Lexa felt the frigid metal surroundings of the translucent ruby ring pressing against her finger. The nostalgic object she had collected from her tiny wooden box hidden underneath her bed acted as a gate. Lexa gazed at the ring mournfully as her mouth twisted into a grimace. She sensed the blizzard biting at her flesh, these steel swords grazed against her back. The Targaryen sat atop a cascade of victories, a cascade of human souls kept trapped inside the warriors' blades.

Her slim fingers lingered directly atop the ring; almost subconsciously she reached out to wipe away the dusty layer clustering around the gem. It did not shine as it had before, it had nearly turned colorless, and its meaning had been stained by a dimness Lexa could not have possibly have brushed off.

Lexa clasped bits and pieces of her mother's reflection within the ghostly deep red. A loud thrumming filled the room as the sharp claws fanned aggressively in the air, stretching across the room and spiking along the large creatures' spines and from the edges of their wings: a giant wall surrounded Daenerys Targaryen. Their ruddy complexion radiated and appeared as flames upon her coating. The scowl on her face was drenched along the caverns of her features by the dragons' shadows. Her enemies sensed her infamous ferocity and they trembled at the fire in her blood. The sudden conscious awareness of their slim character brought out their inner feebleness, and a silent fright rapidly filled out in their eyes as they were drawn and swayed by the Queen's stern demands.

Lexa's recollections whistled and ached violently in the depths of her bones. She squinted briefly before looking back at the ring. A youthful child stood on her tiptoes in another room. Her arm stretched out as she pressed her puny hand against the dragon's extensive snout. The girl looked slightly confused as she stated, " I don't think he likes me." The figure beside the girl tilted her eyebrows outward; the crows-feet wrinkles at the sides of sparkling eyes and a closed smiling mouth replaced the menacing expression reserved for Daenerys's enemies. Her mother let out a chuckle before reassuring Lexa that Drogon respected her.

Lexa's memories of her childhood were contained in the smallest spaces of the largest rooms in the Red Keep. And yet the dragons' vast magnificence was clearly glued to Lexa's mind. Their blood-red bodies rose and fell steadily in rhythm to their short puffs like the beating of a calm heart. Lexa imagined the poisonous gas mixing in with the miniature clouds escaping through the dragon's nostrils until there was no more smoke, until the rising and falling ceased and the heart became too quiet; until they were drenched out of their scorching red embedded into millions of nail-like scales.

She imagined real flames eating away at the flesh and spitting out drab ashes of someone once believed to be immortal, immune; and of someone who turned out to be a mere living being.

She envisioned an innocent girl's lively and gently beating heart halting, a body once so full of movement turning still. Her glossy chestnut skin being slashed upon the layers of fresh cuts; and the facial expression upon her decapitated head being depleted of its richness.

Lexa's mind had drifted but she sensed the crystal clear glass images breaking into pieces inside her throat; they scrapped its tissue with each gulp. She heard the thudding in her eardrums and its noise became unsettling. Its fluctuating tempo was a reminder of her existence and of the weakness it endorsed.

She briefly remembered the striking ruby ring gleaming: two hearts connected in a playful dance, an excitement pushing against the ribcages of the two engaged lovers; an image too utopian now. Costia's heart was quiet yet Lexa's heart did not shut up. It told her story, it told her pain and it screamed her vulnerability. She had to shut it up, she had to tame it; Lexa had to be dead so the Commander could live.

Lexa Targaryen jumped to her feet and slid off the ring. Light shown through the window and illuminated fire in her eyes. It fueled her: she was alive, she was the Commander, and yet she was dormant: this fossilised mask was her people's protector and it was her curse.

Too much time had passed to remember the meaning of "carefree". And honestly, it had not mattered anymore because it was upon this sacrifice which victory lied, Lexa told herself. The Dark Age period spanning chaos for years had finally come to a near-full circle with the return of a unification of the Six Kingdoms. Despite severe losses of her House, Lexa Targaryen embodied Aegon the Conqueror's ruthlessness and strength.

