#redboats

The stench of it is heavy in your nose, mud and manure. A scent beyond it that is human enough that it fills your gut with nausea. You need to get out of this dress. As soon as the door is in sight you rush for it, the serf barely fast enough in getting it open for you before you're rushing down the familiar halls.

You hear one of your personal guards bark out to the maids to have a bath drawn immediately. A bath will not wash away the bruises inflicted upon your ruined pride. It is a hot summer, the crop yield is low. The people are angry, but all you wanted was to buy a present for Rhea's birthday.

Shouldn't they be grateful that you are there offering them coin? Instead, they shouted and cursed. You do not know which one threw the first handful of mud, but it was only the beginning. It does not help that you know the mud on the streets is not from rain, there has been no rain. That is why they are angry.

More was thrown, pissed filled dirt, horse shit, and what you know is human even if you cannot prove it. You gag as you rush into your room, immediately grabbing one of the many knives Aerion leaves around and begin cutting the dress free with a wave of revulsion. 

When it falls in strips to the floor you feel only a modicum better. It is on your skin. You realize with a faint horror that it will be in your hair. There is shit in your hair.

A great desire to cry wells up inside you until a sob crawls free and all you can do is stand there, naked in the middle of the room, smeared with muck. The door opens without a knock and you jump, arms coming to cover yourself until you realize it's Aerion.

He looks you over, sharp purple eyes scanning the disarray and the ruined dress at your feet. The way he looks at your hair says it is worse than you thought it would be. Seeing him only makes the crying worse and you choke out another sob, covering your face in shame.

This is disgusting. The smell of it lingers even with the dress gone. It's because of your hair.

Aerion's gait is slow, each motion has a certain level of control in it as he comes to stand in front of you. His hand comes to your chin and when you attempt to dodge away with a flinch, he catches your face like snake fangs into skin.

His grip on your chin is painful as he forces you to look at him, not letting you pull away. He does not show the same revulsion you feel. The smell is terrible, but his nose doesn't so much as crinkle. "What happened?"

You hate the idea of putting any of it into words. The tears are still welling in your eyes, escaping down flushed cheeks as you look at him. Can't he learn what transpired from one of the guards? They were there; they guarded you, blocking the onslaught with shield and body as they ushered you away.

"I - I wanted ... I wanted to buy Rhea a present." You sniffle, chin still caught though he's loosened his grip enough that it no longer hurts. "So I took an accompaniment into the village." Another hiccup that hurts your throat, "I thought to have a - "

"To the point, wife." He says, lifting a pale brow.

Right, right. He doesn't need to know about having a craftsman carve toys. You've been slighted and in so, Aerion has been slighted and that will matter to him more than his little sister's upcoming birthday.

You try to focus, looping back what must be put into words, "As we were walking through the street some of the peasants were glaring, a few gathered and then ... then one of them threw a handful of mud at me and then - then more of them began to ... "

Your voice trails off, the rest is fairly obvious.

"They launched shit at you." Aerion summarizes.

"Yes."

He takes a deep breath through his nose before he nods to himself and reaches for part of the dress on the floor, tearing a section of it free that is not overly destroyed. "Stay still."

You don't move as he scraps and pulls filth from your hair. You're trying hard not to think about what he is going and why he is doing it. Aerion has always been fond of your hair. It is long and thick hanging to near your hips.

Often times he runs his hands through it idly or holds it tight in his fist when he is claiming you. He's said before that it is one of his favorite characteristics. And now he is methodically picking clumps of horse shit out of it.

You close your eyes, hands in fists. The more you think about it the more indignant you become.

"You'll do as I say." He murmurs, "Do you understand?"

You nod. Aerion is a particular man. When you married him you figured life would be an unpleasant affair, possibly even dangerous for you. He comes with a strong reputation and not one that hints of any kind of kindness to speak of.

The last thing you expected was for him to love you and nor you to love him. But Aerion is dear to you in a way no one else has ever been or will be. He is not a kind man, but he takes care of what matters to him.

His affection does not come from words, but actions. Frivolous gifts for no reason, heated nights of passion that leave you nothing but jelly when he is through. He is attentive and he knows you down to your bones.

"Stay." He commands.

So you do, you stay in that spot eyes unfocused, emotionally drained from the whole affair. The doors muffle his voice but he's ordering the staff to do something. All you really make out is a shouted, 'get it now you cunt'. 

When he returns he's abandoned his doublet and chainmail for the bare skin of his chest. Nothing but a necklace chain around his throat you know to be Valayrian Steel. A gift you gave him.

"Come." He nods his head into the other room where they have set up a steaming bath and a chair and table. There's not one, but three washbasins and a large pile of crisp towels. "Sit." He juts his chin toward the chair and you do as he asks.

He's going to wash your hair personally. You relax against the chair and allow him to soak your hair in the first basin. The scent changes, grows more unpleasant and your nose wrinkles. His touch is soft, running a pitcher of water through it.

"It will be gone soon." Aerion says. You do not know how he does it, just the sounds of water, his fingers through the strands. Occasionally he dumps the water and starts again. There is a lot of hair to clean, but he seems keen on making sure there is no sign of your morning to be found within it.

The smell finally begins to subside though you can feel where it's begun to dry on your skin in some places. He dumps the water and you feel him gather the thick length of your hair in his grip, tying it up out of the way.

"Stand."

You move to do so and then he's before you with a wet cloth and he's wiping the parts of you that have been marred by others. 

"A servant could have done this." You remind him. Though you've always been partial to washing up yourself. He prohibits anyone from washing your hair beside himself and you. 

This is a strange exception though, you are sure it has been unpleasant for him. In response he grunts, giving a sharp shake of his head, "No."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me." He huffs and tosses the spoiled cloth onto the floor. Aerion looks you over, making sure there are no spots he missed before he nods to himself, "Get in the tub."

You move to do as he asks, sinking into the still warm water beside a roaring fire. The heat of it helps settle some of your nerves and more so when you feel his hands in your hair again, this time with the soft floral scent of soap.

He goes about cleaning you off all over again, like you are a horse run damp after a long ride. Each motion is detailed, consistent, methodical until he is done. 

You know he will be irritated until it is finished. Dragons to not suffer filthy treasure. In the beginning you were offended by the idea that he thought of you as a possession, something to be shown off and guarded.

But in time you came to see the value in it. Yes, to him in a way, you are an object, a possession, but that also means that no one else can touch you. With his watchful eye no other man will ever make an untoward comment, you will never suffer poverty or hunger.

There are husbands who happily beat their wives. There are husbands who take and force. Aerion doesn't do any of that, to hit you is to sully what is his. It would be the same as hitting himself. 

The things he oft tells you to do make sense regardless and you live a comfortable life here. His family is kinder than you every thought they would be, even Maekar with all his sharp words. He thinks you mellow Aerion and apparently as far as he is concerned that makes you dear to Summerhall.

Once you're clean he stands, "Stay in until the water cools and then put on a shift."

He's gone before you can give agreement, leaving you thinking on what will happen next. It did not show on his face, but you know him well enough to see his fury beneath the surface. Aerion is an expressive man until he gets angry and then all his features seem to go blank.

Like he's somewhere else entirely. There will be payment for this, you're not sure how but you know there will be. Maekar is in King's Landing, there is no one to rein him in. Aerion has been left in charge of Summerhall in his father's absence.

You sit in the water mulling over all the possibilities, ears pricked for signs of commotion, but you hear nothing from where you are in the castle.

Once the water goes tepid you slip free drying off, leaving the towel with the rest of the mess to be cleaned, before journeying into the bedroom. You pull on a fresh shift, collapse into bed, and promptly fall asleep.

"Time to wake, gem." Aerion's voice is warm in your ear. You groan, twisting against soft sheets, flopping onto your back. It takes a moment to open your eyes but when you do, expecting the low light of morning you are instead greeted with the darkness of night.

"Huh?" You curl back onto your side to face him and find Aerion crouched before the bed in his armor. Full platemail, like he's about to walk into a battle. 

The sight of the sleek black metal and red of the Targaryen crest wakes you up like he's just shouted in your ear. "Are we under siege?"

Aerion snorts, "No, come on. Come on. Time to rise."

You don't know what is going on, but you roll out of bed all the same. It's cool in the room, the fire run to embers, lit only by a few candles on one of the side tables. "What are we doing?" You mumble rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you stumble toward the armoire.

