Valarr Targaryen fanfic - Chapter 2:
The 4:00 AM alarm was a brutal wake-up call, the sun didn't wait for anyone, and neither did the cattle.
By 4:30 AM, the kitchen was a blur of caffeine and silence. Duncan was already out at the barns, but Myra stood by the coffee pot, watching the three Targaryen brothers stumble into the kitchen.
Valarr looked alert but stiff, Daeron looked like he'd slept in the hay which he mostly had, with Daisy and Aerion looked like he was regretting every life choice that had led him to a ranch in June.
"Drink up," Myra said, sliding a box of breakfast burritos across the counter.
"Today's the swamp. The bottom-lands are where the creek overflows. It's thick mud, dragonflies the size of drones, and four hundred head of cattle that don't want to move."
"How bad is the mud?" Aerion asked, looking down at his boots which he had spent an hour cleaning the night before.
Myra gave him a look that was almost pitying. "Think 'quicksand,' but with more cow manure. Wear the high-muck boots I left in the hall. And put these on."
She tossed three cans of heavy-duty bug spray onto the table. "The mosquitoes down there are the only thing meaner than I am."
An hour later, they were in the saddle. The air was thick and humid, hanging over the low-lying pastures like a damp wool blanket.
Duncan led the way on Thunder, his presence like an anchor. "The herd is bunched up near the willow groves," he called back. "They've got plenty of water, but the ground is getting too soft. If we don't move them to the north pasture now, we're going to be pulling calves out of the muck by their tails."
As they reached the edge of the creek-bed, the horses' hooves began to make a wet, sucking sound. Squelch. Pop. Squelch.
"Alright, spread out!" Duncan commanded. "Valarr, take the left flank. Daeron, stay on the right keep 'em out of the deep brush. Aerion, you're with Myra in the rear. Don't let a single heifer turn back."
Aerion groaned but nudged Smoke forward. The smell hit them wet earth, stagnant water, and the pungent musk of hundreds of cows.
"Hey, Pennytree," Aerion called out to Myra as a swarm of gnats hovered around his face. "Is it always this... fragrant?"
"It's the smell of money, city boy," Myra shouted back, her buckskin, Lady, navigating the mud with the grace of a cat. "Keep your eyes on that lead cow. If she breaks, the whole line follows."
For two hours, it was a grueling, slow-motion battle. The cattle were stubborn, preferring the shade of the willows to the uphill trek Myra was forcing them into.
Suddenly, a young, nervous heifer spooked by a low-hanging branch bolted. She didn't head for the hills, she dove straight into a thick, vine-tangled patch of the swamp.
"One's breaking!" Valarr shouted from the flank, but he was pinned between two larger steers.
"I got her!" Aerion yelled. Surprisingly, he didn't hesitate. Maybe it was a desire to prove he wasn't just a "liability," or maybe he just wanted to get out of the stagnant heat.
He spurred Smoke into a gallop, splashing through the shallow water.
"Aerion, wait! Not that way!" Myra screamed.
But Aerion was focused on the cow. He cut her off with a sharp turn, his horse sliding through the silt.
He managed to turn the heifer back toward the herd, but as he tried to pivot Smoke, the horse's front legs sank deep into a hidden sinkhole of mud.
Smoke let out a panicked whinny, struggling to find purchase.
"Don't jump off!" Myra yelled, already riding hard toward him. "If you jump, you'll get stuck too!"
Aerion gripped the horn, his face pale as the mud rose to Smoke's chest. "He's not moving! He's sinking!"
Duncan and Valarr were already turning their horses, but Myra was the closest. She pulled up alongside the sinking horse, her mind racing. This was the "rough and dirty" she had warned them about.
"Valarr! Get your lariat!" Myra commanded. "Duncan, stay with the herd if they see the panic, they'll stampede!"
Valarr rode to the edge of the firm ground, his expression intense. He threw his rope with perfect accuracy, the loop settling over Smoke's saddle horn.
"Aerion, listen to me," Myra said, her voice calm and steady, despite the splashing. "Lean back. Give him his head. When Valarr pulls, you have to urge him forward. Don't pull back on the reins or you'll drown him!"
Aerion nodded, his knuckles white. "Okay. Okay."
Valarr backed his horse, Bolt, putting every ounce of his weight into the rope. At the same time, Myra moved Lady to the other side, splashing and shouting to give Smoke a direction to move toward.
With a sickening schloop sound, Smoke's legs broke free of the suction. The horse scrambled, mud flying everywhere covering Aerion from head to toe until they finally reached the solid, grassy bank.
Aerion slid off the horse, falling onto his hands and knees on the dry grass. He was coated in black, foul-smelling swamp muck.
His "high-quality" shirt was ruined, his face was streaked with dirt, and he was shaking.
Valarr dismounted and ran over, checking Smoke's legs for injury, while Myra stayed in her saddle, looking down at the youngest Targaryen.
"You turned the cow," she said quietly.
Aerion looked up, blinking mud out of his eyelashes. "What?"
"The cow," Myra repeated, a small, genuine spark of respect in her eyes. "Most people would have let her go. You turned her. You did it like a total idiot and nearly killed your horse, but you turned her."
She reached down, offering him a hand. "Now get up. We've still got three hundred more to move, and you smell like a swamp monster."
Aerion took her hand, pulling himself up. He looked at his ruined clothes, then at his brother, then at Myra.
He didn't complain. He just wiped a glob of mud off his chin and climbed back into the saddle.
"Well," Aerion muttered, his voice shaking just a little less. "I did say I wanted to get dirty."
The herd was finally settled in the north pasture, the gates were latched, and the Targaryen brothers were riding a few hundred yards ahead, their silhouettes dark against the bruising purples and gold of the setting June sun.
Aerion was slumped in his saddle, exhausted and mud-caked, while Valarr and Daeron spoke in low, tired murmurs.
