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they say that the kims are closer to god than they are to men. they tame dragons as if they are merely horses, and ride their beasts into battle with simple commands spoken in an ancient language. some say the kims themselves are dragons. both are fire made flesh, after all.

however, fire was never meant to be tamed. it is meant to burn.

you were warned of this, long before you ever entered the king’s red keep as a ward. your mother sat you down the night before you’d boarded the ship from port, and she brushed her long fingers through your hair as she studied your face as if she were committing you to memory. you thought it dramatic at the time, but later you’d lament that you hadn’t taken the time to commit her to your memory as well.

as she brushed her fingers through your hair, nails soothing against your scalp, she said, “i will send for you as soon as this arrangement ends. i will find a way to have your brothers visit often. until then, you must write us often. you will be alone, my child, so i wish for you to keep your wits about you.” she’d sighed, “keep yourself warm. king’s landing can get very cold.” your mother sniffled, “there is nothing kind about the north.”

“i am not going that far north, mother. king’s landing does not get that cold.”

your mother only shook her head, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

your father was the one to hold your hand, his other hand resting over your mother’s, as he said, voice hushed, “your mother is only reminding you to be careful around the kims. they have dragons. they are dangerous creatures.”

“i know that,” you’d sighed, “but wooyoung wanted me to send him letters about the dragons.”

you did not admit that you were excited to catch a glimpse of them yourself, sighing once more as you said, “mother wants me to stay warm, does she not? the dragons have fire.”

your mother made a noise of indignation, and your father shook his head, his fingers curling tighter around your mother’s hand. still, a small, fond smile settled on his lips, despite the sternness in his tone, “the sun is warm, my child. fire is worse. it burns.”

at the time, you’d wanted to point out that the sun burns, too. there were plenty of days where you’d gone exploring sunspear with your brothers on too-hot days, the southern sun beating down over you, and you’d seen plenty of people reddened from sunburn.

however, you’d only nodded, because your father was already being whisked away by one of his advisors to finalize travel plans, and wooyoung had already taken your attention from your father as he locked his arm around your neck and yanked you in a way that had you shouting at him and your mother berating him. in a bout of uncharacteristic normalcy, however, yunho merely pulled you into an embrace as soon as wooyoung let you go, patting your messy hair back into place.

at the time, you hadn’t known the circumstances surrounding the king’s sudden call for you to reside as his ward at the time, or what being a ward truly meant for you, your house, and your family. you should have guessed with the way yunho was acting - as your father’s heir and the only one of your siblings privy to important matters even at your young age - but you truly thought you’d return to sunspear in time for your next name-day.

wooyoung tugged on your sleeve, and reminded you once more to visit the dragonpit. you’d rolled your eyes, “is that all you care about?”

“do not act as if you’re not curious either,” wooyoung said with a grin.

you’d rolled your eyes, even as wooyoung drew you into a kinder hug - anything that did not involve a headlock was kind of wooyoung, really. yunho gifted you a new cloak, thicker than anything you’d ever need in sunspear.

“you and mother are both behaving as if i am headed to winterfell. or the wall,” you muttered.

“shall i take it back then?” yunho asked.

“no,” you’d snatched the cloak from his fingers, frowning at him, and yunho laughed.

as you boarded your father’s ship and waved farewell to your mother and your brothers until they were small specks on the shore, you’d never have guessed that this would be the last time you’d see sunspear, with its speared towers and lovely bazaars and hidden passages and narrow alleys adorned with colorful laundry and shadowed courts. you nor your father could have ever anticipated that you would never set foot south of the mountains again.

as the docks at king’s landing drew closer, your father kneeled before you, clasping his hands over yours as he lowered himself to your level. the crew averted their gazes; though you are his child, your father is still the prince of dorne, and no prince is to be seen on their knees for anyone.

“please be careful, y/n, and most importantly,” he sighed, brushing your hair from your face, “i am sorry.”

you didn’t understand his words until much later.

~.~.~.~.~

you were only four-and-ten when you first set foot into king’s landing. it’s a dreary city, made drearier by the damp afternoon weather, and you’d already started to miss home. you hadn’t known at the time the circumstances surrounding why the king of the seven kings requested to house you as his ward in his home, the red keep, deep in the center of king’s landing. one of the women in charge of your studies during your stay - septa something-or-other - gushed of how lucky you were for the opportunity to strengthen ties between your kingdom of dorne and the rest of westeros.

the very first evening, the moment the septa left you to rest in your new chambers after giving you a small tour of the red keep, you’d sprung to your feet with the intention of visiting the dragonpit. you were not slated to meet the king until lunch the next day - “so that you may be well rested before joining the court, of course,” the septa said - and it was late enough that the halls would be empty of most.

so you’d plucked a small candle from your desk. your chambers were smaller than the one you had in sunspear. the bed was lodged next to a tall window lined with golden grates, curtains drawn over the window. the septa mentioned that you would not be able to open the window. you had a small desk with stationary and seals neatly placed, and the floors were covered with red rugs. it wasn’t the worst room, but it was certainly not the kind of accomodations you were used to. it was…bland. a room fit for a mere guest, and not the child of the prince of dorne. if you’d taken the time to understand the connotations of such a small action, maybe you would have understood the circumstances of your wardship much earlier.

you stood at the door for a long while, just to make sure the septa would not return, before you’d stepped out donned in an inconspicuous black cloak you’d packed. the halls were empty, and you’d prayed you wouldn’t make a wrong turn and lose your way as you tried to remember your way back to the dragonpit the septa had shown you. the tour was not extensive, and the septa merely waved her hands in the general direction of the dragonpit before moving forward.

you’d descended down stairs lit by flickering lanterns. the hairs at the back of your neck stood on end as you scurried down the halls.

you’d walked for a long time, your arm aching from holding up the little candle in your hands so that you had sufficient lighting. after a while, you’d considered turning back. however, you noticed rats scurrying away from the direction you were headed, squeaking as they ran. you’d resisted the urge to scream at the feeling of one of the rats scurrying over your feet. something told you you had not failed in your endeavors.

