✸ WELCOME TO THE FAMILY IV — modern!targaryen au
synopsis. your frantic search for aegon continues as uncomfortable truths surface and you realize that perhaps you never stood a chance of surviving among the dragons.
warnings. smoking, dysfunctional family dyanmics, english is not my first language so sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes
note. there is A LOT of stuff going on in this chapter, be prepared, and do not fret it’s not the last one!! as always hope you enjoy reading🤍 ( and sorry to everyone who I forgot to tag!!)
When you arrived in King’s Landing for your first year of university, the city did not greet you gently.
It nearly swallowed you whole.
The descent into King's Landing International Airport had been turbulent, and you had gripped the armrest like it might detach and send you spiraling into the Narrow Sea. You had cried somewhere above the clouds, quiet and ugly tears streaming down your cheeks you hoped the man beside you would mistake for fear of flying. It wasn’t that.
It was the weight of leaving.
You could still vividly picture your mother’s hands at the departure gate. Your father pretending not to cry. Your childhood bedroom back home, now stripped of any remnants of you living there.
As you got off the plane the late august breeze greeted you, slightly ruffling your hair. You were in a t-shirt and shorts. It was still warm in King’s Landing at that time.
As you walked through the security check and went through passport control you noticed how the airport was way too bright, too loud and too alive.
Announcements echoed in three languages. People moved with the brisk confidence of those who belonged there.
In the middle of it all you stood still for a second too long, two oversized suitcases at your sides, backpack digging into your shoulders and your entire life compressed into a few small bags.
The Uber ride into the city was obscenely expensive, but you didn’t care. You’d rather pay a ridiculous amount of money than drag your things through public transport while navigating a city for the first time.
You watched King’s Landing through the cab window, unfolding like a fever dream in front of your eyee, you had dreamed about this since you were a little child.
Glass skyscrapers glinting in the late afternoon sun, old stone buildings squeezed between new steel monstrosities, golden banners hanging from lampposts in honor of some political gala you would later learn was hosted by the Targaryens. The Blackwater shimmered in the distance like molten glass.
You pressed your forehead to the window.
This was the Capital. This was where everything happened. And somehow, you were here.
When the car dropped you off in the district you’d be living in — not quite glamorous, not quite grimy, somewhere in the liminal middle — you nearly cried again. This time from exhaustion or relief you weren't quite sure.
The building you would call home for the next four years wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t grand. It was narrow and slightly crooked, brick darkened by years of rain. But it was yours.
You dragged the suitcases up three flights of stairs because the elevator was “temporarily out of service,” a sign that would, as you would later discover, never be removed. By the second floor you were sweating. By the third you were bargaining with the Seven.
Your landlord arrived fifteen minutes late. He was an older man with a round belly, who smelled faintly of cigar and sweat. He inspected you suspiciously as if making sure you weren’t some kind of hooligan.
After deeming you respectable he croaked out the few rules you had to follow, notified you when he’d come for the rent and handed you over the keys.
He wobbled down the hallway and disappeared down the stairs.
You stood there with the key in your hand, giddy with excitement.
Inside, the apartment was painfully bare. There was a bed in what you presumed would be your new bedroom. A tiny table in the living room. A kitchenette that looked like it could combust if you boiled pasta too aggressively. White walls that felt too big for your small existence.
You stood in the doorway, chest heaving, hair sticking to your neck.
And you whispered to the empty room, almost shyly. “I’ll make you mine.”
You promised yourself you’d fill it with thrifted lamps and mismatched mugs and music playing at midnight. You’d study at that tiny table until your eyes burned. You’d cry here. Laugh here. Fall in love here, maybe.
You didn’t know with whom. You didn’t know how. But you knew this was the beginning.
Your first morning at King's Landing University felt like preparing for war.
You woke up before your alarm. Your stomach churned violently. You brushed your teeth twice because you were convinced your breath smelled like anxiety. You changed outfits three times. You applied an appropriate amount of makeup, that hopefully wouldn’t melt off in the heat.
You googled “how to not look like a first year” and immediately closed the tab because every suggestion required money you did not possess.
What if you got on the wrong bus? What if you misread your schedule? What if everyone else already had friends?
What if you embarrassed yourself so spectacularly on day one that the humiliation echoed for four years and you’d have no friends and you would be miserable for the rest of your life?
Your brain was cruel like that.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink. Your hands were trembling.
“Stop,” you whispered to yourself.
You were not a coward. You had moved across the country. You had boarded a plane alone. You had survived airport security with two overweight suitcases and dignity mostly intact.
You could survive a campus.
The bus ride was chaos. You missed your stop the first time and had to circle back, cheeks burning as if anyone noticed. You clutched your phone tightly, the KLU digital map glowing like sacred scripture.
When you finally got off at the right stop, clutching your bag for dear life you saw the campus gates looming in the distance.
They were massive, wrought iron intertwined with golden accents, the university crest etched proudly at the center.
Beyond them sprawled a city within a city — modern glass lecture halls, older ivy-covered stone buildings, fountains spraying water into the air like something out of a film.
It was enormous and terrifying at the same time. Labyrinthine.
You stepped through the gates. And that’s when something in you shifted.
There were people everywhere. Not uniformed rich kids, not polished crownlanders like you had feared.
There were students with sun-darkened Dornish skin and silver jewelry that chimed when they walked. Tall Northmen wrapped in oversized sweaters despite the killing heat. Girls speaking rapid Braavosi into their phones. A group of Dothraki boys laughing loudly, all sharp cheekbones and braided hair. Stormlanders in athletic jackets. Someone wearing a Myrish band tee.
It was chaos and it was beautiful.
And no one was looking at you. No one cared about you.
For the first time since landing, the weight on your chest loosened. You were a stranger here — yes — but so was everyone else in some way.
This city did not revolve around you. Your awkwardness was not revolutionary. You could be anyone you wanted to be.
You stared at your phone again, trying to locate the building for your first lecture. The name of your professor glared back at you:
The surname alone felt intimidating. You'd imagined some ancient, booming-voiced academic who’d chew up first years for breakfast.
You were navigating the map on your phone trying to get to class when— you aggressively bumped into someone.
The collision was abrupt and humiliating.
“Oh shit!” you yelped as your phone slipped from your hand and clattered against the pavement.
You bent down instantly, mortified.
