrown out the door when you enter the ballroom. Lyonel, ever the glutton for a good party, certainly knows how to throw one. It is staged with different sections boasting different elements in a node to their designated era. There is nothing remotely glamorous about the whole thing, in fact it is downright raunchy, and yet it is perfect. You will not be the only one alone in the thought either, and it truly is grand, how Lyonel gets with his parties.

Downstairs is the swarm of people already mingling, and you are reminded of why Lyonel’s parties are your favorites. Disguised as galas when it’s an excuse to throw money around and get shit-faced, you had plenty of nights getting steadily, and unnoticeably more inebriated the longer the night went on. Tonight would be no different, you were sure of it, it didn’t matter that you are wearing a Targaryen dress and jewels, head to toe in a family’s history that is not yours. 

Although the people, tonight, are looking, and you are simply trying to find a place where you can safely vanish. If you can avoid your mother then tonight will have gone perfectly. Saved by Targaryens’ and their stupidly beautiful clothing, by Valarr of all people. You do not know why you reached for him first when you should’ve reached for Maelys, or Carissa, you should’ve reached for anybody but him. Yet in the moment, when your panic was beginning to peak, you had dialed his number, and he had responded. Had done more than respond. 

It was almost a shame that it is you who wears the dress, especially when you know you are going to be a wallflower as you always are. You can think of plenty of other ladies who would wear this better than you, who would walk with their perfect sways and the fabric swishing just right. For a moment you feel as if you are not who you are. Like you are a ghost operating a body that does not belong to you, sluggish and dazed, you feel like you are something and only something until you are nothing. 

This dress was worn by a princess, an almost queen, and you are the second person to don it over your skin and flesh. Jewels and beads, embroidery and needlework that are more tedious than anything, yet phenomenally cohesive together all across a single sheet of fabric. It feels like you are carrying part of her legacy with you, even though you are not a Targaryen. As if it has come to another point in the wheel of its lifespan, perhaps better than the last one. 

You make your way to Lyonel first, mostly because he is the host and it is only polite that you get it out of the way while he’s still clothed. The gala is loud inside, but not overtly so, and there is a fantastic array of costumes tonight. Old family relics that bore stories and secrets that would never be spoken aloud, not even by the one who made them. At some point you spot Maekar and Baelor, they orbit around each other, tempering, you think. 

Although you do not see Valarr, you are not discouraged, for a party at the Baratheon’s means you have every right to forget and have a night to yourself. It starts with two shots of tequila, mostly because that’s what will get you drunk the quickest, and you settle into a corner with an order for more later on. For now though you can sit and observe the people, and hopefully flee if your mother comes too close to you, for you have no doubt she will be livid. 

What you don’t expect is for Lyonel Baratheon to personally bring you the bottle of tequila, but it’s also not like you don’t know the man. Brenielle has taken you over to her place, and every now and then Lyonel is there too. This, however, is rarer. Usually Lyonel is in the center of the party, he’s on the tables and pouring champagne down his chest and licking it off his fingertips in front of important guests. That’s just who he is, and you doubt he’ll ever really change unless there’s something serious afoot. Your point is: Lyonel does not bring tequila to people personally unless there’s something exciting about them. 

Excitement and you are not to be put in the same sentence, which is why your skin crawls as he plops the bottle before you, his grin just shy of vicious as he takes a seat too, “So, lovely outfit you’ve got on tonight.”

You stare at him, snorting after a moment, “I’m borrowing the dress.”

“Oh I have no doubt it’s borrowed, but why?”

“Well if you must know the dress I had prior looked like something out of a little girls’ imagination, I was not about to wear that to a gala.”

“Do you have pictures?”

“Do you swear not to tell anybody that I just hated the dress and it wasn’t actually malfunctioning?”

“I do.”

You show him the pictures, quietly grateful that Valarr did take facetime photos of you in the dress in the height of your indignancy. Lyonel, expectantly, nearly falls off his chair laughing, because it truly is that bad. When he calms you are still calm and composed, but you’re into your third shot, going on your fourth. You need to pace yourself tonight, but you’re not, which isn’t the greatest idea. 

When he calms you are steady, but your face is warmer, and you are grinning more openly than you normally do, it’s more relaxed, not as forced. Lyonel is funny, you think, funny in the way that he tends to lighten people's feet, drawing them to dance and revelry in ways that other people cannot make them do. But he does have his rare moments where he is not all fun and games, and once his laughter dies down, the concern he had resurfaces. 

He eyes you for a moment, how you’re dressed in Targaryen jewels and cloth, looking every bit one of them. If Lyonel didn’t know who you are, that you’re a Lannister, he would’ve thought you to be another Targaryen woman. Not by blood, but by marriage, “Are you dating one of them now? One of those Targaryens?”

You cut him a glance, and it makes you wonder about Valarr, the almost kiss, the trips to little Yi Ti so you can get your fix of memory and food. He is good to you, better than most people have been, and he’s good at getting you to open your doors to him, for he knows you will never take your walls down. You aren’t dating him, but you think that maybe, just maybe, you could. 

“I’m not.”

“Yet.”

Lyonel gives you a look, there’s no teasing, just truth, and you do not deny it because you cannot. If things with Valarr continue as they are then yes, you will wind up as his girlfriend, and that doesn’t scare you like it would have three months ago. Instead that brings you a burst of unexpected pleasure, thinking of you and he as a unit instead of two singular beings. You would like it, if he was yours. 

“Who is it?”

You look at him again, and you don’t know if you should say it, if you should admit that there is something real between you and him and you just don’t know how to properly navigate it. There are aspects about you that will test him in ways that others are unwilling to be pressurized by. But he has gotten farther than anybody has ever willingly gone, you wonder if he will come to a point where he wants to turn back, you hope not. 

It is then, with absurdly perfect timing, that you see Valarr from across the room. He’s changed his clothes, no longer in the plain black suit with minimal embellishments, but something a bit bolder. The gold accents are heavier, there’s embroidery on the jacket and the pants, and he’s even wearing jewelry too. Earrings and rings, he catches your eye with an easy grin, and you cannot help the smile you return to him. Lyonel follows your gaze, then his head whips back to you, wide and with a hint of panic as he hisses out, “You chose the fucking crown prince?”

You decidedly take your fourth shot in response, chasing it down with a gulp of mango juice, your go-to chaser for tequila, “We’re project partners for a project in Globalization 4273.”

“Oh gods above there’s going to be a Lannister queen of the seven realms.”

“Maybe.”

Valarr, just to make everything worse, decides this is the time to come over to your table. You just sigh as he takes a seat beside you, glancing at the tequila, then to you, who just raises your brows at him, daring him to question your choices. He sighs, shaking his head before he tugs on the tassel of your dress, “Lord Baratheon, apologies for my intrusion, I merely wished to say how lovely your gala is tonight.”

Lyonel swallows, dipping his head, “Your Highness, thank you.”

“Of course, I hope you don’t mind my intrusion.”

“Not at all, the more the merrier, shall you have a drink?”

“Mm, perhaps one for now.”

You nudge the tequila towards him, “You can have a shot of this or you can get something else, it depends on how drunk you want to be tonight.”

Valarr takes the bottle, examining it before he sets it down and stares at you for a moment, “How drunk do you intend to be tonight?”

“Drunk enough to where my mothers’ ire is just an annoyance.”

Lyonel leans forward, “Oh? Are we hiding from mama’s tonight?”

You snort, examining the crystal shot glass you’ve been using, “I don’t know about you Lyonel, but I am always hiding from my mother.”

Valarr, who has a dead mother, does not contribute to that particular branch of conversation, but he does sit a fraction closer to you, “Well then, I shall simply stay with you, perhaps it will ward her away.”

“Mm, I think I would enjoy that.”

Lyonel, with growing horror, looks between the both of you, because neither of you are even attempting to be subtle. If he was someone else then he might’ve had an aneurysm trying to decipher the interaction. As it is, he’s only just confirmed that Valarr is besotted by you, and you are warming up to the idea of being with him. A slow process, but steady, and inevitable. Yes, he decides, inevitable. You are inevitable, just as the night will end, just as Valarr will be king someday. 

Just how Baelor will be king sooner than later with Daeron II on his deathbed. Nobody speaks of it, but everyone knows that he will die before mid-year arrives after this one ends. Those topics do not belong at a party though, so Lyonel does not dwell too deeply on it, instead he clears his throat and stands with a broad smile directed at you, “Well I must say it has been lovely, tell my dear sister that she ought to let loose tonight, yes? Enjoy the party, please.”

You watch as he vanishes into the crowd, leaving you and Valarr alone together as you eye his suit, “I like this one better than the other one.”

