“Cunts. All of them.” You grumbled as you downed the last bit of the remaining wine in your cup, which was far too little in your opinion.

“Now, now, sweet sister. They’re not all that bad.”

“Are they? Really?” you gave him a pointed look. A moment of silence, followed by: “Exactly. As I said. Cunts.”

Your brother chuckled from where he was seated at the high table next to you, the typical rasp of his voice almost drowned out in the loudness of the tent. “It is but only the first night, and you look like you’ve already sworn off talking to the male specimen all together.”

“I might as well.” you retorted. “They’re supposed to convince me to wish to marry them, no? Do I look like I will decide my future husband solely based on the fact of how many sheep he has?” you gestured loosely at the general mass of the tent, where a few of the lords who had already tried to win your favour – though in vain – still lingered. Your expression was contorted in disbelief, your tone incredulous. “Oh, and do not even get me started on the fucking arrogance they dare have. Came prancing up to me like peacocks, the lot of them. And more than half look like they’ve already seen one too many winters. Eaten enough to survive them too.”

An breathless laugh left Lyonel’s lips at your last jab. One of his hands landed on your shoulder, giving it a good shake. “Such a foul tongue, sister.” he remarked, his tone teasing.

“You’re one to talk.” you hissed back, though there was no true ill intention behind the words. Such bickering came as natural as breathing to the two of you. When you both were still younger, you’d nearly driven your parents insane with the constant jabs and insults thrown at each other’s heads, even if only in jesting manner.

Silence settled back between you both after that. You leaned over the table to get a grip of the carafe of wine, pouring yourself another generous amount and instantly taking a swig. You’d need much more than just this cup to survive the night, were it to continue how it had been going up until now.

You’d been dragged along with your elder brother, Lyonel, to Ashford to find a possible suitor, a future husband, which had already put you in a disgruntled mood to begin with. You were lucky enough to at least get somewhat of a say in the matter. But ultimately, you knew the choice would have to be made for you. Because unless an absolute miracle arrived, you wouldn’t even think about choosing to marry one of the many oafs that you’d seen around the terrain willingly.

It was only the first night of the festivities, but you’d already considered piercing your skull open on your brother’s antlered crown one too many times. You stared down into your cup, watching the swirling liquid as you tilted the cup in small circles, utterly bored out of your mind.

The chattering crowd inside as well as you startled as soon as Lyonel suddenly spoke up at a louder volume than before. The entire tent fell silent.

“I’ve had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen.” All heads had turned and all eyes in the tent were now focused on your brother.

“Four thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that,… big field outside to blood each other with sticks – and have a little bit of gay fun. And they say it was this country’s first ever joust. Well, I say…” he paused, leaning forward in his seat. They were hanging onto his every word, awaiting what the Laughing Storm would say next.

Yet, it seemed, he himself had forgotten.

“Uh, the fuck was I gonna say?” he muttered, eyes straying back to one of the other men at your table. “First-ever joust…” another pause. You only stared on with slightly raised eyebrows, unimpressed.

Suddenly, he directed his gaze forward again. “Ah.”

“Men could not have devised such a joy. So who was it?”

Only silence followed his question directed at the general mass inside the tent, safe for the sounds of a few clearing their throats or jugging down more of their drinks.

“Huh? Who was it?” Lyonel seemed to find great amusement in the fact that no one had dared to try and answer his question, giving you an entertained look as he leaned back into his seat.

“Fuck it. A hundred gold to the man, beast or god who sticks me best!” he exclaimed after another few moments, throwing a pouch of coins onto the nearest table. This seemed to revive the crowd quite effectively, given the cheers that echoed through the tent.

“Now, eat your birds so we can dance!” he added in a shout.

A sigh of relief left you in response to his last words. “Thank the gods, I was about to fall asleep.” you muttered under your breath. Due to the volume inside the tent, your complaint was barely audible, but Lyonel seemed to have caught it nonetheless. “What was that?” he asked sharply, his dark eyes locked onto you.

You returned his gaze innocently, taking a sip of your wine. “Nothing.”

Something of utmost importance, which was to be always remembered when in Lyonel’s presence: Never dare to call any of his festivities boring. Or you’d come to regret it.

The tent eventually started filling up with people dancing to the cheery music of the band, which had been stationed in the middle of the room. You were about to excuse yourself to up and dance yourself, when a man – taller than anyone you’d ever seen, came to a stop in front of the table. “Seven hells.” you breathed out, taking in the giant from head to toe as he munched on a tart. As it seemed, he had caught your brother’s attention as well.

“You ever been punched in the face before?” was the question Lyonel decided to start their first ever conversation with, which surprised you much less than it should have. The tall man, however, was startled, for obvious reasons.

“I beg- I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”

“Big men get punched more than little men, did you know that?”

“No, but- but I believe it.”

You almost felt sorry for this hedge knight, for he looked utterly helpless. He clearly didn’t quite know what to do with the taunting of your brother. This kind of exchange was nothing new to you, Lyonel had a knack for making people flustered in his presence.

“That why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?”

“I- I don’t slouch.” he tried to defend himself.

“Oh, you’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night.” Lyonel drawled with a chuckle. You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Stop making the poor lad uncomfortable, Lyonel.” you called out, but your words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

“I- I meant no disrespect, ser, honest. Where I grew up, you- you learn to go unnoticed, is all.”

“The seven above gave you tallness. So be tall.” Lyonel started, which was probably the first decent advice he’d given all evening.

“Or I will name you a heretic, and burn you… Drown you… drop you of a tall pl- I don’t know. W-What do they do to heretics?” Well, there went the good advice.

The man next to Lyonel spoke up with fervour. “Burn them, my lord.”

“Fine.” Lyonel concluded, dropping his knife onto the table in what one could have mistaken as defeat.

“What have you brought me?”  

By the stunned silence which followed Lyonel’s question, you could already tell that he’d certainly brought nothing. You sighed once more, shaking your head. This poor guy had no idea what was coming for him.

“Uhm… Uh, ser I… beggin’ your pardons. I- I didn’t realize…” he trailed off, clearly at a loss for words.

Your brother’s gaze sharpened. “You wish to curry my favour some. Yet you come with an empty hand… Lord Caferen, the smug cunt in red. He is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter yet even he shinied up this… bauble from his family’s cellars for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You’ve come for my head then.”

Now, you truly did feel sorry for the poor hedge knight that stood before you, mortified as he came to the realization that he’d made the Lord of Storm’s End think he’d threatened him. But in a way, it was slightly funny as you regarded his dumbstruck expression.

“W-What? No! No.”

“Then why the fuck are you in my tent?”

The tall man hesitated, before stuttering out a “S-Supper?”

It was then that you couldn’t keep it in anymore as an amused chuckle tumbled past your lips. You quickly covered your mouth, muttering an almost inaudible “Sorry, sorry.” You tilted your head away from the exchange as you attempted to pull yourself together.

But it seemed even your brother’s stoic façade had been cracked as he broke into a laugh along with you. “Alright. Actually makes sense.” He muttered more to himself, than to anyone else.

“What is your name, man?” he asked as he turned his gaze back towards the “intruder”.

“Dunk- Ser Dunk.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Lyonel retorted without hesitation, a case of blunt Baratheon honesty. He leaned forward again, beckoning the hedge knight to come closer as well.

Quietly, as if it was a conspiracy, Lyonel asked: “Do you like dancing?”

His question caused you to perk up as well. A shy smile broke onto Dunk’s face. “Doesn’t everyone?”

You were out of your chair faster than anyone could blink, stretching your limbs that were tired from sitting in those godsforsaken chairs all evening. “Thank fuck. This was starting to get boring.” You quickly scurried off into the crowd, barely hearing your brother’s offended “Hey!” from behind you.

In a matter of mere seconds, both you and brother were up on tables on opposite sides of the tent, moving with practiced elegance. The pair of you were known amongst your peers for having a knack for dancing. Lyonel had discarded his golden cloak, now clad in a leathered vest, which he wore a loose black and long-sleeved shirt underneath. A whirlwind of black and gold hung from his belt, something akin to skirts that flowed with each movement he made. You were still draped in your gown, which too was a harmony of the colours of house Baratheon, though mainly black with a golden stag embroidered over your chest. It blended in perfectly with the rest of the tent yet standing out all the same. Your black hair, usually tied up in some ridiculous updo which only painfully tugged at your scalp, now cascaded freely down your neck and back.

And while you and Lyonel danced with practiced ease, Dunk, who was positioned right in the middle of the tent, seemed to struggle. His movements were stiff and awkward. Clearly, he didn’t quite know what to do with those enormous limbs of his. A few ladies locked their elbows with his, twirling him in circles along with them.

Within the blink of an eye, Lyonel had popped up next to him, sizing him up. Your brother was a tall man with a strong build. The tallest you’d ever encountered until Dunk stumbled into the tent tonight. Even Lyonel, the Laughing Storm, couldn’t reach the hedge knight’s height.

You were still perched on the table, keeping your body moving to the rhythm even as you leaned down to snatch the cup of one of those entitled lords right out of his hands. He gaped up at you in surprise, yet you only gave him a wink in response, downing a good portion of the wine inside the cup before discarding it somewhere behind you. You jumped down from the table, stalking right past the lord into the direction of Dunk and Lyonel without sparing him another glance.

The lord remained rooted in his spot, grumbling under his breath. Something along the lines of unlady-like behaviour. You didn’t pay it any mind.

The two giants had turned their dance into a war of stepping on each other’s feet. A war your brother had surely started – and was clearly winning. He evaded each of Dunk’s attempts with graceful ease, sidestepping every time the hedge knight even came close.

You looked away for one moment too long, and suddenly a pained groan echoed from behind you. Your eyes snapped back to your brother, seeing him hunched over in front of Dunk, clearly in pain as the giant removed his foot from Lyonel’s.

You could see the worry on Dunk’s face, afraid that he might have angered the Lord of Storm’s End, that he’d gone too far. But when Lyonel was in upright position again, his curls askew and falling over his eyes, he only grinned with his tongue caught between his teeth, sending Dunk a cheeky wink.

A bright and relieved smile broke out on Dunk’s face as he shoved at Lyonel’s chest, sending him reeling back into the crowd. The latter caught his footing with ease, returning to moving his body with the rhythm as if nothing happened.

Dunk now danced with no more finesse but much more confidence as both you and Lyonel practically twirled around him, guiding his movements as you spun the man in all kinds of circles and manoeuvres.

After what seemed like an eternity, the crowd in the tent began to settle as the music faded into comfortable background noise. Only few people were remaining as Dunk and Lyonel sat at the table, drunk out of their minds. Lyonel’s antler crown sat crooked on Dunk’s head as the two conversed with slurred words.

You were long since passed out on the chair next to them, the side of your head against the backrest as your legs were swung over one of the armrests, your back against the other. The dancing and the alcohol had certainly caught up with you.

Dunk’s gaze eventually wandered to your sleeping form over Lyonel’s shoulders.

“She’s your sister, no?”

“Aye, she is. Temperamental little beast, that one.” Lyonel responded drunkenly, but his words were laced with fondness. “She may be a Baratheon doe, but that girl’s got antlers mightier than any stag’s, let me tell you.”

Dunk huffed a tired chuckle in response. “I do not doubt that. She’s got a wild spirit. Charming.”

“A charming vocabulary as well. Quite colourful, I must say.”

“I can hear you, you dim-witted cunt.” you cut in from behind them, your eyes still closed yet very much awake in this moment.

Lyonel shot Dunk a look that said See? I told you so.

“Isn’t it long past your bedtime, sweet sister?” he taunted over his shoulder.

“It is. That is why I was sleeping. But you lot are too fucking loud.” you shot back, heaving yourself up out of the chair tiredly. “I’ll be in my chambers. And quit mouthing off about me.” you announced with a yawn, pointing a warning finger at your elder brother at the end. “It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Ser Dunk. Until we meet again.” you added with a gentle smile towards the hedge knight, who returned it with enthusiasm.

Until we meet again turned out to be much sooner than you’d anticipated. By the next midday, you were seated on an utterly uncomfortable wooden bench next to your brother and his men, who’d already had one too many cups of ale. They called watching a bunch of arrogant and sweaty men pull on a rope entertainment, you called it losing every last ounce of intelligence you’d once possessed.

You sighed, turning your head to take in your surroundings, in hopes to find absolutely anything other than this that might be worth your time. Your eyes eventually landed on none other than Dunk, who stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the lords, who not only wore clothes much more luxurious, but were also all a good portion shorter than him, even in sitting position. Next to him, perched on the table, was a small boy with shaved head.

His brother, perhaps? Or squire? Though you doubted a hedge knight such as him had one.

Without as much as a word, you sprang up from the bench, making a beeline for Dunk and his little companion. You flopped down on the bench next to him, sighing. “Ser Dunk. Nice seeing you again.” you chirped, looking up at the man with a smile.

He gazed down at you in flustered surprise. “L-Lady Baratheon.” He greeted you back politely with a bow of his head. You waved him off in response, a huff of mild annoyance leaving you. “No, none of that. Just Y/N.” you tilted your body to look around the giant and at the young boy at his side. You extended your hand for the child to shake. “Y/N. Baratheon.” you introduced yourself.

The boy gave you a smile, shaking your hand firmly. “Egg.”

“Egg.” you repeated. “And who might you be to Ser Dunk here?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“I’m his squire, my lady.” You held up a hand, stopping Egg before he could say anything else. “Ah. Y/N. That counts for you too. Lady makes me sound like an old hag.”

Egg chuckled quietly, nodding once. “Y/N.” he repeated your name, just as you had done with his.

Before either of you could say much more, your brother’s voice echoed in your ears, followed by fast approaching footsteps.

“Yes! Hedge knight, you.” he called out.

You sighed in response, shaking your head in despair. “Here we go.”

Dunk attempted to take another sip of his drink, yet your brother had snatched it out of his fingers before the rim could touch his lips. He glared down at the liquid as if it had personally offended him, discarding the cup somewhere on the grass. “What is this piss froth? I need muscle.” Lyonel smacked a hand to the side of Dunk’s neck, forcing the hedge knight’s eyes to meet his own.

“Will you heed my call to war?” the words were said with entirely too much enthusiasm and seriousness for the fact that he was only asking Dunk to help him in a game of Tug of War. Without awaiting the man’s response, your brother exclaimed: “Aha, good!” before turning and urging the rest of his men to get up and to the rope.

“May the luck be with you! For my brother is nothing if not competitive.” you called after Dunk and Egg as they both jogged off to help your brother in his game against the Tyrells.

Later that night, you were sat at one of the tiny circular wooden tables along with Dunk, whose birth name you learned to be Duncan, and Egg. Your surroundings were hardly becoming of a lady of house Baratheon, but such things had never bothered you much. And as your two companions scarcely had any coin on them, you’d treated them to a generous piece of meat with vegetables, despite Duncan’s protests.

You had decided to join them on their little adventure earlier that evening, rather than listen to Lyonel curse out his squires and servants while they aided him in putting on his armour for the first joust tonight. You’d been to few jousts in your rather short life-span. And every time, you’d come to the same conclusion. While it was tiring and off-putting to watch most lordlings and knights show off like they were above everyone else, it turned out to be even more entertaining to watch them get knocked on their asses by those who practiced quiet and humble confidence.

That was truly the only thing you looked forward to as the horn blared over Ashford Meadow, announcing the start of the first joust. You only really decided to watch the joust because Lyonel had insisted you needed to watch him win against the other highborns. And unfortunately, you’d promised him you would.

So here you were, trailing behind a thrilled Dunk, who carried an even more excited Egg on his shoulders as the three of you made your way to the lists to watch the spectacle. The crowd thickened by the second as you and your companions pushed yourselves to the front, even if Dunk could no doubt see very well over everyone else. You’d inherited a good portion of your elder brother’s tallness, but not quite enough to tower over those around you.

You perched your forearms on the fence in front of you as Dunk came to a stop shortly behind you, both his and Egg’s eyes focused on the events on the jousting field. You directed your gaze towards the lists as well, watching as various lords of well-known houses prepared for the first charge. Somewhere further back, you could make out the unmistakeable shape of your brother’s golden helmet, the giant and pompous antlers on each side hard to miss.

Your sight of him was blocked when another knight came to a stop with his mount not far from you. By the way he shouted and hollered you could already tell he was one of the more entitled ones. And from the fish you could see on the back of his cape, he must have been a Tully.

The crowd seemed to love him, for they cheered him on with incredible fervour. He held up something which looked all too much like a very real and a very dead fish. “For the new gods, and old!” he exclaimed, before unceremoniously biting the fish’s head off, throwing what remained of its body into the crowd. Thankfully, further off from where you stood.

You had to refrain from outright gagging at the sight of Lord Tully swallowing the raw fish’s head, running a hand down your face in exasperation. “For fuck’s sake.” you muttered under your breath. This was not the type of entertainment you had hoped for when you agreed to watch the first joust. At least Egg was having fun – or that’s what it sounded like as the young boy’s cheers erupted from behind you.

It was then that squires and helpers started fetching the shields and lances of each participant, hurriedly approaching their lords to have them ready in time for the first charge. Lyonel was fully armed in no time, lance in one hand, his shield – bright yellow with the crowned stag painted on it in black – secured in the other.

Your gaze strayed from your brother as a new knight, clad in black and red, rode up the lists, commanding attention without much hustle. There was no boisterous showing off as he led his pitch-black mount into position, no searching for validation or cheers of the crowd. Only silent and hard focus. You couldn’t see everything from the distance between him and you, but you were able to make out that he was quite young. Most likely around your age.

And he was possibly the most beautiful man you had ever laid your eyes on.

“Helmet!” his voice called out sharply, extending a hand for the helmet to be placed in. You felt a shiver run down your spine at the sound of his voice. So smooth yet with a slight rasp to it.

“Hey, who’s that?” Dunk asked behind you, voicing your exact thoughts. His eyes tilted up to look at his squire, who seemed to have the most knowledge about the participating knights out of the three of you. But you would be lying if you truly paid attention to anything that was being said. It also did not interest you in the slightest at that moment. Right now, it did not matter who he was. Only that he would stay on that field for just a few moments longer so you could keep looking at him. Because it certainly was a pleasant sight.

“Prince Valarr. Baelor’s son.” Egg replied to Dunk’s question, voice laced with a fondness neither of you really picked up on. “Second in line to the throne.”

A Targaryen, then. You thought to yourself, only then noticing the deep red three-headed dragon on his chest plate. You felt your cheeks heat up slightly at the fact that you hadn’t picked up on that beforehand, too focused on his pretty face to even realize what family he was representing. Now the small strand of silver you’d seen among his otherwise brown hair made much more sense.

“He’s the favourite I’d wager.” Dunk replied, slight tint of awe in his tone.

He’s certainly my favourite. You caught yourself thinking as your eyes still hadn’t once strayed from the prince ever since you’d first caught sight of him. If anyone would’ve told you the prince possessed magical powers, you would have believed them. Because he had truly and completely bewitched you.

“I’ll take that bet, ser.” Egg confirmed Dunk’s statement.

Without taking your eyes off the young prince – who was now too fully armed with a delicately detailed but robust helmet and shield, as well as a black and red lance – you threw the question over your shoulder, your mouth working just a tad faster than your brain.

“Is the prince betrothed, by any chance?”

Only silence met your question. When after a few moments, you still hadn’t received a response, you tore your gaze from the Targaryen prince, turning your head to face Duncan and Egg, who both regarded you with stunned expressions. You felt taken aback, slightly put off by the bewilderment in their eyes.

“What?” the word came out much more defensive than you would have liked. “It is only a question. I’m supposed to find a husband at this tourney after all.” you shrugged, redirecting your eyes towards Valarr, who had now taken off down the lists along with the other knights. Duncan and Egg only exchanged another look of strange curiosity, before ultimately deciding to return their attention to the tourney.

You all watched in amazement as Valarr knocked knight after knight off their horses, not once looking like he was even remotely struggling. And still, he did not try and boast before the crowd to make them cheer just that much louder for him. He remained focused, not once straying from the task at hand. He did this to prove his strength, not for glory.

Yes, there was your miracle.

Towards the end of the joust, you’d slipped away from Ser Duncan and Egg under the pretence that you were to head for your brother’s tent by the lists. At first, you had fully intended to do just that. Instead, you’d waltzed right past the yellow and black tent, walking further down the path into the direction of the black and red tent which was adorned by dragonheads carved out of wood.

You were very well aware of the fact that you intended to bluntly approach a crown prince – of house Targaryen no less – but you were never known to be shy. Quite the opposite actually. A sentiment you’d inherited from your brother, as his shamelessness had rubbed off on you throughout the years. Your dark eyes took in the extravagance of the Targaryens’ tent as you walked closer. Your averted gaze, however, distracted you from the obstacle which suddenly blocked your path.

Quite the handsome obstacle, at that.

You bumped into something hard. Staggering back a step, your eyes snapped back forward to take in what was in front of you. “Fucking-“ you started, ready to curse out in annoyance at whoever had stood in your way, but the three-headed steel dragon, just on your eye-level, silenced you instantly.

Your eyes trailed up the neckline of the armour, until they eventually landed on two mismatched ones. From your perspective, the right was a deep brown, the left a striking blue. The two colours contrasted each other drastically, yet it fit together so perfectly. Those exact were already staring back at you with an intensity that knocked the last ounce of breath out of your lungs. His brown hair fell over his forehead in thick strands, nearly reaching his eyebrows. The prince towered over you by a few inches, his head tilted ever so slightly downward. From your point of view, you could now also see the silver section of hair on the left side of his head much clearer.

Unbeknownst to you, the young prince did not fare much better.

When he’d returned to his tent just beside the jousting field, he certainly hadn’t expected a young lady – a Baratheon, he guessed, based on the colours of your clothing – to quite literally walk right into him. He’d too had half the mind to curse you out, something he wouldn’t have done on any other day, his manners always intact – especially around women. Yet he was exhausted from the joust, so there was a chance he couldn’t have controlled an accidental slip of his tongue.

But with one look at you, his throat felt like it had been sewn shut, never to let a breath or tone escape again. His eyes took in the black locks of your hair – a hereditary Baratheon feature – and how they cascaded down your neck, the strands framing your facial features oh so prettily. His gaze lingered on your face, which held a beauty he swore he’d only ever heard about in songs. He was certain that he could search every single inch of your body and still wouldn’t be able to find even one flaw.

Still too awestruck by the sight of you, he didn’t even realize when a single word slipped past his lips. “Gevie.”

The gentle and breathless sound of his voice snapped you out of your dumbstruck daze.

You blinked rapidly a few times, gathering your thoughts which had been all but erased blankly from your mind. “What?” you whispered to yourself, barely audible, as you head no idea what he’d just said.

A clearing of your throat, which was solely intended to help you find the right words, seemed to bring the prince in front of you back to his senses as well.

Before you even had the chance to say anything else, he spoke up, worry lacing his tone.

“My lady, are you alright?” he asked, his eyes roaming over you once more, his left hand hovering near your upper arm, not daring to make contact. This time, instead of dumbstruck awe, his eyes searched for any sign that you’d been hurt from one; walking straight into his steel armour and two; stumbling back upon impact.

You gave a small chuckle in return. “I am unharmed, your highness. I hope you are as well? Though I am sure your armour can withstand the impact of an inattentive woman knocking right into you.” your voice was laced in humour and light-heartedness, despite currently talking to a prince of the crown.

It seemed even he could not hold back a upwards-twitch of his lips as that. “I can assure you it does, lady …” he purposely trailed off towards the end, inviting you to grant him your name.

“Y/N, your highness. Y/N Baratheon.” you replied confidently, boldly holding out a hand for him to shake.

He took it, the grip of his gloved hand firm around yours.

“Ah, well, I am honoured to make your acquaintance, lady Y/N. I am Valarr Targaryen.” he introduced himself politely, despite the both of you being aware of the fact that you knew perfectly well who he was.

“So, lady Y/N, what brings you quite literally walking into me?” he mused as he let go of your hand, shuffling lightly to put an appropriate distance between the two of you. You knew it was only proper in the eyes of the realm, for you were neither very familiar with each other nor betrothed. Yet, you couldn’t help but despise the space between you and the prince.

You huffed a chuckle in response. “Well, I merely intended to congratulate you on your impeccable performance at the joust tonight.” A lie. Blatant lie. You just wished to see him up close, to talk to him and hear that smooth voice again. “Though I must say, this encounter turned out to start off a bit differently than what I expected.” That was the truth. But you’d do it a thousand times over if it meant you’d see those pretty mismatched eyes roaming over you again.

“Thank you for the congratulations, my lady. It is not often that someone seeks me out especially for such a reason… Unless there is something else you wish to talk to me about?” he replied with a kind smile, a small glint of knowing in his eyes.

Gods, you wanted to grab his pretty face and kiss him.

