ℒove always wakes the dragon (Aemond x OC)

The worrying feeling

Her sleep is troubled, her consciousness plunged into a bottomless void she can't find a way out of. She catches glimpses of elusive images and obscure signs but none of them offer her clarity or bring her any relief. Instead, sprouts of her fear grow and get stronger, climbing through her mind like vine. When Lia finally opens her eyes, the rays of dawn are already slipping through the curtains, and she feels even more restless then before. She sits up on the bed for a few minutes, fingers pressed to her temples and eyes closed, but she knows she won't have any luck falling asleep again.

She dresses up quietly not to wake Marissa who dozed off on a sofa by the door with one hand under her head. Lia pulls a blanket off the bed and carefully covers the maid with it while she is seemingly deeply asleep. The girl moves away to grab her cloak, and the material inaudibly falls over her body, like a dark shield she wishes she could arm herself with against all of her worries.

She steps to the door when she hears a drowsy voice behind her.

"Must you really wake up so early?"

Lia turns to see Marissa looking at her, slowly stretching her neck.

"I didn't mean to wake you up," she mumbles but the woman shakes her head.

"I'm just a light sleeper. Became one after years of babysitting a herd of naughty kids," she rubs her eyes. "You running off to see your beast?"

Lia thinks to herself how accidentally perfect that choice of a verb is. She's been running for so long, it's become a habit — she runs into fights, she runs toward danger. Right now, though, she wishes to escape it.

"Yes, I wouldn't want to leave Olwen on his own for too long."

Marissa focuses her gaze on Lia, not sleepy anymore, more so thoughtful. "You might be the most irrepressible girl I have ever met," she chuckles faintly, "Am I to expect you in time for dinner?"

"My daily routine bears no surprises," Lia shrugs with a smile and then rushes to get out of the room. The second she does, the smile falls off her face.

This worrying feeling will pass, she convinces herself, but the self-deception is already too fragile to last.





It is a rare sight — the castle enveloped in silence. The guards change shifts, weariness seeping through their stoic faces. No one looks at Lia while she walks wide corridors with wide steps. She finds the right room on a whim, following a couple of maids who are carrying bandages and trays of food, leaving behind a smell of freshly baked bread. It should work up her appetite, but, mixed with her worry, it only makes her feel sick. She waits outside after they walk into the chambers; she is relieved to hear Tyland's voice — still weak but audible, even followed by some attempted laughs that are inevitably interrupted by his pained groans.

The maids walk out with whitened faces and bloodied bandages; she remains unnoticed. Lia paces back and forth a few times, then exhales sharply and knocks at the door. She opens it before she can get a reply — she comes face to face with a maester, his hand frozen in the air readying to push the door from the outside. There's an awkward pause as the man — only a few years older than she is, probably fresh from the Citadel — is trying to decide whether he should be alarmed by her presence or not.

Ser Tyland makes the decision for him. "Lady Lia, how come you are awake already?" he musters a smile, covered up to the chin with blankets. "At such an early hour you are supposed to be resting."

Lia wishes she could; she gulps down the dreadful explanation she has no words for. "I've got a terrible case of restlessness, I am afraid," she carefully steps in, sharing a look with the master who still dithers.

Ser Tyland catches on to that. "I am perfectly patched up," he tells the man, "No need to coddle me like a child."

The maester only nods, his cheeks reddening in abashment as he hurries out of the room. She almost feels bad, a thought echoing at the back of her head: she doesn't belong here too, she will have to leave soon. But there are still some things left for her to do.

She comes closer to the lord. "Did you manage to rest yourself? You shouldered much of our yesterday's misfortunes."

Ser Tyland sits up against the pillows, a bit clumsily. She wants to help him up but decides against it, not wanting to ruin his labored composure. He clings to it while trying to sound nonchalantly. "I escaped a fate much more grim. And I have you to thank for that."

"There is no need," she rebuts, and before he can argue, Lia jests, "I was looking for means to escape, and we both know your mare only listens to her dear lord. So I had to drag you along."

The laugh she earns from him is more sincere than the one he gave to the maids. "Well, both me and Pearl are forever indebted to you. Although I fear she will not recognize her debt so easily, she's got quite the character."

"Wasn't your first time riding her, was it?"

"She was unfortunate to be my ride on a few hunts before that," he nods, "And we both equally hated it."

Lia can tell that he's trying to put up a face, but she still catches onto it — the vigor of his tone faltering, his gaze unfocused. Whoever was the first one to deem showing weakness as a threat to male dignity probably never once survived a fight.

"Ser Tyland, I've been meaning to ask," she says, and he catches the change in her voice, "Is there some deeply rooted hatred toward bears that you have? Because I can't think of any other explanation for what you said yesterday."

There is a crack in his composure, and she sees the same expression grazing his features as the day before: a mix of shame and guilt. He closes his eyes for a moment, a heavy sigh leaving his lips.