He grins, “I do too, it belonged to my ancestor Daemon Targaryen. He wielded a sword of Valyrian steel named Dark Sister, we still have that sword.”

“You should’ve worn the sword to go with it.”

“I could’ve, but only if I wanted my father to chase me around the party in an attempt to remove it off of me and smack me upside the head with it.”

The alcohol is starting to work into your system, making it easier to laugh. You can feel the fuzziness tinting the edges of your awareness, an inebriation you don’t usually crave but thoroughly enjoy when it occurs. Valarr doesn’t know how much you’ve taken, and you don’t exactly want to tell him either. It feels a little shameful, being four shots of tequila deep into a party you’ve spent less than an hour at. Yet you cannot bring yourself to care either. 

He comes closer, unabashedly this time, knowing that you and he are hidden in this particular section, he gets why you’ve chosen to nest yourself over here. Then he thinks of walking around the room with you, knowing you and he can publicly be friends since you declared it on live television for all to see. He supposes it’s his fault that all the secrecy you and he have practiced has gone out the window, there was no other way for you to address the questions surrounding your dress tonight. 

Yet it elates him, knowing that you and he can go around campus together now, that you and he can grab coffee whenever, go to cafes and sit in the library. There will be hell to pay with your family, you more than he, but it is worth it, in his opinion. It means he can begin to court you, only if you’re willing, but he’s ninety percent sure you’re willing. He’ll have to ask later, or maybe tonight, not right now, but he could ask you right now. There’s too many options, and so he takes a shot in an effort to calm himself. 

You watch him with the calmness of a cat who is being slightly judgy, waiting to see what else he will do. Valarr, if there is one thing about him, is that he does not do shots, he barely even parties. It burns going down, and his eyes water when he starts to cough, but you hand him a thing of juice, and that helps. When it is over his cheeks are red, and he’s left questioning why you have a bottle of it in front of you. Who would ever willingly drink this sort of thing? 

Valarr stares at it as if it has greatly offended him, “That is vile, why have you chosen such a drink when there’s a variety of cocktails at the bar?”

He watches as you cackle, reaching for your shot glass as you pour yourself another one, “Because I know how to take shots, and I know this will get me drunk quicker than most of the cocktails over there. It’s fast, efficient, and I don’t have to deal with inedible garnishes. Besides, I’d have to keep getting up to order them, and the idea of potentially running into people I have to talk to is unappealing at best.”

“But you’d have a far more enjoyable taste experience because that is nauseating, and it burns.”

“If you are that pressed about shots of tequila versus a cocktail go get a cocktail then, you know where I am.”

He glowers, but you don’t back down, even if you are regretting that fifth shot. No more for a while you decide, or else you’ll find yourself in a spot of trouble that you aren’t willing to deal with. Not when you’re wearing this dress, or these jewels. You also suppose that since you’re wearing such an outfit you cannot be a wallflower for the entirety of the night, but you aren’t about to get up and head to the dance floor either. 

“I’ll be fine.”

“If you insist.”

Valarr groans, but he does not leave, instead he turns his attention to the crowd, to the people that wander about in their lavish clothing and alcohol induced steps. Most galas are not like Lyonel’s, they are sophisticated affairs at the beginning, full of speeches and charity donations. Parties with Lyonel are ones that get people drunk, and keep people drunk, which makes it so that when they write their checks for donations they are loose with their money and eager to impress. He is smart for that, and everyone else is stupid to call him a simple man who only craves the feeling of flesh and the allure of alcohol. 

You lean closer to him, your lips nearly brushing his ear as you murmur, “I see a lord who is attempting to cheat on his wife with an already married woman.”

Valarr searches the room, but he does not see what you have found, “Who?”

The giggle you let out sends shivers down his spine, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, “Lord Blacktyde, look at how he’s leaning down to Lady Harlow, he’s encroaching on her space with how he leans in, hand on the back of her chair, other hand on the table, he means to corner her. With how far away she’s leaning it’s safe to say she isn’t into him, not that I blame her. Lord Blacktyde is an unfortunate man with an even more unfortunate temper.”

“Where is his wife and where is her husband?”

This part makes you smirk, because you know exactly where they are, “If you go down the hall there’s a bathroom, I bet you right now that it’s locked, and Lord Harlow has Lady Blacktyde bent over a sink right now. Lord Blacktyde knows of his wife’s infidelity, he knows who her affair partner is, but Lady Harlow doesn’t know. The only reason Lord Blacktyde is trying so hard with her is because he wants revenge on his wife.”

Valarr watches them for a moment longer, and then he looks at you, “How do you know all of this?”

You shrug, “Perks of being a wallflower I suppose, I see everything that nobody else does. It makes for some fantastic blackmail, not that I would use it.”

“What else do you see?”

“Well, if you look at your three o’clock you see Young Lady Foxglove, she’s hiding a pregnancy with Lord Manwoody.”

For a while you point out the various happenings of lords and ladies around the room, and when you point out your step-father, you abruptly falter. He is there with your mother on his arm, and you can tell she is searching for you, that she is angry. Valarr sees the moment your playfulness dies on your tongue, your focus zeroing in on your mother and your two brothers that flank the two of them. The three siblings she has given you via your step-father are nowhere to be seen, left behind due to being too young. 

Valarr, who has taken three more shots since he settled at your table, is emboldened, but he’s not drunk enough to miss the fear that seems to explode within you. He reaches, hand on your knee with a squeeze as he leans to your ear this time, “Do you wish to dance now?”

Dancing will take you away from them, and it will throw you into the fray of things, but it will save you from your parents. Not once have you ever wished to dance with somebody at a ball, but now it is all you desire. You take his offered hand, nodding as you stand, “Yes, although I cannot guarantee that I will be any good to you as a dance partner.”

“That’s alright, everyone’s too drunk to notice if anybody’s dancing badly.”

“Yes but there will be videos, I guarantee you.”

“Who cares?” And you know there are people who will care, plenty of people, but you can’t bring yourself to be one of them. Not when your hand is still in his, and he is skirting around your family, shielding you from them as you and he take to the stairs that lead up to the main event room. It is hotter here, crowded and the stench of alcohol is so strong it masks the scent of guilt. There are younger people here, lords and ladies closer in age to you and Valarr, they’re drunk and excited, their outfits already askew in the wake of their partying. 

The dance floor is where you and he are headed though. Here the music is loud, and it -per theme- is never on one particular decade or era. It changes every time, and you relish the sound of your species’ history. For a moment you are starstruck by the sight before you. Lords and Ladies in their finest pieces that ought to belong to a museum dancing, drinking, smoking. It looks like the picture of grandeur and wealth. It looks like something you desperately want a taste of. 

Valarr tugs at your hand, beckoning you to the crowd, and you’re so grateful that the skirt has a slit in it, you could not imagine trying to dance in such a thing otherwise. The music, a hit from the sixties, starts to die down as you and he find a space for yourselves in the throngs of people and bedazzlement. Here, in this crowd of people who are focused on their music and dancing, with themselves and their partners, do not care who walks behind them or beside them. 

There are too many people to be distant, so you and he are pressed closer together. His hand finds your waist as one pair of hands combine, your free hand rests on his shoulder, and then the music starts again. For a while you and he are lost in the push and pull of dancing, forgetting everything else, and only broken out of the reverie when you hear the beginnings of a faster jazz song begins, one distinctly from the roaring 20s. 

You can only laugh when Valarr pulls you into the fastest, most dramatic waltz you’ve ever partaken in. He moves you across the floor like you are a tornado rather than a person, and miraculously, the people move. For the most part they keep on as they are, but a few people stop to watch the flurry of movement you and he partake in. Vaguely, you see the cameras flashing in the corners of your eyes, but for the most part you don’t care. You’re drunk and you’re dancing with Valarr Targaryen of all people in the prettiest dress you’ve ever had the honor of wearing. 

When he dips you it’s low enough that your hand and hair brushes against the floor, and then you’re being brought up again, giggling as you cling to him, dancing back into the crowd again. It is electric, you think, dancing in such a way that your mother would never approve of. You feel wild, and like you cannot ever be touched again, that in this moment everything is perfect and therefore you are perfect. Valarr’s eyes never leave your face, although they are lidded with intoxication, all he can focus on is you and how you toss your head back when you properly laugh. He may be drunk, but he doubts that he will ever forget how you look in this moment, when you are truly at peace. 

Even if it is in a room where everything is too sweaty, too dizzying, too many people. It is everything you are branded not to like, and yet you love it. The music and the laughter, the dancing reminds you of parties from your homeland, where adults and teenagers danced and sang, ate and drank and children ran around with each other. You remembered learning some of the basic dances with sisters and girlfriends while your brothers and the other boys learned their movements. 

