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Masterlist
Kinktober 25 Masterlist
I use Pinterest (I know, I hate it too), those are my moodboards, skin colour or body type used, is never what I picture in reader, more how they feel (?)
summary: you gotten everything you've ever wished for.
pairing: soapgaz x reader, (past) ghostprice x reader.
warnings: hurt/comfort, mildly suggestive, GhostPrice (they're their own warning at this point).
notes: i made a slight amendment to reader's backstory, yes because i didn't want her completely alone.
part of the [rotten work] series.
John sees it.
the growing itch in Simon’s hands. the need for him to go to your apartment. the longing glance cast upon that knitted white sweater. nowadays, Simon can’t stray too far from it.
the man hasn’t been quite himself lately. and it worries John to no end.
and not that John is any better. not with the way he’s always checking if he’d been unblocked from all the ways they used to contact you. he detests the gnawing ache sitting at the pit of his stomach whenever he recalls that fact.
none of his messages have been returned. his calls won’t go through. he can’t find you on any social media and he’s got too much pride to resort to using burner accounts just to see what you’re up to.
then he starts to wonder if he and Simon read things the wrong way on your end.
because they know you. the sign you gave when you sent back John’s beanie was clear enough, wasn’t it? they left the door open for you to come back and you should have by now.
yet, you didn’t.
you’ve been radio silent since then. not a word from you. not another forgotten garment sent back. not even a letter. nothing.
and you’re hardly even at your place anymore. they can’t time the right moment to sit down and have a proper conversation with you because you’re scarcely available now.
John hates that the thought is starting to sink in.
that maybe you’re finally cutting ties with them.
“it suits you, dear.”
you were timid to wear it on this particular day, with a pink sundress and sandals. the necklace glimmers under the summer’s light as it rests comfortably on your neck.
you smiled. “thanks, grandpa.”
if only he knew the story behind it.
you’d rather not give your grandparents a heart attack with that tidbit so you keep it to yourself.
the three of you sit at the patio under the cool shade. the wooden couches lined with blue cushions were an added comfort among the lush green trees and flowers. you pour tea for your grandfather and grandmother as you talk to them while you have yourself a tall glass of lemonade.
it’s not often you come to visit them. your maternal grandparents were pretty much ostracized from the rest of the family years ago back for reasons you have yet to uncover. your paternal grandparents always spoke ill of them. for years, you’ve had the misfortune of being forced to spend time with your paternal grandparents and enduring the same treatment from them as the rest of your immediate family.
and for years, you’ve had the misfortune of not seeing your maternal grandparents for that time until you were much older and upon realizing that they don’t hate you as much as the rest of your family, you’ve come to mourn the time you’ve missed with them.
they won’t tell you why they don’t talk to their daughter anymore. quite frankly, considering how much of a bitch she is, you don’t doubt it’s her fault but you’ll leave that up for speculation until you hear the full story.
it’s nice coming to visit them every so often. you can’t believe you forgot how treasured you felt in their presence. the isolation caused by your immediate family must’ve gotten to your head, must’ve clouded your mind from remembering that these two people were the only ones who’s love never faltered on being unconditional.
you’re glad you came here. you’re glad you still have them. making plans to visit them more often becomes your new objective because you’re going to spend as much time as possible you have while you still can.
“so…” grandfather clears his throat. “there’s two of em’, you say?”
“yes.” you slowly say, watching him.
the wrinkles around his eyes become more pronounced as his eyes narrow. he’s always been the more protective one. given that he’s seen a lot in his lifetime, you can understand why. your grandmother, however, despite seeing as much as he has, tends to be more optimistic.
“oh, my! you never told me that.” your grandmother swats her husband’s arm indignantly. “sweetheart–”
“they’re both in a relationship.” you cut her off, your tone low and nearly trembling. “and they want me to be with them.”
“so they’re gay?”
“technically, they’re both bisexual.” you paused, glancing between the two of them. “is that bad?”
is it going to be a problem? are you going to have to make another hard choice here too? you don’t want to. you’d never want to have to choose between the two pairs of people who are dearest to you. ever.
and thankfully, you won’t have to.
“no, of course not!” the dark cloud over your head dissipates when your grandmother chimes in. “two men vying for your affection? you, my little dove, are blessed. i mean, that’s to be expected when you’ve got your looks from me.”
your grandfather groans as he leans forward to reach for another cookie. he takes a small bite of it. “so when are we meeting the bastards?”
“grandpa!” you huffed, laughing.
“what?” he said. “i wanna know the faces of the two boys who are taking out my favourite granddaughter. is that a crime?”
“it is if you’re going to be so hostile.” his wife mumbles, rolling her eyes.
his mustache wiggles as he grumbles something under his breath. it’s always been such a comical little thing about him that he likes to do because it made you giggle so much when you were a child. you’ve always been fond of it.
it seems your worries are a non-issue.
it’s not that your relationship is a bit out of the ordinary. not one but two men who are actively pursuing you. your grandfather couldn’t care if it’s a bit weird and beyond what he’s probably used to. he’s just going to be the typical overprotective father he’s always been no matter who you bring to see them.
and that’s fine. you don’t mind a little hostility from him since it’s mostly harmless and it comes from a good place.
“soon, granddad.” you finally said. “you’ll meet them soon. i promise.”
“good, good–” he nods more to himself.
you spent the afternoon answering more questions from your curious grandmother, who was more thrilled to meet your boys than her husband was.
Johnny and Kyle crafted their speech and delivered it perfectly.
they needed this time off. just a little bit to themselves to sort things out, to make preparations. after the necklace incident, they didn’t have much time to do all that before they had to report back to work and that didn’t sit right with them.
leaving you high and dry after such emotional turmoil. it wasn’t right.
and, fuck, they missed you so much too. unfathomably so. every second they were away from you was agony.
their Captain and Lieutenant were quiet as they listened and deliberated among themselves. the silence was palpable as the Sergeants were being scrutinized.
it was a long while before Price leans back and slipped the cigar out from between his lips, billowing out a puff of smoke. Simon stood sentinel behind him with arms folded.
“so when are we meeting the bird?” asked the Lieutenant.
“soon, i think.” Kyle replies first. “she’s a bit shy so give her some space to adjust.”
“bit shy’s a severe understatement.” Johnny grumbles under his breath.
Simon grunts with a nod. “noted.”
“got a picture of her?” the Captain suddenly asks.
the Sergeants glance at each other, both unsure, both unsteady on how to proceed. it’s Johnny who takes the initiative, fishing his phone from his right pocket.
“no.” Kyle grabs the device and switches it off. Simon and John stare at him with raised eyebrows. “you can run background checks on her after you’ve met.”
this is you they were talking about and if things were to get serious, John and Simon had to approve. otherwise there was going to be a whole mess of things. they were so close, too fucking close to ruin things now.
John gave him a hard stare. almost scathing. hot to the touch. he’s not often denied things concerning the safety and well-being of his people. but if both Gaz and Soap are in agreement of something then it would be wiser to trust them than go against it.
“alright.” he concedes. “whatever you say, Sergeant.”
“and do not pick her apart once she sets foot in yer house.”
the warning goes to both of them. Johnny’s glare is directed at the man standing behind his Captain.
“i mean it, Simon.” he adds, his tone firm and direct. “we’ve worked too hard tae keep her grounded. she’s no’ running off because ye said somethin’ foul. keep yer thoughts tae yerself till after she’s left.”
