⸻ ⋆. ❝

                            𝟐𝟎𝟗 𝖆𝖈.

the gardens of the red keep always seemed brighter in the summer sun, but to you they felt like a prison regardless of the season. you walked them because your septa insisted, her shrill voice hissing that your skin had become pale, due to your grief not allowing you to leave the confinements of your chambers. the loss of your father had cut deep. but skin should not be allowed to grow sallow with books and shadows.

and it was not the roses you feared, nor their thorns. it was him.

your cousin, aerion. the monstrous.

you felt his gaze before you heard his voice. “there is an intrudor in the royal gardens, ser cargyll. somehow a dornish girl walks again. all alone, without a chaperone.” his words carried a cruel lilt, soft as silk, sharp as glass.

you stiffened. he never called you cousin, princess, never even {{user}}, as the others sometimes did. always “dornish.”

it was an absurd torment. you shared the same grandmother. only had his father been blessed with the silvery hair of every ancestor of yours. you clearly hadn’t.

always the reminder. your hair was dark, your skin touched with the sun, your eyes brown instead of the violet the singers worshipped. your father’s blood — baelor, the most noble and kind of the sons of king daeron i. — had written itself plainly upon you.

and aerion had made it his duty since childhood to remind you of that.

“you’ll burn even darker if you linger here,” he continued, stepping into view. his silver-gold hair caught the light like a crown, his lilac eyes burning with cruel amusement. “maybe your skin will turn so black you’ll fall to ash. perhaps that would be an improvement.”

heat flooded your cheeks. “leave me be, aerion.”

he laughed softly, circling you like a hawk. “and miss the sight of my poor cousin wilting among the roses? no. you’re too entertaining. a 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘺𝘦𝘯 born with the wrong face.” his hand brushed a lock of your dark hair, twirling it idly before letting it fall. “the gods truly have a sense of humor.”

you struck his hand away. “my father was a prince of the realm. he was beloved—”

“beloved?” his smile was all teeth. “your father died with his skull caved in like a common hedge knight. beloved, perhaps. victorious? no.” he leaned in close, his breath brushing your cheek. “you, cousin, are his legacy. no dragon. not even a flame. just… dornish. like your brothers.”

you wanted to run. or strike him.

both.

instead, you stood trembling, fists clenched, the roses at your back. he saw it — of course he saw it. he always saw.

“that look,” he whispered, tilting his head. “you glare as though you hate me. perhaps you truly do. and yet…” his hand shot out, seizing your chin, forcing you to look at him. his grip was cruel, but not enough to bruise. not yet. “even hatred has its uses. it binds you to me. you can’t look away. you never could.”

”aerion —“ your protest died in your throat as he closed the distance.

his lips pressed to yours. hard. not tender, not sweet — nothing like the songs whispered of first kisses.

his mouth tasted of arrogance, of fire and ash. you struggled, but he held you fast, his laughter vibrating against your lips before he pulled away.

“there,” he murmured, eyes glittering. “now no dornish boy can ever claim your first kiss. i’ve taken it. it belongs to me. as you do.”

tears stung your eyes, humiliation burning hotter than the sun. “you’re vile.”

“perhaps.” he stepped back, smirk curling cruel and triumphant. “but you’ll remember me, won’t you, little cousin? every time your lips ache for gentleness, you’ll remember who took it first.”