It was always loud, always chaotic in a way that never failed to make you borderline hysterical with your revelry. To you it was something felt in your soul, a sense of profoundness that could never be replicated. Even now it is not the same, but it is the closest you have gotten to it in Westeros. You lose track of time when you are with him, even after the alcohol has been burnt from your system and you are as sober as the night will allow you to be. 

When you can take no more Valarr whisks you away to the opposite side of the room, away to the second floor balcony that overlooks everything else. There’s a second bar here, and Valarr orders two wine glasses and a small pitcher of some pink drink that looks like a future headache. You don’t care though, not when you’re looking down to everyone beneath you. The dancers and the watchers, the older people gossiping and the photographers walking around. 

One such photographer is behind you, and unbeknownst to you has gotten his shot of a century with you as the model. He calls your name, and as you turn to see who has called for you the camera flashes. It blinds you momentarily, but you aren’t bothered, instead you offer a smile, a genuine one, because you are happy here. Valarr approaches, two glasses in one hand, the pitcher in another, you reach your arm for him, “Take a picture with me.”

There’s an attendant trailing him, thankfully, and Valarr wastes no time to drop the contents off to him before he comes to you. It is like puzzle pieces coming together, and you do blame the alcohol for the way you lean into him like it is natural to do so. He’s somewhat behind you, his shoulder against your head as his arm comes around your waist, resting on your hip like it has always belonged there. Your arms come to position, and you think of how domestic this looks, how damning it is when he leans down to kiss your cheek. 

It’s stupid, you think, how pleased you are by him, how drunkenly besotted you are with Valarr. Who beckons the photographer closer, allowing him to get some close-ups of you both individually and together, and when it is over Valarr tugs him closer, “You have our permission to post everything except for the kiss, that is to be sent to me personally. Understood?”

He nods, the pictures he has a small trade for a singular photo, “Of course, are there any others I should send to you personally sir?”

“Any pictures that look like the kind that belongs to an engagement.”

“Of course, thank you sir, and thank you my lady.”

You dip your head towards him, “Of course, I look forward to the pictures.”

As you leave you lean up a little so he can hear you better, “And you better forward me those pictures too.”

Valarr grins, “I’ll share the album with you.”

The attendant trails behind you both, drink and cups in hand as Valarr takes you elsewhere. He comes to a covered balcony that oversees the city, a good chunk of it too. There’s not many stars in King’s Landing, but from where the Baratheon mansion sits there are more than in the city center. There’s a small white couch and dark furniture for outside seating, and it doesn’t take long for you and Valarr to find your seats on the couch. 

Not once have you two parted from each other, and you get the sense that this is too fast, too much, but at the same exact time you want it. Even if it’s taken you a while to recognize the sensation of falling for somebody, and knowing you are not even fully there yet, you find that you want to be. You do not love Valarr, but you can, and you will if this continues on its trajectory. Even if there is apprehension about the potential union between you and he, of course there is. 

Neither of your families are particularly friendly with each other, the constant push and pull of number one and number two often causing friction. You have no guarantee of this being your salvation, for it could very well be your ruin, and yet so be it. If Valarr is the thing that makes this life unravel for you, then you’ll make good on your teenage dream of running away back to your home country, never to be seen in Westeros again. But here and now you want him as yours, and you find yourself hoping to be his. 

You have no idea how the realm will react to a union between the both of you. What will become of your character, and how you will navigate everything with your family. There is no doubt that your mother will be displeased, but everyone else you have no concrete projection for. Your brothers may be mildly pleased, mostly because it would tie them closer to the crown. Your step-father would be similarly pleased you think, and your younger siblings could probably care less. Just your mother, your mother who hates and loves you with a balance that has been lost to time, fame, and money. 

“Taste this. You might like it, and don’t down it like a shot.”

Valarr holds the pink drink out to you, and sure enough there is edible glitter in the liquid. You take it with a roll of your eyes, making sure to lock eyes with him as you take a dainty sip. He rolls his eyes, but you ignore that as the taste comes over your tongue. Sweet, strawberry and lime and something distinctly coconut. It’s the exact kind of drink you’d enjoy deep into the summer. Now that it’s close to winter time you aren’t sure of his choices, but you’re also sitting in a dress worth close to five-hundred thousand dollars courtesy of the crown prince sitting with you. 

“It’s good, summery. I didn’t think you’d want something so tropical in November.”

He shrugs, “I don’t, but you like the tropical fruits and flavors, and I’ve always liked daiquiris.”

“I do too, can do anything with them. What else would you drink? If you weren’t keeping me in mind.”

Valarr pauses, and you are content to sip on the daiquiri while he thinks it over, “I think I really like French 75s. They’re good and simple.”

“Hmm, I don’t know if I’ve had one of those.”

“Next time.”

“Sure.”

You both lapse into silence again, but it isn’t bad, it’s steady, comfortable, and you are happy where you are. It is quieter here, where there is nobody but you and he and thick walls to drown the noise out. Nobody is looking at either of you, and it is comforting to know that it is truly just you and he once again. There will be consequences to face later, of you and he dancing like you two had, but neither of you care, at least not right now. Not when you are pressed next to him, the warmth of your bodies leeching off one another. 

The project you and he have been working on is complete, done far earlier than anybody else, already revised, already perfect. Neither of you are required to show up for the workday part of class, seeing how it would be a waste of both your time. You think of coming to his, or he coming to yours. Then you think of your home, how much you hate the beige and modernity, how you’ve wanted to change it for forever. However, you know damn well that your mother would never agree to renovating it, at least not in your tastes. 

Valarr shakes you a little bit, making you glance at him, “Hmm?”

“You went away for a second, what were you thinking about?”

You huff, swishing your glass so you can watch the glitter swirl around, “How much I hate that apartment, I want to renovate it, make it mine, but Mama would never agree to it. So I was brainstorming ways to do it right under her nose.”

“Is the apartment in your name?”

“Mhm, it is.”

“Why don’t you sell it then? You can sell it and get that money for a different apartment, and then you can renovate that one to your liking.”

“True, and if I pay in cash she won’t be able to look through my spending history and see where it’s gone to.”

“Would she really look through it?”

“She looks through everything in my life, truly.”

He shuffles a bit so he can see you better, and you face him unabashedly, it is the truth, and you think you’re finally willing to tell it to someone. You think it is because out of anybody who has wormed their way closer to you, Valarr is the one who understands the most about being restricted despite being the definition of free to do as one pleases. Your friends know pressure and expectation, they know they are meant to act in a certain way. But the difference is that they have choice and you are so incredibly jealous of them sometimes that you cannot stand them. 

“What do you mean by everything?”

You furrow your brow, letting your eyes shut as you think of how to explain it to him, this thing you and your mother have. How neither of you can let each other go, sinking poison coated claws into each others’ chests, waiting to see who will get to whose heart first. At the same time it is clinging, it is a lifeline of familiarity and instinctual love that is bound in so many memories of you and her versus everything that it cannot be unwoven. Sometimes you think that without your mother you’d fall apart, and the bigger piece of you thinks that if she stays like this, continues to treat you as she has been and is now; that she will kill you. 

“My mother is a woman who has been through a lot, and everything she has done is just as much for me as it was for her. At least until she found stability, and then I don’t really know what it was, or what happened, but she just. She sort of lost it, a little bit, with me.”

Valarr is looking at you but you can’t look at him, instead you’re focusing on the rings he’s dressed you in. Silver and gold, rubies and diamonds and black opals alike, some older than the Targaryen’s have been the ruling family of Westeros. They are rich in their history, their culture, and yet you see so little of it on them. At least in modern day they are lacking, for just a century ago they were not. It reminds you of what you used to wear, the clothes that adorned you and the legacy you carried with it. Westeros stripped that from you. 

He keeps you close, his arm around your shoulder as his thumb strokes along your shoulder, listening as you try not to stumble over your words. Valarr has known for a while that there is something amiss with you, your mother, your family. It is the little comments, the restrictive food intake, how you seem to grasp blindly at opportunities like they might flee from you. Opportunities like taking lunch in Little Yi Ti, drinking in the corner where you can’t be seen, sleeping on couches that aren’t your own. He sees the way you open yourself in private and draw yourself up as if you will be berated if you don’t. There’s nothing personal about your public appearance, and you clearly dislike just about every aspect of your life. 

“What does she do?”

You risk a glance at him before returning to the rings, “She decides every aspect of my life, from how I decorate my apartment to what food I eat. The streets I take are decided for me, my destinations are pre-set, she has pictures taken just so it shows that I’m not too odd, too out of place, but just right. And it’s just…I think it would be different if I came to Westeros willingly.”