you were only four-and-ten when you’d found an open gate that creaked softly under the lanterns on either side of the gate. you were only four-and-ten when you’d taken a deep breath and walked into a large room with high ceilings. moonlight streamed through the grated vents above, and you figured you were somewhere underground. under the silver of moonlight, you’d noticed movement at the other end of the room, where the floor sloped downwards into a pitch black darkness you could not fully decipher.

at four-and-ten you were curious, almost to a fault. your heart raced against your ribs as you stepped closer to the pitch black darkness. the hairs at the back of your neck stood on end as crept closer. in the darkness, a growl swept through the silence of the room. a dragon, you’d realized, in both awe and horror.

you’d stepped closer, and chains rattled through the room as glowing yellow eyes appeared in the darkness, floating too far above you. you had to crane your neck to look at it.

you stood frozen on the slope, your mouth dropping open as the creature emerged from the tunnels. only a part of it emerged. just its head, with it’s blood red scales and sharp teeth and pointed ears and yellow serpent-like slits for eyes, however that was enough to have you scrambling back. you’d tripped over your cloak, landing on the sloped floor, fingers curling around dirt and stone; nothing.

then the creature opened its mouth. it’s tongue was long, black, and a swirl of red - brighter than the candle that was long extinguished, brighter than the lanterns, a cacophony of red, orange, and yellow - filled it’s mouth. you’d blinked in shock, before you realized what was happening.

fire. it was going to breathe fire.

you scrambled, and the dragon roared, and there was a shout in a language you’d never heard before. and a scream, and you felt like your arm was being pulled from it’s socket as you managed to scramble away from the sloped floor leading into the tunnel, and chains rattled, and the creature screamed, and you felt heat, and your forearm hurt, and -

“what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

you’d blinked up at the ringing voice, at the fact that you are no longer in the giant room - the dragonpit, you’d later learn - but rather in the hall you’d come down. a lantern sat on the floor beside the now closed gate, and a boy with a hood over his hair, sharp angled features, and dark, dark eyes stared at you with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression twisted with fury.

you’d looked down at your arm then, and it was red. burnt. fire burns, your father had said, and he’d be quite angry that you hadn’t heeded his warning and had gotten yourself burned your very first night in king’s landing.

still, you’d looked back at the person standing in front of the closed gate. the lantern light glanced off the boy’s features, casting shadows along his face. he saved you, didn’t he?

you opened your mouth to apologize, to thank him for helping you, to swear you wouldn’t come down to the pits again - you had enough material to send wooyoung his letter and your curiosity had burned along with the skin on your forearm.

the boy stalked closer, and despite his lanky form, he was the same height as you. his eyes narrowed, “i asked you a question. what the hell were you doing down here?”

his tone struck a nerve with you at the time. as a child of the prince of dorne, no one has ever spoken to you in that way aside from perhaps your brothers. who did this boy think he was?

“is that any of your business? what were you doing down here?”

“saving an idiot from being burnt alive, apparently.”

you’ve had quite a few insults through your way, but you were no idiot. you blinked at him, “i did not need your help.”

“really?”

the boys smirk crept across his face in a way that had the hairs at the back of your neck standing on end the same way it had when you’d seen the dragon’s mouth widening. he stepped closer, until he was nearly nose-to-nose with you, and said, “would you like me to toss you back in the pit so we can see how you fare?”

you shoved him. hard. he stumbled back, and his eyes widened in surprise. “are you threatening me?”

he merely laughed at you, “i saved you.”

“saved is an overstatement,” you muttered. you didn’t like this boy. perhaps you were the idiot for sneaking into the dragonpit, but he was here too. he was just as much of an idiot as you were. your father used to joke that you and your brothers would rather die than reconcile when your egos were bruised. you’d only rolled your eyes at him in response, but perhaps your father was right on yet another thing. you did not like this boy and the way he spoke to you, with his head held high and his tone full of condescension. you’d sooner admit you were an idiot then thank him for saving you. not even the gods would change your mind. as he tilted his head at your words, you shook your cloak of dirt, ignoring the pain in your forearm, and you said. “now if i may take my leave.”

the boy crossed his arms over his chest, “will you?”

you’d stepped past the boy, knocking your shoulder against his for good measure, and picked up his lantern. you turned to look at him one last time, his sharp angular cheekbones, his watchful eyes, his stupid smirk, and you lifted the heavy lantern to eye-level. you said, “i’ll be taking this with me as well.”

before he could respond, you’d turned and left. wooyoung once told you not to turn your back to your enemies, but your arm hurt and you were tired and you’d decided that was enough excitement for one day.

~.~.~.~.~

the next morning, the maids helped dress you. they’d discovered your burn wound then, puckered and red from the heat of the dragon’s breath. you’d lied and said you’d gotten too close to the candlelight.

at four-and-ten, you were set to have lunch with the king and queen of westeros. the king was polite enough, though his gaze seemed to look straight through you, despite the fact that he kept an eye on you throughout lunch. the queen’s gaze was the opposite. you felt her gaze on you when you were not looking at her. she seemed to be able to see you for all that you were. shortly after lunch began, the doors to the dining hall opened, and the guards announced, “the prince is here.”

the doors swung open, and the prince strode in, chin raised. his silver-blonde hair fell in a halo around his shoulders, his kim red robes shining. despite the regality of it all, you recognized his face immediately. it was the boy from the dragonpit, you realized, horrified. no wonder he was at the dragonpit. no wonder he was able to save you. those dragons were his. he is a kim.

“hongjoong,” the queen called, “you are late.”

prince hongjoong bowed in apology, however when he straightened, his dark gaze landed on you, and he grinned that lopsided grin you’ve quickly come to despise, and he said, “apologies mother. yeosang’s sword lesson ran over.”

the king chuckled, “that boy could give you ten sword lessons a day and you would still be bested by any babe off the streets.”

hongjoong did not say anything to that, instead sitting at his mother’s side, straight across from you. his smile had slipped, but he’d only nodded.

instead, hongjoong met your gaze, and he asked, “who is this, your grace?”