Simon and John glance at each other, almost in disbelief. their Sergeants have never been this committed to anyone other than themselves until now and it was a shocker to see this new change. whoever this bird is must be pretty damn special.
Kyle places a hand on his partner’s shoulder in agreement, quietly reinforcing their need to protect you from anything and anyone.
even their most trusted friends. their superiors.
“two weeks.” finally said John. “get your affairs in order and then we meet her.”
you’ve been taking steady breaths. slow and heavy, sometimes mellowing out into a normal pace. but your heart leaps into your throat when you play it over and over again.
your boyfriends (yes, boyfriends) came back far sooner than expected. you were shocked when they explained to you that they asked for this time off. a couple of weeks. to make sure that you’re still on solid ground with them, to make sure that you weren’t planning on taking off while they were absent.
the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. it didn’t even occur to you that they were even worried about the prospect of that happening.
“hold still, hen.” Johnny’s fingers fiddle with the clasp of your heel. you hold onto his shoulder to keep your balance while he helps you put on the shoes he and Kyle got for you. “now the other one.”
Kyle leaned on the door frame, watching. waiting as he puts on his cufflinks. they’re both in crisp white shirts and dark dress pants. both prepared for this date and helping you get dressed too.
your first real date with them.
you’ve been on a few outings with them, sure. but those were casual. no pressure involved, no full expectation of anything groundbreaking. they weren’t this.
a fancy dinner. getting all dolled up in a pretty dress. gathering the courage to wear the stunning diamond necklace they got for you.
(the very necklace that nearly ended it all).
your stomach fluctuates between hurling breakfast and fluttering butterflies depending on how much you’re trying not to spiral into your thoughts. all the while Johnny stands behind you and clasps the last piece of jewelry, letting it rest on your skin.
“the owner of the restaurant is a good friend of ours and he knows about you.” said Kyle. “so don’t you worry about some muppet saying anything rude, alright?”
“okay.” you catch his gaze in the mirror and nod with a smile. “i understand.”
they went to such great lengths for this. you can tell. it’s all such a dream, it doesn’t seem real that you’ve gotten this far with Johnny and Kyle. it doesn’t seem real that anyone has gotten this far with you when almost everyone else has abandoned you.
your hands clench when they start to tremble. you heave in one deep breath and let go.
it’s just the first date. one step at a time. they promised not to rush things because you’re so new to this. to loving someone who feels the same way.
you never thought this would be so overwhelming. not having to beg for affection, not having to be grateful for mere crumbs, you didn’t realize how heavy the cup weigh once it overflows.
“hey.” Johnny grasps your arms. his lips press against your cheek. “we love ye. remember that when ye get too deep in yer head. let tha’ put ye at ease, alright?”
you smile upon hearing it again and turn around to lace your arms around his neck to kiss him.
“i love you too.” you whisper into his mouth.
you’re not surprised when he doesn’t immediately pull away. the warmth he pours into you melts all of your jitters away and you sink right into him.
nothing will ever compare to this.
“Johnny…” you giggle into his mouth when his hands start to wander and grope. he groans into your mouth.
“no fucking against the mirror or we’re going to be late.” Kyle reminds the two of you as he approaches. you stifle a laugh when Johnny pouts at him. “first date, remember? we can’t miss this.”
he cups your cheek and leans in to press his lips on yours. a kiss that is softly returned. the dazed look he casts upon you when he pulls away makes you all too flustered.
first date. implying that there will be a second and third and many more to come. suddenly, there doesn’t seem to be an end to a future with them. you don’t feel the weight of a time limit in their presence.
Johnny sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. “fine. alright. no fuckin’ against the mirror.”
“we can do that after the date.” you offered, “you won’t even have to take off my dress.”
both of them brightened upon hearing that and were all too eager to leave the house. you and Kyle wait while Johnny was pulling the car out of the driveway.
your fingers lace with Kyle’s as you whispered to him, “love you.”
he retaliates by pecking your cheek three times, a bright smile flashing across his lips before he embraces you tightly in his arms, drawing a delighted laughter from you.
you were only falling in love.
and they were right there waiting to catch you with open arms.
i almost feel bad for setting reader up for failure...
Hear me out on single mother Reader x obsessed+in love at first sight butcher Simon
You don't know him, you think, not really.
You've seen him a couple times behind the counter - large man in an apron, blond hair buzzed too short to his skull, surgical mask on his face and in the cool air of the butchery, it almost feels like you are the meat on his counter.
Stupid thought, really, probably because you haven't been resting much lately and maybe, because running from your child's father across the country is draining you of energy, money and hours of sleep.
'What can I get you?' He asks, voice vibrating through the space between the two of you invisible strings getting stroked because you have to crane your neck to look up at him, because his eyes don't blink at you as he stares, because you don't know how to ask for what you want and what do you even need-
You shake your head, stepping to the side, pretending you are still looking at the display, letting the impatient man behind you step forward so that the line can finally get moving and butcher's head tilts to the side.
Not even surprised, for some reason.
Your pride and joy sleeps on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your neck - little boy with your eyes and your nose, his hair tickling your nose when you turn your head to breathe him in, trying to calm down.
His gp has already told you that he needs to eat more meat, but apple never falls far away from the tree - a picky eater has another picky eater, because your chid positively despises red meat, refuses any duck or lamb, spits out ground meat, whining about texture and doesn't take to fish kindly either.
And money's tight this month, you chew on your lower lip, fingers wooden with anxiety coarsing through your body like electrical current.
Buzzes in your arms, already aching because your 3-year old is a growing boy, and maybe you aren't getting stronger to hold him up for hours like before when he was an infant and you could pretend you can still carry him under your heart. Keeping him safe.
"What can I get you, luv?" The low voice slithers through your stupor, so you'd look up from the display and see that the large man from before is bracing his arms on the counter, leaning forward. "Been starin' for a while. What's the plan for dinner?" He asks, and you don't know how to push down the animal's urge to back off from him immediately.
The butcher's eyes are dark and round, almost soft when his gazse is anything but.
'Cow's eyes', you think, swallowing a smile because you don't need no trouble and don't want to smile at another man to give him some bloody reason to get closer. 'If cow was a butcher, that is.'
"I'm not...sure." You say quietly, keeping your voice low and he hums, apparently not planning to pull back. "He uh...doesn't like meat much. But I need him to eat a little of it, something...just- just don't know what to try." Your lower lip wobbles and fuck, this is humiliating. But the month have been so rough and so long and you are so so tired.
"Okay." The man nods slowly, tilting his head to the right shoulder, eyes the bottomless well that you cannot get out of, thick stone of it muffling any screams. "Lad eat anythin' from meat or nothin' at all?" He clarifies, keeping his voice quiet and gratitude blooms in your chest for this small consideration.
"Uh, yeah, he..." you nod quickly, wiping tears on your shoulder hastily. "Likes chicken nuggets sometimes. In the shape of dinosaurs." You explain and the man makes a sound only adjacent to chuckle.
"Got decent chicken fillet this mornin'. Fresh." He proposes, nodding at the neatly arranged pale pink of chicken on your left. "Can coat breadcrumbs and bake 'em in the oven till golden. Should taste like nuggets."
It is so simple, so bloody easy but you have no energy to feel embarassed that you did not think of it yourself.
"I'll take two." You swallow the small shudder, because you cannot allow it while your boy's asleep. Can't risk waking him up.
"Four quid." The man nods, starting to move immediately, picking out the meat to wrap up for you and you fumble for your wallet, trying to get it out of the pocket without needing to set your child down.