Duncan slowed Thunder down, falling back until he was side-by-side with Myra.
The heavy heat of the day had broken, replaced by a cool breeze that carried the scent of wild sage.
For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic creak of leather and the steady thud of hooves on the dry grass.
"You did good today, kid," Duncan said, his voice low and raspy from a day of shouting over the lowing cattle.
He reached out, his large, calloused hand briefly squeezing her shoulder.
Myra leaned into the touch for a second before adjusting her hat. "I almost lost a Targaryen to a mud pit, Dunc. Dad would've had my head for the insurance paperwork alone."
Duncan let out a soft, huffy laugh. "Dad would've been more worried about the horse. But he'd have been proud of the way you took charge. I saw you move Lady to bridge that gap. That was all him."
Myra looked down at her reins, her expression softening. Three years later, and the hole their father left still felt like a canyon they were trying to bridge with fences and cattle.
"Sometimes I feel like I'm just playing at it," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Like I'm just waiting for him to walk out of the barn and tell me I'm doing it all wrong."
Duncan steered Thunder a little closer, his knee brushing against her stirrup. "He's not coming out of the barn, Myra. But look around." He gestured to the vast, darkening stretch of Pennytree land. "We're holding it. Just the two of us. And we're growing."
He looked at her, his eyes steady and full of a fierce, protective pride that had been there since the day their mother died when he was only fifteen.
He had been a father to her as much as a brother, sacrificing his own youth to make sure she had a ranch to grow up on.
"You aren't playing, Myra. You're the heart of this place," Duncan said firmly. "I might keep the books, but you're the one who keeps the spirit. I couldn't do this with anyone else."
Myra felt a lump form in her throat. She reached over and swatted his arm playfully, trying to blink back the sudden sting in her eyes. "Don't get all sappy on me, Duncan. You'll spook the horses."
Duncan grinned, the weary lines around his eyes crinkling. "Just saying. Tomorrow, we've got the fence line to check. I'll race you to the creek for a head start on the coffee?"
Myra's smile returned, bright and sharp. "You're on, old man."
She spurred Lady into a light canter, leaving her brother laughing in the dust. As she rode, the weight of the day felt a little lighter.
The three Targaryen brothers were riding in a weary, slumped line, their bodies aching in ways they hadn't known was possible.
The silence of the trail was broken only by the occasional wet squelch from Aerion's mud-filled boots.
Suddenly, a high, sharp whistle pierced the air.
"Coming through, boys!" Myra's voice rang out, clear and full of life.
Before any of them could turn, a blur of golden buckskin and flying dust tore past them. Myra was leaned low over Lady's neck, her laughter trailing behind her like a ribbon in the wind.
A split second later, the ground began to shake with a heavier rhythm as Duncan and Thunder thundered past, the massive bay stallion's hooves kicking up clods of earth that rained down on the brothers' trail.
"Move it or lose it, city boys!" Duncan roared, his deep laugh booming as he chased after his sister.
The brothers pulled their horses to a halt, staring after the siblings in stunned silence.
Aerion flinched as a clump of North Pasture dirt hit his shoulder, adding a fresh brown stain to the only clean patch of his shirt.
He stared at the retreating figures, his jaw hanging open. "Are they... are they insane? We've been working for fourteen hours! Where do they get the energy to race?"
Daeron let out a low, appreciative whistle, a genuine spark of life returning to his tired eyes.
He adjusted his Stetson, watching the way Myra and Duncan moved in perfect synchronicity with their horses. "They aren't just riding, 'Rion," he murmured, his voice sounding more sober than usual. "They're part of the dirt. Look at 'em go."
Valarr didn't say a word at first. He sat tall in his saddle, his eyes fixed on the way Duncan and Myra leaned into the turn toward the creek, fearless and fast.
There was no "Targaryen Production" polish in that race just raw, unadulterated skill and a bond that seemed to make the horses run twice as fast.
A slow, begrudging smile spread across Valarr's face. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of something he hadn't expected envy. Not for the land or the cattle, but for that easy, unshakable trust between the two siblings.
"They're showing off," Aerion grumbled, though even he sounded more impressed than annoyed.
"No," Valarr said, nudging Bolt back into a walk to follow the dust cloud. "They're home. We're just the ones trying to keep up."
He looked at his two brothers, his expression turning firm. "Come on. If we aren't at the porch by the time they start the coffee, we'll never hear the end of it."
As they trotted toward the distant glow of the farmhouse lights, the brothers found themselves subconsciously sitting a little straighter in their saddles, trying to catch just a little bit of that Pennytree fire.
The guest wing of the Pennytree house was really just one large, converted attic space with three iron-framed beds and a window that looked out over the darkened paddocks.
The air was cool, smelling of the lavender Myra kept in the wash and the lingering scent of woodsmoke from the kitchen.
Aerion was the first to collapse, dropping onto the middle bed with a theatrical groan. He didn't even bother taking off his boots he just stared at the ceiling, his face still streaked with dried mud.
"I'm never going to get this smell out of my pores," Aerion muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow. "It's in my hair. It's in my soul. I feel like I'm fifty percent silt and fifty percent mosquito bites."
Daeron was sitting on the edge of the far bed, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. He looked surprisingly peaceful, his eyes fixed on the moonlit window. "At least you didn't go over the cliff, 'Rion. Small favors."
"She would have let me," Aerion hissed, sitting up and pointing a finger at the door. "That girl... Myra. She didn't even blink when the snake rattled. She just looked at me like I was an annoying fly she wanted to swat."
Valarr, who had been standing by the window watching the silhouette of Duncan's stallion in the field, turned around.
He was the only one who had already showered, and he looked thoughtful as he leaned against the wall.