"Bringing the dragon." He says vaguely, stepping behind you to pull the door open. He pulls free one of your dresses, more formal than you typically wear around Summerhall. An evening gown, all black with only bits of red.

You slip into it, allowing Aerion to lace the back with a quick hand. He brushes your hair as you let your eyes slip closed, hovering on the edge of sleep even while you stand there. It is pitch black outside the windows, deep in the night.

"Aerion?" You say his name when he finishes brushing your hair, leaving it down as he likes it, despite a braid being more acceptable.

He ignores you, "Shoes."

You slip them into place and he fastens a golden necklace around your throat, red stones tight to the skin. A gift on your wedding night.

Knowing he's not about to be reasoned with you follow him from the room. Daeron is clearly too drunk somewhere to try and talk sense to his younger brother. The girls are no doubt still fast asleep. Whatever is about to happen, you're certain it will not be prevented by you.

So you submit to it, following him out into the night.

There is a crowd gathered in the courtyard, men on horses, armored and prepared. A low bustle of activity lit by the braziers that burn through the night. Aerion's horse waits in the thick of it, ears pricked, shifting from hoof to hoof.

Your husband mounts, and holds out a hand for you to join him. Riding his horse isn't the choice you would make, he's a testy stallion and fond only of his master but he allows you on his back all the same.

The crickets chirp as some twenty men follow out behind you. It's surprisingly quiet despite the sheer size of the group he is parading from Summerhall. Still tired, you rest your cheek to his back as he rides. The metal is cold at first, but it's not long before it warms.

You know after the first fork in the road where he is going, but you still don't know what is about to happen. "What are - "

"Hush." He says immediately, cutting you off. "Feel the moment, gem. Hear the wings."

Whatever he hears, you cannot share in it with him. So you stay silent, listening to the wind across the fields, the thud of hooves against soil, and the crickets.

It's a small hamlet, there are larger settlements on your land, but this is one of the closer ones. Mostly a few farms, a blacksmith, the carpenter you were supposed to see. 

A single torch is lit, and then another and another down the line. Everything gets brighter as Aerion looks toward the small clustering of buildings, little hovels. Wooden shacks and cobbled walls.

"Burn it all."

Your heart pounds in your ears, shifting forward to press against his back. His hand slides to hold your thigh, metal gauntlets digging into your leg. The guard do not hesitate, these are Aerion's personal men and to them his word is law.

They set the fields ablaze, the buildings, even the tree at the center of the village. You are in a drought, it all goes up like kindling and you know as people begin to shout and flee and run that there is not water enough to put it out.

Their little world burns like a candle. No one tries to fight as your husband's  large horse hovers, calm in the middle of it. Aerion doesn't goad, he doesn't shout as they run, shouting, crying, screaming names. There's an acrid smell in the air, a woman runs past, hair on fire.

It's a horrifying sight, all of it, but you say nothing. Your cheek remains against the metal plating at his back, hotter now, and his hand remains on your leg. 

One man finally makes a run at Aerion's horse but several of his guards have already returned from sparking the fields and cleave through him. He did not even have a weapon, body left splayed in the bloody dirt.

The way the fields burn, in the darkest parts of night is mesmerizing to watch. It spreads gradually, eating away at each plant. The dry crop will turn to ash and that ash with churn with the soil and the crop next year will not falter.

You suppose, if you ignore the screaming that this is rebirth as well as punishment. Sometimes things must die to grow.

Steve Rogers

An undershirt on Steve becomes a dress on you, the white fabric pulled tight along your curves. The white tank top ends up curling near your mid-thigh like some kind of semi-sheer midi dress that will no doubt give your old-fashioned boyfriend something to fumble over. You take a personal interest in finding ways for him to suddenly become tongue-tied. 

It's certainly not public-friendly, but you don't have any plans on going out. No, you're happy curled up in bed, phone in hand, counting the seconds before your shared apartment livens up when Steve steps through the door. 

This place always feels more like home when he's home with you. He's already called you, rarely texts, to tell you he's on his way home. So you lie there, counting the seconds until you hear the telltale shuffle by the door, boots being placed in their spot, and shield deposited on its hooks along the wall. 

You bite your lip, toes curling in excitement as his footsteps sound on the old hardwoods. When he rounds the corner to your bedroom, blue eyes seeking you out, he pauses. You watch in real time as his brain short-circuits over the form-fitting fabric; along the way it hugs your chest, dark circles visible through the sheer white.

He swallows, "That my shirt?" 

You're unable to stop your grin, so you hide it away in the pillow as he walks over, fingertips starting at your ankle and working their way up along your thigh, higher still past your ribs, curling over the slope of your breast before he cups your jaw. "That's the face of trouble, I think." He teases, sinking to sit on the edge of the bed. 

Trying to avoid his amused, if heated, gaze, you hide your face further into the pillow before his grip on your jaw eases you gentle as a lamb to look at him. "Hope you know, sweetheart, that I'm never going to look at those shirts the same way again." 

Bucky Barnes

You're forced to fold up the sleeves several times over to get the red Henley to stop falling past your fingertips. That does nothing to help with the sheer size of it, the way his bulky shoulders and arms have stretched out the sleeves at the top and around the collar. In truth, you're a bit swamped in it, but you like the way that feels. 

He wore it yesterday, and it still smells like him, that low earthy scent and mechanical oil. It falls just below your ass, loose and billowing around you as you pad into the kitchen, knowing you'll find him there, coffee mug in hand, just like every morning. A creature of habit, your Bucky.

This isn't the first time you've stolen something from the dirty hamper, though his version of dirty is far different than yours. Bucky has a way of needing things to be clean, you know that, but for you this is comforting, not dirty. 

You pad into the kitchen, and just like you expect, he's there, coffee mug halfway to his lips, eyes caught on you as you round the corner, walking up to him. He's so distracted at the sight of your bare legs that you steal the mug entirely from him, taking a sip. The bitterness of the black coffee screws up your nose and pulls a lazy laugh from him. 

"S'little big, don't you think, honey?" He teases, glancing down at you, taking the mug back to set on the counter. You feel the cool metal of his hand slip beneath the oversized sweater to press against your hip.

"Now, Barnes," You trap your tongue between your teeth as you look up at him through your lashes, "What girl ever said that?" 

Helmut Zemo

As in all things, your man has sublime taste in clothing; everything he wears is well crafted and personally tailored and always leaves you tracking his every move. You think half the reason he always looks five minutes from a red carpet event is because of the way you drool when he walks into the room. 

He is an arrogant man certainly, but more importantly he is a man who appreciates an audience, even if that is an audience of one. You love this coat, smooth lambskin leather, bluish purple, with white fur along the collar, but your favorite part is the silk interior. Which is why you're walking around in it, accompanied only by a black lace bra and thong. 

It's heavy and warm along your skin as you spin in the living room, crystal champagne glass in hand. Helmut reclines on the chaise watching you; this time it's him that tracks every movement as you sway to the music sliding free of the record player in the corner of the room. The coat hangs lower on you than it does on him, almost touching the ground as you do another dramatic spin. 

He smiles, tumbler in hand, and tips his glass at you before he drinks. You approach, draping yourself dramatically over his lap as his small smile breaks into a full grin. He reaches out to twirl a strand of your hair between his fingers. "What a beauty you are." He murmurs, almost reverent. 

You roll your eyes, "It's your coat." 

"Ah," He taps your cheek, "You should know a good outfit is nothing without the right person in it." 

"I thought the clothing made the man." You joke.

"Weak men certainly." He huffs, "But you, beloved, you could look perfect in anything." 

Bob Reynolds

The fabric is soft beneath your fingers; Bob's robe hangs where it usually hangs when he's focused enough to hang it. You don't realize you're easing it from its spot until it's around your shoulders, long sleeves falling past your fingertips. It's immediately warm, and you can't help but tie it closed, to wrap yourself in a piece of him. 

To be wearing nothing but something he is so often found in. You walk from the bathroom, hair still dripping, nothing but the robe you've bundled yourself in, to find him in bed, legs pulled up close, TV playing on the wall some movie the two of you have seen a dozen times before. 

When he looks at you, he lets out a low breath, teeth coming to chew on his bottom lip. You worry for a moment that you've crossed a line; Bob can get defensive about his things. But then he settles, watching you come to sit on the edge of the bed; before you flop onto your back, the way the robe falls reveals how little, or nonexistent more like, the clothing you have on under it is. 