The butcher huffs out air, but when you glance up at him, he is looking down on the meat he is packing for you. The only give away of his mood - eyes crinkled in the corners.
Is he smiling?
"Here you go, luv." He takes the money from you and passes you the wrapped up meat. "Let me know how it goes with the chicken." The butcher adds, not requesting but telling and you nod automatically, too glad to get it over with.
He is weird, you think. Weird, but he was nice and that's much more than you were getting in the last couple months.
Only back at your apartment when you get dinner ready, you realise something. The butcher didn't pack you two fillets. He packed four.
When you step into his shop few days later, your toddler, holding onto the bag of groceries you have in hand. "Helpin', mum" as he said to you, determined to do just that.
The bell dings above your head and the butcher emerges out of the backroom, his whole massive frame moving too quietly for someone of his size.
When he sees you and your boy, something changes in his eyes, almost eager. Anticipatory of something, when he gives you a short nod and circles the counter, leaning on it again, this time by the register, so he can see you proper.
So there is no glass between you two.
You open your mouth to greet him, only to pause realising that you don't know his name. Bloody hell, you didn't even ask it last time.
"Simon." He chimes in helpfully, eyes crinkling when you quickly nod. He is definitely smiling.
"Thank you for the last time, Simon." You smile, wide and relieved, reaching for your wallet. "But you've given us more accidentally. How much do I owe you for the extra two fillets we got last time?"
He makes a low humming sound, something satisfied passing through his eyes when he turns his head from side to side, slowly shaking it.
"Not accidental. On the house, luv." He says, glancing down at your toddler, tilting his head to the other shoulder when your son just stares up at him back. "Y'like the chicken?" Simon asks, casual and curious, not moving any closer but your baby quickly nods. Stands on his tippy toes to reach for the counter.
Breathes out 'thank u', a little shy in the face of a new person met and when you glance at Simon, his heavy shoulders sag down, dark eyes warm in a way you didn't expect.
"No problem." He says back to your son and glances back at you. "Same today, luv?"
"Uh...yeah, yeah, please." You snap out of your daze quickly and he nods, pushing himself up, suddenly towering over you. "Seems like we hit out jackpot with oven-baked chicken."
Fuck, you did not realise he will be even bigger up close.
"Breast's better today." Simon announces casually, not even looking up at you as he packs it for you just as quickly as the last time. "Same price as last time."
You are pretty sure that it should not be the same, but the big butcher sends you one glance and you promtly shut your jaws closed.
You will still be paying for the meat, so maybe it's okay if he wants to be kind to someone.
"Thank you, Simon." You tilt your head, mirroring his usual gesture without even realising when you take chicken from him. "Love, tell Simon 'bye-bye', we are leaving." You glance down at your child, currently watching Simon with rapt attention, clearly not planning to leave.
Simon huffs out 'g'bye', very obviously amused and says that he will see you later.
You don't question it. Not until you run into him in the grocery store. Then at the bakery.
Simon tilts his big head to the shoulder every time, large and tall, thick thighs wrapped in jeans that should be bursting at the seams by the looks of it.
Simon huffs 'hey, lad' at your son and breathes out 'mornin', love.", purrs 'evenin', luv' and practically savours the surprise on your face when you run into him in your apartment building when he tilts his head at you in the elevator and hold it so you can get in.
Smiles behind his surgical mask when you glance up at him and your throat bobs.
Not good for you and your kid to be all on your own. He could fix it for you, you know.
Simon nods goodbyes to you, says 'see you soon' instead of simple 'bye' and has the pleasure to watch the jump of your pulse at the base of your neck, breathing hitching.
Yeah, perhaps he should. Simon checked, there is no one with you and the laddie you haul on your hip everywhere.
You could use a hand and won't you look at that, Simon had two.
Synopsys: The love story of two childhood best friends
Tw:Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Character Death, Tragic Romance, Targaryen Incest (canon-typical, cousins), Eventual Happy Ending (for the dragons), Fix-It of Sorts, Childbirth/Labor, Pregnancy Complications, Grief/Mourning, Death in Childbirth, reincarnation. To keep the story inclusive and allow readers to envision themselves in Y/ N, the physical appearance pf her mother is intentionally never described nor her family of origin.
wc 16k
requested by @itsnotsonat07
Maekar
The halls of Summerhall were quiet, that much Maekar remembered. The hour was deep, the kind that blurred the boundary between night and morning, and he had worn a groove into the stone floor of the antechamber. His boots scuffed against the same flags, the torchlight casting his shadow long and restless against the walls.
Inside, his wife labored. He was not accustomed to waiting. Maekar Targaryen was a man of action, of swordplay and saddle, of hard leather and harder judgment. He had little patience for courts and ceremonies, for the slow dance of ravens and whispers that his father the king conducted so deftly. But this was a different sort of trial, there was no enemy to face, no tourney to win. Only the muffled sounds beyond the door, and the rhythmic pace of his own feet.
Dawn crept pale through the high windows. The birds of Summerhall began their chorus. And then, at last, a cry.
Thin and furious, a needle of sound piercing the heavy oak. Maekar stopped mid-stride, his hand finding the doorframe before he could think better of it.
The midwife emerged, flushed and smiling. “A daughter, my prince. Born first, and fierce as any dragon, and then a boy, quiet but healthy and strong.” He did not wait for permission. The room was warm, too warm, the fire stoked high against the morning chill. His wife lay propped against pillows, her hair damp at the temples, her smile tired but true. In her arms, a small bundle stirred and squalled.
Maekar approached the bed as though it were a battlefield. He had faced armed men with less trepidation. “She has your temperament,” She murmured, her voice worn soft. “She has not stopped protesting since she entered this world.”
He looked down at his daughter. She was impossibly small. Her face was creased, her fists clenched tight, her cries fierce and unrelenting. Maekar had held infants before but he had never felt this particular weight settle in his chest.
“She does not like me,” he observed. She laughed, a sound like water over stone. “She does not like anyone yet” The cries continued, sharp and insistent. The wet nurse stepped forward, but the babe would not be soothed. She would not take milk, would not be rocked, would not be swaddled tighter or looser or any of the thousand small adjustments the women attempted.
Maekar stood apart, useless. He had fought in wars, rebellions, had earned his spurs and his scars, had proven himself a thousand times over. And yet he could not quiet his own daughter. “Let me,” he said. She lifted the bundle, her arms steady despite their exhaustion, and offered their daughter to her father.
Maekar took her. He was not certain, afterward, what he had expected. Perhaps that she would continue to wail, and he would be forced to return her, confirmed in his suspicion that he was ill-suited to this particular tenderness. Perhaps that the weight of her would shatter him entirely, this small and furious thing that he had somehow helped create.
Instead, she quieted. Not slowly, not reluctantly. The cries ceased as though they had never been. Her face, still creased turned toward his. Her eyes searched for something in his own.
And then her tiny hand found his beard. It was not a gentle touch. Her grip was immediate and absolute, her small fingers curling into the short-cropped hair at his jaw with surprising strength. She held fast, and she did not let go.
Maekar did not move. He scarcely breathed. He stood at his wife’s bedside, his armor shed but his leathers still stiff, his hands callused from sword and saddle, his reputation hard-won and carefully maintained and he was utterly, completely captured by a newborn babe who had seized his beard and would not release it.
His wife watched him. Her smile had deepened. “I think she likes your beard” she said. Maekar looked down at his daughter. She looked back at him, her grip unyielding, her expression—if such a small face could be said to possess expression—one of perfect satisfaction.
