Hey, can you guys guess what day it is? It's the first day of Zutara Week 2016! Woo!

*ahem* Sorry, just had to get that out. Anyhoo, how about we get on with the show? To wit...

Dragons

"SO," ZUKO SAID, STEPPING BACK FROM THE FULL-LENGTH MIRROR HE HAD BEEN FUSSING IN FRONT OF FOR THE BETTER PART OF AN HOUR AND SPREADING HIS ARMS WIDE, "HOW DO I LOOK?"

From a handy couch, upon which she was fully stretched out, her bare feet propped up on an armrest while she languidly puffed one of Zuko's cigarettes, his sister slowly turned her head, gave him a slow, relaxed once-over, and smiled. "Like some bizarre cross of a fire-ferret and a particularly awkward armadillo-lion, only slightly more ridiculous."

Zuko turned back to the mirror, his mouth twisting up into a grimace. "I would like to tell you to go screw, but I'm afraid you might be on to something." She was, too; as much as Zuko hated to admit when Azula was right, she did, as usual, have a point. He really did look ridiculous. Dress uniforms in general were, in Zuko's humble opinion, instruments of torture specifically crafted by the gods of the darkest depths of the Underworld for the sole purpose of tormenting soldiers and amusing civilians, and the dress uniform of His Royal Majesty the Fire Lord's Own Guards Hussars was a good candidate for being considered a masterpiece of the form. It started with the collar, a horrid and stiff contraption that encased his neck to just under his jaw, leaving him with the sensation of being slowly strangled by a weak but determined old man. From the perennial itch the collar left against his freshly shaved chin, the uniform continued onwards, a ludicrous cacophony of scarlet red and slashes of black so deep they glowed, all of it nearly buried beneath an absurd amount of gold. There was gold everywhere, really, gold lace and gold loops and gold whorls, gold flashes and gold stitches and gold buckles and gold buttons. Even the far-too-tight white gloves on his hands were trimmed with gold, until Zuko had no choice but to sigh as his shoulders slumped, forced to conclude that, when his sister said he looked slightly ridiculous, she was, if anything, being far too generous.

"And I haven't even put the helmet on yet," he muttered, fighting against the urge to reach down and pluck the seam of his trousers out of the crack of his ass. The trousers were the worst part, as far as he was concerned. Normally, Zuko was an infantry officer, where trousers – even dress trousers – were designed to be loose and comfortable, the better to turtle-duck-step before reviewing stands in, but, alas, for today at least, he was a cavalry officer, which meant trousers so tight that Zuko was still astonished that the servant who hovered in a corner of the room hadn't had to sew him into them.

Not that they serve much of a purpose, he thought, looking down at the tight-fitting, freshly shined riding boots that reached up to the middle of his thighs. Between the saddle I'll be perched in, the komodo-rhino I'll be riding, and these gods-damned boots, I might as well be riding half-naked for all anyone would be able to tell.

While he was occupied with such delightful thoughts, his sister had slid herself off the couch, tossing her half-smoked cigarette out a convenient window before sauntering her way across the room. "I don't know," she said, her usual mocking lilt hovering around the edges of her voice, the perfect tone to match the bemusement in her eyes, "the helmet seems to be the least awful part of the ensemble."

Zuko huffed, reaching down to adjust the bottom hem of his tight-fitting tunic for the thousandth time. "That's because you don't have to wear the damn thing." It really was awful, a gaudy affair of scarlet red and ebony black and endless accents of gold, hammered into the likeness of a dragon's snarling mouth and topped off with a dragon-moose-hair plume dyed red-and-black that, when Zuko finally surrendered the fight and put the helmet on, would hang down far enough to tickle the skin between his shoulder blades. "Gods only know what malevolent spirit possessed the man who designed it."

"No doubt," Azula replied from the other side of the room, where Zuko had no doubt she was fiddling with the aforementioned helmet, "the intention was to make the cavalry look more imposing."

Zuko scoffed with all the scorn of an infantry officer. "Well, in that case, they failed miserably."

"Well," Azula said, an ominous giggle rumbling in the back of her throat, "I think you're overreacting a bit, Zu-Zu, as usual." A pause, a rustling noise that Zuko steadfastly ignored as he fiddled with his belt, adjusting – also for the thousandth time – the way that his katana hung at his hip, and then, in a triumphant tone, "I think it makes me look rather dashing. I mean, sure, you do lack the grace and elegance of a Royal Princess such as myself, but if you just relax, I think you'll be able to pull it off."

With that, Zuko's eyes flew wide as he rounded on his sister, where he was confronted by a sight that did not surprise him in the least. There she stood, striking a ludicrous pose, face almost swallowed by a helmet that was far too big for her head. She had even managed to drape the plume over her shoulder, stroking it as if she was some old Air Nomad guru petting a prized winged-lemur.

No, the sight presented before his eyes did not shock Zuko in the least, but that didn't mean he was amused by it. Fury and irritation crawled up his spine and clenched his throat, and before he quite knew what he was doing, he lunged at his sister, spitting and spluttering in consternation. "For the love of all that is good and holy, Zula, take that damned thing off!"

Azula had obviously seen the move coming, because she was ready, deftly spinning out of his reach and wagging the tail of the plume at him. "Aw, but don't you like it, Zu-Zu? I think it's rather fetching on me!"

Zuko continued to lunge for his sister, even as she continued to evade his grasp. "Dammit, Zula, that's a fucking loan! It's not mine!"

"Tsk tsk, such language. Do you kiss our mother with that mouth?"

"Kiss my ass, Zula, and give me the gods-damn helmet!"

"In that order?"

"Dammit, Zula! Give it to me!"

"Make me!"