“my new dornish ward,” the king laughed then, and you did not like the sound of it. it brought a chill down your back. he said, “prince jeong of dorne entrusted us with his precious summer child. i advise you do not break this one, hongjoong.”

“i should say the same to you, father,” hongjoong muttered.

your gaze snapped between the two of them. they looked too much alike, with the same shade of silver-blond hair and the same sharpness. the only difference, however, was that the king’s eyes were so blue they were almost white, and it was unsettling more than anything. even back then at the age of four-and-ten, you knew something was not entirely right. the prince had his mother’s eyes, dark as night, and they were just as sharp, just as jaded.

the rest of the lunch was spent in overall quiet, polite inquiries about how you found your accommodations and when your lessons would start interspersed into the silence. you’d spent the rest of lunch focused intently on your plate.

~.~.~.~.~

“so the idiot is our dornish ward then?”

lessons began the next day, and as the king’s ward - “and esteemed guest,” the king said in a way that reminded you of wooyoung when he’d give you a compliment on your new clothes; sarcastic and a little mean, though you knew with wooyoung it was always good-natured fun. with the king you figured he meant it - you were scheduled to complete your lessons alongside the prince and his companions, yeosang of house kang and a kingsword-in-training whose father was currently the king’s most trusted advisor and mingi flowers, bastard of house song, though there were rumors he would be legitimized soon.

so here you were, after history lessons with the grand maester, prince hongjoong’s lopsided grin blocking your way back to your chambers. the septa in charge of your lessons hovered near the doorway, but she did not dare to interrupt. yeosang and mingi hung back, preoccupied with their conversation. they wouldn’t interrupt either. it was the prince after all.

“not surprising at all,” hongjoong finishes.

“what do you want?”

hongjoong raises a brow in surprise. the septa at the door clears her throat. perhaps you should not be so blunt with the prince, but you remember very clearly the warning his father gave him, and the warning he gave his father back. even at the young age of four-and-ten, you did not like the idea of anyone breaking you. whether that was merely a joke, or something else entirely, you did not want to find out. you touched the burn on your arm, and hongjoong’s gaze flickered to your arm. you put the arm in question behind your back.

hongjoong met your gaze once more, and his dark eyes danced with a strange type of amusement. he tilted his head, and he grinned, all teeth, and he said, “i’d like an apology.”

this time you laughed, “excuse me?”

“you snuck into my family’s dragonpit without permission. most would lose their heads for such a misdemeanor.”

“am i not your esteemed guest?”

this time hongjoong met your defiant glare with a slight frown, “do you truly believe such a thing? are you truly an idiot?”

you’d blinked at that.

“oh,” he laughed, “you are.”

he laughed and laughed and yeosang and mingi looked up from their conversation. yeosang tilted his head, glancing between the two of you. mingi’s brows furrowed in concern.

hongjoong started to wheeze, and your patience wore thin. he was laughing at you, and you’ve never fared well with such a thing. you grit your teeth.

he pointed at you, turning to his friends, “can you believe them?”

this time you’d advanced on him, pushing the hand he was pointing at you with away. you said, “what is your problem?”

hongjoong blinked at his hand that you touched. you watched as he flexed his fingers once, twice, before he looked at you. there was a fire in his eyes that reminded you of the fire forming in that dragon’s mouth.

“i understand the dornish have strange customs, so i’ll let this slide,” he said quietly, “for now.”

you’d rolled your eyes, your voice dripping with sarcasm, “you’re so kind, my lord.”

yeosang snorted behind hongjoong.

hongjoong’s brows furrowed, and his expression curled into one of annoyance. anger, even.

“yeosang and mingi are guests,” hongjoong stepped closer, looming over you, and though he was not any taller than you, his presence, his anger, made you feel smaller. “if the chois from storm’s end or the parks from winterfell were to visit, they would be guests.”

he spat the word, and you’d blinked at his hostility.

hongjoong stepped too close, but you stood your ground.

hongjoong’s tone was low, and the heat of his words alone could have burned you the way the dragon’s breath had. he said, too quietly for anyone but yourself and maybe his friends to hear, “you were given to us by your father as a ward. perhaps that makes you valuable, but only as long as your father stays in line. you,” he presses a single finger to your forehead, pushing you back, “y/n, are no guest. you will never be a guest.”

you are four-and-ten, three days into your wardship, when you realize that you are merely a glorified hostage given to the king by your father. perhaps that was why your father apologized so sincerely, or why your mother appeared so sad, or why yunho kept embracing you. you were alone in king’s landing, and everyone knew it. everyone knew it, but you.

you swallowed the growing lump in your throat as hongjoong grinned.

he said, “you understand now, do you not?”

you’d only stared at him, and the clear amusement he was getting from this.

he grinned, stepping back, before he waved his hand. the angry fire dancing in his eyes turned to ashes, but the infuriating grin was still there as he said, “now go on. apologize.”

you would have. your mother would have wanted it. your father, too. perhaps not wooyoung, but certainly yunho.

but you’d only found yourself scowling at him. without a word, you’d spun on your heels and walked out the door, and you did not dare look back.