“I may have to cut it off,” he said. His voice was rougher than he intended. “To survive her.” But he did not move to free himself. He did not call for shears, did not summon a servant, did not even shift his weight to ease the insistent tug of her fingers. He stood, and he held her, and he let her hold him.
“What will you name her?” Maekar looked at her. His wife had her eyes closed now, her breathing slow and even, one hand resting on the small bundle that was their son. The maesters would attend to him shortly, for now, he slept, unaware of the world he had entered.
“Y/N,” She had said, in the brief moments between the births. If she is a girl, I would call her Y/N. Maekar had agreed without hesitation. “Y/N,” he said now. “Princess Y/N of House Targaryen.”
In the days that followed, the courtiers gossiped. Prince Maekar, they said, had always been the hardest of the king’s sons, the sharpest edge, the least yielding. He had no patience for softness, no time for tenderness. He was his father’s most dutiful son and his least affectionate.
But they watched him walk the halls of Summerhall with his daughter cradled in the crook of his arm, her small fingers tangled in his beard, and they revised their judgments. They watched him sit through council sessions with her asleep against his chest, his hand steady on her back, his attention divided between reports from the marches and the gentle rhythm of her breathing.
They watched him rise in the dark hours to pace the corridors when she would not be soothed by any other, his shadow long and patient, his voice—that voice they had heard only in command and reproach—murmuring quiet words they could not quite catch.
The years turned, as years do, and Summerhall ripened around them. Maekar watched his daughter grow as he had once watched the battle frontier. with vigilance, with attention, with the quiet certainty that something precious was being shaped and he would not let harm find it.
She was small. She would always be small, he suspected; His wife laughed and said her blood ran true in her, that her kind had never been giants. But what she lacked in height she answered in presence. Her step was quick, her gaze quicker, and she had a way of tilting her chin when she considered a question that reminded him of his father the king.
This was not, he reflected, a comfortable comparison. He saw it most clearly on the mornings when he passed the solar where her lady lessons were held. Septa Marcherys had a voice like a rusted hinge and a disposition to match, and through the crack in the door Maekar would hear her reciting the virtues expected of noblewomen: patience, obedience, silence. And he would hear his daughter's voice, perfectly polite, perfectly attentive and perfectly full of questions.
Septa Marcherys did not know how to answer these questions. She knew how to stitch, not how to explain stitching. She knew how to instruct, not how to illuminate. And his daughter, who had been born with her small hand curled in his beard and her eyes searching for something to hold, did not accept instruction without illumination.
She was seven when she first asked to join her brothers' lessons. "They are learning histories," she said. "I have finished my stitching." "Have you." He asked. "The septa said my work was exemplary." She delivered this without pride, as simple fact. "She said I had nothing more to learn from her today." "And the harp?"
"I played until my fingers ached. Mother said I might rest them." Maekar looked at the door. Beyond it, he could hear Maester Vyman's droning voice and the occasional shuffle of his sons—Daeron, eight now, and Aerion, six—attempting to remain attentive. His daughter looked at him with her steady gaze and her patient silence and her absolute certainty that he would find a way to grant her request.
He opened the door. Maester Vyman paused mid-sentence, his wispy eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. Prince Daeron turned in his seat, relief plain on his round face. Prince Aerion's attention sharpened with the particular interest he reserved for disruptions.
"My prince," said Maester Vyman. "Is there—"
"My daughter will join the lessons from now on."
It was not a request. Maester Vyman, who had served House Targaryen long enough to recognize the particular immovability of Prince Maekar's pronouncements, simply nodded and continued his lecture on the Unification of the Seven Kingdoms.
His daughter settled onto the bench beside Daeron, her hands folded, her attention absolute. She did not smile. She did not fidget. She listened as she did everything, completely.
Maester Vyman, to his credit, adjusted his instruction. When he spoke of Aegon the Conqueror, he spoke not only of battles and crowns but of governance, of the weight of rule, of the thousand small decisions that kept kingdoms from fracturing. And when he posed questions, he posed them to all three children alike.
His daughter answered each one correctly.
She was eight when she asked to learn archery. Maekar appointed Ser Gerold Lannister, a master bowman and he arrived with his finest yew bow and his most patient demeanor, prepared to instruct a princess in the gentle art of target shooting.
He left three hours later with a profound respect for Prince Maekar's daughter and a request to be informed if she ever wished to compete in a tourney.
She was nine when she asked to learn the sword. Maekar taught her himself. He cleared the solar of furniture, laid down mats of woven rush, and stood before his daughter with a blunted practice blade in each hand. She was so small. The sword, even the lightest he could find, seemed almost too heavy for her grip.
She was not naturally gifted. Her arms tired quickly, her wrists lacked strength, her height put her at constant disadvantage against any opponent of size. But she listened, and she learned, and she improved. And when she finally managed to land her blunted blade against his guard—not a hit, not truly, but contact enough to count—her smile was the brightest thing in Summerhall.
Maekar did not tell her that he had let her succeed. He did not tell her that he had slowed his parry, had left his guard a fraction lower than necessary, had given her the opening she needed. He simply nodded, and took the practice sword from her tired hands, and sent her to her mother for supper.
He did not tell her, either, that every day he watched her master some new skill—history, archery, the careful mathematics of household accounts—he felt the same sharp twist in his chest.
If only she had been born a boy.
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome, impossible to banish. If she had been born a boy, she would be his heir. She would inherit Summerhall, with its warm halls and its growing libraries and its gardens that she had mapped in such careful detail. She would carry his name forward, would rule with the same quiet competence she brought to everything she touched.
If she had been born a boy, he would not have to give her away. The letters came monthly. Sometimes weekly. From lords great and small, from the Reach and the Stormlands and once, audaciously, from lords of the free cities. Each letter praised Prince Maekar's daughter, her virtue, her beauty, her impeccable blood. Each letter proposed a match. Each letter offered gold and land and alliance.
Each letter received the same reply: Princess Y/N's hand is not presently available for discussion.
His father did not press. King Daeron was many things—patient, shrewd, possessed of a long view that Maekar had never quite mastered—but he was not cruel. He knew what the letters cost his son. He did not add to the weight.
But the letters kept coming. And every time Maekar dictated his refusal to the same long-suffering maester, he felt the same cold certainty settle into his bones.
He could not keep her forever.
She saw the ledgers his stewards brought and found the discrepancy the maesters had missed. She walked the gardens with the head gardener and asked why the western terrace received less sun, and by the following spring the terrace had been replanted with shade-loving varieties. She listened to the petitions Maekar heard as prince of Summerhall and, afterward, recounted each petitioner's name and grievance and the subtle tells that revealed which spoke true and which did not.
She was ten years old. His father, who had made peace with Dorne through marriage and diplomacy. His father, who had bent the realm to his will not through conquest but through patience. His father, who looked at his granddaughter and saw something Maekar was afraid to name.
"A remarkable girl," the king said, when she had been sent to bed. "She has your mother's mind." "She should be fostered," his father continued. "A year or two in a great house would broaden her experience. The Lannisters have daughters near her age. The Tyrells have expressed interest—"
"No." The word was out before Maekar could stop it. His father's pale violet gaze settled on him, patient, waiting.
"She is ten years old," Maekar said. "She is too young to leave home." "She is ten years old. She is not too young to begin preparing for her future." The king's voice was gentle. "You cannot keep her here forever, my son. You know this."