By now, they had taken several circuits around the room, Zuko fighting his own lack of coordination, along with errant pieces of furniture and unfortunately placed rugs, all while his sister continued to evade his grasp, taunting him and waving the plume at him and just in general being a little sister. At some point, his anger faded, probably around the time that he crashed into a chair and went sprawling across the floor, and the look on Azula's face as she ran back towards him, as if she was torn between suspecting a trick and worrying that she'd caused her brother to hurt himself (which wouldn't have been the first time), made him burst into hysterical laughter. She had been giggling all along, and when she saw that her brother had finally gotten the joke, she joined in, cackling like some witch out of a bedtime story. She reached down to help him up, a situation he shamelessly took advantage of, but she was once again way ahead of him, shoving him back to the floor and dancing away.

With that, the game was on. They crashed into walls and tipped over chairs and couches and tramped up and over the bed and kicked inconvenient rugs aside, giggling like schoolchildren, rather than the nineteen-year-old prince and seventeen-year-old princess that they – supposedly – were. It was, Zuko had to admit, the most fun he had had in a while, made all the more delicious because, since their father's banishment from court, they no longer had to play their games in absolute silence. Around and around they went, until they were breathless with laughter, spending as much time helping each other not go careening out of one of the windows as they did trying to keep the game going.

And then their mother came storming into the room.

Katara stepped out of the bathroom, wearing a plain shift, her hair piled into a sloppy bun atop her head, and found herself, not for the first time, cursing whatever malevolent god had seen fit to saddle her with Sokka for an older brother. Personally, she suspected some passing tuurngait who had been feeling bored and mischievous on the day that Mother Akna had received her anirniq from Tui and La and come down to the world to place the anirniq that would become Katara in a mother's womb. At the end of the day, she decided with a just barely disguised huff, it didn't matter. What mattered was that revolution roiled in the heart of what had once been the Earth Kingdom, the Avatar was dying, everyone was preparing for war with whatever was about to burst out of Ba Sing Se, and her idiot older brother had, somehow, someway, gone North for two years' worth of advanced education and military training and, in a series of events that would seem impossible if they had happened to anyone else, ended up married to a princess and heir to a throne.

Which, by a long and convoluted road, was how Katara came to be stepping into a room filled with servants from a land not her own, at least a dozen dresses helpfully spread out on a table before her.

On a ship.

Heading for the Fire Nation.

In the summer.

Katara bit down on a sigh as she walked up to the table, reached her hand out, gently ran her fingers across the dresses, a furrow inching its way down between her brows. "Yumiko-san?"

When the ship had entered Fire Nation waters, a veritable army of servants had come aboard, and one of their leaders stepped forward, a middle-aged woman with black hair tinged with grey drawn back into a severe bun, dressed modestly and of an almost petite stature and yet, somehow, exuding an aura of effortless authority that Katara couldn't help but admire. The woman gave a shallow bow, smiled, and said, "Yes, my lady?"

Katara winced at the my lady, covering the annoyed fluster that her nerves threatened to unleash upon the nearest handy target by picking up one of the dresses, a brightly-colored number that seemed to shimmer with the colors of the sea at sunset. She pinched a bit of the fabric, rubbing her finger and thumb back-and-forth. "Is it just me, Yumiko-san, or is this fabric rather…um…thin…?"

Yumiko-san smiled. "It is indeed, my lady," she said, in her pitch-perfect Northern-flavored Inuktitut, right down to the nasal drawl that made the speaker sound like they had a cold. "I'm afraid that dresses must be made rather…well…thin, here in the Fire Nation, at least in the summer."

Katara nodded, though she couldn't quite keep the unease from creeping up her throat. The explanation made sense, but…well… "But…pardon me if I'm harping on a point here, but…it would be…um…well…I mean…it's so…well…thin…it just seems that…I mean…"

Yumiko-san's eyes lit up, and she let out a soft giggle. "I think I understand your hesitation, my lady, and allow me to lay your mind at ease. These dresses were made by one of the Royal Family's own dressmakers, a firm that produces clothing for the highest born young ladies of the Fire Nation. I can assure you that, no matter how thin the fabric may be, it will not be see-through."

Katara picked the dress fully up off the table, turned towards a window, held it up to the light. Somehow, she just couldn't quite believe what she was being told. It just seemed so…well…flimsy, as if it was made, not of silk or finely woven cloth (she never had been able to tell the difference), but of air. And as for the cut… "Is it just me," she asked, nibbling lightly on a corner of her bottom lip, "but is this cut familiar?"

Yumiko-san brightened even more. "It should be, my lady. That's the style common in the Northern Water Tribe. It's been all the rage in the Fire Nation since Her Royal Highness the Princess Yue's state visit last year."

Katara cracked her first smile of the day. I can believe that. My sister-in-law is the kind of girl who looks beautiful in everything, all while being super sweet and nice about it; one couldn't pay for a better fashion setter. And Katara had to admit that the Fire Nation version of the latest Northern fashion was a credit to the original. There was the long skirt that fell straight down from just under one's bosom until it brushed the tops of one's feet, fanning out behind in a small train that Katara would have to hold if she wished to dance. The neckline may have been a bit…well…deeper than what would ever have been tolerated among any of the Water Tribes, princess or no, but the puffy half-sleeves were there, ending about halfway between the shoulder and the arm. "Would I have to wear gloves with this?" she asked, pressing the dress against the front of her body and running her hands down the fabric.

Yumiko-san bowed her head. "It is recommended, my lady."

Katara may have been relatively new to the world of princes and princesses and palaces and court functions, but she'd learned enough to recognize a flat affirmative answer when she heard one. "I see," she said, her voice trailing off at the end. She turned around, towards a convenient full-length mirror, twisting this way and that, trying to imagine herself in the dress. It really was a marvel to behold, beautiful, a credit to its maker. Somewhere deep in the city of Miyako, someone had set out to capture the glory of the sun setting at sea, and they had achieved it. Readjust the neckline in the interests of Water Tribe modesty (or prudishness, as Katara preferred to think of it), spin it from a heavier fabric, and she could easily imagine her sister-in-law striding into court in it. Everyone would ooh and aah, and before the month was out, every highborn girl in the North would have something similar.

"Do you like it, my lady?"