~.~.~.~.~

“sweet thing,” yeosang’s voice was quiet. “hiding from the prince, are we?”

yeosang’s voice wasn’t kind, nor was it unkind. it held a hint of amusement you’d come to associate with the kangs. you’d met his father briefly, and he’d looked at you as if you were scum beneath his feet, though he held an amusement in his tone as he asked if you were faring well. the court played games with you, you knew, even at such a young age, and you wondered why your father sent you here.

you understood it, to a degree. history spoke of it, of how your kingdom of dorne never truly bent the knee to the king of the seven kingdoms until very recently. how despite that, your kingdom acted as it’s own separate entity on more than one occasion. you were a perfect tool to keep your father in line. the king would raise you in king’s landing, perhaps even find you someone he trusts to betroth, and your father, yunho, wooyoung, your mother, they would all be tied to the kingdom of westeros even further. meanwhile, your father would not step out of line knowing that the wrong move could very easily end with your beheading. still, you could not help resent your father for such a life.

you turned five-and-ten, and the queen promised to host a lovely dinner in the hall, however, you were still lonely and it was quiet, and maybe that was because you were sitting in the maester’s grand library with a small mooncake in front of you. the letters from your family were few and far between. the king’s hand, yeosang’s father, was the one who handed you your family’s letters, and you wouldn’t put it past him to keep some hidden from you. all your letters had their seals broken for a reason, and the hand always raised a brow at you as if he were daring you to question the opened letters. you never did.

you’d already defied someone of importance, and he’d made it his mission to antagonize you every moment he could.

lessons would mean he’d find some way to call you derogatory names without so much as an admonishment from anyone. whenever you did the same, you’d get sent to your chambers to reflect on your shortcomings.

the grand maester would speak of plants, and you’d ask a simple question. hongjoong would mutter something under his breath, and yeosang would laugh, delighted as he always was when hongjoong’s mirth was directed at you. mingi would shake his head, but remain relatively quiet. the maester or septa in charge would scold hongjoong half-heartedly. whether the lessons were of book or sword, you’d end up facing some kind of comment from hongjoong.

(“ugly, stupid, and terrible with the sword,” hongjoong admonished, shaking his head, “how are you meant to find a spouse, y/n? my mother can only do so much.”

yeosang snorted, and mingi sighed.

you took the flat side of the wooden sword in your hands and smacked him upside the head. it wasn’t hard, but it was enough to evoke a gasp from the kingsguard training the four of you. before anyone could react, you’d swiped his feet out from under him and pressed the hilt of the wooden sword to his chest. you let it hover for a second before you tossed the sword to the side and said, “what was that, my lord? who is terrible with the sword?”

he lay sprawled on his back, blond hair strewn about his head, streaks of dirt across his flushed cheeks. he grit his teeth, and his eyes darkened as he peered up at you. you’d long tossed the sword to the side, but the kingsguard still yanked you back by the scruff of your neck, and hongjoong looked downright murderous. still, he did not call for your immediate punishment, as you’d expected. instead, he’d waved a hand and barked for training to continue.

you were matched with him more often than not for sparring matches, and you did not need to look very far to understand why. if hongjoong’s hits left bruises, he would never know. you would not let it be known by anyone, even when hongjoong landed a smack across your face in the very same lesson. you fought back, landing your own sickening smacks on him, relishing in the way he winced at some of your blows. you’d ignored the kingsguard barking at you to soften your blows.)

yeosang stepped further into the library, taking the seat across from you, his eyes landing on the mooncake in front of you. his blonde hair lay at his shoulders these days, and his fragile features curling up into a small smile as his gaze returned to yours.

you scoffed at him, “i do not hide from anyone.”

“a prince’s wrath is nothing to take lightly.”

“a prince should have better things to do.”

yeosang laughed, and the sound rang throughout the quiet library. “you would think, huh?”

“what do you want?”

“i only came here for a book, yet,” yeosang grinned, leaning closer, his voice dropping into a conspiring whisper, “i found you instead.”

you’d rolled your eyes.

yeosang laughed.

you said, “get your book, then.”

“i’d like to stay for,” he gestured at the cake in front of you, “whatever this is.”

“my name-day. it’s today.”

“ah,” yeosang nodded, “i saw letters from your family on my father’s desk.”

there it was. that semblance of yeosang’s father in yeosang. he raised a brow, and you’d frowned. you were never one for the court’s penchant for playing games with pretty words that ran in circles. you said, “will your father keep those from me as well?”

“only if you do not behave,” yeosang shrugged, “incurring the prince’s wrath is not behaving, is it?”

“he deserves it,” you frowned.

“oh,” yeosang leaned his elbow onto the table, resting his chin on his palm. he observed you quietly, “he absolutely does, but who are we to decide what gods deserve?”

“you think hongjoong is a god?”

“he certainly thinks so.”

“do you even like him?”

yeosang tilted his head, grinning in a way that made you wish you could dissect his thoughts. he said, “i care for him.”

“you did not answer me.”

“a sweet thing like you would not understand, i think. you dornish are -”

“i’ve heard plenty of you kangs.”

this time, yeosang’s expression turned dark, in a way you hadn’t seen before. he raised his brows, his chin still resting in the palm of his hands. “oh?”

you hadn’t, not really. only that his mother used to attend to the queen before she sent him away. rumor had it lady kang had spent a night in the king’s chambers, and the queen had found out.

you said, “your mother -”

yeosang slammed his hands against the table, and the mooncake slipped from its plate, the goblet of water spilling a bit. yeosang’s voice maintained that quiet musicality to it, even as he said, “continue that sentence, and you will make an enemy of me as well. i do not think you want that, y/n.”

“just give me my damn letters.” you’d forced your voice to remain steady, despite the way your heart raced, “that is all i wish for.”

“a nameday wish? how sweet,” yeosang’s anger dissipated, and he merely smiled pleasantly.

you’d grimaced. it’s been nearly a year since you’d set foot in king’s landing, yet the madness of the people at court never ceased to unsettle you.

still, you found yourself saying, “do you do this often?”

despite it being nearly a year since you left sunspear, since you had lunch with the king and queen, the words he spoke to hongjoong lived in your head. i advise you do not break this one, hongjoong. you laid in bed wondering at those words. at hongjoong telling his father the same. hongjoong’s clear vengeance against you since you’ve arrived did not quite border on breaking, but the very thought of it brought a chill down your spine. you hadn’t dared speak of it to anyone, not even the maids you’d gotten close with. certainly not in your letters to yunho or wooyoung - those remained dry and polite, littered mostly with the sentiment of how much you missed them, since you knew damn well yeosang’s father was reading them. being the king’s ward, alone in a strange, admittedly cold place, with the implication of the prince breaking someone, frankly, terrified you more than his mean words and sparring matches. the thought of it always made the burn scar on your arm ache.

yeosang frowned this time, “pardon me?”

