ℒove always wakes the dragon (Aemond x OC)

A threat to no one

Hours turn into days that go by with an inconsistent pace — sometimes they drag, sometimes pass in a blink. What stays the same is the deep-rooted, tormenting feeling that things are different now although Lia can't quite find an explanation for it. Or maybe she just doesn't want to.

She avoids Aemond — on an impulse that soon becomes a habit, and he's inclined to do the same, reticent as ever. Only they still manage to gravitate toward each other, even more often than before. They run up against each other in doorways, cross paths in halls — and when they try to find ways around it, they end up picking the same routes. No words are shared, and Aemond keeps distance at family breakfasts and dinners, but Lia feels him looking at her. He attempts to be discreet, and yet his gaze bears the same warmth that reaches her very heart. And she doesn't know how to fight that.

He isn't the only one watching her.

Daemon's attention is subtle, non-intrusive — he is suddenly interested in helping her out with small things, in making conversations. He takes it upon himself to regularly accompany in the morning (Marissa gives him a side-eye each time), he shows Lia around the library (he does find her a ladder), he orders to make some room in the stable for the horse she brought (without asking where the animal came from). He never insists or tries to pressure her, his friendliness is more polite than it is paternal. Unwillingly, she starts noticing the little traits they share. Just like her, he mostly smiles with the corners of his mouth, he fiddles with things — rings on his fingers and book covers — when he's absorbed in thoughts. He hides emotions deep inside, but any hint of displeasure, anything close to anger is always visible in his gaze first, just like it is in hers. She almost hates that it's actually hard to hate him; she also wonders what lies behind his unusual devotion.

But the one who raises the most questions is, remarkably, Jace. Undeniably good-looking, lofty both in his status and his manner of speaking, he is oddly enthusiastic about getting to know Lia. Her self-esteem is not high enough to find it flattering; her experience tells her it's rather alarming. She tolerates his company while dining, their talks mostly consisting of her attempts to avoid answering any of his inquiries. Aegon comes to the rescue — he can't miss a chance to shut Jace up, — and Aemond's whole appearance suggests he also doesn't trust his nephew. Daemon observes them all from the opposite side of the table, although Lia can't tell which one of the men he's intrigued the most by.

Regardless of their motives, all three seem to share an unspoken agreement to let Lia spend time at the Dragonpit alone — Aemond stops his visits, Daemon never initiates one, Jace barely mentions Vermax for reasons Lia doesn't care to know. Olwen grows to like their little routine, with flights at dawn and fattened sheep left for him in the cave, and she lets him enjoy his accidental happiness that also grants her some peace and quiet, free of blood and horrifying memories.

That peace doesn't last for long.

Twelve nights after Lia last saw Aren, Mysaria meets her halfway to the castle — her slim figure nimbly emerges from the crowd and catches up to the girl.

"The word reached me that Ser Aren has been feeling under the weather," she tells Lia in a casual tone that doesn't hide her satisfaction. "No sight of him for almost a week, until someone finally caught a glimpse of the man in the city. Apparently, his hands were terribly scarred. You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

"I don't have a clue," Lia plays along. "But it sure seems like now it will be easier for him to keep his hands to himself."

Mysaria hums in agreement, momentarily content, but then her posture goes tense. While she takes a pause, any sign of contentment slowly but inevitably slides off her face.

"His poor behavior will not pose a problem for anyone anymore, it seems. Two days ago he was found in an alley behind a tavern with his throat sliced."

Lia slowers her step, yet her mind races, and she can't be bothered to hide her growing confusion. "It wasn't my do—"

"I figured as much," Mysaria interrupts her in a calming manner but concern stays visible on her face. "If you made him talk, there was no reason for you to come back. But it makes me wonder who else could've had questions for him."

Her words linger in the air, suspenseful and unsettling, and the uncertainty obscures the horizon like a storm cloud. Lia silently goes through the events of the night she met Aren — her way to the tavern, then to his house; the hours spent there are a bit of a blur. She thinks of her ride in the early-morning darkness, and the sickening feeling is still fresh in her memory. But she has no recollection of anyone following her.

"Was he truly the one to instill fear or did he build his reputation with the help of bribes?" Lia muses. "Greed sometimes leads people to do terrible things."

Mysaria gives her a questioning look that Lia purposefully ignores, so the woman doesn't press for explanations.

"He's always had enough gold and never lacked authority. Killing him would be hardly profitable. Whoever did it might've looked for something other than wealth... Or maybe for someone."

"You believe they could use him to get to someone else?" now it's Lia's turn to wonder. "The nature of his death made me think the motive was personal."

"He wasn't afraid of making enemies, that much I know for sure."

"And you surely wasn't a friend of his," the girl notes.

"It is not my safety that I worry about it," the woman comes to a stop at the corner of a less crowded street, then glances around before turning to Lia. "Your bravery is admirable but you cannot let it blind you."

"I rely on common sense first. I left no traces, and no one outside the castle knows of my existence".

"Weren't you the one to tell me that rumors spread fast in this city? A man gives in under pressure once — and it will take less effort to break him the second time."

"And why would anyone want to find me? I am a nobody," Lia protests, earning a deep sigh from Mysaria.

In a quick and sudden move, she takes Lia by the hands, and the grip of her fingers is surprisingly strong.

"You are the girl who took out three grown-up men no one wanted to stand against. You are the girl who made Ser Aren talk with means that not every man would dare to try. And whether you want it or not, your eyes are a giveaway of your Targaryen roots, and it wouldn't be too hard to guess who exactly you are related to."

Whatever arguments Lia thought of before, they all seem weak now, while the ones Mysaria mentions do hold weight.

"You think I can be in danger now?"

"If only I had a gift of prophecy, life would've been so much easier. But being prepared for the worst is never a bad strategy."

It's the strategy Lia knows well — there was no lack of worst-case scenarios in her life.

"I guess I'll have to look over my shoulder more. I can promise to be more careful if it helps to ease your fears."

"I doubt I will ever forget what fear means," Mysaria tells her with sorrow but forces it down. "You cannot forget about your safety."

"And you should care about your own," Lia counters in an appeasing tone. "I've never had a problem with standing up for myself."

The woman senses that there is no point in arguing. It's tempting to believe the promise Lia gives because it means Mysaria will have one less thing to care about, one less worry stacked in the back of her head. The street grows crammed with traders and carriages and gawkers, hurrying her to go.

But before that, Mysaria gives Lia a long stare, her dark eyes still rooted with distress when she quietly says:

"Whoever killed Ser Aren is a powerful man — or a desperate one. Neither should be taken lightly."