Hello, and welcome to my first fanfiction for Rowaelin and the Throne of Glass fandom! This is going to be a story that follows Rowan's POV throughout Heir of Fire. I hope you enjoy! Please write a review or follow/favorite this story if you do!

Rowan's POV:

Rowan had been watching her all morning, and so far the only thing Adarlan's Assassin had done to impress him was manage to not pass out from all the alcohol she had consumed.

Lounging on the roof of a beaten down shop in the slums of Varese, drowning herself in wine and gnawing on teggya bread, the girl could have easily passed for one of the city's street vagrants who had succumbed to the heat. Perched on the roof of a building across the street, Rowan had a perfect view of her, not that there was much to see. The only movements the assassin made were to drink from her now empty bottle of wine and shift her arm in to shield her eyes from the glare of the midday sun. As far as Rowan could tell, the only weapons she was in possession of were the daggers strapped to her sides. They gleamed in the harsh sunlight, freshly sharpened and ready for bloodshed, but their owner looked more inclined to use them to cut a slice of teggya bread than do any actual damage. Besides, if her split lip and bruised cheek were any indication, she preferred other forms of fighting as of late. Lazy, defenseless,and looking for a fight. Brilliant.

The girl had been lying still for so long Rowan was contemplating swooping down and pecking at her, just to see if she'd react, when she heaved herself off the boiling terra-cotta and slowly rose to her feet before stumbling over to the roof's edge and sliding down the buildings drainpipe into the streets below.

Finally. Rowan took off from his perch, gliding down into the alleyway and shifting in a flash of light. Gods, he'd forgotten how badly this city reeked. The moment he shifted his senses were flooded with it's stench, only worsened by the sweltering heat. Peering around the corner, Rowan had to fight off a laugh at the sight before him. He had arrived just in time to see an old street hag hissing at the assassin, demanding she find somewhere else to scavenge. Once the woman had stopped her screeching, he waited for the girl to say some self-righteous comment, but she only flinched and stumbled backwards, the apology that passed her lips barely audible even with his Fae senses.

In the wake of the woman's rage she simply stood there and blinked, trying to clear the haze of alcohol from her mind. The street vagrant hissed at her again, even as the girl raised her hands in a placating gesture, and spat at her feet. Honestly, it was a pathetic show on both fronts. The woman was hunched and curled with age, the walking stick she clung to the only thing allowing her to remain upright. Her hair was matted into clumps, surrounding her pockmarked, wrinkled face that was now twisted in an expression halfway between fury and madness.

Then again, the girl wasn't exactly better off. Her clothes were dirty and torn, her face bruised and golden hair tangled with a mixture of sweat and dust. Honestly, Rowan couldn't blame the woman for mistaking her as another scavenger competing for territory.

Having had enough of the street vagrant on assassin-turned-vagrant confrontation, Rowan moved to step out of the shadows. Just as the girl raised her head and caught her reflection in a dusty, cracked window on the side of the building.

Her eyes widened in an expression of shock and disgust as she took stock of her appearance. First, the torn, dirty clothes she wore, stained with the evidence of her rooftop escapades— alcohol and the grease of old teggya bread. Then the circle of dusty curls surrounding her bruised face, neither of which did anything to detract from the scent of her. Gods, she reeked bad enough to rival the city.

From the way the girl wrinkled her nose, she seemed to agree.

A laugh, harsh and cold, escaped Rowan at the flurry of emotions in the girl's eyes. The pure disgust and self-loathing was a welcome, familiar expression. He'd seen it on his own face often enough.

He stepped out of the shadows, and the girl whirled to face him. The moment she saw him, she froze. Silence spread through the alleyway as he prowled closer, so complete it was a miracle the beggars and vagrants huddled in its alcoves were still breathing. The woman who'd been spitting at the girl a moment ago began whimpering.

Their fear, while delicious, was nothing compared to the pure terror emanating from the girl as he approached, as she realized who he was— what he was. Oh, she knew. He had begun to doubt it as he had watched her waste away on that rooftop, but she the person his queen had sent him to find.