“I’m so sorry, I—” Your eyes immedieately shot up to your unfortunate victim as heat spread to your cheeks.
The girl in front of you looked like she’d stepped out of an art exhibit.
Bubblegum pink hair fell in glossy waves around her shoulders, the color vivid against her deep brown skin. Her eyeliner was sharp enough to draw blood. She wore layered gold jewelry and a denim jacket splattered with paint like it had stories to tell.
She was stunning. Not in an intimidating way. Just… radiant. For half a second you were sure she’d snap at you. But instead, to your utter relief she laughed.
It wasn’t mean or annoyed liked you had expected it to be. On the contrary it was warm and bright and conspiratorial.
“It’s all right,” she said, voice lilting with an unfamiliar accent you couldn’t quite place but loved immediately. “Let me guess. First year? Wandering around wondering where the seven bloody hells you’re supposed to be?”
You blinked. “Yeah,” you admitted, scratching the back of your neck. “Right on the spot.”
You both stood there for a moment, awkward and smiling.
“I don’t really know anyone here,” she added, glancing around as if hoping a familiar face might materialize.
“Me neither,” you croaked out, equal parts embarrassed and relieved.
There it was. The shared vulnerability. The invisible thread.
“What class are you heading to?” she asked, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder.
“Um — hold on.” You fumbled with your phone, unlocking it quickly. “Professor… Lyonel Baratheon.” You said it like you were invoking a curse.
Her eyes widened dramatically. “Oh shit! Me too!”
“Yes! Oh thank the gods,” she groaned dramatically. “I was about to cry in a bathroom stall if I had to walk in alone.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
“We should go together,” she said decisively. “At least if we get lost, we’ll be ditching first day together. You know like…solidarity!”
“Solidarity,” you echoed, grinning.
She extended her hand suddenly, as if remembering something important. “Oh by the way I’m Kiera. Kiera of Tyrosh.”
Tyrosh. That explained the color.
You shook her hand and gave her your name, feeling something click into place in your chest — small but certain.
The two of you began walking, eyes darting between the digital map and the physical world, narrating your confusion like sports commentators.
“Is that the humanities building?”
“No, that says engineering.”
“Why is everything so far apart?”
“Because they obviously hate us.”
You missed one turn. Then another. At one point you almost walked into the fountain.
But you were laughing. Actually laughing.
By the time you finally stood outside the correct lecture hall — slightly out of breath, slightly flushed — the anxiety that had threatened to swallow you whole that morning had thinned into something manageable.
Students were filing inside in clusters. You hesitated.
Kiera nudged you gently with her elbow.
And together, with the girl you had just met fifteen minutes ago, you stepped through the doors of Lyonel Baratheon’s class for the very first time, unaware that this chaotic, pink-haired collision would become one of the most important friendships of your life.
And just like that, your life in King’s Landing truly began.
Same lecture hall. Same slanted seats that made your back ache if you leaned wrong. Same faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Same professor.
But everything was terribly different.
Kiera wasn’t beside you anymore — hadn’t been since she’d dramatically dropped the class halfway through second year, declaring that she refused to let “a man with that much main character energy grade her essays.” You could almost hear her whispering commentary in your ear now, something irreverent and comforting.
Instead, the seat next to you was empty. And your leg would not stop bouncing.
At the front of the hall stood Lyonel Baratheon, as enigmatic as ever.
His curls were particularly unruly today, dark strands falling into his eyes as he paced in front of the whiteboard. Small silver hoops glinted in his ears when he turned his head. He wasn’t tall. He wasn’t broad. He didn’t resemble the stag of his ancestral sigil in any obvious physical way.
But spiritually? He was all storm.
Not because of the volume which he spoke, in truth he never shouted. Not in intimidation either, he didn’t demand impossible workloads or assign heaps of homework.
No, his storms came in passion. In the way his hands moved when he explained something he loved. In the way his voice sharpened when discussing injustice or softened when describing history like it was something alive and breathing.
He genuienly cared. Which was more than could be said for professors like Ashford, who taught like he was reading off a teleprompter in his own head.
Normally, you adored this class. Today however, you could not absorb a single word.
Your heartbeat had not steadied since dawn. Since Daeron’s name had flashed across your phone screen while you were still half asleep.
Since his voice filled with a strange unease — had said, We can’t find him.
Aegon was gone. He had left his phone behind. Hadn’t packed a bag. Hadn’t told anyone.
Just… gone. Your stomach twisted again at the memory.
A part of you clung desperately to the logical angle — he hadn’t planned anything elaborate. He hadn't take anything with him.
No clothes missing. No food taken. That had to mean something. He was a smart boy. Impulsive, yes. Moody. Dramatic in the way only a ten year old Targaryen could be.
Still, he was alone in this cavernous city. He could be anywhere.
Some grimy bar in Flea Bottom or on a bus north to Winterfell for all you knew. Wandering the Blackwater docks or sneaking into a sept. Thought you highly doubted that last option.
The endless possibilities clawed at your brain.
You kept your phone face-down on the desk in front of you. If you turned it over, you knew you’d refresh your messages every thirty seconds. You’d stare at the screen willing it to magically light up.
So you didn’t look. And yet you didn’t listen either.
Lyonel’s voice washed over you in waves — articulate, animated, entirely wasted on your fraying focus. Your pen hovered uselessly above your notebook. Your handwriting, when you tried, came out crooked and illegible.
The minutes dragged. Every second felt swollen, spanning into one infinite loop.
A class you once cherished now felt like deliberate torture. Like being trapped behind glass while your house burned and all you could do wass watch.
You checked the clock mounted above the door. Three minutes left.
Your leg bounced harder. And then finally —
“Alright,” Lyonel’s familiar voice rang out, cutting through the haze. “I’m expecting the assignments to be handed in by this time next week.”
A chorus of groans erupted around you. “Now now, I told you all about this three weeks ago. No excuses.”
You shoved your notebook into your bag. You needed to move. To call someone.
Kiera? She was probably in class too, but at least she’d answer on the first ring.
Daeron? He was probably trying not to die from a hangover.
Maekar? The thought alone made your pulse spike.
You didn’t know. You just knew that sitting still was impossible. You were halfway to the aisle when—
“Miss.” Your name followed, precise and unmistakable. You stopped mid-step and turned, jaw tight. Your patience was running thin.
