Hi there! I read your post about Aemond, and I had an idea for an older half-sister (Aemmaâs daughterâperhaps a sister to Baelon, or maybe Baelon is a girl). She was always there for him, defended him against Aegon, Jace, and Luke during the "Pink Dread" prank, and supported and looked after him.
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Hi, not a bad idea, thank you for sending it ⥠however for what I was thinking about, I'd need to introduce someone new, someone he meets and gets to know and fall in love with, rather than someone he's known his whole life.
Iâm already imagining a double stalking situation itâs too funny. Theyâre both insaneee and trying so hard to hide it bc they donât wanna scare the other. Bringing up shit they have no business knowing and throwing a little âyou told me that. Donât you remember?â to save it. They keep using the tunnels to sneak into the others room barely missing each other or literally meeting halfway and saving it with a âomg Iâm so lost pls help đ„șâ
Or imagine a love from you scenario where reader is totally aware of his obsession and trying really hard to be the perfect prey. Choosing a room with the perfect view from his chambers. Pacing through the window looking sooo pretty and oblivious. Leaving a decoy journal in the library for him to find talking about how pretty and charming and noble he is. Setting shit up so he can come and âsaveâ her. Girl is putting some work into it plotting real good.
And everyone is so fucking scared. You two are terrorizing the lords and ladies of the using them to make each other jealous. No one wants to touch that but rejecting them would look to much like an insult. A few people have âfallenâ down a flight of stairs and had to leave the court. Thereâs been a few âaccidentsâ in the training grounds. Everyone is terrified
Alicent gave up. Aegon for once in his life decided to shut tf up. Helena got out weirded.
Ikik u meant a more yearning way but the comedic potential is putting me in a coma đ
Oh my god, yes. Your answer is pure genius, please tell me more?!
The double stalking is great, honestly such an underrated trope but mutual pining is absolutely delicious and I love the idea that she's just as obsessed as him and maybe even as weird as him.
But oh my goodness, the idea that she's aware of his obsession and playing with it... I need this. The idea of a prey fully knowing she is being hunted and putting herself in a more vulnerable position to entice her predator? Delicious. Genius.
I especially love the idea that others get caught up in it. I can totally imagine reader putting herself in situations where Aemond has to intervene and it could end up in violence. She would totally thrive on seeing Aemond being violent for her sake, to defend her or even stake a public claim.
Yearning was what I had in mind, but that doesn't mean I can't pair it up with all that you've said.
My mind is reeling, I need to come up with a plotline that I can follow. Please keep those ideas coming if you have them!
Tags âą post-Dance, angst, non graphic description of childbirth, mention of marital rape, succession crisis, hopeful/open ending
Wordcount âą 3,150
Five years after the Dance, you've nearly died giving birth to a daughter, leaving your husband King Aemond without a male heir. He's now faced with an impossible choiceâforcing you to bear a son at great risk to your life, or make Rhaenyra's surviving sons his heirs.
Aemond Masterlist
It was raining that afternoon, heavy downpours that covered the Red Keep like a cloak. The labor pains had started in the night, waking you from slumber with discomfort that had slowly built into intense burns that made you wail. Locked in your quarters with the Maester and a flock of midwives, maids coming and going, fetching clean linens and fresh water, you had preferred to keep your husband outside.
Once filled with pride at the idea of bringing princes and princesses into the world, of providing your husband and king with an heir, you were now despairingâthe hours had been too long and the pain too great, and the worried frown on the Maesterâs face did not soothe your mounting terror.
Aemond paced the hallway like a beast in chains, helplessly listening to your wails and groans through the wooden doors. Never before had he felt so helpless and weak, hanging onto every sound that spilled into the hall, desperate for a word to assure him that everything was proceeding as it should have.Â
He had a crown on his head and a realm in his hands, lords and knights bowing before him and cowering in fear, but he was powerless against nature itself. Only the Gods could deliver you from your labor and grant the two of you a healthy babe.Â
Hours into his restless pacing, the doors opened once more and the Maester finally came out, looking more worried than was reassuring. Aemond did not wait for him to speak and instead pushed past the old man and rushed inside. âHow is she?â he asked over his shoulder, the Maester following him back inside.
Coming to your side, he did not dare touch youâdressed in a linen shift tainted with pinkish fluid, you were standing on trembling legs, gripping the back of a chair, your head hanging limply between your shoulders.Â
âI will do my best, but there may be a choice to make,â the Maester said precariously. Â
âIt is not your choice to make, but mine!â you wailed, and Aemond reached for you, pulling your soaked hair from your face. It was when he noticed the way your entire frame was shuddering in exhaustion and pain, cold sweat making your clothes stick to your skin, and the sight of you so sickly turned his stomach.
âWhat is happening?â he asked, only then registering the words the old man had spoken.
âThe baby is breech,â he explained. âThere is danger to it, and to the queen.â
Aemond rose from his crouching position at that, dread settling low in his chest, behind his ribs, and he thought he might never breathe again. He had of course heard the numerous stories of ladies meeting tragic fates in their birthing bed. He knew himself only to exist for the fact that his fatherâs first queen had perished while bearing him a child, but in his arrogance, he had thought him above such tragedies.
âSpeak plainly,â he said coldly, but you interrupted before the Maester could speak.Â
âCut the mother, and you save the child. Kill the child, and you may save the mother,â you said through gritted teeth, your groan morphing into another wail of agony. âIt is not your choice to make, but mine!â
Both men waited until your cries had abated, the wave of searing pain receding enough so that you could breathe again. âThe choice is yours, your grace,â the Maester insisted, and Aemond could not understand how that could be true, how a man could ever order the death of his wife.Â
âWe should not be having this conversation,â he replied severely, towering over the old man. âSave the queen, or you will meet the end of my sword.â
At that, a middle-aged woman came forward, holding you up as you tried to breathe through the pain of yet another contraction. âWe may try to turn the baby again,â the midwife suggested.Â
Reluctantly, the Maester agreed and you were led to the bed to lay down, while Aemond was encouraged to leave the room once more. He remained in the doorway, refusing to be left outside but unwilling to get in the way of the midwives, and prayed to whatever Gods still wanted to listen.Â
More soiled linens were carried out, and more cries of agony came from you but you held fast, and finally, after what seemed centuries of suffering, the wailing of a babe was heard in the room and all could breathe again. Aemond rushed to your side without care for the blood, kissing your exhausted face.
âIt is done, my love,â he murmured against your temple, and you laughed, relieved despite the pain.Â
âThe queen is exhausted, but not in any imminent danger,â the Maester said, and it was the first words he had spoken that did not provoke Aemondâs anger. A younger midwife approached then, carrying a babe wrapped in fresh linens, and tucked the small miracle into your arms.Â
âIt is a daughter, your grace,â she announced carefully, and Aemond watched your face fall, your eyes filling with tears of sorrow even though your mouth was still smiling down at your child.
âI am sorry, my king, that she is not the son you wanted,â you said, your voice thick with disappointment.
For now Aemond wanted to curse the requirements of the realm, and thought that no heir was worth sacrificing his queen for. âWorry not, my love. Rest now,â he said again, kissing your brow and thanking the Gods that you had been delivered safely.Â
Months went by and as his daughter grew, Aemond took pride in parading her around the castle. She might have been a girl instead of the son all had hoped for, but he was confident that a boy would still come while he was a young king, and in the meantime, made a point to raise the little princess as was appropriate for any Targaryen child.