Valarr stills, and then he pushes up against you, forcing you to sit up as you curse yourself for saying too much. It is the truth you were not yet ready to face and it is too much, too raw for you to handle as you have dealt with everything else. You have tried, over and over and over again with varying degrees of success to forget the circumstances that led you here. What pushed your mother away from everything, why you were the one taken. 

“You did not want to leave your country.”

Guilt and nausea eat at you, forcing the alcohol to crawl up your throat unpleasantly, but you don’t puke, not yet at least. Not even when Valarr’s hands squeeze yours, and you have to swallow the urge to cry, “Far from it.”

But he doesn’t know the fine details, he doesn’t know every piece of you, and tonight you cannot give it all away to him. It is enough that you have admitted that to him, knowing that he will pick away the truth until he gets to the memory of it. Of you, of your departure and your year spent with no place to call home, not really. The year your mother exposed you to things that you shouldn’t have seen, the year that you learned how to be her daughter. 

“I must believe that one day I will come back home, that I will tie my ends up neatly. That the people I left behind will get the answers they deserve to know.”

Like your father, your brothers, your sisters, your grandparents, all of them. There is no other choice but to believe that they will be where you left them, that although the years have passed they are still standing, waiting for you. But then you think that if you are this tired of waiting to return, they are sick with it. You are tempted to look their names up, but you know your mother would flag you for it in an instant. 

“Your mother just…took you?”

It is like he can’t fathom it, can’t picture Lady Lannister taking you kicking and screaming through countries. Clearly whatever you had been taken from was important enough to leave you in a rather desolate state, and it was no wonder your mother had taken advantage of your state to decide everything for you. Valarr does not know what was left behind, does not know the significance, but he does know that if he can get you to where you need to be then he can make that work for you. Not just because you are his intended, but because it is so horrifying to him that he thinks he’d do it for anybody in a situation like yours. 

Valarr thinks of his own history and legacy, the Targaryens from Old Valyria. Dragon riders and leaders of powers that most of the world could not understand. There is little left of his culture, of his history, most of it burnt or stolen away, crucial pieces forgotten and laid to rest with ashes to the wind. He does not admit it, but there are times where he does not feel Valyrian, or like a true Targaryen. 

He has one purple eye to show for his ancestry and a streak of silver in his hair to top it all off. There is power to his surname, wealth to his dynasty, he knows that his future is stable in a way few others are gifted with. But he does not dress as his great-grandparents did, he does not know the tongue of his ancestors as seamlessly as he ought to despite his standing. Valarr wears his family colors and symbol proudly, but there are often times where he wonders if it is deserved. 

You had that culture though, the tongue, the appearance, the spirit. This is your personal doom of Valyria, living in Westeros amongst the nobility. Abruptly, horribly, Valarr feels selfish for wanting you as he does. If he courts you, marries you, makes you the mother of his children, you will forever be tied to this place, to these people. You will never be able to live in your country full time again, at least not for more than a few years. Valarr isn’t willing to take that from you. 

There will be a girl he will marry eventually, even if he does not know her name. He wants you though, he wants you and your secrets. He wants you and the way you dance when you are drunk, he wants your laughter against his throat, your hands on his body. The warmth you give him is greater than any dragon’s fire, making him lax and easy, as if the world can finally rest. Valarr knows, he knows like he knows he will be king one day, that you are the woman he will love like nobody else, and he will never be able to feel like he feels now with anybody else. 

It would not matter if he lives fifty years with the mystery girl, if he learns every quirk of hers and memorizes the shape of her collarbone in the moonlight like he has to yours. She will not be you, and true it is only a handful of months into knowing you, he knows that it will be you or nothing at all. Even if he does marry someone else. But he also knows that if he does win your hand he would do everything he could to make you happy, if it meant seeing you for a month so you could be in your home then so be it, the month with you is worth it. 

He does not ask you to be his, not when he wants to, not when you look at a place he cannot see as you look at his face. You do not tell him that your soul is there, but your heart is here, not when he looks at you’re already gone. 

_________________

The project is presented, eventually, but during the downtime Valarr mopes, and you are handed the lecture of a lifetime from your parents. You’re still not allowed to go on any outings, and you’ve lost access to your cards. The resentment builds in you, making you curse Valarr quietly as you think of the best night of your life, how it caged you in even more than ever before. But you are thankful too, for you felt alive for the first time in a while, and it was so nice you cried yourself to sleep that night. 

Valarr avoids you, and you know it, but you do not comment on it, you do not text him. He, on the other hand, holes himself up and stares out the window, your gala dress in his closet, cleaned of course, and smelling of you. Matarys leaves him be, but he comes by occasionally to silently judge before turning around. Valarr knows this is stupid, knows this is more unfair to you than anybody else for it is you who suffers the most out of this. 

There is snow outside now, and there are no classes to be had for at least another two weeks. Valarr knows, he knows he should go to you, to apologize and take you to get your favorite soup, to tell you how he is in too deep to back away. How unforgivably sorry he is for making you pick for him, because he is too much of a fool to decide what is clearly best. That is a weight he does not dare shoulder to you, knowing that you are constantly at your breaking point already. 

He misses his mother, who has not been departed from him for more than five years. She would know what to say, how to handle such a situation. If she were here she would’ve ran her fingers through his hair and whispered that everything would be alright, that she would help figure out a way to make this work. Valarr does not know how to work that sort of magic, and truthfully, neither does his father. That is not to say Baelor is a bad man, he is far from it. 

Only that there is more on the mans’ plate than Valarr’s romance issues. He will not bother his father with such things, and beyond that, he is creeping upon twenty-one, these issues are his own and his alone. The question weighs on him, and he knows he must make a decision soon, and then he must also help you escape your mother, and really, that will not be so difficult. He’ll see you walk across the stage first, allowing him to be selfish for another few months, awful as it is. 

On the fourth evening of his self-imposed isolation Baelor comes to visit him, he sits without asking for permission. Valarr does not move away from him, nor does he tell his father to leave. Baelor, however, will count that as a win, and for a moment he allows silence until he sighs and leans forward a little, “Valarr.”

Valarr glances at him, and then his eyes flick back to the snow outside, it blankets the city beautifully, and he can’t help but wonder if you hate or love the snow, “Father.”

Baelor sighs, reaching forward to tug on Valarr’s sleeve, “Look at me, c’mon.”

Valarr does not want to, because if he does then Baelor is going to see the turmoil, he’s going to know that he has fucked all sorts of things up. That he’s ruined a piece of him for forever, all for you and because of you. He does it anyway, although he’s reluctant, and he doesn’t quite raise his head either. Baelor knows it’s not going to get better than that either, and so he raises a brow, “Are you going to give even a hint at what upsets you so? Or am I going to have to bring out a list and start checking off possibilities?”

Baelor leans back, satisfied as Valarr offers him a short glare, lips pursing in a way that is certainly not a pout, and that is only quick lived as he grows saddened again, “There is a woman, and there will be another one like her, but she does not belong to me, she does not belong to anybody.”

“You are far too cryptic sometimes, is this about Young Lady Lannister?”

“Father.”

“Yes or no Valarr, it is simple.”

“Fine, yes, it is about her.”

Baelor is tempted to throw his hands in the air, but he does not. The photos have not been released, but he saw with his own two eyes how Valarr danced with you that night at the gala. He didn’t say anything at the time, not to you or his son, about how you both looked right at home with each other, and how it has been far too long since he has seen his child laugh like one. Of course something nobody knew went down behind the scenes, something none of them saw, but people speculated because of course they did. Although it was blissfully kept quiet. 

“Why do you say you cannot have her then? She seemed more than pleased with you at the gala.”

“Because she is not Westerosi.”

Baelor’s eyebrows climb higher, “Is her…ethnicity, an issue.”

Valarr squints at him, confusion and anger bleeding into one, “I’m not racist, she’s from a literal different country from Westeros. She wants to go back as soon as she is allowed to leave. I doubt she will return.”

He slumps, muttering about how ethnicity is not the issue while Baelor processes the information his son has just dumped on him. You’re not Westerosi, and you will likely not stay, “Well, that is certainly news, and you say you are in love with her?”

For a while Valarr does not answer. All he can think about is how he knows with a certainty he has not felt since he knew his mother was not going to survive that you are the one for him. He had never thought it true how people said that once they knew they were the one, they knew. But he knows now, has known since the moment you passed out on his couch the first time even if he didn’t know what to label the sensation as. 

“I do love her, and I know that even if she moves away, I will bear it, but it will be a toleration. I respect her too much to chain her here, I will not be the reason she continues to wither away. I will not keep her here where her mother can reach her so easily. And I will respect but never love whomever I wed in the future. For I will not shirk my duty in furthering our line and taking a wife.”

“Her mother?”

“Needs to go to jail.”

“Excuse me?”