Any disgust the girl had felt at the sight of herself vanished, the fear that flooded her at the sight of him cutting through the heat blanketing the alleyway like a knife. Her eyes, a dull version of the telltale gold-ringed blue that identified her as an Ashryver, caught on his pointed ears and gleaming canines before following the lines of his face. It was an effort not to laugh again when they widened at the cruel, brutal lines of his tattoo.

Her gaze hardened as she recognized the look in his eyes, the way he moved his body. Rowan could still hear her pounding heart and smell the fear she was so desperately trying to conceal, but he recognized the change in the girl. She was no longer a terrified child faced with a ghost from her past but an assassin marking her opponent, searching for any weaknesses to exploit. From the look on her face, he knew she found none.

Rowan smirked when the girl slid a hand into the folds of her cloak, no doubt reaching for the dagger she had concealed there. A good effort, but a futile one. If the girl was foolish enough to try and attack him, he would be more than willing to teach Adarlan's Assassin how little her steel mattered against five centuries of raw strength and training. It would only take him a single blow to end her life, either with his fists or the sword and knives he was carrying. Not to mention his magic.

Fear had cleared the alcohol-induced haze clouding the girl's eyes, revealing them to be... empty. Empty and dull, with no trace of the fire she possessed.

The girl barely passed for an assassin, let alone the heir to one of the most powerful empires in the world. Her long, golden locks were dull and dusty, her skin burnt by the sun and coated in a layer of sweat and grime. Her lip was split open, the skin cracking in the heat, and coupled with the bruise blossoming across her cheek she looked like she had gotten into a bar fight and lost. Badly. And gods, she reeked.

Still, under the stench, Rowan could smell it. Fae blood coursing through her veins, faint and distant after years of disuse, but there. Ready and waiting to be unleashed.

The girl shifted into a defensive position, clutching the handle of her dagger so hard her knuckles turned white. Her other hand flitted up towards her neck, as if she was reaching for something to hold on to.

Rowan grinned at her, feral and wild and savage, and it seemed to shake the girl from her stupor. She took a deep breath before slipping into a slow, sauntering gait as she walked towards him. When she opened her mouth, she somehow managed to make her voice sound confident despite it being a cracking, dry rasp. "Well met, my friend," she purred, her tongue flitting out to wet chapped lips. "Well met indeed."

The girl stopped a few feet away from him, her attempts to hide her fear and racing heartbeat failing miserably. Still, her voice held only bravado as she continued her posturing. "What a lovely surprise. I thought we were to meet at the city walls."

"Let's go," Rowan snapped, turning his back on her as he left the alleyway. He wasn't in the mood to play an assassin's games, or entertain this nonsense. Not when Maeve had sent him all the way to Wendlyn for this... shell of a person, one who couldn't even be bothered to bathe or comb her hair.

The girl hesitated for a moment, but followed. If she was smart, she had likely realized this was a conversation she would prefer to have elsewhere, away from prying eyes and ears. Rowan hadn't missed the look on her face when she'd realized he was Fae. Depending on how much she'd put together, she had likely realized he knew who she was— and who had sent him to find her.

Rowan didn't bother acknowledging her as they made their way through the city. He ignored the stares from its citizens, the whispers that trailed him through alleyways and courtyards. The clamor of Varese's marketplaces was a distant chorus, overshadowed by the heavy silence spreading through the narrow streets as they passed.

They reached the two mares Rowan had purchased from a street vendor earlier that morning, the courtyard he'd left them in empty except for a few people doing their best to remain invisible. If he hadn't been so pissed off, Rowan might have mustered some amusement at the sight.

He mounted his horse and turned expectantly to the girl. She raised her eyebrows slightly, but shrugged at him as she approached the older, russet-colored mare and stuffed her satchel into the saddlebag before saying, "I've known a few brooding warrior-types in my day, but I think you might be the broodiest of them all."

Rowan whipped his head around to glare at her, only to find the girl already smirking up at him."Oh, hello," she purred, her tone far too... relaxed for his liking. "I think you know who I am, so I won't bother introducing myself. But before I'm carted off to gods-knows-where, I'd like to know who you are."