Lyonel was leaning casually against his desk, one eyebrow arched in that infuriatingly perceptive way.
“Yes, professor?” You couldn’t quite keep the edge out of your voice.
He tilted his head at your tone. “Has my class bored you?” If this were any other day, you would have probably laughed.
“Of course not,” you replied quickly, adjusting your bag strap. “It’s just—”
He straightened a little, studying you now. Not accusatory, just assessing.
“You were not listening to a word I said the entire lecture,” he said calmly. “I tend to notice when my best students stop engaging.”
Your throat tightened. That word — best — landed heavier than it should have.
“It has nothing to do with the topic,” you said. “I’m just… busy.”
Busy was certainly one way to describe a missing Targaryen heir.
His gaze lingered on you a moment longer. You could see the storm gathering behind his eyes — not anger, but concern.
He didn’t believe you. But thank the gods, he didn’t press.
“Well,” he said after a pause, pushing off the desk, “the reason I stopped you wasn’t to interrogate your academic devotion.”
You blinked, not sure where this was heading.
“The student exchange application from Sunspear arrived this morning.”
For half a second, you just stared at him. Your eyebrows squinted.
And then your brain placed it.
Back at the beginning of the year — in one of those restless, impulsive moods where you felt suffocated by routine — you had applied for the exchange program in Dorne. Hosted in Sunspear. A semester under the Dornish sun. Slower pace of life. With new professors and a new perspective.
You had told yourself you needed the warmth. A change that would do you some good. Distance from King’s Landing’s grim relentless pulse.
You had filled out the application at two in the morning and almost forgotten about it entirely. Ninety percent of you had assumed you wouldn’t get in.
“Oh,” you said dumbly. You should feel ecstatic.
People fought for these spots. Kiera had once joked she’d commit mild crimes for a term in Dorne. The opportunity meant prestige and valuable experience. A different academic network.
It meant escape. Instead, all you felt was the frantic need to leave this building and start searching for Aegon.
Lyonel’s voice softened, losing its teasing edge. “I hope you won’t pass up on this opportunity because of… whatever is weighing on you so heavily.”
Were you really this transparent? Or maybe he just saw too much.
“I’ll… think about it,” you managed.
Now there was a missing boy with too many feelings and a tendency to do impulsive, stupid things.
Now there was an entire dragon family in quiet panic. Now there was no room in your brain for sun-drenched courtyards and Dornish lectures.
Lyonel nodded slowly, as if accepting the answer for what it was — insufficient, but honest.
You didn’t wait for his dismissal. You turned and hurried up the aisle, heart hammering, fingers already reaching for your phone before you’d even cleared the lecture hall doors.
The corridor outside suddenly felt too bright. Too normal.
Students were laughing outside. Complaining about assignments. Discussing their lunch plans.
And somewhere in this sprawling, indifferent city — Aegon Targaryen was missing.
The sky above King’s Landing was painfully blue. How could the world look so normal?
You descended the stone steps two at a time, heart hammering. You had left behind Dorne and exchange programs with Lyonel Baratheons classroom. None of that mattered right now.
You pulled out your phone, thumb hovering.
You had mentally decided that calling Kiera would be your best and safest option.
You pressed her contact. It rang twice before she picked up.
“Hey.” Her voice was steady. Grounding.
“Hey—what’s up? Any news of Aegon?” The words tumbled out too fast as you pushed through the crowd of students.
“Unfortunately, no,” she replied, and you could hear street noise behind her. “Valarr’s dad told us to meet at Maekar’s. They’re trying to handle the situation.”
Of course he had. You hadn't doubted for a single moment Baelor Targaryen would be the voice of reason in all of this.
He was always calm and measured about these things. Endlessly strategic. He was the second most important man in the family after Daeron the Good for a reason.
“Where are you right now?” Kiera asked.
“Still on campus. Just finished Baratheon’s lecture. I’m… I think I’m skipping the rest of today.”
The words felt foreign on your tongue. You never skipped class.
“Okay,” she said simply. No teasing comment. No mock gasp of academic betrayal this time. “Wait at the front. Me and Valarr will pick you up.”
You ended the call and stood near the iron gates, people brushing past you, their conversations blurring into white noise.
You opened your messages. Aegon’s name stared back at you.
You knew his phone wasn’t on him. Daeron had said it was still on his desk.
hey egg. bad time to disappear. you’re kind of giving us all a heart attack.
You stared at the blinking cursor.
Your fingers hovered. He wouldn’t read it. Not now, maybe not ever.
What were you trying to accomplish? To ease the guilt clawing at your chest, to ease the storm in your mind? A poor attempt that you had reached out?
Before your thoughts could spiral further, a car screeched to a halt in front of you.
A sleek black Mercedes benz pulled up beside the curb where you were standing.
The passenger window rolled down and Kiera’s bubblegum pink hair spilled into view. “Come on, get inside.”
The door opened and you scrambled in. Normally you’d admire the interior , the soft leather seats, the ambient lighting, the faint scent of expensive cologne that lingered in the air.
Right now, you barely registered it.
Valarr was behind the wheel, his posture straight, hands steady on the wheel. He had inherited his father’s composure — that terrifying ability to compartmentalize even under pressure.
“So,” he said after you muttered your greetings, eyes fixed on the road. “Did he say anything? Any indication he’d want to run away?”
“No. We just… we talked about Dyanna before I left.” Your voice softened at the name. “But I didn’t think he’d run away because of that.”
Valarr’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. The car fell quiet for a moment.
“Should I have known?” The doubt crept in before you could stop it. “Should I have seen something?”
“No.” Kiera turned in her seat sharply, fixing you with a stern look. “Absolutely not. None of this is your fault. Do not blame yourself for a single second.”
“It doesn’t feel like that,” you muttered, watching the city blur past.
They drove toward the Red Keep district, the buildings growing grander, older, more suffocatingly opulent.
Valarr spoke again. “My father thinks he ran because of the Lannister charity gala tonight.”
You blinked. It sounded like a place for the members of the great houses to drink obscure amounts of alcohol and silently insult each other.
“He probably didn’t want to attend,” Valarr said carefully. “Thought disappearing would get him out of it.”
A gala? Aegon hadn’t mentioned a word about it.
“That would make more sense,” you murmured. “But why wouldn’t he tell me?”
