#push and pull

He had prepared himself to become the villain of another story.

When the shadow of Vhagar blotted out the sun over the courtyard, Prince Aemond Targaryen had expected terror. He had expected curses hurled at his head, weeping maidens, and a desperate daughter who would throw herself between his blade and her father's dying throne. He was a warrior by birth, conditioned to meet hatred with harsh, ruthless efficiency.

Aemond stepped through the scorched archway of the Great Hall, dark leather armor gleaming, hand resting heavy on the pommel of his sword.

He had walked through castles reduced to cinders before. None had ever felt this quiet.

Instead of screaming, he found stillness.

You were sitting in a high-backed carved chair beside the dais, your posture impossibly straight, hands folded tightly in your lap. You weren't wearing armor or grand silks—just a simple, muted gown of a house whose glory had quietly bled out over generations.

Your eyes were red-rimmed, the skin beneath them swollen and discolored. A single, frantic tremor ran through your fingers before you forced them still, burying them in the folds of your skirts.

You weren't fearless. You were simply a girl who had already lost everything, standing in the cold ashes of her world.

Aemond's stride faltered. The metallic thud of his boots echoed against the stone, his single eye narrowing as he took in the silence of the hall. His jaw set, searching your face for the panic that was supposed to be there.

"Your house has failed to send word to the King," Aemond gritted out, his voice a raspy threat that usually made grown men tremble. "By order of the Crown, this holdfast is—"

"Could you please lower your voice?"

The words were soft, almost a breath.

The One-Eyed Prince froze mid-sentence. His fingers tightened around the pommel of his blade. "Hmm?"

You couldn’t bring yourself to turn to him. Your gaze remained fixed on your father's still form in the chair beside you, whose pale, cold hand you had been holding for hours.

"My father is asleep," you whispered, your voice shaking at the edges, thick with a shock so deep it left no room for terror. You swallowed hard, finally turning your swollen eyes to the prince looming before you, your gaze lowered to the floor. "And...you're tracking ash into the hall."

Aemond kept still in the center of the room.

He had come to end a bloodline. He was meant to burn the stone and leave nothing behind. Yet as he stared down at you—grieving, composed, and asking him to wipe his boots—the Prince of the Realm found himself with no words prepared.

His hand remained on the hilt of his sword. He didn't draw the blade. He didn't order his men forward.

Instead, he reached out, caught you by the elbow with force and pulled you along with him out of the cold room.

He told himself she was a hostage. Nothing more.

As Vhagar lowered her great, leathery neck, he dragged you ahead of him, securing the iron safety chains around your waist with practiced knots.

You did not resist. You did not plead.

Only once—just once—did you look back.

Not at the castle and nor the burning banners. At the open doors of the hall. As though some part of you still expected your father to wake and call you home.

When Vhagar's shadow swallowed the courtyard once more, it was not victory that followed Aemond into the sky.

It was a question.

Sweat and melted wax clung to the close air of the Small Council chamber, though nothing cut deeper than the blank smiles trading glances around the mahogany.

"A new whore for the dragon's lair, brother?" Aegon sneered from the head of the table, swirling his goblet as a mocking grin spread across his face. "I sent you to wipe out a traitor's line, and you drag back a sad little lamb in dusty velvet. What is she meant to be? Your personal prize?"

Aemond didn't look at his brother. His posture stood rigid, while the pale fingers of his danced a weighty gold coin across his knuckles. "She is a ward of the Crown," he responded, the subtle threat in his voice vibrating through the room.

"A ward with no gold, no army, and no family," Alicent cut in, her voice tight, clutching her Seven-Pointed Star. Her son's stone face was inspected by her dark eyes. "What is her purpose here, Aemond? Aegon is right to question. If she is no longer a hostage, and she is not an ally...what is she?"

The Prince offered no answer. He simply turned on his heel and strode from the room.

The hefty wood door of her quarters didn't slam; it swung open with a slow weight.

Aemond brought the chilling draft of the corridors into the room, along with the lingering tension of the Small Council chamber. Aegon's mocking laughter still rung in his ears. Alicent's pleading eyes still buried in his mind.

"What is her purpose here, Aemond?"

He had nothing to say. For the first time in his life, he had done something he could not justify.

The motion drained from his limbs as he crossed the room in long strides.

