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lauraneedstochill · 11 months

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Love always wakes the dragon / Chapter 2

summary: Aemond thinks she’s a worthy opponent — a relentless fighter, a fearless dragon rider, her temper and stubbornness only matching his. But there’s a catch: she is Daemon’s daughter who wants nothing from her father and has her own reasons for coming to King’s Landing. One of them is meant to save the other. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OFC words: ~ 8000 warnings: enemies to lovers, slowburn, sword fighting and a bruised male’s ego author’s note: I’ve read a few fighting scenes and, as much as I enjoyed them, I always thought people go easy on Aemond. so I decided to make him sweat a little... also, I added an instrumental track that fits the fight scene perfectly, and I highly recommend you put it on! ⏪ part 1

2. The Wild Dragon

The dragonkeepers form a small crowd — as Daemon approaches, he sees the men standing still and gazing at the sky, the lack of movement making them look like statues. He hears a low buzzing of gasps and when he looks up, he finds himself in the same position, stunned and open-mouthed. The dragon is circling above the alcove, its wings stretched like a snow-white sail, and the rare, blinding beauty of it makes it hard to look away. The patch of bronze starts from beneath its neck, running down to the tail — the color mix brings back a certain memory of his, and Daemon finds himself lost in his thoughts for a moment.

Only when the dragon goes to the fourth round, the prince comes to his senses:

“Why isn’t it landing?”

One of the dragonkeepers turns to him and hesitantly points to the other corner of the gates. Daemon then notices a group of guards lined up with swords in their arms, looking far from delighted.

“Are you out of your mind?!” the prince yells. “Lower your weapons, you imbeciles!”

The guards retreat and the dragonkeepers back away, too, still keeping their eyes on the beast — in worry, in wonder. He circles once more and then finally flies down, and Daemon catches a glimpse of the rider — her clothes are dark, cloak withering on the wind. He feels his chest tightening with each gust, the long-forgotten feeling rousing in; he can’t remember the last time he’s been so nervous.

The white dragon lands with a grace of a cat — moving paws in synch, it lowers the neck and folds the wings, its limber body huddling closer to the ground. There’s a sharpness to its features, half of his snout crisscrossed with scars, his scales coarse up close, pale and solid like ivory. The beast focuses on Daemon, then glares at the guardss. The reptile’s green eyes are specked with gold, the damning force being the crux of his every move. A rumbling vibrates in the back of his throat but it doesn’t grow into a roar — it’s a warning on itself that he gives them before slowing movement, much to everyone’s relief.

The rider jumps down, landing on both feet, and puts the hood back so Daemon can take a closer look at her. Merely a second is enough to see — she’s an image of her mother, in every feature of her face and even in the way she moves, a rare fusion of gracious and fast-paced. Her hair is put into a braid, the color of it so rare he’s only seen it once before — in the sunlight, it looks as bright as fire, but right through it cuts a thick strand that frames one side of her face with white, the shade of it matching Daemon’s head of hair. And when he meets her gaze, he notices that she has his eyes: the shape is a bit different, more round, but they are the same color and there’s a familiar, threatening heaviness in them. It’s only two pieces of the puzzle that she’s assembled of, but now that Daemon sees her, he has no doubts that she is, in fact, his daughter, and that feeling is almost flattering.

She doesn’t look flattered in the slightest.

When she eyes him briefly, she shows no emotion at all — uncaring, casually unimpressed. It becomes awkwardly silent, and Daemon realizes that he’s never been that good at making the first step. But maybe it’s time for him to try.

“There was no mention of the dragon in the letters,” his voice comes off a tad softer than usual, and he keeps his distance but his enthusiasm fuels him to shorten it.

“Well, surprise,” she deadpans and pats the dragon, her gloved hand gliding against the scales, a small bag clenched in the other one. “Seemed like you took more interest in discussing other matters. What is the proper way of greeting you? Should I curtsy?” she asks,and he isn’t sure if she’s jesting, her tone matching the unreadable expression on her face. “I must apologize for my manners in advance, I’m afraid.”

Her straightforwardness brings a smile to his face, and Daemon steps closer. “We can get the formalities out of the way. I would like to welcome you to King’s Landing, lady —”

“There is no need for that. You know I am no lady, nor am I seeking any titles. You can call me Lia.”

“But that is not your name,” he remarks unsurely, a line of confusion settling in between his brows. Daemon is suddenly questioning every piece of information he knows — or rather the lack thereof.

“That is a part of it,” her answer sounds well-rehearsed as she dispassionately tears syllables. “That’s how my mother called me, so I am quite used to it.”

Even with her name cut in half, she has more authority than the most decorated lords, Daemon thinks. It’s both inexplicable and intriguing, and he holds on to that thought — until it collides with another one, tardy and grim: when she talked about her mother, she used the past tense.

Memories get their claws into his heart as he’s reminded of Baela and Rhaena clinging to him, their muffled weeping and grief-stricken eyes. He knows that the pain of losing a mother leaves a mark that will never be erased — but kind words and a shoulder to cry on can at least help ease the suffering.

Daemon moves with the intention of opening his arms, his chest is a harbor of acceptance when he asks:

“How’s your mother been doing?”