Valarr’s eyes flicked to you in the rearview mirror. “Maybe he felt embarrassed about it. Does that sound like something Aegon would do?”
You hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
The car turned into the long driveway of the Targaryen manor — red stone, manicured hedges, iron gates that whispered old money and older secrets.
You all stepped out at once, the tension thick between you.
As you stepped through the entrance door, the house was louder than you’d ever heard it.
Voices were overlapping as footsteps echoed off the wood. The air was heavy with restrained panic.
Baelor stood near the window, phone pressed to his ear. He was dressed in a white shirt and navy vest. “Yes, we have notified them..” He gave you all a nod as you entered, acknowledging your presence.
Maekar sat rigid in an armchair, jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack.
Daeron was slouched on the couch, pale as a ghost and hollow-eyed. Part of you wanted to reach for him and ask him if everything was alright. Even if you knew nothing was.
Aerion was conspicuously absent, likely outside, avoiding the emotional circus.
“Thank the gods you’re here,” Rhae said as Daella lounged nearby. The tension in her shoulders was barely masked by her posture. “It’s kind of a… disaster.”
“Yeah,” you replied quietly, scanning the room. “I can see that.”
“Baelor’s speaking to grandfather — Daeron" Rhae clarified. “He says we need to keep this quiet. No pr circus. It’s better this way. We don’t want all of King’s Landing to know a Targaryen child is alone in the city.”
There were many things left unsaid in that sentence.
To protect the family reputation. You thought bitterly.
“Oh, fuck me,” Maekar muttered darkly from his chair. You looked around at all of them.
“So what do we do?” you asked expectantly. You thought they would have devised some kind of plan by now.
Baelor ended his call and stepped forward. Voice as measured and composed as ever. “What we do is we wait and we stay calm.”
Your eyebrows shot up, turning to look at him. “You’re joking— I mean the kid is missing!.”
“Yes,” Baelor’s voice cut through the air, his mismatched irises not revealing anything. “And the City Watch has been notified. They’re searching. We have to trust they’ll find him. Until tonight’s charity gala—”
When you heard him say the word ‘charity gala’ you snapped. That was it. This was the last straw. The anger burst out of you before you could cage it.
“The lot of you are unbelievable!” Your voice cracked through the room like thunder. "All of you!" All their eyes were trained on you now. “Your son is missing and all you care about is finding him in time for a stupid charity gala?”
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Rhae gulped as Daella watched on in disbelief. Daeron’s lips quirked up in amusement and Kiera opened her mouth to say something but Valarr grabbed her hand.
Maekar scoffed as Baelor pinched his brows. “Get her out of here. She’s clearly hysterical.”
Something in you snapped.
“No, you!” you shot back. “Maybe if you spent less time scowling and more time showing emotional maturity toward your children, they wouldn’t feel the need to disappear!”
The words hung there. Ugly and irreversible. He knew you weren't only talking about Aegon right now. Everyone did.
The way Daeron was constantly in and out of taverns, how the girls always avoided being home as much as possible, how Aemon had decided to leave for Oldtown, how Aerion always strayed into trouble. And now Aegon, missing.
Maekar stared at you, genuinely taken aback at the nerve. He opened his mouth, perhaps to fire you on the spot, would have been reasonable, but no words came out.
The patio door swung open and Aerion strode in, his eyes sharp, assessing the tension in the air.
Baelor sighed, rubbing his temple. “Perhaps we ought to listen to her…” He reluctantly nodded.
Heat flooded your cheeks as the reality of what you’d just said sank in.
“He couldn’t have gone too far,” Baelor reasoned. “We can maybe search the neighborhood.”
“That sounds better than just sitting around,” Kiera added quickly, showing her support. Her hand still interwoven with Valarr’s.
Baelor nodded. “I’ll stay here with the girls for updates. Valarr and Kiera, you go together.”
Daeron shifted, about to speak, but Maekar cut him off and raised a finger at him.
“You. Are not going anywhere boy. I’m keeping you in my sights after that stunt you pulled last eveing.”
His tone was final. Which left you with.
Baelor’s gaze moved to you.
“Aerion and you can check the city center. If he wanted to blend in, that’s where he’d go.”
You and Aerion both opened your mouths to protest but Baelor’s look shut you up instantly.
Great, of all people, him. The one person who hated your guts and who you hated in equal measure. If not more.
To your surprise Aerion grabbed his keys without a word, already heading for the door.
You composed yourself and swallowed your pride. Aegon mattered more than your pettiness right now.
And if that meant searching King’s Landing with the one Targaryen who looked at you like you were an inconvenience. So be it.
Aerion’s car was exactly what one would expect it to be.
A black sleek Porsche, low to the ground and gleaming like it had never known dust. The kind of car that didn’t just move through the city, it roared through it.
As you opened the passenger door, a shiver crawled up your spine. Not because of the fine leather interior. But because of him.
You slid into the seat beside him in silence, spine rigid, hands folded in your lap as if bracing for impact. The door shut with a heavy click that felt far too final. You could only hope he didn’t drive you into a ditch out of spite.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
He started the engine. It purred to life smoothly, controlled power, and you rolled out of the manor gates without ceremony.
The silence inside the car was suffocating. It pressed against your ears, against your ribcage. It was charged and volatile, testing both your patience.
You kept your gaze forward, watching the estate disappear in the rearview mirror. Your heart still hadn’t settled from the argument. From Maekar’s scoff and from your own outburst. Would he fire you once he realized what you had done?
Aerion’s jaw was tight, sharp profile illuminated by streaks of sunlight filtering through the windshield. His hands were steady on the wheel.
He looked completely unaffected. But you could tell he wasn’t.
“So…” you began carefully, more to break the unbearable quiet than anything else. “I think we could maybe start looking near the bay area.”
He didn't respond, he didn't even glance at you.
The city blurred past, ancient stone buildings, café umbrellas, a few pedestrians crossing the street recklessly.
He took a sharp breath through his nose.
“The impudent little idiot couldn’t find a better time to disappear,” he muttered finally, words edged with bitterness.
You turned toward him.“He’s your brother.” You reminded.
The words left you harsher than you had expected.
His mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “He’s an idiot.”
You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your calm. “He’s ten.”
“And therefore incapable of basic reasoning.”
“He’s scared and he's alone,” you snapped before you could stop yourself.
Aerion’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.
