ℒove always wakes the dragon (Aemond x OC)

Up in Flames

sorry for not posting last week, I've haven't been feeling the best. but here's some action for you and the next chapter will have some fluff (it is  a love story after all lmao) ♥

Lia ventures into the city, and her gaze darts left and right, over faces and bodies roaming around, as she is trying to catch a hint, a slightest sign of something that might be the source of trouble. It seems all the same at first: buildings, beggars, and street dancers, the smell of alcohol and body odor, the flaming torches, and the dark corners untouched by the light. She keeps walking for a minute, five, ten, her heartbeat not slowing for a second. Lia stops in the middle of a street to try and cool down the blazing anxiety, and still, nothing around her is out of the ordinary, the shades and movements mundane.

Until she hears a muffled chorus of voices rapidly getting closer.

She can't make out the words but she recognizes their distressed tone. And then someone rushes past her, one person after another, and they are running without looking back. She manages to catch only one noun: fire.

The wave of panic she is hit with can almost be physically felt — it ruffles the air like the wind, it brings a chilling shiver down her spine. The panic spreads like a flood, washing away the joy and breaking up crowds of townfolk; Lia is the only one who hurries in the opposite direction. Suddenly the signs are all here: people in charred clothes, faces pale with fear and sweaty from the heat, groggy cries for help. And then she sees it — bright orange glimmering in the distance, sparks of it disrupting the night sky. The ragged edges of fire break out of the windows, risking to weave into one burning canvas and cover the whole building.

The worst part is the realization: the building on fire is an orphanage, and the screams coming out of it belong to kids. They are not groggy from sleep, they are frightened, and they can't cry any louder. There are two opposite currents, two crushing thoughts in Lia's head — one reminds her of death and destruction that fire brings, the other one screams for her to run into fire as she always does into fights.

The second one wins.

No warnings matter and every minute counts: Lia races against the clock, she is rewriting the scenario she already lived out before. This time, the ending will be different. She can't let it happen any other way.

Lia takes advantage of the turmoil — she grabs some of the fabrics from the street fair scattered on the ground, finds the nearest street fountain and wets every piece, then takes one and wraps around the lower part of her face. She knows the fire isn't the most dangerous part; the real hidden enemy is the smoke, and it only grows heavier and darker.

The cries don't stop, they turn into wails as Lia gets closer. She doesn't think for a second — she runs to the orphanage and jerks the front door, but only manages to open it a crack. The jammed entrance adds to the kids' dismay, their hands reaching through the gap, and Lia feels someone's fingers tightly grabbing onto hers. The memory flashes before her eyes: other tiny hands powdered with ash, cold and not moving. She gets the horrifying image out of her mind and starts pushing the door with redoubled force. Lia presses on it with her shoulder, again and again, until her side starts aching — she takes a step back, grabs the doorframe with one of her hands, wincing at how hot it is, and leans on the wooden surface with her whole body.

There's a crackling, rugged breathing — her own — and then the door gives in and breaks open.

The children burst out of the building, weeping and trembling; some are fearfully holding hands, some falling to the ground coughing, gasping for air. Lia hunkers down to help them up, wiping their red faces with damp fabrics, washing off the tears trickling down their cheeks, giving reassurance, trying to look for any wounds. She notices septas finally rushing to the building, shaken out of their slumber. Their bewilderment quickly wanes, giving way to their caring nature as they start tending to the kids too, their voices as gentle as their touches.

None of the orphans speak at first. They don't wander off and instead huddle together, aghast and yet, unexplainably fascinated by the sight of fire that rises, blazes, grows. A little girl clings to Lia's side, her wide eyes filled with fear, but she pushes through it to mumble quietly. "There is a lady."

Lia turns to look through the doorway and sees the flames dancing inside the building.

The child repeats, more firmly. "You need to help our dear lady."

Lia only asks out of politeness. "Was there someone else with you?"

The girl nods vigorously, tattered dark curls framing her flushed face. "She comes to visit in the evening, brings us fruits. Sometimes she stays to tell us stories or read tales," maybe another septa, Lia thinks while the girl continues urgently, "She saw the fire break out, she was the one to show us the way." Lia is done examining the girl, only half-listening to her but what she least expects is for the kid to add, "Mysaria we call her."

Lia feels like she was doused with cold water. One of the septas comes to take the little girl, but the kid only looks at Lia with the same unsaid plea.

And Lia doesn't fear the fire and she needs no convincing.

"Make sure the kids are safe," she gets up, addressing the septa, "They will need water, a lot of it. Rinse their noses and mouths, find them a change of clothes."

She gives the kid one last glance, a reassuring half-smile, and then turns toward the building that's engulfed in flames.

"What are you doing?!" the septa screams in dismay but her words are shortly drowned out by the crackle of the fire that's akin to a muted, threatening hiss. Lia only takes a deep breath, pulling the wet piece of fabric above her nose — and runs right into a burning orphanage.

In just a second, the fire takes her into a warm embrace but it's prickly, eager to bite her limbs if only she gets too careless or too close, and Lia moves in fits, trying her best to avoid it. The red tongues of flames unmercifully swallow everything in their path: tables, chairs, books, pieces of clothes left in panic. Lia goes from room to room and deeper into the building, most of the doors already burnt through, and she peers into the billowing smoke trying to discern a shadow, a movement, a body.

It's hard to grasp the flow of time, her body tense and her mind only focused on planning each movement, on being alert and taking shallow breaths. Her cheeks heat up from the dry, stuffed air, and Lia raises the arm to shield her face, her eyes gliding over the heaped furniture and charred floor — until finally, she sees a silhouette in a mass of rubble.