Lia blinks once, twice, then says — plain and simple:

“She died.”

It sounds as mundane as discussing the weather, and Daemon is startled by the lack of sentiment. It was, indeed, uncharacteristically naive of him to expect her to rush into his arms. But her guard is up so high he feels like he’s facing an actual wall, and it makes him anxious — and that’s not what he is used to deal with when it comes to his own children.

But before Daemon can express his concern, he hears a disgruntled snarl — they both turn to see the white dragon coiled into a defensive stance. A couple of dragonkeepers are approaching him falteringly, and Lia raises her voice at the beast. “Olwen!”

His dilated pupils dart to her, and the snarling abates, but his wrath bolsters, and now he’s nothing less of a pure danger. Both his and her eyes are trained on the men, and as one of them comes closer, Lia catches a dull glint of metal in his hands.

“No chains are needed,” she instantly speaks up.

“It is a matter of precaution, we mean no harm —”

“I said,” Lia steps in front of the man, “My dragon will not be chained.”

Her tone immediately loses the light coating of friendliness — if there ever was any to begin with, and she allows no objections. The dragonkeeper looks at her helplessly then turns his gaze to Daemon, waiting for the instructions.

“They want to make sure he stays in the cave,” he clarifies peacefully.

“He doesn’t do well with chains.”

Daemon notes that all her responses are ill-defined which makes him wonder if she does it consciously or not. Whatever her reasoning is, it only leaves more questions than answers.

“Will he do well with other dragons?”

“Olwen will be on his best behavior,” her reply comes out too harsh, so she tones it down a bit. “Put him in any closed space, and he will sleep for days, he won’t care about anything else.”

Daemon casts an evaluating glance at the beast and gestures for the dragonkeepers to stand back.

“I’ll lead the way,” he doesn’t need to turn around to know that she’s following him — her eyes land on his back like a punch.

They pass the gate and the rows of columns carved into the stone surface, illuminated by the torches on the walls. Daemon strains to pick up any sound the dragon makes that can be alarming but he only hears the beast’s footsteps and occasional sniffing. Looking over his shoulder, he is surprised to see that Olwen calmly tags along, not reacting to the unknown environment nor the distant roars of other dragons. Once they reach his cave, the beast merely gives it a look-over before settling down in the darkest corner. Lia leaves the bag tucked under his wing and glances at Olwen with the faintest of a smile. It disappears once she turns to her father.

They walk back in silence but unlike her dragon, Lia takes more interest in her surroundings — she examines weaves of caves and tunnels, looking around after every turn. Daemon watches her out of the corner of his eye, vigilant and hopeful, as he keeps fighting the desire to please her, to be liked by her, this stranger that has his blood but acts like she wants none of it. He opens the carriage door for her, smothering his ego, but Lia hesitantly looks inside, and he guesses that she’d rather go on horseback. Yet she concedes, sensing his determination to bond. He thinks it’s a small step in the right direction.

Lia sits closer to the window, her interest seemingly flaring up even more. That or she doesn’t want to be near Daemon, and he brushes off the latter. He wants to offer his condolences but is afraid her wall of defense will turn into a mountain he won’t be able to climb so he chooses a safer option.

“How was your journey? Finding the Dragonpit didn’t pose a problem for you, it seems.”

“The maps you sent were very detailed, thank you,” Lia doesn’t turn to him, keepsing focus on the landscape that soon gives way to the streets busy with fairs and taverns.

“Is King’s Landing always this crowded?”

“We are taking the main streets, with all the trading points and venues clustered here so these are usually filled with people,” Daemon explains. He doesn’t mention that he chose that road so she could get a better view of the city.

“Keeping an eye on things must be quite hard,” Lia debates.

“Hence why we have the City Watch,” Daemon grins, the feel of the gold cloak wrapped around his shoulders still fresh in his memory. “The Watch ienforces the crown’s laws so our city is safe for all its people. I can show you around later on, should you wish for it.”

“If the city is safe, why would I need a guardian to take a walk?” when she looks at him, there’s a gleam of laughter in her eyes, and Daemon thinks that Rhaenyra would’ve liked her. He really hopes that she will.

“I am only offering my company,” he rebuts gaily.

“One would think the Prince Consort has better things to do,” the corner of her mouth curls but the other one doesn’t follow, and the hint of a smile never grows into an actual one. Instead, her face is set on agitation when she says:

“I may help you pass the time,” with these words, her hand disappears under the cloak — and then Lia gives him a folded piece of parchment. “My mother wrote this for you.”

Daemon can feel that she doesn’t want to give it to him. It’s in the way her hand is gripping the letter, in the way she looks at it, her lips tight and jaw clenched. And yet she lets him take it.

“You know what it’s about?”

“I think I do. And I would prefer if you kept it a secret,” Lia’s voice is quiet — and for a second she almost sounds hurt. But she averts her gaze and straightens her posture, and he can’t figure her out, once again.

“You didn’t read it?”

“The letter is sealed,” Lia states the obvious. “If it wasn’t meant for me then I will not open it.”