He makes this little sound that might be an oh before he's leaning above you, dark curls haloing his face, "You, uh, you comfortable?" 

You look up at him, at the depth of his dark grey-blue eyes. "Yeah. You don't mind?" 

He shakes his head, "No, no, I think ... it's you, so it's okay. It looks," He's getting redder with each word, "Good." 

John Walker

Summer is shaping up to be a hot one, with windows thrown open in your apartment to get a breeze and fans going throughout your unit. It's too damn hot for clothing, so you've taken to wearing a sports bra and have commandeered a pair of John's boxers in lieu of shorts. They're comfortable, made of light fabric, and good for counteracting the heat. 

At least that was your initial thought; now that you can see the way John is looking at you, all curled muscle and dark eyes, you think perhaps you might not be beating the heat but adding to it. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, but doesn't say a word, only hits you with that long stare that makes electricity spark down your spine. 

"It's hot." You defend with a lazy shrug, lifting your arms over your head in a long cat-like stretch. The stretch is unnecessary, and you are absolutely milking the attention, but you can't help yourself. 

John grunts, "Right." He draws the word out beneath his teeth, tasting it on his tongue as he steps forward. His fingers find the loose waistband, still a little baggy on you, thumbs dipping beneath the waistband to find out if there's anything underneath. 

There isn't. You smile up at him, looking through your eyelashes. He returns your stare with his own, and the fire that is lit inside you has absolutely nothing to do with the heat. 

Scott Lang

Scott has a habit of leaving various clothing around your apartment; it's not that he's dirty so much as he's forgetful. There's always ten thousand things going on in his head at any given time, and so you forgive him his confetti of clustered clothing around the place. Actually, maybe you benefit from it a little as you pluck up an oversized hoodie, slipping it over your head. 

You roll up the sleeves, humming to yourself as you go about setting up an evening of watching a movie while he's off being a tiny or very large Avenger. The hoodie helps with the missing, hood up, burrowed deep in it, TV playing something you've seen a dozen times before. 

When the front door opens, you're half asleep, lost between a mix of listening to your movie and letting your eyes drift closed on the scenes you don't care that much for. By the time you manage to crack your eyes open to see what's going on, Scott is already on the couch beside you, legs kicked up on the coffee table, his arm wrapping around your shoulders to pull you in. 

You nuzzle closer without needing to be asked. He kisses your head, nose in your hair. You can hear the smile in his voice: "I thought I was the thief." 

"Nah, I'm a mastermind." You mumble sleepily. 

"You did steal my heart." He replies easily, huffing out a chuckle into your hair. 

"That's so cheesy!" You laugh, smiling into his shirt.

Wanda Maximoff

You'll be the first one to admit that Wanda looks good in just about anything; she could make a paper bag look purposeful. So you'll also be the first to admit that her wardrobe is worth 'borrowing' from. The two of you are going out tonight, and you can't help flipping through her clothing, settling on a sexy red number you've seen her wear a few times before. 

Pulling it off the rack, you hold it out. "Hello, beautiful." You mutter to yourself before letting the towel slip to the floor. It takes some work to find the right things to go under, to fix up your hair, and to make yourself presentable. The red heels you go with make you smile because you know how much she loves this pair. 

By the time you're all dolled up, you're excited for her to get home, to see your hard work, and when she slips into the bedroom with you sitting on the edge of the bed and an old episode of Are You Being Served being played in the background, she smiles. Not that little smile she keeps for things she's uncertain about, but something wider, something genuine. 

"Well," She presses her hands to her hips, "Honey, I'm home." 

You laugh, slipping off the bed to walk over to her, doing a spin on the way. She meets you with a kiss, soft and lingering. "You know, I have half a mind to let you keep that dress." She looks down, eyes catching on your heels before she gives a lazy Cheshire shrug. "Or take it off." 

Clint Barton

It's freezing in here, and your tank top is not going to cut it. With a shiver you spot Clint's plaid button-up draped forgotten over his chair in the meeting room. It would be a shame to let it sit there and be wasted, especially when his girl may very well freeze to death at any moment. So you grab it, slipping the thick fabric over your shoulders, letting out a breath of relief when the cold finally becomes less abrasive. 

It's too large to wear normally, so you leave several of the bottom buttons undone and tie it into a knot at the bottom around your hips. You like the way it feels, secure around you as you wander down the hall to find Clint on one of the upper landings looking down at the others. 

You plop down next to him, letting your legs hang next to his and rest your shoulder against his. He, unlike you, seems unbothered by the cold, bare arms exposed to the freezing tower. He looks over at you, eyeing the shirt before he grins. "Careful, sunshine, people will talk." 

"Oh yeah?" You roll your eyes. "What will they say?" 

Clint leans in to whisper, though his whispers are never quite low enough to be considered whispers these days. "That I scored out of my league." 

You whisper back conspiratorially, "Disability perk." And revel in the way he laughs. 

Nebula

You can't find your vest; you've looked everywhere, not that the Milano is particularly known for being all that clean or organized, and people are constantly stealing things from each other, but that's beside the point. The point is you can't find it, and you need a vest, and so you risk life and limb or the time of your life borrowing one of Nebula's spares. 

It fits well, actually a little tighter than it fits on her thin frame. Gamora takes one look at you, grunts out what sounds like it might be 'good luck,' and leaves you alone as Nebula rounds the corner. She freezes, like a hard stop, and you wonder if she's having some kind of problem with her circuits before she abruptly keeps going. 

"You are wearing my vest." A fact, sharp to the point. 

"I am." You confirm lifting an eyebrow as you wait for her to do whatever she's going to do. 

Nebula walks right up to you, inches from your face, and you really don't know if she's going to kiss you or hit you, and really that's why you like her so much in the first place. "It's yours now." 

You frown. "After last night I didn't think you were worried about my cooties." 

"Cooties." She pauses, dissects the word before she remembers what it means, "No. I want you to wear it again." And then she walks off, leaving you reeling, before you're chasing after her once again. 

Peter Quill

If there's anything you like about Peter, it's his extensively human wardrobe. You're not even sure where he finds some of this stuff, and you're almost positive he has his own Starlord merch made to wear. That's what you find yourself in now, a baggy Starlord t-shirt with some dude and a guitar on the front and his logo on the back. 

It's soft on your skin as you lounge in bed on your stomach. You're flipping through one of his other collections—he has many. This one is earth magazines. You've watched him trade all sorts of stuff, particularly valuable stuff sometimes, for Earth relics. 

The door to his room swishes open, and then, like clockwork, his rolling tone follows, "Hello~ gorgeous."

You look back at him. "Who, me?" 

Peter, without missing a beat, pivots to look at himself in the mirror, running a hand through his hair, "No me, obviously." 

You toss a pillow at him, which he catches with one hand, the other coming to his chest like you've mortally wounded him. He launches himself onto the bed, bouncing the mattress as he settles down next to you. "What are we reading?" 

You cover his eyes with a hand. "Only ugly people get to read, sorry." 

He immediately reaches out and snags the magazine and launches it behind him, "No reading for you then!" 

And now you spend your nights in the most unusual of places: back alleys, convenience store freezers, homes that do not belong to you, and, on one particularly unique night, an ice cream truck. Today you're keeping it simple, if running with Ronin can ever be called simple, and are back in his favorite haunt. 

It's secretly your favorite haunt too, honestly. This alleyway has a lot of history for both of you now. To you it's the place where your life started; to him, a kaleidoscope of complicated feelings that always draws him back. 

"Hey, darlin', focus!" Ronin grunts at you. "Aren't you supposed to be filming? This is the best part." 

You startle from your runaway thoughts and lift your hands back up, making a picture frame. Ronin waits until you have him and the man twitching on the cement back in frame. He adjusts the grip he has on the crowbar before hoisting it up above his head. 

He's right, this is the best part. The slope of his body as he lifts the heavy metal—you may not be able to identify the expression he's making, but you can see the shape of his form. The baseball-esque pose before he brings the crowbar down. 

Ronin's giggling meshes with the crack of metal against bone and then the squish of the second hit and then the third and the fourth. He doesn't stop until the metal hits the concrete beneath where the guy's head used to be. 