“the king said hongjoong broke others. do you like to sit with them and make small talk during the process?”

yeosang eyed you strangely then, a small quiet analytical gaze you did not want to be on the other end of.

he leaned back, regarding you.

“if he wanted to break you, he’d have done it long ago. if anything, you should be wary of the king. they do not call him the mad king for nothing.”

you’d blinked. yeosang pressed his palms to the table and hauled himself up.

you’d only watched, quiet, as yeosang turned away from you.

before he shut the library door behind him, he said, “happy nameday, y/n.”

it was not happy, and perhaps yeosang knew that it would not be.

the queen held a celebration for the court, and everyone danced and drank, and it had felt lonelier knowing your family could not attend.

mingi bowed to you before taking your hand to dance, waiting for permission before he could place his hand on your waist. he was as tall as yunho, and you’d sometimes believed they would have liked each other if yunho were allowed to visit you. that thought only made you sadder. you saw wooyoung in the few moments that brought you laughter here at court, and you saw yunho in the the even fewer moments of kindness afforded to you. you watched the queen throw her head back and laugh as hongjoong twirled her in circles, and you saw the king smile slightly, and you missed your family too much to have a happy nameday.

every year, it would end the same way.

~.~.~.~.~

you were halfway through seven-and-ten when the hidden whispers of a mad king were no longer relegated to the shadows. the queen stopped hosting dinners and balls, and more often than not she was delegated to her chambers.

she’d called on you once, something about a betrothal request from a choi that your mother had sent her way. you’d entered her chambers that smelled strongly of lemons and incense, and she’d greeted you in a dress that did not suit her tastes. she’d always been one to wear the most fashionable of dresses, but this outfit was loose and long, the neck high, and a scarf wrapped loosely around her silver-blonde hair.

“my mother?” you’d repeated, the word feeling foreign in your mouth. you hadn’t wanted to sound too hopeful lest the queen noticed and felt you were ungrateful of your time in the red keep under her care.

“you’ve spent two years under my care,” the queen said, “i am obligated to find you a good marriage. i’ve asked your mother for suggestions.”

that was strange to you, how the queen was in charge of your betrothal, while your mother could merely make suggestions. two years away from sunspear, and your mother could only make suggestions for you.

it made you angry, the longer you thought about it.

when the queen dismissed you, there was a rage at the pit of your stomach that you could not dispel, and it was unfair. you were sent here as a ward - a glorified hostage forever used as leverage against your family and your people - and despite the dinners held in your honor and the maids who waited upon you and the new clothes bought for you, you were neither of king’s landing nor sunspear anymore. your mother could not even make decisions for you, let alone your father. and, you resented them for it. you did not want to, but you resented that they were not here, that they did not prepare you for this, that they could not say anything of substance in their letters.

the rage sat and stirred on, until there was a slam against your chamber doors while you slept.

you wrapped your robes around yourself as you answered the door, and a member of the kingsguard bowed his head and said, “apologies, my liege. the king requests your presence with his small council.”

at seven-and-ten, you were escorted in the dead of night to the one place you’d vowed never to return to since your first night. since the burn. the dragon.

you stood at the entrance to the dragonpit with your heart racing against your ribs and your eyes locked on the back of ser johnny’s back, ser yuta behind you.

the door opened. you were announced. you’d entered, pulling your robes closer.

stood at the center of the room, with the crown sat on his head, stood king kim, his white hair standing on end, a heavy juxtaposition to prince hongjoong’s neat appearance. even in his sleep robes, he remained vigilant, staring at his father’s pacing, expressionless.

members of the king’s small council stood beside prince hongjoong, from house kang and house choi and house song, even yeosang stood by hongjoong’s side. yeosang was training to join the kingsguard, so you figured that is why he was by hongjoong’s side. the queen, however, was not there.

there was a dragon, however, bigger than anything you’d ever seen before, the beast curled behind the king, eyes closed, breaths coming out in loud puffs, the dim lighting of the pit dancing off the dragon’s scales.

the king swivels on you the moment you enter the dragonpit, the fire of the lanterns set in front of him dancing in his blue-white eyes.

his voice echoed all around you as he shouted, “do you understand what your father has done?”

you blinked, confused, your gaze flickering to the only other people you recognize in the room. to hongjoong, yeosang. yeosang did not look at you. hongjoong met your gaze briefly, but his expression remained expressionless. he’d gotten better at that, over the two years since your animosity begun. swordfights would end with you sprawled on the floor more often than not, and his expression as he looked down at you, the blunt sword pressed under you chin, would bring a chill down your spine. you won sometimes, and he’d only grinned when you did. when he won, it was different. he still called you an idiot, more than before. he still knocked his shoulder into yours if you did not move out of the way fast enough. you did the same back, and your septa would scowl at you and reprimand you before hongjoong could say a thing. this kind of lack of expression, though, scared you. it reminded you just how alone you were, despite spending so much time with the same people. there was no companionship there, and everyone knew it.

“answer me,” the king’s voice is loud.

“i do not, your grace,” you’re glad your voice was steady, strong even, because you sure as hell did not feel that way.

all this time, you’d hoped the mad king allegations were merely exaggerations. the time you’d glimpsed the king, he’d seemed happy enough. he berated his son in front of anyone, and perhaps you’d enjoyed that too much. you heard rumors that the king took a liking to hurting the women he bedded, and that he bedded women often. you never thought it’d extend to the queen, but no one ever considered violence against women as the reason for calling a king mad. the king barely left the red keep, and he had an obsession with green fire, burning those that defied him. you heard he refused to have his fingernails and hair cut, and as you looked at him, you noticed the sharp long claw-like nails, the long hair. a dragon-like demeanor, really.

“he’s gathered a force ten thousand strong. we live in peaceful times. i have brought peace to the seven kingdoms, yet he is gathering an army without informing me.”

at seven-and-ten, you’re faced with the mad king in all his glory.

the mad king turned on you, strode closer until he could grip your chin, his long nails scratching at your skin. he said, “what part of you should i send your father, my dear ward?”

the reminder of your position, and how helpless, and useless, you really were, made the rage bloom in the pit of your stomach.

the king’s right hand said, “your grace, if i may?”

the grip on your chin tightened, and you’re sure his nails drew blood. he’d nodded.