Yumiko-san's voice sliced into her thoughts like a freshly sharpened sword through butter. Katara turned fully to the mirror, tore her gaze away from the dress that she held pressed to her body, looked deep into her own eyes.

"Do I like it?" she asked, in a voice that sounded, to her ears at least, a bit hollow and a bit dull.

"There's a whole chest full of other dresses, my lady," Yumiko-san replied, stepping to Katara's side, "if these are not to your liking. Or, if my lady would perhaps prefer to wear one of her own dresses…?"

Katara blinked, but she did not look away from her eyes. "Is that an option?"

Yumiko-san shrugged. "I don't see why not, my lady. I know Her Grace your mother is concerned that your own dresses will be too heavy for the weather, but, if I remember correctly, there were one or two that seemed just fine to me."

Katara closed her eyes, trying to see, trying to feel. All around her, her element gushed and flowed, almost as if the tide was pulsing to the beat of her heart. She tried to picture herself in the dress, in any of the dresses laid out on the table, or carefully packed in one of the chests the servants had brought onboard. She tried to see herself as a princess, but…

Not in this. I hate these kinds of dresses. They're awkward and I'm always tripping over the hem and you can't bend in them, or, at least, you can't bend in any way that would count.

But then she thought of the effort that had been made to make her arrival in the Fire Nation as welcome and stress-free as possible. She thought of the war that everyone was expecting, of the alliances to be made, of how much her mother and her sisters had been looking forward to this trip, and of how important first impressions could be.

And that's when she realized that her decision had already been made.

"No, Yumiko-san, that won't be necessary. This dress will do just fine."

Zuko's world was a cacophony of ringing as he followed a corporal deeper into the officer's barracks of the Guards Hussars. His heavy, gilded spurs rang and jangled with each step, his cavalry boots sent sharp cracks ringing up and down the halls, his sword-belt rang and clattered with each step, and, worst of all, his mother's irritated voice continued to ring in his ears.

His heart shuddered at the memory of his mother's face, deep down in the pit of his stomach where it had yet to crawl its way out of. Zuko could not recall a time when he had seen her more angry. Even Azula had been stunned, which was saying something; as a general rule, if the Lady Ursa was angry, it was probably over something her strong-willed daughter had done, and Azula would be the first to admit that she generally deserved whatever consequence came her way.

This time was different, though. The Lady Ursa's words still echoed in Zuko's head, and his back seemed to ache from the military-grade attention he had maintained throughout the lecture. Today of all days, his mother had bellowed, as her half-dozen ladies-in-waiting made for the door, holding their skirts up off the floor to better aid in their escape. Today of all days! That had been her refrain, over and over again. I come to see my son resplendent in the uniform of the Guards, and instead find him chasing his sister around a room, giggling like a drunken peasant at the Fire Festival! And on today of all days! Once, about fifteen minutes in, their mother had turned her back and stomped away, the better to run her fingers through her hair, and Zuko had taken the chance to look at his sister and mouth, Is today significant somehow? To that, Azula had only been able to shrug and look lost, and then their mother was swinging around for another pass and the siblings snapped back to attention.

Now, an hour later, Zuko was hobbling along behind a corporal, trying to both look dignified while also valiantly attempting to ignore how the skintight trousers rode up in uncomfortable places, and no more enlightened that he had been an hour before. He still didn't understand why today should be…well…special, or, at the very least, special enough to send his mother into a nervous panic. Sure, he had been snatched away from his regiment for a week, given a temporary promotion to Captain of the Guards Hussars, and ordered to command the honor guard that would great some Southern notables at the docks, but that was hardly…well…special. His uncle's birthday was in three weeks' time, and the Army's summer maneuvers would be the week after that, so the arrival of foreign notables wasn't exactly what one would call…well…notable.

Unless these particular notables are exceptionally…um… Zuko frowned. Uh…notably notable? He rolled his eyes and chuckled at his mental choice of words. Surely I can do better than that…

"Corporal?"

A few steps ahead of him, the corporal (whose name Zuko had forgotten, assuming it had ever been volunteered) slowed down a bit, looking back over his shoulder. "Yes, Your Highness?"

Zuko flinched. He didn't want to, but there it was. Your Highness. It had been over a year since anyone had called him that in earnest, and now, after three days at the Palace, he couldn't seem to swing a pig-chicken without someone bowing and scraping and muttering Your Highness. "That's not necessary, Corporal."

The corporal shrugged. "Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but Viscount Fukuzawa," that being, the Colonel of the Guards Hussars, "says otherwise."

Zuko bit down on a sharp reply, not least because he doubted his ability to deliver it properly. "Well," he said instead, praying to all the gods both above and below that his face was not as red as it felt, "surely the wishes of a Prince of the Blood weigh a bit more heavily than those of His Lordship."

The corporal responded to that with another shrug, even more languid than the first. "Not in these halls, Your Highness. Ah, here we are."

They came to a stop before door that looked like it belonged in a dungeon more than a barracks. It was made of heavy iron, black as night, and when the corporal give it a hard knock, it rang like one of the great gongs in the Palace temple.

Zuko frowned, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot, desperate to work his trousers out of the places they had worked themselves into without actually looking like he was doing so. "This doesn't look like His Lordship's office, Corporal."

The corporal gave yet another shrug, leaving Zuko to wonder if that was his primary method of communication. "It isn't, Your Highness. His Lordship is a stickler for proper uniforms, and yours isn't complete."

Zuko tried to contain his astonishment, and had little doubt that he failed miserably. "You can't possibly be serious." He gave the infamous helmet, meekly surrendered by his sister about halfway through their mother's tirade, a shake. "What more could I need?"

A sound of locks being turned came through the door, and hinges squealed as it opened. "Your carbine, of course, Your Highness."