Her stare snatched the breath away from countless warriors, her blades ripped away the souls of hundreds soldiers which had revolted. Hundreds of her own, still standing before the corpses on the gelid ground, secured their distance away from the Targaryen who settled her feet steadily upon the conquered territory. The razor-edged lines of the Commander's profile struck fear in them with a simultaneous respect and admiration. Her back straightened, and her chin cocked upwards. A grim face as rigid as stone with widened eyes sharp enough to leave cuts did not wince at the stench of blood soaking over her face and travelling across her armor. Dread propelled and was visible in her enemies white faces, the unclouded illustration of the Commander sent shivers down their spines; entranced by the powerful presence, they bowed down to the Targaryen.

The Seventh Kingdom, the Kingdom of the Mountain and the Vale, which mercilessly murdered her dragons and mother, the traitorous bastards who had used her people as test subjects, harvesting their blood, in an attempt to foster soldiers capable of emitting fire had been left undefeated until Clarke's people came along in boats travelling from across a never-ending sea of skies; extending from beyond the horizon, their lands were left foreign to Lexa.

The Targaryen carried herself in a swift yet adamant manner since the day she took the Throne. It had been absurd how such steel-resolve was immediately overturned by just a single gaze from hope-filled blue orbs. They were eyes of a river desperately wanting more, desiring to gush into the ocean. The shades of the blue sky caught her earthbound gaze. They lifted her and left her weightless. The Commander's hardened shoulders fell under the enchantment as her breathing melted into the atmosphere; those broad shoulders were a mere illusion as they came collapsing down with a whiff of the soothing aroma she had inhaled.

Clarke had shifted herself closer to Lexa, her surging warmth penetrated through the fossilised mask. Lexa noticed the thickly chained gate opening and her heart started pounding uncontrollably. It had made her go limp; Lexa's straightened spine softened and the tense muscles loosened. Clarke was close, too close. Their bodies were separated only by a few inches and their instincts were fighting furiously to break the distance. Lexa felt anxiety and tension wrestling inside her bones and the frustration gathering in the back of her throat. She could no longer contain herself from acting out what would have been the end of what she had become and what she had to be.

Lexa's damp eyes lurked periodically at Clarke's soft lips. She noticed the smooth motion of the tongue as it made a quick lap around her lips. Lexa only blinked and the corners of her lips were curving into a gentle smile; her luscious lips were ever so sweet and infatuating. A deep fire brewed against Lexa's ribcage, and in her stomach butterflies flew willingly. Lexa perceived the heat collecting and pressing against her throat - her pupils dilated and her breathing quickened. The Targaryen had failed; but Lexa had not cared. She had assimilated the hope shimmering from those keen blue eyes, and it had awoken a desire deep inside of her. It was a pulsating need to shatter the chains, to break the barriers incapacitating her from drawing closer to Clarke's warmth.

Lexa had to act before she burst. Her head tilted forward and in a flash of a second she felt her mouth caressing the outskirts of a moist surface. Lexa ravelled at the softness and at the boiling sensation circulating throughout her body, sending tremors along her nerves as their bodies gently brushed against each other. Electricity ran across her skin, and she felt even the tiniest of strands of hair on her arms rising. Her pent up emotions were finally leaking out dangerously in the small space between them and yet she wanted more.

Her spine jolted when Clarke pressed her hand against Lexa's side, ambitiously securing her grip, and pulling Lexa towards her. A firm belief was acknowledged within this action: either of them could and would rationally let go soon; but not now, this moment was theirs alone. Clarke's reciprocity told Lexa that it was okay, and so Lexa evaporated in their comfort. Clarke's reciprocity revealed to Lexa that she too, was hungry and alive, so Lexa entangled her fingers in Clarke's hair; her hand tenderly holding the blonde in place, desperately clinging onto this short instant.

And for the first time in a very long time Lexa shared Clarke's hope. For the first time in all those deathly and tasteless, rigid years she had finally felt her heart igniting her eager emotions as her veins throbbed furiously. They knew of the consequences of dancing with fire yet damned them like little children.

They burnt; and they suffered. And Lexa was a fool. It cannot escape her to this day: the hunger of the living. The Commander stood stoically, her Targaryen blood fostered fire, and a mask of indifference was slotted onto her face. Underneath, something was fermenting; Lexa was alive and she was hungry.


So much "red" imagery while eating red chili, I wonder if it influenced me? D:
Just a heads up: Commander = Queen. Lexa earned the title of Commander (or The Uniter) because she faced all her battles head-on.

~~~ENJOY and Comments/feedback are greatly appreciated ~~~