Valarr frowns, his glare hardening, and Baelor is glad that his son has looked away from him with a look like that, “An awful woman, it is not my right to share everything that I have been told, but she needs to have a restraining order.”

His father nods slowly, trying desperately to play it cool, and he cannot imagine Maekar in a situation like this. Then he pleads to the gods in the next instant, and rather desperately, for them to never give his little brother a situation like this, because then Baelor will be dealing with that particular crash out. He does not ever want to deal with something like that in his lifetime. 

He wonders what exactly he has done to earn such a trial though, why his son has picked perhaps one of the trickiest romances in history. Valarr does not lie, and Baelor knows better than to say he’s being dramatic, not when he can hear the truth in wavering yet hard words. A mother who should not have her child, a rich girl far from home and apparently so homesick she’s wasting, and lastly, as if it cannot be worse. His son is so irrevocably in love with the woman that he will never fall for another, and has declared that he would suffer through a miserable marriage rather than keep her by his side. 

Baelor wishes, not for the first or last time, that Jena were here. So that he could go to their bedroom and lay beside her so he could release all his breath and ask her guess what Valarr told me today and she would ask for the kingdom keys? He misses her, the steady presence and knowing that she would back him, and balance him too. Jena would have been a lovely queen, and she would be adored, beyond that, she would know what to do. 

She would help him find the solution so their son would not be so defeated by his revelations. Baelor, like any parent, cannot stand to see their child distressed in such a way, and Valarr is despondent. It is not even an exaggeration, truly, there is no food eaten, no visitors taken, no activities partaken in and messages unanswered. You have not even done anything yet and already you have broken his heart, as quick as it may be. 

“You truly think she would not compromise with you?”

Valarr shrugs, “Even if she was I could not make her miserable on purpose. Father you do not see her, you do not see the way she lives or the rules that have been imposed upon her.”

“Boy you do know that she will be under your household if she marries into our family? That her mother will have no dominion unless you and her allow the woman to hold one?”

“That woman has had every decision about her made without her consent. From food to living space to hair to nail color to the street she walks on. All control and choice was stolen over the past few years, she has none of it, and no access to her own money, I was trying to think of ways I could somewhat smuggle her out.”

Baelor does pinch his nose, “Were you seriously going to smuggle the Young Lady Lannister out of the country? Really Valarr?”

Valarr groans, tossing his head back, “What else was I meant to do? It all has to be done under her mothers’ nose.”

For another long moment there is silence as Baelor tries not to think of how to knock sense into his son, his heir, who is so good and kind and perfect to him. Who is apparently stupid too whenever it comes to you, and Baelor is perhaps a little stupid when it comes to making his family happy, and it also sounds like you could use the support.

“Marry her now then.”

Valarr chokes on his spit, coughing raucously as he reaches for his water, nearly spilling it before he gulps it down, still coughing as he stares at his father, who is staring at him with slowly dawning horror. As if he cannot believe he has suggested such a thing, but the idea is already planted, and this cannot be stopped, his voice is light, careful as he stares at Valarr, hoping that this man before him understands how there will be no going back from this. 

“Listen to me, and listen carefully Valarr, if you marry her, you marry her on Dragonstone like our ancestors and hers. You will be lawfully recognized as married, and she will be your wife, she will be a Targaryen. This will offer her protection from her mother, but it will also tie you to each other from that point on. Which means you, Valarr, are responsible for her, you will claim a dowry from her family, and this will be put towards us and her trips to her home country.”

Baelor sighs, shutting his eyes, “She will be crown princess, therefore she will have to spend half her time here in Westeros to tend to her duties, but she can spend the other half elsewhere. We are fortunate planes exist, therefore it will be quick to travel to her should you need to for whatever reason, or her to you. And, as duty demands, she must provide an heir and a spare, minimum.”

A Lannister queen, it is what they have wanted, and Baelor knows that it will be a point of contention that it is you who will be that Lannister. You carry none of their blood, only their surname. They will not give you the dowry you are owed, but he is also more than a little determined to get his hands on a Lannister daughters’ dowry when she will be wed to the crown. It would be an insult for them to give less than what is deserved, for you deserve to be treated as if you were blood. 

People will talk of it as well, and some will chafe at the idea of a foreigner queen, but the Targaryens were foreigners too at one point. Baelor is not them though, and instead his intrigue has only grown about you, “Bring her to dinner once you are wed.”

“Dinner as in you, Matarys, and I, or dinner as in everyone with a drop of Targaryen blood that isn’t the Blackfyres?”

Baelor’s face pinches at the mention of his cousins and aunts and uncles, which only makes Valarr roll his eyes. He understands that it was a matter of succession that caused the rift between Baelor and Daemon, but it is nice to think of what there could have been. Then he sees the other Blackfyre’s and wonders if it was always doomed in their shared blood. He knows you’re good friends with one of the Blackfyre girls, she’s in the same year as you and Valarr. 

“We’ll do just the three of us first, let Matarys and I meet our in-law properly before throwing her into the dragon pit.”

Another silence as Valarr mules over Baelor’s words, the possibilities, the answer that’s far too tempting, and all of this rests on you agreeing to such a match. There is always the possibility you could say no, but he also has a really convincing plan in case you say no, and he hopes that will be enough to get you to say yes. He can even commission a ring and get one really quickly. But he’ll need to get your ring size and preference first. 

“You’re truly okay with me running off to Dragonstone to marry a Lannister?”

Baelor grunts, reaching for the whisky that sits innocently to the side, “If she was a foreigner before a Lannister then we shall survive her joining the fold. But first I would win her forgiveness, if you’ve been sulking here since the gala over her I doubt you’ve paid her much attention.”

“I…might have an idea about how to do that.”

“Good, now make sure you pull this insanity off, that dowry of hers is going to help us greatly.”

“Will you tell my uncles?”

“Of course not.”

Which means he absolutely is, and Valarr can only sigh. 

______________

You don’t expect Valarr to show up at your door bearing far too much food, and an apology that he blurts out as soon as he sees your face. You wonder if his cheeks are red from the cold or from the abruptness. Either way you step to the side, letting him in as he exhales in clear relief before taking a deep breath, “I meant to say that I’m sorry, for leaving you alone like I did. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think we should discuss over dinner if that’s okay with you. Unless you had other plans of course, I know I should’ve called you earlier but I didn’t know if you were going to pick up a-”

“Valarr. Breathe.”

He does, greedily, his blush coming back as he holds the bags out to you, “I got your favorite? We just need to warm it up.”

Valarr tilts his head and for a moment you must remind yourself that you are still cross with him. He perks up when you sigh and motion for him to come along to your kitchen, and his shoes do come off at some point, for he knows better than to wear them into the house. Angie is there, having prepared herself for Thursday dinner again, and now she freezes when you and Valarr enter with bags of goods. 

“Your Highness, “she drops into a curtsey, and then she sees the bags on his arms and the slight conspiratorial look you give her. This is what a man looks like when he begs for you properly. You tug on one of the bags, prompting him to set them down before you nod towards Angie, “They need to be reheated if you don’t mind. We will be taking dinner in the upstairs sitting room.”

“Of course, anything to drink in particular?”

“Hot black tea, jasmine, no sugar, no cream.”

“It’ll be up soon.”

“Thank you Angie.”

Without waiting you move to your stairs, stepping up them two at a time. Valarr huffs but he follows closely, though he can never catch up until you’re in your sitting room. This, like everything else, is designed not in your wants or needs, but rather your mothers’ picture of perfection. But unlike the downstairs area where there are chairs that scrape against the floor and tables that will bruise your hips if you accidentally knock yourself against it. This room has thick cushions that line the floor and low-rise tables, there are bolsters and tall pillows to lean against. 

Valarr, now that it is calm, can take note of your appearance, the dark satin robe that hangs off your shoulders, pooling in the crooks of your elbows like a taunt, the waist held together with a wide fabric belt, the rest framing your legs and trailing after you. Underneath all of that is a very short, very lacy dress, and it is in a shade of red that drives him mad. It is as if you have worn such a thing on purpose for the sole reason of making things more difficult for him. 

He can’t even be mad about it, not really, and so he swallows his pride and clears his throat, knowing that it is here and now or never at all, “I’d like to be straightforward with you, and I’d appreciate if you let me get everything out before you decide to kick me to the curb, but I’d understand if you do, alright?”

You hum, head raising a tad, “You’re not making yourself look very good right now princeling, my favorite food or not.”

Valarr flushes again, trying desperately not to look at the dip of your chest, the swell of your breast when it is covered in nothing but dark red lace and silk. This feels like he’s playing a game that he’s not aware of, and that he’s losing, badly. You, on the other hand, are having a fantastic time watching him squirm around and try to spit out the words he wants to say. 