"She's not looking for a reason to swat you, Aerion," Valarr said calmly. "She's looking for a reason to trust you. And so is Duncan."
"Trust me?" Aerion scoffed. "We're the Targaryens. Our father could buy this entire valley and turn it into a parking lot if he wanted to. They should be trying to impress us."
"That's the problem," Daeron chimed in, leaning back on his elbows. "Money doesn't fix a broken fence at four in the morning. And it doesn't make a calf like Daisy stop crying. Out here, the 'Targaryen' name is just a fancy label on a truck that gets stuck in the mud."
The room went quiet for a moment. The distance between their life in the city and this rugged, dusty reality felt wider than it ever had.
"Did you see them race?" Valarr asked suddenly, his voice dropping an octave. "The way they moved? They didn't even have to speak to each other. Duncan just shifted his weight and Myra knew exactly where he was going."
"Sibling intuition," Aerion muttered, though he sounded less certain now.
"It's more than that," Valarr countered. "It's a partnership. They've been holding this place together with nothing but grit and each other since their dad died. We've spent our whole lives competing for our father's attention, but they... they're just building something."
Daeron reached into his bag and pulled out a small, worn book not a flask, for once. "I think I like it here," he admitted softly. "It's quiet. The animals don't care about the board meetings or the stocks. Daisy just wants her bottle. It's... simple."
Aerion looked from Valarr to Daeron, then back down at his muddy boots. He let out a long, frustrated sigh and finally started tugging them off.
"Fine. It's simple," Aerion grumbled. "But if I have to pull another cow out of a swamp tomorrow, I'm demanding a raise. Or at least a pair of boots that aren't filled with creek water."
Valarr smiled, turning back to the window. In the distance, he could see the light in the main kitchen click off as Duncan and Myra finally finished their day.
"Get some sleep," Valarr said.
"Tomorrow's the fence line. And I have a feeling Myra isn't going to go easy on us just because we survived the mud."
The clock on the wall had barely ticked past midnight when Valarr and Aerion's rhythmic breathing signaled they were out for the count.
Daeron, however, couldn't find his way to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of the marsh mud under his boots or heard the roar of the wind on the ridge.
He slipped out of bed, his socks muffling his steps on the hardwood floor. He didn't reach for his flask. Instead, he grabbed a light jacket and eased the door open.
The Pennytree kitchen was bathed in silver moonlight, making the stainless steel appliances and the heavy wooden table look like something out of a dream.
He crept toward the fridge, his stomach let out a treacherous growl. He found a plate of leftover cornbread wrapped in foil and a glass of milk, leaning against the counter as he ate in the profound, heavy silence of a rural night.
But it wasn't just the food he was after.
Five minutes later, he was sliding the barn door open.
The air inside was warm, smelling of sweet hay and the peaceful, slow breathing of sleeping animals. He made his way to the small enclosure in the back.
"Hey, girl," he whispered.
Daisy's head popped up instantly from the straw. She let out a soft, muffled moo more of a greeting than a cry and scrambled to her feet.
By 4:30 AM, the kitchen was a blur of caffeine and silence. Duncan was already out at the barns, but Myra stood by the coffee pot, watching the three Targaryen brothers stumble into the kitchen.
Valarr looked alert but stiff, Daeron looked like he'd slept in the hay which he mostly had, with Daisy and Aerion looked like he was regretting every life choice that had led him to a ranch in June.
"Drink up," Myra said, sliding a box of breakfast burritos across the counter.
"Today's the swamp. The bottom-lands are where the creek overflows. It's thick mud, dragonflies the size of drones, and four hundred head of cattle that don't want to move."
"How bad is the mud?" Aerion asked, looking down at his boots which he had spent an hour cleaning the night before.
Myra gave him a look that was almost pitying. "Think 'quicksand,' but with more cow manure. Wear the high-muck boots I left in the hall. And put these on."
She tossed three cans of heavy-duty bug spray onto the table. "The mosquitoes down there are the only thing meaner than I am."
An hour later, they were in the saddle. The air was thick and humid, hanging over the low-lying pastures like a damp wool blanket.
Duncan led the way on Thunder, his presence like an anchor. "The herd is bunched up near the willow groves," he called back. "They've got plenty of water, but the ground is getting too soft. If we don't move them to the north pasture now, we're going to be pulling calves out of the muck by their tails."
As they reached the edge of the creek-bed, the horses' hooves began to make a wet, sucking sound. Squelch. Pop. Squelch.
"Alright, spread out!" Duncan commanded. "Valarr, take the left flank. Daeron, stay on the right keep 'em out of the deep brush. Aerion, you're with Myra in the rear. Don't let a single heifer turn back."
Aerion groaned but nudged Smoke forward. The smell hit them wet earth, stagnant water, and the pungent musk of hundreds of cows.
"Hey, Pennytree," Aerion called out to Myra as a swarm of gnats hovered around his face. "Is it always this... fragrant?"
"It's the smell of money, city boy," Myra shouted back, her buckskin, Lady, navigating the mud with the grace of a cat. "Keep your eyes on that lead cow. If she breaks, the whole line follows."
For two hours, it was a grueling, slow-motion battle. The cattle were stubborn, preferring the shade of the willows to the uphill trek Myra was forcing them into.
Suddenly, a young, nervous heifer spooked by a low-hanging branch bolted. She didn't head for the hills, she dove straight into a thick, vine-tangled patch of the swamp.
"One's breaking!" Valarr shouted from the flank, but he was pinned between two larger steers.
"I got her!" Aerion yelled. Surprisingly, he didn't hesitate. Maybe it was a desire to prove he wasn't just a "liability," or maybe he just wanted to get out of the stagnant heat.
He spurred Smoke into a gallop, splashing through the shallow water.
"Aerion, wait! Not that way!" Myra screamed.