You didn't move as he closed the distance. You sat by the narrow window, your hands folded over a blank sheet of parchment. When the shadow of his tall frame fell over you, you merely turned your head.

Aemond's gloved hand caught the front of your collar, dragging you to your feet. The polished steel of his dagger pressed flush against your throat.

Just inches from your ear, he spoke in a hoarse whisper.

"Give me one reason," his lone eye searched your face as he clinched his teeth. "Give me one reason why I should not cut off your head right now."

The blade bit just enough to leave a small red bead.

He waited for the flinch, waited for you to reach for his wrist, and plead for the mercy of the Crown.

A shuddering breath heaved through your chest. Trembling, your fingers gripped your skirts, but you didn't resist his hold. You looked at the steel, parting your lips as your swallowed hard.

"I do not have one, my prince," as your lashes lowered to the thin ribbon of blood slipping toward the toe of his boot. "Forgive me...you'll stain your boots."

Held by a hand that had killed men without a second thought, the knife rested at your neck. But his fingers felt unbearably heavy.

Aemond let out a frustrated groan from the back of his throat—a sound of pure, bitter defeat.

He yanked the dagger back, sheathing it in one precise motion. He turned his back on you and paced towards the door.

In the weeks that followed, Aemond established a rule: he did not cross her threshold.

He had placed a buffer between them—an older maiden named Elsie, commanded to attend to your needs and report to him. It was a practical arrangement. It allowed him to manage a ward of the Crown without standing before the only person who consistently left him without an answer.

He trained and studied history. He sparred with Ser Criston Cole until his palms were raw. Everything in his life remained disciplined.

Except for the end of every evening.

At dusk, his steps carried him down the dark corridor of the Maidenvault. He stopped two paces from the posted guard, and waited for Elsie to step into the hall.

At first, the inquiries were plain and straight to the point.

"Has she taken supper?" "No, my lord. A few sips of broth, nothing more."

After a fortnight, he stood in the exact spot, his eye fixed on the grain of the wood. "Has she left her chambers?" "Not yet, my lord."

"Has she spoken?" "Only to thank the servants when they clear the hearth."

He absorbed the answer in silence, pivoting on his heel before the maid could read his face.

Soon enough, the questions became second nature. "Did she sleep?" "I believe so, my lord. She asked whether your arm still pained you."

Aemond's movement locked in his shoulders. "What?"

"She asked about your arm," Elsie repeated. "I did not know what she meant."

His fingers twitched against his side. He had sprained his wrist against Cole's shield three days ago and told no one, hiding the joint stiff beneath his sleeve.

Yet behind a closed door, staring out at the bay...you had noticed.

He carried that shift with him through another long week of council meetings. Standing in the hallway once more by the fourth week, weary and stripped of his usual composure, the question escaped his lips before his mind could filter it.

"Has she smiled?"

The maid blinked, silent for a long beat as she looked at the prince.

Aemond caught himself. His jaw clenched as the realization of what he had just asked striking him like cold water. He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and strode away before the maid could speak.

The boundary between them did not shatter; it eroded, stone by stone.

One evening, after a terrible session in the yard where his mind had been elsewhere, Aemond walked the corridor again. He lingered outside your chamber.

He did not call for the maid. He only stood in the dimness, staring at the door, wrestling with an urge to step through.

Inside, you heard footsteps halt outside.

You only wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders, attention fixed on the bay. When Elsie opened the door a crack, you saw the prince's shadow disappearing around the corner.

"Was that the prince?"

"Yes.”

You turned back toward the window, a faint crease appearing between your brows. "Did he need something?"

Elsie looked around the empty corridor, letting out a knowing sigh. "I don't believe he knows, my lady."

By then, grief had started to change its shape.

You did not leave the Maidenvault out of defiance, nor out of a sudden desire to explore the labyrinths of the Red Keep. You walked because your room had ceased to feel like a refuge and had become a cage.

So you drifted. Aimlessly.

The servants stepped aside when you passed. The guards posted along the covered archways did not stop you—their orders from the prince had been strict: Do not restrict her within the walls, but keep her within sight.

It took three days for word to reach Aemond.

He was in the armory, adjusting the leather straps over his forearm, when Elsie brought the report.

"She had begun taking walks through the lower courtyards, my lord."