It did not take a genius to figure out that he’s likely gone awol over something to do with your relationship status, which you truly do not know where it stands. You and he have not kissed, but you have danced, and there was the balcony. He got some secrets from you, and then he avoided you for a month. The explanation he offers has got to be worth it, and truly if it wasn’t then you were going to forgive him anyway just for the sake of going out to get food. 

“Well?”

He groans, and then he straightens himself up, and the energy shifts just like that. Whatever he has to say, you know it is important, and deep within you there was an awareness that his avoidance was not to do with your faults, but some other external factor. Valarr looks at you and he does not shy away when you look at him right back. Neither of you are willing to back down, and whatever he has to say you will whether through it as you have with everything else. 

“We’re falling in love.”

Fact. Still, to hear it so plainly put makes your heart stutter and your breath leave you with a rush, making you greedy when you breathe again. You did not think he was unaware of his own emotions, you just weren’t entirely sure if he knew what you were feeling too. It feels good though for him to acknowledge it, even if it makes you sit up and lean towards him, aware that this is a pivotal thing for you and him, “We are.”

Agreement. He eases some, and he too leans forward a little bit, “I have a plan for getting you to your home country. At least for a little bit, and for some parts of the year, and it involves getting married.”

For a moment it feels as if you were cannonballing towards the sun and abruptly hit a wall. Like a shooting star streaking across the sky, unmovable, your direction cleared for you, only to have a bigger meteor cross paths with you, shattering you to pieces and throwing you every which way. Married. Marriage. A marriage to Valarr, and you have known him for five months now, nearly six. You are aware of your depth in emotion, knowing that if given the opportunity he would become your greatest love, and only love if you were truthful. 

Are you willing to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? To birth heirs and to become wrapped by flame and guarded by sharp teeth and claws? Your entire identity would be tied to Westeros, to this kingdom and his legacy and you would once again change your surname, except this time you would become a Targaryen instead of a Lannister. On the other hand, you would be freer than you are now, and you would no longer be subjected to your mothers’ envy. Your blood is rushing in your ears, your heart pounding against your chest and you feel something warm dripping down your face as you process his words. 

Valarr’s eyes widen and you bring your fingers up to your nose tentatively, pulling them away to find that you are bleeding. It is then that Angie knocks, and she enters a second later, only to find that there is blood starting to pool on the table just as Valarr is about to open his mouth. You are still stuck on the marriage part. Married to him, to Valarr. You think of the dress you wore at the gala, how you would be able to wear it again, and other things too. You’d have access to it all, and you’d get the love match you had coveted but believed would not be yours to take. 

Angie sets the drinks down quickly, running off to get a towel as you stare at Valarr before you nod, uncaring of how the blood splatters, or how it runs down your lip and drips off your chin, “Yes? Yes. I-oh gods.”

Valarr’s eyes bulge, because honestly he hadn’t expected you to say yes, he had expected you to tell him to get the fuck out of your apartment and come back when he had something smart to ask you. The blood just doesn’t help at all, and yet he can’t help the breathless laugh, because this has to be one of the worst proposals his bloodline has ever partaken in. He has no ring, he doesn’t even know what kind you would like, and your face is smeared in blood as if you’ve broken your nose badly. Yet you said yes, and that is all that matters. 

Angie comes back in, pressing the towel to your nose before you look at her, still dazed, and manages to get out despite the towel on your face, “I’m going to be a princess Angie, can you believe it?”

She pauses, staring at you, and then slowly, she turns her head to look at Valarr, who’s still trying to wrap his head around your acceptance. He offers a shaky thumbs up instead, and gets half a mind to call his father to tell him he’s successfully secured a daughter-in-law. But the most pressing issue, as of right now, is that he hasn’t gotten to kiss you yet, and he really, desperately, wants to. Angie pulls away slowly, pleased that the blood has stopped, and you begin to wipe your face as best as you can, “You are truly to be wed?”

Valarr nods, never looking away from you, “We are, as soon as we’re able to, we're going to fly to Dragonstone, and we will be wed in the customs of Old Valyria, and the customs of her ancestors to the best of our ability.”

“Do your parents know?”

“My father is aware, he has given his blessing to the union, we will inform her parents when we come to collect her dowry.”

“Well then, my biggest congratulations to you my lady, and you as well my prince.”

“Thank you, truly.”

She leaves, and Valarr takes the wetted towel from you, dabbing at your face as gently as he can while you allow him to do such a thing. We are falling in love. There is no choice in the matter, not really, not when it comes to you and him and the way you both orbit each other. A declaration, a foundation. He wipes at your cheeks, keeping your head steady with his other hand, watching the red fade away. You’ll need warmer water to get everything off, but it is enough with the towel as it is now. He dabs at your chin, your nose itself, and then finally he’s at your lips. Pressing the cloth to the edge of your mouth before he falters. 

Your lips are reddened, plush and there, his eyes flick up to yours, and he finds you watching him carefully. His head tilts to the side a little, and you inch forward a little, head tilting up. This is the permission he needs to close the distance between you both. A first kiss is sweet, simple, just enough to solidify the bond. One of your hands comes up to his hair, mussing up his brown locks more than they already are. He presses forward a little more, tossing the towel aside so he can hold your waist, and after a moment you both have to break apart for air. 

It is the thing that makes it real for you, that you will be his wife, that you are in this for the long haul with him. He kisses the side of your mouth, then your cheek before your forehead, and he draws you over to him until you’re practically on top of him. For a moment Valarr holds you like that, with your arms under his and your chin against his shoulder, your body practically in his lap as he clings to you. This allows you to ground yourself, for you are still reeling over the turn of events. You hadn’t expected an apology, a proposal, and a ticket home. 

Home. You sit up, eyes alight, “You said you had a plan to get me home, even if it was for a little bit.”

Valarr grins, nodding, “I do, well first off we can go honeymooning off in your home country, and as long as you remain in King’s Landing for let’s say nine months out of the year you can spend the other three wherever you wish to be. I will not be able to go for that long, but you can, only you might have to carry some duties overseas, and it has to be in certain parts of the year. But you will no longer be under the thumb of your mother, or the Lannisters, you will have your own money, and although I would prefer it if we shared a home you have your own private apartments too.”

“And you would be alright with it? If I am gone three months out of the year to be somewhere thousands of miles away?”

“If it is the thing that makes you happy then I will gladly bear with it, besides, it will give me an excuse to leave Westeros for a month or so too. I am always free to say that it is a diplomatic trip to a foreign government. And in the future our children will need to know where their roots lay, and I will not deny them their legacy.”

“The king has approved of this?”

“My grandfather will, Father already has, in fact, he was the one who suggested the plan. I suppose he and everyone else were getting sick of my moping.”

You raise your brows, “Moping? Is that what you were doing while you were ignoring my existence?”

His cheeks flush again as he huffs, “In my fairness, I had thought that if I married you then I’d make it impossible for you to return to your roots, and I’d hate it if my selfishness caused you pain.”

“I would’ve found my way home no matter what, but I am happy it is you I am going to be bound to for the rest of our lives.”

You take one cup of tea, sipping on it before raising it to his lips so he can drink as well, “We will wed in the Valyrian custom on Dragonstone, but for my side of the marriage that will wait until this summer, when we are with my family.”

Valarr pauses again, steeling himself for another perspective-altering secret as his hands tighten on you, “Your family?”

For a moment you are silent, the joy of your engagement fading as you think of the people you have left behind, the people you’d give your legs to see just one more time. Your fathers’ face flashes through your head, his face your own in certain angles and light, twisted into anguish on the night your mother took you away from your home. 

“My mother and I are the only ones here in Westeros, just as she intended. But I did have a father, and I did have older siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, two sets of grandparents. I’m…not sure if they’ll be where I left them, but I can only hope that they are.”

“We’ll find them regardless of whether they’ve moved to other places, we’re rich and famous, resources at our disposal that most people don’t. We’ll find them.”

You kiss him, mostly in thanks but also because you can now, it’s allowed. 

________________

Baelor is barely awake when he gets his first call of the day, and it’s from his secretary, who never calls him before eleven unless there’s an emergency. It’s barely seven, and so he answers as soon as he registers who’s calling him, “Lyanna-”

“Forgive the interruption Your Highness, but I’ve just received word of your eldest son, Valarr, who has taken the private jet to Dragonstone after purchasing a ring for Young Lady Lannister if all is assumed to be correct. I fear there is little any of us can do in regards to him getting his way and marrying her in secret.”

The conversation he had with Valarr had been last week, and he hadn’t really seen his son since, but he thought nothing of it either. He had known it would happen, but when he had said soon he had expected within the next six to twelve months sort of soon. Not the following week. He groans, running a hand down his face, “Yes, I did give him permission to marry the Lannister girl. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

On the other end of the phone Lyanna pauses, “Sir, are you informing me that you supported an elopement between your heir and the eldest Lannister daughter without informing either parties families?”