“I can’t believe I have to do this,” he continued after a beat, voice low and irritated. “With you of all people.”
You blinked at him. “Why do you hate me so much?”
He didn’t answer. The car’s engine hummed steadily beneath you.
You pressed on. “Did I do something to you? Insult you? Exist incorrectly?”
You studied his profile — the sharp cheekbones, the cold line of his mouth, the faint scar near his temple you’d only ever noticed in certain lighting.
“Because trust me,” you said, heat rising in your chest again, “I’m not exactly thrilled I have to search for Aegon with you of all—”
The words were so out of character you didn't want to believe he was the one saying them. You stared at him dumbfounded. That was not what you had expected.
His jaw flexed before he swallowed, and for a brief, disorienting second, his eyes flicked toward you.
There was something there. Something that had never been there before. Not contempt and not anger. Something sharper. More dangerous and unfamiliar.
And then movement caught your eye through the windshield.
You leaned forward, pointing. Ahead, the central park had transformed into chaos.
Colorful stalls lined the pathways. Banners fluttered in the breeze. A stage had been erected near the fountain as music drifted faintly through the air.
It looked like some kind of carnival. A festival perhaps?
Aerion followed your gaze.
“Reckon he could be there,” you murmured, more to yourself than him.
If Aegon wanted anonymity, distraction, noise loud enough to drown his thoughts and distract him— this would be it.
Aerion pulled into a parking spot along the curb, movements efficient and precise. The engine cut off and the silence returned.
You stepped out into warm sunlight and the distant scent of fried dough and roasted meat filled your senses. Laughter carried on the wind. Somewhere, a child shrieked in delight.
You glanced back. Aerion was still standing by the car, unmoving.
“Are you coming?” you asked.
His expression shuttered instantly, the brief vulnerability from earlier long gone, replaced by the familiar cold.
“I’ll circle the perimeter,” he said flatly.
You turned and headed into the festival alone. The air was practically electric.
Stalls sold honeyed pastries and mugs of dark, brewed beer. Children crowded around a puppet show, shrieking at exaggerated dragon costumes. Artists painted faces in swirls of gold and crimson. A group of musicians played something lively and off-key near the center.
You scanned every head of hair, looking for a light blonde buzz. Every slight figure. Every possible little boy.
Your pulse pounded in your ears.
You spotted Tanselle near an arts-and-crafts table, painting what looked like a wooden shield in careful strokes of red and orange. You almost approached her, almost asked if she’d seen a bald little boy trying to look inconspicuous—
But something barreled into you. Or rather someone?
You stumbled backward as a large dog nearly knocked you flat onto the grass.
The voice shrieking was familiar. Childlike.
Your heart slammed against your ribs and you turned sharply.
Dressed like any other boy — striped green shirt, loose shorts, slightly dirty and dusty. No expensive clothes. No fine posture drilled into him by etiquette tutors.
Behind him came Duncan the Tall, sprinting in long, frantic strides, two equally massive dogs bounding beside him.
“Thunder, get back here!” Duncan called, breathless.
The dog that had nearly flattened you barked happily and ran back to him.
For a second, you just stood there gaping.
Relief crashed into you so violently your knees nearly buckled.
Duncan reached you first, chestnut hair messy in the sunlight, freckles flushed across his nose.
“I am so sorry!” he blurted. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him—Thunder, sit! Sweetfoot, Chestnut, calm down!” The dogs obeyed instantly, tails wagging furiously.
You barely registered them. “Aegon.” Your voice was breathless.
You crossed the distance in two strides and pulled him into your arms. His face pressed against your stomach.
You squeezed him like you were making sure he was solid, real and warm. Made of flesh and blood and bones and not some strange hallucination of your mind.
He stiffened in surprise, then slowly relaxed in your embrace.
“Are you alright?” you whispered, hands moving instinctively — caressing his head, checking his shoulders, his arms, his face for cuts or bruises.
To your relief you found none.
But there was something in his eyes. Guilt sparkled in his violet irises.
You swallowed hard, fighting the sting behind your own.
“Don’t do that,” you choked. “Ever again.”
His shoulders sagged slightly.
“The next time you want to get out of a stupid charity gala,” you said more firmly, pulling back to look at him, “you come to me. We figure something out together. You don’t just disappear.”
His lips twitched. But before he could respond—
“I’m sorry—what?” Duncan interjected, staring between you. “Aegon… as in—?”
“Yes,” you confirmed gently. “As in Aegon Targaryen.”
Duncan’s eyes widened in comical horror.
“He told me he was a farm boy!” he exclaimed, pointing at Aegon. “Said his family had goats!” He blurted out.
You turned slowly toward the boy in question.
“Egg.” You gave him a sharp look as if reprimanding him, but you couldn't find it in your heart to be cross with him. Not right now.
He raised his shoulders in exaggerated innocence. A small, guilty grin tugged at his mouth.
“He was very convincing,” Duncan added weakly.
You huffed a shaky laugh, relief still flooding your veins. “I bet.”
“Thank you,” you told Duncan sincerely. “For looking after him.”
He blinked. “I didn’t know I was looking after him.”
“You were,” you said softly. "Believe me."
Aerion silently appeared behind you. His eyes locked onto Aegon instantly. He scowled as his gaze fell upon Duncan.
“Well,” he drawled, voice cool. “Found the prodigal idiot. Or shall I say idiots?”
Aegon rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. You shot Aerion a warning look.
“Let’s go,” you said gently, placing a hand on Aegon’s back.
He hesitated, glancing at Duncan and the three happy dogs. He petted them and promised to meet them sometime and then bid farewell.
You thanked Duncan one last time before giving him a quick hug. He still looked dazed as you led Aegon away from the carnival noise. Poor guy.
The walk back to the car was quieter this time. Aegon walked between you and Aerion, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Did you really think no one would notice?” Aerion asked coolly.
“You left your phone,” you added softly.
He kicked at a pebble. “I didn’t want them to track me.”
“We were all terrified,” you swallowed.
“Even my father?” he asked, skeptical.
You didn't hesitate. “Everyone.”
That seemed to land somewhere.
Aerion unlocked the Porsche and the doors clicked open.
You guided Aegon into the back seat before sliding into the passenger side again. This time, the silence felt different.
Less sharp and more fragile. Aerion started the engine once more. As you pulled away from the curb, you finally allowed yourself to breathe properly.