He's out of breath, chest heaving; blood spatters his red pants, blending into the fabric. The giggles finally fade as the crowbar droops into a lazy grip. Blood pools out around the body, a wide seeping puddle. You sidestep to make sure it doesn't get on your shoes. 

He sighs, flicking gore from his fingers, "What a~ gusher." 

You laugh and need to take another step back. There's no face left to look at now, but you can picture the man in your mind, and that's what surprises you most. A flash of his features: wide, terrified eyes, snot beneath his nose, and too-thin lips. 

Immediately you bring your hands up to frame Ronin, and you swear you see a flash of his eyes. The shape of them, long lashes, and bright, wide-blown pupils. Then he's gone again, hidden from you. 

That's how it starts. 

It's a gradual slope; every time you go out with Ronin, you remember more. The information just clicks in a way it hasn't before. You're not sure if it's the blood or the scent of it in the air. It could be anything; it could be age, it could be Ronin himself, but something is shifting in you. 

You're catching glimpses of him. Slivers of who he is and what he looks like. His eastern ethnicity, which was before invisible to you, is showing in the slope of his eyes. 

It's as invigorating as it is terrifying, and he's starting to notice. Not that he tends to miss much. When it comes to any of his inner circle, you know that Ronin is a hawk for information. But he hasn't addressed it yet, and you haven't said. 

The two of you are at his place, Ronin bent over the sink scrubbing the blood out from underneath his nails, you leaning in the doorway watching him. You lift up your fingers, framing him, and you swear you see him there. See a glimpse of all he is. 

The shape of his nose and mouth in profile all complement his forgone spoiled shirt. There's blood along his collar that he hasn't cleaned up yet. 

When you get the whole picture, even the small glimpse, you realize the feeling zipping through you is attraction. Not to say you haven't long already been attracted to him. It's his voice, the shape of his hands, and the way he touches you. 

But this feels different. You continue to squint at him through your finger frame in hopes of seeing him again. That familiar Devil's mask looks at you instead. 

"Ya' thinking about killing me, darlin'? That why you got your camera out?" His voice is a low, amused drawl, all sarcasm. The two of you both know that if it ever came to that, you'd stand no chance, not unless he let you. 

Feeling silly, you drop your hands. Everything drips away like sand. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or maybe you were just imagining what he might look like. 

You should say something before he catches on to your morose mood, "Nah, guess I'll keep you around."

"Awh shucks, so glad I could skate by." He kicks off the rest of his clothes, and you appreciate the view you can see. "I'm takin' a shower. Go write while the iron's hot or whatever the fuck the phrase is." 

You use the excuse and flee. 

"So you gonna tell me what's up, or is this going to be a three guesses type thing?" Ronin drawls. He's reclined in bed, tossing a knife up in the air like a ball. You'd be more nervous about this game of chicken he's playing with himself if you didn't know that that one was one he's left dull to use for this exact purpose. 

Cutting himself likely; stabbing himself less likely. 

You're sitting at his desk. Recently he added you as a user on his PC so you could write using his fancy multi-screen, glowing keyboard setup. It's very fancy, and you get a little thrill knowing that every time he sits down to use his computer, he sees your icon there.

One monitor has the server pulled up, another your current writing document, and then the top two continue to run his security cameras. 

Trying to get out of answering his question, you say, "New sunset pic just dropped." 

"As beautiful as they are, I'll check later." He replies, tossing the knife in the air, "Guess one, you need enrichment, and I should go find someone to beat to death?" 

Rolling your eyes, you turn away from him and start typing, complimenting the most recent pic and adding that Ronin likes it too. He won't mind. 

"Okay~ not that one." He hums. You do your best not to look back at him and give him more ammunition. Every time you look his way, you find yourself examining him, seeing if you can see beyond the Devil's mask to his true one beneath. 

Why can you see the faces of his victims but not him? 

"Guess two, being around me makes you hungry as fuck, and you really want me to order takeout?"

You chew on your bottom lip, "If you're hungry." 

"Darlin', I am always starving for you, but you're busy. Gotta let you do your thing. I know~ how important it is to let a craftsman work." He keeps throwing the knife. You can't see it, but you can hear the sound of it each time the handle impacts his palm. 

"Guess three, you're trying to see my smug mug." This time there's no teasing quality, no playing around the edges. Ronin states it like a fact, because it is a fact. You've been found out. 

At first you attempt to play it off, keeping your eyes on the screen even though your typing slows to a stop, but you know lying to his face isn't going to do anyone any good. Ronin does not tolerate such things well. 

Neither do you, really. So you pivot in his computer chair to face him. "Maybe." You admit, looking toward him. His body curls lazily in your direction, shifting on his side, legs twisting up with his blanket. 

One hand still holds the knife, bringing it up to lazily scrape against his chin. "Something change?" 

Part of the reason you've kept it to yourself is because you don't want to get your own hopes up. Seeing others means you might be able to see him, and you long more than anything else to know the slope of Ronin's nose and the shape of his mouth when he smirks. 

To see him wink instead of hearing him sarcastically declare that he's done so. 

"Sort of." You stare at the threadbare carpet until Ronin fills your frame, Devil's mask and ram horns. His hands come to cradle your face; they tighten, tilting your head dollishly from side to side. 

"Sort~ of." He drawls back. "I could pull out your teeth if that would make this easier." 

You snort and lean forward to press your forehead to the top of his head, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. His hand takes yours as he's wont to do and presses it to his face, tracing the grooves and contours of his skin. 

It's easier to talk to him this way. He knows that; it's why he does this. "I don't know why, but sometimes I can see the faces of the people you kill; through the framed shot I can see them. Their eyes, their fear, pieces of them and I think maybe, sometimes I get flashes of you." 

Ronin gives a rather dramatic sigh, "Oh no! I think this means the Devil needs to go out and play more often. Whatever will I do? The tragedy. The woe." 

You giggle into his hair, tracing his lips to feel his smile. He bites your thumb. 

"Guess it couldn't hurt," You joke. He's still got your thumb trapped between his teeth. 

He talks even with your finger in his mouth, unperturbed by its presence. "Come now, I will test you with pleasure; enjoy yourself. Watch the Antichrist do his wretched work and see." 

Ronin playfully leans back in his computer chair; he's scrunched up like he usually is, beanie in place, loose jacket falling off one shoulder. He extends his hands toward his webcam in a facsimile of the finger pose you often make. 

You stare at your screen in silence, heart thudding in your ears. Between his outstretched hands you can see him, not in parts, not the alternative version of him you've crafted for identification, but Ronin himself. 

He's looking at you, lip quirked to one side in a grin you both don't recognize and know as his. His eyes are dark, long lashes and soft hair framing his face. You see him. 

His hands lower when you don't laugh like he expects, and confusion replaces amusement. Something else you can now identify, his emotions. You don't have to look at the shape of his shoulders, identifying his mood in a hundred different more complex ways than expression.

"Shit, baby, you're lookin' at me like I died and came back a ghost." He looks down at himself as if expecting to be incorporeal, hand patting at his chest. 

You don't know what to say; you can't say anything. That's what he looks like? Seriously?

How the fuck is that your man?

He's stunning, the kind of stunning that you're certain goes for much better girls than you. And yet, there he is waiting for your answer. The confusion increases, a furrow of the brow, a frown. His lips are so soft-looking. 

You need to kiss them. 

"I, um, have to go," You mumble out, hanging up the video call. The two of you talk through the server often, which is easier than making the commute out every night. But you need to see him in person; you need to know if the face you can recall right now is the face of the person you love most. 

He attempts to call you twice as you make your way over. You don't answer. 

After that he settles for a single text: Better have a damn good reason for making me wait. 

Normally you'd assure him you're on the way, that you've received his calls, but right now your one-track mind can only focus on getting from point A to point B. The rest can come later. 

You know there's a good chance that by the time you get there, whatever you saw will be gone. Replaced again by his mask, but you hold on to a kernel of hope. Maybe you'll see him. Walking down the back alley to his place, you shoot him a text to let you in and wait. 

With your impulsive bad luck, he'll have left, gone off to blow off some steam or something. Instead, he opens the door, wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging shorts. 

His dark eyes meet yours, and you delight in the way he lifts an eyebrow in your direction. "Giving me whiplash, darlin', keep this up I'ma need a doctor~." 

He's beautiful. Fallen angel. Lord of the damned, beautiful. 