“You could’ve burned it, you know. Keep whatever there is a secret.”

And Daemon thinks he will rip the letter to shreds if only she asks, if it makes things better for her. She lightly shakes her head.

“It was my mother’s wish to give it to you, and I respect it,” Lia says firmly. “I can only hope that you will respect mine.”

“Sooner or later, everyone will find out,” he warns her, with a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“I am in no rush,” her reply is short, and she turns to the window, signaling that the conversation is over.

Lia peers out, her eyes on the road again. Only now, in the broad daylight when he takes a closer look, Daemon realizes that it looks like she’s mentally mapping every location they pass. And he doesn’t know the destination she has in mind. The audience with the Queen goes better than Daemon hoped for — which means it’s not half as bad as it could’ve been.

Rhaenyra’s frustration due to the unannounced visit is quickly replaced by burning curiosity when Lia comes in. She sees the girl who doesn’t try to hide behind Daemon’s back and boldly keeps eye contact with the Queen. Lia stops a few feet away from the throne — and she doesn’t curtsy. Instead, she politely takes a bow, not looking away for a second.

Someone else might’ve considered her behavior insolent but Rhaenyra impatiently stands up to walk closer to the girl, not offended but rather intrigued. Daemon wonders if she sees a younger version of herself in Lia — and his wife thinks of it, too. She is also more surprised by the lack of a title than by the name his daughter chose.

“Not a single person in my village had a title or a last name,” Lia points out, and she bears no shame. The look on her face also suggests she doesn’t expect the Queen to understand.

Rhaenyra doesn’t ponder for long. “It is fair to call you a lady, I believe, since you have dragon’s blood in your veins.”

“As you wish, your grace,” Lia simply agrees — and it’s leniency as it is. But the Queen allows it.

She asks more questions than Daemon did, and the girl seems affable with her replies yet somehow she gives all the same information, and not a word more. Still, he observes them with unconcealed satisfaction, pleased with the flow of their voices, with the calmness that sets in the hall, and he’s just a moment away from finding relief —

“How did your mother die?” Rhaenyra asks all of a sudden, and it makes Daemon flinch at his spot.

“Of an unfortunate injury she left untreated,” Lia begrudgingly answers, and he notices that the violet of her eyes goes a shade darker.

“Wasn’t your mother a healer?”

It’s not intended as a taunt, Rhaenyra just can’t resist wanting to know more, her attempts almost child-like, and Daemon tenses up. They are both perplexed by the dry chuckle Lia lets out.

“She cared too much about everyone else but too little about herself.”

There’s no hiding of vitriol seeping through her words but Lia’s face is indifferent again. Rhaenyra studies her reaction — luckily for Daemon, she does so not as the Queen but as someone who experienced the same loss once.

“Hardships of life only shape your character,” she states leniently. “I presume that coming all that way to King’s Landing wasn’t easy but we are glad that you did. It may take you some time to consider this place home — I assure you, the servants are ordered to satisfy your every whim”.

Rhaenyra means well, Daemons knows it, and yet for some reason, he wishes she phrased it better. Whatever Lia actually thinks of the Queen’s speech is left unsaid — his daughter only gives a polite half-smile in return.

“That is very generous of you, your grace. Frankly, I feel like I want to rest for a week, nothing else.”

“Do you really intend to?” Rhaenyra’s friendliness slightly falters. “We planned on having a family gathering at dinner.”

“Dare I ask you to postpone it just for a day? Surely it would be rude for me to fall asleep at the table,” Lia’s smile doesn’t reach the eyes, and a lull in their conversation makes Daemon uncomfortable.

“Well, I suppose just a day won’t make a difference. After such a long journey you do deserve to rest,” the Queen says after a pause. “I need my husband to return to his duties for now. The maid will show you to your chambers,” she calls for a girl who’s been standing at the door, and the maid approaches them as quietly as a mouse.

Lia’s eyes flicker to Daemon, and he almost expects her to argue, but she says nothing aside from a hushed “thank you”, and then follows the maid out of the room. Rhaenyra watches them, tacit and pensive.

“I truly do not know what to think,” the Queen drawls when they leave. “But she is really quite something,” and her appraisal is followed by a chuckle.

Daemon nods, agreeing. Only he doesn’t find it amusing at all. Lia thinks the maid is just a couple of years younger than her but she doesn’t want to clarify. Just yesterday Lia was picking up branches to make a fire in the woods, some dirt undoubtedly left under her fingernails. And now she is being led to her chambers by a maid. It feels as ridiculous as it is nauseating, and it only gets worse when she sees the room — the size of the house she’s grown in and with way more furniture than she’s ever seen put in one place.

Lia stands at the doorway, still and confounded, when the maid humbly says: “If you are in need of anything, you can —”

“No,” Lia cuts her off so sharply, it startles the girl.

Lia turns to her with an apologetic look. “What is your name?”

“Annora,” she answers meekly, hiding her eyes to the floor.

“Annora, I can guarantee you I need nothing else. You are free to leave for the rest of the day,” Lia tries to sound both persuasive and kind — and not disgusted with her own pretense.