“Gods Lyanna I suggested to him last week that if he wanted to get the things he wanted then marriage was the obvious answer. Under the circumstances, yes, it had to be secret, but I thought I would have time to at least inform my family of this. Who else knows what Valarr’s up to?”

“His staff, and as it appears, Lady Lannisters’ staff as well.”

“Do not gossip about this to the other family staff, and do not let them be bothered for the remainder of the week. When they come back, arrange for dinner with them the following day.”

“Of course, and sir?”

“Yes?”

“Congradulations, you have a daughter now.”

She hangs up, and Baelor flops back into his bed, desperately wishing Maekar was there too so he could relate about their offspring being such headaches. He just hoped that if Matarys ever did decide to wed that hopefully there would be some warning from him. Then his eyes fly open at the thought of his nephew Aerion wedding someone, and that’s even more dreadful than a surprise wedding. 

_______________

Valarr shows you around the old family castle before he marries you. He shows you the dragon nest, the old eggs that line the shelves, so imposing that it makes you shiver. You trace your finger over one of them, a pretty purple egg that fades to an opalescent white, everything so light it’s nearly translucent. For a moment you think of your home country, the volcanoes with their bubbling magma and the scent of smoke in the air, forever shrouding the city with smog. 

The dragons would have liked your home, they would have made good use of it too, and you think at some point it was true. There are bones, you have seen them yourself, of these beasts. But the information is never publicly released, instead it stays as the biggest open secret to your people, and the bones are passed down generation to generation. You have a tooth, long and sharper than knives, it has been carved into by grandmothers generation after generation ago. 

Valarr points to a different egg, this one dark blue and flecked by gold, he grins a little crookedly at it, “This was the egg placed in my cradle when I was young, of course it never hatched, but maybe one day it will.”

There are thirty-one eggs on the wall, each one that had gone cold or never hatched kept on display, seeming to wait for selection. You take in their array of colors, the pulse of possibility in their mere existence. These are some of the last dragon eggs in the world, the only other place with a rivaling possession being the triarchs of Volantis. Valarr steps closer to you, taking the egg that had caught your eye off the shelf. He eyes it, lets the weight rest in his hand before he offers it to you, voice dropping into something heavier. 

“When our child is born you will be the one to select the eggs that will lay in their cradle with them. For every child that will be born to you, an egg will be picked, and we will pray that it hatches.”

You inhale sharply, thinking of the power that your children will hold in their hands. The potential that they might unlock. Dragons, you think, are always a possibility, you do not doubt them, not when an egg lays in your hands, large and heavy. It is still powerful, even when it is encased by hard shells and beautiful colors mixed together, “We will take the eggs to my homeland if they do not hatch. There is a volcano which is said to have birthed a dragon before.”

“Is there really?”

“Yes, and if you wish, on our honeymoon, we can go to the cave where it is believed that the dragon was born. You have dragon blood, and the magic has faded but it has not declined completely.”

“You think there’s a chance an egg will hatch.”

“I am willing to believe my people’s stories.”

He looks back at the egg, at the possibilities of a dragon coming back to the fold to start off his marriage with you. That will be a boon with a scale he does not know the extent of, only that his ancestors will have no choice but to be thankful to you, “We will take the egg, and if it hatches, we will have a dragon to raise.”

“Good practice for us.”

Valarr shakes his head, placing the egg back before your arms can tire, “A dragon is far different from a babe.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Let us not think of babies and dragons at the moment, let us get dressed instead, our wedding will be upon us shortly.”

You turn your back to the eggs, nodding as you take his arm, “You will have to help me, I am unfamiliar with your customs.”

“Everyone is, do not worry.”

And so you are off to be married. 

_________________

Truthfully, your wedding ceremony is more of a blur than a memory, but you can feel the pride and elation through it all. You had felt the sting of blood being drawn, had let Valarr’s blood linger on your tongue and let said blood be drawn over your face. He had gotten the same treatment in return, and you remember feeling his too warm skin under your thumb, the wet smear of blood making the movements glide easier. 

After that was food, and when evening came, you and he retreated to his chambers. Daylight had begun to dwindle before dinner time as it often did in the Winter, but you did not mind, not when there was a fire to sit at on furs thrown around the floors with comfortable pillows to lounge on. You had made yourself comfortable there, warming your body as you waited for Valarr to finish up in the bathroom. You had shed most of your wedding clothes, leaving nothing but the chemise and stockings you had underneath. 

Your hair was still pinned up, but you would get Valarr to remove them for you. While you waited you watched the flames dancing before you, their tendrils flicking and weaving, and you could swear the flames burned hotter here on Dragostone. The egg reappeared in your mind, the beauty of it and what lay inside, you could understand why the Targaryen’s had coveted their dragons like they did. It was a privilege just to be amongst what remained of them. 

Valarr came out of the restroom, nothing but a pair of sweatpants on his hips when he saw you at the fireplace. You lounged on your side, giving the shape of your body away as you laid there, utterly entranced by the fire before you. It wasn’t visible, but Valarr knew you were wearing your wedding ring, the diamonds bright and perfect against your finger. A symbol of your union, of him miraculously going from single to married in the span of less than two weeks. 

That part still boggles his mind, and a rush of pleasure courses through him when he looks at you and knows that you are his wife. You are not just a fling, a girlfriend who will be discarded somewhere along the road because the crown demands that he marry someone of good standing. The ring on your finger, the blood on your face, the change in your legal status is permanent, and Valarr silently thanks every god and goddess he believes in for the opportunity of a lifetime. 

He comes over slowly, and you do not notice he is there until he kneels beside you and leans down to kiss your cheek. It makes you startle a little, but you relax upon seeing that it is him, your face tilts upward, and he leans down to kiss you properly. You sit up, stretching a little as you lean into him, feeling his arm settle on your hip, his preferred place to rest his hand as you have discovered. He is an extra source of warmth, Targaryen in the way that his body is hotter than most, you dread to see what a fever would look like on him. 

You do not think much about it though, not when you can feel him as close to you as he can be, not when you think about how this is somehow your future, for a while at least. Just you and Valarr, a room to yourselves and the strain of responsibility with eyes that judge all having been shut away. The crown will demand children of you and Valarr early, as it demands all couples of your standings. Far too many people believe marriage will only have value should an heir be produced, but you also refuse to be twenty-one and pregnant. 

At the very least you have the excuse of keeping it quiet for a long while, and for that you are grateful. You think of the moontea that will wait for you sooner than later, a taste you have had a handful of times, rare and sporadic as those times were. It would be a lie to say you have not instructed Angie to pack some away with you whenever you departed for Dragonstone. Not that you have told Valarr, and truthfully, you do not know how to bring it up, so you keep quiet. 

But the urge to say something grows as his hand begins to drift over your body, and it was innocent at first, just a slight skim of his hand, but his fingers are trailing over your thigh. They are getting closer, hitching the fabric of your chemise up a tad, but you notice, and he’s watching you as you notice. Your breath hitches just for a second, and that is what makes him dig his fingers in a little, a pressure that makes your cunt pulse unexpectedly. Valarr hums, pressing a kiss to your jaw, nipping the skin there, forcing you to tilt your head towards the side a little bit. 

You shiver as he draws away a little, drifting closer to your ear, “Yes?”

He makes your head spin, and he has barely touched you, it is just his fingers a little too close to your center and a few kisses, but you are already beginning to grow a little slick. The worst part is that you have nothing underneath the chemise except for the socks, which come up to your upper thighs and are tied off with black velvet ribbons. Traditional, you had been informed of when they were dressing you, a good start to a good night. You could understand that now. 

“Yes.”

You can only make a small noise as Valarr’s free hand comes between your thighs, the hand on your hip coming up to your chin, forcing your head to tilt more.  The tip of his middle finger circles at your hole, drawing even slick out of you so he can drag it up to your clit. Your thighs jolt when he touches you there, a harsh puff of breath forcing itself from you as your fingers curl into fists. He grins against your neck, his mouth having busied itself by suckling a bruise there, “Does that feel good?”

He circles your clit slowly, feeling it throb a little as you nod, struggling to get out a yes as his other finger comes to your hole, pressing in until the second joint. The hand on your jaw leaves so it can come up to your tit, where he thumbs at your rapidly hardening nipple. It is a spot you did not think you were sensitive in, but evidently when he touches you there it does become pleasurable. He shifts his hand, his thumb replacing his middle finger which moves down to press into you, replacing the other finger. Valarr watches as your chest begins to shallowly heave, your mouth dropping open as your eyes shut, face scrunched up in pleasure. 