Maekar knew this. He knew that she would one day marry, would leave Summerhall for some other lord's castle, would bear some other house's children and answer to some other name. He knew that the letters would not be refused forever, that his father's patience had limits, that the realm required alliances and the princesses of the blood were currency in that endless negotiation.
He knew all of this. "She is ten years old," he repeated. "We will speak of fostering when she is older."
But the words lingered.You cannot keep her here forever. Maekar went to his daughter's chamber that night. She was asleep, her face peaceful, one hand curled against her pillow as it had once curled in his beard. The fire had burned low; the room was soft with shadow.
He sat beside her bed and watched her breathe. She was so small. She was so fierce. She was so utterly, completely herself, and every day she grew a little more toward a woman he would not recognize, a life he could not share.
She would leave, and the halls of Summerhall would grow quieter, and there would be no small hand reaching for his beard in the morning light. No voice asking why and how and what if. No patient correction of sums, no quiet triumph on the archery range, no chin tilted at that particular angle. She would leave. And he would let her. Because he was a prince of the realm, and his duty was to his house and his king, and fathers did not keep their daughters forever.
But not yet. He reached out and smoothed the hair from her forehead, careful not to wake her. She stirred slightly, murmured something unintelligible, and was still.
Maekar withdrew his hand. He sat in the darkness, watching his daughter sleep, and did not think about the letters on his desk or the weight of his father's words or the future he could not prevent.
He thought about tomorrow morning, when she would wake and find him breaking his fast in the solar. She would ask him about the new shipments from the Reach, or the correspondence with Lord Swann, or the progress of the garden terrace. She would pour his tea without being asked, the way she had done since she was old enough to lift the pot.
And when she passed his chair, she would reach out and tug, once, at his beard. She had not outgrown the habit. He had not encouraged her to. He sat in the darkness, and he waited for morning, and he did not think about the future at all.
YN
You called him Val. You met him when you were six and he was seven, a formal introduction in the great hall of King's Landing while your father stood stiff behind you. Prince Baelor had smiled, broad and warm, and ruffled his son's dark hair. Valarr had stared at his shoes.
"Your cousin," said Baelor. "Princess Y/N of Summerhall." Valarr had looked up, briefly, and then down again. His face had been very red.
You had studied him with the frank assessment of a child who had not yet learned that staring was impolite. He was shorter than you, which you found interesting. He was round in the cheeks and round in the middle, his fine clothes straining slightly at the seams. His hands were small and soft, clasped tightly before him. "Hello," you said.
"Hello," he whispered. And that was that.
Or it was, until you discovered him hiding behind the tapestry in the corridor outside the small council chamber. He had not been difficult to find. The tapestry billowed slightly, betraying his presence, and when you pulled it aside he was pressed against the stone wall with his hands over his face and his breathing quick and shallow.
"What are you doing?" you asked. He did not answer. His shoulders shook. You considered the situation with the same practical attention you brought to your lady lessons. He was hiding. He was sad. He was your cousin, and his face was very red, and his hands were pressed so tightly against his eyes that his knuckles had gone white.
You sat down beside him. "I don't like it here either," you said. "Everyone is very loud. My father says the courtiers talk more than fishwives and have less sense."
A pause. His breathing slowed slightly. "My mother made me wear this tunic," he whispered. "It pinches."
You examined the tunic. It was velvet, deep blue, embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of dragon scales. It did, indeed, look very pinched.
"My mother makes me wear dresses with too many buttons," you said. "I told her buttons are inefficient. She said I would understand when I was older."
"She always says that."
"Who?"
"Mother." His hands lowered slightly, just enough to reveal one watery eye. "She says I will understand when I am older. But I don't think I will. I think I will just be older and still not understand."
You considered this. It seemed, to you, a perfectly reasonable fear.
"Maybe," you said, "we will both be older and neither of us will understand anything, and everyone else will be very confused."
Valarr looked at you. His eyes were different, one blue, a pale shade like the sky on winter mornings, and one a warm chocolate brown. His lashes were wet. "That would be funny," he said.
"It would be very funny."
He smiled. It was a small smile, hesitant, as though he were not entirely certain he was permitted it. But it was there.
He did not hide behind the tapestry again. Not while you were at court, at least.
You teased him. You could not help it. He was so easy to tease, his round cheeks flushing pink at the slightest provocation, his gaze dropping to his shoes whenever someone spoke too directly to him. The courtiers called him solemn, you called him pudding-face, and watched his blush spread from his cheeks to his ears to the very tips of his ears.
"I am not," he protested, but his mouth was already twitching toward a smile.
"You are. You have pudding where your chin should be." You poked the soft curve of his jaw. "And pudding here, and pudding—"
He swatted your hand away, laughing despite himself. "You are very mean."
"I am honest. There is a difference."
"You are mean, and I do not have to listen to you."
"You do not have to listen to me," you agreed. "But you will anyway, because you like me."
His blush deepened. He did not deny it.
He was ten when he informed you, with great solemnity, that he had decided to marry you.
You were nine, which was old enough to know that marriage was something adults arranged and children did not decide. You were also old enough to know that Valarr's mother had been speaking of betrothals, and that he had been listening more carefully than anyone realized.
"You cannot marry me," you said. "You are my cousin."
"So?" His brow furrowed. "Targaryens marry each other all the time. Father says it keeps the blood pure."
You had no argument for this. You had heard the same reasoning yourself, though you found it unconvincing. The Targaryens had been marrying each other for centuries, and they were no less peculiar for it.
"Even so," you said. "You cannot marry me unless you can beat me with a sword."
He blinked. "A sword?"
"Any man who wishes to be my husband must prove himself worthy." You had heard this somewhere—perhaps from Septa Marcherys, perhaps from one of the romances the older ladies whispered about when they thought the children weren't listening. "He must defeat me in honorable combat."
"But you are a girl."
"And I practice with my father every morning. I can already parry a low thrust and execute a basic riposte." You had learned these words yesterday and were very pleased with them. "Can you?"
Valarr could not, his sword lessons consisted primarily of being knocked to the ground by his father's master-at-arms and told to try again. He was not bad, precisely, but he was not good, and he knew it.
"I will learn," he said, with more determination than you had ever heard from him. "I will practice every day. And when I can beat you, you will have to marry me."
"I will have to consider it," you said, with great dignity.
He nodded, satisfied. "That is fair."
He did practice. You watched him from the gallery, his small round form struggling through the same drills your father had taught you. He fell. He rose. He fell again. His master-at-arms shouted, his face grew red, his grip on the practice sword remained clumsy and uncertain.
But he did not stop.
He was eleven when he finally reached you.
It was not dramatic, no sudden spurt, no overnight transformation. But one morning you stood beside him in the corridor and realized, with faint surprise, that you no longer had to look down to meet his eyes.
You were the same height.
"I told you," you said. "I am still taller."
"You are a weed," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. His gaze lingered on the top of your head, measuring the distance. "I will catch up. And get taller."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps you will be short forever, and I will be very tall, and everyone will think you are my little brother."
"I am older than you."
"By a year. That is nothing. When we are old, a year will not matter at all."
He considered this. His face, still round, still prone to blushing, had begun to lose some of its baby softness. His jaw was taking shape; his shoulders were broadening, though slowly. His mother's indulgence had not diminished—she still sent sweetcakes to his chambers and fretted over his health—but he had grown into himself, somewhat.
"When we are old," he said, "I will be a great knight, and you will be my lady wife, and we will live in a castle by the sea."
"What sea?"
"Any sea. All seas. I will conquer one for you."