Never before had he thought that seeing his blood come alive in another would fill him with such pride and strength. She was proof that his marriage was solid and his seed healthy, and he had no reason to think that a boy would not come, except perhaps the health of his queen.
While your daughter thrived month after month, healing from the birth had been dreadfully slow, and you had come back to his bed with apprehension. He had welcomed you, the two of you finding pleasure in each otherâs touch again, and he equipped himself with patience when you flinched at his requests to take you as a husband took his wife.
Instead he found satisfaction in the touch of your hands and mouth, and after a full year, the Maester had confirmed your wounds to be mended. Still, weeks went on and you did not welcome him back into your body. Aemond thought time would heal your fears, surely, and you would give yourself to him fully again.
That night was much like any otherâyou came to Aemondâs bed and laid down at his side, enjoying the warmth of his skin, however you could tell sleep was eluding your husband, and that a particular subject was weighing on his mind.
Accustomed as you were to the times when the whole realm was a burden, with too many issues to solve or matters too complex to even consider, you could tell the difference when one precise problem was at the forefront of his mind.Â
Nestled in the crook of his arm, your face tucked safely on his shoulder, you watched the steady rhythm of his chest, far too deep and slow to be any other than deliberate.
However you had learned long ago not to pry, and that he would come to you whenever he felt ready to talk. Instead you melted into the line of his body, your thigh slightly propped against his, your arm wrapped over his waist, your fingers curled along his ribs, and you enjoyed the mindless pattern his fingertips were tracing over your back.
Slowly you felt and saw the particular heaviness of arousal creeping into himâhis breathing lost its precise rhythm and instead came in shuddering sighs, his skin rising in shivers as his abdomen clenched minutely. Through the thin cotton of his sleeping trousers, you could see the curve of his cock slowly filling, rising from where it usually rested on his inner thigh.Â
Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, you slowly extracted yourself from his embrace to mouth at his chest, your hands cradling his waist, and you began your slow descent between his thighs. However as you reached his hip bones he brought you back to his face, and you were glad for the kiss of his mouth to yours.
Curious as to what he wanted more than your mouth on him, you allowed him to tip you to the sheets, until he settled between your parted knees and rolled his hips into yours. The feeling of his hard length felt as though a tongue of heat had licked up your core, but nausea rose in you all the same.
âNo,â you said firmly, and Aemond removed himself from atop you, an obvious look of disappointment and sadness upon his face.Â
At that you rose from the bed, picking up your robe and pulling it over your shoulders, simply to occupy yourself and regain some composure. Sitting up with his knees bent, Aemond watched you with a pained frown, then sighed. âIt has been over a year now,â he commented, direct but careful in his tone.
âI have satisfied you in other ways, havenât I?â you asked, tightening the belt of the robe around your abdomen, and you heard him whisper his affirmation. âWhat is it, then?â you inquired even though you knew the answer.Â
Rising to follow you, no doubt in an attempt to calm your anger, Aemond came to stand before you, and his eye bore into yours as he spoke. âI need a son and heir,â he said, and the firmness of his tone made it sound like a command from your king rather than a request from your husband.
âI nearly died the last time I bore you a child,â you replied harshly. Neither of you had forgotten the utter agony of that day and how close to falling into the Strangerâs arms you had been, along with your babe, but the shadow of the realm was ever present on your marriage.
âThe realm needs stability,â he argued, but you cut him off before he could bring any more arguments.
âDo not speak of the realm. It is not about that so much as your pride!â you cried out, and never before had he seen you so distraught. âRhaenyraâs sons still live, two of them, grown and healthy!â
No other words could have provoked your husbandâs fury so quickly, but you could not bring yourself to regret saying themâthey were the truth, the undeniable reality of the line of succession, and yet Aemond considered it the greatest insult. âI will not have the son of the usurper upon my throne!â he shouted.
âWould you rather see me dead?â you accused, and the question struck him into silence.
For a moment the room fell silent, only interrupted by your harsh breaths, and you waited for him to retract his statements, to apologize and swear that the matter was closed, but he did not. âThe choice is simple then,â you decided, quiet and cold. âIf you truly want a son from me, then you will have to force yourself upon me. I wonât fight you.â
Many queens before had to sacrifice themselves for the realm and the sake of their husbandâs legacies, and you supposed it was only fair that you would subject yourself to it. Sorrow taking over your senses, you walked towards the bed and laid down on the sheets. True to your word, you parted your knees and let your legs fall off the bed limply.Â
To his horror, Aemond followed your taunt and came to stand between your knees, reaching for the laces of his night trousers only to find that his cock was soft. He closed his eye, and the idea of taking his pleasure while you surrendered your will to him made nausea rise in his throat. Perhaps another king would have done it without thought, but he could not bear the idea of diminishing his queen as such.
âI cannot,â he said, and only then did you break, curling on your side and bringing your knees to your chest, one of your hands coming to cover your mouth as you sobbed silently into the sheets.
For days on end neither you nor Aemond spoke to the other, existing side by side as king and queen, father and mother, but the husband and wife you had been first and foremost were gone, an irrevocable change between the two of you.
Time seemed to slow and stretch around you, and where a peaceful future once laid, now only uncertainty remained. The only hope you found was in your daughter. Bringing her into this world had nearly ended your life, and as such you were grateful that you were still on this earth to see her thrive. Seeing the first few sparks of her character grow made you wonder what impact this unfortunate situation would have on her, to be the only child, a daughter when her being a son would have changed the face of the realm.
Inside of you, rage and shame battled, and while some days you felt bitter guilt that you were not able to bear a son for Aemond, other days were filled with resentment and the terrible fear that he would one day grow desperate enough to force himself on you.Â
Trust had been broken, surely not irrevocably, but shattered enough that even years from now, there would be visible cracks in it. Every day you prayed for guidance and wisdom, unable to let go of either your humiliation nor your anger, until one morning as you made your way back from the Weirwood tree, you glanced towards the gardens that stretched to the seaside, and noticed your husband in unknown company.
Aemond was walking up one of the garden alleys, and at his side was a young boy you had never seen and yet instantly knew the parentage ofâyour gaze caught on his slender features and long, thin white hair. âWho is this?â you asked your lady-in-waiting.
âOne of Rhaenyraâs sons, the youngest, I believe,â she replied, and you could not name the emotion that rose in your throat at that information. With a quick word and a small smile, you dismissed her and turned towards the gardens.Â
As you came up to them their words grew quieter, and as you approached, you could see the line of your husbandâs shoulder tense further. When finally the three of you came standing face to face, you searched for Rhaenyraâs likeness in the set of his eyes or the dimple in his chin.Â
âGood morrow, my queen,â the boy greetedâhis voice was deeper than you had expected for such a young, slender child.Â
âThis is Viserys,â Aemond introduced with a careful tone before you could inquire, then gave the boy an encouraging tilt of his head.
âThe king has offered to supervise my education,â the young prince explained with a touch of pride, and you could not help the way your heart ached. âFrom now on I am to attend the Small Council meetings.â
To any other child, you would have commented on how generous such an opportunity was, but in this case you said nothing, your husbandâs intentions still unclear. âWhat of your older brother?â you inquired.
âMy brother is not suited to ruling, our tutors say,â Viserys explained, lowering his eyes.Â
Aemond stepped in then, nodding towards the guards at the end of the alley. âGo along, I need a word alone with the queen,â he instructed. Viserys complied without hesitation, and the two of them watched him walk away, his arms neatly crossed at his back as was Aemondâs custom. âDoes that satisfy you?â he asked when the boy was far enough.