The girl gives her a confused look but seems too scared to object so she takes leave with no questions asked. Lia stays at the entrance and listens to her retreating footsteps, disregarding the pompously furnished room. After the sounds in the hall die down she slips out without looking back. Lia roams around and learns every exit and searches through every room she can open. She follows no rules except one — shall things go south, she must know how to get out, fast and without being seen. So she memorizes the turns, the pattern of corridors and stairs while trying to avoid the people endlessly pacing through the castle. A few times she has to take a step back, hide in the shadows and in between columns while maids and guards and noble women with too many underskirts run by. Lia does her best to ignore the fuss, taking time to explore the huge building, with doors and corners and the awaiting unknown.

When she finally gets to the backyard, it feels like only a couple of hours have passed but Lia is surprised to see the sun setting. The sky gradually darkens, dabbed with yellow and maroon, showing the approach of the evening. Only once she steps outside, she realizes how much she needed some fresh air, how there’s a lack of it in the musty, sweltering castle. She is relieved to see that the yard is way less crowded, with only a few servants and a couple of knights at the gates. Her eyes skim over the open space when she hears the metal screeching — distinct and all too familiar to her: turning around, Lia predictably sees two men sparring, their swords being the source of the sound. Her attention is quickly drawn to one of them — lean, tall, and fending off his opponent with ease, his long silver hair flowing with each move. His hits seem as clear-cut as the features of his face — and although she didn’t see him that well the first time, she recognizes him immediately. Aemond is the very embodiment of imperturbability, each stroke of his sword deliberate and sharp, and Ser Criston can’t let his guard down for one second. It’s a sequence he’s learned over the years: there is no rush in the prince’s attacks, there’s exhausting suspense. Aemond watches him, throws in a few teasing strikes, leisurely but maniacally tiring his opponent out. Only when you least expect it, he will deliver a series of blows, strong enough to knock an adult down, just enough to satisfy his ego.

And yet, Ser Criston senses that something is off. The prince is missing his usual fervor, his competitive energy, not pressing the fight but rather tolerating it, which Criston considers odd.

“Your focus seems to be elsewhere, my prince. I wonder what’s on your mind.”

Aemond shoots him a cold glance and easily blocks his hit, then spins and abruptly strikes forward, his sword stopping at Criston’s neck.

“Wondering does you no good, Ser Criston,” the prince remarks with a small grin, retreating.

“Fair enough,” he smiles in return. “I suggest we take a break.”

They had to start later than usual, and by now all the spectators dispersed and the yard has long been empty, quiet, softly illuminated by sunset. One of the guards goes to light the torches on the walls, and Aemond absentmindedly watches the flames grow, taking a few gulps of water. Despite Ser Criston being right in his observations, training still had a calming effect on the prince. He did enjoy the slight soreness of the muscles, his mind concentrated on the momentum of movements, on the way his body adapts to the tempo and responds to the threat. He concludes he can go for another round, still invigorated, somewhat restive, always at the ready.

But when Aemond turns around, his eye is drawn to a cloaked figure, and all the clarity and concentration dissolve upon realizing who he’s looking at. He recognizes her immediately.

Christon follows Aemond’s gaze, spotting the girl, too, and then squints a little.

“Is that —”

“I believe so,” the prince replies tersely.

They were on the way to the training yard when they saw Alicent leaving Helaena’s chambers, looking surprisingly grim. Caught in the moment, she had to reveal the cause of her sour mood — or maybe Alicent was actually looking for a reason to tell someone of it. She wore a grimace of annoyance as she recounted what happened at the small council’s meeting. Her explanation left much to be desired but Criston listened attentively, seemingly intrigued. Both he and Alicent missed Aemond’s stunned expression — somehow he instantly guessed who was the rider of the white dragon. But it brought him no relief.

It has long been known that his mother and Daemon have a bone to pick with each other, but Aemond is never hasty with his judgment. His uncle’s daughter is a girl he knows nothing about, so he tries not rushing to conclusions, or labeling, or worse. And yet Aemond keeps going back to that image of her — audacious in her freedom, coming into their lives at the speed of a dragon she claimed even though she wasn’t supposed to have one in the first place. He even let himself wonder how their first meeting would go, thinking of an uncomfortable family gathering with forced smiles and awkward conversations.

But suddenly she’s here — her black cloak fluttering like an unknown flag, no sign of a smile on her face, no lack of confidence. And it’s somewhat fitting that she’s defying the expectations already, his included.

She keeps her distance and pays them no mind as her eyes are set on the table with practice swords, their blades reflecting glimmers of orange and red the sky is painted with. Criston notices Aemond’s wistful stare, then clears his throat and approaches the girl.

“It’s not often I find ladies to take interest in swords.”

“I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure of admiring the craftsmanship,” she answers, earning a pleased hum from the knight.

“Well, these two swords were cast only a week ago,” Criston enthusiastically comes closer.

Sensing it, she glances up at him, out of interest or as a precaution, and Aemond sees a white strand of hair sticking out, a rebellious sign of her Targaryen roots confirmed by the color of her eyes. He discreetly examines her, takes in every subtle detail he can notice as if her appearance can give him a clue for what’s underneath. But her face is a mask of reticence.