His response was fast and dismissive, "Let her walk. So long as she remains within the Keep, it is of no consequence."

He pretended not to care. Aemond forced himself through his usual routine, stepping into the brisk afternoon air with his sword heavy at his hip as he made for the outer training yard.

He didn't expect to see you.

You were standing under the shade of the grand, arched colonnade overlooking the yard, wrapped in a plain cloak. You stood with your head tilted, watching the dust rise from the dirt pit.

You had only followed the sound of steel.

The ring of iron against iron was a sound that belonged to every castle in the Seven Kingdoms. It was the rhythm of your childhood—the sound of your father's men sparring in the early morning, the scrape of armor being polished, and the grounding background noise of a home that no longer existed.

In the center of the yard, Aemond was in the middle of a fast-paced match with Ser Criston Cole. He moved swiftly, his long blade whistling through the air, parrying Cole's experienced blows with sharp focus. The yard was alive around them—guards cheering, weapons clattering.

Then, as Cole backed off to reset his stance, Aemond turned his head.

Through the subtle haze of dust and sunlight, his lone eye caught you standing under the arches.

You were somewhere you had never been before. Out of your chamber. Just out in the open air, staring directly into the yard.

Aemond didn't call to you. He didn't break his stance as he forced his eye back to Criston Cole, trying to pretend he hadn't seen you.

However, he had lost his pace.

His strike landed an inch too far to the left. He was a second behind in his footwork. Ser Criston spotted the hesitancy immediately. The Lord Commander struck Aemond's ribs with his blunted practice sword in a quick, blinding arc.

The dull thud rang through the yard. Aemond stumbled back, his breath hitching as a harsh sting shot through his side.

Criston's eyes tracked the prince for only a beat before returning. "Again," he said.

Aemond's hold on the blade stiffened as he straightened his back, but his sight uncontrollably returned to the colonnade.

By the time the match ended and the weapons were cleared, you had prepared to leave, your boots making no sound over the flagstones as you walked back toward the inner Keep.

Using the back of his glove to wipe the sweat off his brow, Aemond headed out of the pit and crossed the gallery path. He stopped you just as the colonnade gave way to the narrow doorway, stepping into your path with enough weight to get you to halt rather than blocking you.

The scent of sweat and steel clung to him as he spoke, "Why were you watching?

"I heard the swords," you responded as you raised your eyes to meet his.

"And?"

You looked past his shoulder, toward the empty dirt pit where the guards were sweeping up the dried leaves. "It reminded me of home. My father's men used to spar at noon."

The words settled quietly between them.

Something felt tightening sharply in his chest. You hadn't come to watch him or had been captivated by his skill. You were just listening to a sound that made you think of a dead man and a burned castle.

He stared down at you, searching your face. "Are you afraid of me?" He questioned gently.

You considered the question carefully without answering right away. Your gaze strayed to the armor over his chest, at the hilt of his sword, and then back to his face.

"I think..." you whispered, your voice quieting slightly against the afternoon breeze. "I think I was."

I was. Not I am.

He parted his lips to speak, but before he could, your attention dropped to his right forearm. You paused, fingers clutching tightly at the edge of your woolen cloak. "Does your arm still pain you, my prince?"

For a long moment, Aemond only looked at you.

Five weeks.

Five weeks of asking after you through closed doors. Whether you had eaten. Whether you had slept. Whether you had smiled.

You had never once asked anything of him. Up until now.

"It no longer troubles me," he heard himself answer. The words left his tongue before he realized they weren't true.

You gave a tiny, almost unnoticeable nod. "I am glad."

Moving past him, your skirts rustling lightly over the stone as you continued down the sunlit hallway toward the Maidenvault.

Long after your footsteps had faded, Aemond was still looking at the place where you had been.

The invitation came at dawn, before the sun had fully burned the gray fog from the Red Keep's lower walkways.

When you opened the door to your chambers, expecting Elsie with morning tea, you found Prince Aemond standing in the pathway instead. He was dressed in his riding coat with his silver strands catching the subtle torchlight.

He didn't greet you or ask you how you had slept.

"Walk with me," he said. It was not a question but a demand, yet it lacked his usual authority.

After a few seconds of doubt, you nodded quietly, wrapping your shawl around your shoulders, and went out into the hall next to him.