Somehow, those words, accompanied by the act of stepping into what was now revealed as an armory, finished off what little enthusiasm Zuko had had for the day. The room was filled with racked carbines and pistols, and it smelled strongly of gun oil and flint and steel, but Zuko barely noticed any of it. He was handed a black-and-red strap trimmed with gold and with a gold hook to hang a carbine from, and then he was handed the carbine itself, as shiny and polished as if it had just come from the factory floor, and it was all he could do not to fling it to the floor and storm away. It seemed such a flimsy thing, barely two-feet-long, a far cry from the long muskets of his true regiment, the regiment that was even now preparing for the maneuvers without him. He held it loosely in his hands, turned it this way and that, watched the light from scattered candles flash and flicker up and down the short barrel.

It's not even good for anything, he thought, a savage fury churning his stomach. Hussars aren't dragoons; they don't engage at a distance for skirmishing or scouting. They're supposed to charge home, like lancers, and rely on cold steel to carry the day. He wanted nothing more than to take the stupid little thing by the barrel, smash the stock over the most convenient head, and march back to his room. He could see it now, see it playing out before him. He would strip off all the horrid gilt and finery, put on his sensible and sturdy infantry lieutenant's uniform, and go back to his regiment, back to the Ninety-Fourth, where no one called him Your Highness and no one would think to drag him away from his proper duties to sit a komodo-rhino in the boiling hot summer sun and spout flowery courtesies at whomever he was supposed to spout them at.

No doubt I'll screw up the courtesies, too. I always do.

But, at the end of the day, those courtesies were part of his duty, just as much as his responsibility to his regiment was, if not more so. He may have been a spare prince, but he was still a Prince of the Blood, nephew to the Fire Lord, cousin to the Crown Prince, and if his uncle's word was not as powerful as it had been before the Avatar forced the Constitution on his great-grandfather, it was still as good as law for Zuko.

And so he took the carbine, as well as the strap. The strap he worked over his head and hung so that it stretched crosswise, from his left shoulder to his right hip, and fumbled a bit as he attached the carbine's hook to the one on the strap. Then he took up the hideous dragon-shaped helmet, nodded at the corporal, and tried not to think about just how much he hated being a prince.

"So, my lady," Yumiko-san said, stepping back to admire her handiwork, "how do you like it?"

Katara stood before the full-length mirror, turning first one day, then other, letting the hem of the sunset dress twirl around her feet as she spun. As much as she hated to admit it, the dress looked good on her. No, she corrected herself, it looks beautiful. The bright colors provided the perfect contrast to her dark skin, and the subtle shades of blue that rippled across the fabric made the blue of her eyes pop. She had never truly understood that phrase, a dress to make one's eyes pop, always thought it was just something that girls sillier than her said to sound smarter than they were, but she understood it now.

She understood something else, too, something her best friend back home, Nerrivik, always used to say. No matter how bad a day it is, Katara, it's never so bad that a nice outfit can't make it seem a bit more bearable. She couldn't say for sure whether the day ahead of her, the day when she would set foot for the first time in the Land of the Setting Sun, there to meet a prince she knew little about, would be bad, but she knew the dress and the growing heat had put her in a sullen mood.

But at least the dress looks good, she admitted. I still hate the style, but it looks good on me, I'll give it that.

"I like it very well," she finally admitted, allowing herself a final spin. "I was hesitant at first, I'll admit, but now that it's on me, I like it just fine." That may have been gilding the lily a bit, she herself would be the first to admit, but Yumiko-san had been nothing but kind to Katara, and Katara had never had it in her to return kindness with scorn. With a final, somewhat wistful sigh, Katara turned her back on the mirror and faced her…her…

Katara frowned. Damn you, Sokka. Why did you have to go and woo a princess? "Pardon, Yumiko-san," she began, pursing her lips in thought, "but it just occurred to me…what, exactly, are you?"

Yumiko-san answered her frown with a frown of her own. "I'm not sure I follow, my lady."

"Well," Katara started nibbling her bottom lip, caught herself, forced her teeth back into her mouth with far more difficulty than should've been necessary, you'll chew that damn lip off someday, her mother's voice rang in her ears, "it's just…what do I call you?"

Yumiko-san brightened as realization dawned across her face. "Oh! Well, Yumiko-san is perfectly acceptable, my lady, and as for what, exactly, I am, well…for the duration of your stay in the Fire Nation, I am your lady's maid."

Katara nodded, understanding, but not entirely sure she was comprehending, a sensation she had come to know all too well over the past two years. "I see…so that means that you're basically my…personal servant…?"

Yumiko-san bowed her head. "That would be correct, my lady, unless you would prefer someone else?"

Katara's eyes flew wide, and she quickly waved the suggestion away. "Oh, Tui and La no!" The mere suggestion that she would have to face the rest of her stay in the Fire Nation without Yumiko-san brought her to the brink of panic. Her mother had spent the past three months on the verge of a nervous breakdown from the stress, her little sisters had been little terrors, and that didn't even get into how Katara had yet to so much as see a picture of the prince she was supposed to decide whether or not to marry by the end of the summer. "Honestly, Yumiko-san," she said, giving her own little bow, "I don't think I could do this without you."

Yumiko-san giggled, and snapped her fingers at one of the young maids standing patiently in a corner of the room. "Oh, you say that now, my lady, but you'll be sick of this old woman soon enough."

Katara crossed her arms, a flash of pique shooting up her spine as she felt like herself for the first time since she'd boarded the ship three weeks before. "I'll thank you to let me be the judge of that, Yumiko-san."

Yumiko-san smiled and bowed. "As you wish, my lady, and might I say, it's nice to see you smile."

"Smile?"

"I've been attending you since yesterday, and until now, I'd yet to catch even a glimpse of the stubborn and vivacious young girl your brother promised us. It's nice to finally see what he was talking about."

"Oh." Katara's heart fell, along with her shoulders, and when her teeth once more found her bottom lip, she didn't even notice. "I guess I have been a bit…well…um…"

"Apprehensive, I would say, though I wouldn't worry about it, my lady. You're far from the first young girl in your position to be a bundle of nerves. And for the record, I think you'll find the Prince Zuko to be quite to your liking."

Katara felt herself brighten a bit at that. Even if she ended up refusing to go through with the match, it would be nice, she felt, to come all this way to at least find a nice boy at the end of the journey. "You really think so?"