“This looks like Valyrian steel,” she infers, and Criston nods, pleasantly surprised by her guess.

“You have seen it before?”

“I have definitely heard of it. And it is truly beautiful up close. How long does it take to make one?”

Aemond’s never been good at striking up conversations, avoiding them on the pretext of not liking idle talk. And yet now his taciturnity weighs on him — and he doesn’t know if he’s troubled by the feeling of being excluded again or the blind urge to be the one she’s talking to.

Criston’s chattering comes with no reprehensibility, and she welcomes the nuanced explanations, listening attentively.

“You are quite passionate about the subject,” she concludes.

“It’s only fair for the knight to know more of the weapon he uses,” he clarifies, modest as ever. “Although, I believe we haven’t been properly introduced — I am Ser Criston Cole, the Master of swords. You’ve walked in on me and Prince Aemond training.”

She doesn’t acknowledge Aemond’s presence, and he feels like a ghost, an unnoticed shadow, and the neglect unnerves him. Ser Criston is more worried about respecting social norms.

“And how should I address you?”

“Just Lia will do,” she bestows him with a smile so fleeting, he might’ve as well imagined it.

“Lady Lia, then,” he corrects, and her face is briefly shadowed by disdain.

“There’s no value in adding that.”

Aemond comes up to them then, not waiting for any invitations and intending to be reckoned with, his brows draw together at her comment.

“Getting a title is something people usually pride upon rather than eschew,” he points out in a studiously courteous manner.

“Sounds like you care about it more than I do,” Lia barely spares him a glance, her head tilted as she follows the gilded pattern of the sword with her finger.

She doesn’t mean to mock him, her tone plain and stance relaxed, but the relative ease with which she brushes off his remark wounds all the same. Aemond is so used to people being intimidated by his mere presence that the lack of reaction does come off as an offense — or maybe he’s too eager to take it as one.

Ser Criston is oblivious to Aemond’s nerves slowly cracking, too absorbed in the conversation with Lia.

“To fully appreciate the craftsmanship, you should see it in action. Do you know how to handle a sword? I can show you.”

“It is really kind of you to offer but I’ve wielded a sword before,” her emotionless response implies she’s not affronted yet Criston notices a smile in the corner of her lips again. He wonders if it’s a sign of amiability, or a jeer.

“I am sure you haven’t held —”

“You can take one,” Aemond suddenly suggests, words escaping his mouth before he can think them over.

Ser Criston stops midsentence, darting an inquiring glance at him but the prince ignores it, his eye boring into Lia’s back.

“If you spar with me,” he adds — and sees that her finger stops at the edge of the blade, signaling that now he’s got her attention.

“You already have an opponent to entertain you.”

“I am not looking for entertainment,” Aemond adamantly retorts.

He is looking for a fight, he wants to say — but when Lia finally glances at the prince, he catches an unspoken sign of understanding.

“If you win, the sword is yours,” Aemond continues as his impatience simmers, risking to bring his temper to a boil.

There is no logical explanation for his persistence — Lia shows no interest and takes no offense, absolutely nothing suggests that she wants to fight, and she merely looked at him once since she came. Maybe that last part is the one he’s got a problem with.

Criston waits for the girl to refuse — and to do so sheepishly, in a ladylike manner. Instead, she fully turns to the prince.

“Seems like you’ve been training for quite some time, aren’t you tired?” Lia eyes him from head to toe. “I’d like us to have a fair bout.”

Aemond stifles a laugh, reeking of overconfidence, his reaction all too familiar to the knight but usually off-putting to the others — just this attitude alone led to more fights than Criston can count, even though the prince had no trouble winning all of them. But Lia doesn’t lash back or quarrel — she is a blank canvas void of any color.

“I won’t cut you, worry not. At least I will try my best,” Aemond’s reply is hardly a promise with his voice being so evidently teasing. “Do you need a warm-up?”

She feels her legs humming from the number of stairs and turns she’s taken throughout the day, and the anticipation heats her body, rushes her blood and her heartbeat.

“I’ll pass,” she declines, and just for a moment, her gaze turns sneery, and Aemond guesses that she’s also not the one to back down. That bare glimmer of her character is enough to strike a chord in him.

Criston looks between them, finally grasping how the dynamic escalated, the air thick with tension as Aemond and Lia stare each other down without a hint of doubt on their faces.

“You are fortunate to spar with a very skilled swordsman,” the knight mentions delicately, hoping that his implication might cause Lia to reconsider.

“If you say so,” is her only reply — and there isn’t a shred of uncertainty in it.

Before going to pick a sword, Lia looks around. This time, Aemond actually wishes there was a crowd to make a spectacle in front of. But as her eyes are roving through the yard, Criston guesses that she’s sizing up the space, taking all the details in, — and it is definitely not a sign of her lacking the experience. He’s never trained a woman but someone clearly took their chances with Lia.

She goes to the further end of the table where the shortswords are lined up, and Aemond sneers: he’s proficient in using longswords, he maneuvers heavy blades with ease, and going for the lighter version will pose no challenge for him. Lia chooses the one with a smaller hilt, silver and set with emeralds: she weights it, makes sure it sits comfortably in her hand. Criston notes that her thumb lays on the flat of the blade which gives her a better hold of it. She twirls the sword a couple of times, her movements smooth and polished.