But Aerion was focused on the cow. He cut her off with a sharp turn, his horse sliding through the silt.
He managed to turn the heifer back toward the herd, but as he tried to pivot Smoke, the horse's front legs sank deep into a hidden sinkhole of mud.
Smoke let out a panicked whinny, struggling to find purchase.
"Don't jump off!" Myra yelled, already riding hard toward him. "If you jump, you'll get stuck too!"
Aerion gripped the horn, his face pale as the mud rose to Smoke's chest. "He's not moving! He's sinking!"
Duncan and Valarr were already turning their horses, but Myra was the closest. She pulled up alongside the sinking horse, her mind racing. This was the "rough and dirty" she had warned them about.
"Valarr! Get your lariat!" Myra commanded. "Duncan, stay with the herd if they see the panic, they'll stampede!"
Valarr rode to the edge of the firm ground, his expression intense. He threw his rope with perfect accuracy, the loop settling over Smoke's saddle horn.
"Aerion, listen to me," Myra said, her voice calm and steady, despite the splashing. "Lean back. Give him his head. When Valarr pulls, you have to urge him forward. Don't pull back on the reins or you'll drown him!"
Aerion nodded, his knuckles white. "Okay. Okay."
Valarr backed his horse, Bolt, putting every ounce of his weight into the rope. At the same time, Myra moved Lady to the other side, splashing and shouting to give Smoke a direction to move toward.
With a sickening schloop sound, Smoke's legs broke free of the suction. The horse scrambled, mud flying everywhere covering Aerion from head to toe until they finally reached the solid, grassy bank.
Aerion slid off the horse, falling onto his hands and knees on the dry grass. He was coated in black, foul-smelling swamp muck.
His "high-quality" shirt was ruined, his face was streaked with dirt, and he was shaking.
Valarr dismounted and ran over, checking Smoke's legs for injury, while Myra stayed in her saddle, looking down at the youngest Targaryen.
"You turned the cow," she said quietly.
Aerion looked up, blinking mud out of his eyelashes. "What?"
"The cow," Myra repeated, a small, genuine spark of respect in her eyes. "Most people would have let her go. You turned her. You did it like a total idiot and nearly killed your horse, but you turned her."
She reached down, offering him a hand. "Now get up. We've still got three hundred more to move, and you smell like a swamp monster."
Aerion took her hand, pulling himself up. He looked at his ruined clothes, then at his brother, then at Myra.
He didn't complain. He just wiped a glob of mud off his chin and climbed back into the saddle.
"Well," Aerion muttered, his voice shaking just a little less. "I did say I wanted to get dirty."
The herd was finally settled in the north pasture, the gates were latched, and the Targaryen brothers were riding a few hundred yards ahead, their silhouettes dark against the bruising purples and gold of the setting June sun.
Aerion was slumped in his saddle, exhausted and mud-caked, while Valarr and Daeron spoke in low, tired murmurs.
Duncan slowed Thunder down, falling back until he was side-by-side with Myra.
The heavy heat of the day had broken, replaced by a cool breeze that carried the scent of wild sage.
For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic creak of leather and the steady thud of hooves on the dry grass.
"You did good today, kid," Duncan said, his voice low and raspy from a day of shouting over the lowing cattle.
He reached out, his large, calloused hand briefly squeezing her shoulder.
Myra leaned into the touch for a second before adjusting her hat. "I almost lost a Targaryen to a mud pit, Dunc. Dad would've had my head for the insurance paperwork alone."
Duncan let out a soft, huffy laugh. "Dad would've been more worried about the horse. But he'd have been proud of the way you took charge. I saw you move Lady to bridge that gap. That was all him."
Myra looked down at her reins, her expression softening. Three years later, and the hole their father left still felt like a canyon they were trying to bridge with fences and cattle.
"Sometimes I feel like I'm just playing at it," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Like I'm just waiting for him to walk out of the barn and tell me I'm doing it all wrong."
Duncan steered Thunder a little closer, his knee brushing against her stirrup. "He's not coming out of the barn, Myra. But look around." He gestured to the vast, darkening stretch of Pennytree land. "We're holding it. Just the two of us. And we're growing."
He looked at her, his eyes steady and full of a fierce, protective pride that had been there since the day their mother died when he was only fifteen.
He had been a father to her as much as a brother, sacrificing his own youth to make sure she had a ranch to grow up on.
"You aren't playing, Myra. You're the heart of this place," Duncan said firmly. "I might keep the books, but you're the one who keeps the spirit. I couldn't do this with anyone else."
Myra felt a lump form in her throat. She reached over and swatted his arm playfully, trying to blink back the sudden sting in her eyes. "Don't get all sappy on me, Duncan. You'll spook the horses."
Duncan grinned, the weary lines around his eyes crinkling. "Just saying. Tomorrow, we've got the fence line to check. I'll race you to the creek for a head start on the coffee?"
Myra's smile returned, bright and sharp. "You're on, old man."
She spurred Lady into a light canter, leaving her brother laughing in the dust. As she rode, the weight of the day felt a little lighter.
The three Targaryen brothers were riding in a weary, slumped line, their bodies aching in ways they hadn't known was possible.
The silence of the trail was broken only by the occasional wet squelch from Aerion's mud-filled boots.
Suddenly, a high, sharp whistle pierced the air.
"Coming through, boys!" Myra's voice rang out, clear and full of life.
Before any of them could turn, a blur of golden buckskin and flying dust tore past them. Myra was leaned low over Lady's neck, her laughter trailing behind her like a ribbon in the wind.
A split second later, the ground began to shake with a heavier rhythm as Duncan and Thunder thundered past, the massive bay stallion's hooves kicking up clods of earth that rained down on the brothers' trail.
"Move it or lose it, city boys!" Duncan roared, his deep laugh booming as he chased after his sister.
