Fire and Iron

The stone is cold against my back. I feel every ridge, every imperfection through the thin silk of my gown. Dragonstone breathes around us, ancient and damp, the smell of salt and sulphur clinging to everything. His breath is hot on my face.

I have his jaw in my hand.

Dickon Tarly stands rigid as a sword. His hands are fists at his sides. He doesn't touch me. He won't. That's the game we play. He wants to. I see it in the way his throat works when he swallows, the way his pulse hammers beneath the stubble on his neck.

"You killed my father," he says.

The words come out flat. Controlled. He's been practicing them. Rolling them around in his mouth like stones, trying to make them smooth enough to swallow.

"I killed your father because he chose the wrong side." I tighten my grip on his jaw. His skin is warm. "He burned people alive. He called it justice. Do you remember that, Dickon?"

His eyes flicker. Something dark passes through them. Guilt. Shame. He remembers.

I don't let go.

We've been doing this for three weeks now. Ever since he was brought to me in chains, ever since I looked at him and saw not a Tarly but a man, a body, a challenge I couldn't walk away from. I should have executed him. My advisors said so. Tyrion said so. Even Missandei, gentle Missandei, said it would be mercy.

But I looked at him and I wanted.

Not his surrender. Not his love. I wanted to break him open. I wanted to see what was inside, the parts he kept hidden, the parts he kept locked away behind that noble Tarly breeding. I wanted to make him feel something he couldn't control.

So I kept him alive. I kept him close.

And now he stands here, in my chambers, at midnight, because he keeps coming back.

"You could have spared him," he says. "You had the power."

"I had the power to do many things." I lean closer. My lips almost brush his ear. "I chose to make an example. Your father was a lesson. You are something else entirely."

His breath catches. I feel it against my throat.

He's taller than me. Broader. He could snap my neck with his hands. But he won't. That's the part that fascinates me. He could fight. He could run. He could scream for help. Instead he stands here, fists clenched, jaw tight, letting me hold him like a captured bird.

"Why do you come?" I ask.

He doesn't answer.

I release his jaw. My hand slides down his chest, feeling the fabric of his tunic, the heat of his skin beneath. His heart is racing. I can feel it through the cloth. He wants to hate me. He does hate me. But hate and desire live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, and he can't tell them apart anymore.

"Tell me why you come, Dickon."

"Because I can't stay away."

The words cost him. I see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes go hard and bright. He hates that he said it. Hates that it's true.

I smile. Not a kind smile. A smile that says I know exactly what I'm doing to him.

"You dream about me," I say. "Don't you."

His silence is answer enough.

I step back. Just an inch. Just enough to give him room to breathe. The torchlight catches his face, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the full curve of his mouth. He's beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful. Destructive. Unpredictable. I want to stand in the middle of it and feel the lightning.

"I dream about you too," I say.

His eyes widen. He didn't expect that. Good. I like keeping him off balance.

"I dream about the fire," I continue. "The way it looked in your father's eyes. The way it looked in yours when you watched him burn. I dream about what came after. What I did to you. What I could still do."

"Then do it." His voice cracks. "Kill me. Send me to him. Stop playing with me like I'm a toy."

"Playing?" I laugh. Low. Dark. "Is that what you think this is?"

I step forward again. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his body. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. I reach up and touch his face. His stubble is rough against my palm.

He flinches. But he doesn't pull away.

"I'm not playing, Dickon. I'm learning you. Every piece. Every crack. Every secret you think you've buried." My thumb traces his lower lip. "I'm going to know you better than you know yourself."

"Don't," he whispers.

"Don't what?"

"Don't touch me like you care."

I stop. His words hang in the air between us, heavy and raw. He's not angry. He's afraid. Afraid that I might actually mean something. Afraid that if he lets himself want this, want me, he'll lose the last piece of himself he's holding onto.

I understand that fear.

I've felt it too.

I drop my hand. Step back. The cold air rushes in between us.

"Leave," I say.

He blinks. Confusion wars with relief on his face.

"Leave," I repeat. "Go back to your cell. Sleep. Dream of me. And tomorrow night, come back. We'll continue this conversation."

He doesn't move. For a long moment he just stands there, breathing hard, fists still clenched, eyes fixed on mine. I can see him fighting with himself. The part that wants to stay. The part that wants to run.

"I hate you," he says.

"I know."

"I hate what you've done to me."

"And yet here you are."

He shakes his head. A small, broken gesture. Then he turns and walks to the door. His hand hovers over the handle. He pauses.

"Tomorrow," he says. Not a question.

"Tomorrow."

He leaves. The door closes behind him with a heavy thud. I stand alone in the torchlight, my skin still warm where he was, my heart beating faster than I'll ever admit.

I don't know what I'm doing with him. I don't know if this is cruelty or need or something I don't have a name for yet. But I know one thing with absolute certainty.

I'm not done with Dickon Tarly.

Not even close.