You pulled out your phone. Your fingers trembled slightly as you typed a message to Kiera.
You paused. Then continued.
he’s safe, everythings alright. we're together with aerion, going back home.
You hit send. Within seconds, your screen exploded with notifications.
But you didn’t look at them yet. You leaned back in the seat, eyes closing briefly.
Aegon was behind you alive and unharmed. That was all that mattered.
The city rolled past outside the window, golden in the afternoon sun. And for the first time all day, your heartbeat began to slow.
The front door had barely clicked shut behind you when the sound of a chair scraping against polished marble echoed through the foyer.
Maekar was already on his feet. The house suddenly felt wrong. Too quiet.
When you had stormed in earlier with Kiera and Valarr, the place had been absolute chaos—voices ricocheting off vaulted ceilings, the twins anxiously chattering between each other, Aerion smirking outside like he was enjoying seeing everyone so riled up.
Now the air was eerily silent once again, as though someone had wiped the house clean of all sound.
Baelor must have left with Valarr and Kiera. The Lannister charity gala was still being hosted tonight ; no doubt they had gone to prepare. Daella and Rhae were likely upstairs in their own rooms, getting ready for the same event.
Maekar crossed the distance between himself and Aegon in three strides.
“What were you thinking?” His voice cracked like a whip against marble. Aegon shrank beneath it.
You noticed, not for the first time, that Maekar never raised his voice thoughtlessly. It was always controlled. Measured. The anger was real, but it was forged, hammered into shape before it ever left his mouth.
“Someone could have taken you,” he continued, now towering over the boy. “Or worse! Do you know what kind of situation you put us in? You’re not some stable boy to go running around wherever you please!”
Aegon’s shoulders curved inward. You felt the urge to protect him somehow, to wrap a hand around him or assure him everything would he alright.
He looked like something fragile, something caught in a storm without shelter.
His voice was small and meek. Almost swallowed by the house. He was shaking like a lear.
He turned away abruptly, as if the sight of the boy’s lowered head did something unbearable to him.
And you saw it then, for the first time, the lines carved deep around his mouth, the exhaustion beneath his eyes. Grief had aged him unevenly. There were days he looked carved from iron, almost immovable. And then there were days like this, when he looked like a man stitched together only by heartache.
“Go to your room. Wash yourself,” he commanded at last, quieter now. “We are attending the gala tonight.”
The decree fell final and cold.
Aegon opened his mouth, defiance flickering for half a second but one look from his father extinguished it.
Aegon glanced at you instead. As if asking you for some kind of apology. You just nodded. I’m not mad at you.
Then he disappeared down the hall.
“You too, boy.” Maekar turned to his other son.
Aerion had been leaning in the doorway, silently witnessing the scene, arms folded over his chest. His eyes glittered with something sharp and unreadable. For a moment you thought he might argue as he so often did, unable to resist striking flint against steel.
But Maekar only tilted his head. Warning him not to challenge further.
Aerion said nothing. He merely brushed past you, shoulder grazing yours deliberately, and vanished upstairs.
And then it was just the two of you.
You became suddenly aware of your appearance—the wind-tangled hair, the crease in your blouse, the faint smear of city dust along your wrist. In this cathedral of glass and stone, you looked painfully human.
Maekar remained in the threshold. The house behind him was cavernous. Grand and immaculate as ever.
And in that moment you realized why you felt so uneasy in this house, it was haunted.
Haunted by ghosts and memories.
The picture of Dyanna’s portrait flashed in your mind, the one tucked away in the room just above the sweeping staircase.
Graphite on paper. She was smiling in it, soft almost amused, as though she knew some secret no one else did. Whoever had drawn it had captured her gentleness, the warmth in her eyes.
And you knew the ghost of it followed Maekar everywhere.
“I…” he began. The word seemed foreign in his own mouth.
He glanced toward the stairwell, ensuring no one lingered within earshot. His pride demanded privacy even when he was being vulnerable. Especially then.
“I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.”
For a moment you wondered if you had imagined it. Maekar Targaryen did not apologize. He issued statements, corrections and orders. This is the closest you had ever heard him come to an apology.
You swallowed, shifting on your feet.
“I shouldn’t have said those things either, sir—”
“Please.” His voice frayed. “Just… Maekar.”
The name hovered between you.
You had said it countless times in your mind. To Kiera. In frustration. In quiet understanding. In arguments with yourself about why he unsettled you the way he did.
“Maekar,” you repeated softly, testing the word on your lips.
Something in his gaze shifted.
“And you have nothing to apologize for,” he continued, exhaling sharply, almost laughing at himself. “You were right.”
The admission seemed to cause him physical pain as he winced. “I know I’m not the best father.” His gaze drifted, not meeting yours. “Hell. I don’t even know if I qualify as a good one.”
You absorbed that confession like a septon. Ready to decree mercy.
He pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose, as though staving off a headach or memory.
“I don’t…” His voice faltered. “I can’t.”
He had been raised in a dynasty that worshipped restraint.
In a family where love was implied through expectation, not spoken.
Where sons were shaped and not comforted.
He didn’t know how to love properly.
His affection came out sharpened. He feared softness the way other men feared failure.
The words were quiet, but they rang with terrible clarity. Not his last in blood. But the last one still untouched by something darker, by his own shortcomings.
Daeron had grown distant. He had lost himself in the dreams and had numbed it all by drinking. Aerion burned too brightly, too cruelly at times. Even Aemon, golden and composed, carried his own private fractures.
Aegon was still unformed clay. His last chance at being a good father.
You stepped closer, careful as one might approach a wounded animal.
His eyes were glass-bright now, though no tears fell. Maekar would sooner break than weep.
“They know you care,” you continued carefully. “But sometimes it’s…” You searched for a word that would not wound him. “…harsh.”
He considered that. You could almost see the machinery of pride grinding against reflection.
“That’s why Dy—” He stopped himself.
The name caught in his throat like a shard of glass. Alas he forced himself to finish it.
“Dyanna… she knew how to handle them. To be… gentle.”
The sketch of the woman with black curls was burned behind your eyelids.
“I don’t know how to be a father and a mother.”
The confession landed heavily between you.
Dyanna Dayne Targaryen haunted this house not through superstition, but through her absence. Every moment, every waking hour of every day.