The brothers pulled their horses to a halt, staring after the siblings in stunned silence.
Aerion flinched as a clump of North Pasture dirt hit his shoulder, adding a fresh brown stain to the only clean patch of his shirt.
He stared at the retreating figures, his jaw hanging open. "Are they... are they insane? We've been working for fourteen hours! Where do they get the energy to race?"
Daeron let out a low, appreciative whistle, a genuine spark of life returning to his tired eyes.
He adjusted his Stetson, watching the way Myra and Duncan moved in perfect synchronicity with their horses. "They aren't just riding, 'Rion," he murmured, his voice sounding more sober than usual. "They're part of the dirt. Look at 'em go."
Valarr didn't say a word at first. He sat tall in his saddle, his eyes fixed on the way Duncan and Myra leaned into the turn toward the creek, fearless and fast.
There was no "Targaryen Production" polish in that race just raw, unadulterated skill and a bond that seemed to make the horses run twice as fast.
A slow, begrudging smile spread across Valarr's face. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of something he hadn't expected envy. Not for the land or the cattle, but for that easy, unshakable trust between the two siblings.
"They're showing off," Aerion grumbled, though even he sounded more impressed than annoyed.
"No," Valarr said, nudging Bolt back into a walk to follow the dust cloud. "They're home. We're just the ones trying to keep up."
He looked at his two brothers, his expression turning firm. "Come on. If we aren't at the porch by the time they start the coffee, we'll never hear the end of it."
As they trotted toward the distant glow of the farmhouse lights, the brothers found themselves subconsciously sitting a little straighter in their saddles, trying to catch just a little bit of that Pennytree fire.
The guest wing of the Pennytree house was really just one large, converted attic space with three iron-framed beds and a window that looked out over the darkened paddocks.
The air was cool, smelling of the lavender Myra kept in the wash and the lingering scent of woodsmoke from the kitchen.
Aerion was the first to collapse, dropping onto the middle bed with a theatrical groan. He didn't even bother taking off his boots he just stared at the ceiling, his face still streaked with dried mud.
"I'm never going to get this smell out of my pores," Aerion muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow. "It's in my hair. It's in my soul. I feel like I'm fifty percent silt and fifty percent mosquito bites."
Daeron was sitting on the edge of the far bed, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. He looked surprisingly peaceful, his eyes fixed on the moonlit window. "At least you didn't go over the cliff, 'Rion. Small favors."
"She would have let me," Aerion hissed, sitting up and pointing a finger at the door. "That girl... Myra. She didn't even blink when the snake rattled. She just looked at me like I was an annoying fly she wanted to swat."
Valarr, who had been standing by the window watching the silhouette of Duncan's stallion in the field, turned around.
He was the only one who had already showered, and he looked thoughtful as he leaned against the wall.
"She's not looking for a reason to swat you, Aerion," Valarr said calmly. "She's looking for a reason to trust you. And so is Duncan."
"Trust me?" Aerion scoffed. "We're the Targaryens. Our father could buy this entire valley and turn it into a parking lot if he wanted to. They should be trying to impress us."
"That's the problem," Daeron chimed in, leaning back on his elbows. "Money doesn't fix a broken fence at four in the morning. And it doesn't make a calf like Daisy stop crying. Out here, the 'Targaryen' name is just a fancy label on a truck that gets stuck in the mud."
The room went quiet for a moment. The distance between their life in the city and this rugged, dusty reality felt wider than it ever had.
"Did you see them race?" Valarr asked suddenly, his voice dropping an octave. "The way they moved? They didn't even have to speak to each other. Duncan just shifted his weight and Myra knew exactly where he was going."
"Sibling intuition," Aerion muttered, though he sounded less certain now.
"It's more than that," Valarr countered. "It's a partnership. They've been holding this place together with nothing but grit and each other since their dad died. We've spent our whole lives competing for our father's attention, but they... they're just building something."
Daeron reached into his bag and pulled out a small, worn book not a flask, for once. "I think I like it here," he admitted softly. "It's quiet. The animals don't care about the board meetings or the stocks. Daisy just wants her bottle. It's... simple."
Aerion looked from Valarr to Daeron, then back down at his muddy boots. He let out a long, frustrated sigh and finally started tugging them off.
"Fine. It's simple," Aerion grumbled. "But if I have to pull another cow out of a swamp tomorrow, I'm demanding a raise. Or at least a pair of boots that aren't filled with creek water."
Valarr smiled, turning back to the window. In the distance, he could see the light in the main kitchen click off as Duncan and Myra finally finished their day.
"Get some sleep," Valarr said.
"Tomorrow's the fence line. And I have a feeling Myra isn't going to go easy on us just because we survived the mud."
The clock on the wall had barely ticked past midnight when Valarr and Aerion's rhythmic breathing signaled they were out for the count.
Daeron, however, couldn't find his way to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of the marsh mud under his boots or heard the roar of the wind on the ridge.
He slipped out of bed, his socks muffling his steps on the hardwood floor. He didn't reach for his flask. Instead, he grabbed a light jacket and eased the door open.
The Pennytree kitchen was bathed in silver moonlight, making the stainless steel appliances and the heavy wooden table look like something out of a dream.
He crept toward the fridge, his stomach let out a treacherous growl. He found a plate of leftover cornbread wrapped in foil and a glass of milk, leaning against the counter as he ate in the profound, heavy silence of a rural night.
But it wasn't just the food he was after.
Five minutes later, he was sliding the barn door open.
The air inside was warm, smelling of sweet hay and the peaceful, slow breathing of sleeping animals. He made his way to the small enclosure in the back.
"Hey, girl," he whispered.
Daisy's head popped up instantly from the straw. She let out a soft, muffled moo more of a greeting than a cry and scrambled to her feet.
She trotted over to the gate, her wet nose nudging Daeron's palm.