“provoking dorne when they are ten thousand men strong will only disturb the peace you’ve graciously given us,” yeosang’s father’s voice echoed, “we keep the child, and that army of ten thousand can be ours. jeong cares deeply for his children.”

the mad king twisted your face as he turned to look at you. his face was gaunt, hollow, and resisted the urge to jerk out from under his touch and gaze. “how do you propose we keep the child?”

the councilman from house choi spoke up, his voice low. you met his gaze over the mad king’s shoulder, and it was kinder than you expected, “marriage, of course.”

“to your house?” the mad king cackled, but he let go of your face, and you’d rubbed at the stinging wounds, subduing the urge to step away from the man. “do you think i am foolish enough to allow your house access to an army of ten thousand, choi?”

“your grace, i would never.”

“your grace,” the king’s hand spoke, “my son is also -”

“oh,” the mad king swivels on his hand, “you would like the army instead?”

your gaze slid to yeosang in that moment, and you caught his grimace as he met your gaze. you gaze flit sideways, to hongjoong, and he frowned at you.

the king swiveled on you. he looked you over, like he was deciding something, before he called, “hongjoong, give me your knife.”

your breath felt stuck in your chest as you watched hongjoong pull his knife from its leather pouch at his waist. he walked closer, his gaze not once falling on you, as he handed off the knife to his father.

“the prince of dorne requires a reminder, i think. you are right, lord kang, about marriage, but until we figure out who will betroth my ward, i will need something,” he grabbed your chin once more, and you could do nothing but stand frozen in place. the king was mad enough to set you on fire if provoked, and perhaps you weren’t so cautious when facing hongjoong, but this was different. this was the king, and no one was there to stop him. he dug his nails into your jaw, and he grinned, his teeth sharp, as he brought the knife to your face.

you squeezed your eyes shut as he yanked at your hair and cut a chunk of it off. the knife nicked your scalp, and sting of it had you trying to settle the tightness growing in your chest. he pushed you back, a chunk of hair in his hand, and he said, “wrap this up nice and pretty, and write our dornish prince of tonight’s discussion, lord song.” the king eyed you with a grin, “tell him next time, it will be fingers.”

with that, he’d turned and sauntered out the dragonpit. his dragon remained asleep in front of you. the kingsguard followed after the king, along with lord kang and lord song. lord choi stopped in front of you for a moment, a small frown on his lips, before he side-stepped you and followed after the king.

you heaved for air you did not have, but you willed yourself to hold onto your wits until you’d reached your chambers. you looked up, and you were left with no one but the dragon in front of you, and you thought you should at least write to wooyoung about this dragon since you’d avoided seeing dragons since that first night, and -

“y/n,” hongjoong’s voice was low, quiet, as if you were a small animal that would run at the first sign of loudness. you looked to the side, to hongjoong stood before you, yeosang at his shoulder, his brows furrowed the tiniest bit as well. it was strange, to see even a modicum of concern in their gazes. you did not want to deal with it.

so you’d shook your head, and spun on your heels. your robes trailed behind you as you hurried out of the dragonpit. you heard your name, but you did not care to stop and listen.

thanks to hongjoong, you’d been aware of your place in the red keep and king’s landing. you knew your status. still, you believed yourself protected in some way. you had status. you were still an honored guest, in the loosest of terms. but, your mother could only make suggestions for betrothals and proposals and marriage pacts, and the king put a knife to your face with too much ease, and now you were going to marry whoever the king wanted. that thought scared you more than anything. who wanted to remain at the whims of a mad king? the anger you’d felt for a while curled around your stomach, and you felt sick with it. you had nothing, and you missed everything, and you were so terrified of what the future held for you.

fingers, he’d said.

most of all, you were angry that you were so helpless, and -

“y/n.” his voice was loud, but his touch on your elbow was louder, especially when he jerked you back, pulling you from your racing thoughts. you spun, yanking your elbow from his grip.

prince hongjoong was never tall - something you’d ridiculed him for on more than one occasion - but his presence was a looming thing. it loomed over you like a tree. he stood there, even as your tight chest heaved, his dark eyes flickering over your face.

he said, “where the hell are you going?”

“to bed,” you gritted out, and you were unsure why you were letting your anger roll off you now, with hongjoong of all people. he was the mad king’s son. the prince. he hated you. did you really need to give him reason to retaliate against you tonight as well? did you not have enough?

yeosang was not with him. you were relieved about that, at least. hongjoong’s expression twisted into something unreadable. something you could not decipher. he sighed, “let me walk you back at least.”

“why?”

he frowned. your tone still held so much anger, perhaps more than before. his brows furrowed, and he looked at your as if you were being strange. he asked, “what do you mean why? you’re bleeding, and i had yeosang grab ointments for -”

“is this pity?” you’d stared at him, barely able to control the vindictive anger in your tone, “because if it’s pity, i do not want it.”

hongjoong’s jaw clenched, “i’m trying to fucking help you, y/n.”

“i don’t want it,” you snapped back, stepping closer to him. “i don’t want your pity, or your help. i don’t want any of it.”

“i’m not asking if you want it. you’re bleeding.”

“and your knife and your father is the reason for it, hongjoong,” you’d forgone formalities, and that made hongjoong still in front of you. “i’d rather die of infection than have you help me.”

yeosang appeared around the corner, just as you spoke the last word. yeosang peered between hongjoong and yourself, his gaze flickering from your head to your toes before he handed hongjoong the basket of ointments.

hongjoong’s gaze flit downwards, to your arm, and you realized he was looking at your burn. you pulled your robes up around you, tight. hongjoong’s jaw clenched at your reaction, but waved a hand and turned on his heels as he said, “then die.”

and it was angry and mean, and exactly what you expected of him. yet, the anger at the pit of your stomach churned and churned, and the loneliness you’d felt all these years hit too hard.