You quickly forced that thought from the forefront of your mind, trying to focus on the current conversation. “I mainly intended to congratulate you, your highness. Yet, now as you mention it, I would like to invite you to my elder brother’s festivity tomorrow evening. It may not have the size you are surely used to as a prince of the crown, but Baratheon parties have never been known to be dull.”

Valarr looked almost surprised at your blunt invitation. It was bold after all, to simply offer a future heir to the Iron Throne to stray from his own family to join a festivity in another house’s tent. “My lady, I am not sure-“

Other’s would have surely lost their tongues for what you did, but you sensed the prince was not exactly sensitive in these types of matters. So you cut him off.

“Oh, nonsense.” you retorted, waving him off. “I mean no offense, your highness, but all those princely duties surely must be exhausting. Take my word for it, a night filled with music and good company does wonders to one’s mind.”

“And I take it by good company, you mean your company, my lady?” he returned, an almost teasing tint to his tone as the corner of his lips twitched up once more.

“Yes, I do actually.” you responded confidently. “Now, I must go before my brother sends out a search party for me. Yet, just know I intend not to pressure you to attend. However, consider yourself kindly invited to join. And that a certain lady would be delighted to encounter you there.”

“Good night, my prince.” you gave him another smirk before turning on your heel and leaving back down the way you’d originally come from. What you didn’t see was that the prince remained rooted in his place for much longer than it was necessary, staring as you disappeared from his line of sight. And even then, he did not move for several minutes, eyes fixed on the spot where you’d vanished around the corner of a tent.

The following night, you were seated beside Lyonel once more as the tent started filling up more and more. You sipped on your cup of wine, eyes trailing to the entrance of the tent ever so often in the hopes of a certain prince entering.

For a while, your brother was otherwise occupied with talking to various of his lordly friends, but your almost longing gazes towards the tent-entrance did not go unnoticed by him. He brushed it off at first, you were quite the interesting fellow at times. Yet when almost an hour into his festivity, you still had barely taken your eyes off the flaps, he’d had enough.

He leaned over in his seat until his head was almost right next to yours.

“What exactly is it you’re searching for, sister?” he asked, curiosity lacing his tone.

You jumped lightly in your seat, clearly not having expected your brother’s voice so close to your ear. “Seven hells, Lyonel.” you breathed out, followed by a string of curses as you calmed your now rapidly beating heart. Lyonel remained silent, patiently waiting.

“I am waiting for someone. I invited him yesterday.” you eventually answered his initial question.

“You- Him? Who did you invite?” Lyonel returned, almost bewildered. You weren’t a stranger to social interactions. He knew you to be quite the outgoing person, in fact. Yet it came to a great surprise to him that you would willingly invite a man to this gathering. Especially knowing what the whole point of this tourney was for you.

“I am not even sure if he will come. He seemed a bit hesitant.” was what you said in response, eyes focusing back on where more people entered and intentionally avoiding his question.

Lyonel’s head tilted in slight disbelief as he started at side of your head in silence for a few seconds. “Dear sister. Am I understanding right that you’ve been staring at the entrance of this tent like a lovesick fool for the past hour for a man you’re not even sure will even come?”

You pursed your lips as you turned your head to look at your brother. “Well, if you put it that way, it sounds rather pathetic.”

Lyonel was just about to say more when you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. Glancing towards the threshold of the tent once more, you fully expected to be disappointed, again. Yet, this time a familiar head of brown hair ducked his way into the main hall of the tent, the silver strands on the side unmistakable.

A smile broke out onto your face as you moved to stand up from your chair. “Ah, there he is.” you exclaimed happily. Lyonel’s face blanked as he caught sight of who the literal man of the hour was. He mentally congratulated you. You’d just managed to achieve what many attempted yet always failed to do.

You’d rendered him absolutely speechless.

When he’d finally regained his senses, his hand shot out of curl in your sleeve, stopping you from waltzing off with two cups of wine in your hands. “You invited a crown prince?” he hissed. “This is who’s had you so dumbstruck the whole evening?”

You nodded, as if your were talking about something as trivial such as dinner. “Yes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, brother. I have to welcome my guest.” Pulling your arm out of his grip, leaving the table into the direction of the prince. Lyonel remained dumbfounded in his chair. “Unbelievable.” he muttered under his breath, his eyes never once leaving you as you approached the Targaryen.

Valarr had made it barely a few steps into the main hall of the tent when you arrived at his side. “You came.” you said, a smile on your face as you looked up at him. He returned the expression, gratefully accepting the cup you were holding out for him to take. “I couldn’t have left the lady undelighted in my absence, now could I?”

You huffed out a breath, something akin to a laugh. “Is that teasing I hear, your highness?”

“Possibly.” he returned.

“Well, feel free to keep on doing it. It suits you. Mayhaps not always at my expense?”

“I will make sure to keep that in mind.”

You led him back over to the table where you’d kept an empty chair beside you, just in case. Coming to a stop behind the seats, you laid a hand on your brother’s shoulder to get his attention, not that it had been anywhere else ever since you’d gone to greet Valarr.

“May I introduce, my elder brother. Lord Lyonel Baratheon.”

Lyonel rose from his seat, a tight-lipped smile on his face as he shot you a gaze that clearly said We will talk about this later.

“An honour to meet you, your highness. My sister has been so kind as to inform me she’s invited you today. I was most delighted.” he lied, for the sake of politeness. Had it been up to him, the dragon prince would not have set foot near this tent.

The rest of that introduction went by rather well, albeit slightly tense.

Valarr eventually took a seat next to you. Neither of you had taken notice of it at first, but as he now had the chance to take a look around the tent, he saw that most eyes were firmly trained on him. You could tell that it clearly made him mildly uncomfortable, to have so any eyes on him in a rather small space.

You sighed in annoyance, standing up once more as the chair scratched over the floor behind you slightly. “Stop gaping, you idiots. It’s almost as if you’ve never seen a prince before.” You exclaimed. “Get back to your plates and drinks. This is a festivity, not an exhibition.”

Your words seemed effective, as all the people in the tent – now quite flustered at having been caught staring so bluntly, averted their eyes. You sat back down, turning to look at Valarr, who’s head was already tilted in your direction. He seemed impressed. “Thank you.” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. You nodded in return, giving him a smile.

The dinner itself went by rather smoothly, nothing out of the extraordinary. And as it always was in the Baratheon tent, after dining came dancing. Your brother, now rather unaffected by the prince’s presence, had left the table already to go and join the dancing crowd.

You’d stayed next to Valarr, who clearly seemed to not quite know what to do with himself. “Dancing not your cup of tea?” you asked him, tilting your head in curiosity.

“Not really.” he shook his head ever so slightly, taking another sip from his cup of wine, which still had contents from when you’d first given it to him earlier in the evening. You hummed in acknowledgement, craning your head to look around you a few times – to make sure no one was watching you.

When you were sure that no watchful eyes were trained on the two of you, you took ahold of his wrist, getting out of your fur-lined chaise. “Come on. I have a better idea.” you nodded your head into a different direction, urging him to get up and follow you. You led him towards the back of the tent, where you pulled a loose flap to the side, ushering him out of the tent while ensuring that no one had noticed.

You slipped out right after him, once more grabbing onto his wrist and quite literally dragging him with you. You walked through the terrain in between the tents, making sure to avoid any of the main paths. “Where are we going?” you heard Valarr ask from behind you. “You will see, my prince.” you shot over your shoulder, making another sharp turn and walking uphill through a thick section of trees, eventually reaching a clearing on top of the small hill.

From here, you could see almost the entirety of Ashford Meadow, the fields now lit up by all the lanterns and the tents which littered the terrain. And especially now, at night, it was an even more beautiful sight. Everything was pitch black except Ashford Meadow, illuminated by the gathering of so many houses. It was so full of life, yet so peaceful from up here, where the music could not be heard.

“Beautiful view, is it not?” you asked, turning to look at Valarr, who was still taking in the sight.

He nodded. “Beautiful indeed.” he pondered for a few moments, before turning his head in your direction. “Why did you bring me here, my lady?” he asked what had been on his mind ever since you all but ushered him out of the Baratheon tent.

You lowered yourself onto the grass, not caring about dirtying up your clothes. “We are alone, I’d prefer for you to simply call me Y/N, my prince.”

He took a seat on the grass next to you, nodding in response to your words. “Well then, Y/N, it is Valarr to you.” he returned the sentiment.

“To answer your question, Valarr, I could tell that you weren’t feeling all too well back in the tent. After you confirmed by suspicion that dancing was not something you enjoyed – an atrocity, by the way – I came to the conclusion that you do not seem to be fond of such festivities in general.” you explained your observations, a teasing glint in your eye as you called his distaste for dancing an atrocity.

“I am not. Not really.” he confirmed your suspicion.

“Then why did you come? I said there was no pressure. And I can assure you I would not have spoken ill of you, had you decided not to attend.” you returned in genuine curiosity.

“I wished to see you.”

Now you were the speechless one.

He cleared his throat, shuffling slightly in his place as if to search for the right words.

“When you walked up to me last night, or well, into me,” he gave you a pointed look, to which you sighed. “You will not let me live this down, will you?”

“Under no circumstances ever. Anyway, you conversed with me more or less as if we were commoners, rather than a lady of Storm’s End and a future king.” he paused. “It was refreshing. And I quite enjoyed your sense of humour. I wished to talk to you again.”

You smiled at him, his words filling you with warmth. Most of your life, you’d only heard that you were too unladly-like, too much, too loud, too bold. The list could go on. It was not becoming of a lady of your status to behave like you did. You never shied away from a fight, discussion or from a good cup of wine – or three. You did not refrain from making your opinion known, no matter what the topic may be. This was something a lot of people in court did not know how to handle. And they did not appreciate it either. An outspoken woman was almost as bad as a lost war to the self-esteem of men. The only one who had never truly judged you was your brother, Lyonel. But he did not care for propriety as such in general. Therefore, hearing Valarr, a man – a highborn at that – tell you that it were exactly those things that drew him to you was a good feeling.

And it seemed that your attitude in his presence made him feel a similar type of way. He was used to always have people bow before him and talk to him with utmost respect. Which would not exactly be a bad thing, would that respect not stem from mostly fear. The Targaryens were a family whose reputation certainly exceeded them. The madness that was said to flow through their veins left many frightened. They were either feared, or hated. Outside of his own family, he had no one that dared to talk eye-to-eye with him, without the constant reminder that he was a prince of the crown looming over his head. So having you, a lady of high becoming, talk with him as though you were friends that had known each other for years, gave him a much needed change from who he needed to be every other day.

“Well, for what it is worth, I am glad you came. I quite liked your company as well.” you replied softly.

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you stared ahead, taking in the life and bustle of the meadow below, the calmness up here a stark yet appreciated contrast. It was then, that a certain moment from last night sprang back into your mind.

“Say, Valarr, yesterday you muttered something. Right after I so ungraciously bumped into you.” you started, turning to look at him once again. “If I heard correctly, it was not the common tongue. What was it that you said?”

He looked confused at first, before you could practically watch the realization wash over his – now flushed – face.

“Oh- uhm… that is of no importance.” he muttered, trying to wave you off. For obvious reasons, this only made you more curious.

You sat up straighter, pointing at him accusingly. “Oh no. Just by walking into you like a blind donkey I’ve given you more than enough material to tease me with for practically all eternity. And you are already using it to your advantage, might I add. I would go as far as to say you owe me this, princeling. I would very much like to know what you said about me, in a foreign language at that.”

Your words may have come across as rude, but the slight grin on your face made it clear that you were not truly offended by him. He still troubled with letting his “prince-persona” fall like an armour removed from his body. But it seemed that your less than courteous and proper attitude wonderfully cracked through his façade.

He swatted at your finger, which was still pointing at him. “Princeling? Now that is bold, coming from – what did you call yourself? A blind donkey?” he retorted, his voice breaking into a laugh towards the end as you stared back at him, stunned.

“And as for what I said; the word was ‘gevie’. It is High Valyrian. The language of my ancestors.”

Your expression turned deadpan, unimpressed. “Well, I could have guessed that.” you replied, exasperated. “But what does that word mean?”

His grin turned smug as he simply shrugged in response. Rolling your eyes, you nudged his shoulder harshly with your hand, though the shove did not do much to move him. It only seemed to amuse him further.

“You are horrible. Truly horrible, do you know that?” you asked him.

“And here I thought you just said you enjoyed my company.” Valarr drawled, giving you a pointed look.

You shrugged. “I take it back, then.”

Now it was his turn to look stunned. “Take it back? You cannot just take it back.”

“Of course I can. I just did.” you scoffed.

You both stared at each other, expressions feigning seriousness, until you both broke into gentle laughter.

When you’d caught your breath, your eyes strayed to Valarr again. “Will you truly not tell me what g- whatever it is that you said means?” you asked, voice softer this time, void of the teasing tone from before.

His eyes turned gentle as he gazed at you with quiet fondness. “It means beautiful.” he gave your long-awaited answer, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes remained trained on his mismatched ones as you were at a loss for words, utterly unsure how to reply to this.

Valarr did not give you the chance.

“I was exhausted from the joust. Therefore when you bumped into me, I was more than ready to curse you out. As you were, from what it seemed.” he paused as his eyes roamed over your face like it had done the day before. “But when I looked at you, everything I initially wished to say was forgotten.”

The tiniest smile twitched into your lips, uncharacteristically shy for you. “So the only thing you managed to say was beautiful?” you asked, barely audible.

A breathless and flustered chuckle escaped him as he nodded. “Yes. And as it seems, I forgot the common tongue altogether, given the word was said in High Valyrian.”

You stayed silent for a few moments, pondering over what to say next. You had never expected that seeking him out yesterday would lead to a conversation such as this. You weren’t in awe because you were currently sitting out on a field with a future king, in the dead of night. Something which would be considered highly inappropriate. You weren’t in awe because the future king of Westeros – a Targaryen prince – had called you beautiful. You were in awe because it was him – Valarr – who had said it, who was sitting here with you. His title did not matter to you in the slightest. You had known that he was arguably the most handsome man you’d ever seen before you even knew who he was. That he was a prince of the crown had changed nothing, better or worse.

“Just so you know,” you broke the silence. “When you first rode onto the lists yesterday, I am pretty sure I forgot how to speak for a few moments as well.”

For a reason you could not quite make out, because look at him, this seemed to surprise him. “You did?”

You chuckled. “Of course. I accompanied by brother to this tourney because I am due to find a suitor. For the past two days, I’ve dealt with nothing but old and arrogant lords who believe themselves to be above everyone else. Lords who boist an brag to show me how great they are so they can achieve the status of marrying a Baratheon. They make me want to retch, quite honestly.” you paused. “But then you came riding into the lists. Quiet, focused. Not looking for attention. I already liked that about you. And I was too busy staring at you like a simpering mutt to take a look at the crest on your armour. Up until I heard someone say your name behind me, I did not even know who you were. But I knew I wanted to talk to you. So I did. Regardless of your name.”

“I do not think anyone has ever truly seen past my family name and what it means. I cannot express how glad I am that you did.” Valarr responded, his hand inching closer to where yours laid on the ground to steady yourself, until his pinky brushed against yours.

As your conversation faded into silence, you tilted your head back to look up at the sky, void of clouds and littered with stars.

“You know,” you began. “As a child, I used to spend every night staring up past my assigned bed time, staring out at the stars from my window.”

“As did I.” Valarr responded, following your gaze into the sky. “There is something soothing about it. I think as I got older, I lost touch with the calm that it brought me.”

“Do you know a lot about stars, Valarr?” you asked him.

“No.” he shook his head. “I would have loved to know more, but all the time I really had was spent reading about my family’s legacy and what would await me once I ascended the throne.”

You hummed in response, letting him know you’d heard him.

Then you went ahead and spent what was probably the better part of the next few hours explaining everything you had read about stars during your childhood to him. You pointed out several constellations you remembered from the endless pages of parchment, telling him what each of them represented and meant.

While others may have grown bored of it after a while, Valarr hung onto your every word, interrupting you with questions whenever there was something he did not quite understand or that he wished to know more about. And whenever your voice faded into silence, unsure whether he still wanted to hear more, he’d mutter a soft. “Tell me more… please.”

It was in the very early hours of the morning, when the stars you’d talked so much about slowly started to disappear, that the two of your realised you’d been out here the entire night.

“We should head back, most likely.” Valarr spoke up, yawning slightly as he stood back up. You’d been awake the whole night, after all.

You heaved yourself up as well, gladly using his extended hand as aid to get on your feet. “We should.” you agreed, yet neither of you moved, your hand still in his.

“Yeah.” the word came out as nothing more than a faint breath as his eyes flickered between your own and your lips, before ultimately settling on the latter. You returned the sentiment, a ragged breath slipping past your parted lips.

You glanced up at his eyes once more, seeing them still firmly trained on your mouth. With another shaky breath you raised your free hand to rest on the side of his neck, fingers curling around the back, before you leaned up and connected your lips to his.

It was almost uncertain at first, until he relaxed against you, his lips beginning to move against yours. The hand that engulfed yours let go, instead coming to rest on the side of your face as he pulled you closer against him, his lips never once leaving yours. Your arms ultimately wound themselves around his neck, leaving no space between the two of you.

After what felt like an eternity and yet not nearly long enough, you parted for air. When Valarr had somewhat caught his breath, he breathed against your lips: “This is highly inappropriate.”

You chuckled, a breathless sound. “Do you regret it?”

“No.” his response came instantly as he kissed you once more, this one shorter and more timid.

“Good.” you muttered into the kiss before returning it.

The two of you had ultimately, albeit unwillingly, parted ways with a solemn Until we meet again. Unfortunately, you hadn’t had another chance to have even one moment with him for the rest of the tourney, much to your dismay.

Now, a moon later, you were sat in the dining hall of Storm’s End – enjoying your breakfast – as your brother came literally storming in with a roll of parchment in his hand.

“Sist- Ah, there you are.” he had already started shouting in his typical demeanour before catching sight of you. “A raven has just arrived.”

You swallowed a bite of your food, raising an eyebrow. “And?”

“It is a marriage proposal.”

You groaned, falling back into your seat. “This is what? The third one this week? Why are you even still informing me about these? They’ve all been horrendous, thus far.”

A smug grin etched onto Lyonel’s face as he pointed the roll of parchment at you. “Ah, ah. I think you will quite like this one, sister. This one is from King’s Landing. Prince Valarr Targaryen asks for your hand.”

You choked on the sip of your drink you were taking, breaking into a coughing fit as your brother approached and clapped you on the back a few times. “Aye, maybe I should have waited for you to swallow.”

“You think?” you croaked out, slowly gaining back your ability to breathe.

“And this is not a joke?” you asked, a hopeful glint in your eyes.

Lyonel placed the opened roll of parchment in front of you on the table. “There, read it yourself.”

You did, and oh.

Oh.

He certainly was not lying.

You cleared your throat, containing yourself. “I assume we will not deny such an offer?” you asked.

Lyonel only gave you a pointed look in response. “Do not take me for a fool, Y/N. You think I did not notice you sneaking out of the tent with the prince hot on your heels back in Ashford? And do not even get me started on that lovesick expression on your face once you returned – in the early morning, might I add.”

“I-“ you were just about to protest, but only sighed. “Alright, alright. I want to accept this proposal. Is that what you wish to hear?”

“Yes, thank you.” Lyonel replied, with a look that said Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?

He then sighed, loud and clearly overexaggerated as he leaned back into the backrest of the chair next to you.

“Unbelievable. My sister, a future queen of the seven kingdoms. Who would have thought? When even Lord Hightower did not want to take you as bride.”

You smacked the side of his arm in response to which he only laughed heartily.

“I am happy for you, for what it’s worth. I may not like the dragon-fellows, but from what I’ve heard, Valarr is a good man. And you seem to fancy him.” You gave him a small smile. “That I do.”

song: mad about you - toto

(this is one of my fav songs of all time and somehow using it for valarr felt right)

The roars of The Blood Wyrm could be heard deep inside the Red Keep as you walked down the corridors, right into the direction of the dragon pit. The pitch black riding leathers sat tight and comfortable against your skin, the deep red cloak covering your back a striking contrast. A picture perfect of a Targaryen. Except the lack of silver hair. Instead, strands of dark brown cascaded down your neck. Just like your father’s. Just like your siblings’.

The people of Westeros – of King’s Landing – did not view you any lesser, despite the optical difference. You were a legitimate Targaryen, just as your uncle and his children. And yet, your own cousin only regarded you and your brothers with disdain. Disgust, even. From a young age, Aerion had made it quite apparent that to him, you and your brothers, Valarr and Matarys, were a shame to the Targaryen name. Disgraces and abominations were only a few of the words he used. He insisted that none of you should possess the honour of being dragon riders. Or ascend the Iron Throne, once your father, Baelor, passed.

Yet, here you were. With Valarr as the official heir to the Iron Throne, to becoming the king of Westeros. And you climbing into Cannibal’s saddle, about to chase your aforementioned cousin through the skies above King’s Landing to make him return to the Red Keep for an important dinner. Much to his dismay.

Despite the very apparent hatred between you and Aerion, your fathers somehow believed it to be a good idea to send you after your cousin when he got too wild, scaring the smallfolk once again when he flew too low over the city with his beast. Cannibal was big and fast enough to not instantly make Aerion’s dragon believe he could challenge you to a fight. Caraxes and Cannibal respected each other, which was a sentiment that could not be said about you and Aerion.

Flying out of the dragon pit, you made way for the distant silhouette of The Blood Wyrm, pulling on your dragon’s reins to lead him into the right direction. As soon as Aerion spotted you in the distance, he too pulled on Caraxes’ reins, leading him away from you at lightning speed.

The long and snake-like body of Caraxes made him a good portion faster than Cannibal, which meant he was easily able to put a decent amount of distance between the two of you. As much as you would’ve preferred to turn around and let Aerion ride off into the sunset, as far away as possible, you urged Cannibal to speed up and follow.

Eventually, Aerion landed Caraxes on an island not too far from the shore of King’s Landing, about halfway to Dragonstone. It did not take you long to catch up, landing Cannibal a few metres away before sliding off the saddle.

You sighed in frustration as you strode into the direction of Aerion. Just as you were about to reach him, a giant scaled head covered your sight of him and two yellow eyes stared right into your soul. You halted in your steps, knowing better than to antagonize a dragon. Especially one with a fiery spirit such as his.

“Aerion.” you called out instead, your voice sharp.

“Father demands your presence tonight, for dinner. He says it’s most important that you attend.”

“And as usual, he sent you to fetch me, cousin.” his voice, so full of confidence and spite, reached your ears as he stepped around Caraxes’ head, running his hand along the deep red scales in the process.

“Pray tell, what could be so important that my presence is needed? Isn’t it much more essential for the heirs of the Iron Throne to attend such dinners?”

His tone dripped in disdain, in anger. In envy.

“Is this what this is about?” you asked, incredulous. “In case you haven’t noticed, cousin, it is not my fault that you are the son of a fourth son. It is not my fault that my father married a Dondarrion, rather than a fellow Targaryen. And that he is the descendant of dornish blood.”

Aerion opens his mouth, fury flaring in his eyes. But you cut him off.

“I am not here to listen or feed into your insecurities about your bloodline. Or about your hereditary rights, whatever you wish to call it. Father sent me to fetch you for tonight’s dinner. And that is what I intend to do. Nothing less and nothing more.” you state. “So get on your damned dragon and make way back to the Keep. Now.”

It seemed that your choice of words and tone only aggravated him further. He practically stormed up to you, stopping only inches away as the violet of his eyes bore into the blue of yours. The same sacred family name, yet so different all the same.

“You dare command me? I am the blood of the dragon. You are nothing more than a disgrace. The fact that this beast bows to you is a mystery to me.”

Any other person might have gotten defensive. Or offended. You, however, barely acknowledged his tantrums of insolence anymore. He sounded more like a child to you, than the dragon lord he made himself out to be.

“You and your bastards of brothers think so highly of yourselves. Even the thought that one of you is to ascend the Iron Throne one day should be considered an atrocity.”

He continued, droning on and on about how he was more deserving of the throne than any of you. How the dragon’s blood ran through his veins and that this was his destiny.

At one point, you cut into his ramble. “And yet, a dragon who has been wild and untameable for centuries chose me as its first rider. Yet, my brothers are dragon riders as well. Yet, the one who will ascend throne is my brother, Valarr. Not you. And what is it you always say? The dragon is never wrong?” you practically taunted him, the smallest hint of a smug smile on your face as your words stunned him into silence. “If the dragon is never wrong, isn’t it treason of you to question his choice?”

A burning and raging hate flowed through his veins. He hated you more than anything else. At least, that’s what he told himself. What he forced himself to believe. But the small voice in the back of his head, the small voice that whispered to him that you were a truer dragon than any other he’d ever seen, it continued to grow louder and louder. No matter how much he attempted to silence it.

