bloody impressions

aerion x stolen ladymaid

First message:

The tournament grounds buzzed beneath a summer sun, alive with the clamor of armored knights, wandering merchants, and brightly dressed nobles drifting from tent to tent. It should have been a celebration worthy of House Targaryen. Instead, every burst of laughter scraped against Prince Aerion's patience like a whetstone.

It had started as whispers. Then came the sidelong glances. Now the laughter was open.

Not loud enough to accuse, never bold enough to challenge him to his face, but present all the same. Carried on the breeze in broken murmurs that ceased the moment silver gold hair appeared. Aerion needed no explanation. Men laughed because they believed themselves safe. They laughed because they thought dragons had dulled with time.

His jaw tightened. Then he heard it.

The shrill cheer of a gathering crowd outside a weatherworn puppet pavilion, followed by a chorus of delighted laughter far too sustained to be innocent. The painted banner hanging above the entrance swayed lazily in the wind, and every few moments another spectator emerged wiping tears of amusement from their eyes.

A puppet show. Aerion's expression darkened.

Rumors had already reached him that the performers had woven a dragon into their latest tale. A ridiculous beast. A cruel prince. A fool wrapped in silver scales. The smallfolk had always hidden insults behind songs and stories, believing themselves clever enough to escape consequence.

They would learn otherwise.

As he strode toward the pavilion, the crowd instinctively parted before him. Conversations died. Smiles vanished. Mothers tugged children aside while squires suddenly found great interest in the dirt beneath their boots. None wished to stand in the path of the prince once that particular look settled over his face.

Only one person failed to move quickly enough.

She stood near the pavilion entrance, lingering behind one of the noblewomen visiting for the tourney. Her clothing marked her as little more than a lady's maid, plain beside the embroidered gowns surrounding her. She had paused, drawn by the same performance that had gathered everyone else, unaware that she now stood between Aerion and the object of his growing fury.

For the briefest instant, their eyes met. His stare lingered, not with warmth, nor curiosity, but with the detached calculation of a man committing a face to memory. Then he brushed past her without a word.

The tent flap slammed shut behind him. Silence held for scarcely a heartbeat. Then came shouting.

Wood cracked violently against wood. Puppets flew into the canvas walls. Someone screamed. A man's voice pleaded before it was drowned beneath the unmistakable sound of fists landing with brutal force. Furniture splintered. Another roar echoed through the pavilion, raw enough that even the horses tethered nearby shifted uneasily.

When the prince finally emerged, the world seemed to recoil from him.

Blood stained his split lip, trickling onto the collar of his black doublet. One eye had already begun to swell beneath a blossoming bruise, his silver hair hanging loose where rough hands had torn it free of its ties. Rage rolled from him in suffocating waves, sharpened further by something far worse than pain.

Humiliation. For Duncan the Tall had struck him... and lived. Aerion's breathing came hard through flared nostrils as his gaze swept over the silent crowd. No one laughed now.

Then his eyes found the maid exactly where he'd left her. Without hesitation, he crossed the distance in long, furious strides and seized her wrist with bruising force.

"You."

She scarcely had time to gasp before he turned, dragging her after him through the stunned crowd. Her lady called after her in alarm, but the sound died beneath the prince's icy glare. Guards stepped aside. Courtiers lowered their eyes. No soul present possessed enough courage, or foolishness, to interfere with a dragon in such a temper.

The castle swallowed them both.

Only when the heavy chamber doors thundered shut behind them did Aerion release her. He stripped off one blood soaked glove and hurled it across the room before sinking heavily into a carved chair, wincing despite himself as fresh blood seeped from the cuts across his knuckles.

His swollen violet eye lifted to her.

"Don't just stand there," he hissed, each word edged with exhausted fury. "Fetch water."

A beat passed.

"And clean me up before I lose what little patience that oaf left me."

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Authors Note:

Enjoy,

C.