âIs this boy supposed to mend the trust you have broken?â you asked, suddenly furious at the question, at the way it was worded rather than the intention, as though it implied you were the unreasonable one.
âHe is meant to be my heir, because no matter how bitterly I hated his mother, I would not see you dead in the pursuit of a son,â Aemond said quietly, sounding just as enraged as you felt. âI have set aside my pride for you, what more would you want from me?â
Unshed tears burning the back of your throat, you turned towards the garden, unable to sustain his gaze, and heard him groan in frustration.
While he could hardly look at the child, his very presence a reminder of the costs to the realm and the sufferings he still carried in his very bones, his hatred for his sister and her offspring did not compare to his devotion to you.
âI will raise my enemyâs child for the love of you,â he shouted, and never before had you heard him raise his voice on such a private matter in public. âI have lost everything to the throne, I will not lose you as well.â
Even years after the war had ended, you knew the loss of his brothers still stung as fiercely as it did on the days of their death, and you could not deny you understood the weight that rested on his shoulders. âIt is right for a king to expect a son from his queen,â you finally admitted, cold and defeated.
Aemond came to stand behind you, his hands hovering beside your arms, reaching but not touching, and his voice turned soft in the way it only did when addressing you. âI have never held it against you, and never will,â he vowed.
âNot in words, but in your heart, Iâm sure,â you accused, and he did not refute itâhe could not.Â
For nights on end he had blamed you in his prayers, too caught up in his pride to admit the hurt he had caused you, no matter how righteous his pursuit of a legacy was. âAre we meant to resent each other until death do us part, then?â he asked, a touch of desperation to his voice.
With one last heavy breath you turned to look upon him once more, his sharp face contorted in agony. âI am your queen, I shall love you until death pries me from your side,â you promised, and while it did not fill the cracks of your broken trust, perhaps such a simple truth was enough to keep the realm together.
Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Based on an anonymous request.
I need to write Aemond falling madly in love with you. Pining. Yearning. Longing. Craving. Suffering with it. Wishing he could carve his heart out of his chest. Mad with love and jealousy. The agony of believing his love is unrequited. Then the utter relief of finding out that you burn for him as much as he burns for you. The absolute worship. Him kneeling at your altar. Submitting himself body, mind and soul. Tamed and subservient.
Series summary: When you are unexpectedly reaped in the 47th Annual Hunger Games, your only hope of survival is your mentor, Aemond Targaryen, who won his Games a decade ago. Aemond is very good at his job, and heâs your only friend here in the luxurious and depraved Capitol. But this professional partnership might be turning into something personalâŠand forbiddenâŠand dangerous.
Series warnings: Language, blood and violence, serious injury, sexual content (18+ readers only), prostitution, references to noncon/dubcon, character deaths (obvi), bugs, cakes, drugs, drinking, smoking, references to suicide, survivorâs guilt, desert trivia, mentions of pregnancy/children, a special Targaryen guest star, the curse of the pharaohs đȘ
Word count:Â 8.1k
Dividers were made by the wonderful @saradika-graphics đš
âłÂ Character list can be found HERE! â
âłÂ All of my writing can be found HERE! â
"If the desert is holy, it is because it is a forgotten place that allows us to remember the sacred. There is no place to hide and so we are found." - Terry T. Williams
You dream you are looking into Aemondâs cold, crystalline house, as if you are a journalist with a camera and a microphone begging for a quote, as if you are an admirer who believes you know him. You cup your hands against the glass and see his strange skeletal dogs padding across the marble floors, the rambling empty rooms punctuated by furniture he almost never uses, the ceilings so high you could forget they exist, like the roof is only open air and giants can reach down inside to rearrange the fixtures and the occupants like a dollhouse. You can see Aemond standing in front of his case of treasures heâs earned over a decade of blood and sweat and forced smiles, smoking as he contemplates the glittering gems and ancient relics, the stones mined from foreign earth, the paintings and the sculptures and the fossils and the coins.
You tap the glass, and it begins to crack. You open your eyes, and youâre back in the Tribute Center, tangled up in Aemondâs smooth silk sheets. You sit up in bed, looking for him, hoping he isnât gone yet. He isnât: heâs in front of his bathroom mirror, massaging a gelatinous blue substance into his scar tissue. After a few seconds, the blue goes clear and fades into the color of his skin, pale like froth on the ocean, pale like bones.
âWhat is that?â you ask, your voice dazed with sleep.
Aemond says, still peering into the mirror: âNumbing gel. For the nerve damage.â
âYou could have used it on me.â So I wouldnât be so afraid to give you everything.
âNo. Pain exists for a reason. I would never touch you if you werenât able to tell me when to slow down or when to stop. This is for when the pain canât be avoided.â He finishes and turns to you. Heâs already showered and dressed, damp silver hair, black suit, good for a funeral. âGo back to sleep. You have another hour. Iâm going down to the Control Room, but Iâll return before you go into the arena. I promise.â
You remember what Aegon said: I donât want him to do something stupid and get himself killed. If he breaks the rules to help you, heâs slitting his own throat. âAemond, please donât break the rules for me.â
âI do this every year. The news starts leaking right before the Games begin. If I can find out anything about the arena, I can help you more.â
âI donât want you to get in trouble.â I donât want them to take away your treasures, your hope, your life.
Aemond comes to the bed, touches your cheek, kisses your forehead. âGo back to sleep,â he says again, a murmur, a whisper, and then he leaves.
You try to listen, but every time you close your eyes you see visions of other arenas and other Games: Jack hurling a spear through the belly of a District 8 girl and leaving her to die alone in the mountains, Sirena crawling through the prehistoric trees of a bayou, Aemond stalking a girl named Sapphire through a maze of glass tanks bleeding from blue to gore. You get up and go out to the common area.
Commodore is at the table struggling to get down a bowl of oatmeal. An array of gluttonyâprime rib, lobster, cake and crepes, pitchers of fresh-squeezed fruit juiceâgoes untouched. Aegon and Charm are on the couch; heâs still in his pajamas and stretched out across the length of it, his bare feet in Charmâs lap as she sits at the other end, rigid and grim, wearing tall gold heels and matching hoop earrings and a short dress the color of sand. Sheâs smoking, something youâve never seen her do before; didnât she say it causes wrinkles? But sheâs puffing away nonetheless, restlessly, agitatedly. On the television screen, the news is showing a montage of pictures taken of you and Aemond last night in the back of the car: your first kiss, you in Aemondâs lap, you laughing as the driver takes a sharp turn and you are photographed mid-fall, Aemond focused and unsmiling as heâs climbing on top of you.
Aegon and Charm glance over at where you stand in your silk nightgown. Aegon seems intrigued, Charm irritated. She takes a fidgeting drag and then points to the dining room table with her cigarette. âIf you donât eat breakfast, Aemond will skin me alive.â
Instinctively, seeking something to toy with, you reach for the knife hung around your throat; but it isnât there anymore. You took it off last night. You go to your own bedroom to look for it, but itâs gone, and so is the wooden box containing Daddyâs filleting knife set.
Someone collected it already, you realize. To put it in the arena for all the tributes to fight over.
You return to the common area. On the television, little Babylon is showing Caesar Flickerman how heâs been working on his right hook. âJesus,â Charm mutters, flicking ashes onto the floor. You still donât know who that is. Youâll have to ask Aemond someday. If Iâm still alive.
Aegon says from over the back of the couch: âYou good, Sparkles?â
âEat,â Charm orders again, not like she wants to, like itâs her job. You look to where Commodore sits at the table; he is glowering at you. He thinks youâve upstaged him, and heâs right. In the fishbowl, Sunfyre meanders in slow shimmering circles.