"I do, actually."

"Well, I'll take your word for it…though…what has he been told about me? Is he amenable to marrying me?"

For the first time, Yumiko-san faltered, and for a moment, she seemed lost for words. "I…well…I wouldn't know anything about that, my lady. Things are done somewhat differently in the Fire Nation." And then, before Katara had a chance to really think over the woman's choice of words, Yumiko-san was taking her by the hand and guiding her to a stool in front of a vanity, sitting her down while saying, "Now, enough about princes. What would you like us to do with your hair?"

As the midday sun rose ever higher in the sky, baking lord and commoner alike, a hundred troopers astride komodo-rhinos wound their way through the narrow streets of Miyako, the capital of the Fire Nation. They were the Second Company, Second Battalion, of His Royal Majesty the Fire Lord's Own Guards Hussars, and they made quite the impressive sight, thundering past in a veritable storm of jangling bridles and saddles and sword belts and carbines rattling at the end of body straps. They poured through the streets, a column of scarlet and black and gold flashing in the sun, the plumes of their dragon helmets twisting and turning in the breeze. City watchmen raced ahead of them, keeping the way clear, and those citizens interested enough to brave the furnace-like heat acted as if the troopers were putting on a parade just for them. People flung open windows and hung flags from balconies, small children raced alongside the column, daring each other to race in and out of the trotting komodo-rhinos, and young girls waved handkerchiefs and blew kisses when they thought their parents weren't watching. It was, in other words, quite the little show, a nice little drama to liven up an otherwise average summer day.

And at the column's head, riding beneath the regimental standard, a blood-red dragon snarling its way across a field of black-and-gold, Zuko sat his mount and saw none of it.

"If you don't mind my saying so, Zuk," a deep, gravelly voice observed to his side, "you look miserable."

Zuko groaned, reaching up to tug at the ghastly collar where it pinched the top of his throat. "That's because I am miserable, Toshiro." And he was, too; it was horribly hot, the column was raising a cloud of dirt and dust from the roadbed, and he desperately wanted to be literally anywhere else.

Beside him, Lieutenant Mifune Toshiro threw back his head and laughed, a short, sharp, barking bray of a sound. "That's my buddy Zuk," he observed, turning in his saddle to reach up and catch a kiss offered by one of the prettier girls who watched from windows and doors and rooftops, setting said girl into a fit of giggles, "always looking on the dreary side of life." Toshiro made a big show of stuffing the kiss into his saddlebag, before blowing his own kiss in return. "You must be the only man in existence who graduated top of his class at the Academy, and yet somehow managed to look irritated by the accomplishment."

In spite of his misery, Zuko couldn't help but chuckle. Toshiro, who had graduated third in that same class, right behind their mutual friend Watanabe Toru, had a point. Zuko had worked himself into such a state over his graduation that he barely even remembered the ceremony. He was still sure he had fumbled something, chalking up the protestations to the contrary of his friends to people just trying to make him feel better. "Well," Zuko said, steadfastly facing forward, he was afraid that if he caught a girl blowing at kiss at him, he'd fall off his mount in astonishment, "how could I be happy? They only gave me the top spot because I'm a prince; we both know that it should've gone to Toru."

Zuko didn't need to see Toshiro roll his eyes to know that it happened. "For the love of the gods, Zuk, you beat Toru by two points, and nobody was happier about it than Toru. Give yourself some credit for once."

Zuko frowned, setting his shoulders and trying to ignore the sweat trickling down the back of his neck. This helmet feels like a gods-damn oven atop my head. How do people stand this horror? "I'll give myself some credit when I feel like I've earned it."

"So never?" Toshiro scoffed, twisting in his saddle to catch yet another kiss. Zuko didn't begrudge his friend the kisses; where Zuko was tall and gangly and awkward and, in his opinion, very plain looking, Toshiro was anything but. He was tall, too, but graceful and devilishly handsome. He sat his saddle like the son and heir of a Duke that he was, and even his strangely gruff and growly voice didn't detract from the picture of perfect high nobility that he presented. Kiss caught, stored, and returned, Toshiro gave a little bow to his admirers and turned his attention back to Zuko. "Well," Toshiro said, with a resigned sigh, "if you won't have a little fun for once, who all are we supposed to be honor guarding?"

Zuko let out his own sigh. He still didn't understand why his presence was needed, or why it required him to put on a horrid uniform and receive a temporary commission to a Guards regiment. But mine is not to question why, I suppose. "The wife of the Chief of the Yuupik of the Southern Water Tribes is arriving today, along with three of her daughters to attend my uncle's birthday celebration and watch the summer maneuvers."

"Ah. Yuupik…where have I heard that name before?"

"Because her son is now the Crown Prince and heir to the throne for the Northern Water Tribe."

Toshiro let out a low whistle. "Damn. Lucky guy. Did you get to meet him last year?"

Zuko shook his head, shifting in his saddle to return the bow of a distinguished-looking old man in a faded Army uniform. "No, thank the gods. I was able to beg off that particular royal duty and stay with my regiment."

Toshiro clucked his tongue. "You missed out on quite the show, I'm afraid. The Prince Sokka is hilarious, and the Princess Yue is a beautiful as she is good-natured."

Zuko bit down on a groan; the then-newlyweds had made quite a splash in Miyako when they'd arrived, and he had long-since tired of hearing about it. "So I heard."

"I bet you did! Any idea why his mother and sisters are coming to our humble Homeland?"

Zuko could only shrug. "Beats me. My sister told me a rumor that the eldest sister, the Lady Katara, is here to a meet a prospective husband, but I don't know much beyond that."

Toshiro gave his friend a searching look. "Prospective husband, eh? Any idea who that might be?"

"Like I said, beats me. The Prince Sokka's supposed to arrive next week with a gaggle of Northern noblemen in tow, so I imagine it's one of them."

"Maybe…or maybe it's you."

Zuko rounded on his friend, eyes wide, mouth open, the scar on his torso twinging in time with his heartbeat. "You can't possibly be serious."