Self-righteous brat. Rowan surveyed the square, the crowd of people doing a piss poor job of pretending they weren't listening to their conversation. He stared at them a moment too long, his gaze hard, and they all scattered. Once he was sure they'd fled, he said, "You've gathered enough about me at this point to have learned what you need to know."

"Fair enough. But what am I to call you?" Rowan seriously debated not answering the question, just to see if it would get under her skin. Then again, it wouldn't do any real harm to tell her his name. Perhaps it would even get her to shut up.

"Rowan," he said, instantly regretting his decision as wicked amusement sparked in the girl's otherwise empty gaze.

"Well, Rowan," she crooned, her voice still sultry despite it's raspiness. "Dare I ask where we're going?"

Rowan debated teaching her a lesson then and there about how she should speak to him, but decided against it. He had a feeling she would only take it as a sign she was succeeding in her attempts to get under his skin. "I'm taking you where you've been summoned."

Rowan waited for the girl to ask where that was, but she was silent as she mounted her horse and nudged it into a walk. He didn't move for a moment, confused at her sudden compliance, until he smelled the fear radiating off of her. Clearly, she wasn't as indifferent about her safety as she wanted him to think.

To Rowan's relief, the girls didn't break her silence the entire ride out of Wendlyn. He was not in the mood to deal with her or her sass, a fact she thankfully seemed to have picked up on. Any more disrespect would have likely ended in bloodshed, and he was certainly not in the mood to tell Maeve he'd murdered the girl before they even left Wendlyn.

•••

It was Rowan who broke the silence when they had ridden a few miles into the forest surrounding the city, and but it was only to tell the girl it was time to make camp for the night. He'd hoped to reach the Cambrian Mountains before sundown, but the girl looked like she was about to pass out if she had to spend another minute on her horse and he really didn't feel like dragging her body through the woods. Whether it was from exhaustion or her preoccupation with her own thoughts, she simply dipped her head in acknowledgment and followed him into the trees.

After a few minutes, the path opened up into a moonlit clearing, and Rowan had to hold back his sigh of relief at the sight of a place to sleep that wasn't a branch or a hole in the side of a mountain. The exhaustion from his three day flight from Doranelle was finally catching up with him. He hadn't even had the energy to laugh at the girl as she had stumbled through the dark, tripping over roots and rocks.

Still, he gathered the dregs of his energy and led the horses to a nearby stream to drink, rubbing them down before returning to the clearing. By the time he was done, Rowan's bones felt like lead, and it was a relief to throw his bags against a tree and collapse beside them. The forest was quiet, but as Rowan sat there breathing in the crisp, clean air his ears caught the sounds of the birds chirping and the wind moving through the trees. It had been too long since he'd spent his nights like this, out in the wilderness with only his own thoughts for company. He'd forgotten what it felt like, the freedom that sleeping and flying under the sun and stars gave him. Of course, there was the fact that this time he was accompanied by a less than favorable traveling partner.

In the distance, he could hear the girl bathing in the stream, scrubbing off the grim and sweat she had acquired during their ride and the weeks she'd spent wasting away in Varese. Rowan forced himself to remain awake and alert until she stumbled back into the clearing. Her arrogance and swagger seemed to have washed away along with the dirt and grime, and with her pale skin washed in silver moonlight and her damp hair she looked... younger. And just as exhausted as he felt.

Without speaking, Rowan offered her some bread and cheese from his pack, ignoring her mumbled thanks in favor of collapsing back against his tree.

Just as he felt his eyes starting to close, the girls voice broke the peaceful quiet.

"Are there so many threats in Wendlyn that we can't risk a fire?"

With some reluctance, Rowan opened his eyes. The girl had settled down against a tree on the other side of the clearing and by the looks of it had already downed all the food he'd given her except for an apple. Her eyes had gone dull again, her golden hair turned silver by the moonlight falling into the clearing through the trees. When he didn't answer her, she stared right back, twirling the apple in one hand.