âDo you know about the auction?â you ask Aegon, being vague so Commodore wonât understand. Charm ignores this, gazing vacuously at the television screen, smoking and finicking with her already perfect hair. âYou knowâŠafter?â
Aegon furrows his brow; heâs surprised Aemond told you that much. And heâs sad too. His words are hushed and flat. âYeah, I remember that part. Why?â
âHow much money does someone have to pay to win?â
He nods, like now he understands why youâre asking. âFor the right piece of property? More than most people, even here in the Capitol, ever see in their lives.â
More than Aemond could afford, he means. Unless he relinquishes every stone, every relic, every treasure bricked up in his glass tomb. And maybe not even then.
You surrender and go to the table. You survey the spread, and you donât want any of it, so you try one bite of everything like Aemond would tell you to. You chase bleeding prime rib with saccharine cherry cake, butter-drenched lobster with a crepe wet with berries and whipped cream. You guzzle pineapple juice, not knowing when youâll get to eat or drink again. You watch the television, highlights from the interviews last night: Roosevelt grinning as he cracks his knuckles and plucks the pins out of Caesarâs hair before the enthralled host has time to react, Commodore talking about how grateful he is for Jackline Humboldtâs mentorship, Brookie demonstrating proper axe-throwing technique, Isla saying hello to her grandmother through the warmthless blue-white screen.
After breakfast, Charm takes you and Commodore downstairs for your final treatments from your prep teams. She stands between you in the elevator, as if she could stop it if Commodore decided to snap and break your neck. But he doesnât. He stares straight ahead with his deep-set dark, placid eyes, one of his colossal fists squeezed shut.
âWhat do you have there?â Charm asks him as the elevator descends.
Commodore opens his hand. Nestled in his pink, meaty palm is the silver Loch Ness Monster pin that Charm put on the lapel of his blue suit last night.
âThey wonât let you have that, sea monster,â Charm says gently. She takes the pin and, after a moment, affixes it to the front of her dress instead.
âIt doesnât go,â Commodore says, and Charm blinks at him, as if she canât believe heâs making a joke. Slowly, he smiles. âGold shoes. Gold jewelry. Canât do a silver pin.â
Charm laughs, her green eyes shining. âI donât take fashion advice from you, Commodore.â She pats one of his massive biceps fondly, gives it a squeeze, rests her head against him for only a moment and pinches her eyes shut, as if she can open them and see all of this vanishâthe elevator, the Tribute Center, the Games, the grotesqueness. Then she perks up again, whips out her gold compact, rubs white powder into her nose as the reflective metal doors open and she canters out into the hallway in her gold heels.
There are twice as many Peacekeepers as usual here. You spot a few other tributesâsweet quiet Noria from District 5, polite watchful Bobcat from District 9âbut large berths of space are kept between you. Charm waves to your pod, and you obediently go to it as she accompanies Commodore to his. The prep team engulfs you and ushers you onto the metal table, scrubbing, rinsing, plucking, waxing, exfoliating, moisturizing. You have to look good for the audience. You wonât have access to these things in the arena, no lip balm, no lotion, no tweezers, nothing.
This is really happening, you think, dizzy, nauseous, trying not be sick so you wonât lose the calories from breakfast. The water they haphazardly wash you with isnât hot enough. Is Aemond alright? Will he be back in time?
One of the men smirks as he works and gossips to the others: âShe smells like him, doesnât she? His cologne. His smoke.â
And you think as your heart hammers in your ribcage: Aemond, please come back. Please donât be late. I want to see you again before they kill me.
The prep team dries you with towels that are thick and white and very soft, but they leave you sitting naked on the table, trying to cover yourself with your arms. Salem arrives and wrangles you into a loose-fitting tan sweatsuit, cotton socks, sneakers, no jewelry. They apply light makeup and tie up your hair so it is out of your face and almost painfully tight.
âIs Aemond back yet?â you ask Salem, not particularly hopeful.
âBack from where?â they reply shortly. âI havenât seen him.â
âOh. Okay.â
âNauseous?â
âYes, actually.â
With no ceremony, Salem jabs a pill into your mouth. You would have protested if you had time, you donât trust anything unless it comes from Aemond, but you donât drop dead and your nausea instantly abates. Now is the last step, and you hadnât even thought of itâeven today? even in the valley of death?âbut the Capitol expects its tributes to shine, and all the brighter if they intend to live. Salem raises the spray bottle, clear cool liquid that smells like coconuts, a galaxy of ever-whirling stars, no constellations, only chaos that catches the light.
âI can do it myself,â you say, and Salem is surprised but gives you the bottle. You mist what little of your skin is visible, your hands, your throat, and then spray your fingertips so you can draw sparkling half-moons under your eyes. You pass the bottle back to Salem. âDone?â
They nod, suddenly somber, and lay a small hand on your shoulder. âGood luck,â Salem says.
âThank you.â Your voice is thin, weak, young, desperately afraid. âI know itâs not your fault.â
The partition rolls open, and Aemond is there, and as soon as you see his scarred face you know heâs thunderstruck, horrified, trying to think fast enough to come up with something useful to tell you. âCome on,â he says, and begins walking. There is no time to be patient. The minutes are being siphoned away like water through a drain, like blood from a slit carotid.
You bolt after him, almost running into little Babylon as his mentor leads him out of a pod, an arm draped across the boyâs shoulders, counsel whispered through his fluffy chocolate-brown hair. God, I hope itâs quick when he goes, you think as you hurry after Aemond. He is moving swiftly down the corridor, then pushes through a door on the wall and takes a winding spiral of steps to an even lower level. His shoes pound on the stairs, his silver hair flows out behind him.
âIs it bad?â you say, already knowing the answer.
He doesnât reply. He burst through another door at the bottom of the stairwell, starts down a long white hallway thatâs empty except for Peacekeepers stationed outside each room, reaches back for you to make sure youâre keeping up and grabs you roughly by the wrist.
âAemond, is it bad?â
âYouâll need electrolytes,â he says, speaking as each thought occurs to him. âNot just water. Sodium, potassium, magnesium. Iâll send you packets of powder, if I can. Mix it with any liquid you can find. Squeeze out the moisture from wet sand or mud, find an oasis, collect dew in the morning if there is any. But try to test the water before you drink it. Watch someone else go first, if you can. Sometimes itâs poisoned.â
âItâs someplace hot? A jungle, a beach, a steppe?â
âItâs a desert.â
âWhat?!â Iâm from the WATER district and my arena doesnât have any fucking WATER?!
âAnd donât drink juice from a cactus, itâll make you ill or hallucinate or both. Donât drink urine. You can drink blood if you absolutely have to, that will keep you alive in the very short term, but it will dehydrate you over time so only resort to that if youâll die otherwise. Animal or human, it makes no difference.â
âBlood?!â
âItâll be scorching during the day and freezing at night,â Aemond says, picking up speed in both body and mind. Youâre almost running to match his stride; he realizes this and slows down so you can conserve your energy. His fingers are still clenched around your wrist. He lets go and rests a palm on the small of your back instead. âSo try to move around dawn and dusk if you can. Donât take off your clothes. Other people will, because theyâll be burning up, but thatâll only make it worse. Loose fabric will shield you from the worst of the sun and keep your sweat on your skin longer, which will cool you. And youâll need as many layers as you can get at night. Animal skins. Tents or tarps. Take other tributesâ clothes if the opportunity presents itself.â
âOkay,â you say, trying frantically to remember every detail. Peacekeepers watch as you and Aemond pass by, their heads turning beneath their armor.