Your physical appearance gave him the perfect excuse to call you a disgrace to the Targaryen name. To the dragon’s legacy. But as much as he detested it, he had to admit that the fire within you burned brighter than that of many of your ancestors. Ones like him – with silver hair and lilac eyes. The ones that possessed the hereditary Targaryen beauty. That beauty that did not get passed down onto you.

And yet, he found himself almost bewitched as he stared at you in disbelief. You didn’t portray the beauty of Targaryens on the outside. You carried it within you. And right in this moment, it showed more than the mere colours of hair and eyes ever could. You may have looked harmless, but the fire you spit was far more dangerous than that of many.

He took one more step towards you, the distance between the two of you shrinking to almost non-existent. You stared at him as his eyes – almost in a daze – roamed over you like he’d just discovered a rare treasure. The previous disgust had disappeared, replaced by something you couldn’t quite name. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

“Aerion?” you called out carefully. He’d never looked at you like that. With this intensity that for once didn’t hold nothing but resentment. His eyes met yours once more. One of his hands came up, hovering by the side of your face. So close, yet not touching you.

You took a step back, your expression filled with confusion. “What has gotten into you?”

Your words seemed to snap him out of his daze as his hand dropped back to his side, the look in his eyes hardening back to how it was before. Like a switch. He sneered at you a final time before turning on his heel, going to climb onto Caraxes’ back and taking off into the skies, leaving nothing but dust and your stunned confusion behind.

The following days, Aerion avoided you like the plague. Whenever you entered a room, it seemed he made it his mission to exit as fast as possible. His taunting words towards Valarr and Matarys went on as usual, as if nothing had happened. Yet you remained free of his torments. And of his presence in general.

Under any other circumstances, you would have welcomed the change. Revelled in it even. But the way he had looked at you back on that island had burned itself into your head. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was. But to you, it seemed dangerously close to admiration. Obsession. Which, given Aerion’s usual disposition in your presence, was insane to even think about.

And the worst thing? A small part of you enjoyed it. Feeling the violet of his eyes gaze upon you with something akin to fondness, no matter how wrong and twisted.

Something changed. And you weren’t sure what to think of it.

Now, whenever the two of you were forced to be in the same room simultaneously, with no chance of escape, you could feel his stare practically burning into your skull. In the rare case that your eyes met his, he looked like he was at constant war with himself, trying to calm a turmoil of thoughts and emotions he didn’t know how to control.

He continued to keep his distance, yet his presence started to feel more and more suffocating as time went on. At first, his absence had been a breath of fresh air. Much welcomed, at that. But ultimately, he started lingering in the shadows, rather than simply staying away. You had felt free. Away from his judgmental stare and the horrid words. Now, you felt watched at all times. Even in your chambers, when you were completely and utterly alone, it was like you could feel his stare in the back of your head. As if he was hidden away in the shadows, just watching. Observing.

After several weeks of this silent torture, you’d had enough. So you confronted him.  

You were in the dragon pit one afternoon, having just returned from a ride on Cannibal. Once again, Aerion lingered in the shadows. He was stood beside Caraxes, his fingers tracing the dragon’s scales. But his eyes, they were firmly locked onto you from the moment you came into view.  

With hurried movements, you approached him, halting a few steps away.

“What in the seven hells is wrong with you?” you demanded, practically staring him down.

By the way his lips twitched into his signature smirk, you could tell he was putting on a façade, not letting his expression betray his true emotions.

“Whatever do you mean, cousin? Can I not simply admire the sight of a true Targaryen in the presence of its dragon?” he taunted in return, his voice dripping in irony and sarcasm. The usual disdain falling from his tongue like it always did.

“Cut the act, Aerion. You’ve been avoiding me like a frightened cat, fleeing the room whenever I enter. Or hiding in the shadows like a coward.” you retort, already fed up with his act. “You keep on terrorising Valarr and Matarys, yet I remain spared of your tyranny. You talk to me now as you always have, but the past weeks you’ve stared at me like I’m some kind of revelation and catastrophe all at the same time.”

While you talked, his expression slowly darkened, the smug grin disappearing as the air around you turned colder.

“You do not really think you could just start acting like this out of nowhere and expect me not to notice?” you add in question.

“Should you not be glad, cousin? That I’ve refrained from tormenting you? I imagined you would appreciate it.”

His voice still held nothing but sarcasm. And it angered you to no end. He was not taking this seriously at all.

“Trust me, Aerion. I am not upset about not having you breathing down my neck at all times, constantly reminding me how much of a disappointment I am to the legacy of this family, just because of my appearance and your childish jealousy. And you can keep on staying away, gladly, actually. But I want to know what possessed you to constantly follow and linger like you’re my shadow instead.”

“Childish jealousy?” he echoed, the irritation clear as day on his face.

“It is not childish jealousy, cousin. Your brother should not ascend the throne. Simple as that.”

“Yet he will. One day. And you will not. A lot of men have suffered the same fate. And none have dealt with it with an insolence such as yours. Do you truly think that your status as a Targaryen depends on of you will rule the seven kingdoms or not?”

“It is outrageous. That the descendant of Martells’ and Dondarrions’, where the blood of the dragon remains nothing more than a watered-down remnant of generations of glory, is to sit on that throne. Rather than a Targaryen whose bloodline is much purer – much cleaner. Worthy of what sitting on that throne entails.”

There were only inches between the two of you now, the tension so thick it could be cut.

“And you think you know what it entails? You only see power, Aerion. You only see the status and the prestige that sitting on that damned chair will bring you. I can tell you one thing with certainty; the realm would do nothing but suffer at your hands, would such power be handed over to you. Your worth is not be measured by the purity of your blood – or the silver of your hair. Because you may possess these things over my brother. But he would be a much more respectable king than you could even fathom to be.”

You stared into his eyes with an intensity that even he had never seen. The fire burned bright behind your eyes as you practically rained hell upon him, making it apparent once more just what you thought of him.

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as that glint – the same one he’d had back on that island – returned to his eyes. He took one step closer, his chest practically pressed against yours. Out of spite, refusing to back down, you stayed rooted in your spot, the almost non-existent distance between the two of you suffocating.

Just like back then, his hand came up. But this time, skin touched skin as his finger brushed through a lock of your brown hair, his eyes following the movement before they landed on yours once more. The anger had faded from them, replaced by something else entirely.

Your reason for not moving changed from spite to shock faster than you could blink as you felt the brush of his hand against your skin. You could only stare at him with slightly widened eyes.

He let go of the strand of hair he’d gently twirled in between his fingers, his hand moving to rest on the side of your face instead. The touch was light, barely there. But it felt like his palm was practically burning into your skin.

Before you could think any further, he’d already leaned down, closing the distance between the two of you. His lips connected to yours with fervour you’d never experienced before. His other hand was quick to come and cup the other side of your face, keeping you locked in place as his hold on you tightened.

As it dawned on you what exactly was happening, your hands shot to his chest, shoving at it to get him off you. When that didn’t work, you moved your lips just enough against his to bite down, drawing blood instantly. That, paired with another shove, led him to stagger back, staring at you with lidded eyes.

His tongue darted out to lick at his lips, getting rid of the small amount of blood your teeth had drawn. All the while, his eyes never once left yours as you took several steps back, staring at him in shock.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you exclaimed, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand, as if it could erase the feeling of his lips on yours. It couldn’t.

“I needed to know what a true dragon tasted like.” Aerion drawled, his voice low and intense.

“What?” was all you managed to reply, this whole situation feeling like a fever dream to you.

“Your brothers are an embarrassment to our family. They are no dragons. Not truly. But you, cousin, your fire flares hotter and brighter than many could even dream of. I did not want to see it. But in this moment, it is right in front of me. The soul of the dragon may have abandoned your brothers, but it certainly lives in you. And oh, how bright it burns. It thrives.”

He sounded completely entranced. Obsessed, even, as he stared at you in awe. Or at least something close to it.

You couldn’t believe him. For years and years, ever since you were nothing but a mere child, he’d done nothing but torment you. Terrorise you and remind you that you were nothing. That you weren’t worthy of the title you wore.

And now? Now he gazed upon you with fascination, as if you were The Black Dread reincarnated. Telling you that you were a true dragon.

The worst thing, however, wasn’t the way he was treating you right now. That drastic contrast from how he’d acted towards you in the past. It was that the lingering tingle on your lips did not nearly disgust you as much as it should have. It was that his violet eyes, so full of awe and fascination, did not feel off-putting or disturbing.

Rather, it sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, like liquid flame wrapping itself around your bones and igniting you from the inside out.

And you liked it.

God, how you abhorred Capitol parties.

On one side, it felt like you’d already attended a thousand or more of these gatherings. On the other hand, it sometimes felt like one big party without a break. Because honestly? Each and every single last one of these idiotic festivities was the same as the others. Stupidly large amounts of sizzling food and especially alcohol, consumed by the oh so great and elegant people of the Capitol. Mindless chatter about the newest fashion trends, everyone thinking their extraordinary dress was the most eye-catching. Absolutely unnecessary discussions, in your opinion. They were all hideous anyway. And of course, the gawking at the most recent victor of the Hunger Games.

You wanted to drive a spear through all of their obnoxiously decorated heads.

Obviously, at a classic Capitol party, a handful of victors couldn’t be missing. The Capitol favourites. The ones that those pigs in their bright suits and dresses loved to drool over, about how strong and intimidating they were, staring at them and touching them like they were caged animals in a petting zoo.

And this year, you had the honour of being the special guest at every party. You were the main event, the newest and most exciting addition to the zoo  At least until a new victor would take your place in a year, only lessening your suffering in the slightest. The people you had met before your games – the one’s who had told you that winning the games was a curse rather than a blessing – they had been right. Oh, how right they had been. That exact thought ran through your head as you walked towards the double-doors that would lead you to yet another horrible evening of feeling like an exposed object, exhibited for everyone to observe and touch. Because in their minds, that’s exactly what you were. Through their eyes, they didn’t see a person – a human being – when they looked at you. No, they gazed upon you as if you were a precious diamond necklace or a golden ring, something they could possess. Something they could own.

Your arm was linked with your mentor’s, bare skin brushing against the soft fabric of his suit-jacket. The dark grey dress your stylist had forced you to wear was tight, scratchy and rubbing the skin beneath it raw. And they said everything in the Capitol was supposed to be comfortable and luxurious. As if. You would’ve scoffed at the thought, if you’d had the energy. The countless pins holding your hair together in a ridiculous updo stung and pulled at your scalp, making you want to rip your entire hair out in one go. And those damn shoes – the height of the heels bordering on stilts, if anyone were to ask you – it would prove to be a miracle if you’d able to walk in them without the support of the arm currently linked with yours. But the worst part had to be the corset, the fabric adorned with an incredible amount of cheesy embroidery that was supposed to represent your district. Your stylist had decided to bind the thing so tight, that after spending less than fifteen minutes in it, you already felt nauseous. It was putting entirely too much pressure on both your stomach and your lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

They way your breathing grew shallow, your lungs trying to preserve as much air as possible, did not go unnoticed by the taller figure next to you. Just before you both reached the double-doors, separating you from the misery looming behind them, he stopped. He untangled his arm from yours, turning you to face him with a gentle yet firm grip on your upper arms, just below your shoulders. You were so focused on trying to breathe normally and calm your racing heart that you barely noticed how his pale blue eyes roamed over your face and body, observing every inch as if it would grant him with all the answers to the reason of your distress.

When he felt your breathing become more erratic, your chest rising and falling in short and fast intervals, his eyes snapped back up to your face. He took in the distant look in your eyes, the way your stare seemed to go straight through him, as if your pupils were clouded over by a thick fog. When he realized you weren’t going to snap out of whatever prison your mind had locked you in anytime soon, he let one of his hands wander from your bicep to the side your neck, gently resting it there as his thumb softly ran over your jawline to try and ease you back to reality.

“Y/N…” he paused. “Hey, look at me.” You didn’t budge, so he tried again, his grip on you tightening, trying to ground you. “Sweetheart, look at me.” He tried again, voice soft, deep and laced with a slightly pleading tone.

Your eyes seemed to flicker as you registered his voice, lashes fluttering rapidly before your gaze finally settled on him, eyes meeting his. He let a small breath of relief leave his chest, one corner of his mouth twitching up the slightest bit. “There she is.” He whispered, more to himself than you. One of your hands – which was previously hanging limp by your side – came up, your fingers curling around the wrist of the hand that still rested on the side of your neck. “The corset.” You muttered, voice coming out raspy and quiet due to the lack of oxygen in your system.

“It’s too tight, Haymitch.”

His eyes dropped to your midsection, only now seeing how impossibly tight the corset wrapped around your upper body, cutting off your airflow. His hands detached themselves from your neck and arm, falling to your waist instead, slowly turning you around so your back faced him. He took a hold of the laces tying your corset together, beginning to untangle the bow. While his fingers worked on the strings, his voice met your ears once more. “I’ll loosen it up, okay? Just hold still for me, sweetheart.” He said in a low tone. You only gave him a nod as a response, a small shiver running down your spine from feelings his knuckles graze your lower back and his breath hitting the back of your neck.

After a few moments, he had untied the bow at the lower end of the corset. Haymitch then began to pull at the laces, loosening each of them as he worked his way up until he stopped at the top end of it, just between your shoulder blades. “Better?” he questioned as he leaned down so his face hovered slightly beside yours, searching for any sign of discomfort in your facial expressions. Your eyes flickered to the side, just able to see him in your peripheral vision. You nodded once.

Haymitch then proceeded to tie the loose laces of the corset back up, securing it in place, this time leaving enough space for you to breathe. He tapped the side of your hip once when he was finished and you turned around to face him again. “Thank you.”

The silence that followed lingered between the two of you. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, actually. Just two broken souls finding a moment solace in each other before the inevitable downfall that was to come when they stepped through the grand double-doors to their side. You kept your eyes locked onto each other’s, taking each other in.

Ever since you had been reaped and he assigned as your mentor for the games, there was an unspoken and unaddressed connection between you and Haymitch. A tension that slowly grew stronger as time progressed. But it wasn’t the electrifying and wanting feeling that you had read about in a novel once or twice before. It felt calmer, deeper and stronger. More like a warm blanket that wrapped itself around you, sheltering you from the cold und the numbness that threatened to seep into your bones.

You had first met Haymitch on the train to the Capitol. You had reluctantly stepped into the wagon just behind Jason, your district partner – flanked by a handful of peacekeepers. It was then your eyes landed on his rather lanky but lean form, slumped one of the velvet cushioned seats, a half-empty glass of some alcoholic beverage dangling from his fingers. Effie Trinket – the escort for district 12 – had pointed to him with one of her hands, long nails painted a bright pink and sparkling.

Effie had let out a high-pitched yet sorrowful sigh as she gestured to Haymitch in the chair, the corners of her lipstick-stained lips downturned just the slightest. “This is Haymitch Abernathy. He will be your mentor for the games. He will give you advice on how to survive in the arena and how to get sponsors.” She had started explaining in her high voice as she waltzed over to him, her heels clicking on the floor of the moving train. When she reached him, she wrapped her long fingers around the glass that was still tightly clutched in his grip, taking it and setting it on the table before him. This seemed to rouse him as he lifted his head, blinking heavily.

“Your tributes, Haymitch. Don’t let them down.” Effie had murmured to him, squeezing his shoulder before straightening her back again and making her way to the exit of the wagon that led to the next. She turned back to face you and Jason, giving you a smile.

“May the odds ever be in your favour.”

Then she left, leaving you two alone with Haymitch.

Jason had been furious at first, already angrily muttering about how you both were going to die within the first hour if this was how Haymitch was going to act. All the while, the latter had been shaking his head back and forth, trying to gain back full consciousness, blond curls falling over his face. You had to admit, you were worried first as well. But somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to be angry at him for hanging onto the bottle of whiskey like it was his lifeline. You had seen his games. Snippets of it, anyway. Had seen how Maysilee, Wyatt and Lou Lou had died. And others he had seemed to be close to. You also hadn’t been oblivious to the fire that had burned down his house, his family with it. No doubt a warning from president Snow himself.

He had helped you and Jason as much as he could. Told you all the ways you could woo the Capitol and the gamemakers to be in your favour. All things he didn’t do back then, earning him a total of one point in his individual assessment with the gamemakers. He never made any of you two any hopes. Said that the chances of your survival could be sky-high and lower than the earth all the same.

You had been lucky enough to earn an eight in your assessment, impressing them just enough with your skills with an axe. When they started to drift off, their attention wandering, you had smashed the axe right into one of the metal tables displaying various knives. The sound of the impact had echoed throughout the whole room and their eyes had snapped straight back to you. You had let the axe stuck in the table and bowed your head once before wordlessly leaving the room.

All of those memories that ran through your head all day long – paired with the horrors of the arena – seemed to wash away when Haymitch looked at you like he did now. With a soft and gentle understanding. With this intensity that suffocated you in the best way possible. At this point, he was the only one that treated you like a human being. And you ate it up like you were starved, which honestly, you were.

After what could’ve been mere seconds, minutes or even hours, Haymitch let out a small breath. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? The president wouldn’t appreciate us being too late.” His tone clearly expressed that he couldn’t care less about being late. Or about displeasing the president. But unfortunately, it would only lead to punishments neither of you would be pleased about. So wordlessly, you linked your arm back with his and with that, you made your way through the double-doors.

The sight you were met with wasn’t anything you weren’t used to by now, but it overwhelmed you each time nonetheless. The countless colours were entirely too bright the endless smells of various foods and drinks paired with too many strongly-scented perfumes making your nose itch and your head ache. And of course, the eyes that immediately landed on you as soon as the doors opened. The stares were something you were never going to get used to. You wished the carpeted floor beneath your feet would swallow you whole and never spit you out again. Almost anything was better than having their greedy and wanting eyes on you.

Haymitch led you over to one of the long tables that served drinks, knowing you could need one as well. The short journey to that table took way longer than necessary, having to stop every few steps to smile brightly at yet another Capitol inhabitant and tell them how honoured you were to be here. How grateful you were to have returned victorious from the games, as if you wouldn’t have rather died a gruesome death by some mutts than stand here and let them run their hands over your arms as they told you how absolutely marvellous you were.

When you finally stopped in front of the mahogany table, covered in a pristine white clothe, Haymitch grabbed one of the many glasses and took a big swig. In the process, he reached over and handed you one of the glasses as well. Just like him, you let the alcoholic – yet still way too sweet – beverage run down your throat, the burning sensation feeling oddly pleasant in this situation.

Before you knew it, you were being whisked away by various journalists, aspiring stylists and other political figures in the Capitol. They treated you like a sensation, a spectacle they could feed off of.

The journalists asked you about the most horrific happenings in the arena. The one’s still stuck in your head. The one’s you still saw each time you closed your eyes. Like seeing your district partner, Jason, get killed during the bloodbath after barely making it out yourself.

As soon as the gong sounded to announce the beginning of the games, everyone bolted. Straight for the Cornucopia. You remembered Haymitch telling both you and Jason it was basically suicide. That a lot of tributes never made it out of the bloodbath that occurred at each start of the games.

So, you didn’t. You sprinted forward with the intent on grabbing one of the backpacks strewn a bit farther around the Cornucopia before running to the forest on your left side. That plan was interrupted, however, when you barely managed to dodge the blade of a sword that was swung at you, sending you stumbling and landing on the damp and muddy ground with a thud.

You rolled to the side just in time as the same sword came down upon you once more, lodging itself in the ground where you had been mere seconds ago. You were breathing heavily, the adrenaline pumping through your veins like electricity through a wire. While the tribute that had attacked you – the girl from 5 – was occupied with pulling her sword out of the ground, you were trying to pull yourself to your feet again. That was when a hand appeared in front of your eyes, outstretched in a silent offer to help. You had looked up and sighed in relief when you saw Jason, a backpack slung over his shoulder and already covered in grime. You placed your hand in his, letting him pull you up into a standing position.

You were just about to thank him as you heard a wet sound that sounded scarily like something sharp lodging itself into flesh. You stared at Jason in shock, seeing how the life slipped from his body in seconds. He dropped to the ground in a heap, dead. Behind him stood the girl from 5, bloody sword clutched tightly in her hand. It seemed she had also just realized what she’d done, staring at the glistening red liquid on her blade in horror.

Her stunned form gave you enough time to escape. You ran away from them as fast as you could, ignoring the screams of the other tributes around you. When you caught sight of another backpack that hadn’t been claimed yet, you bent down just enough to lift it up mid-run, swinging it over one of your shoulders and taking off towards the forest.

The sight of the light leaving his eyes would forever haunt you. You saw it every night in your nightmares, the ones in which he reminded you that it was your fault. That you should’ve seen the girl approaching him before she could stab him.

They also loved to ask you about your first kill. The very same girl from 5 that had murdered Jason.

You had stumbled upon her by pure coincidence. You were crouching by the river bank that ran through the arena, letting the water run over your hands and dragging them over your face, trying to calm your racing thoughts and heart. It had been almost seven days in the arena. 7 fucking days in this hell.

16 tributes had already fallen, leaving 8 remaining. It would only be a matter of time now until that number would drop and drop until only the victor would be left. And you were still convinced it wouldn’t be you. You closed your eyes, taking in a deep yet shaky breath, willing to calm yourself down. Your thoughts strayed to Haymitch then. How he had tightly gripped your shoulders, staring deep into your eyes as he told you to fight. To fight and survive for your family, for yourself. And for him.

That’s when you heard the scrunch of boots meeting gravel, coming closer and closer. You had whipped around, on your feet in seconds and knife clutched tightly in your hands, prepared to strike if you had to. Though you didn’t know if you could bring yourself to. You hadn’t killed anyone yet – and you weren’t sure if you’d be able to.

Your eyes met those of the district 5 girl, Ronya, if you remembered her name correctly. Her eyes widened upon seeing you, remembering you from the bloodbath. Remembering that she had been the one to murder your district partner in cold blood. For what seemed like an eternity, you two simply stared at each other. Then, she bolted. But not to attack you like you’d expected. She ran away from you, as if you’d kill her if she didn’t – as revenge for Jason.

You could’ve let her run. You could have just continued on without getting blood on your hands. But this time, you didn't. Without thinking, you took off after her, sprinting as if your life depended on it. Or well, hers.

It didn’t take you long to catch up with her, grabbing the back of her jacket and pulling her back. It sent her tumbling to the ground immediately. You went right after her, setting your body atop hers, digging your knees into the forest-ground on each side of her body. You were just about to move your knife to her throat when you felt pain explode in your thigh, spreading through your whole body. You looked down and saw a small dagger buried deep into the side of your upper leg, Ronya’s hands still holding onto the handle.

She took advantage of your frozen state, rolling you both over so she was hovering above you now. She ripped the knife out of your leg, a pained cry leaving you. She knocked your blade out of your hands, going to plunge hers into your chest. Your hands flew up to stop her, gripping her wrists and strenuously holding the knife at a safe distance from your body. You were both trembling, scared and desperate to survive. Using all of the strength you had left, you managed to push her off, her body slumping to the floor next to you.

Your hands blindly scrambled for your knife as you kept your eyes on her quickly recovering body. As you fingertips touched it, you leaned a bit farther, taking a hold of the blade and turning back to Ronya. She was almost back on her feet now. Before you could think about what you were doing, you lunged over and stuck the blade into her calf.

She cried out, stumbling and tumbling down once more. This time you didn’t let her overpower you. You pulled the knife out of her leg and pinned her to the floor again, like you had done when you first caught up with her. She started crying then, tears streaming down her face and leaving traces in the dirt that covered her face. She cried and begged, pleading with you not to do it. That she was sorry for what she did to Jason. After all, she wanted to survive just as badly as everyone else in here did.

You stared down at her with wide eyes, hands trembling around the tight grip you had on your knife, raised just above her chest. But in that moment, you only saw Jason’s dead body dropping to the floor and the girl now beneath you standing behind him, her sword soaked in his blood. And so you ignored her begging, bringing the knife down. Over and over again.

By the end you were sobbing as well, flinching when the cannon echoed through the arena, sealing her fate.

It had taken everything in you not to break down in sobs and cries during your victory tour in district 5. Seeing the girl’s family standing on one of the pedestals, looking at you with nothing but hatred and grief.

And oh, how those journalists thrived off the last hour of the games. Their questions were endless. How you felt, what it was like – wanting you to repeat what happened, as if they couldn’t watch it on recording.

Only three tributes left after eleven days. You, the boy from 1 and the girl from 4. So it came down to you, a lowlife tribute from district 12, against two careers. You reluctantly approached the Cornucopia, blood dripping down your arm where the mutt that had chased you here left its mark. Your thigh was still throbbing from the stab wound you’d gotten four days ago from the district 5 girl – though the bandages you’d gotten that night as a sponsor gift had helped immensely. With the bandages, there had come a small note. It would’ve been a lie if you said that damned note wasn’t the reason you were here now, not having let the mutt take you.