It was the closest you had been to him without a blade or a dragon between you.

As you turned the corner near the lower battlements, two guards carrying an iron-bound chest came marching around the archway, moving too fast through the gray mist.

"Out of the way—" one called out ahead, turning abruptly.

Before you had the chance to step back, Aemond's right arm shot out. His hand caught your forearm, pulling you firmly back against his side out of the guards' path as they hurried past.

You quickly reached out and grasped his right arm to balance yourself as you stumbled a bit on the wet ground.

A short, strained breath came from Aemond's lips as soon as your fingers pressed into the coat of his sleeve. His hold on you loosened at once. His teeth clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek twitched as a tense flash of pain rushed through his injured arm.

You fell silent right away.

You kept your palm on him and felt the tremble passing through his arm. You glanced up from his sleeve to his face—noticing his pale lips drawn into a thin line, and the slight trickle of sweat on his brow.

"Your arm still troubles you," you whispered, pulling your hand back slowly.

Yesterday, when he had stood under the training archway, he had told you it no longer pained him. You had believed him. You had even begun to think that perhaps behind the Prince of the Realm was simply a man who spoke plainly.

"Why did you lie to me?" you asked, your voice holding a wounded weight. "Why would you—"

You held yourself back when you saw that look in his lone violet eye—struck, defensive, and completely exposed.

Swallowing hard, you suddenly remembered who he was, where you were, and the great sea of blood and war that separated your home from his. The brief appearance of trust was as fleeting as it had been.

You took a step back, lowering your head down to the muddy walkway.

"Excuse me, my prince. I have taken enough of your time." You left before he could process the words, the hem of your skirt swaying around the corner as you walked back, leaving him alone in the fog.

Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty.

Until the last sound of your footfall vanished into the wall, the emptiness on the rampart stretched dark and repressive. The first time you had looked at him with something other than grief...he had answered it with a lie.

Aemond reached with his left hand, unbuckling the vambrace from his wounded arm, and threw it into the fog in a single, impulsive move.

The crash of iron against stone echoed across the mist-veiled yard.

Then—total silence.

His anger rashly shifted inward as he stared at the place where the padded guard had landed, his eye fixed on the discarded vambrace, his chest pounding. He had spent weeks holding himself to strict discipline, and in a single moment of weak pride, he had frightened you away again.

Aemond leaned on his heel and headed straight down the hall in the direction of the Maidenvault.

Ten minutes later, when Elsie stepped out of your room carrying a pitcher of stale water, she found Prince Aemond standing outside the wooden door. His hand was unlacing his right sleeve with awkward fingers as he sank back on the cold wall, his faded curls wet from the mist.

The maid stopped, bowing her head in surprise. "My lord?"

"Bring hot water and clean linen to her room," he commanded, avoiding the maid's eyes entirely.

Elsie paused in confusion, "For the lady? She is not injured—"

"For my arm," the prince interrupted, the words clipped.

"Shall I send for the maester?"

"No." The answer came too quickly.

Elsie noticed—his stiff posture, the faint flush climbing his neck, and the way he steadfastly avoided looking at her. A wordless understanding passed through the older woman's mind.

"Tell her the binding has come loose."

"I shall inform her at once, my prince," Elsie murmured quickly.

Aemond stood outside the threshold he had sworn not to cross, waiting in silence for an answer that might never come.

Inside your chambers, the mist clung to the arched window like a shroud.

You sat at the edge of the wooden bench, your fingers laced in your lap, studying the floorboards. The sting of your departure still burned in your chest—the sound of your own voice calling him out on the ramparts.

When the iron latch clacked open, you didn't look up. You assumed it was Elsie returning with morning tea.

Instead, the maid set a bronze basin of steamy water and a stack of clean linen cloths onto the side table. Her movements were unnervingly calculated and slow.

"The prince's binding has come loose," Elsie replied.

You nodded politely, picking up a strip of clean linen, folding it with neat motions, and preparing it for the maid to take back out into the hall.

Elsie didn't take the cloth. "My lady..." she muttered, "he requested no maester."

Your hands hovered over the folded linen.

"He is waiting outside," the older woman added softly.

He lied. He was the Prince of the Realm. The man whose dragon had scorched your home. The man who had dragged you to King's Landing in chains.

But his arm really was hurting.