âThe sand will be hot, so try to get off of it as quickly as you can. Find shelter, rocks or ruins. Watch out for snakes. If you canât find shade, dig a hole in the sand a few feet deep, and youâll find cooler ground. But never dig deeper than your knees, or youâll be buried if it caves in.â
âGot it.â
âWet your skin to stave off heatstroke, especially your face and the back of your neck. Plants like cottonwoods will show you where thereâs water underground. Donât light fires no matter how cold you get at night, other tributes will see it and come kill you. Eat insects. Eat birds, or their eggs. Some nest in cactuses.â
He opens a door and guides you to a room, your room, maybe the last room youâll ever stand in. Itâs cold and concrete, with a massive glass cylinderâcalled a Tribute Tubeâthat you must be sealed inside so you can be raised up into the arena. There are three Peacekeepers in the corner, only observing but prepared to intervene at the first sign of trickery or refusal. The schedule must be adhered to.
âI wonât be allowed to send you much, so anything you receiveâany item, any noteâis the single most important gift you need at that moment given everything I know. Remember that.â
A disembodied voice echoes through an intercom system: âTwo minutes until launch.â
You turn to Aemond, petrified, shaking wildly. âAemondâŠâ
âWhen the cannon fires and the Games begin, you turn and run. Run as fast as you can and as far as you can until you find shelter. Then wait there for a while. Rest, try to find food and water, let the other tributes kill each other. Come out again at dusk. You will find a weapon, or I will send you one, but do not try to get your filleting knife set from the Cornucopia. Itâll be there, I guarantee it. But you canât fight your way to it when the other tributes are still fresh. Youâll die. Are you listening? When the Games start, you run.â
âItâs not my knife set,â you say nonsensically. âItâs Daddyâs.â
Aemond pulls you into his arms and holds you there for the bare seconds he can. âThen live to give it back to him.â
The Peacekeepers inch closer. You have to get into the Tribute Tube now. You have to go to the arena. Aemond opens the clear glass door and you step inside, your palms pressing to the curved claustrophobic walls, your pulse racing, your lungs starving for oxygen. Aemondâs gaze flits down to your feet.
âTake off your shoes,â he says, and immediately you comprehend why. Youâll be faster on dry sand without them. You kick your sneakers away. He kneels down to yank off your socks.
âAemond, I canât, I canâtââ
He grabs your face with both hands. âAs long as you fight in there, I will fight out here, okay? Youâre not alone. Iâm here with you. Iâll be right on the other side of the screen the whole time.â
âOkay,â you manage. There are tears welling up in your eyes.
âNo,â Aemond says, whisking them away. âDonât waste the water.â Then he kisses you, hard and fast, all that there is time for. âI love you,â he says when he breaks away, and closes the door before you have time to respond. You reach for him; your palm hits the glass. Aemond places his hand over yours and keeps it there until the floor of the Tribute Tube begins to rise, carrying you away. He turns and leaves, fleeing from the room, going to wherever he will watch the Games from. You get down on your hands and knees to watch him vanish like rainwater beneath the sun.
This is really happening, this is really happening, this is reallyâ
For a moment, the chamber is completely dark as you pass through the concrete birth canal between here and hereafter. You stand up straight again, trembling everywhere, swiping priceless moisture from your eyes. âDonât waste the water,â you tell yourself fiercely, and you feel just a little more in control. Is it getting brighter? Yes, thereâs light streaming in from above, and there is the sound of a heavy metal hatch opening, and then fresh air fills your lungs, hot, golden, flecked with dust. You look up, but the sun is blinding; after a few seconds the world begins to take shape. An blue sky. A powerful wind. Sand, endless, dunes that crest and trough like waves on the ocean. In the distance, so hazy it could be a mirage, is the ghost of a pyramid.
The twenty-four tributes are arranged in a circle around a black obsidian obelisk, which serves as this arenaâs Cornucopia. A mountain of weapons and other supplies is arrayed at the base. You see plastic gallons of water but no food, axes for Brookie, spears for Commodore, crossbows and swords and nets and hammersâŠand the wooden box that contains Daddyâs filleting knife set. Thatâs your bait. You canât take it, you know you canât, but stillâŠthe temptation is instinctive and nearly overwhelming. I need my knife, I canât protect myself without it.
But you are surrounded by the problem: people who will try to kill you. Commodore is on your right, staring fixedly at the Cornucopia, planning what heâs going to grab. After him are the kids from District 3, then Sara from District 2, then Roosevelt, the wind in his red hair. He peers over at you, his dark eyes shrewd and narrow. He sees that youâre barefoot, mouths you bitch, then squats down to take his own shoes off too. Itâs not fair, he must be thinking. Aemond is already giving you advantages. To your left is twelve-year-old Babylon from District 5, looking astonished, looking lost. Whoâs going to be the one to kill him? you wonder, anguished. Whoâs going to let their families watch them murder a little boy on television and try to say it was brave?
An omnipotent voice thunders from the sky, counting down from sixty. Glowing gold numbers hover above the obelisk, ticking away at the same tempo. Each tribute, in their roomy sand-colored uniform, waits on their own small circular platform; to step onto the ground early, whether on purpose or by accident, means instant death. The platforms are just far enough apart that the tributes cannot touch each other, or at least you assume they are. At twenty seconds left on the clock, you hear a scream and whirl towards it. Sara has realized whatâs happening just a moment too late. Roosevelt leaps from his platform, shoves Sara off of hers, effortlessly regains his balance as she plummets to the sand and explodes into blood and gore and gristle. People are shrieking and wiping red from their eyes. The boy from District 3, Tendo, cowers because heâs next in line and Roosevelt is already eyeing his platform; but thereâs not enough time and Roosevelt realizes this, so he forgoes the advance. Ten seconds. Five seconds.
I want my knife, you think, clutching at your throat where no thin silver chain hangs.
But Aemondâs voice is louder: When the cannon fires and the Games begin, you turn and run.
You donât glance behind you, because you donât want anyone to notice and know where youâre going. The golden number above the obelisk reads zero. A deafening boom quakes the earth. You donât wait long enough to see the other tributes charging the Cornucopia, you just run. Your bare feet hit scalding sand, and itâs very dry and ever-shifting but youâve run in sand before, playing on the beach with your siblings, carrying creels of fish to the marketplace. One step, two, three, four, and then youâve crested the dune and thereâs a sheer drop on the other side. You bite back a yelp as you slide down the embankment, hands buried in the sand wall, trying to slow your descent so you donât shatter your ankles at the bottom. Above, you can hear people shouting and wailing and pleading and bleeding and dying. You tumble when you hit the dune slack, like a narrow alleyway through the steep walls of sand. You roll twice and then force yourself upright again, choosing a direction at random, staggering until you can sprint. The cannon is firing, counting out fatalities.
I have to get out of the trough, thereâs no cover, anyone could find me hereâ
A girl screams and then comes plunging down the embankment. She lands a few yards in front of you, clawing at a gash in her throat, too deep to be anything but lethal. Sheâs Calico, the girl from District 8, and a few days ago she was braiding her friendsâ hair, and now sheâs dying alone on the sand as the sun bakes her from above.
Aemondâs voice is in your skull again: Take other tributesâ clothes if the opportunity presents itself.
âIâm sorry,â you moan as you tear off Calicoâs bloodstained sweatshirt, leaving her with only the plain cotton sports bra underneath. She doesnât seem to notice; her eyes are glassy, her pupils huge as she gazes up at the cloudless sky. You knot the sleeves around your waist and keep running. The cannon booms again. You flee through the desert, not looking back.