“Survive for me, sweetheart. – H”

The small slip of paper was still in the inner pocket of your jacket. Maybe it was pathetic, but it had kept you going for the past four days. After killing Ronya, you’d been just about ready to let hunger and thirst take you, ending it once and for all. But that note. That fucking note. Silent sobs had started escaping you when you read it, clutching it tightly in your fingers.

And now here you were, trudging the rest of the distance between you and the Cornucopia. You knew what the Capitol wanted now. They wanted the final fight. The final battle of a district 12 tribute against two careers, one from district 1 and one from 4. The axe you had found laying next to the dead body of the boy from 3 dangling from one of your hands.

The two careers had apparently seen you approach as they left the Cornucopia, heads held high and staring straight at you. Cora, the girl from district 2, with her trident thrown over her shoulder, regarding you with a murderous glint in her eye. And Locke, the boy from district 1, his sword clutched in his hands, grinning at you like a predator flashing its teeth at his prey.

They came running at you – both at the same time. Weapons raised, they sprinted straight towards you. Thankfully, Cora was a bit faster than Locke, leaving you with enough time to dodge both attacks. You sidestepped just in time, causing Cora to bury the tips of her trident in the ground. Right after, you raised your axe, blocking Locke’s sword from finding its target – you.

You stepped around them, rushing for the Cornucopia. You knew you had to get some kind of leverage, some kind of higher ground. Otherwise you had no chance in surviving this. They had trained their whole life just for this. You were basically thrown in at the deep end without knowing how to swim.

You scrambled, pulling yourself on top of the Cornucopia. Climbing was thankfully one of your strengths, having had enough practice climbing trees back in 12. You raised your axe, ready to attack should one of them make it up. They reached the bottom of the Cornucopia just seconds after you made it to the top. Locke immediately crouched and locked his hands together, helping Cora by launching her up onto the surface.

A mistake. While she was trying to regain balance and stand up straight on her feet, you attacked. Your axe wedged itself deep in her shoulder. Cora had stared at you with wide eyes, not expecting your sudden attack. You pulled the axe out and without further delay, let it lodge itself in her neck, separating her head from the rest of her body seamlessly.

You didn’t even look at her dead body. The adrenaline running through your veins was too strong, the will to survive overtaking your senses. Jumping down from the Cornucopia, you barely registered the pain the impact of your feet meeting the ground sent through your legs. You swung at Locke without hesitation, the blade of your axe stuck in his side. He let out a pained grunt, but he didn’t give up yet. His sword cut a clean gash across your hip, leading you to stumble the slightest bit.

You pulled the axe from his side and before he could think, you struck again, this time sinking the sharp edge of the axe straight into his chest. Like you did with Jason, you watched as the life drained out of Locke’s body before it crumpled to the ground like a sack filled with stones. Two more cannons fired. One for Cora, one for Locke.

And with that, you’d won the 55th hunger games. Standing in the middle of the arena, axe still clutched in your hands, entire body covered in blood, grime and dirt.

They loved to hear the story of how you killed the two careers. It was a miracle to them. A tribute from district 12 killing two careers. It seemed almost impossible to them. And yet, here you were.

By now, you were used to all of these questions however, to their greedy and insensitive curiosity. Their desire for anything slightly exciting. You answered them just like you always did. With a smile playing at your lips, always putting emphasis on how glad you were that you were the victor. That you were honoured and thriving in this role when in reality, you wanted to curl up into a ball on the floor and cry until there were no more tears left in your body. But you handled it, swallowed it all down – just like you were told to do.

That changed when you got strung into a conversation with a middle-aged couple, Capitol people no doubt, the matching rings on their fingers implying that they were married. The woman, hanging onto her husband’s arm, grinned at you in a way that made an uncomfortable shiver run down your spine. Like bugs crawling their way all over your skin. Her husband, a man of average height and on the thicker side, let his eyes rake over your entire body, an almost hungry look in his eyes.

The woman leaned over, as if to whisper in her husband’s ear, but she purposely spoke loudly enough for you to hear her words as well. “Isn’t she even prettier up close, my love? Such a precious girl our victor is this year.” She almost purred, her tone sultry as she looked you up and down. Her husband answered immediately, a short but loud laugh escaping him.

“Indeed she is. But she’d look even prettier in my bed.” He muttered, eyes not leaving you – who was now frozen in place. With his next words, he directly addressed you, rather than his wife. “Wouldn’t you, dollface? I’d pay a good fortune to get you beneath my sheets for a night, looked so pretty every time you cried in the arena. I can practically imagine how much better you’d look with tears of pleasure running down your face.” He drawled, his lips spreading into a wide and disgusting smile as he reached out, running his thumb across your cheekbone in what was probably supposed to be a gentle manner.

It made you want to recoil and put as much distance between you and the man as you could. You had heard of it before. Whispers among fellow victors. That president Snow picked the prettiest and most desirable one’s to sell to the people of the Capitol, forcing them into prostitution. They couldn’t refuse, the lives of their loved one’s one the line.

Until now, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind that Snow could possibly see this kind of potential in you. But now, as this repulsive couple gawked at you with nothing but burning thirst and need in their eyes, their words still echoing in your head, it dawned on you that it wasn’t impossible. It made you nauseous, terrified. You could handle anything. Their questions, their stares, being treated like a puppet at these events. But having to give them your body and let them live out their sickest fantasies? You’d rather jump off the nearest building.

You took a step back, the man’s hand falling from your face, his smirk faltering a small bit. “I… excuse me, just one moment” you sputtered out through the panic rising in your chest. You turned on your heels, speed-walking off and as far away as you could from the couple. Unbeknownst to you, Haymitch had seen almost the entire interaction. He had searched the whole ballroom when he lost sight of you. Ultimately, his eyes landed on you just as the man put his hand on your face. Haymitch didn’t hear what he had said to you, but even from the distance, he could see the wanting look in the man’s eyes.

He had begun rushing over, rage clouding his mind. He wouldn’t let this happen to you. He refused. Anything but this. He wouldn’t let those Capitol pigs put their filthy hands on your body, shattering you even further. When he was just seconds from reaching you, from ripping the man’s hands off of your body, even if it would cost him his life, you’d turned and darted off into the crowd. This time, Haymitch was hot on your heels, pushing past all the people to keep sight of you, occasionally uttering a quiet apology under his breath he didn’t mean.

He found you in one of the far corners of the gigantic room, back pressed flush to the wall and hand over your stomach, trying to slow your erratic breathing. The second you saw him, you felt tears welling up in your eyes – relief washing over you – knowing you were not alone. Not anymore.

Haymitch took a quick look around, seeing that right now, everyone was too occupied to keep their eyes on you. He took your hand into one of his, pulling you along with him. He waltzed over to the nearest door that lined the walls of the room, and opened it just enough for both of you to slip through. The room was rather small, lined with various bookshelves and a table on one far end of it, no windows. A bright red carpet decorated the floor, complimenting the colour of the wooden floor beneath it.

He closed the door behind you, his reflexes just fast enough to catch you as you crumpled to the floor. Your side was against his chest, both his arms wrapped around your upper body as he sank down to the ground with you. The sobs wracked your body, your smaller form shaking and trembling in his arms. Your face was buried into the fabric of his suit-jacket, your tears leaving wet spots he couldn’t care less about.

At first, he didn’t say anything. He simply held you, feeling his heart break in his chest as he listened to your pained and guttural sobs. You practically curled up in his arms, making yourself as small as you could. Eventually, your voice broke through your sobs, weak and stuttering:

“I- I wanna go home. Please, I just w-wanna go home. Please, Haymitch”

Your words, desperate and broken, shattered him even further. He tightened his hold on you, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your hairline. “I know, sweetheart, I know.” Haymitch muttered, lips still pressed to the top of your head. He closed his eyes, blinking away the tears that threatened to escape him as well. “Just breathe for me, alright?” he added in a whisper, one of his hands coming up to stroke the side of your face in a soothing manner, shielding you from the world around you.

He continued this motion for what seemed like hours, until your sobs had turned to smaller whimpers, the tears finally seizing. When you had calmed down for the most part, you rested the side of your temple on his shoulder, gazing up at Haymitch with a look in your eyes that filled his entire chest with warmth. You looked at him as if he was your entire world. And no matter how selfish, he wanted it to stay that way.

Your voice eventually cut through the comfortable silence that had settled itself over both of you, lost in each other’s eyes. “Haymitch?” you whispered softly. His response was a gentle and deep hum, letting you know he was listening as his blue eyes didn’t stray from yours.

“I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“I.. I love you.” What?

It was as if his brain stopped working in that moment, his heartbeat stuttering in his chest. You loved him? It seemed that the shock and confusion was rather clear on his face, because you swallowed hard before breaking into a nervous ramble.

“I know we haven’t known each other that long. Only since – well – since after the reaping. B- but it was the thought of you that kept me going in the arena. I don’t think I would’ve made it without you. Knowing that if I made it out of there alive, I’d come back to you, it kept me from giving up. And I know love is a big word – and that you might not feel the same, but I just had to –“ You were cut off by the sensation of soft and slightly chapped lips meeting yours, a hand settling itself over your cheek, pulling you even closer. You closed your eyes and melted into the kiss straight away, wrapping your arms around Haymitch’s neck and pressing yourself flush against him. The kiss was passionate, filled with emotion. But it wasn’t needy or even remotely sexual. It was a simple and strong expression of love.

Haymitch was on cloud nine. No drunken rush he’d ever experienced could compare to the high he felt right now, his lips on yours and you in his arms. Knowing you loved him. The kiss said more than a thousand words could. But still, he reluctantly broke away from the addicting feel that was your lips, muttering a breathless “I love you too.” His mouth brushing against yours in the process. Hearing his words, you pulled him back in, planting a gentle kiss on his lips, losing yourself in him once more.

Snow had taken a lot from both of you – too much. But this was something he couldn’t take. This moment. The sensation of your joined lips, of your arms wrapped around each other. The passion and happiness that coursed through your bodies even for just these few minutes you had with each other.

This feeling of love that burned bright in your hearts – like all-fire.

Several years ago, you’d been exiled to the city of Lys by your father. Back then, in the midst of your rage at being sent away from everything you’ve ever known, you never would have been able to comprehend just in what direction your life were to go once you reached the east.

Lys brought a lot of advantages with itself. Advantages you had not wanted to acknowledge when you’d first arrived, alone, angry and hurt. You’d been granted your own small residence. Carrying Targaryen blood – even if not technically seen as legitimate in the eyes of the Faith – had its perks, after all. You’d barely left it at first, still furious at the audacity of your father to send you to a place practically littered with whores.

But when the lack of food forced you to wander out into the markets, when the first places in the city began to attract your attention – you came to see just how much of a blessing it was that your father had sent you here, of all places. He’d done it as punishment, as a means to make you see reason, cure you from the poison which had taken root in your blood and mind – as he claimed.

How stupid he’d been to even think that a place such as this would help you better yourself. In Lys, you were free to do as you pleased. You could eat, drink and fuck as much as you desired – no one would bat an eye. The loose clothes made of silk felt like a gift from the gods, in comparison to the suffocating gowns and corsets you were made to wear back in Westeros. The weather was always warm and sunny, a stark contrast to the storms and winds from the west.

And no one hindered you in the practice of your magic. By the hearth in your house, you’d carefully positioned fourteen candles, just as you had back home. And this time, when you spoke the High Valyrian words beneath your breath, when you let droplets of blood trickle into the flames, no one barged into your room and dragged you out kicking and screaming. No one banished you from your home. Here, you were free to do whatever you wished.

The most interesting thing you would encounter in Lys, however, arrived mere moons after you. Aerion Brightflame.

A Targaryen prince, sent to the east to reflect on his actions, turn into a better man, after causing almost his entire family to fall apart at a tourney held for the nameday of a minor Lord’s daughter.

In Lys, most possessed Valyrian features. The silver hair, the bright eyes - either amethyst or blue – the pale skin. You’d sensed him different from the start. You had not seen him arrive by boat. You only knew that you had never seen him before when you laid eyes on him for the first time. But you knew instantly that this was not a simple Lyseni man. The short and almost spiky hair – nearly looking like scales – paired with the pride he carried within himself and the unmistakable lilac eyes. He practically radiated that royal stench that came naturally with Targaryens – a name you were raised to despise. But alas, those who raised you had turned you into an outcast as well.

You watched him, kept your eyes on him as he began to get accustomed to his new surroundings – and the freedom that came with it. One day, you decided you would not stay away any longer. You’d approached him while he lounged in one of the plush chairs outside a tavern, sheltered from the sun by the shade of the building as he sipped on a cup of some fruity wine from the free cities.

You slide your fingers over the back of his chaise as you round it, gaining his attention instantly. His sharp eyes follow your every movement. You do not falter, coming to a stop on front of him.

“A Targaryen prince in Lys.” you drawl, eyes roaming over his rather exposed body, as he had now also taken to dressing in Lyseni fabrics, rather than thick, red and black doublets or chainmail. You could see several angry scars littering across the visible parts of his upper  body, no doubt from wounds healed not long ago. The kind of scars that would fade with time, yet never disappear entirely.

“Tell me, your grace.” you go on, the title laced with thin mockery. “This vacation of yours, is it voluntary, or no?”

His eyes never stop following you, tracing every movement. Be it a twitch of your hand, or a quirk of your lips. He is assessing you, trying to categorize you.

“Which one of the princelings are you?” you continue when he still does not say anything. “You surely do not look like one of Breakspear’s brood. Too little… dornish.” you pause, eyes raking over him once more. His pale skin – slowly beginning to tan in the heat of Lys – has a reddish tint to it, making apparent that his body is not accustomed to this type of heat. The words were meant to tease, to provoke, and by the way his fingers curl just a tad bit tighter around the armrest of the chair, you can tell it’s working. By the way something hot and flaring flashes through those eyes of his at even the mere suggestion that he could come from the seed of Baelor Targaryen.

“One of the Anvil’s offspring, then?” you hum thoughtfully. “You have too much control over your cup to be the drunken one. One’s at the citadel, that could not possibly be you. Well, unless you’ve suddenly decided you had enough of the maesters and celibacy, which would make this a wonderful place to break free from those chains. The others are too young. No, you are the one they whisper about. The one they fear…” A pause. “Brightflame, is it?”

You can tell you have him in your clutches by the way an entirely different glint shines in his eyes at the mention of others fearing him. A certain satisfaction. You watch as his lips curl upwards in the slightest, finally giving you a reaction.

“And who are you, to be making such a bold advance on a prince of dragon blood?” he returns, the taunting in his tone matching yours perfectly.

“Y/N. Blackfyre.”

You cannot quite tell if your name causes his amusement to rise or vanish, as his expression turns almost unreadable.

“Blackfyre?” he repeats, humming shortly. His eyes assess you once more, roaming over your entire being before settling on yours again. “Awfully confident for someone whose family constantly loses against mine, are we?”

That coaxes as slight laugh from your lips, not at all deterred by what he surely means as an insult to you.

“Awfully big talk for someone who has not once fought in those rebellions, don’t you think?” you retort smoothly.

By the way his finger twitch, you assume he is torn between lashing at you like a feral dragon – something you’ve come to realize he reminds you of quite a lot – or joining your amusement.

He brings the cup of wine to his lips, eyes never once leaving yours as he takes a sip, tongue flicking out to taste what little liquid had caught in the far corner of his mouth. Ultimately, he settles on the latter, the sharp smirk from before creeping back onto his features.

“So, Brightflame. What was your name again?” you ask then, head tilting in the slightest. He likes the attention, you can tell.

“Aerion.” comes his reply, short and firm.

“Aerion.” you repeat after him, tasting the name on your tongue. You expect it to taste bitter. Like hatred and distain. You find it does not. It tastes dangerous, yet in a concerningly alluring way.

“And what exactly brings you to Lys, Aerion?” you ask then, all the while lowering yourself into the thickly cushioned chair next to his. Your body is angled in his direction just enough for it to appear intended.

“In the eyes of my father, it seems I am at fault for the events that led to my uncle’s death.” The reply comes smoothly, almost trivial, as if he were talking about the weather. As if he were completely indifferent to the fact that his uncle has passed.

Your heart stutters for a few seconds at his words, the meaning of them, the weight, settling in your mind. It takes a few moments for you to gather your senses and to manage a reply.

“Your uncle? You mean to tell me Baelor ‘The Hammer’ Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, is dead?” you ask in thinly veiled shock.

Aerion only hums in response, nodding once.

You exhale a breath. “Well, I’ll be damned.” A whirlwind of emotions arises inside of you. Happiness, relief, pride, uneasiness. It seems your conscious refuses to settle on one.

You snap out of the depths of your mind when Aerion speaks up this time. “And you? For what reason does a Blackfyre get sent to Lys?” he asks, unable to conceal his own curiosity. His gaze is filled with intrigue and suspicion, still unsure whether to trust you or not.

“Blood magic.” You reply and find that, hypocritically, you’ve said the two words with the same lack of weight to them as he had done when informing you about his uncle’s death.

Your eyes are locked onto his own as you say it. And to the day you die, you’d swear you’ve never seen someone’s stare of suspicion and hesitation turn into fascination and something dangerously close to devotion so fast.

****

As your time in Lys progressed, it seemed that Aerion found it difficult to stray from your side after that first meeting. It did not bother you in the slightest. Quite the opposite, as you yourself sought out his company quite often on the days he did not come to you on his own.

You showed him more hidden corners of the city, places one would rarely wander to on their own. Not without the purpose of finding them. You let him discover his newfound freedom – viewed as punishment by his family – and watched him grow to enjoy the ability to indulge in whatever he pleased. You showed him where he could drink the finest either local or imported wines to his heart’s content. Where, depending on his tastes, the best dishes from all around Essos and Westeros were served. And because you knew that everyone had their needs, especially men, you also showed him the finest pleasure houses with the prettiest Lyseni whores. They were pricey, but he was a prince of the blood – he could afford even the most expensive courtesans. And he did.

Aerion Brightflame quickly became known among the brothels of Lys. And not only in those he frequented. The pleasure girls either anticipated a visit from him, or dreaded it. Rumour spread like wildfire that the prince enjoyed his endeavours rather rough. And not the regular roughness one could expect from a man of his standing.

They said that he revelled in the taste of blood just as much as in that of a woman’s desire. That his teeth were sharper than they appeared and that breaking skin came naturally to him – that it brought him pleasure. He liked his whores pretty and dolled up – just so he could leave them utterly and entirely ruined.

What might have surprised you the most, however, was that he was said to be a generous lover – despite being drawn to violence and pain. No woman left his clutches unsatisfied. A rareness in men such as him.

As time passed and you kept on listening to the brothel workers’ whispers – you always listened when it was about him – you could not help but desire a taste of your own. You had no doubt that the women he bedded in the pleasure houses took what he gave without protest, surrendered to him like pliant little does and let him claim them as he wished. As they were paid to do.

But you wanted to show him what it felt like when he laid with a woman who could match him. What it felt like when the person beneath him knew how to bite back. You wanted him to sink his teeth into your flesh and return the gesture with just as much ferocity. You never made any direct advances, however. The furthest you went were low whispers that could border on suggestive, inviting. Or lingering touches along his wrists, his hands, on rare occasions even the broadness of his shoulders, sometimes straying to his collarbones – a spot that made him shiver, you discovered.

Aerion was not stupid. The man was an expert at observing those around him and reading their intentions from their eyes, their movements, from their veiled words. He knew you desired him when your subtle touches began to linger longer than necessary. He’d had to refrain from dragging you against him and putting both of you out of your misery on several occasions, feeling the need in his veins burn hotter than the sun whenever you were nearby.

But it seemed you both enjoyed this dance. Your own dance of dragons. You circled each other like vultures, just waiting for the right moment to strike – to claim.

That moment came one evening after several moons of this unresolved tension between the two of you. You’d been sitting on the terrace of your home, overlooking the nearest bay – granting you a perfect view of the setting sun. If it was one too many cups of Arbor Gold or if it was one heated glance too much, you couldn’t recall. You could only recall that one second, the two of you had leisurely sipped on your cups of wine, and the next, he had all but dragged you from your chair into his lap, nails digging into the skin of your waist through the silk.

His lips ghost over the junction between your neck and the underside of your jaw, his breathing shallow – hot and uneven – against your skin. From your position, you cannot see his eyes, but the usual violet brightness in them has darkened from untamed desire.

“You madwoman.” he rasps against your jaw, lips slightly brushing against you as he speaks. His tone is low, a mixture of want, frustration and desperation. “What have you done to me? Is this one of your wretched spells?”

Your hand comes up to rest on the side of his neck, leading his head away from you, just enough to lock your eyes with his. His grip on you tightens almost instinctively as your body warmth leaves the side of his face. He looks undone, completely at your mercy yet ready to pounce all the same. Your hand rises from the side of his neck, thumb running over his cheekbone. The corner of your lips twitches upwards almost imperceptibly. He catches it anyway.  

“It would be no fun if it was a spell, zaldrīzes.”

The Valyrian word slips from your tongue deliberately. Dragon.

His mouth curls into something akin to a snarl, like an animal – only living up to the name you’d given him. He has never looked more attractive to you.

“You madwoman.” he repeats. “You magnificent fucking madwoman.” he practically growls as one of his hands leave your waist, snaking up the length of your back and settling on the nape of your neck.

With one sharp pull, he drags your head down to his, connecting his lips to yours.

It’s not soft, not gentle. It’s all tongue and passion. Two unbridled flames colliding and flaring up into one big fire as he moves his lips against yours. In a matter of seconds, you’re all over each other, fingers tugging at fabric, lips wandering and teeth dragging over every new exposed inch of skin.

You rock your hips over his, feeling the desire radiating off of him. Just as he can feel yours. It is like a vicious cycle, how the need pulsing through you spurs him on, causing the same reaction in you.  

The two of you ruin each other that night beyond compare. Torn silks and sheets, sweat-coated skin, scratch-marks, bruises from tight grips, unwilling to let go. Both your necks are littered with bite-marks and dried blood where your tongues hadn’t reached in the height of your pleasure. Both his and your lips are bruised and swollen, decorated with the metallic taste of blood – from both the broken skin on your necks and the sharp teeth which had sunken a bit too deep on occasion.

****

Neither of you was able to rein in the desire you felt for each other after that night. Barely a day passed where the two of you did not drag each other into the sheets, claiming one another over and over. Even when there was no inch, no crevice, left to claim, you did it all over again.

The whores at the pleasure houses suddenly became entirely uninteresting to him. After the first time, Aerion had tried. Gone to the nearest brothel to try and drown the lingering heat of your touch – a Blackfyre’s touch – in another woman. It had been a miracle that said woman was not strangled by his bare hands that day. She had lain there, took what he gave and told him exactly what he wanted to hear. No sincerity. She did not fight back, did not return his fire in the way that you had. She had no fire, he came to realize. It infuriated him. She may have carried Valyrian blood, as a lot of Lyseni people did, but there was no Targaryen blood flowing through her veins. There was not enough heat to match him.

And after one night with you, he craved that heat. Craved the fight. The feel of teeth sinking into his skin in retort to his own. The feel of nails scratching at him and laying him bare. And only you were able to give him that. Because you had that Targaryen blood, the same blood that he carried also burned through you – even if illegitimate in the eyes of many. He had been taught to despise the likes of you, but you had captured him in a way that he could not wrap his head around.

He had come crawling back to you the very same day, and you let him. Because you could not resist him either. You had never felt desire such as this – and you did not need to stray into the arms of another man to know that only Aerion could quench that thirst. That in some twisted and contorted way, the two of you had become intertwined in more ways than one that night. In ways neither of you could fully explain.

It was on a exactly such a night, almost a year into your stay in Lys, when he asked you what exactly had happened for you to be exiled here. He knew, from your very first conversation, that it had been because of the blood magic you practiced, like few of his ancestors did. But he had never asked for the full story. That night, his curiosity overcame him.

You weren’t shocked by his inquiry about the details of your exile. You were more surprised that he hadn’t asked earlier. He was curious – and ever fascinated by the tellings of your witchcraft. You could practically see the look in his eyes changing whenever you spoke of it, as he hung onto every word that slipped past your lips.

You had been lying on his exposed chest when he’d asked, both of you bare and partly covered by the silken sheets of your bed, legs entangled. Your hand rested where his heart beat steady beneath your touch, his fingers idly gliding up and down your arm in a barely-there touch, almost subconscious. The nightly breeze flowing in through the opened balcony doors, cooling down your overheating bodies.

You had tilted your head to look up at him, asking him: “Why the sudden curiosity?”