Reaching forward, he grabs you by the wrist and yanks you inside, locking the door behind him. Ronin doesn't wait, clearly fed up with your behavior, and drags you like an errant child down into his sanctuary. 

Once the two of you are in his space, he pivots, presses a hand to your shoulder, and shoves you into the wall. The impact stings, the breath knocked out of you as he bends toward you, head cocking to the side.

He dissects you with his eyes. "Fuckin' spill." 

Your hands come out to his face, and he lets you touch, as you often do to better understand his moods, but instead of seeking an explanation, you're exploring. His jawline is sharp, leading down to a pronounced collar. 

The scars on his chest have faded some with time, but they're still there, present with all his others. Granted, you can't entirely confirm or deny if you're in his league because the way you see yourself is watery at best, but you're pretty certain he's out of yours. 

Your thumb comes to his bottom lip, pulling down on it. His eyes narrow as he leans a little closer. You can smell the mint chewing gum he chews when he's irritated. 

The scent ghosts over you. You want to bite his bottom lip; keep your eyes open while you kiss to know what kind of face he makes. The potential spans out in front of you, all the things you'll get to experience that you couldn't before. 

The smile when he kills, how he laughs when Angel says something funny. The way his face may smooth in sleep or how he looks when he comes. You want to know all of it. Every expression, every sliver of personality kept from you.

There's a hand tugging at the strands of your hair, gripping along the back of your scalp. You hiss at the feeling of meeting his eyes. He tisks his tongue, "Making me wait again." 

Right, he doesn't know. You should say; you lean forward to kiss him, but his grip tightens in your hair as he leans away to avoid it. There's something in his eyes, something old and new: hesitation, mistrust, and confusion. 

"I can see you." 

He stills, fingers loosening in your hair, scratching at your scalp in apology for the harsh hold. "All the way?" 

"Yes." You smile, reaching out to cling to his ribs so he can't pull away from you. 

Ronin straightens, his confusion dripping out into something new. Arrogance. His lip quirks up in the corner, "And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light."  

He pulls back despite your touch and drops rather drastically into a showman's bow. "So am I everything you ever wanted, darlin'?" 

To your horror, your face feels particularly warm. Red hot, in fact. You're blushing. 

Ronin giggles, fingers coming to his mouth, "Oh, oh, you poor thing." 

Before you can come up with some false excuse to play it off, his arms are caging you in against the wall, one on either side of your head, using his height against you. That doesn't help at all. 

Now his face is close to your own, in detail. Smirking like he's holding Eden's apple. Ronin is already insufferable; if he knows you think he's the most attractive person to walk the face of the earth, he's going to make it everyone's problem. 

He's absolutely going to rat you out to the server at the very least. 

"Awh, baby, are you smitten with little 'ol me?" Ronin in all teeth as he leans in to whisper against your lips, "All for you, all for me." 

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pressing closer. The two of you tangle together against the wall, one of his knees slipping between your knees. His eyes are lazy, tongue tracing his bottom lip. "Guess it makes sense, huh. If anyone gets to see me without my mask, it's you." 

His arm is locked over your bare waist, as if he's keeping you from fleeing even while asleep. If you tried to flee, would he stop you? Would you want to be stopped? You don't have any plans to leave, and that, you suppose, as you look up at the ceiling, is something you should give some thought to.

You have, quite literally, laid with the Devil. There's not a lick of clothing on you. Your skin still feels tacky and stiff from sweat. You need a shower, but you're not moving, both because he won't allow it and because you don't want to.

There's a soreness coating you, remnants of what you're pretty sure was hours of spine-bending pleasure. Turns out Ronin is more than just talk. 

He's a killer. You knew that when you met him, but it's one thing to talk to someone online and another to let them inside you, to allow his teeth to your throat and his voice in your ear. To feel his warmth against your own, his indecent laughter at the way you squirm.

Ronin is more than a killer; he's a serial killer. There's no moral code, no bigger purpose. He slaughters people for the fun of it. He laughs as he does it, and you have him in your bed. You have him nude as Adam in your bed; the only thing covering him is the blanket piled over his feet.

It's not really about the book anymore, is it? You've learned plenty, sure. You'll write one hell of a novel, but there's more to it. Perhaps it's time you accept that you like this. Him, the danger of it, the wrongness. The rot.

A man like him shouldn't catch your attention the way it does. His warmth should not be comforting, but it is. 

Is that so terrible?

Isn't it everything you wanted?

That's the crux of it; for the first time, someone looked at you and saw what you needed. You didn't have to ask, to beg, to coax, or barter. Ronin saw, and he provided.

You read somewhere to be loved is to be seen. That's something you understand now. He sees you.

This is wrong, fundamentally you know that as he sighs, adjusting against your sheets until more of his weight is against your side. His eyes flutter open, long lashes looking up at you as he blinks the sleep away. 

You think he'll close his eyes and fall back asleep, but then he smiles, and you know that he's out to make some grand point again. That look always hints at mischief, like he knows something you don't and he's excited to tell you what it is.

"So Jesus Christ walks into an inn," Ronin mumbles into your neck, voice hoarse from sleep, "Hands the innkeep three nails, and asks, 'Can you put me up for the night?'"

You snort, rolling your eyes toward the ceiling. "Really? Crucifixion jokes at ... " You tilt your head to look at the clock. "Three in the morning?"

"What better time is there?" He drawls back before sliding on top of you. 

You gaze at him as he props himself up not to crush you. His hair is messy, hanging in his face, and frizzy from the way that you'd been running your fingers through it. It's softer than you thought it would be. 

The proximity makes your face feel hot, not used to such blatant familiarity, coupled with the fact that in the last six hours the two of you met, you almost stabbed him, and now you're here. With him above you and you below him.

"Woke up 'cause ya' were thinking about me." He mumbles, leaning down to nuzzle your already well-kissed neck. 

"Uh-huh, sure," You reply, hands hovering in the air before you give in to your baser nature. They end up along his ribs, pressing to exposed skin. "Well, I'm done now; you can go back to sleep." 

Ronin's teeth scrape your jaw. "Nah, I'm busy."

You let out a stutter of a sigh as his hips press to yours. Insatiable might be a better word than busy. But you have already given in once to sin; what is once more? And once more after that? Or after that?

There's no saving you now. Not with the Antichrist's breath in your ear, not with his rotten tongue on the slope of your throat.

He is the sanctification stripped from you by greedy fingers. But they are his fingers, and so with little reservation you fall into temptation.

Many toys were dragged out to this spot in your youth. Wooden horses and dragons, stuffed dolls, and blocks to stack high. Some had considered it disrespectful, but father had always told them to let it be. That a child's innocence could not offend the old Gods or new.

It comes as little surprise to anyone who knows you that you would find yourself here today, lost in thought. You hold the piece of wood between two fingers, twisting it back and forth as you hold it up. It doesn't look like anything special, two dark branches twined together. From the sapling of a willow tree, or so the woman told you.

Normally you don't bother with such superstitions, at least not ones that haven't been proven to be connected to the Faith. Until yesterday you had never heard about wishing upon a willow tree branch.

The peddler made the rules fairly clear. Only one wish per person and to consider your phrasing carefully. Simple, silly. The kind of nonsense sold to peasants as hope for a better future. You do not have need of such false promises; you are a daughter of House Cafferen.

Creature comforts are not something you have needed to concern yourself with. There is always food on the table and safety from the guards. You have never worried about the quality of your dresses or braiding your own hair.

You've enjoyed a happy childhood, better than some girls you know. Not everyone comes from a family that sees the value in daughters, but you got lucky. You're not naive enough to believe that you haven't, but still you twist the branch between your fingers, lost in thought despite that privilege.

Your parents did you a disservice with their love. They taught you that anything you might want in life is something you might yet be afforded. And so when it comes to the things you want most, you are not so skilled at accepting there are things out of your reach.

The trunk thunks as you drop your head back against it, twisting the branch again. Considering. You can still recall the day you met the Targaryen line. Your family travelled to a tourney outside Summerhall to celebrate the birth of Prince Maekar's youngest child, Rhae.

You arrived in your finest dress and saw people from the wealthiest families talking and gathering. It was far more than you had ever experienced before. The food, the clothing, the music. The wealth of it. Luxury in every direction, far more than the comfort of fresh candles and warm hearths that you knew best.