He takes the steps down two at a time, finds the alcove where Charm and Aegon are sitting, collapses into a chair beside them. The Amphitheatre is buzzing as mentors and escorts watch the enormous television screen, which pivots between the myriad of cameras imbedded in the arena. Presently, Roosevelt, Brookie, and Isla are picking through the Cornucopia treasures, and for a moment Aemond thinks of his towering glass case and sees fossils and gemstones in place of arrows and blades.
âRelax, your girl listened,â Aegon tells him, pink shorts, teal unbuttoned shirt, sandals up on the back of the chair in front of him.
âShe ran?â
âSheâs already almost a mile away from the others. Theyâll show her again soon. They kept panning between the bloodbath and her sprinting through the wilderness, itâs funny.â
âFunny,â Charm snorts, pouring herself a flute of champagne from a bottle served in a bucket of ice. Thereâs a bowl in her lap, buttery popcorn and rainbow Mars Morsels. When her flute is full, bubbles overflowing the rim, she pours some for Aegon and Aemond too. Aegon drains his glass in two gulps.
âCommodore?â Aemond asks, ignoring his champagne.
âSea monster is doing swimmingly,â Charm says proudly. âGot himself a spear. Warmed up by skewering that District 10 boy, what was his name? Jerry? No, Jutland. Stuffed a sack full of water and sunscreen, smart boy, not as dumb as he looks. Trudged off with Hawk.â
âYouâre not in charge of sending gifts for Commodore, are you?â Aegon asks Aemond. âSeems like a conflict of interest.â
Aemond shakes his head, preoccupied. âNo, he and I both agreed to sign it over to Jack.â
Citadella, the escort for District 2, calls over smugly: âIsnât it a little early for champagne, Charm?â
She flings back: âIsn't it a little early for fifty percent of your tributes to be dead?â
Citadella shuts up, turning back to the screen and nursing a Bloody Mary.
âThat Roosevelt kid makes for good tv,â Aegon says, his hand rummaging around in Charmâs popcorn.
âWhat did he do?â Aemond asks, puzzled. âSaraâs gone already?â
âHe pushed her off her platform before the Games even started. Brilliant. Rattled the others, and got scraps of her in some of their eyes too. The poor District 3 girl was stumbling around blind, that dork Tendo had to lead her away like a guide dog.â
Aemond is gazing at the television, where the aforementioned Roosevelt is scanning the horizon with his sharp falconine eyes, so dark theyâre nearly black. That will help him, Aemond thinks. Blue and green eyes are more sensitive to sunlight. âAt least it was quick.â
âIt was very quick,â Charm agrees.
âOh, there she is!â Aegon says, pointing, and a murmur ripples through the Amphitheatre. But people arenât just watching here. Theyâre watching throughout the Capitol, and across all twelve districts too, parents, children, sponsors, admirers, men and women whose bellies rumble with hunger when they see her on the screen, her eyes fearful but adorned with silver glitter. She is climbing up a red rock formation to squeeze onto a narrow shelf between two boulders; but before she disappears inside, she pauses to check for snakes.
âGood,â Aemond whispers, as if she can hear him. He picks up the heavy landline phone for their stationâsecure connection, no interferenceâand checks the green display screen mounted just below it. It keeps an account of the funds available for each tribute; they fluctuate rapidly as mentors call in to send gifts and sponsors make their own calls, pledging tens, hundreds, thousands. Every time Aemond looks, her number is higher. The sponsors are coming through for herâŠbut theyâll expect things in return.
âYes?â says the woman pleasantly on the other end of the line, one of the Gamemakers in the Control Room.
âThis is Aemond for District 4. Iâd like to make my first purchase.â
You hear wings flapping, and when you peek out from the rocks you see the vast shadow of a bird, and then the gargantuan black vulture it belongs to. It seems to circle the rock formation a few times, then drops something in the sand and flies off. You listen closely for footsteps or voices, but donât detect any. You wait a few more minutes and then creep out from your hiding place, trading the cool shade for blistering sunshine.
There on the dry golden sand is a burlap knapsack. You open it to find a single bottle of water and a silvery packet attached to the side by a rubber band. You smile. âThank you, Aemond,â you say softly, and maybe he can hear you, depending on where the cameras are. You rip open the packet and pour the blue power inside into the water bottle, then shake it up before you drink it. The mixture is horrible, salty and bitter, but you guzzle it anyway. At once, you feel revived: your thirst quenched, your budding headache extinguished. You decide to keep the rubber band in case you find a use for it later, looped around your wrist like a bracelet.
You hear a rustling and startle, looking around for the source. The red rock formation is wide and tall, perhaps ten feet at the highest point; you canât see the other side of it.
Maybe itâs an animal I can eat, you think hopefully, but it doesnât sound like an animal. It sounds like sneakers on stone. You clamber back towards your hiding spot, clinging to the rust-colored rock so you can heave yourself up onto the shelfâ
Someone yells, not like theyâre in pain, like theyâre burning up with wrath. A weigh collides with you and knocks you off the rocks, yanks the air from your lungs, leaves you dizzy and disoriented on the sand. Itâs little Babylon, twelve years old now and forever, and somehow he survived the bloodbath and grabbed a hammer from the Cornucopia before he escaped into the wild. He lunges at you, wielding his weapon with perilous force.
âBaby, stop!â you shout, scrambling away, trying to find your footing in the shifting sand.
âI have to!â he shrieks, blood on his face, blood in his hair, blood spilling from a gash wound in his shoulder. Tears glitter savagely in his hazel eyes. âI have to, or I canât leave!â
âStop!â you beg again, but he swings at you with the hammer and it grazes your skull. Iâm not dying here, I want to live, you think with sudden and ruthless conviction. He pounces and you remember what Aemond taught you: Solar plexus. Achilles tendon. Knee. Temple. Zygomatic arch. Eyes. Carotid artery.
You tear the hammer out of Babylonâs grasp and strike him in the side of the head, not hard enough to kill but hard enough that heâll never get better. You hear bone crack; you hear the sick soft squishing of brains. Blood rockets from an ear. An eye bulges from its ruptured socket. And when Babylon can breathe again he starts screaming, so loudly and so piercingly other tributes will hear. You canât let that happen, you canât let them find you. You canât let this little boy suffer any more than he already has. Knowing that you canât waste the water but sobbing anyway, you hit him again, and itâs still not enough. A third blow, a forth, and then at last heâs still and silent. You stay on your knees beside him, the hammer raised in your shaking hands. Distantly, the cannon fires.
Someone appears from behind the rock formation: Monty, looking withered from the heat but otherwise unharmed. He carries a machete, but his tan sweatsuit is marred by no blood splatter. His hair has been shaved down nearly to the skin, like Commodoreâs. So no one can get a grip on it. He stops when he sees you. His eyes go down to Babylonâs hemorrhaging body, then back to you. Youâre still clutching the hammer. He stares at you with cold revulsion, with something like hatred.
You drop the hammer, tears snaking down your cheeks. âI didnâtâŠhe wasnâtâŠâ
Monty keeps walking, his sneakers etching deep tracks in the sand. He leaves you behind like you have something terrible he might catch, fever or rot. Then the desert is quiet again, the only sound the hot arid wind. Far from here, very far, you can see the hazy peak of the pyramid rising over the dunes.
Still weeping softly, you pick up the hammer. You might need it again. You crawl back into your hiding place, curl up in the cool clandestine shadows, and wait for dusk.