He’d only shrugged in response, and you found you could not deny him either way, so you retold the story of the night your father had caught you. At first, you considered lying, twisting the story and veiling the actual truth of it. But honesty was something that had been crucial between you and Aerion from the start. Not discussed. Not demanded. Just there. For some reason, the two of your had laid your souls bare to each other from the start. Every dark and twisted crevice of them.

So you told the truth. Every detail.

This is your chance. Your chance to bring victory to your family. If this turns out to be successful, you could be celebrated as one of the greatest Blackfyres of all time. Besides Daemon Blackfyre, maybe. You doubt they would let a woman surpass the likes of him.

The fourteen candles are carefully positioned around the hearth of your chambers, surrounding you where you kneel in front of the crackling flames of it. You light each candle, one after the other. One for each of the volcanoes in Old Valyria. Channelling the source of their magic.

With a few muttered High Valyrian words, the candles burn just a tad bit brighter, telling you that the gods of Old Valyria are listening. Just as you intended.

With careful fingers, you reach for the pitch black napkin, unfolding it slowly, until it reveals a single silver hair. Daemon Blackfyre’s. While the guarantee of success would be much higher, had you something of the right person in your possession, you’d read that it can work nonetheless – as they share blood. You would just need to be more careful, more precise in your words to make sure it takes the right man.

You set the napkin, the hair still positioned on top of it, down on the stone floor of your chambers. You unsheathe your dagger, crafted from valyrian steel. A gift you had received from your father on your thirteenth nameday.

You cut across the palm of your hand, blood welling immediately. Same as with the hair, the chosen man’s blood would make it easier, safer. Even Daemon Blackfyre’s blood would have been better. But you could not make Daemon Blackfyre bleed without being named a traitor and getting executed on the spot.

So your blood will have to do. You share blood with Daemon. It could work. It needs to.

With your uninjured hand, you pluck the hair from the napkin, laying it delicately across the wound, where blood covers it instantly. You lean forward then, turning over your hand so the soaked hair falls into the flames of the hearth, droplets of your blood following.

You begin to speak again, the words low and quiet.

“From my blood, take the sacrifice. From the hair of the Black Dragon, take the connection.”

Footsteps approaching your chambers almost make you falter. You need to finish this, fast.

“For the blood and hair may not be his, but connected to him nonetheless. The Spear shall break. Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”

Just as the last few words leave your lips, eyes closed tightly as the blood continues to trickle from your hand – the candles burning bright around you – the door to your chambers opens, your father stepping through the threshold.

He halts in his tracks when he sees you, knelt in front of the hearth, palm bleeding into the fire. He looks at the candles surrounding you. He does not need to count them to know there are fourteen.

He only hears the last few words you mutter, your voice too quiet for him to make out what exactly you are saying. Yet he knows it is not the common tongue. It is the language of your ancestors.

He recognizes the scene immediately. You, his own daughter, practising blood magic. Like Visenya Targaryen, one of the Conqueror’s herself, had done. The blood magic which was rumoured to have been involved in the making of Maegor The Cruel. He knows you admire your ancestors. But he never would have guessed it to run this deep. To lead you to such poisonous acts.

He finally gathers his senses just as the last word dies on your lips. In furious outrage, he exclaims your name, taking quick strides in your direction. You startle out of your daze, head snapping around to see him advancing on you.

No. Not yet. It is too early. The ritual has not ended. The sacrifice cannot have been enough for it to work. Your thoughts are frantic as you squeeze your hand shut over the fire once, forcing more of your blood to trickle into the flames below.

Before you can do much more, two hands hook under your arms, dragging you away from the fireplace. Away from the candles, which all diminish the second your blood stops feeding the fire.

The gods are gone. You just hope it was enough.

You kick and you yell as you try to get out of your father’s hold. But his grip on you is strong, tight. He drags you out of your chambers and into the hallway, practically throwing you to the floor by the opposite wall. He pulls the door of your chambers shut, severing every last connection between you and the ritual you had built within.

“What has gotten into you!? Are you mad!?” your father exclaims, staring at you with wide eyes filled with rage.

“These- these abominable acts. How long have you been practising them?” he asks.

You don’t reply. You are not afraid – only worried that your ritual might have not worked. Because if it hasn’t, it could take the wrong person. And the consequences for you could be fatal, should the fault be traced back to you.

“Answer me, daughter!” he yells. You don’t.

Your father eventually drags you before Daemon Blackfyre himself, where the decision is made. You are to be exiled. Sent away. Far from where you can poison others with the witchery in your blood.

****

Aerion had been eerily silent once you finished telling him the reason for your banishment. His eyes did not meet yours for several minutes as he stared at the ceiling. His expression was nearly unreadable, a thousand thoughts running through his head.

He recalled your words. You had repeated to him exactly what you had spoken to the fire.

“From my blood, take the sacrifice. From the hair of the Black Dragon, take the connection.”

“For the blood and hair may not be his, but connected to him nonetheless. The Spear shall break. Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”

“Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”

Let the Hammer come to his downfall. The Hammer. A nickname Baelor had gained during the first Blackfyre rebellion. Just as Maekar had been titled the Anvil. May it be used against him. While not exactly accurate, Aerion remembered vividly that it was his father’s mace that had struck the back of Baelor’s helm, which had ultimately led to his uncle’s death. A mace could be considered some type of hammer, technically.

He repeated it in his head over and over again. Could it possibly be that you were at fault that Baelor Targaryen had fallen in the Trial of Seven at Ashford? Could it be, that no matter his own actions, Baelor would have fallen either way? That his exile was wholly unnecessary and the one at fault for it currently laid in his arms? That the death of Baelor Breakspear, heir to the Iron Throne, was technically a victory at the hands of the Blackfyres, caused by the hands of a young woman in their ranks. The woman he had claimed in every way possible. The woman who had claimed him for herself just as much.

One part of him wanted to shove you off him, pin you beneath him into the mattress and strangle you until the last bit of breath died on your lips. This had been your fault. His humiliation by that tall fucking Hedge Knight. His father’s fury against him. His exile to Lys. All of it had been your fault. You had made a blood sacrifice. Your own blood gifted to the gods of Old Valyria, with only the request to take Baelor Targaryen with them.

But as much as he wanted to kill you, leave you to rot on these very sheets, he could not bring himself to. Not when he felt the faint touch of your fingers over where his heart beat in his chest. Not when he felt the comfortable weight of your body partially leaning on his, completely relaxed despite what you had just told him. Not when he looked into your eyes and only felt the need to hold you tighter, kiss you, and take you all over again.

Not when you were the only one who saw him as exactly what he was.

A dragon.

You were the only one who saw it. In the way you called him ñuha zaldrīzes. My dragon. You’d told him that the sharper ends of his hair reminded you of dragon scales, when the light hit them from the right angle. You’d told him his tongue was long and thin, snake-like, as that of a dragon, when he had licked all over your neck one night.

Once, when he’d laughed at something you said, you had stilled, staring at his lips. When his mouth had closed, you reached out, pulling at his upper lip carefully. You dragged it up, revealing his teeth, with it the naturally sharpened canines he had. You’d called them his own little fangs. Like a dragon’s.

In your eyes, he was exactly what he had always known himself to be. A dragon through and through. You took him apart piece by piece, finding proof after proof of what he truly was. And you saw it too.

He could not kill you. He could not lose the only person that saw him. He needed you, craved you. Seven hells, he was pretty sure he loved you. In the only twisted way he could feel that type of emotion. Expressed in the way his eyes followed you, in the way he gripped you just a bit tighter than he was used to doing to anyone else. In the way he could sink his teeth and claws into you and brush his lips over yours in the most tender motion all the same.

You could sense the battle taking place inside his head as he connected the pieces. His fingers twitched just slightly over where they had been brushing against your arm. The fingers of his other hand, arm stretched out along the length of his body, curled and uncurled repeatedly in the silken sheets.

His breathing changed. From calm and relaxed to shallow, making it apparent that he did not know what to do with himself in that moment. You watched every emotion that flared in him, only visible in the amethyst of his eyes. Rage, murderous intent, conflict, desire, that hint of devotion that often entered his gaze when he looked at you.

“Ñuha zaldrīzes.” you had whispered tenderly, hand reaching up to brush over his temple, smoothing over the furrow of his brows.

“You are thinking too much.”  

The sound of your voice, soothing him in the tongue of your blood, it had a calming effect on him. One he could not fight, even if he wished to. His breath evened slightly, though not entirely.

You could feel the way he started relaxing, the rigid tension in his muscles fading away.

“Breathe, my fire. My bright flame. I will make sure you forget all those troubling thoughts of yours. No thinking. Just feel.”

You moved, climbing over his lap. Your hands steadied yourself on the planes of his defined chest, feeling how the thumps of his heart picked up again. For an entirely different reason this time.

You smirked, leaning down to breathe into his ear. “Good. Let it take you. Far away from that torturous place your mind has led you to.”

****

The first time he’d told you that he intended to take you as his wife was in the heights of your shared pleasure, just over two years into your shared time.

He’d been sprawled across the sheets, his grip tight on your hips as he moved you over him. Your own dragon to claim, to ride.

The words had left his lips so breathlessly that they almost appeared subconscious. Yet with no less determined intent. He meant them, even if they were perhaps not said in the situation he had originally meant to.

“I am going to make you my wife. You will be mine. For all eternity.”

You had not replied, only leaned down and kissed him.

For several days after, neither of you mentioned what he had said. For a moment, you might have thought that he had entirely forgotten that he had said it. But it was Aerion. He was painfully aware of what he said and did. Nothing left his lips without intent, without purpose.

But he also did not stay silent without intention behind it. Most of his actions were done with full awareness and willingness. They were not always calculated, not always smart. Anything other than that. The decisions were often made without thinking, rash and impulsive. But he meant them nonetheless, with every fibre of his being.

The two of you had been soaking up the sun one afternoon, a week after those poisonous words had slipped past his lips. They had ingrained themselves into your mind. Playing in your head over and over again. “I am going to make you my wife. You will be mine. For all eternity.”

It was only then that he approached the subject again. A comfortable silence had settled between the both of you, broken only by his words.

“I meant it.” he says out of nowhere. Your head, which had been facing the sun, taking in the warmth, turns to meet his gaze. Only then he continues. “What I said. A week ago.” he pauses once more, one hand reaching out to brush over the skin of your temple. A barely there touch that sends a shiver through you.

“I wish to take you as my wife. No other woman could see me as I am just how you do.” His tone is almost soft, but filled with possessiveness. His eyes never once leave yours.  

He is right, in what he said. And you know it. From the day the words ñuha zaldrīzes had first left your lips, loud enough for him to hear. You know that this attention is exactly what he desires, craves. For someone to view him as what he is, what he thinks he knows himself to be. And you have given him that. From the very start.

You know that, could he purr like a satisfied cat, he would, each time you call him your dragon, each time your fingertips nudge his sharpened canines in the depths of pleasure. Every time your hands run through his hair, through the jagged ends you’d told him reminded you of scales, in certain light.

You do not fear him. Do not cower in his presence. And while he revels in the fear and submission of others, the fact that you stand and meet him at eye-level undoes him completely. It makes him sink his claws into you just that much deeper, unwilling to let you slip through his fingers.

“No Septon would wed us, Aerion. Not without demanding the blessing of our parents.” you reply eventually, your hand coming up to rest over his where it still brushes against your temple in careful movements. You encase his hand with your own, turning your head to press a kiss to his fingertips.

He scoffs, lips curling into something between irritation and amusement as his eyes linger on where your lips brush over his fingers. “I do not intend to wed you in the ways of the Seven, my love. We will be united in the ways of Old Valyria. As true dragons must. And we are true dragons, are we not?”

“Of course we are, Aerion.” you reply in earnest. “And when do you wish to do it?”

“I would do it right now, had I come prepared.” he responds lowly. “But soon. Soon, I will make you mine in the eyes of our gods. As you will make me yours. We will be one. Not just by words and promises, but by blood and fire.”

The look in his eyes, possessive and bordering on a hint of madness should unsettle you. As it would unsettle anyone else. But you only feel a smile creeping onto your lips as his words.

“Your family would be enraged, should they hear that you took a Blackfyre as your wife. A blood traitor.” you retort lowly, almost teasing.

“Then they are fools.” he hisses, though the heat is not directed at you. “Valyrian blood must connect with valyrian blood. Dragons do not mate with sheep. I fear that is something my family has forgotten over the decades. Our blood is tainted, watered. We can strengthen it again. We will. And if they cannot see it, they shall wander in blindness until their sacred Stranger takes them.”

****

Aerion had spent the moons following that conversation in search of a priest who was specialized in the wedding customs of Old Valyria. You knew he’d scarcely find one, as the tradition of valyrian weddings had died out long ago.

Word said that the last such ceremony had taken place in the year 120 after Aegon’s Conquest, almost one hundred years ago at that time. The ceremony had united Rhaenyra Targaryen with her uncle, Daemon Targaryen. Two of the last dragon riders in your bloodline.

Barely any priests or septons were taught the traditions of valyrian weddings since then. So the chances of Aerion finding one were close to none.

But Aerion was not the type of man to accept defeat. He would find a person to wed the two of you. No matter what. He had set his mind to it – and when he did – nothing could bring him away from it. Not that you would have thought to try. You wished for him to find one. Marrying in the ways of your ancestors, in the way of Old Valyria, had been what you desired.

No ceremonies in the eyes of the Seven. Only fire and blood.

One night, Aerion had come to you, the delight and satisfaction clear as day in his eyes. He had found a willing priest. To this day, you do not know if the priest was willing or threatened. It would not have mattered to you either way.

He told you that while the priest was not familiar with the customs, he had agreed to read scripts of the ceremonies – and that he would wed the two of you in the traditions of your ancestors. That he would unite the two of you as you intended.

Aerion stands before you, the two of you dressed in traditionally valyrian robes. He had them fabricated especially for this ceremony, wishing to do everything right. Everything needs to be perfect, down to the last detail. If he is to marry you in the ways of Old Valyria, he is to do it right.

The priest, who had read and memorized the vows and details of the ceremony, steps forward and holds out a blade to you, made of valyrian steel. Both you and Aerion already know what you must do.

You take the blade from him, eyes moving to meet Aerion’s. You exchange a determined glance, no hint of hesitation in either of you. Your gaze drops to his mouth as you bring the blade to his lower lip. With careful movement, you drag it down the center of it. A tiny amount of blood wells beneath the steel, coating his lip red.

You raise your hand, thumb coming to brush through the liquid. You then bring your thumb to his forehead, wiping his blood over his still rather pale skin, no matter how much Lyseni sun he had soaked in.

He takes the dagger and repeats the exact same gesture with you. A clean cut down the middle of your lower lip, thumb catching the blood before bringing it to your forehead, mirroring his own.

He moves the steel across his palm then, his fingers twitching minimally from the pain. You offer your own hand, and he does the same to you. You do not falter, do not wince. You are used to cuts littering the palm of your hand. Blood sacrifices demanded exactly that – blood.

The priest steps forward, in his hands a thick and long ribbon, red with gold embroidery. You and Aerion connect your hands, palms touching and your blood joining, becoming one. While the priest wraps the fabric tightly around your hands, your mixed blood trickles out beneath it, running down your wrists and dropping onto the floor beneath you.

Neither of you really notices, eyes firmly locked onto each other’s.

The priest then reaches for a black chalice, filled partially with wine. He holds it beneath your joined palms for several moments, letting the wine mix with your shared blood. He hands it to you.

You lift the chalice to your lips, eyes not once leaving Aerion’s. You drink half of it, letting the taste fill your mouth and consume your senses. Sweet, the metallic taste not to be missed. You let it run down your throat and into your system as you hand the chalice to Aerion.

He mirrors you, drinking the second half of the liquid. Neither of you are strangers to the taste of blood, though it is watered down by the wine this time. Neither of you shy away from it, the thought of what it implies. You never have.

All the while, the priest chants High Valyrian words. The vows said to unite the two of you. To make you one.

“Blood of two. Joined as one.”

“Ghostly Flame. And song of shadows.”

“Two hearts as embers.”

“Forged in fourteen fires.”

“A future promised in glass. The stars stand witness.”

“The vow spoken through time – of darkness and light.”

When the priest comes to a stop, his words dying out into silence, Aerion lifts his free hand, setting it on the side of your face. Your hands come unbound, neither paying attention to the priest, wholly focused on one another.

His other hand, coated in his own and your blood, comes to the other side of your face. You feel the wetness of the liquid smearing over your skin, but it does not bother you.

He pulls you into him, connecting his lips to yours.

And with that, you are his. And he is yours. Two dragons, bound as one.

He loses himself in you, lips unable to part from yours except to whisper just once, with certain finality to it:

“My wife.”

You return it. But you do not call him husband. It would be logical. That is what he is. And yet, you only call him what you’ve always done. What you know he wants to hear more than anything.

“My dragon.”

****

The years that passed after the ceremony were mostly uneventful. You and your husband indulged in the relaxed and lavish life you could live here in Lys. No one to meddle in your business, no one to pressure the two of you into conceiving heirs. While the two of you intended to – one day – honour the dragon’s third head on your family’s crest, you had no reason to hurry. So you did not.

One day, Aerion came to you, a piece of parchment tightly clutched in his fingers.

“A letter. From my father.” he had said, settling on the edge of the bed next to you, where you had just taken a nap in the early hours of the afternoon. You had lifted yourself onto your elbows, glancing at the neat handwriting on the parchment,

“And what does he want?” you had asked in return.

“He demands my return. He claims that the amount of years I have spent here have been enough. That my punishment must come to an end and that I shall return to Summerhall by the end of the week. He will send his people by boat to get me.” Aerion had explained.

You could tell that he was conflicted. You knew part of him longed to return home. To the place where he was not an exiled man, but a prince of the blood. Where his words and actions held more power than they did here. And that a small, twisted part of him, longed for his family. Even if he would never admit it.

But the other part of him wished to remain here. A place with no restrictions – no demands and no expectations. The freedom he’d had here he would not find back in Westeros. The relaxed days spent lying in the sun, bathing in the sea, sipping on fruity wine would end, vanish. And they would scarcely ever return.

“Then we shall return, if your father demands it. I highly doubt he would let you stay here, even if you asked him to.” you had replied in a soft tone, your leg moving beneath the silken covers to brush your outer thigh against his back where he had sat on your bedside. The physical contact was meant to calm him, ground him, bring him back from his wandering thoughts.

“You will return with me.” he had stated.

“Of course, I am your wife. But they will not be happy with my presence.”

“I do not care. The dragon protects what is precious to him.”

“I know, ñuha zaldrīzes. I know. I do not doubt it. Do not doubt you. You are the fiercest dragon of them all.”

You had seen the way the tension in his shoulders slowly lessened at your words. As it always did.

“Then we will return. By the end of the week.”

****

Maekar Targaryen’s men had been utterly confused and dumbfounded, when in the stead of only the volatile prince they were said to escort back to Westeros, he was accompanied by you. A woman. You had known they most likely thought you a whore at first glance, still clad in Lyseni silks.

They most likely thought he had bought you free from one of the pleasure houses. That he had liked you so much he intended to bring you back home with him and keep you as his personal courtesan.

Fortunately, they had been smart enough not to comment on it, only welcoming both Aerion and you onto the ship which would bring you back to the west. Otherwise, the ship would have had no one left to lead it back home.

The journey had been much too long and tedious for your liking. Spending several days and nights upon a rocking ship through storms and windy weather irritated you to no end. You had already missed the familiar heat of the Lyseni sun. Or the slight burn in the evening when you had stayed outside just a tad bit too long.

The fresh smell of the open sea transformed into the familiar, almost long forgotten, stench of the west once the boat finally docked. The thick and dense smell of the soil, the rot of the cities, such a stark contrast to the east.

The ship had docked in the haven of Stonehelm, the closest bay to Summerhall. After that had followed another days long journey by carriage, bringing the two of you from Stonehelm to Summerhall at last.

And so, here you were, stepping out of the carriage after Aerion, his hand in yours as he led you out of the confined space. It was cloudy, a state you had last seen the sky in years ago. And now, it seemed to be its default state. You had never been in Summerhall, so the towering castle was entirely new as you took it in while stepping out into the courtyard.

Your eyes roamed over it for a few moments while Aerion led you further forward, into the direction of where his father was already waiting, posture rigid as the elder man’s violet eyes, much like Aerion’s, fell on you.

Maekar greeted his son first, even pulling the man into a short embrace. Aerion had been gone for several years, after all. He pulled back, the palm of his hand lingering on the side of Aerion’s upper arm for a few seconds longer before falling to his side.

Then his eyes, filled with suspicion, landed on you.

“Who is this, Aerion?” he asked, voice laced in confusion and already flaring anger. Maekar knew his son. He knew nothing good would leave the prince’s lips in response to his question.

“This, father, is my wife.”

The words were said dripping with pride. You were his valyrian bride. Everything he had ever desired in life. He claimed you as his, as a dragon was born to. And you had given yourself to him willingly.

Maekar’s expression blanked before it quickly contorted back into anger.

“Your wife?” he repeated, tone sharp. “And does your wife have a name, son?”

“Y/N.” you cut in then, redirecting the prince of Summerhall’s attention to you. “Blackfyre. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

You spoke your family’s name with smugness, fully aware of what chaos it would cause. What weight it carried that Aerion, a prince of house Targaryen, had married you, a Blackfyre, in secret – without the permission of his father.

“Blackfyre?” Maekar practically growled, repeating the name while his lips curled in distain.

It was comical, almost. How similar yet different father and son were all the same. It was the exact same thing Aerion had first said once you had introduced yourself to him. An echo of your name. Only that Aerion’s had been laced in curiosity, surprise almost, while Maekar’s dripped in hatred.

A small smirk crept onto your face, which did not go unnoticed by the elder man.

His eyes snapped back to his son, his entire body vibrating with fury.

“Have you taken complete leave of your senses, boy!?” he snapped, keeping his voice low enough to not attract the attention of the entire courtyard. If he could, he would keep this under the wraps for all eternity.

“I send you to Lys, to reflect, to better yourself. And you come back with the exact same arrogance you carried when you left. And not only that, but you have married a Blackfyre. A blood traitor. Without consulting me once. What in the seven fucking hells has gotten into you?”

Before either you or Aerion could get a word in, he went on.

“And you have not only wed any Blackfyre. Of course it had to be the witch. Have you gone mad? Which Septon approved of this?”

His words did not deter you. You did not feel insulted, even though you possibly should have. The word witch was no bit belittling to you. In a way, you were what could be considered a witch. It amused you, rather, the outrage of the Anvil. A man said to be so strong, composed and focused in battle, reduced to a fuming mess by the fact that his son had wed the enemy.

As Maekar insulted you, however, Aerion’s own anger began to flare. He sensed that it did not bother you, he could see it in the calmness, bordering on amusement, on your features. The lack of tension in your shoulders.

But it irritated him. How his father had the audacity to disparage you. To talk down on you, his wife. His perfect valyrian bride. The woman who saw in him what no one else did. The woman who saw the truth of him.

“You will not speak in this manner of her, father. She is my wife. I chose her and married her in the ways of Old Valyria. She is a Targaryen by marriage – and therefore she deserves your respect.” Aerion hissed, his hand coming back to clutch onto yours, the grip so tight his knuckles turned white. The pressure of the grip stung slightly, yet not enough to truly hurt.

“My respect.” Maekar scoffed sharply in return. “This whore of yours does not have my respect. She will be sent back to her family, shall they decide whether to take her back or send her away once more.”

Aerion bristled at that. “She stays here. With me. I will kill everyone that as much as thinks about taking her from me. You know I will, father.”

As Maekar saw the sheer willpower in his son’s eyes. The possessiveness with which he clung to your hand, unwilling to let go of you, made him come to realize that there was no escape to this situation. He had discovered firsthand what Aerion was capable of back in Ashford. For long years, as the boy grew up, he had tried to bury it. Had tried to blame Aerion’s cruel acts against his siblings, the staff, even animals, on teenage foolery. On not knowing any better. But the events of Ashford had destroyed that illusion.

And now, as his son stood in front of him, his Blackfyre bride next to him with an irritating glint of pride and amusement in her eyes, Maekar’s anger ebbed away into worry. He knew that he would need to let you stay. That somehow, he would need to find a solution to whatever consequences came with this union. What would happen if children were to come out of this marriage.

Because if he did not, if he tried to do anything to you, Aerion’s rage would consume them all and he would leave nothing but ashes and ruins in his wake.

****

You settled in Summerhall over the following weeks. Aerion had been granted bigger chambers, which he now shared with you. He made sure you were always tended to, also ensuring no one that could pose a threat stepped too close to you. He did not trust his father’s words of acceptance to your presence. Not yet.