"That is very impractical. Castles by the sea are difficult to defend and prone to salt damage. Also, I don't like fish."
He laughed. He laughed often, now, when he was with you. It was a soft sound, easily startled into silence, but genuine.
"You are impossible," he said.
"I am practical. There is a difference."
He looked at you for a long moment. His eyes were hypnothising, and there was something in them you could not quite name.
You were twelve when your father took you home.
Summerhall was your home, had always been your home, and you had known this visit to court would end as all visits ended. But the knowledge had been abstract, distant, a fact without weight. You had not felt it in your chest, pressing against your ribs, until your father stood before you in the Red Keep's solar and told you to pack your things.
"Your mother misses you," he said. "Summerhall misses you. It is time to come home."
You nodded. You were a princess of the realm; you knew how to nod at commands you did not wish to obey.
Valarr found you in the library. He simply sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched, and waited.
"My father is taking me home," you said.
"I know."
"Summerhall. Not court. Not—" Your voice caught. You had not expected it to catch. You were not a child who cried easily, had not cried since you were very small and your father had taken you into his arms and quieted you with his presence alone. "Not here."
"I know," he said again.
"I do not want to go," you whispered.
"I know."
You turned to look at him. His face was very still, very pale, his jaw set in a line you had never seen before. His eyes were bright, though he did not let them spill over.
"You will write to me," you said. It was not a question.
"Every week."
"And you will visit."
"When I can. Father says—" He stopped. Swallowed. "He says I am old enough to accompany him on progress. Perhaps we will come to Summerhall."
"Perhaps."
Silence. The library was dim, the afternoon light filtered through high windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the golden shafts.
"I am still going to marry you," he said.
His voice was steady. His gaze was steady. His hands, clasped tightly in his lap, were not steady at all.
"I have not forgotten," he said. "I practice every day. Master Arlan says my footwork has improved. I can parry a low thrust and execute a basic riposte." His voice trembled slightly on the words, the ones you had taught him three years ago. "I am not good enough yet. But I will be. I will be good enough, and I will come to Summerhall, and I will beat you, and you will have to marry me."
You looked at him. His round face, his chocolate-sky eyes, his soft hands that were slowly growing callused from the sword. His earnestness, his determination, his absolute certainty that if he only tried hard enough, he could shape the world to match his wanting.
You had taught him that. You had pulled him out from behind his tapestries and taught him that wanting was not weakness, that reaching for things was not shameful, that the world might sometimes yield to those who asked it properly.
You had taught him, and now you were leaving.
"All right," you said.
He blinked. "All right?"
"All right. I will wait." Your voice was very small. "I will wait, and you will practice, and when you are good enough you will come to Summerhall and beat me. And then I will consider marrying you."
His smile was slow, hesitant, as though he were not entirely certain he was permitted it. But it was there.
"All right," he said. "It is a promise."
"It is a promise."
You left at dawn.
Your father's hand was warm on your shoulder, steadying you as the carriage lurched into motion. You did not look back. You had learned, from years of watching courtiers come and go, that looking back only made the parting harder.
But you felt it, all the same. The weight of the Red Keep receding behind you, the distance growing between your heart and the boy with winter-sky eyes. You felt it settle into your chest, heavy and cold, and you did not know what name to give it.
Your father did not speak. His hand remained on your shoulder, his grip sure, his silence more eloquent than words.
You were twelve years old. You were going home.
And somewhere, in the castle behind you, a boy was standing at a window, watching your carriage grow smaller and smaller until it vanished into the morning mist.
The years between were letters.
They came weekly, as promised. Valarr's script was careful, precise, each word formed with the same earnest attention he brought to everything. He wrote of his lessons—swordwork improving, history mastered, sums still troublesome. He wrote of his brothers, Matarys growing like a weed and just as wild, of his father's travels and his mother's health and the small, daily rhythms of life at court.
You wrote back. Your own hand was quicker, less polished, sprawling across the page in your haste to capture everything before it escaped you. You wrote of Summerhall's gardens and the new terrace that flourished in the shade. You wrote of your father's ledgers and the discrepancies you had found, of your mother's laughter and your brother Daeron's dreams. You wrote of Aerion's sharp edges and Aemon's quietness, of the twins Daella and Rhae who had just begun to talk.
You did not write that you missed him. You did not need to.
He visited when he could.
Twelve, and he came to Summerhall with his father for the autumn progress. He was taller—you noticed immediately, with a strange twist in your chest—taller than you now, as he had always promised he would be. His face had lost its roundness, his jaw sharpening into the shape of a young man's. He was still soft, still gentle, still prone to blushing when you looked at him too long.
But his shoulders were broader. His hands, when he helped you down from the garden wall you had climbed for old times' sake, were stronger.
"You grew," you said.
"You shrank."
"I did not. You are just taller now. It is very inconvenient."
He smiled, that same hesitant smile, as though he were still not certain he was permitted it. "I told you I would catch up."
"You took long enough."
You walked the gardens together. He told you about King's Landing, about the small intrigues and daily dramas you had missed. You told him about Summerhall, about the changes your father had made at your suggestion, about the satisfaction of seeing your ideas take root and flourish.
He listened. He always listened, his attention absolute, his gaze steady on your face as though you were the most important person in any room.
You had missed that. You had not known you missed it until it was there again.
Thirteen, and you came to court for your nameday.
The Red Keep was the same—loud, crowded, full of whispers and glances and people who wanted things you could not name. But Valarr was different. He moved through it with more ease than you remembered, his shyness faded into something quieter, more controlled. He still blushed when courtiers addressed him directly, but he no longer hid behind tapestries.
He showed you the places only he knew: a hidden balcony overlooking the bay, a corner of the library where the light fell golden in the afternoons, a spot in the godswood where the heart tree's leaves whispered secrets to anyone quiet enough to listen.
"Do you remember," he said, "when you found me behind the tapestry?"
"You were very small."
"I was six. You were five and very bossy."
"I was practical. There is a difference."
He laughed. The sound was deeper now, but still soft, still easily startled into silence. "You always say that."
"Because it is always true."
He looked at you for a long moment. His eyes were still that pale winter blue, but there was something new in them, something you could not quite name.
"You have changed," he said.
"So have you."
"Have I? I do not feel changed. I feel like the same person, only—" He gestured vaguely, helplessly. "Only more."
You understood. You felt it too—the strange sensation of growing into oneself, of becoming more fully the person one had always been. It was disorienting, sometimes, to look in the mirror and see the same face, only sharper, older, more defined.
"More is good," you said. "I think."
"I think so too."
Fourteen, and he came to Summerhall again.
You met him in the courtyard, and for a moment you did not recognize him. He had grown again, taller still, his frame filling out in ways that spoke of hours in the training yard. His dark hair was longer, brushing his collar, and there was a new confidence in the way he held himself.
But his smile was the same. Hesitant, hopeful, as though he were still afraid you might turn away.
"Val," you said, and something in your chest eased at the way his name felt in your mouth.
"Y/N." He said it softly, like a prayer. "You look—" He stopped, color rising in his cheeks. "You look well."
"Summerhall suits me."
"It does." His gaze lingered on your face a moment too long. "It always has."
That night, you sat together on the battlements, watching the stars wheel slowly overhead. The stones were warm from the day's sun, the air soft with the promise of summer. His shoulder was warm against yours, and you did not move away.
"I missed you," he said quietly. "More than I thought I would."
"I missed you too."
"I know. Your letters—" He stopped. Started again. "They help. They help more than you know."