You ignored the lump rising in your throat, your knuckles turning pale against the soft cloth. "Why me?"

Elsie raised her head in response, her eyes filled with a solemn honesty. "Because he asked for you."

The room fell silent again.

You got up slowly, stepping over to the bronze washbasin to dip your hands into the warm water, soaping away the chill of the morning. You picked up the folded linens and a small jar of apothecary salve.

Every second seemed to drag on forever. Beyond the door, he waited.

When you finally unlatched the heavy door, it gave a low creak against the stone frame.

Aemond was not standing anymore. With his knees bent and his back to the cold wall, he sat on the damp flagstones. His right sleeve was pushed up over his elbow, exposing the terrible, angry flesh below his unbuttoned coat. He appeared less like the prince the kingdom feared and more like a weary young man with his head resting back upon the wall.

He then heard the creak of the wood.

His eye softly rose to meet yours. His shoulders stiffened the moment he saw you standing in the doorway, and he lifted himself to his feet by pushing his left hand into the ground.

"Please don't," you spoke carefully.

His eye was locked onto yours. Then, deliberately, the tension drained from his shoulders, and he sank back down to the ground.

Carrying the warm bowl and the cloths, you knelt on the flagstones beside his right side. Your palm hovered above the rough bruising for a moment before setting around his wrist.

Up close, the injury was dreadful—deep, mottling shades of purple and sickly yellow bruised the pale skin around his wrist. "This should have been seen by a maester," said quietly.

Aemond looked straight ahead at the opposite wall, his voice still flat and defensive. "It is not broken."

You dipped a cloth into the warm water, wringing it out with care. "That was not what I said."

He looked offended, but he offered no retort.

The heat radiating from the swollen joint surprised you, "this will sting," you warned softly.

He didn't pull away as his gaze flickered down to your face.

"I'm going to move your wrist," you murmured a bit later, cradling his hand gently in yours. "Tell me if it's too much."

You took his quietness as permission.

With a steady gesture, you applied the soothing salve over the swollen area, wrapping clean linen around his forearm before binding the joint securely.

After tying the last knot, you picked the bronze basin and gathered the dirty rags. You rose gracefully to your feet, turning back toward the open doorway of your chambers.

"Why?" The single word cut through the quiet hall.

"Why what, my prince?"

The wind whistled through the outer arrow slits, carrying the scent of rain when there was a passing lull between you.

"Why did you help me?"

You looked at the white bandages covering his arm, then back up into his eye. "Because you're hurting."

The pulse in Aemond's throat went rigid.

You stepped back through the threshold, and the door clicked shut behind you.

Aemond stayed where he was. His newly bound arm rested across his knee. He turned his wrist once, feeling the linen wrapped around the joint.

Then, very carefully, as though afraid it might somehow come undone...he touched the knot with his fingertips.

The sun hadn't set just yet, it was late afternoon and the light streamed in from the windows like it was trying too hard to look warm, it was bright enough to make your eyes squint and hide at the right angles. Low music plays through the café speakers, something jazzy and wordless, it’s become just background noise now. You sit behind the counter on a stool, feet resting against the bottom rung, a stack of white paper cups beside you. Your fingers work to peel a sticker from the roll of never ending logos, you line it up and then press it into the cup, then to the next, over and over again. Peel, press, peel, press, you’ve done enough of these that you no longer have to do anything but focus on the sounds of Jaehee washing dishes in the back, the noise battling the tiny snaps as the stickers lift from the backing. It’s cozy for you, dropping everything to open a café with your best friend wasn’t exactly where you thought you’d end up, but you’re happy and you’re happy for her too.

The bell rings at the top of the door as it’s swung open, disturbing the quiet of the slow-drift pace before closing.

“Good evening, my sweet bean grinders!” The patron exclaims at a volume too high for its setting.

“We’re closed,” I say, not even looking up from my task. “...And that sounds like some sort of slur, Luciel. Never ever say that in my establishment ever again.”

Luciel approaches the counter. “You say you’re closed every time but you don’t bother to change your hours on the sign! You never mean it.” I hum and place another sticker. “Maybe I mean it this time.”

“Such a cruel, cruel world. I come here to get caffeine and some attention and maybe leave a few tips and this is how I get treated?”

I slid the tip jar over to him, “You can get started on that…anyway, don’t you have actual work to do?”