The inhabitants of the castle mostly avoided you. When you passed the maids and servants in the halls, they lowered their heads, walking just a tad bit faster. They were afraid, you found. Afraid of you. You were Aerion Brightflame’s wife. A Blackfyre. In their eyes, you could only be just as vain and cruel as him.

The other Targaryens stayed clear of your path as much as they could. At breakfasts and suppers, they were forced into your proximity. Fortunately for them, you preferred conversation with your husband.

Maekar always eyed you with wary eyes, as if he was just waiting for you to snap your jaws closed around one of their necks, revealing that this was all a tryst to get the Blackfyres closer to the Iron Throne. That you did not truly feel such deep affection for Aerion as you made it appear that you did.

Daeron was too drunk to pay close attention to you most days. His eyes strayed far from yours when you were in the same room, keeping his stare mostly downcast. He wished anything but to either attract your or Aerion’s rage for as much as looking at you.

The only time he had spoken to you was on one of your first nights in the castle. You had been wandering the halls at a rather late hour, and came across Daeron in a deserted hallway. His clothes had been crumpled and creased, the collar askew. His hair tousled and messy, dark rings under his eyes and the drunkenness clear in his posture.

His eyes had met yours, and he had said one thing. Only one thing.

“It was you. You killed the dragon.”

The words had left his lips slurred, barely comprehendible. But you had heard them nonetheless. You did not know the exact history of his words, but you were aware of the what they meant. You had heard that Daeron had what they called Dragon Dreams. Quite a few of your ancestors had had them as well.

The dragon. Baelor.

In his dreams, he had seen that it was you who was at fault for Breakspear’s death.

But he never mustered up the courage to tell anyone of that dream. He kept it to himself, never spoke of it. Not even to you, except on that one night.

Kiera of Tyrosh, Daeron’s wife – formerly Valarr’s – feared you. She had heard horrible stories and tales of the Blackfyres from her late and current husband’s lips. She had heard tales of you, in particular. The blood witch. That you were exiled for tampering with witchcraft.

And that you were Aerion’s wife only heightened it. While she had not spent much time in his presence while married to either Valarr or Daeron, she had seen and heard enough to know just what kind of man he was. What he believed himself to be. A dragon in human form. And by the way the two of you interacted, she saw that you encouraged that twisted mindset of his. You seemed to share it even.

But despite everyone’s fear and distaste for you and your presence at Summerhall, Aerion let none of it touch you. He would never dare to. He had sunken his claws deep into your skin, his wings sheltering you from anything that would come too close. Baring his teeth at anyone who tried.

He was a dragon. He knew it. You knew it. You told him so every day. Always with a soft caress over the side of his face, brushing the corner of his lips. Always with a tenderly whispered ñuha zaldrīzes. My dragon.

He was your dragon. And you were his treasured wife.

And dragons protect their treasures. With fire and blood.

song: black soul - shinedown

You weren’t stupid. You were very well aware of the fact that Aerion “Brightflame” Targaryen wasn’t a good man. He was cruel, arrogant and thought himself above everyone else. Seven hells, the man believed himself to be a dragon in human form. Aerion Targaryen was anything but a person you should put your trust in. He was someone you should fear. Many did.

And yet, you had found your best friend in him of all people.

You were the only daughter of Jena Dondarrion’s lady-in-waiting. The product of a union between two respectable houses of Westeros, which motivated Jena and her husband, Baelor, to take you in when both your mother and father fell victim to a harsh fever when you were only four years of age.

This ultimately led to you growing up among Baelor’s children and – inevitably – Maekar’s as well. And while, at first, it had seemed that you’d befriended Baelor’s elder son, Valarr, your childlike interest quickly transferred onto none other than Aerion. The child who, even at his young age, was already giving his father endless headaches.

Aerion loved to talk about dragons. All day and every day. And when he’d come up to you with two of his intricate little dragon figurines, excited to tell someone new their names and the stories he’d come up with for them, he’d gotten your undivided attention. And from then on, wherever he was, you weren’t far behind.

He hadn’t been as cruel back then. As a child, he’d possessed a certain warmth, at least towards you. While he made his distaste towards his cousins, Valarr and Matarys, quite apparent, as well as to his older brother, Daeron, he was always gentler with you. No one had been able to grasp the concept of it. He deemed Baelor’s sons unworthy. Disgraces. But you? He’d proudly called you a dragon just as he was in front of the entire court. And you carried absolutely no Targaryen-blood, unlike his cousins.

He’d even named one of the dragons in his collection of wooden figurines after you. He had come running up to you with a grin on his face which was unmistakeably and so typically him, presenting the little dragon to you as he animatedly explained to you that it carried your name. It was his way of calling you a part of his family. And coming from him, you considered it a great honour. This only strengthened the bond you’d already shared with him.

That was one of the reasons you hadn’t distanced yourself from him as the years passed and his childlike insolence turned into downright cruelty. His fascination into unhealthy obsession. His mind slipped further and further into his delusions, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to leave him behind. Or to search for friendship in someone else’s company. Despite the fact that Baelor and Jena always treated you like one of their own, like their daughter, it was Aerion that had truly made you feel like you belonged, like you deserved a place in the Keep. He was your brother, even if not by blood.

Therefore you made a habit of turning a blind eye to his wrongdoings, to the cruel words that rolled off his tongue much too easily. To all the hurt and hatred he spread around him. Even around you, he sometimes spit fire so hot you needed to intervene and calm him down, but he never directed the flames at you. He barely told you about the horrible things he’d done. It was like an unspoken agreement between the two of you, that such things were not to be discussed. At least not as long as it didn’t directly involve you.

But you would eventually hear about everything nonetheless. The court talked, and unfortunately, you heard excellently. Still, you remained by his side, loyal.

For the longest time, you were certain that there was nothing that could fracture the bond that you shared with Aerion. Your friendship had survived all his past deeds and his tyranny. You were sure that it could stay that way for much longer.

One single evening managed to prove you otherwise.

It was an evening like any other. You were spread out in one of the armchairs in Aerion’s chambers, turning one of his dragon figurines, old and worn down over the years, between your fingers. The one that he had named after you. He’d gifted it to you one day, and you’d kept it ever since. It had been coloured a deep red, its tiny wings spread out proudly, made to look like it was flying.

Aerion was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. He was silent, but you could hear the rattling and turning of his mind from where you were sitting. Just as you were about to ask him what was wrong, if there was anything he felt the need to share with you, a guard had knocked on the heavy wooden doors, announcing that the King demanded both your presences in the throne room.

Once the two of you arrived, you were met with the sight of King Daeron sat on the throne, accompanied by Baelor, Jena, Maekar and his eldest son, Daeron. The latter’s appearance was anything but appropriate for this type of royal meeting. His blond hair was a mess, his clothes askew in various places. His fingers trembled slightly, most likely from being denied any alcohol, no doubt having been ordered to show up sober. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, the lack of sleep clear as day on his face and in his slouched posture. For whatever reason the King had called you all here, it had to be important, given even Daeron was present. And sober at that.

“Thank you for joining me here.” the King eventually spoke up, tearing your eyes from Daeron to him.  

“I – we – have an announcement to make. One of great importance.” He continued, loosely gesturing to Baelor, Jena and Maekar when he said we. “A betrothal, to be specific.”

The word betrothal left a bitter taste in your mouth. Given that you were the only unmarried woman in this room made it quite apparent that it had to be yours. Otherwise, your presence wouldn’t have been required. You exchanged a wary glance with Aerion, who stood rigidly beside you, having come to the same conclusion.

“After a lot of discussion, we have come to the decision that Y/N is to be wed to Maekar’s first-born son, Daeron.”

It felt like the world had stopped for a few seconds. You wouldn’t be surprised if it actually did. The silence that followed the King’s statement was deafening. You’d been fully prepared to hear Aerion’s name fall past Daeron’s lips. It made the most sense, after all. For you to get married to Aerion. Baelor had told you more than once that you were arguably the only person that could hold a decent conversation with the young Targaryen.

And yet, you were now betrothed to his elder brother. The one you’d barely spoken a word to over the many years you’d now spent on this earth. Daeron the drunken, they called him.

“What?”

Aerion’s voice cut through the tense and suffocating silence like a knife, whose blade dripped in rage and disbelief. You glanced up at him, only to see that the fire in his eyes burned brighter than you’ve ever seen.

“Do you have any objections, boy?” Maekar asked in response, his voice sharp. Though it was more of a challenge, than a genuine question, to see if Aerion would dare and speak up against him. Against the King. On any other day, Maekar’s hard stare was enough to push down the fire bubbling in Aerion’s chest. The fire that would be released much later in his father’s absence.

But this time, even Maekar couldn’t tame Aerion’s rage.  

“You wish to marry her to him?” he all but spat, pointing a hand towards his older brother, who at this point almost cowered under the amount of attention that seemed to fall on him.

“He is a drunkard, a disgrace. All he does is drink himself into oblivion and bring nothing but shame onto this family. And you wish to wed him to someone like her? She is of honour, of grace. And you find it fitting to sully her reputation by letting him have her?”

He was about to go on, when Maekar’s voice, much louder this time, cut in. “Silence! I will hear no more from you. She will marry Daeron and that is final. You better find a way to come to terms with it. Or do not, I could not care less, but it will happen.”

You remained silent throughout the entire exchange, your eyes darting back and forth between your best friend and his father, eventually landing on your now betrothed, who looked like he wanted to disappear into the shadows behind him, never to be seen again. Though you almost felt bad for it, you couldn’t help but think that – for a prince – he looked utterly pathetic in this moment. Crumpled clothes, messy hair, a cowered posture and an expression on his face that screamed for help in the shape of a goblet of wine.

You snapped out of your mind when Aerion’s next words cut through the air. “Not if I can prevent it.”

The way the sentence fell from his lips sounded downright evil. You’d been witness to some of his cruel acts, fortunately far less than others. But this, you’d never heard him sound like this. His voice was full of burning hatred as he advanced towards his brother, his hand making quick way to unsheathe the dagger from where it had been strapped to the side of his belt.

At first, no one else moved. Either too slow to catch up on what was happening or unsure how to intervene in what would be prince against prince. The King’s Guards shuffled in their armoured boots, clueless on whether to protect one prince at the cost of possibly hurting another or to let it happen and possibly face the sentence of having not served their duty.

You weren’t sure what motivated you to move, but as the one closest to Aerion and Daeron, you did. Rushing to catch up with Aerion, you made it just in time to wrap your hands around the blade of his dagger, stopping it inches before it could pierce Daeron’s skin, possibly causing irreparable damage. Daeron staggered back slightly, eyes wide in surprise and fear, not once doubting that his younger brother would have the courage to kill him.

The sting of the blade against your skin was sharp, blood instantly beginning to trickle down between your fingers to your wrist, where part of it eventually got soaked up by the fabric of your sleeve.

You stared up at Aerion in desperation, who returned your stare with barely contained rage – now paired with shock at what you had done. “You protect him? You would put yourself between him and the blade that could save you from having to call someone like him your husband?”

The words were filled with disbelief and anger, this time directed at you. Never had he spoken to you in such a way.

“He is your brother, Aerion.” you snapped back, your grip on the blade not loosening, in fear he’d attempt to strike again, should the opportunity rise. “And save me? At what cost? Turning yourself into a kinslayer?”

Before any of you two could say more, Maekar and Baelor appeared at your sides. Maekar had a firm grip on his younger son, while Baelor helped you pry your fingers gently from the dagger, as to not cause more damage to the already broken skin. The blade was painted crimson, dripping slightly with your blood.

Maekar did not hesitate as he ripped the dagger from Aerion’s hand, handing it over to one of the guards, his other hand still tightly clutched in Aerion’s tunic to keep him locked in place. Baelor had begun to wrap a thin peace of fabric, a kerchief, most likely, around your bleeding hand. But you barely realized any of it. Your gaze was firmly locked onto Aerion, who was still seething with anger.

His eyes flickered around the room once more before he fought himself free of his father’s grip, turning and storming out of the throne room at once, leaving a suffocating silence behind.

Had it been any other circumstance, you would have most likely been right on Aerion’s heels, following him down the hallways of the Keep until you’d arrived in his chambers, only to try and quench his rage with soothing words. And a big part of you wanted to, felt the need to run after him. To try and pick up what felt to be the shattered pieces of the bond you once shared with him.

But then you spared a glance at Daeron. He still stood a few inches away from you, practically trembling all over. You stepped out of the hold Baelor still had on your injured hand and closed the distance between you and Daeron, stopping right in front of him.

That was the first time you chose someone else over Aerion Targaryen.

Hesitantly, you took ahold of one of his hands, his fingers cold as ice against yours. With a gentle pull, you guided him to sit on the steps by the throne. He sat down without any objection whatsoever. For what seemed like the first time that evening, he looked up to meet your eyes.

Even his voice shook slightly as he spoke up, barely above a whisper. “Are you alright? You- Your hand…” he reached out, gently bringing your injured hand over to rest in his lap. The white kerchief wrapped around the cut was starting to turn red from the blood that slowly soaked through the fabric.

He looked like he wanted to say so much more, but couldn’t bring himself to. And despite never having really interacted with him, a part of you wished to hear what he wanted to say, because you knew barely anyone listened to him. Truly listened to him. You would.

A maester arrived shortly after, leading you away to properly take care of the wound on your hand. He disinfected the cut with a few drops of alcohol, before tightly wrapping it with some type of bandage.

Several days passed after that. You spent the majority of it in your chambers. You didn’t really feel like facing anyone. Baelor and Jena had come to spend a meal with you sometimes, but other than that, you mostly remained alone. You preferred it that way.

When it had been a week, you found yourself walking down the corridors of the Red Keep, into the direction of Aerion’s chambers. You hadn’t seen him in seven whole days. The two of you had never been separated than maybe one or two days at a time. No matter how busy your days became, you always found a way to steal a few moments together. But now, it seemed so far away, like it would never happen again.

You halted at one end of a corridor, where the stone hallways led into two different directions. The left one you knew by heart, the way to Aerion’s chambers, where you’d spent so much of your life. Almost every evening you could be found in his room, talking with him about anything and everything. The two of you barely ever ran out of topics to talk about.

The right one, you’d never used, but you knew it led to Daeron’s room. The man who you were to be bound to in the matter of a few moons, quite probably.

You had come here with the intention to speak with Aerion – and hopefully mend the friendship that was sure to heavily fractured, if not completely broken.

But your feet carried you down the right corridor before you could think.

The second time you’d chosen someone else over Aerion.

You came to a stop in front of the heavy wooden doors separating you from Daeron’s chambers. Three guards had been stationed outside the door. Usually, there were two guards in front of the royal chambers, one on each side. They must’ve taken safety precautions to protect the prince from his own brother.

As soon as the guards caught sight of you, one of them announced your presence to Daeron, before holding open the chamber doors for you to enter.

The prince barely looked up when you walked into his room, the heavy doors falling shut behind you. He was sat on the fur carpet in front of the crackling fireplace, his upper back against the front of an armchair. In one of his hands, he clutched a half-empty cup of wine, the already empty carafe discarded somewhere on the floor next to him.

“I think you might be in the wrong chambers, my lady.” his smooth voice interrupted the strangely comfortable silence. You took the liberty to step further into his chambers, stopping by the armchair he was sat in front of.

“No.” you replied softly, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see it. “I am where I intended to be.” you added, even if it was technically only half the truth.

You watched as Daeron gulped down the last few sips that remained in his cup before setting it on the carpet next to him.

“Why do you drink so much?” the question tumbled past your lips before you could stop it, and for half a second, you contemplated apologizing profusely and taking it back.

“I… I know you have dreams. Baelor and Aerion have told me a few times.” you rushed to add instead. “And that they aren’t pleasant, most of the time.” you paused.

“Is that why you do it? To forget about the dreams?” you asked. Your voice remained soft and hesitant, not wanting him to feel pressured or threatened to provide you with answers he wasn’t willing to give.

He didn’t answer for what almost seemed like an eternity, when it most likely only were a few moments.

“I don’t know what my uncle and my brother have told you about my dreams.” he started then, his eyes still firmly locked onto the fire. From the reflection of the light, you could see that his eyes were slightly wet, as if even the mere mention of his dreams caused him pain.

“But they’re not dreams as you know them. Night terrors that you can brush off once you wake. Mine come true.” his voice broke lightly towards the end. You moved to sit down on the floor next to him, feeling the slight warmth of the fireplace touching your skin.

“There have been others like me in our bloodline. Targaryens that see the future in their sleep. But unlike them, I only seem to see death and destruction. Some nights- some nights I can barely handle it-“

“You do not have to talk about it, if you do not wish to.” you cut in, wanting to make sure he wouldn’t need to talk about the things that haunt him awake and asleep. “But if you think it might help to share your pain, I’m more than willing to listen.” you added.

He stayed quiet for another while after that, as if to gather his thoughts. Then, the words started spilling from his mouth in unstoppable waves. He told you about the horrors he faced each night, each time he closed his eyes. That so many things he’d dreamed of had come true. And that he’d seen things that frightened him to no end. Things that hadn’t happened yet, but surely would. At one point, a few tears had even escaped his eyes, trickling down his cheeks and glinting in the reflection of the fire.

“The alcohol… it drowns it out. At least for a little while. If I drink until I pass out, the sleep is dreamless, and I can rest. Sometimes… sometimes I wish I wouldn’t have to resort to it. But it helps me sleep.” he admitted then, answering your initial question.

You nodded along, making sure he knew you were listening to every word he was saying. Even you felt close to crying. The thought that he suffered this much, only because he had been cursed with prophetic dreams, it pained you. You remembered him from when you were only children. You hadn’t talked to him much, even back then. But he was so much brighter back then, still so full of life. Before his dreams started haunting him.

Fully seeing now what that bright young boy had transformed into was truly tragic.

“I understand.” you eventually spoke up. “I know they don’t. I know the only thing they see is you way too deep in your cups. And it probably doesn’t change anything, but just know that I understand you. I might not have the dreams you do, so I cannot know what it feels like. But I think… I think I too would resort to alcohol, if I knew it helped me. If it quietened by mind.”

One corner of his lips twitched upwards slightly, into a sad smile. “Thank you.” the words left him barely above a whisper.

The string between you and Aerion may have been severed. Time would only tell if it snapped completely or if there was a chance at saving it.

But you knew in that moment, that a new bond had been formed. Still fresh and weak, but with great potential to grow strong and bright.

It was early morning, the air still cold and damp. And yet, the people of Ashford were already bustling with nervousness and excitement. After all, no one in these stands had ever witnessed a spectacle such as the one that was about to take place on their own grounds. 

A trial of seven.

Under any other circumstances, such things would be carried out with a trial by combat. Two knights who would fight until one yielded, or died. But your dear brother had insisted on his right to host a fight of seven against seven. A centuries old tradition that had been brought across the narrow seas by the andals. It had long since been practiced for the last time.

He’d most likely suggested it to escape the fate of having to fight the hedge knight by himself, with a chance of not making it out alive. Aerion was no ill fighter. He knew his way around a sword. But he was not one to risk his head when he knew there was a chance for his certain victory.

So a trial of seven it was. Aerion, of course, had his champions ready at a snap of his fingers. Your father, Maekar, as well as your brother, Daeron, had stepped up to fight for him. Though you were convinced that Daeron hadn’t come willingly, most likely forced to by Maekar. What had went through your father’s head while making that decision was beyond you. Surely he knew that Daeron would not be of any help? The man was as good at fighting as he was at staying sober. You guessed it was more for the illusion of unity, than anything else. Three of the most trusted members of the King’s Guard had been called as well. Who his seventh champion would be, you did not know. But you did not doubt that Aerion would have one at ready.

You sat in the saddle of your horse a good distance away from the rest of your family – on Duncan’s side, to be specific. Your armour was carefully chosen to not portray any crests that could betray your true identity. Your silver hair, the colour you shared with your brother, was carefully put up to be hidden beneath your helmet. The whole armour was more or less of simple appearance, as to not raise suspicion.

If anyone were to know that a woman – a princess of house Targaryen no less – was to compete in this trial, all hell would break loose. You’d had half a heart to deny your brother when he’d come running to you, begging you to help his friend and master, Ser Duncan the Tall, in his trial against your own twin. You did intend to turn him down, but the deep desire to partake in the tourney – which you had been denied of – had returned. You’d pleaded with your father over and over to let you disguise yourself as a man. He’d cursed at you like a sailor before making it abundantly clear that you were not to participate in the tourney. And Maekar Targaryen was not a man whose bad side you wanted to be on, no matter if you were of his own blood or not.

But this? This was an opportunity handed to you on a silver platter. You were very well aware that this was not a matter to be taken lightly. It would be life or death on that field on the morrow. But that thrill of the fight, the weight of the sword in between your fingers, it made you unable to step back from such a chance.  

The fact that you’d been witness to the incident in the tent of the puppet show only strengthened your belief at the right to partake in this. You’d seen how they had portrayed a dragon being slain by a simple knight. You’d felt the rage radiating off your twin as he stood beside you, posture rigid. You’d understood him to a certain extent. Portraying the death of a creature so sacred to the royal family could be considered one of the highest of treasons.

And yet, you couldn’t have found it in yourself to care less. It was simply a puppet show, for gods’ sake, not the end of the world. But for Aerion, it was. He was proud of the dragon blood which flowed through his veins, as were you. But to him, it held so much more significance. So much more meaning. Watching the spectacle that was simple and harmless entertainment to any other was an insult to everything he believed in. Everything he believed himself to be.

And so, a tourney at which you were simply intended to properly meet to your future husband, albeit reluctantly, had turned into a disaster that could not be reversed.

Your hand was placed atop the hilt of your sword, the palm of your hand carefully covering the dragonhead which was engraved into the pommel, the only thing that could expose who you truly were.

You looked around you, taking in the champions that had decided to join Ser Duncan in his cause. Ultimately, you sighed, something akin to disappointment rushing through you. Not only were you one champion short, but the knights he’d achieved to get in his favour were quite… pathetic, to say the least. A bunch of quite interesting looking fellows, most likely useless in such a fight.

You weren’t very keen on admitting it, but the only man who would even nearly stand a chance against the likes of your family was Lyonel Baratheon, who not only seemed to have formed quite the friendship with Ser Duncan, but was also your betrothed. The man you were supposed to marry in a few moons time. And here you were, bound to fight side by side with him to protect the fate of a hedge knight who’d managed to anger a prince of house Targaryen.

And he didn’t even know about it. All of the men on this field would believe you to be a simple knight with no name of importance. All except Aegon, or Egg, as he called himself, who’d been the one to convince you to fight in this trial. Although he did not need to do much convincing in the first place.

Men would die today, possibly at your hand, and you felt a small rush of excitement at the thought.

The gods would damn you surely for your train of thought, yet a part of you couldn’t help but hope that the Lord Baratheon would fall to his demise today. His death would free you from the chains of a fate you did not wish to be bestowed onto yourself.

You’d been beside yourself with rage when the betrothal had first been announced to you by your grandsire, the king. You, a young and youthful princess of dragon blood, to be bound to a man many years your senior. A Baratheon, no less. An arranged marriage such as this only meant one thing for a woman; being forced to bend, to submit to your dear lord husband, while he turned his wife into nothing more than an obedient little broodmare, good for nothing but the production of heirs. It was a fate you refused to meet.

You wouldn’t let a stag conquer a dragon. It was not the way nature intended.

You were snapped out of the depths of your mind when a loud commotion erupted beside you. As it turned out, Ser Steffon Fossoway, who had been so kind to gather most of the champions for Duncan, had turned his back on him in the last minute, having been offered something more enticing by your brother.

Thankfully, the traitor’s little brother, Raymun, you believed his name was, seemed to be more than willing to fight on the half-giant’s side. Lyonel had offered to knight the young boy, all while the rest of you rode ahead onto the jousting field, where the trial was to take place.

You sighed once more under your helmet. This was bound to get interesting.

Aerion now had his seven champions, while Duncan remained one short. The hedge knight proceeded to deliver a speech even a lord of the highest ranks most likely would not have been able to portray with such determination. Such passion. It was admirable, to say the least.

Yet, no one dared to heed his courageous call. Everyone remained in their seats, like the cowards they were. You guessed Ser Duncan was right, there were no true knights among them.

Just as all hope seemed lost, as it seemed that your twin would automatically win, the heavy wooden doors opened behind all of you, creating a deafening echo. In rode a man clad in black and red, the three headed dragon loud and proud on the chest plate. Given the appearance of the armour, your first instinct was to assume that it was your cousin, Valarr, who had made such a sudden and unexpected entrance. But even in your wildest dreams, you could not come up with a reason as to why he would come to the hedge knight’s rescue.

Only when the mysterious dragon knight removed the helmet, it all made sense to you. Your uncle, Baelor – the heir to the Iron Throne – came to a halt beside you. He spoke with determination and confidence when he stated that he would take Ser Duncan’s side, as the young man only did his duty as a knight. Protect the innocent.