You turned to look at him. The starlight caught his features, softening them, making him look younger than his fifteen years. "Then I will keep writing."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Fifteen, and you returned to court for his nameday.
He was sixteen now, officially a man grown, though he still carried himself with that same quiet hesitance. The tourney in his honor had been grand—his father's doing, you suspected, Baelor's quiet pride in his eldest son manifesting in silver and silk and the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms.
Valarr had not won. He had never been a great warrior, and you knew he never would be. But he had held his own, had lasted three rounds against knights twice his age, and you had cheered louder than anyone when he finally yielded.
Afterward, he found you in the gardens.
"You embarrassed me," he said, but he was smiling.
"I did not. I was supportive."
"Supportive is quiet encouragement. You were—" He laughed, shaking his head. "You were very loud."
"You deserved loud. You fought well."
His smile softened. "You think so?"
"I know so. I watched every moment."
He looked at you for a long moment. The garden was quiet, the sounds of the feast distant and muffled. His hand found yours, tentative, questioning.
You did not pull away.
"Y/N," he said, and his voice was different. Thicker, somehow. "I—"
"Val." You squeezed his hand. "I know."
You did know. You had known for years, in the way that you knew the shape of your own thoughts. He loved you. He had always loved you, from the moment you pulled him out from behind that tapestry and sat beside him in the dust.
And you—you loved him too. Not the way you loved your father, or your brothers, or Summerhall. Different. Deeper. A thing that had grown so slowly you had not noticed it until it was too large to ignore.
He did not say the words. He did not need to. He simply stood there, in the quiet garden, holding your hand as though it were the most precious thing in the world.
And you stood with him.
Now you are seventeen, and it is his eighteenth nameday.
The celebrations have been ongoing for three days. Tourneys and feasts and dances, endless dances where you have been partnered with lordlings and heirs and one very persistent Tyrell who does not seem to understand that your smiles are merely polite. Your feet ache. Your head aches. Your patience has long since fled.
Valarr finds you in the corridor outside the great hall, where you have escaped for air.
"You look like you are planning someone's murder," he observes.
"I am planning many murders. The Tyrell boy is first."
He laughs. It is a good sound, warm and genuine, and it eases something in your chest. "He is harmless."
"He is tiresome. There is a difference."
"There always is with you." He glances around, lowers his voice. "Come with me."
"Where?"
"Away." He holds out his hand, that same tentative gesture, as though he still fears you might refuse. "I want to show you something."
You take his hand without hesitation.
He leads you through passages you do not know, past kitchens and storage rooms and up a winding stair that seems to go on forever. The air grows cooler, the sounds of the castle fading behind you. Finally, he pushes open a door, and you step out onto the roof.
The night sky opens above you, vast and brilliant, more stars than you have ever seen. The city sprawls below, a thousand tiny lights flickering in the darkness. The wind is sharp up here, carrying the salt scent of the bay.
"What is this place?" you breathe.
"My secret. I found it years ago, when I needed to hide." He gestures at the sky. "No one comes here. No one knows it exists. Just me."
"And now me."
"And now you." He looks at you, and his eyes are very blue in the starlight. "Happy nameday to me."
You laugh. "You brought me a gift for your nameday?"
"The best gift. You, alone, with no Tyrells." He pauses. "I have something else, actually. But it can wait."
"What is it?"
He shakes his head, smiling. "Later. First—" He draws something from his belt, and you recognize it with a start. A practice sword, blunted but familiar. "I have not forgotten."
"Val—"
"When I can beat you with a sword, you said. You would marry me." His voice is light, teasing, but there is something underneath it. Something serious. "I am eighteen now. A man grown. It seems past time I collected on that promise."
"You cannot be serious."
"Deadly serious." He tosses the sword lightly from hand to hand. "One bout. Right here. No one to see but the stars."
You stare at him. He stares back, that hesitant smile playing at his lips, his eyes bright with something you cannot quite name.
"You will lose," you say.
"Probably." He shrugs. "But I have been practicing."
You have no sword. You have no intention of fighting him on a rooftop in your feast clothes. You have every intention of telling him exactly how foolish this is.
Instead, you laugh. "You are impossible."
"I learned from the best."
You find a length of wood near the door—an old broom handle, discarded and forgotten. It is not a sword, but it will serve. You settle into your stance, the same stance your father taught you years ago, and face him across the moonlit roof.
"Rules?" you ask.
"First to disarm."
"First to disarm," you agree. "Begin."
He is better than you expected. Not good—not truly good, not the way your father is good, not the way a warrior is good—but better. His footwork is solid, his guard consistent, his attacks measured and careful. He has been practicing. He has been practicing a great deal.
You circle each other on the rooftop, the city spread below, the stars wheeling overhead. Your broom handle meets his practice sword again and again, the sound sharp in the night air. He presses forward; you yield ground, testing him. He follows; you parry, riposte, force him back.
"You have improved," you admit.
"I told you." He is breathing hard, but smiling. "I always keep my promises."
You press your advantage. He is stronger than he was, but you are faster, more skilled, more experienced. Your father taught you well, and you have not let those lessons rust. You drive him back toward the edge of the roof, your broom handle a blur of motion.
He is going to lose. He knows he is going to lose. You can see it in his eyes, the acceptance, the determination to fight on anyway.
And then—
He moves forward instead of back.
It is unexpected, bold, utterly foolish. He steps inside your guard, inside the reach of your broom handle, and for a moment you are too surprised to react. His free hand comes up, not to strike, but to cup your face.
His lips meet yours.
The kiss is soft, tentative, exactly like him. His mouth is warm against yours, and for one breathless moment you forget everything—the sword, the rooftop, the city below, the stars above. You forget your name, your training, your father's voice in your head. There is only him, only Valarr, only the impossible sweetness of his mouth on yours.
Your broom handle drops from nerveless fingers.
He pulls back, just slightly, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes are very blue, very close, very bright. His breath is warm on your lips.
"I win," he whispers.
You look down. His practice sword is pressed gently against your wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to count. Your broom handle lies forgotten at your feet.
He disarmed you.
You should be angry. You should call him a cheat, a trickster, a dishonorable wretch who would rather steal a victory than earn it fairly. You should—
You kiss him again.
This time it is not soft. This time it is not tentative. This time you put into it everything you have not said, everything you have not admitted, everything you have been too afraid to name. You kiss him like the years of letters, like the stolen moments in gardens, like the weight of his hand in yours and the warmth of his shoulder against your own.
He makes a sound against your mouth—surprise, pleasure, something deeper—and his arms come around you, pulling you close. The practice sword clatters to the roof, forgotten. His hands find your waist, your back, your hair. He kisses you like he has been waiting his whole life for this moment.
Perhaps he has.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathless. The stars spin overhead. The city glitters below. His face is very close, very flushed, very beautiful in the moonlight.
"That was—" he starts.
"A cheat," you say, but you are smiling. "A trick. Dishonorable."
"I won."
"You cheated."
"The rules did not say I could not kiss you." His voice is soft, wondering. "I checked. Very carefully. Many times."
You laugh. You cannot help it. The sound echoes across the rooftop, bright and free, and he watches you with an expression you have never seen before. Tenderness, yes. Love, certainly. But something else—something like triumph, like wonder, like he cannot quite believe you are real.
"I have loved you," he says quietly, "since I was six years old and you sat beside me behind that tapestry. I have loved you every day since. I will love you every day until I die."