The knight turns to Aemond — and he is already looking at Lia.

“You do know how to hold it. Do you know how to use it?” the prince taunts.

“Do you?” she throws him an assessing gaze.

“We are about to find out.”

🎵

Lia twists the blade backward, and it stops right behind her shoulder, barely an inch away. She holds it there as she approaches the prince, staying at a safe distance. The forged metal is tinted with the blooming sundown — it’s bright, sinister scarlet, and Criston gets a sinking feeling of worry, the idea of them sparring not so tempting anymore. But he hesitates for just a second too long — and then it’s too late to meddle.

Aemond strikes first, not harshly but rather testing — Lia swiftly moves out of his way, without even raising her sword, and his blade almost grazes her cloak, but the material slips away in the air. The prince takes a step back, circling her as she stands, barely moving but not letting him out of sight, not shying away from him. His gaze hunts her like prey but she’s hawk-eyed, and she is yet to show her claws.

Criston directs his focus to Lia in an instant. She’s got good awareness of space, her stepping is correct and aligned with her rare hits, her pacing akin to a measured cadence. Using the sword in one hand gives her a longer reach — but she hardly ever initiates attacks. Instead of stopping Aemond or trying to engage, Lia easily dodges, and that behavior only serves to embolden the prince’s fervor. It bothers Criston, and he furrows his brows, watching the girl closely, discerning how aloof and impassive she seems in comparison to Aemond — he’s smoldering, she’s stone-cold, and her movements are almost... lazy.

That’s when Criston realizes: she’s the one wearing the prince out, not the other way around.

It only takes Aemond a minute to draw the same conclusion, and he feels a flash of irritation in his chest. He might’ve underestimated Lia but he isn’t used to being toyed with, and even though her face is still without expression, now her style of fighting almost seems taunting. The prince usually took pride in his self-control yet he was slowly losing it — and he hates to lose, he never does.

Aemond quickly weighs his options, chancing a glance at the yard, and a distant object catches his attention. It’s a middle-sized barrel, but it’s enough to slow her movements, he thinks, and once she’s cornered the prince might consider mercy. He intensifies his hits, pressuring her to move further away, right into his trap, to his proclamation of victory. Aemond’s chest all but puffs, his hubris blossoming. But it turns out to be disastrously premature.

Lia looks over her shoulder — and then jumps over the barrel like it wasn’t ever there, barely an obstacle, or at least not for her. She gives him a look that makes him feel stupid — and Aemond is anything but. Even from a distance, Criston can feel the anger that sparkles in the prince, his shoulders tensing up and his grip on the sword tightening. He is scary when he’s angry — when he allows himself to be, when the build-up emotions emerge from the darkness of his stiff restrain — Aemond doesn’t hold back then, and he is scarily dangerous, dreadful, deadly.

But anger is only fuel and, shall you spill too much of it, the fire will be too hard to control — and the lack of control can be lethal when someone aims a blade at your heart. Yet it seems that what Aemond may lack, she’s got plenty of, and Criston finds himself wondering if that unemotional canvas of hers is actually a facade that covers something else.

They are separated by the barrel but Lia has no intention of hiding behind it — as she goes back around, she gets rid of another restriction, hastily tossing the cloak away, and Aemond finds himself involuntarily staring at her. Her clothes are also dark: the upper garment is long-sleeved and waisted, the material of her trousers dense and fitted tightly around her thighs. It differs from everything he’s seen on the ladies of the court, and she wears it like a second skin that stretches and covers every curve of her body. As Aemond’s eye lingers, he lets his guard down, almost missing the moment when she hits, fast and without warning — the prince blocks it at the very last second, their swords locking at foot level, and her blade stops right at his knee.

Aemond’s face expresses the utmost bewilderment. She didn’t cut him — but the intent was there.

The prince inhales sharply. He can forgive her still, he can dismiss her insolence and blame it on her lack of manners, on her luck, on any ludicrous reason that he may come up with in the next thirty seconds which he definitely needs to calm himself down. He is trying with his every breath, with his every muscle to regain control and resolve the situation peacefully.

But Lia isn’t looking for peace when she says — brazenly, her eyes fixed on him:

“Doesn’t seem like you live up to the praise you’ve been given.”

His temper explodes in a second. Aemond lunges at her, an annoyed grunt bubbling in his throat, and he strikes, merciless and quick, adrenalin roaring in him. She bends backward, his sword gliding just above her, and then she ducks under his arm and moves away. He barely has time to turn to her when she winds in from the other side, their swords clanging — and Criston regains his senses at the loud sound.

The knight feels his heart racing, the feeling of worry now bruising him as he can’t take his eyes off the two opponents.

Aemond’s blind spot is clearly on his left, and yet Lia never aims there, not taking advantage of his weakness, and Criston can’t help but respect her for that. However, she notes him having a dominant right hand, most of his blows targeted to cover the opposite side, leaving him open to attacks from the right. The moment she realizes where to strike, her blows become harsher and more vigorous, as her sword cuts through the air with a flick of her wrist. She’s got speed and agility, she’s unwavering, she’s a hunter too.