Your thigh opens up more, and he takes the advantage of the opening to leave your clit and instead sink the entirety of his middle finger into you. That makes you whine, your hand instinctively coming to grip his arm as you clamp down on his finger. The hand on your tit slides down to stroke your clit, and that makes you loosen up enough to where he can begin to work the finger in and out of you. He is deliberate in where he crooks his fingers as he moves them, his finger consistently brushing against a pleasurable spot in you. 

Valarr can feel his own arousal, cock straining against his sweatpants as you take his pace and fingers. He teases a second finger at your entrance, letting it prod and tease for a moment before he pushes that finger in as well, letting it go all the way until he has his index and middle finger pressed against your g-spot, stroking it lightly as you moan, thighs jolting once again. You feel his fingers so keenly within you, his ministrations maddening as he forces you to feel every little thing that he does to you. It is so good that it is damning, and Valarr knows it too. 

Those fingers begin to spread apart rhythmically, beginning to come in and out, torturously slow at first before beginning to pick up speed. Soon you are pressing down on his fingers, biting your lip in an attempt to keep your noises at bay. Valarr delights in how you cannot control a single thing about how you react to him, your pleasure on full display as he fingers you open. He knows you want your composure back, but you cannot grasp it, and any time you do it is short lived. 

The pace has grown relentless, and his fingers are all you can focus on, truly. You still have a grip on your voice but nothing else. Pleasure burns through the embarrassment of withering on his fingers like you are, and you can feel the build within you. A slow mounting of heat and pleasure that every man you have been with has denied you. So you sag against him, whining for him not to stop and he can tell you are close, so he pushes a little harder, and that is what does you in. You cry out before a whimper spills from you as your body convulses, your tits heaving as your body shudders. 

That sight of you nearly makes Valarr soil his britches like he’s a teenager again, and miraculously, he does not. For a moment he holds you there, letting you come down from your high before he kisses your cheek again, “You did so good for me, why don’t you lay down?”

You nod sluggishly, letting him position you so your head and hips are on pillows, and your thighs stay shut together. Then he swings one leg over you, and he leans over your body, kissing your shoulders and leaving bites as you watch the flames, sighing in contentment. He spits into his hand, using it to slick his cock up before he presses the head against your hole, feeling it twitch as your eyes dart back to his. He doesn’t enter you, but he does take hold of your ass, “Are you still alright?”

For a second all you think about is having that dick inside of you right now, and then you are forced to answer, “M’good, promise.”

“Tell me to stop and I promise you I will, okay?”

“Okay.”

He pushes forward, just enough to get the head of him in, and you moan into the pillow from the stretch. Valarr begins to push his way inside, and your eyes start to water as you feel yourself stretch around his girth and length. You can feel his veins, the slight ridges his cock holds, the way it is hot and literally heavy inside of you. His hands brace themselves against your head, his body hovering over yours, pressing you into the pillows. 

You can do nothing but adjust around him, taking as deep of breaths as you can while he holds himself still. Your dress is rucked up over your hips, and you wouldn’t be surprised if it wound up off of you by the end. Valarr shifts his body down a little bit, dropping to his forearm on one side while the other reaches to grip underneath your hip, holding you steady as he starts to move. The slow drag of his cock in you is perhaps worse than when he entered you the first time, your cunt clings to him, and he can’t help but groan at the feeling. 

Being inside of you is better than he had thought it would be, and there is truly something special in feeling how you clamp down on him, desperate to keep him. He curses quietly, pushing him back in faster, a little more forceful, and he doesn’t falter inside of you either. In and out with each push beginning to come faster than the other one. You feel the pleasure starting to build as his pace finds stability, the angle of his hips making it so you are well stimulated, body arching up a little to meet his. 

Valarr sits himself up, hands sliding down your sides until he’s gripping your hips, letting his fingers dig into your soft skin there. You cannot help the soft, punched out moans that get partially muffled as he fucks you pliant. All you can see is the fire dancing before you, and if you try to look up you see Valarr’s face pinched in pleasured concentration, the thin silver chain he wears barely visible against his skin. 

He pauses to adjust the both of you, rolling you onto your back with your legs hanging open around his hips before he resumes the pace prior. The different angle is more pleasurable if all possible, even with the ache in your thighs from holding them open. Valarr leans down to you again, kissing and nipping up your neck before he tugs at your chemise, and you sit up to help take it off. This gives him full access to your breasts and collarbones, which he wastes no time in marking up with the small bites and bruises. Your fingernails scrape up his back, ghosting over the nape of his neck so he shudders before your hand tangles in his hair, tugging it a little to make him moan as he snaps his hips a tad harsher into you than before. 

You reach your hand down to your clit, only for him to smack your fingers away so he can touch you himself. It is enough to bring you closer to the edge faster than you would have if it was your own doing. He hisses as you clamp down on him, your pussy seemingly determined to see him ruined for you. His free hand holds your hip in place, making it so you can’t jerk away from him. Sweat runs down your body, down his, and he will have to take a second shower, but you don’t care. Not when you drag him down so you can sink your teeth into his shoulder, hard enough to nearly draw blood. 

Valarr curses, his pace quickening, making it rougher as you’re forced to take the pointed thrusts. But this is what you have been chasing from him, you had known that underneath his gentle demeanor was the truth of his origin. The small ridges on his dick are too precise to be a genetic deformity, and you remember what they have said of his blood. Dragon blood. You can only guess what that tells for his anatomy, you assumed it spoke of a nature that you could evoke and you alone. 

A correct assumption judging from the way he starts to move, the sounds he makes grow deeper, harsh pants and short moans that make you throb around his length. His attention to your clit does not grow rougher, but he does move his finger faster, the other hand comes up to your tit, grasping it with less gentleness than he had earlier. That makes you grin, your pleasure and satisfaction mingling as he forces you to spill noises you would ordinarily never make with anybody. 

He is different though, he is your eternity, and you know you will never take another into you, just how he will never lose himself like he is with you. You lay there on pillows and furs, firelight licking your skin and illuminating you more beautifully than any golden sunset could. Valarr takes the sight in as if it will burn away, memorizing the way your head lolls to the side, the halo mess of your hair and the bounce of your chest with each of his movements. 

Your hand comes to his cheek, knuckles brushing against the skin and his jaw, making him look at you. Nobody will see Valarr’s eyes like you do, not when they are like this. The purple eye and the blue eye, Targaryen and Andal, you do not care about any of it, not when it comes to him. This union will bring consequences, not that you think of them when he’s fucking any sort of thinking from your brain, and you find that you do not care, not really. 

Valarr is going to bring you home, and you are going to be a princess, a crown princess at that. He leans down to kiss you again, and that is a messy thing. Teeth and tongue, a spill of blood over a bitten lip that leaves your tongue tasting like metal. The hand that has been on your breast leaves, coming to your face instead as your arms come around to his back, leaving red lines that leave him groaning. You can feel him twitching in you, no doubt close to reaching his peak. The idea of him spilling inside you, warm release and a risk that leaves a rush through you. Moontea works most of the time, very rarely failing, and you hope this will not be one of those rare times. 

One of your legs comes to hook around his waist and he whines, just a bit, at the implication you’ve given him. The fingers on your clit stroke with a fraction more urgency, his determination to see you wither on his cock drowning out his own desire for release. He noses at the side of your face, his voice close to your ear as you feel that familiar heat rising in you, making your thighs shake as you reach towards your peak. Valarr can feel you getting tighter, making it harder to move in and out of you but in turn making his pleasure grow. 

He will not last much longer, he knows that soon his movements will falter and he will go boneless. You can feel his rhythm starting to derail and so you push him up a little bit, keeping him steady while you purposefully clench down, and that is what makes him spend. Truthfully the only reason you have pushed him up is because you desired to see his face when he cummed, and it is a pretty sight. Mouth parted as his eyebrows scrunch upwards, he tries not to collapse forward as he fills your cunt. 

His fingers don’t falter though, and when he shivers your own release comes over you. With a moan your back arches up, body seeming to throb as you flutter around him. Valarr can only whimper, hoping you didn’t hear (you did), as your cunt begins to milk him, and he would pull out but it’s worth it to see you as your body tenses, shaking and so still you cannot breathe while the initial high hits you. He sighs in relief when your body sags like you’ve been cut free from puppet strings, loosening up enough to where he can withdraw himself slowly. 

You crack your eyes open, grinning when he lays himself down beside you, utterly spent before he grins too. He begins to laugh, and so do you, and it is perfect, truly, how your first time with him has gone. Valarr leans over to give you another kiss, tugging your body towards him so you can partially lay atop of him, dragging a pillow under his head as he adjusts you both.