And there on the side of the room where lower nobles like you did not so easily go, the youth of the Targaryen empire. You saw Prince Valarr first, with that streak of white in his hair. Utterly charming, there was something flower delicate about him, a sort of sophistication as he spoke with another silver haired man close to his age.

Prince Aerion, Brightflame, they call him where he can hear; Aerion the Monstrous where they cannot. They were speaking to each other, not unkindly. Joking, you can barely catch the tail end of Aerion making fun of someone and Valarr gentlemanly telling him to mind his words.

It had been a night of great excess, and by the time your family was returning home, you were certain without a doubt that you were utterly and completely in love with the both of them. Valarr and his mismatched eyes and sweet smile; Aerion and his stern arrogance. You could never pick between them.

Their charms were different but equal.

You have thought about them every single day since, even though you have not been given the opportunity to see them again. Someday you will speak to them, meet them for the first time, and hear what their voices sound like when they say your name. That is all you want, and perhaps this little piece of wood could be the thing that does it.

You shift the branch to be held between your hands and bring it up to your mouth, pressing your lips to it. "I wish for Valarr and Aerion Targaryen to love me as much as I love them."

You snap the branch with a crack, looking at the two pieces, feeling particularly satisfied. There's no way to prove that it worked, so you'll just have to take it on faith. You're good at that already—loving them unconditionally.

The days pass as they normally do. You mind your lessons from the septas and spend your free time in the gardens or working on your secret embroidery project. The two pieces of the willow branch rest beneath your pillow, securely tucked away.

You hope with all your heart.

You're on your way to the kitchens in hope of asking the cooks to sneak you something before dinner when you see your father appear down the hall. He's got a frantic look about him, which is rather uncharacteristic of him. Your father is known for his jovial temperament.

Something must have happened; you stiffen, coming to a stop as he reaches you. He runs a hand along his jaw, in that way he always does when he would rather be drinking wine. "I am going to need your help, my girl; it appears we are about to be quite busy."

You twist so you can walk beside him. "What has happened?"

He gives you a wide-eyed look, and that hope you've been clinging to grows in your chest until your breath is nearly stolen away. "Two Targaryen princes are coming to stay with us; for what reason, they did not say, but we must get the castle ready to receive them."

You give a sharp enough inhale father looks at you in alarm before you find yourself. "Of course, father, I'll help however I can."

"That's a good girl; we haven't much time."

You nod, fighting the urge to shriek. To jump up and down to run around shouting that your loves have come for you. That everything is going to be perfect now. You'll need to hurry to help your father get Fawnton ready.

There's no greater motivation than Valarr and Aerion coming here. Everything must be perfect. You'll need to start focusing on finishing your little sewing project so it's ready in time.

You spend the time before your prince's arrival in a flurry of activity. The whole of Fawnton has something to do; the larder is being stocked for the arrival of not one but two princes and their accompaniment. Fawnton is no Storm's End or Summerhall. It is not naturally equipped for such a large gathering, nor has it had adequate time to prepare, but your father is doing his best to make certain when they arrive they will not go wanting.

After all, despite the lack of time, this is an honor. None of House Targaryen has ever seen fit to stay in Fawnton before. It is not a massive castle, though it is well kept. The floors are cleaned, the tapestries beaten, and the hearths scraped out. You've finished your sewing, helped your mother prepare the staff, and seen to it that the gardeners know what is at stake.

You are near certain that they will propose to you beneath your favorite tree, because truly, there is no better place for it. You've prepared everything you could think of and told the kitchen to make certain your favorite sweets are ready so that you can share them should they find themselves peckish. It will be romantic.

You've made certain that your handmaid has done everything possible to make you as beautiful as you can be. No creases in your dress, hair just right, skin clear of blemishes, and rubbed down with sweet-smelling oils.

When they see you, everything will come together. You know it. You have faith.

You pace in your solar, back and forth. To the door, then to the window, back to the door again. Then finally you see it: dust on the horizon line and then horses, a carriage, and wagons. Two men in flashy white that catch the light even from a distance. The kingsguard!

Soon you will be one of the people in their charge to protect. Soon you will be a princess, and you will go off to live in King's Landing with Valarr and Aerion.

You fan yourself, flapping your hand in front of your face so you don't begin to sweat. "Be calm," You mumble. "Be calm."

It is becoming increasingly difficult to stay calm, but you manage. Perhaps a bit more red faced than you would prefer, but you hold it together until it is time to come to greet your guests, your princes.

You stand next to your mother, practically bouncing in excitement, until she corrects it with a light elbow to your side. You settle, keeping calm, chin raising as the first of the horses, guards, and servants pass.

Then you see them. They ride together, not in their armor but in comfortable riding clothes. The horse Aerion rides is a huge black stallion, and Valarr's a smaller but no less lethal looking brown destrier. They come to a stop almost in unison, though Valarr is the first to dismount with Aerion following behind.

Some semblance of hierarchy you assume, given Valarr will be king someday. And you his queen. Though you are sure Aerion will be around to entertain you when Valarr must handle the more boring idiosyncrasies of court.

Valarr approaches your father first, his chin held high, hair windswept from riding. Your stomach is full of dragons flapping their wings. You've never seen him this close before. He's even more handsome than you thought. So is Aerion trailing behind; there's a scar along his top lip, and it gives him a sort of rugged look that makes you hot as well as the dragons dancing in your stomach.

"Lord Cafferen, we are most grateful for your hospitality." Valarr greets as father bows. "I know our raven likely found you with little time to prepare, so please do not fret about our convoy's accommodations."

He's so polite. You fight the urge to fan yourself again.

"Please, your grace, we are deeply honored to have you visit Fawnton. All that we have is at your disposal; allow me to introduce you to my wife."

Your father makes introductions, and Valarr is sweet enough to give your mother a smile. Aerion only nods to them both, more reserved in comparison, scraping his foot along the stone of the front entrance to the castle. He seems almost bored, and you worry that he hates it here already, that it is not good enough for him.

And how could it be? This is certainly no Summerhall. You cannot offer him all of the comforts he typically enjoys; a great well of shame fills you at the thought. They will find Fawnton poor and unpleasant, but it is the only home you have ever known.

"Lady Cafferen." Valarr says, his voice like having rose petals dragged across your cheek. He reaches out and takes your hand, his warm in yours as he brings it up and presses his mouth to your knuckles.

"Prince Valarr." You croak back, not nearly as sweet sounding as you hoped. More of a gasp of breath. You can tell your face is tomato red. His fingers are so warm against your own.

When he lets go of your hand, you barely have time before another hand is in your own, callused fingers, some scars faint and pale along the back of his hand. When he kisses your knuckles, it is not with the same gentleman's touch as Valarr.

You can feel his tongue flick along your skin before he pulls away. And here you thought you weren't going to be able to get any redder. "Welcome to Fawnton, Prince Aerion." You mumble, still trying to recover from the wetness that lingers on your hand.

"A fine welcome indeed." He drawls before looking toward your father. Any softness in his expression vanishes in a blink. "I would wash the road off; show me to my lodgings."

"If you would be so gracious." Valarr adds a moment after, clearly fighting a sigh at his cousin's wording.

Your father flounders forward to show them the way personally. There are not many guest rooms in your castle, but of the ones you have, your father had two of them overhauled in a hurry. Cleaned top to bottom, with new bedding and nicer furniture. It cost a chunk from the coffers, but it's worth it. Two princes leaving with a good impression could be everything for the future of your family.

Your mother gives you a look, sharing in the odd moment with you. As your father leads them, behind you the rest of the Targaryen entourage are settling in, unpacking wagons, moving toward the fields to set up tents for the men. It's all exciting.

Unable to follow your princes, though you sorely want to, instead you slip toward the great hall where they no doubt will be led once they have time to rest from the road. You sink into your usual chair, sipping from a goblet as you envision them so close and yet so far away.

What they might look like bare chested, washing the dust of the road from their skin. Aerion's pale hair and the way it would reflect the light when it is wet. How he might stare at you as he cleans off, daring you to act, to take what you want, and Valarr pink cheeked and shy.

You release a deep sigh of longing. Those days cannot come soon enough.

There's an energy in the air now that royalty is among Fawnton. The servants are quieter, well behaved. None of the usual light chatter and giggling. Your father has always been lenient on that kind of thing as long as the work gets done, but you're glad they know to act more responsibly when princes are around to hear them.