"Couldn't sleep either, huh?" Daeron sat on the edge of the gate, scratching her behind the ears. "Don't worry. Aerion is upstairs snoring loud enough to wake the ancestors. You're better off down here."
"She usually sleeps through the night unless she's lonely."
Daeron nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around to find Myra standing in the shadows by the tack room.
She was wearing an oversized flannel shirt over her pajamas, her hair loose and messy, holding a lantern that wasn't turned on. The moonlight was enough.
"I didn't mean to—" Daeron started, feeling suddenly like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Relax, Whiskey," Myra said, walking over and leaning against the stall next to him.
She didn't look angry, she looked tired, but in a soft, human way that he hadn't seen yet. "Duncan says a man who talks to his horse is crazy, but a man who talks to a calf is just looking for a friend who won't talk back."
Daeron looked back at Daisy, who was now contentedly licking his sleeve.
"She's easier to talk to than my brothers. They have... expectations."
"Yeah? Well, out here, the only expectation is that you show up when the sun does," Myra said. She looked at him for a long moment, the sharp, defensive edge she'd worn all day finally tucked away.
"You're good with her, Daeron. I mean it. Most people just see the livestock as numbers on a ledger. You see 'em."
"My father sees numbers," Daeron said quietly. "I think that's why I prefer the rye."
"Try the air instead," Myra suggested, nodding toward the open barn door where the stars were bright enough to cast shadows. "It's cleaner."
She reached over, her hand briefly brushing his as she gave Daisy one last scratch. "Get some sleep. Duncan's got the fence-line tools loaded in the truck already. 5:00 AM comes fast, and I'm not hauling you out of bed by your heels."
"Is that a promise?" Daeron joked weakly.
Myra smirked, the moonlight catching the mischief in her eyes. "Depends on how much coffee I've had. Night, Daeron."
As she walked back toward the house, Daeron stayed for a moment longer, the quiet hum of the ranch settling into his bones.
For the first time in a long time, the weight in his chest felt a little lighter.
The air at 5:00 AM was crisp, smelling of damp earth and the heavy diesel exhaust from Duncan's silver heavy-duty truck.
The headlights cut through the lingering morning mist, illuminating the flatbed where a mountain of supplies sat waiting rolls of barbed wire, heavy cedar posts, post-hole diggers, and crates of metal clips.
Duncan was already in the bed of the truck, moving with a tireless energy that made the brothers feel every bit of their exhaustion.
"Listen up!" Duncan called out, his voice echoing off the barn walls. "The storm last week took out a quarter-mile of the north boundary. If we don't get it patched today, the neighbors' bulls are going to be in our business by sundown."
He looked down at the three brothers standing by the tailgate. Valarr was already gloving up, his face set in a mask of professional focus.
Daeron looked a little bleary-eyed no doubt from his midnight barn visit but he was standing steady. Aerion was staring at the post-hole diggers with the suspicion one might give a medieval torture device.
"Valarr," Duncan said, tossing a heavy sledgehammer down. Valarr caught it with a grunt, the weight nearly pulling him forward. "You're on the heavy hits. I need those cedar posts two feet deep, or the first cow that scratches her back on 'em will take the whole line down."
He turned to Aerion and kicked a pair of long-handled post-hole diggers toward the edge of the tailgate.
"Aerion, you're on the holes. It's all about the rhythm. Dig, dump, repeat. Think of it as a gym workout that actually produces something."
Aerion picked up the heavy iron tool, his expression one of pure disbelief. "I'm sorry... I'm the 'hole' guy? This looks like it weighs forty pounds."
"Forty-two," Myra chimed in, leaning against the driver-side door with a thermos of coffee.
She looked surprisingly refreshed, her eyes trailing over the brothers with a sharp, assessing glint. "And if you hit rock, don't just stand there. Use the pry bar."
Duncan finally looked at Daeron, tossing him a pair of heavy leather pliers and a box of fencing staples.
"Whiskey, you're with Myra. You're the wire-stretchers. It's a two-person job. She pulls the tension, you clip the wire. If you slip and that wire snaps, it'll take a finger off, so stay sharp."
Daeron caught the pliers, meeting Myra's gaze. There was a silent understanding between them after the night before a small, hidden truce in the middle of the ranch's chaos.
"Load up," Duncan commanded, slapping the side of the truck. "We've got four miles of trail to cover before the heat hits triple digits. Aerion, get in the back with the posts. Valarr, you're upfront with me."
As the truck roared to life and began to bounce down the rugged dirt track, Aerion sat atop a pile of cedar posts, clutching his post-hole digger like a life raft.
He looked at the vast, unforgiving landscape and then at his calloused, dirty hands.
"I'm starting to think," Aerion shouted over the wind, "that 'Targaryen Production' involves a lot more physical labor than the brochure suggested."
Myra, sitting in the passenger seat, leaned her head out the window, her hair whipping in the wind. "Welcome to the real world, city boy! Try not to break a nail!"
The sun hit its peak by noon, turning the North Pasture into a shimmering furnace.
The cool morning mist was a distant memory, replaced by a dry, unrelenting heat that made the metal wire hot enough to sting through leather gloves.
The truck was parked a hundred yards back, and the "rhythm" Duncan had promised had devolved into a grueling test of endurance.
Aerion was drenched. His once white shirt was plastered to his back, stained with sweat and the red clay of the post-holes.
He slammed the heavy iron digger into the ground for the thousandth time, only for it to let out a metallic clink as it hit a limestone shelf.
"I'm done," Aerion gasped, dropping the tool. His hands were shaking, the palms raw even through the gloves. "I am literally hitting solid bedrock. This is impossible."
Valarr, who was hoisting a cedar post into the previous hole, wiped sweat from his brow with a grimy forearm.
