ℒove always wakes the dragon (Aemond x OC)

There's Just Anger (flashback #2)

She falls on her back — once again, and the ribbon of her spine is undoubtedly bruised already. But she gets up with no timidity or complaints, and she is yet to get out of breath.

Matthias keeps an eye on her, his face reticent, yet she does catch a low pleased hum he lets out. Her training lessons are measured, and he puts repetition above all — he teaches her how to move, to swing, to administer each cut. He watches her footwork, and the flat of his blade hits her thigh:

"You strike from the right — you step with the right, you strike from the left — you step with the left," he punctuates. "Don't tie your legs into a braid, no sword will help you then."

She groans but takes note, comes closer, looks eager for a fight. Way too resilient for a girl of ten-and-three, Matthias notes, and even more so persistent. He often finds himself thinking what is the origin of her passionate spirit, and how come her eyes are the color of verbena. He's got a guess but he never mentioned it once as secrets are not foreign to him — his own face is adorned with scars that no one knows the origins of.

She swings at him on the exhale — the sword looks a tad big in her hands but she balances it nicely, and her intrepidity compensates for her size. He effortlessly fends her off, one of his hands behind his back, and he's so fast and agile, it's almost discouraging. But she doesn't give up, swirls the blade, tries again and again. It takes another few rounds for her to back down, and he looks like he hardly broke a sweat.

"You put too much energy into fighting off hence why it gets harder for you to keep up the pace. And what is your only advantage, can you remind me?"

"I didn't ask you to give me a sword so I could run away from a fight."

"Your running skills do not concern me, I've heard you've gotten very good at that," there's a smile behind his voice, and Matthias studies her for a moment. "Although it seems like you don't run anymore. Breaking arms and noses now, aren't you?"

She feels her face burning, and so is her heart, and he sees a glint of fury in her eyes. A mere mention of what happened makes her blood boil, and the anger ascends in her, hazardous and calescent. She still can feel herself grabbing the stupid boy by the shoulders, his head slamming against the floor, his gaze filled with fear.

"It's the least he deserved after what they did," she asserts.

"I didn't say it wasn't deserved," Matthias lowers his sword and stretches his shoulders. "How is your beast doing?"

She thinks of Olwen's broken wing, of how she spent half the night applying pieces of moss to the deep wound on his neck, how her fingers, her clothes and the ground were all red.

"Better," she mutters. What she tries to stop thinking about is how the dragon's blood made the bruises and cuts on her hands disappear.

"Bigger than a wolf, too thin for a bear, the boy said," Matthias continues but makes it sound careless, cautious. "I wonder what it is."

"The kid's got poor eyesight," she glares at him, her terse answer is a sign of her not wanting to talk anymore.

He doesn't press further — instead, he throws his sword into the grass, straightens up:

"Here, try to strike me."

"Shouldn't you be armed, too?"

Matthias shrugs, a faint smile on his face but his eyes remain focused. "I can dodge."

And he does just that. He swerves away, his step bouncy, his long body flexible like a reed. Him being unarmed serves to embolden her zeal, and as their tempo speeds up, she gets too excited, too carried away — until he suddenly bends down and gets behind her, grabbing her by the arm and shaking her up. She drops the sword out of surprise and when she turns to face him, his palm lightly presses right between her collarbones.

"Don't fool yourself into thinking you can easily overpower a man. Shall any of them want to kill you, they can do so with bare hands," he puts no pressure on her neck but she gets the hint and holds her breath. "If I move my fingers higher and squeeze hard enough, you will die. With the same hands any man can snap your neck, can bash your head into a wall, can —"

"How is this supposed to help me get better?" she hisses. "How should I —"

"Turn my head," Matthias interrupts, unruffled. "Come on, put your hands on my face and turn my head, left or right, doesn't matter."

She glances up at him, hesitates. Then her fingers reach for his face and press at the bearded contour of his jaw, making him look away from her.

"See? Turning the head turns the spine, which will break their strength and they'll loosen the stranglehold," he expounds as she quickly pulls back but listens gingerly. "Don't forget to tighten your neck while you're at it, so they don't cut off the flow of your blood."

"And if they do?" she nervously swallows, suspecting the worst, and from the look he gives her, she figures she was right.

"You will lose consciousness, at best," he removes his hand, and she allows herself a long exhale, her fingers instinctively touching her neck. Her mortality is no news to her but she hates how just the thought of it makes her skin crawl, makes her feel small and defenseless all over again.

She masks it with annoyance. "Any other lessons for today? Should I start waving my fists around?"

"No, you should manage your space and don't let them cross the distance so you won't find yourself in a situation like that," he spells it out, his tone humorless. "You can only get better if you remember your advantage at all times — whatever you do, you must do it fast, faster than them".

"I can't do much if I'm empty-handed," she argues, and he lets out a small chortle.

"You don't need to be," Matthias remarks — and brings a dagger out from behind his back. Her gaze instantly shifts from him to his weapon. "I have it hidden under the shirt," he explains and swiftly flips the dagger a couple of times; the action is soundless, the sharpened blade catches the light, and Lia goggles at it. Then he hands it to her — and the hilt fits perfectly in her hand.

"Weapons can reach further than a punch," he emphasizes. "The small blade will still do the damage — if you only know how to use it. It is also a way for you to channel your... range of emotions into."

When he mentions it, she looks at him from under the brows:

"There is no range. There's just anger."