Movement catches the corner of your eye, and then Aerion fills the archway that enters the great hall. He's forgone riding clothes for finery, red velvet, and chainmail beneath; black pants with red thread, and shined boots. His sword and dagger remain on his belt, at the ready as he moves toward you.

"Lady Cafferen," He greets, to the point. You thought he might be more loudspoken, but there's a stillness about him. Like a fisherman a moment before spearing a fish.

"Prince Aerion." You reply, choosing not to remark on the way he settles into your father's seat at the head of the table without thought. He looks good there, dominating the space as he leans back against the carved wood.

The way he's looking at you makes your heart thunder in your ears, like he's dressing you up and down at the same time. Putting you in an elegant dress and then taking it off with his mind as he sits there.

He glances over at one of the servants that hovers uncertainly along the wall and gives them a two-finger wave, "Wine, bread, and salt."

There's a flurry of motion. You wince.

"There should have already been some set out for your arrival; my apologies, your grace."

He grunts, "It's a problem of servants, not ladies."

They are quick to return with the bread and wine, and you are even quicker to pour it. Aerion's fingers trace across yours purposefully as he takes the glass from your hand, bringing it to his mouth. You expect him to complain about the vintage, but he doesn't, at least not yet.

"Have you heard of dragon dreams?" Aerion asks. The pompous tone has shifted, turning into something more like the crackle of fire in a hearth. Like candlelight late in the night, flickering long shadows across the walls.

You know the phrase the way you know what Pentos looks like. Maybe someone mentioned it once, or maybe you read a book, but your understanding is limited at best. Anger courses in your belly that you are not educated enough to know what he is speaking of.

"I'm afraid I've only heard the words in passing, my prince." You say apologetically, looking down into your wine glass.

"No matter." He takes another drink from his glass before setting it on the table. "You likely have heard the phrase used when describing one of my ancestors, Daenys Targaryen; she is the reason my family survived the Doom of Valyria. See, she had a dream and convinced the Targaryens to move to Dragonstone, and as such, their dragons were saved and our legacy secure."

You recall this tale; you've heard it mentioned more than once. What he explains now is the briefest summary. It is a fantastical tale, and in truth, you thought it to be more fiction than history, but Aerion clearly believes it, and so you endeavor to do the same. 

"That is incredible," You lean forward, interest piqued. "And she did this through dreaming?"

He nods. "Many Targaryens have this ability in one way or another, some stronger than others." His eyes drift toward the wall, going somewhere you cannot so easily follow. Thinking about something or someone. "My older brother has dreams so numerous they plague him; myself ... I thought it was a gift that passed over me. Until I found this proven false."

Your heart starts beating even harder. Locked on every word he speaks in that low rumble. "I had a dream some nights ago." His eyes are like gemstones come alive, like he is filled with fire. "The face of a woman, the shriek of a dragon, and I knew she was salvation."

You swallow.

"I was in King's Landing at the time, and that same morning I found out that Valarr had an identical dream to my own, but he knew the name to accompany that face. Your name." Aerion presses his hand flat to the table, the two of you craning toward each other. "You are in the heart of dragons, Lady Cafferen."

Tears fill your eyes. It's everything you ever wanted.

"Cousin, we agreed to tell her together." Valarr's voice fills the room, cutting through your delight. When you look up at him, you can see his disappointment.

"I grew impatient," Aerion replies, reaching for the carafe to pour wine for Valarr as he moves to sit across from you. By all standards it should be Valarr sitting in the seat Aerion occupies, but he makes no point to claim it. He's dressed well too, in all black silks, velvets, and leather. He has a stitched red Targaryen crest on his shoulder and a half cape that drapes over one shoulder as he sits. Your dress feels plain in comparison.

"No excuse." Valarr replies, accepting the glass, before he sets his eyes on you. "He tells it true; we had the same dream. I remembered your name from a tourney some years ago and remain grateful to my memory for it. It ails me that we did not speak to you then."

"You're here now." You whisper, fuzzy headed with delight. The willow truly worked. They are here now. They have come for you.

"And we do not plan to leave without you." Aerion says.

The bluntness of the words thrums through you, curling between your ribs until it feels like you have a bird's fluttering heart. You look to Valarr to see if he agrees, and his smile is charming as he nods.

"I knew when I saw you both for the first time that we were bound to be together." You say, whispering it. Your carefully guarded secret these last few years.

They both seem to brighten at this—the realization that the three of you are all feeling the same things. That you understand each other. You're about to explain more, how you think of them every day, how they dominate your thoughts, but then your parents walk into the room. 

You straighten, making yourself presentable. Your father glances toward Aerion, toward the chair he occupies, his chair, and says nothing, because where would be his right to speak? They may be in Fawnton, but the Targaryens own everything they stand on. 

Instead, father sits on the other side of the eight-person table.  Your mother at his side. Two middle chairs are resting between them and you. It's a subtle thing; you know your father well enough to know he wants you to move. To take your spot beside them.

You do not rise.

Aerion shifts, the chair creaking. He and father stare at each other, breath held. It's not yet a challenge but something drifting dangerously close to it. Valarr breaks the tension. "Fawnton is lovely. I didn't realize the weather was so fair this time of year."

It is his polite way of saying it is quaint and he's surprised it is not raining, but it is enough to snap the other two men out of their staring.

"A bit small," Aerion replies, "But I expected as much."

Your father prides himself on being a gracious host, so he does not let that comment show on his face. He is proud of Fawnton, you know, have always known. This place is House Cafferen's legacy; it is where that legacy will continue. The castle is well maintained, clean, and kept from getting too drafty. It is no extravagant thing, but it is warm and safe.

You hope that Aerion might at least see its attempt at being noble. "We have a fair garden. " You offer with a smile; it is, after all, your favorite place. But as you speak, you realize who you are speaking to, son of Dyanna Dayne, owner of one of the most illustrious Dornish gardens in Westeros. "Though," You add quickly, "I am sure little could live up to Princess Dyanna's gardens."

Aerion hums, "You will have to show me, and I will tell you if it can compare."

Valarr reaches for his goblet, not so quick as Aerion to speak so boldly. Considering his words, perhaps with more thorough thought. "There are many gardens in Westeros, all more lovely than the last. I find it matters most what one feels toward a garden, not the garden itself. I have such fond memories as a boy sitting in one of the gardens in the Red Keep, and it was not the flower gardens it is most known for."

"Well spoken, your grace." Your mother says, "Our daughter has always had such a fondness for our godswood. When she was a girl she would drag her toys out to play."

Valarr grins as you hide in your wine. You're not sure it's the best idea for their first impression of you to be a girl covered in mud, dragging wooden horses around.

Your father chuckles and, to your horror, adds, "She used to climb trees, rambunctious child, to - "

"Father!" You exclaim, trying to interrupt him before he says it. Knowing full well what detail is about to leave his mouth and turn you into an embarrassed mess.

"To play dragon," Your father finishes, "She'd roar at passing servants. Gods, it made me laugh."

Valarr chuckles, "You and my cousin have that in common then."

Aerion grunts, "It's a perfectly normal thing for a boy to do."

"Or a girl, apparently," Valarr replies lightly. There's no fight in him, just a sort of lighthearted playfulness that somehow makes you feel like you are a part of the joke and not the butt of it. There's some comfort to be found that you are not the only one at the table who climbed trees and pretended to be a dragon at the very least.

"It is a delight to have princes beneath our walls." Your father begins, trying to steer the conversation where he wants it to go. It's too abrupt; the conversation turned too sharply. You wince.

"So you've made it plain," Aerion replies. Even though he insisted on bread and salt being brought to the table, he has not touched it.

"Yes." Your father gives a smile that is more uncomfortable teeth than smile. He hates being at a disadvantage. "And it is true, but I must inquire as to the reason for your visit ... and for how long we might expect you to be thinking of joining us?"

Every day the Targaryens are in Fawnton is a day coin leaves in piles from the coffers. It is expensive to host a group of their size while keeping the standards a royal line has set for itself. He's hoping their visit is brief and the reason unimportant. Or at least valuable to the family.

Valarr and Aerion share a look; Aerion speaks, and his strange dragon language washes over you. It's like nothing you've ever heard before, gruff and somehow equally as lyrical. Valarr replies in that same tongue; the words of Old Valyria come alive in your family's hall. You try not to stare too much.