"It's not impossible, Aerion. You're just leaning on the handles instead of letting the weight do the work. Pick it up."
"Oh, shut up, Valarr!" Aerion snapped, his temper finally boiling over in the 100-degree heat. "You've been playing 'Head Ranch Hand' all morning just because Duncan gave you the hammer. You aren't in charge here. You're just as much of a tourist as I am."
Valarr's eyes darkened. He stepped over the wire, his boots crunching on the dry grass. "I'm the one making sure we actually finish this so we can get out of the sun. If you'd spend half as much time digging as you do complaining, we'd be at the creek by now."
Fifty yards down the line, Myra and Daeron paused. Myra had the wire-stretcher cranked tight, the silver barb humming with tension. She watched the brothers over her shoulder, her expression unreadable.
"Should we stop them?" Daeron asked, wiping sweat from his neck. He was tired, but he had found a strange, meditative peace in the repetitive motion of clipping the wire.
"Nope," Myra said, her voice dry. "Let 'em vent. Out here, you either break the ground or the ground breaks you. They're just deciding which one it's gonna be."
She looked at Daeron, noticing the way he was holding his pliers steady, despite the heat. "You're holding up better than the 'Golden Boy' and the 'Prince,' Whiskey. Who would've thought?"
"Maybe I'm used to things being a little messy," Daeron replied with a tired shrug.
Back at the post, the shouting was getting louder.
"You think you're better than us because you can swing a hammer?" Aerion yelled, stepping into Valarr's space. "You're just Dad's shadow!"
Valarr dropped the post. It hit the ground with a heavy thud. He opened his mouth to retort, but a shadow fell over both of them.
Duncan had appeared from behind the truck, carrying a fresh roll of wire. He didn't look angry, he looked bored, which was somehow more intimidating.
He looked at the half-finished hole, then at the two brothers standing chest-to-chest.
"You two finished dancing?" Duncan asked, his voice like low thunder.
Aerion started to speak, "He's being a—"
"I don't care," Duncan interrupted. He looked at Aerion's raw hands, then at Valarr's tense shoulders.
"The fence doesn't care about your feelings. The cattle don't care about who Dad likes best. There is a hole that needs digging, and a post that needs setting. Now, you can either be brothers and finish the job, or you can walk the four miles back to the house. Alone."
He paused, letting the silence of the prairie sink in.
"Valarr, take the digger. Aerion, you take the hammer. Switch it up. Maybe you'll find out the other guy's job isn't as easy as it looks."
Duncan turned on his heel and walked back toward the truck without waiting for an answer.
Valarr and Aerion stood in the shimmering heat, looking at the tools.
After a long, tense minute, Valarr picked up the heavy iron digger and handed the sledgehammer to Aerion.
"Don't hit my hands," Valarr muttered, stepping toward the rock-filled hole.
"Don't give me a reason to," Aerion grumbled back, but he gripped the hammer's handle with both hands, his posture shifting from defensive to determined.
By the time they reached the end of the line, the sun was finally beginning to dip. The four miles of fence were straight, tight, and silver.
As they loaded the tools back into the truck, Aerion was leaning against the tailgate, his chest heaving. He looked at Valarr, who was covered in the same red clay.
"You're right," Aerion said quietly, his voice raspy. "The weight does do most of the work. Eventually."
Valarr let out a short, dry laugh and clapped his brother on the shoulder leaving a massive muddy handprint on the ruined shirt. "Took you long enough to figure it out."
The decision was unanimous. The heat was so oppressive that even Duncan didn't argue when Myra suggested they skip the "proper" showers and head straight for the water.
The truck bounced toward the bend in the creek where the water ran deep and cold, shaded by ancient, moss-covered cypress trees.
But as they pulled up, they weren't greeted by silence. A sharp, rhythmic barking echoed off the limestone banks.
A blur of blue-grey and white fur exploded from the tall grass. Lucy, Myra's Australian Cattle Dog, was a frantic whirlwind of energy.
She didn't just run, she patrolled. She circled the truck before it even came to a full stop, her "work" eyes darting between the three new men as if she were deciding which one was most likely to break a rule.
"Lucy, settle!" Myra laughed, hopping out of the cab.
The dog skidded to a halt, her nub of a tail wagging so hard her entire back half shook.
She let out one final, authoritative woof at Aerion who was still covered in swamp muck before darting toward the water's edge.
"She's been at the house with Duncan's old dog all day," Myra explained, unbuckling her spurs. "She's got about twelve hours of bottled-up herding energy. Watch your heels, Aerion. She thinks people who move slow are just stubborn sheep."
The brothers didn't need a second invitation. Valarr was the first in, not even bothering to take off his undershirt.
He took a running leap from a flat rock, hitting the water with a massive splash that sent Lucy into a barking frenzy of delight.
Aerion followed, though with much less grace. He practically fell into the shallows, letting out a long, loud groan of relief as the cold water began to dissolve the layers of red clay and sweat.
He dunked his head under, coming up gasping and shaking his hair like a wet retriever.
"I am never leaving this spot," Aerion declared, floating on his back. "Build the house here. I live in the creek now."
Daeron waded in more slowly, picking his way over the smooth stones. Lucy took an immediate interest in him perhaps sensing the "Whiskey" scent or remembering him from the barn.
She swam out to him, her head bobbing above the surface, and circled him until he reached out to scratch her wet ears.
"She likes you," Myra noted, sitting on the bank with her boots off, dangling her feet in the water.
Duncan sat beside her, finally looking relaxed as he watched the three city boys actually acting like human beings for once.
"It's the quiet ones," Duncan said, nodding toward Daeron. "Dogs and cattle... they know who's steady."
For a while, the rivalry and the "Targaryen" ego seemed to wash away downstream.
Valarr and Aerion started a lopsided game of "catch" with a heavy stick, trying to outrun Lucy, who was ten times faster and much more competitive than both of them combined.