Her presence lingered in the way Daella folded her hands. In the way Rhae hummed under her breath when she was nervous. In Aegon’s soft heart. In Aerion’s fury. In Daeron's silence. In Aemon's absence. In Maekar’s fury.
“You don’t have to be both,” you said quietly.
He looked at you then, not as an employee. Not as an inconvenience. But as though you were something steadier than the very marble beneath his feet.
And for a moment, the steel left him.
“Perhaps Aegon could stay home tonight,” you suggested gently. “He’s shaken. The gala will only—”
“No.” The walls snapped back into place as if they had never been lowered.
“Aegon is blood of the dragon. His place is beside his family.”
The old creed was back. The armor on him once more. He straightened his cuffs as though adjusting himself back into position, mentally and physically.
You felt something inside you wilt. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” you whispered.
Because you could not soften him if he would not allow it. You could not mother his children while he demanded they be warriors.
He held your gaze one second longer than necessary.
There was something unspoken there. Perhaps gratitude and a pinch of frustration. Perhaps even fear of needing you too much.
He said nothing more. He turned and ascended the staircase.
You watched his back disappear.
You remained in the foyer alone, listening to the stillness.
Soon, doors would open. Suits would be buttoned. Dresses zipped. Faces composed.
And somewhere in the quiet of his bedroom, Maekar would stand before her picture—small and private—and wonder whether he was failing the ghosts as much as the living.
He loved his children fiercely. But love, in this house, was always earned before it was given.
You sat on the garden porch with your elbows resting on your knees, staring out at the backyard as though it were a painting you had memorized but still could not fully understand.
The first time you had stood here, the house had felt like a museum—too large, too polished, too aware of your smallness. The stone had seemed colder then. The glass sharper and the silence heavier.
Now it felt… almost familiar.
The pond in the far corner reflected the dying light of the sun, its surface trembling faintly with the breeze.
The purple flowers beside it swayed gently, stubborn little bursts of color against the disciplined geometry of trimmed hedges and imported marble.
The goal post still leaned slightly to the left from when Aegon had collided with it during your first makeshift match. The course he had built stood empty.
Sweet-hearted, quick-witted and a little bit wild. Sometimes too smart for his own good.
And you—God help you—you cared for him. More than you had ever cared for anyone’s child. More than you had allowed yourself to care in years.
He had undone something in you. Loosened that invisible rope that was choking you.
He taught you that not everything required perfection. That sometimes you could laugh too loudly. That sometimes it was alright to be messy and barefoot and unapologetically soft.
The sun sank lower, bleeding orange and crimson across the sky like something wounded. The overhead porch light flickered to life with a dull hum.
You wiped your eyes quickly when the door behind you creaked open. You didn’t turn immediately. You already knew who it was.
The footsteps were quieter than Aerion’s, less deliberate than Maekars’s. Slower, almost reluctant. And his presence was undeniable.
You looked up. Daeron stood there, framed in the doorway.
His dirty-blonde hair hung loose around his face, not yet disciplined by whatever gala expectations awaited him. He wore a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled carelessly, dress pants slightly creased as though he’d been sitting too long on that couch in the living room. He had not put on his blazer yet.
The corners of his mouth were upturned in a sad little smile.
His eyes—those unmistakable Targaryen violet irises—held secrets and knowledge far older than he was.
He stepped outside without asking permission and came to sit beside you on the steps. Close enough that your knees almost brushed, not touching. But almost.
The silence between you was not empty. It was crowded with unsaid things. You took in a sharp breath, not knowing how to proceed.
After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette pack, tapping it lightly against his palm.
“Where’d you get that from?” You raised a brow at him. “I thought you were under house arrest or something.”
“Father always keeps a pack in his study room.” He revealed.
“Want one?” he asked. You didn’t smoke and normally you would have refused. Old you would have definitely made some comment about lung cancer and poor coping mechanisms.
But your chest burned in a different way tonight. So you just nodded.
He slid one between your fingers and brought the lighter up, shielding the flame from the wind with his hand.
For a second his knuckles brushed your cheek. The cigarette caught and the smoke curled upward and dissolved into twilight.
He lit his own and leaned back on his hands, staring at the garden. For a while neither of you spoke.
The smoke drifted between you like a ghost. The heavy smell settled into your bones.
“My mother planted those,” he said at last, nodding toward the purple flowers by the pond.
His voice had shifted, it was softer. Stripped of its usual fatigue
“She said they reminded her of back home.” Of Dorne you thought.
The word lingered unspoken but heavy. Warm sands and sunburned terraces and laughter that did not echo in these cold marble halls.
You picked at the skin around your thumb, unsure what comfort could possibly sound like here.
“Now you know the truth,” he continued quietly. “This is who we are. This is our family.”
He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I know it’s hard to believe but… we weren’t always like this. We weren’t always so broken.” The word broken seemed to dissolve into the evening air.
“I’ve always had the dreams,” he added after a pause. “But… my dreams aren’t like yours.”
He shook his head faintly. “Yours are hopes. Futures you build in your head. Perhaps memories.”
He looked at you then. “But mine come true.” The air in the garden suddenly felt colder.
You had heard whispers, of course. Of such things as dragon dreamers. But you had never actually entertained the thought as something real. It was more of a good night tale wetnurses told children.
But hearing him say it like this, without any mysticism, with so much pain in his eyes, it made them real.
“They don’t feel like dreams,” he continued. “They feel like memories from a place I haven’t been yet.”
His gaze drifted to the pond.
“I see things." He swallowed.
"Little things, like a broken glass before it shatters or a phone call before it rings" He explained.
"Sometimes bigger things.”
He took a long drag of his cigarette.
The word sat between you. Not metaphorical fire. He meant real fire.
“I know I’m doomed to hell,” he added with a faint, crooked laugh. “Likely one without wine.”
You didn’t smile. There was something hollow beneath the humor.
“And Aerion,” he went on quietly, “he wasn’t always so cruel.”
You glanced at him, not believing his words..
“He liked fishing,” Daeron said. “And we used to play outside, in this very garden. Pretending we were dragons, ready to conquer the world.”
You searched his face for irony. You found none.
“And then Father made a man out of him,” he murmured. “As he surely he will do with Aegon.”Bitterness laced the words.
“I tried talking to him,” you said hoarsely. "Your father."
Daeron’s mouth twitched, as if knowing what reply to expect. “And?” He offered regardless.