Aemond does not give in, furious and unflinching, and yet, even with the most ferocious attempts he misses her — merely by an inch — but misses nonetheless. Lia dodges every attack, each of her blocks calculated and her gaze alert, her desire not to yield only matching his. It’s refreshing, it keeps Aemond’s blood pumping, the anger-driven energy coursing through him. It also hurts his ego quite a bit.

There’s a bizarre harmony in the way they carry themselves, Criston notices, and their anger looks about the same — fiery and scalding. And it’s only a matter of time before anyone gets burned.

Aemond runs out of patience first.

Lia bats his sword aside once more and pulls back, falling into his blind spot, and Aemond needs to spin around to keep her in sight. But his mind is clouded with fury that pushes him to take the risk — instead of repeating the well-known movement, he takes a swing at her, his aim nothing but instinctive. He’s never followed blind instinct so literally; he’s also never done anything so horribly, dangerously stupid.

Criston’s heart plummets like a pebble through a hole as he watches Lia’s blade missing Aemond by a hair — and it truly is a miracle if he’s ever seen one. But then the prince’s sword lands right next to her shoulder, and they both instantly halt movement, their breathing heavy and eyes locked.

There is dead silence around them, the sun is long gone, the sounds vanished, all the guards witnessing are petrified.

It takes all of Aemond’s willpower not to press the blade further into the material of her clothes to cut it. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but he wants to leave a mark. A sign that he did win, a reminder of his victory just for her to keep.

“I shall teach you a lesson on how to keep your attitude in check when you’re talking to a prince,” his words are laced with frustration yet he smirks, bathing in the satisfaction that winning always brings him.

“Only when you learn to not get ahead of yourself,” she whispers — and with that, he suddenly feels a metal blade poking at his ribs. Taken aback, Aemond looks down and, surely, she’s holding a small dagger to his side with her free hand. His delight is as short-lived as ripples on a pond.

“Now, this is not fair,” he mutters, not looking so smug anymore.

“Fairness be damned when someone’s threatening my life,” she glances up at him, their faces so close they can feel each other’s breath. She smells of ashes and the crisp freshness of the forest, and her expression doesn’t change but her eyes darken, just like the sea does before the storm, which makes him feel uneasy.

And yet, Aemond refuses to lower his sword.

“Will you be as fierce without an arm?” he hisses.

“I can survive without one. But I’ll cut into your heart first,” her voice is terribly calm, and he knows she’s not bluffing.

“That is enough,” Criston is on the verge of yelling. “No one will cut anything!”

He tries to squeeze in between them but to no avail — Aemond doesn’t budge nor does Lia. Criston’s never been the one to babysit the kids, yet right now he wishes he had more experience with tantrums — because that’s exactly what it is, he thinks. Except the two participants have long outgrown the age appropriate for such behavior, and both are, unfortunately, armed.

He takes a deep breath and throws a hand in between them, more firmly this time.

“You know as well as I do that this has to end,” the knight gives them a stern look, “And with both of you intact.”

Lia’s eyes dart to Criston, and he takes it as a sign of her being the one he can reason with.

“I do not think using a dagger was acceptable but to be fair, we never established any rules. And you are a good fighter,” he puts emphasis, not letting the prince interrupt. “So I propose we agree on a draw, and you will still get your sword.”

She looks at Aemond. “I believe said agreement requires mutual consent.”

Criston maneuvers his palm next to Lia’s shoulder and puts his other hand close to where she’s holding the dagger. He glances anxiously at Aemond, and the prince scowls, irritated, not in the habit of backing down. He holds her gaze for a couple of seconds — and then they lower their weapons, the movement almost synchronized except Lia does so with grace while Aemond just does everyone a favor.

Crison gently stops the girl, his hand intercepting the one she’s holding the sword in.

“I will sharpen it myself and have it back in the morning,” he promises — and she gives it up with no objection.

Aemond seethes at her compliance he hasn’t been graced with, clinging to his sword while his pride whines in offense. He watches Lia putting the cloak back on, twirling the dagger in one hand, so unbothered and composed as if he left no impression on her while she all but carved her way into his head. While she has her back to him, he thoughtlessly makes a move in her direction, and Criston’s eyes widen, a word of warning rooting in his throat — but he doesn’t get a chance to voice it.

Lia stops and turns to Aemond in one swift motion, her gaze heavy and cold — and immediately on him again. For the second time she takes him by surprise, and the prince freezes at the spot. She looks directly at him and, without breaking eye contact, slowly shakes her head no. She doesn’t utter a single word but the coldness of her gaze speaks for itself. Her eyes are saying if you dare to pick the sword, I will kill you. I will bury my dagger in between your ribs, and my face will be the last thing you see.

She’s standing in front of him — a woman wrapped in the darkest shades of black, and she radiates the most alarming threat he’s ever seen. She gives him the same feeling he gets every time he touches the blade with his bare fingers, every time he flies with Vhagar up in the sky, rising above the clouds until his lungs start burning and the air is too cold to breathe in. It’s the feeling of imminent danger, of him balancing right at the edge of a foul. It’s challenging as much as it is fascinating. And Aemond likes a good challenge.