And after a short but heated discussion with your father, who’d stared at his own brother in nothing but rage and disbelief, everyone was called to get in position.

After handing the hedge knight his lance, Aegon fetched another one, jogging up to where you stood at one end of the terrain. He gave you another thankful yet nervous nod, handing you the lance, which you took without so much as a word. Speaking would put you at risk of being discovered, so you refrained from doing it. When Duncan’s champions had questioned your silence just barely a few moments before, Aegon had been quick to speak up for you. He’d come up with some made-up name for you, along with ensuring them that you were a capable and honourable fighter.

You fixed your stare ahead, staring at who would be your opponent in the first charge, before this fight would no doubt descend into chaos. You knew your twin, he was your own blood – your twin flame. Destruction was in his nature, as it was in yours. Only that it expressed itself differently in either of you.

On the opposite end of the field, you could make out the silhouette of your elder brother, Daeron. You almost felt disappointed. You’d hoped for someone from the King’s Guard, or the Fossoway fellow. You’d unhorse them without so much as a doubt -  and you surely would not hesitate to drive your sword through their necks, should the opportunity arise. But your own brother, as much of an embarrassment he often proved himself to be, you couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him dead.

He’d been a bright young boy in his earlier years, before he was haunted by his nightly terrors of the future. The bond between the two of you had been much stronger once. You guessed it was only right that he would charge against you. You could unhorse him without causing irreparable damage, just enough to knock him out. Not much force would be needed to achieve that.

The horn sounded before you could contemplate more. You clicked the heels of your boots into the side of your stallion, sending him reeling forward at lightning speed. Daeron’s horse appeared to take a moment longer to take off – and your lance met his right past the middle of the lane, knocking him clean off his horse. Down the field, six other collisions followed, sending several people to the ground, only few remaining in their saddles.

You turned your horse around at the end of the list, taking in the damage that was already done. You did not know why, but your eyes searched for the golden helmet with the pompous antlers first. You found him laying on the ground, his horse dead beside him. He did not move at first, and despite your earlier thoughts, you felt a tiny twinge inside you, your mind urging for the stag to get back on its legs.

Against your own will, you found yourself sighing in relief when, albeit a bit wobbly at first, he got back to his feet just in time to fend off a strike meant to finish him.

You pulled on the reins of your horse once more, sending him galloping into the direction of one of the King’s Guard, who’d just taken down Ser Beesbury. Seeing and hearing you approach, he lifted his sword just in time to meet yours, escaping a blow that certainly would’ve been fatal. The fight continued, with you eventually ending on the ground as well, pushing the Guard off you and into the mud, dirtying up the pristine white of his armour.

The Baratheon had been right. Seeing the sullied white of the King’s Guard’s gowns, as he had referred them to, was truly a sight to behold.

You were just about to deliver the final blow, sword raised above your head, when out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flash of gold and black. A struggling flash of gold and black. Averting your gaze from the almost passed-out King’s Guard beneath you, you caught sight of your betrothed, struggling against another one of the White-Cloaks.

Of the antlers that had once adorned each side of his helmet, only short stumps remained. The sight was almost sad.

A stag without its antlers like a king without his crown.

He continued to fight fiercely, but you could tell that the King’s Guard was gaining the upper hand, sending him staggering back further and further. It would not take long for him to overpower Lyonel. Again, it shouldn’t have bothered you. Just minutes before, you’d silently hoped for the man to die today, save you from a marriage you did not want. But as you watched the man who was meant to be your husband slowly lose against a man who was technically sworn to you, the night just two days past came rushing back to you.

The meeting had been arranged by your father, Maekar. And so you sat in the dining hall of Ashford castle, where your family had been able to reside during the tourney. Alone with your future lord husband after your father left with a chaste kiss to your forehead. He may have been a man of coldness, barely harbouring any warmth. But he still cherished you as his eldest daughter.

You hadn’t said so much as a word since the Baratheon had entered. You’d have to give it to him, his looks certainly worked in his favour. Despite being quite a few years your senior, he’d certainly aged like a fine wine, rather than milk gone sour. You’d internally cursed at yourself for such thoughts.

His curls, which undoubtedly had once been the hereditary pitch black, had turned paler with strands of silver over the years. As did his beard. But it suited him. He wasn’t the old and fat lord you had expected when King Daeron had first told you that you were to wed The Laughing Storm. He was a tall man with a lean but muscular build, befitting for the formidable fighter he was told to be.

Your eyes never once strayed from his. You wouldn’t let him think that he’d have the upper hand. He would not overpower you, no matter how much he’d try. If this man was to be your husband, you would let him know that you would not bend or break for him. You carried the blood of the dragon, and he’d do well to remember that. One wrong word our touch, and you’d make sure the man would regret ever having agreed to this proposal of marriage.

You took notice of how the man had not dared to touch the cup of wine that had been placed in front of him by one of the servants. You’d heard stories of how much the man before your enjoyed and revelled in festivities, never shying away from one cup too much of ale, wine or anything along the lines. A sentiment you could return with fervour. A good cup of wine, paired with music and the right company was always a delight.

Yet, his cup remained untouched.

It was him that eventually broke the tense silence that had settled between the two of you, his voice deep and raspy, yet smooth and not at all unpleasant to listen to.

“So, princess. I’ve heard you too are an appreciator of a good fest?” he inquired, sounding genuinely interested.

You had to keep your facial expression in check in response to his unexpected question. You’d been sure he would start spewing all kinds of expectations and demands he’d have of you once the two of you were married. That you do as he says, or that an heir would be the number one priority.

And yet, he asked you about something as common as your enjoyment of festivities. A strange man indeed.

“I am.” you responded curtly, not yet ready to let your guard down. One question in your favour was not enough to gain your trust.

“Well, that is good. I would very much enjoy to have a woman by my side than can keep up with me.” the words were said lightly, with an amused tone to them. As if this conversation held no further weight to it than a joyous exchange, rather than a conversation between two people who would soon be wed, bound for all eternity.

You titled your head in slight curiosity. This conversation was taking on a shape you weren’t quite prepared for. You’d been ready to rain hell upon him, spit fire like the dragons on your crest, to make it abundantly clear that you would not surrender to him.

And now, he was talking about how he wished for a woman who shared his love for a good drink and party. Something so trivial. As if you were commoners who could marry out of love, rather than duty and politics.

“So your expectations of your wife are an appreciation for festivities?” you asked, your tone challenging, almost daring. It was like you wanted to pry his true intentions, his actual desires out of him.

And the man opposite you was no fool. He knew exactly what game you were playing. Your sharp gaze, much like the one of a snake, observant and preying. And while he could have played along, indulged you and pretend to be the man you’d already made him out to be in your head, he felt no desire to do such a thing.

Lyonel was a man full of humour and energy. But when it came to matters such as this, he preferred blatant honesty. He had no ill intent towards you and your future marriage. And he wanted you to know that.

“I do not expect anything, princess.” he started, a statement that sounded like nothing but held more weight to it than it first seemed. “When I heard that you were a dragon that loves to dance, which was after our union was decided, I was delighted. Well, as much as I could be, considering I too am not necessarily thrilled by this union. I sensed it could be shared interest. Something that could connect us to not be completely miserable in each other’s company.” he paused, giving you a chance to speak up, should you desire to do so.

You remained silent, sensing there was more he wished to say.

“As for expectations, I want to make it clear that I have none. The realm will expect us to produce heirs-“ he paused once more, already feeling you practically bristle in your seat at even the mention. “but, I will not force anything upon you, as long as you are not ready. Seven hells, as if I am. I do not know what kind of rumours and stories you have heard of me. But undermining and making women bend to my will is not in my nature. Much rather, I would make my men bend to yours. Although I do not doubt you could do so yourself.”

You hesitated for a few moments, silence settling between the two of you once more.

“So you do not expect me to surrender to you, as your wife? I find that hard to believe.”

“I am no monster. I wish to have someone at my side that will see eye to eye to me. Someone that has no fear to speak up against me, should I come up with an idea of utmost idiocy. You, my princess, I believe are that kind of woman. Not afraid to show her teeth. And bite, should it be necessary.”

It was rare that you did not know what to say. But you were rendered speechless at his words. He spoke them with such honesty and determination, there was barely a way to doubt them.

“You know what? Join me in my tent in two days’ time. I will host another celebration. Let us drink, talk and dance. And let me show you that I am not the horrible man you have already made me out to be. That I am your equal, rather than above you. And maybe, we can find common ground, despite being displeased by this match.” he offered then, staring at you with kind honesty, even if his eyes held the smallest bit of humour to them. A glint that never quite seemed to disappear.

Due to the debacle with your twin and Ser Duncan, said gathering had unfortunately not been able to take place, interrupted by the duty that called both of you to this fight. You still hadn’t been sure whether to believe him and his words. That he truly was the honourable man he tried to convince you he was.

But now, watching him fight so valiantly for a simple hedge knight, for a cause that would not bring him any advantage whatsoever, it twisted something inside you. He had joined this fight, willing to give his life for a man he’d met mere days ago and developed a fleeting friendship with. Ser Duncan was not of high birth, or some kind of lord. He was nothing more than a commoner with no name. But still, The Laughing Storm had decided to join his side, defend the man’s honour.

The next blow from the White-Cloak knocked him on his back, mud staining the back of his golden armour. The King’s Guard had officially gained the upper hand. If he so wished, which he undoubtedly did, he could kill Lyonel without much trouble.

You didn’t know what came over you, but something in you couldn’t let that happen.

You knocked the hilt of your sword against the side of the helm of the man beneath you, effectively knocking him out. With fast strides, you surged into Lyonel’s direction. You twisted the handle of your sword between your fingers, adjusting the grip once more clashing the blade against the King’s Guard’s, right before it could come down on the Baratheon.

Using all your strength, you turned your sword to lead the blade away from Lyonel. As soon as your blade was above the White-Cloak’s, you brought it down, knocking him off balance for a few seconds. You used the opportunity to drive your sword into the Guard’s side, right into the gape of the armour. You pushed forward, burying the blade deeper and distancing the man from your betrothed.

It took a lot of strength, given the man before you was trained his whole life to fight, unlike you, who had only scarcely been allowed to partake in sword-fighting lessons along with your brothers as a child. All your other skills were attained by training in secret – mostly in the dead of night. But the wound in his side weakened him enough for you to push him into the dirt, retracting your sword with a sickening sound of opened flesh. The man below you groaned in pain as the blood began to spill from his wound.

You turned your back on him, returning to Lyonel, who still laid on the ground, no doubt injured. You said nothing, but held out your hand for him to hold onto, an offer of help to get him back on his feet. He accepted gladly, and with surprising strength, you pulled him back onto his legs.

“Thank you.” he said, voice breathless and laced in barely contained pain as he clutched a hand at his side.

You only nodded in response.

It was over his shoulder that you could see two Targaryen armours, entangled in an intense fight. Baelor and Maekar. A good distance off, Aerion and Duncan too were engaged in a vicious battle, a tangle of limbs and swords. And it seemed like Duncan was about to lose. Aerion had stabbed into him with his sword repeatedly, weakening the young knight to a point where it would not take much longer for him to die.

Logically, you would come to his aid next. Help the hedge knight win against your brother, as he was so clearly losing. But your eyes drifted back to your father and uncle. Their fight was taking on dimensions that were far too dangerous. Would this continue any longer, one of them was bound to die at the hand of the other.

Your father was hardened by the years, mostly cold and distance, his warmth long since having been extinguished. Yet, you wouldn’t want to see him die – especially not at the hands of his own brother. And Baelor, while only your uncle, was possibly one of the most honourable men you’d ever had the chance to come across.

Whenever Maekar had failed to be a father to you, Baelor had treated you like his own. You were undoubtedly his favourite out of Maekar’s children. He liked the fire you carried. It burned bright, like Aerion’s did. Yet while his only held cruelty and destruction, yours held care in it as well.

So you knew you had to intervene when you took notice that the two were too caught up in the intensity of this trial, fighting for victory and forgetting the regret and guilt that would swallow them, should their brother die at their hands.

The third of the King’s Guard had joined Maekar against Baelor. While the White-Cloak could not severely harm or kill your uncle because of his oath, he could still aid Maekar. The latter would just have to be the one to deliver the killing blow.

And just before you reached the two, you saw how your father lifted his mace to do just that, too deep in his own anger to realise he was about to murder his own brother. His own blood.

There was no way you could stop the blow of your father’s mace, his strength overpowering yours, so you did the best thing you could come up with in the matter of a few seconds. You shoved at Baelor with all the force you could muster, sending him staggering away a few feet. Your eyes locked onto your father then, fully prepared to take the blow for your uncle.

But the impact never came. Your eyes moved to meet your father’s own, seeing them widened in recognition. You swallowed thickly. He knew.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then the horn echoed across the field, announcing the end of the trial. You were fully prepared to turn and see Ser Duncan dead and bleeding in the mud. Instead, he knelt in front of the stand, holding your bloodied brother to his chest, who repeated “I yield.” over and over.

The following hours passed by in a daze. The Targaryen family – including you – returned to Ashford castle, where you were all tended to by Maesters. Aerion had suffered the worst fate of all. A deep cut through his inner thigh, his face beaten and bloodied. The rest of you had gotten away with a few sprains and cuts.

You had taken a different path back to the castle, still in the hope that maybe your father could be deceived to only having imagined you on that field. But the cuts on your face would give you away.

You had been tended to by a maester in your own chambers, away from the rest of your family. Not long after the maester left, a servant had come to tell you that your father demanded your presence right this instant. You obliged, using the strands of your hair to cover the cuts on one side of your face. A pathetic attempt at disguise.

You hadn’t even fully entered the room when your father’s voice reached your ears, dripping in barely contained rage. “What the fuck were you thinking?!” he exclaimed, staring at you with blazing anger and disbelief.

“Sneaking into a trial, disguised as a knight? Against your own family, no less! I nearly killed you, for fuck’s sake.”

“You were too caught up in your anger, in the fight. You would’ve killed your brother. You would’ve never forgiven yourself.” you returned, voice uncharacteristically quiet for you.

“And you think I could’ve forgiven myself if I murdered you, my own daughter? Without knowing it was her in the first place?” he shouted right back. You had barely ever seen your father be consumed by such rage. “What could have possibly possessed you to think this was a good idea?”

You took a breath, pondering over how to answer this. “Aegon came to me-“

“That little-“ Maekar started, a new wave of anger overcoming him already, this time directed at his youngest son.

“No. Do not blame him, father.” you cut in, shaking your head. “It is not Aegon’s fault. He may have approached me with the idea, but I could’ve turned it down. I should have. But I chose not to.”

“And why – pray tell – didn’t you?”

“You know I wished to participate in the tourney. You didn’t let me. This was an opportunity to show my worth, even if no one were to know it was me.”

He scoffed in utter disbelief and disappointment. “So you did this for what? Sport? Fun?”

“Essentially, yes.” you nodded, not even bothering to deny it. “But I also saved several lives in the process. Who knows whether you or uncle Baelor would still be alive, hadn’t I intervened. And my betrothed would most likely be dead as well. So really, I spared us all from a worse fate.”

Maekar let out a breath, clearly trying to not lash out at you once more. “Even so, you put yourself at risk. What would we have done if you were killed today, huh? A princess too insolent to follow her father’s orders, disguising herself as a man to partake in a trial. Only to die at the hands of her own father.”

“But I didn’t die. So does it really matter?” you asked in return.

“Yes, it does.” he exclaimed once again. “It does matter.” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shook his head. “Get out of my sight, daughter. Even looking at you enrages me too much in this moment.” You were just about to say something else, but one more harsh look from your father silenced you.

The fresh air which filled your nose as you stepped outside felt healing, almost. You walked down the paths of Ashford Meadow, no specific direction in mind. But it seemed your subconscious knew where it wanted to lead you as you came to a halt in front the big and pompous tent, draped in gold and black. The crowned stags everywhere to be seen, either painted into the outside of the tents flaps, or carved out of wood on top of it.

Albeit hesitantly, you stepped inside, only moving the yellow flap aside the slightest bit to allow you to enter. You were instantly met with a groan as the flap fell closed behind you, cutting out the rest of the world.

You walked further inside the tent, following the sound of the continuous muffled grunts and groans of pain, no doubt coming from Lyonel. The sounds led you to another flap, which divided his private chambers from the main hall of the tent.

You took a breath, hesitating for another second before calling out. “Lord Lyonel?”

The rustling and the pained sounds stopped abruptly. After a few seconds of silence, a “Come in.” reached your ears.

You pushed the flaps to the side, entering the lord’s private chambers.

Lyonel stared at you with a look you couldn’t quite decipher, dismissing the maester with a wave of his hand. The elder man bowed once in respect, to both Lyonel and you, before disappearing back into the main hall behind you.

You were just about to say something, but Lyonel cut you off.

“Thank you.”

Your brows furrowed. “Whatever do you mean?” you asked in return, trying to play it off. There was no way he could know.

“It was courageous of you. Albeit incredibly foolish and stupid as well. But you saved my life. And I will forever be thankful to you for that. If it weren’t for you, I’d surely be dead.” he lifted the cup in his hand to you in a show of gratitude, before gulping down a hefty amount of the alcohol. Most likely to numb the pain of his injuries.

You sighed. “How’d you know?” you asked eventually.

“Your eyes are not easy to forget, princess. And you looked at me pretty clearly when you helped me up from the dirt.”

Your eyes furrowed. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” 

“It is an observation, more than anything.” he paused for a few moments. “I must ask though… why did you help me? It was the perfect opportunity to let me die. To safe you from a marriage we both aren’t thrilled about. So why didn’t you?” There was genuine curiosity in his voice.

“I considered it.” you started, not quite sure how to answer his question, ultimately deciding on blunt honesty. “A part of me hoped that you’d die today. But when I saw Ser Donnel about to strike you down… I don’t know.” you trailed off towards the end.

“I couldn’t let it happen. I reckon that – compared to other lords I could be wed off to – you are one of the more honourable ones. I do not know if the things you have told me two nights ago are truthful – or if you’ve only sold me lies to make me more fond of you. But if they are the truth, there could be much worse fates in terms of marriage than you.”

The wedding took place four moons later, when the whole uproar of the situation had calmed down. Upon your wishes, the ceremony was held in King’s Landing, your home, before you were to leave it for Storm’s End.

Ser Duncan had been taken under Baelor’s service, and Aegon took the position as his squire, something your younger brother was incredibly thrilled about. While Maekar had disliked the whole idea at first, he quickly came to realize that Duncan was a good man – and that his son was therefore in very good and capable hands.

Aerion was enraged, quite obviously. But under the watchful stare of your father, he pulled himself together and swallowed down the rage he wanted so spit at anyone around him.

And you were now officially a married woman. A Baratheon. The thought still made you scrunch up your nose. Admittedly, you’d been married for barely a few hours. But the gold and black you were draped in, rather than the deep Targaryen red, already made you want to retch.

You sat beside your husband at the high table as everyone feasted on the endless amounts of food and drinks. You poured yourself another cup of wine, too impatient to wait until one of the servants did it, downing the alcoholic beverage in a matter of seconds.

Lyonel chuckled beside you, a tad bit impressed. “Careful, wife. Wouldn’t want you tumbling out of your chair before the night is over.”

“Fuck off.” you retorted as you set the now empty cup back down on the table.

He only laughed again in response. He may have been just as displeased as you when this union had first been announced. And he had to admit that you were quite the troublesome little dragon. Full of spite and stubborn as a mule. But he too came to the realization that he quite enjoyed the fire you spit. It was entertaining.

He’d feared that you would be one of those prim and proper little princesses before he’d met you for the first time. That you would only sit by his side and nod at everything he said. So when he’d first caught wind of the fact that you enjoyed a good party, just like he did, he saw potential for something more than a union forged from only duty and politics. And now, as he watched you down the entire cup of wine like it was water, cursing him out right after in response to his teasing, he knew that he would grow to like you very much.

As a new song came on, he held a hand out to you in a silent offer. “A dance, lady-wife?” he asked, his voice dripping in his typical charm.

You stared him down in return, eyes sceptical and cautious. But he already knew that he had you in his clutches. You liked a good party – and you liked to dance. So he was fairly certain you would not miss out on his offer, no matter how much you still disliked him. Which was much less than he realized – not that you’d ever admit it.

With a sigh of feigned reluctance, you placed your hand in his, letting him guide you towards the middle of the hall, where lots of other people were dancing as well.

Now, at any other wedding, the freshly married couple would dance to a slow song, hands joined and in a smooth and steady rhythm, to truly celebrate your union.

But such a thing could not be said for you and Lyonel.

It started of fairly normal, yet after a few minutes, simply to aggravate you, the man proceeded to step on your foot, albeit only lightly. Your eyes snapped up to meet his, fire blazing in them. He gazed back at you in innocence, as if nothing had happened. You decided to ignore it.

But only moments later, he did it again, harsher this time, but still not enough to even remotely harm you. This time, when you took in the expression on his face, you saw the corner of his lips twitch upwards in the slightest, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Lyonel.” you hissed in warning.

A deep chuckle vibrated through his chest. “What is it, spitfire? Can’t handle the heat?”

The words came out in his typical rasp, teasing and challenging at the same time. You found you quite liked the sound of his voice when he spoke like that. Even if the words itself annoyed you to no end.

“Oh I will show you heat, old man.” you snapped back quietly, the words only having holding half as much malice as you’d like to admit.

You moved your foot to step on his, to return the favour. But clearly having expected you to do just that, he moved out of your way elegantly. Too caught up in your annoyance, you gave him the chance to do it once again, a low laugh escaping him when the fire in your eyes only flared brighter.

It quickly turned into a game – a dance across the entire hall as the two of you engaged in your little fight. Your father only watched on, fed up and with barely contained horror.

Yet, when he saw the grin that had appeared on your face halfway through your more than childish display with your now lord-husband – as you finally managed to step down on his foot as well, he was able to take a breath and calm himself. The crowd seemed to enjoy this different type of “first dance”, if you could call it that.

He had known the match had angered you, enraged you even. He knew he’d most likely never hear the end of your complaints and your rage at being sold off to the Stormlands. He himself had been worried. Your temper flared hotter than your twin’s at times. And he feared the wrong man would turn violent against you for such insolence and try and break you down until nothing of your fire remained.

But as he watched how The Laughing Storm engaged with you, he found the confidence to say that he indeed had picked the right man for you. Someone who would meet your fire, rather than extinguish it. Someone who would meet you at eye-level, rather than to try and push you down. A man that would respect you.

And while he – along with most people in the seven kingdoms – was ware that political marriages mostly turned out to be loveless and with power imbalances, he prided himself in the fact that he could already tell that this would not be the case with his eldest daughter.

Even if the two of you were now only married for barely a few hours, he – and both you and Lyonel, though you may have not wanted to admit it – was certain that your marriage would grow into something much more than just a political match… despite the constant bickering he was sure was not to stop anytime soon.

Once – a long time ago – you had actually believed that winning the hunger games was an honour. Something to be celebrated. In District 4, you were automatically named a Career if you happened to get reaped – the tributes with the most training. The ones with the sponsors and the gifts. The Capitol’s favourites. Once upon a time you believed that was an advantage.

Everyone knew it. Careers were the ones with the highest chance at winning.

Correction: Surviving.

Survival. Only when you first witnessed the infamous bloodbath right before your own very eyes, not on a screen at home – did you realize this wasn’t a game. This wasn’t entertainment. This was nothing more than survival. At least for the tributes. Because as soon as the gong announced the start of the hunger games, there was nothing but life and death.

Either you survived or you died. Simple as that.

And if you didn’t take the path the gamemakers deemed fit for you, they made sure you would. Either with a sudden natural catastrophe like an earthquake, a flood or the sudden eruption of a volcano. Or with mutts. Mutts could range from innocent looking bugs programmed to kill you, to outright nightmarish beasts that hunted you down until they got their fangs or claws in your flesh, ripping it apart.

For the 52nd hunger games, you were told you were at an advantage as a career, a young and fresh 17-year-old tribute. And apparently a beauty, at that. That’s what your stylist had told you, at least. And Flickerman, during your interview. Only your mentor, Mags – possibly the sweetest soul you’d ever encountered – had showed you that the only advantage you really had was your previous training. And that even that wouldn’t necessarily count for anything. That if you made one wrong move, the gamemakers would be fast to send whatever they could after you.

She never tried to destroy your hope at surviving the games. But she made sure you went into the arena with a realistic mindset and not some kind of delusion of superiority. And despite assuring both her and yourself that you were well aware of what this would be, that you did look at this with realistic optimism, nothing could have prepared you for the real arena.