"Increasing taxes was only supposed to be temporary, and I warned the Queen how serious would the consequences be if we left it as it was. I then proposed to reallocate the payments, to ease the burden for the landowners... Mayhaps I wasn't persuasive enough," Ser Tyland muses, shriveling under the weight of his own torment. "But I will try again, I want to. And I wouldn't be able to do that if I ratted them out," he averts his gaze, looking like he admitted to something he isn't proud of.

She thinks back to that image of him — leaning on a tree and bleeding out, and how easy it was for him to accept his plight as if he simply found it fair. Yet he still managed, tried to plead for them to let her go instead of pleading for his own life. It is an act of kindness that's so rare, she can't help but admire it.

"It was worth it, then," Lia pauses, forcing him to look at her to only then add, "Saving you."

The bruising has already climbed down his face, spreading dark purple and plain fatigue, but he takes comfort in her words and gives her a smile that's not forced but actually grateful.

But even in the safety of the quiet room Lia's heartbeat still booms, the feeling of it a reminder, an omen. She finds herself wanting to run again — out of the room, out of the castle, away from her bad thoughts.

"I shall let you go back to sleep. It sure seems like you need it," Lia tells him serenely, her feet already rushing her toward the door, and he is in no state to ask questions or get suspicious or make her stay for longer.

Ser Tyland only says a waning thank-you before Lia finds herself out in the corridor again. She hopes that seeing Olwen will help calm her nerves or at least numb them to let her breathe a little. To maybe get a clue what is going on.





Her uneasiness only gets worse.

Not the warming glance of Olwen nor the heights of the sky help her quell the unwanted emotions that rush her blood and make her skin crawl. Olwen feels it, grazed by it, by how detached Lia seems for the duration of the flight, and she hates knowing that the roars rumbling in his throat are caused solely by her.

Within an hour a torrent of her anxiety grows into a wave so high, it threatens to obscure the horizon, and Lia goes for landing earlier than usual. There is a tremble in her hand when she reaches for Olwen's muzzle, and for a second she thinks she can see it: stains of blood seeped in between her fingers, and the dried-up red is bright in the light of fire that burns and spreads and —

She shakes the memory off, her breathing ragged, and it suddenly feels like the cave vaults are closing in on her. Lia all but runs out, her nails digging into her palms; she can barely feel it. The weather is just as unsettled as her nerves: the wind is rising, and the clouds eat up the wan sunlight. The walk from the Dragonpit back to the castle is too short for her to get hold of herself.

As the day goes by, Lia cannot sit still, wandering aimlessly through the castle up until it's time for dinner; she knows she won't be able to eat a thing. She gently rushes Marissa out to the kitchen, lying to the maid that she already took a bite in the city. The trembling never goes away, and Lia gets into bed half-clothed. She wraps herself in the covers, closing her eyes shut and pretending to be asleep when Marissa comes back.

She tries to force herself to sleep but even though she does manage to doze off, she never gets respite. Barely a few hours into her slumber, Lia wakes up, her heart beating so wildly, she fears it will break free from the cage of her chest. And the feeling of worry is now a noose around her neck, so tight it feels like she can't take a breath.

Lia hurriedly finds her cloak and puts it on, maneuvering through the dark room to not make a sound, and sneaks out. It's torture — a warning she has no explanation for nor does she have an idea where to look and what to look for. But the walls of the castle are too steady to be the reason for her concern; without much thought, she goes looking for the way out.

She takes a turn, then another one, merely following an instinct — until she runs by a familiar broad-shouldered figure, and in the next second she's stopped by someone's hand on her arm.

Ser Harrold's gaze bores into her. "What is the matter?"

"I don't— I do not know, but I need to go," she tries to move away but his grip only gets stronger.

"That hardly answers my question," he is now worried too. "Where are you heading at this hour?"

"I can't explain it, I— There is no rational explanation I can offer," Lia stumbles over the words, her usual collectedness nowhere to be found. "But I feel like... I know that something bad will happen," she looks at him helplessly, not knowing how else to persuade him, to make him understand. And then she can't stop herself from desperately adding, "I had this feeling once before."

He looks her over — wide eyes, the violet of them so bright they almost shine, her chest heaving, voice too quiet. He is staggered by the realization: she seems actually scared.

"And what happened last time?"

She purses her lips and shakes her head, unaware of a short way to explain it all, only one verb on her mind: get out, get out, get out. "Please, just let me go," she whispers. "If I am wrong, I will just come back in a few hours. And I can give you my word that I won't be looking for any trouble."

He sighs, his brows moving to the bridge of his nose. "I have to bring these to Ser Criston," she belatedly notices him having two longswords in the other hand, their blades freshly polished. "And then I will go with you so we can figure out whatever this is," he gestures vaguely, momentarily loosening his grip — she leaps at the chance, snatching her arm away, moving from him before he can say another word.

"I'm sorry, I really can't stay here waiting," she mumbles with a tone of repentance but then turns her back to him and makes a run for it.

Ser Harrold calls after her — by the sound of it, he also tries following Lia, but the swords are hardly maneuverable, too heavy to drag them along. The knight helplessly stays behind watching as she slips off down the hallway, further and further away, and her body disappears around the corner.