He takes his hand off of the hilt, his crooked grin a telltale sign of his refusal to wave a white flag just yet. Criston notices the movement and breathes out, looking puzzled but relieved. Not a single word is shared, and Lia doesn’t give them another glance before leaving, the prince and the knight gazing after her.

“I want to ask what just happened but I am not sure you will give me an honest answer,” Criston drawls.

Aemond keeps silent, his eye following Lia’s cloak, and the desire to go after her feels like an itch, like a pull he can’t explain.

“I don’t think it will be wise to tell my mother,” the prince says all of a sudden.

Confusion is evident on Criston’s face, brighter than the light of the torches it’s illumed with.

“She would’ve wanted to know of it,” the knight attempts to reason. “I am your family’s sworn protector and it’s my responsibility to —”

“I am asking you as a friend,” Aemond cuts in, his abrupt request leaving the knight stunned. The prince doesn’t move nor does he look at Criston, his sharp profile not letting any emotions slip through. And yet, these words are the biggest sign of trust Aemond has ever shown the knight in years.

Criston bites down a smile. “Understood, my prince.” Lia navigates the corridors, taking directions from memory — she goes past her chambers, past the bed made for her, to the other end of the castle. She sneaks to the gates and lures the guards out by throwing a rock at the fence, trying not to laugh at the fact that it takes two grown men to go check for the source of the noise. The girl escapes into the darkness of the night, into the vibrant city that’s still awake, filled with noises and people scurrying about.

She blends into the crowd, feeling her pulse finally slowing down as she stems the fire within her, and it meekly fizzles. Rowdy alleys and dark corners seem more welcoming to her than the entirety of the Red Keep, and Lia is almost tempted to get lost and forget her way back — but she can’t allow herself to. So she only quickens her steps and pulls the hood lower, trying to race her own exhaustion that unavoidably catches up to her.

Halfway to the Dragonpit, Lia feels a gaze on her but the place is too crowded for someone to stand out — and it’s clearly an advantage not just for her. She sees a couple of drunk men staring, red-faced yet not threatening enough, same for a few beggars and street dancers that reach for her but can’t keep up. The only one who does stick out is a little girl eight or nine years of age winding after her — her face sly, her clothes too neat for her to live on the streets. Lia takes note of the kid but doesn’t let it show; her dagger hidden under the cloak does save her from the hassle of worrying.

The cavernous building atop the hill looks even bigger at night, grand and daunting, and the stern faces of the guards don’t soften the impression given. But they let Lia in with no questions asked, most likely contrite about their hostile greeting earlier in the morning. She doesn’t gloat and only enters with a nod, slipping into the tunnels shrouded in stillness, her path accompanied by the rare crackling of the torches. When she walks into the cave, Olwen looks barely awake, blinking a few times in her direction, and Lia finally lets her body relax in the coolness of the twilight.

Weariness flows through her body like a stream of water, stripping her of the feigned composure and fake indifference. Her face falls and her fists open, and the build-up tension springs free with each inhale — deep, slow, blissful. As she’s standing there, in the dark cave only lit by the glow of her dragon’s eyes, she quietly reminds herself:

“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Calls himself Knuckles.”

Olwen glances up at her and lets out a roar, low and choppy, and it sounds almost like a purr. The dragon moves his head closer to Lia, and she sits on the ground, gently touching the rough skin of his snout. She knows he can feel it — her anger sparkling at the surface, ready to ignite at any second. But he also feels the pain that’s been wailing deep inside, vile and heavy on her heart. She thinks it’s unfair to him — this connection that they share, the unexplainable bond, and she almost wants to apologize. She knows he won’t understand.

Lia leans back on the dragon, using her cloak as a blanket and letting the exhaustion wash over her. Her eyelids flutter shut and she whispers again:

“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Goes by Knuckles. Raven woods. Yellow and brown...”

This reminder is not a lullaby but a never healing scar branded onto her skin, tearing her life in half, leaving nothing but ruins, bodies, death. But when Lia finally drifts off, she is greeted with no dreams, and it feels like a blessing, that oblivion of hers. Because most nights, when she closes her eyes, she sees a dark forest burning in flames, filled with endless screams. Back at the castle, the one-eyed prince lies wide awake, his restless mind not letting him sleep as he keeps replaying the events of the evening in his head. Aemond’s body has gotten tired but his nerves are strained, the memories of Lia still fresh — the way she looked at him, daring and unashamed, the way she moved — dexterous, fast, never giving up. A recalcitrant opponent, a resistant fighter, a bastard with a wild dragon.

Or maybe she’s a dragon herself.

He wonders if he can tame her.

• when she turns to him and shakes her head — that was inspired by the scene from “Hawkeye”. I think Yelena nailed that “I can kill you with my bare hands” look, and her character overall is very inspirational to me. 🔥 my masterlist

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

tagging everyone who asked: @greenowlfactif, @iiamthehybrid, @melsunshine, @rosegardenpatsu

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