More footsteps, more people, not just one intruder but at least three. Somebody rakes a blade against the red stone and then taps three times, like theyâre a neighbor popping in to borrow some eggs or sugar.
âKnock knock,â Roosevelt says, and you can tell from his voice that heâs grinning. âAnyone home?â
No, no, no, you think, wriggling into the gloom of the crevice as far as you can. Thereâs no other entrance or exit, which was perhaps an oversight on your part. Nowhere is safe in the arena, only more or less dangerous. You canât stay in any spot for long.
âCome on out, Sparkles. We know youâre in there. You left footprints.â
âFuck,â you sigh, and decide you have no choice but to obey and hope for the best. Roosevelt said he didnât plan on killing you; if youâre lucky, thatâs still true. You slink out of the darkness and climb down from the narrow shelf between the boulders, more difficult now that youâre grasping the hammer in one hand. Itâs afternoon, and the sun is just beginning to dip behind the height of the dunes, and itâs still hot but not quite so sweltering. The breeze is picking up, carrying sand and dust. You drop down to the ground and face them sheepishly: Roosevelt smiling as he twirls a knife, Brookie carrying two axes, Isla tagging along with them but glancing around noncommittally as she fiddles with a short curved sword, as if sheâs just waiting for the right moment to break off on her own. Her plume of curls has been braided into tight rows that canât tangle or snag or get hooked by clawing fingers.
Roosevelt chuckles, the wind tousling his flame-colored hair, his freckles starker than ever. âRelax, girl. I ainât even looking at you until Commodore is dead.â He glances down to the hammer. âWell, thatâs not your weapon of choice.â He reaches into one of the pockets of his sweatpants and you gasp when he produces your favorite filleting knife, unsheathed but still attached to the long silver chain Aemond had fashioned for you. âIâll trade ya.â
You yield the hammer. Roosevelt hangs the chain around your neck, the blade resting against your loose sweatshirt. You reach to touch it, to make sure itâs real: the mother of pearl hilt, the flashing steel. âWhy would you help me?â
âIâm not helping you. Iâm keeping the Games interesting. The sponsors will appreciate that, and Iâll be rewarded.â Roosevelt smirks. âAnd also, youâre going to tell me what Aemond said.â
You feign confusion. âWhat do you mean?â
âDonât act stupid. He tipped you off. Thanks for showing me the thing about the shoes, by the way. It does make you faster.â His nimble feet are bare, as are Brookieâs and Islaâs. Thereâs blood on his sweatpants, you notice now, and some in his hair; Roosevelt is shirtless, and Brookie and Isla have stripped down to their sports bras. Theyâll regret that when the sun goes down, you think, with more pity than satisfaction. Why canât you be a monster like Jack? Why canât you be the kind of tribute who wins?
âOkay,â you say. âBut Aemond didnât say that much, so I donât know how helpful Iâll be.â
âHurry up, we have things to do,â Brookie says, tossing an axe high in the air and catching the handle boredly. Her blonde hair is pulled back from her face in a low, unfussy bun. Isla watches the perimeter for any sign of interlopers.
Iâll tell them some things, but not everything. How can you hope to win if you donât keep what few advantages you have? âDonât drink cactus juice, it will make you sick. Donât move around too much during the day when itâs so hot, wait for dawn and dusk.â
Brookie snickers. âAvoid the sun in the desert. Genius. Groundbreaking.â
âIf you canât find shade, you can just dig a few feet under the sand and make a little den, and itâll be a lot cooler there.â
Now sheâs appreciative. âAlright. Wouldnât have thought of that one.â
âWhat are we supposed to drink when the water runs out?â Roosevelt asks you. âIf the cactuses arenât an option?â
âLook for plants like cottonwoods, and that might be where thereâs groundwater under the surface. Collect dew in the morning. Hope your mentors send you something.â
Roosevelt nods thoughtfully. âAnything else?â
You deliberate whether to share more. Theyâre still my friends, you think, and that settles it. âYou shouldnât have left your sweatshirts behind. Itâll get cold at night, and youâll need layers. So you should go back to wherever you left them or find replacements.â
âDamn,â Brookie sighs, exchanging a weary glance with Isla. All three of them note the extra sweatshirt knotted around your waist, as if now they understand why you took it; but no one tries to steal it from you.
âWeâre going to go pick off some of the little kids,â Roosevelt says, grinning. âNice and humane, you know Iâm quick.â You do: you remember the way he pressed his fingers to your throat and made you black out almost instantaneously. It wouldnât be a bad way to go, if it had to happen. It doesnât give you any time to be afraid. âWant to come with us?â
âThanks, but Iâll stay here. Iâll wait until dusk and then hike out farther.â
He nods to where Babylonâs corpse lies in the sand nearby, bloody and mutilated. âYou prefer to work alone, huh?â
You peer down at your feet, ashamed, near tears again.
With the head of the hammer, Roosevelt gently lifts your chin so you have to look at him. Then he smiles, not cunningly, not cruelly. âDonât hang around here too long, Sparkles. If we could find you, somebody else could too.â
âGot it,â you reply hoarsely.
âGood luck,â Isla says, seemingly sincere; then they vanish into the dunes and the dust and the sun glare, and soon are lost to the sands of time.
At dusk, you venture out into the desert again. The blue sky turns to lavender, gold, rust, gore. You walk in the direction opposite of the obelisk and the pyramid, away from the other tributes, away from the violence and the mercy, either of which could get you killed.
Your feet sink and slide into the powdery sand. You pass cactuses with enticing red blossoms, think of lionfish when you study their spines. It gets cold, abruptly and shockingly cold, and the dead girl Calicoâs bloodstained sweatshirt keeps you just warm enough to stay alive but not to stop you from shivering so forcefully that your bones ache. When the sun is gone completely, the moon and stars come out, and theyâre the same constellations you have at home in District 4: Orion, Perseus, Scorpius, Cassiopeia, Ursa Minor.
Misty is under the same stars, you think, and it makes you feel less alone. And so are my other sisters, and Daddy, and Fleet. And so is Aemond.
You keep walking. Youâre hungry, but you canât find anything to eat. Your luck is better when it comes to water. You stumble across an oasis, a small pool of water maybe three feet wide and surrounded by scraggly shrubs, the water shining under the moonlight. A camel with one lofty hump is down on its great knobby knees in the sand, drinking the plentiful liquid without dying, which is a promising sign.
âHey, fuzzy guy,â you say, smiling. The camelâs head snaps up, and it bares its teeth: sharp fangs beneath murderous red eyes. It lurches uprightâhorrifyingly tall, seven feet or moreâand charges at you, and you scream as you flee.
You try to outrun it, but the carnivorous camel mutt is faster, its large stomping hooves growing louder as it gains on you. You grab the knife that swings from your neck and spin towards the beast, slicing, gutting. The blade cuts into its throat and opens its veins and arteries, its windpipe, its esophagus that hungered to swallow you. You reel backwards as the ruby-eyed mutt chokes and bellows furiously, sinks down to the sand, eventually ceases its twitching and dies.
Great start, you think. Day 1, and Iâve courageously slaughtered a twelve-year-old and a camel. My odds couldnât be better.
Then you notice the way steam rises from where the creatureâs hot blood meets frigid air, and you get an idea. You twirl your knife, considering the pelt. Youâve never skinned a mammal before, but it canât be that much different than a fish. You go to the camel and nudge it a few times with your foot to make sure itâs gone for good. Then you get to work.
