ℒove always wakes the dragon (Aemond x OC)

New acquaintances, old wounds

The morning city is a funfair of bakers, working craftsmen and peddlers, streets already packed with people, imbued with smells and voices. Lia can't make out a single familiar face, and it dawns on her that she doesn't know where to look for the one she came to find. There is no blood trail to follow this time, and the dead can't point her in the right direction. But she keeps her frustration pressed down, her hood pulled low, the bag hanging across her shoulder. The little girl is nowhere to be seen, however, Lia does notice a few other kids dashing around, their faces scrubbed clean and gazes intent. She has a hunch that she might be onto something; but it's not enough to have a lead.

Her mind rushes into thinking, tossing one idea after the other — some naive, some promising, none are actually good — and Lia is too absorbed in thoughts to realize someone is calling after her. The other reason for her not reacting may be the fact that he keeps shouting "Hey!" instead of her actual name. When he catches up to her, he is out of breath — although it's hardly an explanation for him not being able to squeeze in a three-letter word.

His pale cheeks barely let any redness wash over them, bruise-colored shadows splattered under his big eyes, and he seems a little lost but his gaze is open and playful.

"I was calling you!" he pants, trying to keep up.

"I don't go by hey," Lia counters and realizes who he is just by the color of his hair — he looks more like Helaena than Aemond but it's still an easy guess that he's related to them both.

"What is your name, then?" he blithely asks, then manages to almost trip over his own cloak.

"I didn't plan on telling you," she claims but a stifled laugh tickles her throat. His absent-mindedness is entertaining and very out of character for other Targaryens she's met.

"Too bad I already know it," the blond cackles, fiddling with the drawstrings and not looking at his feet.

"Do you have a habit of wasting everyone's time or I am the lucky one?" Lia abruptly stops, and he crashes into her, his hands trying to grasp the air before he inevitably falls.

It gets quiet for just a second, and then he grunts.

"So much hostility for one person," his arms are spread on the ground, eyes closed, and he looks ridiculously comfortable.

"Hey," Lia teases, and he immediately looks at her, the corners of his mouth stretching into a grin. She rolls her eyes and extends a hand to help him up which he gladly accepts.

"I'm Aegon, by the way," he stands next to her, and she gets a whiff of wine from him. He doesn't even try to shake the dust and dirt off his clothes.

"That was quite an introduction," Lia continues her walk, this time slower, not wanting him to smash his head but looking for a reason to get rid of the prince.

"Can say the same about you," he says with amusement in his voice. "Saw you met my brother yesterday."

"Wish you could switch places with him?"

"Does it seem like I'd last five minutes against you?" he jests, but she catches a tone of apathy breaking the surface. Underneath it, there is hopelessness that's lodged so deep into him, he only has the strength to joke about it. But Aegon brushes it off as easily as he does a naughty strand of silver off his forehead.

She almost wants to give him some reassurance — to that lonely, hidden side of him — but before that, she spots a carriage going through the castle gate and into the yard, and the gears in her head turn faster than its wheels.

"You won't know until you try," Lia says, her reassurance is now bait, and he takes it all the same.

"I wonder if I should be honored or terrified of what you are suggesting", Aegon huffs, yet his gaze is expectant. Hers is too as she watches a couple of women leaving the carriage, hems of their dresses sweeping the ground while a coachman is forced to drag their belongings.

"I can show you a few tricks, just follow me," she tells the prince, hurrying to seize the right moment.

Lia runs up to the table with swords, picking one without even looking, while Aegon can only manage to take a few steps in the same time. She almost pities him — for being too gullible or maybe too careless, but the time is too precious for her to waste.

Lia lets him through into the carriage, a question leaving his mouth before he can even sit. "Will you tell me where —" but she doesn't wait for the end of it.

Instead, she quickly closes the door behind him and slides a sword through the circular handle, blocking the way out. It does take him a few seconds to figure it out, which he signals by banging at the door from inside.

"Hey, that's cheating!"

"Never trust your opponent to begin with," Lia talks back, steps back, and rushes into the castle.

Aegon is let out in a couple of minutes, when the coachman gets back, almost stumbling on the stairs at the sound of the prince screaming. By that time Lia is already nowhere to be seen.





Ser Criston keeps his word: she sees a scabbard propped against the door of her room from afar, the black leather covering the blade, eating up the polished shine of it with only the hilt left outside. Lia picks it up, takes the sword out — the steel is lightweight, with a rippled pattern all over — and the emeralds glare, bright like Olwen's eyes, like forest trees in the sunlight. Crowns of cedar, larch branches, oak and beech leaves still live in her memories, their scent lingering, thick bark rough against her fingers. Only it was all destined to turn to ashes, piles of charred wood, suffocating smoke that made her eyes water. They are dry now as she puts the sword back in, and yesterday's small victory brings her no peace, and she doesn't know if she'll ever find any.

Her room still isn't hers — she can't force herself to think of it as hers — but Lia takes a better look around. Everything is enormous, ornate, covered in silk and satin, with windows so tall she'll never reach the top of the frames, and the bed can fit at least three people. It doesn't feel like a place made for her — or maybe she's the one unsuited for it.

Lia quickly changes her clothes, the black material replaced by grey, its shade cold and dark and with the same fit, the same cloak going over it. She tries not to touch anything as if her hands can do damage and stain the surfaces — or leave fingerprints, or any traceable sign of her being here. She puts the scabbard in her bag and hides it behind the bed, and when she stands at the door, the room looks like no one had set foot in it.

The approaching footsteps are almost soundless but Lia hears them just in time to step away, a moment before Annora pushes the door wide open. Her face is a cavalcade of emotions — she's surprised, relieved, confused, a tad suspicious.

"Oh, lady Lia, I couldn't find you in time for breakfast, and your father looked for you, and I was —" she blurts out in one breath, then stops herself to curtsy, then the words overflow from her mouth again. "I was worried and I searched around and no one could tell where you were and —"

"I didn't mean to trouble you so much," Lia says reassuringly. "It's not in my habit to have a mealtime scheduled."

She also isn't used to maids following her around, Lia wants to say but doesn't.

"Can you show me where the kitchen is?" she asks instead.

Annora seems baffled, her face suffused with incomprehension. "I will bring you food, my lady," the girl offers.

"I am capable of walking," she points out the obvious, and she's obviously very assertive about it.

Now the maid looks at her as if Lia speaks a foreign language. "The kitchen is where the servants make food, it is not meant for...," Annora doesn't know how to call it — how to call her ; Lia doesn't, either. The awkwardness settles between them like a moist fog. Suddenly Lia is in the skin of a winged beast who's being fed sheep despite being fully capable of hunting them. And she is not very fond of restrictions.

"I'd like you to take me there, still," she tries for it to not sound like an order — she's in no position to give one. "I will be gone before you know it, I promise."

Annora sighs and looks around — while she's hesitant, Lia only feels vexed, and her independence grumbles louder than her stomach. The maid apparently notices the latter and gives in, unable to say no, quietly asking to follow her. Lia does so with no excitement, considering food to be merely a part of a routine, something her body needs to function, to fight, to withstand whatever the future holds.

She is only hungry for blood.