Toshiro gave one his infamous expansive shrugs. "Why not? You're good-looking, available, and now that they're royalty-by-proxy, it'd be the perfect way to seal an alliance with the Southern Water Tribes."

Zuko didn't know what to make of that; it was all he could do to stop himself from blinking like an idiot. That can't…there's no way…but…is there…? So much would make sense, from his mother's nerves to why he was in charge of this honor guard, or why there was an honor guard this large in the first place. A hundred Guards Hussars, led by a prince, for the wife of a Southern tribal chief? It had puzzled Zuko and his sister all through the morning, and it puzzled him still, though maybe…just maybe…

He shook his head, tossing the thought away. It didn't matter, at the end of the day. He was a Prince of the Fire Nation, and he would marry whomever his uncle told him to marry, whether he liked it or not. If he was lucky, he'd be told ahead of time, and if he was very lucky, the girl would be someone he knew and maybe, just maybe, liked, but that was the best he could hope for. Commoners in the Fire Nation could marry whom they pleased, for whatever reason struck their fancy, but a Prince of the Blood did not have that option.

"I doubt it," he said finally, schooling his features into blankness. "Azula's money is still on one of the King of Omashu's legion of granddaughters for a foreign match, or Duke Akiyama's sister for a domestic one, and it's never wise to bet against my sister."

Toshiro chuckled. "I'll give you that. Still…Azula's been wrong before, you know."

Zuko popped an eyebrow at his friend. "Shall I tell her you said that?"

Toshiro made a face. "I'd rather you didn't."

And with that, for the first time since his mother had so rudely interrupted him and his sister's morning fun-and-games, Zuko laughed.

Katara's first real look at the capital of the Fire Nation was nothing short of breathtaking. It was the largest city she had ever seen, even larger than Iqaluit, the Northern Water Tribe's capital, which itself had dwarfed her home town of Katvik in the South to the point of insignificance. Miyako, in contrast to her home, seemed so big it was a bit ridiculous. It stretched as far as her eye could see, fading into the foothills of the tree-covered mountains that surrounded it to the south and west. The city itself seemed to glitter in the sun, golden temples shining like mini-suns, while the rest of the buildings were a riot of red and black and a thousand other colors besides. The smell of cooking fires and factories mingled with the salty musk of the sea, and even a mile out from the shore, Katara could hear the faint sounds of bellowing animals and bustling people.

It was a magnificent sight, well worth the trip from her homeland, and it almost, almost, made up for how damn hot it was.

And it was hot. The sun was almost directly overhead, and Katara felt like she was standing in an oven. Even with her light dress and the shade of a parasol that she held over her head, she felt oppressed, crushed, smothered by the heat. It was heat unlike any she had ever known in her entire life, and for a few moments, she was tempted to call off the entire exercise, tell her mother that she had changed her mind about meeting a prince named Zuko, who may or may not even know I'm coming, or why I'm here, and have the ship turn around for home. Never again, she promised herself, as a sudden gust of dry, hot air slapped her across the face and ruffled the lace that hung from the edges of her parasol, would she complain about the summers back home. I'll lay out in the sun and be thankful, she decided, then pushed such silly, pointless thoughts from her mind.

I've come this far, she told herself, shaking off her worries and her doubts, and I've never been the quitting type, anyways. She turned towards Yumiko-san, who hovered a step behind her on her right. "Is that the Palace, Yumiko-san?"

Yumiko-san, who held her own parasol, squinted her eyes and nodded. "It is indeed, my lady."

Katara's eyes went wide. "I wasn't aware it was so big."

And big it was. It dominated the center of the city, rising from the jumble of narrow streets and sunbaked tenements atop what could only have been a manmade hill. It sprawled through the heart of the city, a massive compound trimmed with gold and hemmed in by a low wall. And before the year is out, I may be living there. The idea didn't frighten her nearly as much as she supposed it should have. After all, she couldn't help but reason, if my goof of a brother can live in a palace, why not me?

"Well, my lady," Yumiko-san said, lowering her hand and setting said hand back to waving a simple fan back-and-forth, "it's not just the home of the Royal Family. The palace compound also houses the Regiments of the Guard, housing for the Palace staff and servants, various government offices, rooms for visiting nobles and dignitaries-"

"And the Diet meets there, right?"

Yumiko-san nodded. "It does, indeed, my lady, both houses."

Katara screwed up her face, trying to recall details from the jumble of facts that had been crammed into her skull during two years of a much belated royal education. "The Peers and the Commons, correct?"

Yumiko-san smiled. "Correct, my lady, and might I say, your Nihongo is much better than you give yourself credit for."

Katara beamed at the compliment. Ever since one of her new servants had, under Katara's careful instruction, put her hair into a tight braid that reached down to the small of her back (it was too hot to let her hair fall free, Katara believed), Katara had abandoned Inuktitut and started speaking in Nihongo, the somewhat harsh, vaguely guttural language of the Fire Nation. It still sounded rather ugly to Katara's ears, but there was an admirable preciseness to the language that she rather liked. Though the writing system still leaves much to be desired.

"Arigato, Yumiko-san," Katara said, giving her lady's maid (something she still wasn't used to, and doubted she ever would be) a shallow bow. "I've worked hard to master the language of your people."

Yumiko-san returned the bow. "And you've succeeded, my lady."

Katara rather doubted that; the tutors King Arnook had sent to see to her and her sisters' educations had been of the opinion that her accent was still thick, and she herself acknowledged that she tended to butcher the grammar, but a sincere compliment was a sincere compliment, and Katara had never been what one would call humble. "I try, Yumiko-san," Katara said, a smile on her face.

And it was a genuine smile, too. That surprised her. All day, she had been in a funk, but that funk seemed to have faded away. She was still standing on a ship in the blazing heat of the Land of Fire, clutching a parasol that she had had to snatch from the servant who had wanted to hold it for her, wearing a dress she wasn't comfortable in, speaking a language she was far from used to, and about to set foot in a country she'd never been to, potentially to marry a prince she'd never seen, but somehow, out on the deck of the ship, standing in the warm breeze, it didn't seem quite so bad. Daunting, yes, she would be the first to admit, but…well…bad?