“fuck you,” you’d called, with as much conviction as you could muster.

your voice cracked a bit around the second word. it was embarrassing. yeosang blinked at you. hongjoong swiveled to face you once more. his voice was cold, sharp, like the knife had been against your hair, “is that any way to speak to your prince?”

you’d glared at him, and he took slow steps in your direction. each step he took had you stepping back, despite yourself.

“answer,” he said, stepping too close, “me.”

he mirrored his father, and you both knew it. he did it on purpose. his eyes danced with black fire, and he reached up and pressed his hand to your face. his fingertips pressed against the cuts caused by his father’s nails. you closed your eyes. he let out a small laugh, and he spoke so quietly, only you could hear him, “i thought you didn’t want my help?”

you opened your eyes, and his face was too close. he tilted his head. you spat, “i don’t.”

he brushed his fingertips along some of the broken skin on your face, and it was a kind touch. much kinder than his next words.

“one day,” he hummed, “i’ll make sure you’ll need it.”

then he shoved the ointments into your hands and swiveled on his heels. he walked away, leaving you alone, and you swore to yourself you’d prove him wrong, anger swirling in your stomach.

~.~.~.~.~

at eight-and-ten, you attend the ceremony where mingi and yeosang took the cloak, and joined the kingsguard.

“sweet thing,” yeosang grinned as he said it, watching you fiddle with the practice sword in your hand. hongjoong was late for practice, his lessons with his father running late, and you were left with yeosang and mingi for company.

over the years, you’d warmed up to mingi. you wouldn’t declare him a friend. no one really was a friend to you in the red keep. but you’d consider him something more than an acquaintance. he often picked out books for you to read. he did not like to read the books, rather he enjoyed listening to you recount the stories to him.

“i love the way you tell stories. you make them sound more exciting,” he said, with a big smile, and kind eyes. you liked the way reactions he’d give you, and the way he hung onto your every word.

he was a knight for all the right reasons. to help protect those he was sworn to, and lay down his life for his oath. at jousting tournaments, the nobles were smitten with his smile. his jousting stick would be full of flower wreath favors. mingi was good, and right, and everything you liked about the stories of good nights.

yeosang was the opposite. his popularity soared during jousting matches, and you did not blame anyone for it. he had good looks and a confidence to him that matched his skills. however, he liked to sit down across from you while you read and ask you questions until you glared at him. he only ever laughed at your glares.

worst of all, he’d taken a habit of calling you his sweet thing, knowing damn well the name had you seething. it reminded you of that night when you turned five-and-ten, and he was right about the mad king.

“what?”

you’d rolled your eyes as you turned to him, placing the end of the blunt practice sword to his chest to keep him from stepping closer.

yeosang’s eyes glittered as he peered at the sword against his chest. he said, “i’ve taken the oath. you know what that means, do you not?”

“that your head has grown ten times in size?”

mingi giggled, “that is exactly what will happen.”

yeosang rolled his eyes, playfully swatting at mingi with his sword. he shook his head, said, “my father cannot betroth me to you.”

after that night, you’d heard nothing about your betrothal. it was hard to sleep most nights, since you lived in fear that the king would call you from your chambers once more and ask for a finger or two. you had no idea what your father had done in reaction to your hair, but perhaps no news was good news.

your letters from your family were short and quaint - which you figured was because they knew their letters were being read as well.

i should hope you are well. everything is intact, correct? yunho had asked in a letter following that night. it was lighthearted enough, but it was the only indication you had that that night hadn’t been a figment of your imagination, aside from the scar along your hairline you now have.

the queen mentioned marriage to the elder son of lord choi, san, but then she mentioned yeosang. that was it.

“thank the gods,” you’d responded.

yeosang smiled, even as he said, “i know you do not care for me, and i care very little for you, but i should advise you that whoever you wed will determine your fate.”

“is that all i’m good for? a marriage pact?”

“sweet things like aren’t good for much else, i’m afraid.”

you’d pressed your sword further into his chest.

“yeosang, leave them alone,” mingi stepped in, pushing your sword from yeosang’s chest. he said, “yeosang likes to defy his father. this has nothing to do with you, he’s just being an ass.”

yeosang pouted, “i am not.”

“you are,” you muttered.

mingi said, “we know san. he’s a kind man. he’ll treat you well.”

even under the dreary sun of king’s landing, you saw sadness in mingi’s expression as he spoke. yeosang snorted beside you, said, “what mingi wants to say is that he-”

mingi punched yeosang in the stomach. yeosang gasped, wheezing out a laugh. you’d frowned between them.

hongjoong arrived then, just as yeosang caught his breath and mingi raised his fist in warning. if you thought yeosang and mingi were strange, hongjoong arrived to the practice field fuming.

his jaw clenched and his fingers flexed around nothing. he tossed a practice sword in yeosang’s direction and nodded towards the field, ignoring you completely. ever since that night, he’d avoided sparring with you.

the first lesson following that night, ser johnny handed you your sword, his eyes flickering to hongjoong expectantly as he held out the sword. ser johnny and ser yuta stopped questioning why hongjoong insisted on sparring with you a long while back.

hongjoong shook his head, turning to mingi and nodding. mingi’d raised his brows in surprise, but he’d joined hongjoong in battle, readying his sword. you’d figured it was because you still hand bruises on your face and a bandage on your head, but it continued long after your wounds healed. you sparred mingi often. sparring yeosang was him driving you into the ground moments after the match begun, smirking all the while.

you’d confronted him about it once, after a jousting tournament. you did not mean to, but it weighed on you, strangely enough. you’d given your favor to an older knight from the riverlands who lost terribly to hongjoong, thrown from his horse while hongjoong pranced up and down the tourney stands rousing the crowd. he’d returned to lady jihyo of hightower, and pressed a kiss to her hand.

you’d drunk too much ale, and it was too late for a person of your status to remain at a feast filled with rowdy drunk lord and lieges, but you’d snuck away from your septa and found hongjoong downing a pitcher of ale in the corner of the hall while yeosang and mingi cheered him on.