Fifteen minutes later, youâre snuggled up in your very messy but also very warm camel skin, drinking from the tiny oasis in the midst of the sea of sand, cool clear water raised to your lips with cupped hands. You can taste lingering salt and copper from the camel blood, but thatâs not so bad. Those are electrolytes, like Aemond said, and you need them. You left the carcass on the sand, roped with muscle and gleaming with peeks of bones and organs. It was too heavy to flip over, so you could only skin half the body, but that still gave you plenty to work with. You sit cross-legged at your infinitesimal oasis, not thirsty, not cold, not even that hungry now that your belly is full of water, and beneath the moon and the stars you could almost believe youâre somewhere safe and beautiful and where a future is possible.
Is this what Egypt is like? you think, remembering Aemondâs treasures. On the nightscape horizon, you can see the pyramid, not just a faint outline but unmistakably aglow: there is a beam of silvery light that shoots up from the apex into the indigo sky, so you can see it from anywhere in the arena. Is this where heâll go when he leaves the Capitol?
You hear someone coming, plodding footsteps and huffing breaths. You fear it might be another homicidal camel, but no: itâs only Roosevelt, shivering in his sweatshirt and trekking alone across the sand, probably searching for someplace to tuck himself away for the night. He must not trust Brookie enough to sleep beside her.
Roosevelt sees your silhouette in the darkness and startles, raising the hammer, then lowers it when he realizes itâs you. He sways a little; he must be exhausted. After a while he says: âWhat the fuck are we supposed to be eating?â
âEach other, probably.â
He smiles. âIf I tried to nibble on you, would you let me? You can close your eyes and pretend Iâm Aemond.â
You smile back. âYou can give the raw meat a try, if you want. I havenât worked up the nerve yet, what if it has parasites or something?â
He sighs, observing the camel carcass. âRight. Canât light fires to cook. Couldnât do it even if we had the right equipment, people could see the flames for miles.â He shivers harder; heâs worse off than you, only one layer of clothes and hardly any fat on him. âI didnât know deserts got this cold.â
âSo now that I have a nice cozy camel skin, you want to be friends again?â
He laughs. âI have a trade to offer.â
âYeah?â
He comes close to show you, three strips of beef jerky he must have been sent via Vulture Mail. âTurns out my mentor isnât totally useless.â
You hold your right arm out wide, opening the skin. âI have room for two, I guess.â
Roosevelt huddles next to you and clutches the camel skin around him, gasping in relief. He jams one strip of jerky between his teeth, gives you the second, twists the third until he can split it in half for you to share evenly. Together you gnaw on your meager dinner, feeling more blessed than people who feast, glitter, sleep in sheets of silk. âGood call about the cactuses. We found that District 8 kid Houndstooth lying under a palm tree, heâd just about shit himself to death. It was a mercy killing, honestly.â
âThe camels eat people.â
âWhat?â
âThe camels. Theyâre mutts, theyâre carnivorous. This one tried to attack me, thatâs why I killed it.â
âMore good news,â Roosevelt marvels.
From high in the sky, from everywhere, the music begins. Each night, the fallen tributes are honored, and thus youâll know how many lives still stand between you and survival. Their images are framed in gold, their names and districts listed. The memorial is very far away, but you can still make it out, suspended over the obelisk where the Games began this morning. Eight kids are dead already, a third of the field: Saratoga from District 2, Babylon from District 5, Pacific from District 6, Ironwood from District 7, Houndstooth and Calico from District 8, Marble and Jutland from District 10. All of your friends are still alive. So is Commodore.
âIf you keep watch while I nap for a few hours, Iâll let you sleep too,â Roosevelt proposes, trying not to sound too desperate.
âDeal.â
He rests his head on your shoulder and is unconscious almost instantly. Itâs not actually that difficult for you to stay awake. Your adrenaline is still surging, and Aemondâs REM sleep pills did exactly what he said they would.
Are you watching, Aemond? you think as you ponder the pyramid. Am I doing this right? Do I still have a chance? Are you proud of me? When you said you love me, was that real?
You are beginning to wonder when you should wake Roosevelt when he rouses all by himself, yawns and drinks some water, tells you to take your turn because he wants to get moving again before dawn. You rest your head on his bony shoulderâit feels awkward at first, but you get used to itâand close your eyes, and for some reason you are back in Aemondâs glass house as he tells you about his treasures and his ancient phantoms of dogs pad across the cold marble floor.
Roosevelt sings softly to himself as you drift off:
âNighttime on The City of New Orleans
Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee
Halfway home, weâll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness, rolling down to the sea
And all the towns and people seem
To fade into a bad dream
And the steel rails still ainât heard the news
The conductor sings his songs again
The passengers will please refrain
This trainâs got the disappearing railroad bluesâŠâ
You swim around in the dimness with no gravity, like Sunfyre in his bowl, until Roosevelt shakes you awake.
âHey. Iâm going.â
âOkay,â you say groggily.
âYouâre really up, right? Donât fall back asleep. I wonât be here.â
âIâm awake.â
âGood.â He stands, brushes the sand off him, leaves you still wrapped in the camel skinânot so toasty warm anymore, but better than nothingâand marches off into the desert. The sun is just beginning to rise again. The sky is a shade brighter; the air is getting warmer. The stars fade.
You hear monstrous wings flapping, and you look around eagerly for the vulture. Hopefully Aemond has sent you a ribeye steak or nice meaty lobster. But he hasnât. Instead, the vulture drops from its talons a folded piece of paper, a message, a clue. Aemond has written, in meticulous black-ink penmanship you would recognize anywhere: The curse of the pharaohs.
âI donât know what that means, Aemond,â you sigh as you gaze out through the dawn at the shadow of the pyramid and its bright white beacon, like a lighthouse calling boats to shore.
Currently working on a lovely Aegon idea someone sent me and I'm having a blast ⥠I've truly missed writing for him and I've recently seen some people in the tags wondering why there aren't more fics of him...
Aemond taking you as his prisoner of war. Aemond using you to vent out his anger and soothe his temper, until little by little he comes to rely on it. Day after day he grows more and more attached to you, and vulnerable, and while he thinks he has you subdued and afraid of him, youâve played into his hand to make yourself indispensable. And when the time comes, youâll have your revenge.
hello. if itâs not too much bother what sharpening settings do you use for your gifs? theyâre gorgeous.
Thank you so much ! âĄ
I do 10% with a 10px radius and 500% with a 0.3px radius. It was what the first tutorial I ever followed recommended back when I started making gifs and after trying different settings it's still what I prefer most of the time.
I could make a quick tutorial if anyone is interested in how I make my gifs, what my favorite tools are, etc. Coloring is what's most important to me and really brings out the details.
Hii, i hope you're having a lovely day. i just wanted to know if your fic valarr x reader x jacaerys will be posted soon? i've been dying too read it, i'm sure it'll be amazing. Thank you
Hello lovely. I'm still working on it, don't worry ⥠I've written about 2/3 of it done and I'm hesitating how far to take the smut.
Tomorrow I'm leaving for a few days in the countryside with little to no cell service or internet. I have an Aemond oneshot scheduled to be posted on Wednesday night, but it's all angst.
If you want me to take one or two Aemond requests to work on during the train ride, my inbox is open ⥠I'm in the mood to write some romance and/or some smut.
"mmh did you know that creator you like also posts đ content? did you know that? don't you think that's weird? don't you think we should keep this space-"
no. i don't.
i booked a front row seat to the devil's sacrament and you're blocking the view
just go back to the 1660 new england hole you just crawled out of and eat barley for a week to atone for your sins or whatever