She allowed herself a thin smile. No, it's not so bad, after all. In fact…

"Yumiko-san?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"Do newspapers deliver to the Palace?"

Yumiko-san's face curled into a knowing smile. "Indeed they do, my lady. His Majesty reads The Miyako Times cover-to-cover every morning. Shall I arrange for a copy to be delivered to you in the mornings?"

Katara savored the question, savored the opportunities. In her homeland, education was spotty; she doubted if more than one-in-three of the people in her tribe could read and write, and among women, it was even less. What newspapers there were, tended to be foreign papers, often from the North, and in addition to being a few weeks old by the time they arrived, women would discouraged from reading them. Don't worry your pretty little head about it, her father always said, and even her mother agreed. Let men worry about such things, was how her mother put it. It's what we keep them around for.

But I'm a long way from home, aren't I? She smiled. I'm not in Katvik anymore.

"That would be just fabulous, Yumiko-san, absolutely fabulous."

"Your Highness, have you seen this?"

Zuko bit down on a growled curse, rounding on the other lieutenant under his nominal command that day, a spindly stick of a young man by the name of Terajima, whose big ears were only matched in size by the thickness of the glasses he was constantly having to push up off the tip of his nose. "What did I say about the Your Highnesses, Lieutenant?"

Terajima gulped, a ludicrous sight that brought a choked snort out of Toshiro's throat. The boy was even younger than Zuko and Toshiro; he had been a year behind them at the Academy, and his commission in the Guards Hussars was barely two months old. Terajima also seemed a bit in awe of serving alongside a Prince, though Zuko couldn't imagine why. The Terajimas were one of the Forty Elite, the forty oldest and most powerful clans in the Fire Nation, and his uncle was the Duke Terajima himself, one of the leaders of the Conservative faction in the House of Peers.

"Um…" Terajima paused, looked down at the newspaper in his hands, gulped once more. "To…um…cut it out…?"

Zuko reined in his temper, which had been fraying ever since Toshiro had shared his theory about why the Lady Katara was arriving in the Fire Nation, and why Zuko had to be the one to meet her. Gods, he kept praying, please let it not be true, and if it is, please help me keep my foot out of my mouth for once. Zuko didn't have much hope in the gods, though; they'd never seemed inclined to listen to him. Unless there's a god for fools…that would make sense. Biting down on the sharp rebuke that tickled at the back of his throat, he settled for a nod. "If you would be so kind, Tetsuo-san." He paused, counted to ten, and took a deep drag from his cigarette. "Now, what is it that I might have seen?"

Terajima gave himself a shake, and tapped the paper in his hands. "The latest out of Ba Sing Se. Apparently, the Committee of Public Safety has ordered all Air Nomads out of the Earth Kingdom."

Zuko frowned, held his hand out for the paper. "Let me see that." Terajima handed it over, and Zuko stepped out of the shade to read. He had ordered the company to file into a vacant lot a few streets away from the dock where the ship they were waiting for would land, a lot that happened to be hemmed in on one side by a tall building. The shade didn't provide much in the way of coolness, but it was better than sitting out in the sun, so Zuko had ordered a smoke break and settled down to wait for the ship to arrive.

"Well," he muttered, pausing to take another drag from his cigarette, "I'll be damned." He waved the paper at Toshiro, who was stepping out of the shade to join him. "Have you heard about this, Toshiro?"

He handed over the paper, and Toshiro, tossing his own cigarette to the ground, gave the paper a quick read-through and shook his head. "I didn't get a chance to read the paper this morning, so no. This is…" He sighed, looked up from the paper. "This isn't good news."

Zuko shook his head. "No, it isn't, especially because the Committee has ordered the southern kingdoms to comply." Avatar Aang may have managed to bring Sozin's War to a quick close a century before, but the Earth Kingdom had not benefited from the peace. Humiliation in battle and one weak Emperor after another had ended in a fractured kingdom. Only the central regions continued to be ruled from Ba Sing Se; the northwest had long since seceded, the petty kings of the south ignored central rule, and Ba Sing Se itself had been a seething, roiling mass of rebellion, riot, and the occasional coup. But now, things had changed. The so-called Committee of Public Safety had seized power in the city, and the Emperor Kuei was a prisoner in all but name. A man named Long Feng held real power, and his armies, led by a woman named Kuvira, were storming through the heart of what had once been the Earth Kingdom, restoring order by brute force. So far, those armies had stuck to those areas that still pledged allegiance to Ba Sing Se, but no one knew how long that would last…

"Won't the Avatar do something?" Terajima asked, looking up at the sky as if he expected the Avatar to appear out of thin air.

Toshiro shrugged. "What can he do? He's over a century-old, and dying, too. Once he kicks the bucket…" His voice trailed off, and he let a look to Zuko do the talking.

Zuko could only nod. Once the Avatar dies, it'll mean war. That's what always happens when an Avatar dies. Last time, it was my great-grandfather doing the invading, but this time…

This time…

Zuko's thoughts were shattered by a shout. He turned on his heel, saw a young man waving at him. "Your Highness!" the man called, leaping from foot-to-foot. "Your Highness! The ship will be here in thirty minutes!"

Just like that, all the thoughts of revolution and war vanished, and Zuko's heart plunged back down into his boots. Gods, they're here. She's here. He was now sure that Toshiro had been right. No other explanation made the least amount of sense, and there was a perverse aptness to it. His mouth went dry, and for a moment, he forgot how to speak. He rounded on Toshiro, eyes wide, and when Toshiro started to shake with laughter, he couldn't even get mad.

Then, his training took over and he started to rattle off orders.

The first thing Katara saw upon stepping onto the top of the ramp that would lead her down to the shore was a field of dragons.