707 starts drumming on the counter. “I’m multitasking,” He explains, “Hacking while being publicly rejected.”

The sound of the sink running stops, and Jaehee returns to the counter. “Stop antagonizing my barista, Luciel.” She demands. “Antagonize her? Never!” Seven then holds his hands up in a surrender before switching his gaze over to me. “Unless you’re into that kind of thing?”

I snort at his comment. “Now I'm exhausted, what did you want to order anyway?”. He shrugs and then puts his hand in his pocket. “I dunno, you’re the barista, surprise me with something.” He pulls out his wallet and then hands me his card. I become tempted to serve him a cup of iced milk, but I settle on a peppermint tea knowing he might need the wake up if he was really here to work.

This time Jaehee is the one to brew his drink and I start cleaning up dishes as soon as she leaves them behind, wanting to make closing as easy as possible. The order doesn’t take long to complete.

Jaehee sets the paper cup at the counter without saying a word. She doesn’t even break her rhythm, she just places it down and heads straight to the back to finish more work. “You brew like a goddess!” Seven calls out, she doesn’t answer, probably on purpose.

Seven leans against the counter and takes a small sip, “You see, this is the kind of reckless decision making I live for.”

“...Ordering tea?” I raise my brow at him.

“Lingering in the presence of someone who doesn’t want me here and can also spit into my drink without me knowing. Thank you for not poisoning my tea, by the way.” “Hmm, don’t worry, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

He grins at me, “I can’t wait.” I don’t respond and instead start wiping down the counter in front of me. Seven doesn’t seat himself either, he just props his arm and takes a few sips of his tea. For once, he falls quiet for a moment. The sun has set down further into the sky, the orange and purple hues of the clouds dim the lighting in the café but still casts sharp golden lines across the floor and counter. The light hits him just right, it catches in his hair and softens the edges of his face. He doesn’t look chaotic or wired or irritating. Not at that moment. Instead he looks…

Tired.

He looks tired.

He takes another slow sip, then tosses the paper cup in the bin further from the counter. He heads to the door but doesn’t leave without some hesitation. “Oh, um, by the way, you guys should really lock the back door whenever you’re closing up, even if you think it’s going to be fast.”

I blink, “How did you know we didn’t?” He smiles at me, but it’s void of any emotion I can read.

“I know everything, remember? I’m always watching every 2.35 seconds.” He then turns to the door and the bell chimes to signal his leave.

I catch myself staring at the spot where he stood. The roll of stickers sits in my lap, but my hands are still.

I hate it when he does that.

I hate it when he acts like he cares all of a sudden.

I hate that he leaves right after.

I hate that I won’t be able to stop thinking about it.

We’re closed now, and I find myself locking both the front and back doors before helping Jaehee put the chairs up. The rest of the evening is good, Jaehee and I talk about all the people in the café today and how we will need to start hiring help soon.

The sun is completely gone on my way back to my apartment. I’m in my own place now after the last RFA party, having officially left Rika’s place behind. During my route I absent mindedly check the messenger. Seven isn’t logged on, he’s been busy again. My fingers hover over the button to enter the chat room, but I just shove my phone back in my pocket instead.

It’s been a long day, I need to focus on getting home anyway.

The city air is warm and smells like distant rain and a bit like dust too. You pass the same closed flower shop, the same pedestrian crossing sign, the same building with the peeling paint. Everything is familiar and fine and quiet.

By the time you’re home you don’t even bother with the lights, instead you kick off your shoes and toss your phone onto the couch with a tad too much force, it bounces a little when it lands.

You should eat something, or shower, you have syrup sticking to your arms. But instead you find yourself at your desk and open the now worn journal Jaehee got you for “self care”.

You don’t even have to think, you just start writing.

“Today was good. I had fun with Jaehee and it was nice until a customer came in and asked for a hot chocolate and instead of asking what type of milk they wanted I asked if they wanted milk and they said no. So I made it with water. I’m pretty sure it came out awful. Luciel stopped by today too. I honestly didn’t mind, I never do, but I hate how he walks in like he owns the place and I hate how quickly I notice when he leaves. I hate how he looks at everyone like he’s a joke but sometimes he looks at me like I’m not. Honestly, I hate that I really don’t hate him. Not even a little. Not even at all.”