“oh my,” yeosang slurred, grinning as he leaned over the table, holding a palm out for you to take. during the tournament, yeosang, mingi, and hongjoong held their jousting spears to your stands. many nobles placed their favors on their spears, so you scooted past them, ignoring them in favor of the knight from the riverlands. “this is no place for a sweet thing like you.”

you’d smacked his hand away, and yeosang laughed, bowing dramatically. you’d rounded on hongjoong, who eyed you with a tilt of his head, his silver-blond hair falling into his eyes. he brushed it back, said, “yeosang is right. you should be in bed.”

you’d plopped down on the bench beside mingi, taking his ale, and you downed a bit for yourself. the sweet warmth of the ale soothed your nerves, and the ever-present anger you felt around hongjoong.

“are either of you going to make me go to bed?”

yeosang cackled.

mingi shook his head, smacking yeosang.

hongjoong said, with a raise of his brows as he leaned close, “i can. if you’d prefer.”

“no.”

he leaned back, regarding you slowly. it left you feeling vulnerable in ways you did not often feel vulnerable, even during your time in king’s landing under the scrutiny of so many nobles. he said, slurred voice low, “then stay. drink.”

and you did. it was frowned upon to drink so much, because you were not a prince or knight. you were barely a warrior.

yet you sat and drank and drank and laughed with your enemies despite what they’d stood by and allowed the king to do to you.

mingi twirled you round and round until you fell over in a fit laughter, and yeosang stroked your cheek until you clasped your hand around his and pulled him away, and he dropped his hand in response.

and hongjoong watched you all the while, his dark eyes melting the way the night sky melts into the earth at the horizon.

you’d confronted him later, when you were left with your arms around hongjoong’s neck as he carried you to your chambers. it was sad, you think, that you’d missed embracing someone else. your family, and the people of dorne, were affectionate. no one dared to touch anyone with such affection in king’s landing.

you buried your face into hongjoong’s shoulder, and you murmured, “do you think they miss me?”

a pause, before he murmured, “who?”

“my brothers. my family.”

“i don’t know,” he said.

you’d nodded, and his grip around the underside of your knees tightened as he continued walking through the halls.

eventually, you said, “is there a reason why you’ve stopped sparring with me?”

he chuckled, and the sound reverberated through his body to yours. you were too close to him. he shifted, straightening you on his back. “do you miss me beating you?”

“i won sometimes.”

“hardly.”

you groaned, and he snickered, and eventually you reached your chambers. he let himself in without asking. he kneeled into front of your bed and you slid from his back onto your bed. he turned to face you, his gaze flickering over yours for a long, long moment.

you said, “the septa said i should not attend sword training any longer.”

“i know,” he dragged a hand through his silver hair, his silver rings glinting under the dim candlelight of your room, “i told her you will attend every lesson. including sword training.”

“is your word law now?”

his sideways smirk glinted in the light, “it is where it matters.”

“do you think you could have stopped your father then? with just your words?”

you didn’t mean to say that, but you were drunk, and your tongue was loose.

hongjoong froze where he stood, with hand in his silver hair, and the candlelight casting long shadows up his face.

he crouched beside your bed where you laid, and he brushed a hand along your hair, right where the knife left a scar, and he said, “i said where it matters, y/n.”

you’d blinked at that. did what happened to you not matter? or perhaps he is punishing you for denying his help that night? why do you even care? you’d hated him since the moment you laid eyes on him.

you looked at him, and he peered down at you, soft orange candlelight reflecting off his black eyes. his fingertips flit from your face to your outstretched arm. to the old burn scar there. his fingertips grazed along the skin. up and down. up and down.

you slurred, “and when it’s my fingers next? then what will you do?”

“do you want my help? is that what you’re asking for?”

you shook your head. hongjoong’s stroking of your burn scar paused. you said, “i don’t want it. i meant what i said.”

“and i meant what i said,” hongjoong curled his fingers around your forearm, brushing his knuckles along the scar.

slowly, he rose to his full length, and you stared up at him. his expression grew stoic, unreadable almost, as he peered down at you.

he said, “sleep well, y/n.”

you did not.

he did not speak to you so candidly since that night.

and he did not continue sparring with you.

now here he was, fuming as he landed blow upon blow on yeosang. yeosang caught each swing easily, though the blows were strong. you could see yeosang struggling to keep up.

hongjoong ignored you throughout the lesson, and you found yourself getting annoyed the longer it went on, until the lesson came to an end and mingi patted your back kindly.

~.~.~.~.~

“choi san, of storm’s end, first of his name,” hongjoong said. “he’s a noble man.”

you sat with a book in your lap, the library quiet. too quiet. with hongjoong stood above you, his shoulder-length hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, you felt there should be someone there as a buffer at least. the heat radiating from him reminds you of fire, untamed, unbridled.

“i do not speak in riddles, my prince.”

hongjoong shut his eyes, and his jaw ticked. you watched the movement curiously. he seemed high-strung today. “he’s coming on the morrow to meet you.”

“ah,” you’d sighed, “i still do not understand why i should care.”

hongjoong fell into a crouch in front of you, his elbows resting on his knees, his hair falling into his dark eyes. a side smile filled his expression, and made your stomach churn. whether that was in fear or excitement or curiosity was beyond you, especially when he placed a hand adorned in rings atop the book in your lap, and he said, “come with me.”

“pardon me?” you blinked between his hand and his face.

“i have something to show you,” and the smirk that dripped from his lips settled under your skin.

you said, “at this hour?”

“at this hour.”

he spoke softly. you considered him carefully.

“is it safe?”

he could see your resolve slipping. that was why he removed his hand from the book on your lap.

hongjoong tilted his head, the candlelight of the library dancing in his dark eyes. “as long as you stay by my side.”

you ask, “will you stay by my side?”

hongjoong only smiled, and held out a hand.

after another moment, you took it, and he helped you to your feet.

in that moment, you should have known exactly how the whole story would end.