There seemed to be dragons everywhere. A dragon snarled across a banner that snapped in the wind above the hundred mounted soldiers arrayed before her. More dragons snarled from the heads of the soldiers, a hundred helmets in the shape of dragons' heads, black-and-scarlet plumes rippling in the breeze. There were dragon heads on the soldiers' belt buckles, and when someone bellowed an order, the sound of a hundred swords hissing out of scabbards made Katara think of dragons waking from their sleep.

Another order was shouted, a trumpet blew, and then a hundred swords flashed as the soldiers whipped the blades up to in front of their faces. A band began to play, something loud and bombastic, but Katara barely heard it. She was mesmerized by the display before her, almost blinded by the way a sea of gilded uniforms glittered in the sun. She watched, amazed, as the soldiers swung their swords to their sides, and then, as one, a hundred komodo-rhinos went down on one knee and the soldiers bowed deep from their saddles. They held the bow, and how Katara managed to remember to return it, she would never quite know, and then the soldiers were rising, and someone called out, Three cheers for the Ladies of the South! One man shouted, Hip hip, and then the entire company exploded, thrusting their swords into the air as they bellowed, Banzai! Two more times they cheered, first the hip hip, and then the banzai, each one louder than before, and then Katara's mother was nudging her in the back and the sound of her sister Kanna's stifled laughter snapped her out of her shock.

She gave herself a shake, threw back her head, jutted out her chin, just as the tutors from the North had taught her, and slowly made her way down the ramp, to where an officer was riding up from the front of the company to meet her.

Zuko couldn't quite believe what was happening, couldn't quite believe what his eyes were telling him. The world shrunk to a tunnel, the blood pounded in his ears. His mouth was as dry as the Si Wong Desert, and for once, he was thankful for the stupid gold-and-white gloves on his hands, for otherwise his katana would've slipped right out of his palms.

There were at least a dozen women coming down the ramp, Her Grace the Chieftess Kya, flanked by two awestruck teenage girls, and several maids and servants, but Zuko saw none of them.

All he saw was the young woman at the front of the procession, her eyes locked on him, the young woman wearing a dress the color of the sea at sunset and with her dark brown hair done up into a tight braid that swung at her hips. Her blue-blue eyes were startling, deep and endless as the ocean itself, a stunning contrast against her dark brown skin, and when he reined up before her, she looked up at him and smiled and he would always wonder how he didn't just fall from his saddle right then and there.

He gulped, and when he spoke, he could barely hear his own voice over the playing of the band and the cheers of the crowd of curious civilians who hung in the background. He shook his head, tugged at his collar, took off his helmet, why he didn't know, he just had to get it off, then he swallowed hard and set his shoulders and tried once more to speak to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

"The Lady Katara, I presume."

She was glad when he took off the helmet. The helmet made him look ridiculous, and she desperately wanted a good look at his face. Then he took off the helmet and tried on a smile, and the smile was a bit pained and a bit awkward, as if he wasn't very good at it, and his free hand was rubbing at a spot on his chest, though he didn't seem to be aware of it, but she wasn't entirely sure she cared.

He was pale-skinned, like most of his people, with almond-shaped eyes that glittered gold like the loops and whorls and buttons on his uniform. Others might have called him plain, or at the very least cute, but she didn't care. She took one good look at his clean-shaven face, at his short-cropped jet-black hair and his broad shoulders and his kind smile, and decided he was handsome. He was handsome and cute and she was smitten from the moment that he smiled and said, "The Lady Katara, I presume."

She smiled back and gave herself a shake, cursing herself for acting the silly girl, but not really caring all that much. She gathered up her skirt and curtsied like a noblewoman from the North and looked him right in the eye.

"Only if I have the honor of meeting the Prince Zuko."

He blushed bright-red from brow-to-chin, and he stammered a few times before he finally choked out a reply.

"I'm not sure I'd call it an honor, my lady, but that would, indeed, be me."

She walked up to his side and reached out her hand, in the manner of her people.

"The honor, Your Highness, is all mine."

He nodded, his skin alternating between deep blush and bone white, and she hoped she wasn't nibbling her lip, hoped she didn't look as nervous as she felt, then he was reaching down and lightly taking her hand.

"Just plain Zuko is just fine, my lady."

She gave his hand a squeeze and let it go.

"Then you must call me Katara."

He smiled, and bowed his head.

"As you wish."

She never knew where she got the bravado, but bravado came and she threw him a wink and a sly grin.

"I do."

Wooo! Was that fun? I think it was fun. I mean, it wasn't fun writing it, sure, and I almost didn't get this put together, and I haven't the faintest idea how the fuck I'm going to pull this week off, but hey, the wife's got in-service this week and I've got our new apartment to continue to putting together, so I gotta have something to look forward to, you know? Something to keep me plugging along. And since when have I ever let you guys down?

Alright, alright...what else...what else...oh! The story! So, basically, I spent this summer getting waaaay into Bernard Cornwell's Sharpe series of books. They're rather incredible good times, and sure, they're not perfect (the dearth of solid female characters can get a bit...tiresome at times), but for what they are, they're pretty solid. So, the books are set during the Napoleonic Wars, and I started just jonesing to write something set in that kind of universe, and then I saw that Zutara Week was coming up and thought, You know what? Why not set my Zutara Week stories in the Avatar World we all know and love, but with late 1700's/early 1800's level technology? And thus, a series was born.

I'm not gonna get too deeply into backstories and whatever, because I don't want to spoil my own stories. That said, if you have any questions, or are confused, feel free to say so in the comments, and I'll do my best to address the issue in the next installment, assuming I haven't done so already.

Hmm...what else...what else...oh, right! My personal life! Nothing much to report, really. The wife and I moved into a new, slightly bigger apartment, I'm heading back to grad school in a few weeks, the wife just got a big promotion...um...am I missing something...? Um...

Oh, and my wife's pregnant and we're having a baby boy in December, but you guys didn't care about that, right? :-D

Moving on! Tune in tomorrow, when our favorite couple starts to wonder if this has all happened to them before. See you then!