You think they might be coming to accords about something. They trade quick spoken words back and forth for a moment until Aerion gives a dramatic shrug and collapses back in his seat, fingers coming to trace the grooves of his dagger's hilt.

Whatever they were talking about, it seemed to you that Aerion was on the losing end of it. Valarr gives your father a polite smile. "Pardon us; we needed to make clear some of the finer points. My cousin and I are here for something that might seem abrupt. So I will put it plainly and hope you recognize this as the honor that it is."

He says it like he will demand it to be received as an honor and nothing else. Aerion's fiddling with his blade is only going to encourage the notion. Your father takes notice of it, the shift in the room, and the way all of Westeros seems to take a unified breath.

"I have come for your daughter's hand," Valarr says. He does not sugarcoat it and does not offer it up as a benefit to your house. No compliments accompany the words, only blunt direct statement. Not a question, not a request. He is not asking; he is telling your father how it is going to be.

You will be his wife.

The pause that fills the room is thick. You smile, unable to entirely help yourself, hand coming to cover your mouth. Your father stares not at Valarr but at you. He's calculating time, when the last time Valarr saw you was, and if he might have gotten you in a room alone. It's been too long for pregnancy to be a concern; honor stolen.

Your honor is well intact, saved for the two men sitting on your side of the table. You have a feeling it will not be for much longer.

The silence has gone on too long, but you're not surprised. There has been no warning of this, nothing to lead your family to believe that one of its own is bound for the royal family. It's as great an honor as it is a surprise.

There are two pieces of willow under your pillow that explain it all.

"My prince ... this is unexpected." Your father glances between the two of you. "House Cafferen is loyal to the crown, as it always will be, but we did not expect an offer such as this to come from, well, you."

Your parents share a look. Aerion pulls the dagger a few inches from its sheath before releasing it to fall back in place again, doing this repetitively until a tap, tap, tap of metal fills the quiet room. Valarr says nothing; he waits. Like he knows something you don't.

"I wish you had written instead of coming all this way, but we must graciously decline."

You jerk toward your father. "Why?"

He sends you a warning look, but you're not cowed so easily. Not about this of all things, the one thing you want more than anything.

"I have not had the chance to speak to you yet." Father takes mothers hand, the walls start to close in on you. "But your hand belongs to Lord Ralph Buckler."

The tap from Aerion's dagger is louder this time as he slams it home, "... Buckler?"

"Yes, your grace. We agreed to it only recently, but it's been in talks a long while."

Cold disgust washes over you. You've met Buckler before, mid-forties, and unpleasant. Always has a sneer on his face, walks into every room like he's the most important man in it. He's been married three times before, but all of his wives keep dying in the birthing bed. Six children is apparently not enough for him.

He's the last person you would want to marry. You'd be signing up to be the man's broodmare.

"Father ... I don't want to marry Lord Buckler." Your voice sounds hollow, all the hope drained out of you. A marriage already in motion means there's no undoing it. Buckler is one of the most important houses for the Cafferen family.

Without his goodwill, your family would suffer, and to deny a marriage to him for a Targaryen match sends a poor message to the others in the Stormlands on what kind of man your father is. The moment you almost get what you want, and some greedy, overzealous man swoops it away from you right before you can grasp it.

Tears prick your eyes.

"I am afraid, my dear, that sometimes we do not get to pick our matches," Your father replies. Like he expected better of you, like you should be happy to be given off to Buckler when Valarr, the blood of the dragon, rests in front of you, offering all you could ever think to need.

Your lip quivers.

Wishes are for fools.

It's a hole in the wall directly next to the only twenty four hour laundromat, and the two businesses feed off of each other to survive. You work alone, night shift. For the most part it's not too bad; the kinds of people that show up to eat the pastries that have gone stale and drink simple coffees are more worried about their caffeine fix than you.

There are creeps from time to time, but that's to be expected. Lucky for you, the few situations that have gotten messy were easily solved by the very large, very pissed off six foot four ex-con that works the night shift in the laundromat. 

Men, for whatever reason, always get real polite when he comes around. You're grateful to have a buddy always happy to remind an asshole that being a dick can have crooked-nose consequences. 

You've got a few customers that you like more than others. You've got this fossil of an old lady who comes in every weekday like clockwork the hour before you're off to get her coffee fix at four in the morning. Or there's the night owl writer who takes advantage of one of the window seats to write his upcoming mystery novel. He can't write for shit, but he's got enthusiasm.

And then there's pretty boy. 

He's every weakness you got all rolled up into one untouchable package. Blue eyes, check. Feathery black hair, check. Piercings, check. Sense of humor, check.

You see him once a week usually, sometimes more, not as clockwork as the little old lady but enough that you know around the hour to start expecting him. He shows up to get coffee after his shift usually when he's got something else to do in the morning.

And if he's doing laundry, which seems much less common, he always stops in to loiter in the shop rather than in the hard plastic chairs of the laundromat. 

You most certainly do not check him out every time he comes in. Nope. Definitely not doing that right now out the corner of your eye as he strolls cocky as ever through the door. Lane heads for the spot he usually takes at one of the counter seats, dropping into it with an exclaimed huff.

If you make your way over to him a little faster than you tend to do with other customers, you're not about to admit it to yourself. You come to a pause in front of him. "What'll you have today?"

Lane pulls his phone from his hoodie pocket, setting it on the chipped counter. He looks at you through his lashes. "You?"

You snort and roll your eyes. "Uh-uh. You're too broke to afford me. How about some coffee?"

He lets out another long sigh, "Be that way. Jus' my usual then."

Lane's usual is not a common usual. His usual is asking you to make something weird. So you shrug, twisting around to make him an iced coffee despite the fact that it's late fall and dump cinnamon syrup and Irish cream into it. 

You give it a good stir and plop it down in front of him. There's no one else in here; everyone else has come and gone for the time being. It's kind of nice; tonight's been easy. His presence makes it less mundane.

Lane brings the straw to his mouth, checking his phone before you watch him pause. You can physically see his brain processing the odd flavor. He glances at the cup, then toward you, and back to his phone.

"I wanna talk to your manager." He says, deadpan, and you smile. 

"You know what me too; he keeps blowing me off about that raise." You drawl, leaning your hip against the counter.

To your delight, he grins at that and takes another sip. "You know it's not too bad, weird, but not bad."

It's nice to have someone that comes in that you can talk to. Something to look forward to, a pretty face in a sea of irritated frowns and long glares.

"Little offended though." Lane says, taking another sip.

You raise an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

He holds up the cup toward you. "Didn't write my name on the cup. Not even a teeny tiny heart."

You snort and pluck the cup from his hand as he squawks in indignation. You reach into your apron and pull out a marker. Normally you don't bother with the name thing; working nights means there's never anyone in here, but the few times you have a rush you do.

You hold it in your hand and weigh your options. He keeps coming back; he keeps talking to you. He always sits in the same spot, makes conversation, and leaves a tip even though most people don't bother. It's never a sizable one, but still it's there.

That might mean something. That or he just likes to flirt; some guys are like that. You don't really hate it; if that's who he is, at least he's funny. Sweet in his own slightly rude way. The flirting is fun, even if it doesn't go anywhere.

You chew on your cheek.

"Woman, I was drinking that," He complains, arms draped across the counter.

Fuck it. You miss all opportunities you don't take, or however the saying goes. Instead of writing his name, you scribble yours, not that he doesn't already know it, and then below that, your number. To really go all in, you draw not one but three little hearts on the lid and plop it down in front of him.

Lane twists the cup, eyes scanning it, putting the pieces together. You brace yourself for dismissal, a roll of his eyes. Some comment like nice try or not interested. Instead, to your startlement, he gets a bit pink.

He drinks from the cup without saying anything, and you definitely think he's not interested. Someone comes in from the laundry side, and you have to take their order, doing your best not to look at Lane while you get their coffee done.

When you look back toward the spot he likes to haunt, he's gone, nothing but a single dollar left in tip. You sigh, feeling that familiar sting of rejection as you collect the money and drop onto the stool you keep behind the counter. 

Your phone buzzes, and you fish it from your pocket expecting some junk mail you need to delete from your email. Instead, it's a text from an unknown number. 

A smile grows on your face as you open it, reading the words.