"Not from mortals," Rowan said, closing his eyes again before he could see her reaction. Still, he sensed her shift into a more defensive position and heard the sound of steel on steel as she drew her dagger. Rowan didn't even bother to lift his head. He'd hear any threats long before anything got close enough to do any real harm. Still, he wasn't stupid to light a fire, not when the skinwalkers were still too close for his comfort.

There was no fear attached to the thought, no hint of self preservation in his desire to avoid inviting unnecessary trouble. Only a bone deep exhaustion, and the comforting sensation of the evening air against his skin. The sound of the wind moving through the trees was soothing, and he allowed that exhaustion to tighten it's grip.

It was in that moment he felt them. The Little Folk.

There were no obvious signs of their presence, only the quiet rustling of branches and the feeling that someone was watching. The Little Folk were only seen if they wanted to be, and it it wasn't for his Fae senses they would have likely remained undetectable as they slipped through the trees.

Or, apparently, an assassin's instincts. Rowan hadn't even moved from his place against the tree, but seconds after he detected the Little Folk he heard the girl gasp. The fear she'd been carrying since Wendlyn faded, replaced by shock and... longing. As if the sight of the Little Folk provoked some deep, buried memory. She had grown up in Terresan, she would have heard stories of the spirits that protected the forest from harm.

After a moment of silence, she whispered three words into the still, attentive night air. "They still live."

Silence, this time without the rustling of the Little Folk, followed her words. Even the birds quieted, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.

Rowan didn't open his eyes, even when he felt the girl turn her gaze to him. Somehow, even across the clearing, it managed to burn a hole into his chest. As if she'd managed to tap into her magic and was slowly burning him into ashes with her stare. He ignored it, both that burning sensation and the cold crept into it's place after her eyes left him.

Rowan considered saying something, asking why the appearance of the Little Folk had startled her, but by the time he opened his mouth to speak the girl had already leaned back against her own tree and closed her eyes.

Well, so much for that attempt a conversation. It was for the best, anyway. Why did he care? There would be no reason for him to ever speak to her again after tomorrow, once he'd delivered her to his queen he was done with Aelin Galathynius— and whoever the hell she was pretending to be.

After a moment, Rowan's own breathing deepened and he felt sleep tugging at him, this time with more insistence. Still, even as he slipped off into oblivion, he could sense the Little Folk watching through the trees. As if they had been as fascinated by the girl's existence as she had been of theirs.

•••

The next morning, it was once again silent as they rode through the Cambrian Mountains and towards Mistward. Any trace of the swaggering girl he'd met in Wendlyn was long gone, replaced by the defeated shell who had returned from the stream last night. There was no bite, no fire in her gaze, and that was if she spoke at all.

The only time he bothered to break their silently agreed upon silence was to give the girl directions, and she chose to respond with barely-there nods or more often, silence. She didn't speak a full sentence until they reached the watchtowers at Mistward.

"I think I'd rather stay in the woods," she said, her voice once again cracking from lack of use. Still, the attempt at a glib comment wasn't enough to hide the fear in her eyes as she studied the stone fortress in front of them. At least she was smart enough to be afraid, though not as smart as she would have been if she'd never come looking for his queen in the first place.

Rowan gave no sign he was aware of her fear as they rode past the watchtowers and through the gates, or as he led her down the hallways and staircases that led to the room where Maeve had decided to hold court for the evening. She hadn't told him where she'd be, but he didn't need any directions beside the ever present tug of the blood oath around his neck. It was like a leash, and he honestly couldn't tell if it was loosening or tightening the closer he got to her.

Rowan didn't bother to warn the girl before he opened the door and spotted his queen sitting behind the desk, her mouth curving into a smirk as she spoke the words that made her stop dead.

"Hello, Aelin Galathynius."

UPDATED: 1/28/19

I'm working on rewriting this fic while also continuing to update it, so please be patient with me. Also, to anyone reading this chapter before I revamped it who continued to read this story: thank you! I didn't realize how much of a mess it was, so I'm so grateful you decided to keep reading despite it.