“There’s no point in flogging a dead horse.” You whispered.
He nodded, as though you had confirmed his suspicion. The cigarette between his fingers had burned almost to the filter.
“I dreamt of you,” he said quietly, your hand stilled on the railing.
“Before I met you,” he clarified. “Weeks before.”
“I saw your face,” he said, eyes distant now, unfocused. “I didn’t know your name. Didn’t know why you were there or who you were. You were just… standing in our hallway.”
Your heartbeat quickened.
“I remember feeling warm,” he continued. “Like the sun through a window in winter. And I remember thinking, this must be what angels look like.”
The admission was simple. There was no teasing or seduction in his voice. Just… honesty.
“And then,” he said softly, “a few days later you walked through the front door.”
You swallowed, smoke catching in your throat. So his dreams were real.
“You can’t fix us,” he said abruptly. It wasn't a challenge or an accusation, it was a fact. One he had come to accept a long time ago.
The dragondreamer had seen too much to believe in fairy tales.
But before you could respond, a sharp knock sounded against the glass of the door behind you. It was Aerion.
He stood inside, dressed in a deep red blazer. He gestured sharply for you both to come in.
Daeron didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything more. He merely flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his polished shoe.
You followed suit and stood up.
When you stepped inside, the sight before you stole your breath.
Maekar stood at the center of the foyer, immaculate in a black tuxedo. The cut was severe, perfect. His posture unbreakable.
Rhae and Daella wore black and red gowns with silk that shimmered under chandelier light, ornate detailing tracing their waists like something out of an old dynasty portrait. Their white hair pulled into sleek buns.
Aerion looked like a prince of something dangerous.
And Aegon— Aegon wore a suit identical to his father’s, only smaller. A black hat rested atop his head, slightly too large. You knew why.
Your chest ached. They looked perfect. So regal, so untouchable. Like the picture of a dynasty that did not fracture behind closed doors.
“Daeron, fix your hair and put on your blazer,” Maekar commanded without looking at him. “We are leaving.”
The children filed toward the door one by one.
“Our driver will drop you home,” Maekar said to you, voice controlled once more.
“It’s alright,” you replied softly. “I prefer to take the bus.” You were a simple girl after all.
He hesitated. Something flickered in his eyes. Then he nodded, too tired to argue. “Very well.”
The door opened and the cold evening air rushed in. Aegon was the last one to linger.
He looked at you as though memorizing your face. Apology and fear and hope were all tangled in his violet gaze.
“I’ll see you,” you whispered.
But something in your chest tightened painfully and something in your brain was screaming at you. Liar.
When you reached your apartment, the hallway light flickered the way it always did.
Usually it would have comforted you—that small, predictable imperfection. The faint hum of the fridge when you stepped inside. The familiar creak of the floorboard near the kitchen. The soft yellow lamp you always left on in the corner of the living room, casting everything in a gentler shade.
The books on your shelf stood untouched, dirty dishes in the sink.
Tonight it felt completely wrong. Too small and too quiet for your loud thoughts.
You locked the door behind you and leaned your forehead against it for a moment, listening to the echo of the latch sliding into place.
The world of dragons and marble and suffocating legacy was on the other side now.
And yet somehow — they were still here with you. In your lungs. In your throat. In your mind and perhaps in the very carvings of your soul.
You moved without really thinking. Brain on autopilot. Out onto the small terrace.
You didn't bother with removing your shoes or your jacket.
The terrace was barely large enough for two chairs and a small rusted table, but you had always loved it.
The city stretched out beneath you in a blur of headlights and neon signs. You had always found serene peace here.
The traffic pulsed like veins. Sirens wailing in the distance. Life, messy and anonymous and ordinary, carried on without dynasties or dragonblood.
You wrapped your arms around yourself tightly and stared down at the moving lights.
And somewhere in that silence, something inside you had already been decided. And the clarity was so terrible you almost didn't want to see it.
The way rot sets in quietly. The way winter arrives not in one storm but in gradual frost.
You loved that boy so much. That was the problem.
You loved him in a way that was beginning to frighten you. In a way that blurred lines and hollowed out parts of you that had once belonged solely to yourself.
You loved him enough to know you could not stay and watch him be reshaped into something harder. Something cruel.
You sighed and slide the balcony door open. It clicked shut behind you as you stepped into the living room.
Your laptop sat on the coffee table where you had left it that morning, dark screen, slightly ajar.
You sank down onto the couch and opened it fully. The glow illuminated your face in pale blue.
You opened your mail and inbox blinked with unread messages. Assignments. Notifications. Reminders that you had another life beyond House Targaryen.
You clicked on “compose.”
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment. Then you began to type.
Dear Professor, I hope this email finds you well. After careful consideration, I have decided to take part in the exchange program to the University of Sunspear this semester. Please let me know what steps I need to take in order to carry through my full application.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you signed your name.
You didn’t allow yourself to think about Dorne’s heat. Or it’s distance. Or how fitting it was that you would be leaving for the very place Dyanna had once come from.
You opened a second email.
The cursor blinked accusingly.
Dear Sir, I am sorry to inform you that I can no longer continue working for you as Aegon’s babysitter. Due to personal and academic commitments, I will be stepping down from my position effective immediately.
You paused. The words looked sterile. Cowardly.
You deleted the last sentence and rewrote it.
Dear Sir, I am sorry to inform you that I can no longer continue working for you as Aegon’s babysitter. This was not an easy decision, and I am deeply grateful for the time I have spent with your family. However, I believe it is best for everyone if I step away.
Everyone. What a lie. It would not be best for Aegon. It would not be best for you. It would not be best for anyone.
You hesitated again and your vision blurred.
You added one more line before you could stop yourself.
Please tell him I am proud of him.
Your breath hitched the moment you typed it. You quickly erased it.
You closed the email with a simple:
Thank you for the opportunity. Sincerely.
You stared at both drafts on your laptop screen.
You imagined someone else in your place looking after him. Someone colder. Or worse—no one at all.
You pressed your palm against your mouth to stifle the sound threatening to rip from your throat.
You were not his mother. You were not his sister. You were not bound by blood or name or dynasty.
You were a girl with a bus pass and a scholarship and a future that did not include burning with them. And yet the tears spilled over, hot and relentless.
You clicked "send" on both of the emails.
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