When the little platform you stood on rose above the ground, you were met with wasteland. Dry with giant rocks that towered into the artificial sky. Some small hills and others bordering on mountains. Like a Canyon, almost. The only smudge of green were the trees that grew on the very top of said mountains. No water in sight. No rivers and no lakes. Nothing.

Before you were able to think more about your rather unfortunate surroundings, the gong sounded and everyone bolted for the Cornucopia. It was supposed to be camouflaged, made to look like just another rock in the arena. But the extravagance of the Capitol certainly shined through, making it stick out like a sore thumb.

Mags had been clear. Do not run straight for the Cornucopia. It’s a death sentence. Find food and water elsewhere.

Well, considering your arena consisted of wasteland, you feared you had no other choice.

You had barely made it out alive of the bloodbath back then. You’d never forget how you witnessed someone get brutally murdered right in front of you for the first time. A girl – from District 7, you think – was just about to go at you with a knife, when the next thing you saw was blood.

So much blood.

The girl had dropped dead in front of you, her throat and neck practically torn to shreds by the trident of your District partner.

And after having grabbed an axe for yourself, you’d barely dodged another hit, the blade of the sword missing you by mere inches. And in your desperate need to survive – just like anyone else – you’d swung your axe.

You’d always thought you could avoid killing anyone. At least for a few days. In the end you barely lasted three minutes until your count rose to one. And unfortunately, it didn’t stay that way.

As you had sat on the couch in the Capitol apartments for District 4, the memories just wouldn’t stop. In the past 23 years, you had tried everything to just forget. Or to at least move on. Even in the slightest. And you had been doing a pretty good job, actually.

Capitol visits had grown few and far between, you only got called in as mentor every few years and you finally slept through the night again. At least most nights.

But of course, it wouldn’t stay that way.

The third Quarter Quell announcement. You had watched it. An exception. Normally, you didn’t even think about it unless you were once again directly involved in the currents years games.

“As a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, on this 3rd Quarter Quell Games, the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of Victors in each District.”

You didn’t even listen further than that.

Just when everything seemed to fall into place somewhat, this had to happen. You weren’t completely unaware of what had been happening. You knew it was his tributes that moved Snow to do this. Two victors in one year. That was something that had never happened before. And you were certain that Snow wasn’t pleased. The Quarter Quell announcement just proved you right.

The reaping day followed. It had been a fever dream, like an out-of-body experience.

Girls were always first. Guilt had crept up inside of you, but you knew you weren’t the only one that hoped that any other name was called and not their own.

Who would want to voluntarily go back into that hellhole?

The first name was called.

Annie Cresta.

Why her? Anyone but her. The girl was smart and definitely not weak, but you knew she wouldn’t make it through the games a second time. The first time had left her in shambles.

So before you could think any further, you volunteered. Recalling that earlier statement, you did.

And when Finnick’s name was called right after, you were glad that you did. It wouldn’t have sat right with you to have to watch both Annie and Finnick in that arena – where only one could make it out alive – if you could’ve done anything about it.

The days before the games, you had avoided him like the plague. Just like you always did on the rare occasion that you both were simultaneously in the Capitol. On the training grounds, you made sure you were on opposite ends of the centre. During the interviews, you didn’t even dare to look at him. Oh, but how you wanted to.

More than once you’d thought about approaching him, grabbing onto his sleeve and dragging him into the nearest corner to just hear his voice in your ears once more. To finally look at him in person again. And not from a safe distance where he couldn’t see you across the room. You wanted to fall into his arms and tell Snow to properly fuck off and leave you alone.

But the conversation you’d had with the President years ago crawled up your throat every time you even thought about it and suffocated you, stopping any further thought.

You ascended the marble stairs with shaky legs. You had never been the type of person to be easily intimidated or scared. But when President Snow himself requested your presence in his office, now that was never a good sign.

Either he finally found a good way to put you to good use, or he discovered information that he would now use against you. You already feared it was the latter. How stupid could you have been? Of course he would figure it out.

One of the peacekeepers flanking his office opened the heavy wooden door, letting you pass through before shutting it again with a heavy thud. The way it fell shut with a creak felt mocking to you. As if everything in this room and outside it knew that your fate was sealed and laughed at you for your stupidity.

And there he sat, in all his glory. In a blood-red suit, white hair a strong contrast as he leaned back in the chair behind his desk.

“Miss L/N, please, take a seat.” he gestured to the chair on the opposite side of his desk, waiting patiently until you sat down. “A lovely evening, is it not?”

“You requested my presence, President?” your answer was short, monotone. Straight to the case. You knew his attempt at small talk would just be an attempt at lulling you into false security.

“Ah, cutting straight to the point, I see. Well then, let’s not waste any time, shall we?” he cleared his throat before continuing.

“It has come to my attention that you and a fellow victor have grown quite… close.” he paused. An intentional move to let the realization sink in. So he could watch how fear overtook your body.

Yet you kept your guard up. You wouldn’t let him see that you were afraid. He didn’t deserve that satisfaction.

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

He chuckled lowly, quietly. A shake of his head before his stare hardened.

“Do not try and fool me, girl. We are both very well aware of what I’m talking about. Now, I want you to listen carefully. You have family, am I correct? A mother, father. Now, I’m sure they wouldn’t be too pleased to discover that their daughter has been meddling with a measly victor from District 12. Especially if they had guns to their head while they were told, am I right?”

You swallowed thickly. There it was. Threats. And you knew they weren’t empty.

“No, President.”

“Then you know what to do.” a small cough. “Leave me now.”

You had never been able to explain why you suddenly didn’t talk to him anymore. Why you evaded him as if he was the devil himself, coming to take you and drag you into damnation. You couldn’t bring yourself to. Too afraid of what would happen if Snow even caught wind of you being near him.

And you hated it. Gods, you hated it. You wanted nothing more than to drop to your knees at his feet and beg for forgiveness. He had been your only hope after the games. Like any victor, you had returned as a shell of who you once were. And in him, just as broken as you, if not more, you found something worth living for. Something to hold on to.

Once, he had been all you needed. You had needed him like you needed oxygen. Everything seemed to be alright whenever he was with you.

Now, hearing his name – Haymitch Abernathy – only caused guilt and pain.

You heard beeping. Steady. A heart monitor.

When you opened your eyes, you were met with the view of a white ceiling. And white walls. Everything was white. A hospital room, that much was obvious. A spark of panic surged through you. Were you back in the Capitol? Nursed back to health so they could destroy you all over again?

As the beeping of the heart monitor fastened in pace, a nurse came rushing in. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, a calming gesture.

“Everything is alright, Y/N. You are not in the arena anymore. They got you out.”

Huh?

“They?” you croaked, throat dry from the lack of water.

“You are in District 13. The plan succeeded. You are safe now.”

The plan? What pl- oh. That plan.

Finnick had told you about it the night before the games. Plutarch and Haymitch’s plan to destroy the arena. To get Katniss out and continue the rebellion. To finally end this hell that was the hunger games. An interesting combination, you had thought. But you had to admit they were smart. Both of them.

Haymitch had tasked Finnick with informing you about the plan. Of course he did. And obviously, you went along with it. You trusted Haymitch. And he seemed to know you still did.

Finnick had given you a second golden bracelet. Also from Haymitch. It was a symbol to show Katniss she could trust you. So she would also consider other allies, not only Beetee and Wiress. As you had looked down at the golden bracelet, running your finger over it, you knew this wasn’t just for Katniss to trust you. It would’ve been more than enough for only Finnick to wear his bracelet. Districts tended to stick together.

He had given this to you as a message. As if to make you aware of his still existing presence. As if you’d ever forgotten it.

Taking a few good gulps of the water the nurse handed to you, it all slowly came back to you. The arena. A smart design this year. A clock, divided into twelve sections. A masterpiece of symbolism, if you will. Thick rain forests, poison fog, some weird monkeys, jabberjays, blood rain. They really went all out.

The lightning bolt. The tree. An explosion, and then – darkness.

And now here you were. Battered and tired in a hospital bed. In District 13.

“The others, are they okay?” you asked then.

“They managed to get almost everyone out. At least everyone that was still alive. But the Capitol got ahold of two of them.”

“Who?”

“Peeta Mellark. And Johanna Mason, I think.”

Shit. Peeta. You had seen firsthand in the arena what close bond the two District 12 victors shared. And that their supposed feelings for each other certainly weren’t just for show, as much as Katniss had tried to pretend they were. You didn’t even want to know how Katniss must have reacted to Peeta now being imprisoned in the Capitol.

And Johanna for sure didn’t deserve this either. Sure, she was smart-mouthed, always spewing insults and remarks left and right, antagonizing the Capitol on more than one occasion. But she was strong. And she just wanted all of this to be over as much as anyone else.

“And Finnick?”

“Still in the infirmary wing, but he is fine.”

You sighed in relief. Good.

You’d promised Annie to get him back home to her. You would.

After a few more tests, the nurse urged you to rest some more. Though you were reluctant, keeping your eyes open any longer proved to be almost impossible. After days of constantly living in survival mode your body needed rest.

“Here, try this. Only decent liquor they got in this shithole.” he slumped down next to you on the couch after handing you a bottle of alcohol. Judging by the poisonous colour of the liquid and the flames on the label – typical Capitol extravagance – you assumed it really must have bordered on poison.

“No glasses? Guess you guys from 12 really don’t have any manners, hm?” you teased, as if you hadn’t spent every possible moment with him the past year. Which frankly, wasn’t much. But it was enough.

You opened the bottle with one sharp turn of the lid.

Haymitch only shrugged in response, a lazy smile forming on his lips. “Oh c’mon love, you know I’m the most chivalrous person out there.”

You snorted out a laugh in response, lifting the bottle to take a sniff, recoiling right after.

“Hell, what is that? Is that supposed to be drinkable?”

“Don’t know. But it stood next to the glasses, so it must be, no?”

You two passed the bottle back and forth as you hid out in one of the backrooms of the Capitol’s gala ballroom, talking about everything and anything.

You’d both been afraid of what was brewing between you two at the start. Both afraid that something could happen to each other if someone even as much as suspected. Especially Haymitch. He’d caused ruckus in the arena back then. 50th hunger games, second Quarter Quell. Double the tributes.

And said ruckus had led him to not only tragically lose all his companions in the arena, but also his family. His mother and his younger brother, deceased in an “accidental” house fire. It had taken a while, but he’d confided in you one night after one too many drinks. He told you everything.

The next time you woke up, you were calmer.

You dreamed of that memory often. Despite having been hidden away and it not taking much to get caught, it was possibly one of the happiest memories you’d had since the games.

You two had laughed that night, tipsy from that godawful alcoholic beverage he’d smuggled with him. You’d talked, about your dreams and hopes. What you’d do if all of this would ever be over. You had come to an agreement. He’d come with you to District 4, where you’d get a little house by the beach. Calm and quiet. Peaceful. Just what you both needed.

And when he had pushed you down on that couch and kissed you like his life depended on it, you’d believed it. Both of you had.

Later that day, you got dismissed from the infirmary, free to do whatever. You’d been given one of those grey jumpsuits, like everyone wore here in District 13. Despite being promised safety and freedom, this felt awfully like a prison all over again. Just different.

You were just walking down the hallway you were told led to the mess hall when you an all-too-familiar voice called out from behind you.

“Y/N?”

You froze, all the air escaping your lungs. You should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever. You felt all the guilt, the pain. It washed over you like stormy waves on the shore. It consumed you.

You didn’t turn around at first, too afraid of facing him. Too scared to discover what emotion his face would hold as he gazed upon you. Would it be hate, for leaving him without an explanation? Or sadness, which would only worsen your guilt further?

You were so caught up in your own spiralling thoughts that you only snapped back to reality when a gentle hand settled over your shoulder. You wanted to flinch, shove it away and escape down the hallway as fast as you could. No matter where, just away from the confrontation you’d been trying to avoid for the past two decades.

But you also wanted to revel in the touch, turn around and pull him into your arms. You wanted to cry, beg for forgiveness and hope that he didn’t hate you half as much as you suspected him to do over the years.

With a shaky breath, you tilted your head enough to meet his eyes. God, how you’d missed looking into those eyes. They always reminded you of the ocean, of home.

He looked older. Obviously. A short beard adorning his face. His blond hair wasn’t as curly as back then. It was straight. And longer, reaching just to the nape of his neck from where it protruded from the black beanie he was wearing.

The two halves of your brain were screaming at each other once more, arguing about what to do. Shove him away and run? Pull him in and not let go?

Despite the fear and guilt consuming you, your body decided on the latter.

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. It seemed to stun him for a second, and you were afraid he’d push you away, ask you who you thought you even were. But the tension faded just as quickly as it came before you felt his arms wrapping themselves around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him. He needed this just as much as you.

For the last two decades, all he’d wanted was a moment like this. He wasn’t stupid. He already suspected that Snow had talked to you back then. Threatened you. He knew it better than anyone. He wasn’t angry at you. It had hurt at the start, yes. But he knew you didn’t do it because you didn’t want him. You did it to protect whoever Snow had threatened you with.

“I’m sorry.” you whispered into his neck, tears welling up in your eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

One of his hands ran soothingly over your back. Up and down in a comforting gesture.

“I know.”

I know. Those two words had more than one meaning in that moment. He knew you were sorry, that you felt guilty about leaving him without explanation. He knew why you did it. That it was Snow who’d pressured you into ignoring the only good thing in your life.

He knew.

And with you two standing in the middle of the deserted hallway, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, both of you knew it would be okay. Sometime. Somehow.

The past few days had been anything but enjoyable.

No one from the Districts really associated the Capitol with anything positive at all. Despite the humongous amount of propaganda they shared, advertising it as something so great and glorious, only they themselves were actually dense enough to believe it. Everyone else was glad to stay as far away from it as they possibly could.

A lot of people would rather live in poverty, wondering every day if they’d go to bed hungry or not, than even step foot into the Capitol. Countless people did. Snow and his team had been brainwashing the entirety of Panem for decades. With some, it worked. With some, it didn’t. Surprisingly enough, it seemed to be more effective in the lower districts, the ones closer to the Capitol. The ones that were already quite rich themselves.

Alright, maybe it wasn’t that surprising.

Unfortunately, there were times where going to the Capitol was inevitable.

The worst of them all was getting reaped for the annual Hunger Games. And even worse, if you happened to be the lucky person to return back home, it wouldn’t be the only time you’d ever stepped foot in the Capitol. Though lucky might not have been the right word.

The peace and quiet that was promised to the victors of the Hunger Games never truly comes. Year by year, they need to return to the Capitol, stepping in as mentor for two more unlucky kids that would most likely need to lay their life down way too early. Or to attend the parties and galas President Snow loved to host.

And despite masking these events as peaceful get-togethers, to let the Capitolites and the victors connect, they knew it was punishment wrapped in silk and riches. There was no backing out of the Capitol events. If Snow called, you answered. And if you didn’t, he’d make you feel it. Regret it.

Returning from these type of trips always left you hollow, a shell of who you once were. That small part of yourself that the arena hadn’t been able to erase, to steal from you, it always dimmed and flickered each time Snow called for your presence. The talking to the journalists, having to relive the worst moments of your games all over again. It wrecked you. Each and every single time.

And by seeing the silent smugness and satisfaction on Snow’s face at these galas, you knew he revelled in the suffering of his precious victors. He thrived in it.

How you wanted to drive an axe through his head.

Despite everything, you called yourself lucky. As lucky as you could be, in a world like this. With a fate like yours. Said luck came in the form of two words. One person.

Haymitch Abernathy.

He had won the Hunger Games two years prior to you. And arguably, he’d had a fate worse than yours. The 50th Hunger Games. The second Quarter Quell. Twice as many tributes. Only one victor.

You could remember watching his games, watching one of the boys you’d seen around the district countless times, fighting for his life, losing people that he considered friends and family. Having to become a murderer for the sake of survival.

He’d won, barely alive by the time the last cannon had fired, announcing the end of the games.

And as soon as he’d returned home, his suffering only worsened. His house burned down, his mother and little brother right with it. It was adamant that it certainly wasn’t an accident.

Snow must have had a personal vendetta against him. And after having returned from your own victory tour with him, he’d explained to you that he’d tried to destroy the arena. End the Hunger Games. That they’d manipulated the footage to make it seem like nothing happened.

That explained Snow’s actions. Explained, not justified. Because this type of cruelty could simply not be justified.

It had been four years since the 50th Hunger Games. Two since the day you’d miraculously made it out of that hellhole alive.

And now that boy had become your pillar. The reason you hadn’t completely lost yourself to the grasps of insanity that tried to wring their hands around your neck and squeeze every last ounce of your soul out of your being until nothing but a hollow shell remained.

And you’d be as bold as to say that you were the same for him.

Despite having two different houses in the victor’s village, most of your time was spent together in one of the two estates. Mostly his. Because as tragic as it was that he was forced to live alone, no family left to keep him company, you needed exactly that from time to time. Only him, no one else.

Your family, bless them, felt overbearing a lot of the time. They treated you as if the arena never happened. Which, technically, was a good thing. You didn’t want to be coddled or hovered around. You just wanted to be yourself. But that was the problem. “Yourself” had changed after the Hunger Games. The person you were before the Games did not exist anymore. Not in the same way.

And that was something your family struggled to accept. They just wanted their child back. Which you understood. More than you let on. You wanted nothing more than to be who you were before your name was called on that day. Before you were forced to endure and watch unimaginable horrors and survive them.

So, whenever you reacted to something not with the same enthusiasm you would have several years ago, when everything was still much simpler, your parents struggled. They didn’t know what to do with you. Sometimes, they got all quiet and tense, avoiding eye contact as they barely recognized who sat in front of them. You knew that feeling, better than anyone, every time you looked in the mirror.

Other times, they got angry. Mostly your mother. It was mostly because she was hurting, you knew. You knew she just wanted you to return to who you were before. When you were happier, more carefree. But you couldn’t. As much as you wanted to. Because being reminded of what happened each night when you closed your eyes made it difficult to let go.

Being forced to return to that wretched place every year made it impossible.

Tonight has been one of those nights.

Your mother had cooked dinner, something she came to enjoy greatly in the high quality kitchen from your house in the Victor’s Village.

She had cooked your favourite. What you could have eaten every single day as a child and never grown bored of it.

You hadn’t had the energy to eat one bite of it.

You’d just returned from the Capitol that morning, forced to attend one of Snow’s Galas. So eating was the last thing on your agenda. It made you nauseous to even think about. You felt sorry for your mother. She thought she could cheer you up with it. But you weren’t in a state to be cheered up.

You know she hadn’t meant any harm, that it was only her own frustration bubbling up as well, but when she had snapped at you, called you ungrateful as you didn’t even try and touch the food on your plate, you needed to get out. Get away from them.

Without a word, you had pushed back the chair, making a beeline for the door.

You walked a straight line across the street and up the front porch steps. You didn’t bother to knock. You pushed the door open and walked inside.

“Haymitch?” you called out, feeling your voice trembling in the slightest. You hated it.

When no answer came, you wandered further into the house, until you reached the living area. There he was, sprawled on one of the couches, head hung low. A glass of whatever liquor rested in his hands, still half full.

You sighed, lowering yourself onto the couch next to him. He startled as he felt the couch dip, his head turning to face you. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey.” you returned quietly, leaning back into the pillows.

You nodded towards his glass. “How many?”

“First one. I know, unbelievable.” he muttered, taking another sip.

You squinted, sceptical. For you, it was highly unlikely that this was only his first glass. You took in his face, his eyes, and found that indeed, he didn’t look drunk. At all.

“Why’re you here?” he asked then, his expression twisting into something almost concerned.

“My mother.” you responded, averting your gaze slightly.

“She cooked my favourite. Couldn’t even get one bite down. And she got angry.” you explained further.

“How fucking useless can I be?” you exclaimed, the frustration and all the suppressed emotions from the past few days coming back.

“My mother cooks me a meal. My favourite. And I don’t even eat it?”

You could hear how Haymitch sighed in response, setting the glass on the coffee table.

“It’s okay. Doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful or some shit. You’re just exhausted. Don’t break your head over it.” he tried to reassure you, soothe you slightly.

But by the way your breathing stayed as shallow, by the way your eyes stayed glassy, he knew it wasn’t working.

Another sigh.

“Okay, come on.” he said, standing up. “You’re staying here tonight.”

He held a hand out to you. When you only blankly stared at it and didn’t take it, he beckoned with his fingers impatiently. “I don’t got all night, so up with you.”

A small groan escaped him. “I’m trying to help you here. So just indulge me, hm?”

When, finally, you placed your hand in his, he pulled you to your feet and over to the stairs. He led you up and into the nearest bathroom. He sat you down on the edge of the bathtub.

“Alright, wait here.” he gave you a look before vanishing from the bathroom. Barely two minutes later, he came back with some of his clothes. A shirt and some pants. He held them out to you.

“Here. These should fit you. Get changed. Shout when you’re ready.”

It seemed your brain and your body had trouble catching up with everything he was currently doing for you. Your mother’s anger had left you rattled, so Haymitch caring for you felt completely absurd to you right now. Even if he often did. Subtly, you would have pay attention to notice it. But he always did.

He placed the clothes in your lap when you didn’t take them. “Get changed.” he repeated, before leaving the bathroom and pulling the door closed behind him.

With slow and almost sluggish movements, you slowly got changed. Pulled his shirt over your head, the black and soft fabric nice against your skin. Pulled the pants to your waist, securing them with the string.

Not being able to muster up the energy to call out for him, you simply reached for the doorhandle and opened the door, seeing him waiting, leaning against the opposite wall. He came back in, reaching for a spare toothbrush. He wet it under the running water, put some toothpaste on and once more, held it out to you.

“Think you can manage that?” he asked.

He sounded disgruntled. Every thing he said left him with a tone that suggested this was a burden to him. And in your state, it should have unsettled you further, should have made you shrink into yourself even more. But it didn’t. Because this was just… Haymitch.

He pretended like this was some great obstacle for him. Like nothing annoyed him more than caring for you. But you both knew he didn’t. Not enough to send you away. If he truly didn’t want to help you, take care of you, he would have told you to get out.

But even if he didn’t admit it. Didn’t have the courage to, after everything that happened to everyone he loved, he cared for you. More than he let on. And that is why he was doing this.

Why he was practically offering you to even brush your teeth for you. Why he asked if you could do it on your own, instead of just thrusting the toothbrush into your hands and telling you to get it done with.

You managed a nod, reaching to take the toothbrush from him.

He retrieved his own, and got to brushing his own teeth. The eye contact through the mirror, his attentive eyes on you the whole time, it calmed you. Like his presence always did. His a little bit grumpy behaviour, as if all of this was torture for him – even if you knew it wasn’t, not entirely, at least – it made you lean on him even more. Just as he did on you.

After brushing your teeth, he took your hand once more, leading you to his bedroom. He switched the bedside lamp on, casting a dim and warm light over the room. Nothing overwhelming, nothing too bright. Neither of you could handle it right now.

“Lie down.” he said it like it was an order. And in some way, it was. But not one with severe consequences, would you not obey. Not like it was with Snow. Or the Capitol. Where you would lose everything precious to you if you didn’t listen.

You moved to sit on the mattress, and Haymitch assisted you to get comfortable under the thick sheets.

“Good?” he asked. You nodded.

“Alright. I’ll be in the guest room. Shout if you need me.”

He was just about to turn and leave when your hand shot out, fingers curling around his wrist. He looked at you with a mixture of shock and curiosity. You had slept in his house more than once. A lot of times, actually. He had accompanied you until here before. But never had you done this. Reach for him before he could leave.

“Stay?” you simply whispered, almost as if you were afraid to ask.

The look in his eyes softened remarkably at that, part of his façade slipping.

“Stay? You sure?” he asked, moving his hand so that your fingers weren’t around his wrist but rather encased by his.

You nodded. “Yeah, please.” you whispered. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay.” he whispered back. He moved then, walking around the bed and getting under the sheets on the other side. He turned to face you, his blond hair sprawling across the pillow below him.

“Better?” he asked, reaching for the hand he’d been holding before, intertwining your fingers once more.

“Better.” you whispered, the touch of his hand soothing, grounding. It tethered you to the moment, rather than letting you stray to that dark place that existed in your head. It kept the demons at bay, letting you focus on his touch, his presence, rather than anything else.

And unbeknownst to you, it did the same to him. When you were with him, everything felt a bit lighter. Not easy, not entirely gone. But it stayed away for the meantime, lingering somewhere in the shadows but not coming closer. It felt manageable, controllable. It didn’t feel like a wild whirlwind of emotions that came crashing in like a giant wave and dragged him under. It felt like quiet sea. Where he could step in and it wouldn’t drown him.

And so he kept your hand in his, the both of you tethered to each other’s grounding presence and keeping the memories and terrors of the Capitol exactly there. In the Capitol. Not here, in District 12. At least for a few hours.