"Hey, Myra!" Valarr called out, treading water. "Is she always this fast?"
"Only when she's winning!" Myra shouted back, a genuine, easy smile on her face.
The sun was low now, filtered through the hanging Spanish moss, casting long gold-and-green light over the swimming hole.
As Lucy leaped into the air to snag the stick right out of Aerion's hand splashing him directly in the face the sound of laughter filled the canyon.
The sun was dipping lower, turning the creek water into liquid copper. The brothers were still splashing around with Lucy, but the air on the bank had turned cool and crisp.
Myra stood up, shaking the water from her feet. Her heavy denim button-down was soaked through with sweat and creek water, clinging to her uncomfortably.
With the unselfconscious ease of someone who grew up on this land and cared very little for city modesty, she reached for the pearl snaps.
She stripped the shirt off in one fluid motion, tossing it onto a nearby cedar branch. Beneath it, she was wearing a simple, sturdy black sports bra that stood out sharply against her sun-kissed skin.
In her frayed jean shorts, with her damp hair sticking to the back of her neck and a light dusting of North Pasture red clay still on her shoulders, she looked like the very spirit of the ranch rugged, beautiful, and entirely unimpressed by anything but hard work.
Valarr happened to be climbing out of the deeper pool at that exact moment, hauling himself up onto a flat limestone rock. He wiped the water from his eyes, his breath hitching in his chest as he looked up.
He'd spent his life in executive lounges and high-end galas surrounded by women in silk and diamonds, but none of them had ever commanded the space quite like Myra did.
There was a raw strength in the curve of her shoulders and a total lack of artifice that made his pulse jump in a way that had nothing to do with the cold creek water.
Myra caught his gaze. She didn't blush, and she didn't look away. She just arched a dark eyebrow, reaching up to squeeze the excess water out of her ponytail.
"Something on your mind, Valarr?" she asked, her voice carrying that familiar, dry edge. "Or are you just surprised to see that ranch girls have muscles too?"
Valarr realized he was staring and quickly cleared his throat, reaching for his own discarded shirt to hide the sudden, uncharacteristic fumble in his composure.
"Just... hadn't realized how much sun you'd caught today," he managed, his voice a fraction lower than usual.
Duncan, who was busy tossing a final stick for Lucy, looked between the two of them.
He didn't say a word, but a knowing, protective glint flickered in his eyes. He knew his sister, and he was starting to read Valarr Targaryen like an open book.
"Sun's going down," Duncan announced, his voice booming over the water to break the tension. "Let's get back before the mosquitoes realize we're standing still. We've got steaks to grill, and I think Aerion's about five minutes away from falling asleep in the shallows."
Myra let out a short laugh, grabbing her boots. She didn't put her shirt back on, simply slinging her arms across her chest as she started back toward the truck.
Valarr followed a few paces behind, his eyes lingering just a second too long on the way the fading light hit the line of her spine.
The drive back was quieter than the ride out.
The windows were down, the dog was panting happily in the bed of the truck, and for Valarr, the "simple" life of the Pennytree ranch had just become a whole lot more complicated.
The smell of charring ribeyes and sweet mesquite smoke filled the air around the back porch.
Duncan had the grill going full tilt, a cold beer in one hand and a pair of long tongs in the other.
The brothers had finally scrubbed the last of the red clay off, though Aerion's sunburned nose was glowing like a beacon.
They sat around the heavy cedar picnic table, Lucy curled up under the bench, still hoping someone would "accidentally" drop a piece of steak.
Myra had pulled a clean tank top on, but she hadn't put her hair back up, letting the damp waves hang over her shoulders as she set out a massive bowl of potato salad.
"So," Duncan started, flipping a steak with a practiced flick of his wrist.
He looked over at the three of them, his expression deceptively casual. "You boys have been out here a few days now. Noticed you don't spend much time on your phones. Makes me wonder don't you have anyone back in the city wondering where you disappeared to? Girlfriends? Fiancees?"
Aerion let out a dry, short laugh, reaching for the chips. "Back home? Not exactly. There's a girl who works in the marketing department, and maybe a regular at the club in the heights, but nothing I'd call 'serious.' Most of them are more interested in the last name than the man holding it."
Daeron nodded in agreement, staring at the condensation on his glass. "It's all just... flings, Duncan. Connections for the sake of the social calendar. Out here, I think the calf is the first thing I've actually had to be responsible for."
Duncan hummed, his gaze shifting. He let the silence hang for a moment before he looked directly at Valarr.
"What about you, Valarr?" Duncan asked, his voice dropping an octave, sounding more like a mentor or a warning. "A man in your position, running a company... you must have someone looking for a ring. Or are you just as unattached as your brothers?"
Valarr felt Myra's eyes on him from across the table. He took a slow sip of his drink, his posture stiffening slightly.
"There was someone," he said carefully. "An arrangement that made sense for the families. But 'sense' and 'substance' aren't the same thing. I broke it off before I came down here."
Duncan nodded slowly, then leaned over the grill, getting closer to Valarr. "And what happens when the summer's over? You go back to the 'arrangements'?"
Valarr looked at Myra, who was pointedly busy scooping potato salad, though her movements had slowed. "I don't think I'm going back to the way things were," Valarr said, his voice steady. "The city feels a lot further away than four hundred miles right now."
Duncan's eyes narrowed just a fraction the look of a man who was weighing a soul. "Is that so?" he asked. "Because out here, we don't do 'flings,' Valarr. The land doesn't move for people who are just passing through. Neither do the people on it."
The tension was thick enough to cut with a steak knife. Myra finally looked up, her gaze clashing with Valarr's in the amber evening light.
"Steaks are ready," she announced, her voice a little breathless as she broke the silence. "Eat up, or Lucy's going to beat you to it."