Lia keeps her head low, the smoke already tickling her throat as she rushes to the slumped figure that's half hidden by a crushed ceiling beam. First comes the relief — it is Mysaria, unconscious but with some color in her face left, her chest still guarding a weak heartbeat. But when Lia closes the distance, she catches a glint — bright and silvery — and realizes it's a knife sticking out of Mysaria's shoulder. What's worse is that there's still a hand wrapped around its hilt.

The man it belongs to is lying face down, pinned by the beam, dark crimson seeping out from under his body. She takes his hand off, and there is something — in how rough and grabby his fingers are — that feels recognizable. But Lia is in too big of a hurry to mull over it, the fabric covering most of her face already drying up. She doesn't go for the knife, knowing that pulling it out will worsen the bleeding, and instead tries to sit Mysaria up, gently nudging her shoulder to wake her, to —

"I should've killed her sooner," comes a voice, raspy with hatred, and this time, no guessing is needed.

Lia looks at him in an instant, his face contoured with pain and hostility, his gaze cutting into her through the smoke. Last time she saw him, his hands were tied and eyes were closed.

"Should've finished you off too," Blood hisses, trying to reach her. His body treacherously holds him in place, his legs caught under the fallen part of the ceiling.

He'll bleed out before the fire gets to him. He'll burn down before all of his blood drains out. It's either of these two options — and none is painless. She's supposed to not be bothered by it but she is.

"You are dying," she leans in and punctuates, "You will die here, do you realize that? I'm your only chance at escaping."

Lia sees awareness dawning on his face but his expression stays grim. "I'll take my chances," he rebuts in a hoarse voice, then coughs, squinting eyes at her. "You will hand me over to the gold cloaks, I ain't an idiot."

"If I get you out and you can walk on your own two feet, I will let you walk," she replies grudgingly. Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees the fire sparking, burning up the curtains — the material goes black and turns into ashes.

Blood huffs, the sound cut short by his uneven breathing as he props himself up on the elbows, and she catches a dull gleam — a broach on his coat, its shape reminiscent of something small like a bug, but it's too dark to see it more clearly. Blood throws her a scornful look. "Only you want something from me first, don't you?"

"Tell me who hired you," she knows that denying will only be a waste of time which is already running out. "Say the name, and I will help you."

He only considers her offer for a second before a wry smirk appears on his face. "You really want the name so badly, you'll even save a murderer? And what if I don't tell you, huh? What if it pleases me to think of you torturing yourself with the question you will never find an answer to."

"I will  find him," Lia objects firmly, "Whatever dark corner of King's Landing he's at, I will drag him out."

"What if he's hiding in plain sight," Blood argues, and the satisfaction he gets from saying it is enough evidence of him telling the truth. He drawls tauntingly, "You deem yourself so righteous, I bet," his smile grows wider, showing teeth stained with blood, "But in here, righteousness isn't worth a dime. And he's got enough gold to buy anyone's allegiance."

Mysaria lets out a whimper, and Lia's gaze darts to her, the woman's face draped with sweat and worrisomely pale. The girl only now realizes how stifling the heat is, her own body perspiring. There's a faint crackling sound coming from somewhere above them.

"You got lucky last time but your friend might not be in luck," Blood raises his voice, annoyed that he lost her attention. "This whore also thought she'd outsmart me — and yet here we are. Where's that smart mouth of hers? Isn't talking anymore," he spits, "And Ser Aren won't talk either."

Anger drags its teeth across Lia's chest, but she pushes it down and breaks eye contact, turning away to swiftly take Mysaria under the arm, trying her best to avoid the hilt sticking out of the woman's body.

"Have fun talking to yourself then," she responds coolly. She would've pressed him harder, but her mind starts chanting the same warning — get out, get out, get out, and the floor is already getting too heated to stand on.

"All your friends will meet the same fate," Blood's words are filled with malice, "You won't ever see it coming until he swats you like a fly and —"

There's a grinding sound, sharp and loud, and the man stops talking to look up; at the same second Lia grabs Mysaria tighter and takes a rushed step away. The rumble that follows is sudden and ear-piercing — and then another piece of the ceiling collapses, a commingling of soot, and splinters, and fire.

It takes a moment for the dust to settle, and when Lia opens her eyes, she sees a pile of debris in place of Blood, his body fully covered with it, only a hand of his sticking out, motionless. But then Lia's gaze finds the door she came through — only to see it littered with chunks of the ceiling and half-blocked.

How will you get out now?

The flames are relentless, spreading from the floor up to the walls, and the smoke already stings her eyes. It is not hopeless yet, Lia persuades herself: she can clear the path and still fit through the gap in the door and run out — but the illusion dissipates when Mysaria whines indistinctly, reminding Lia that she isn't alone in this, that there's a body clinging to her, depending on her, an added weight she has to carry. She can't hold back a frustrated groan. Lia struggles to keep the woman up and tries to focus, to slowly move closer to the door, reaching her free arm to it and —

There's a faint noise she doesn't notice right away until it gets closer, turns louder. It sounds like someone pushes the door open from outside, its hinges creaking before suddenly a hand appears in the gap, moving bits of rubble out the way. It takes a few more movements, a couple of pushes and the door gives to the pressure, swinging half opened — just enough for her to see the person standing there, his eye instantly on her.

Lia only catches a second of it, his expression barely visible and fleeting but leaving her stunned nonetheless — it's Aemond looking at her, his usually perfectly straight hair now a mess, dark green coat stained with soot — and just for a second she thinks he looks absolutely terrified. But then he sees her, and a breath that leaves his lips makes his chest visibly shudder. Aemond snaps out of it quickly, stepping into the room.

"We need to leave now," he tells her, grabbing Mysaria under the other arm, taking most of her weight on him. Aemond and Lia only exchange one short glance — with an unspoken understanding, an agreement — before hurrying out.