"Val—"
"You do not have to say it back. I know—I know you care for me, I know you—but you do not have to—"
You kiss him again, just to stop his rambling.
When you pull back, his eyes are very bright. "I love you too," you say. "You impossible, ridiculous, wonderful man. I have loved you for years. I was just waiting for you to catch up."
He laughs. It is a wet sound, a little broken, absolutely joyful. "I caught up."
"You did." You touch his face, trace the line of his jaw. "Eventually."
"I won."
"You cheated."
"I won, and now you have to marry me."
You consider this. The stars wheel overhead. The city glitters below. His arms are warm around you, his heart beating against your chest, his eyes the blue of winter sky.
"I suppose," you say slowly, "I did make a promise."
"You did."
"And I always keep my promises."
"I know." He kisses your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth. "I know you do."
"Then I suppose—" You smile, and it feels like coming home. "I suppose you had better speak to my father."
He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder. "Your father. The man who sharpens his sword every morning while glaring at anyone who looks at you too long."
"He likes you."
"He tolerates me. There is a difference."
"There always is." You run your fingers through his hair, and he sighs against your shoulder. "But he will say yes. He knows—he knows you make me happy."
"He does?"
"He notices everything. It is very inconvenient." You pause. "Also, you are a prince of the realm, grandson of the king, heir to Dragonstone after your father. There are worse matches."
He lifts his head, mock-offended. "You are marrying me for my title?"
"I am marrying you despite your title. There is a difference."
He laughs, and kisses you again, and the stars spin on.
The weeks blur into something golden.
Three weeks of Valarr's nameday celebrations—feasts and hunts and tourneys and balls, each one grander than the last. Three weeks of smiling at the right moments, dancing with the right partners, saying the right things to the right people. Three weeks of pretending that everything is exactly as it should be.
And three weeks of stealing moments.
The gardens at dawn, when the rest of the castle sleeps. A hidden alcove behind the tapestry in the library. The abandoned tower room where the maesters once stored their books, now empty and forgotten. These become your sanctuaries, your secret kingdom, the only places where you can stop being princess and prince and simply be yourselves.
You meet him whenever you can.
In the mornings, before anyone thinks to look for you. In the afternoons, when the court naps through the heat. At night, when the feasts finally end and the corridors grow quiet and the guards know better than to question the prince's late-night walks.
He is always waiting.
His arms open. His smile private. His eyes warming the moment they find you.
"You're late," he says one afternoon, pulling you into the alcove behind the tapestry.
"I'm not late. You're early."
"I've been waiting for an hour."
"You have not."
"I have. I counted every heartbeat." His arms circle your waist, drawing you against him. "Seven thousand, two hundred and forty-three."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm in love. There's a difference."
You kiss him. It is the only reasonable response.
The alcove is small, barely large enough for two, but you have grown to love its cramped intimacy. The stone wall at your back. His warmth at your front. The muffled sounds of the library beyond the tapestry, scholars and scribes going about their business unaware that the heir to the Iron Throne is three feet away with his hands in your hair.
"I have to go back soon," you murmur against his lips.
"Not yet."
"Your mother will notice."
"My mother has noticed everything since i was eight. She's just waiting to see what happens next."
"And what is happening next?"
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. His expression has shifted, the playfulness fading into something deeper, more serious.
"I'm telling my father in the morrow."
Your heart stops. "It's been three weeks. The celebrations end tomorrow. If I wait any longer, you'll go back to Summerhall and I'll—" He stops. Swallows. "I'll lose you again."
"You won't lose me."
"You know what I mean." His hand cups your face. "I want to do this properly. I want to ask for your hand. I want your father's blessing and my father's approval and the king's consent. I want to marry you in the light, in front of everyone, with no more hiding and no more secrets."
"Valarr—"
"I know it's fast. I know we've only had three weeks. But I've loved you for ten years. I've waited for you for ten years. I'm not waiting anymore."
You look at him—this man who was once a shy boy hiding behind tapestries, who grew tall and strong and sure, who kept his promise to practice every day and wrote you a hundred letters he never sent. This man who held you in a tent and kissed you like you were the answer to every question he had ever asked.
"You're sure?" you whisper.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
You kiss him again. Deeper this time, slower, pouring ten years of waiting into a single moment.
His hands roam your back, your waist, your hips. Yours tangle in his hair, pull him closer, hold him there. The tapestry muffles your soft sounds. The library continues its quiet business. The world spins on, oblivious.
Your hand drifts lower.
He catches your wrist. Gently. His forehead rests against yours, his breath coming quick.
"Not yet," he says.
"I want to."
"I know." His thumb traces slow circles on your palm. "But not like this. Not in a hidden alcove, stealing moments between duties. Not when I have to let you go in an hour and pretend nothing happened."
"I don't care about—"
"I care." His voice is soft but firm. "I won't take your maidenhood like this. After the celebration, I'll tell my father. I'll propose to you properly. I'll do this right."
You want to argue. You want to tell him that you don't need proposals or permissions, that you have waited long enough, that the only thing that matters is him.
But you look at his face—the sincerity in his eyes, the steadiness of his gaze—and you understand.
"Only our wedding bed," he says slowly, "will have the honor of our first love. I promise."
"You and your promises."
"You and your waiting." He pulls you close, tucking your head beneath his chin. "We're quite a pair."
"We are." Your arms circle his waist. "A pair of fools in love."
"The best kind of fools."
---
The morning light falls soft through the windows of Prince Baelor's solar.
Valarr stands before his father's desk, his heart full, his intentions clear. He has rehearsed this conversation a hundred times—in the garden, in the alcove, in the quiet hours of the night when sleep would not come. He knows exactly what he will say.
Father, I want to marry Y/N. This is not an infatuation. I have loved her since we were children. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I want your blessing.
Baelor looks up from the papers on his desk. His expression is unreadable, it has always been unreadable, the face of a man who has spent his life learning to hide his thoughts. But there is something in his eyes today. Something Valarr cannot name.
"Valarr." His voice is gentle. "Sit down."
"I'd rather stand." A pause. "Father, I need to speak with you about something important."
"And I need to speak with you." Baelor sets down his quill. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. "Please. Sit."
Something cold settles in Valarr's stomach. He sits.
Baelor is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful—too careful, the voice of a man delivering news he knows will wound.
"I have been in discussions with the Archon of Tyrosh," he says. "For several months now. Trade agreements, military alliances—the usual dance." He pauses. "And a marriage."
Valarr goes very still.
"The Archon's daughter, Kiera. She is of an age with you. Well-educated, well-mannered, well-connected. The match would strengthen our ties with the Free Cities, secure our southern trade routes, and provide a counterbalance to the growing power of—"
"No."
Baelor stops. His eyes meet his son's.
"No," Valarr repeats. "I won't marry her."
"You haven't even met her."
"I don't need to meet her." His voice is rising, though he fights to keep it steady. "I am going to marry Y/N. That is what I came here to tell you. I want your blessing to propose to her."
Baelor's face shifts, something flickering across his features that might be regret, might be understanding, might be the echo of his own youth.
"Y/N," he says. "Maekar's daughter."
"Yes."
Baelor is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.
"I understand what you feel. I do. Young love is powerful—I remember what it was like to be your age, to look at someone and think they were the only person in the world who mattered." He leans forward. "But you are not just any young man, Valarr. You are my heir. You will be king after your grandfather. The realm needs more than love—it needs alliances, treaties, bonds that cannot be broken."
"I don't care."
"Valarr—"
"I don't care about Tyrosh. I don't care about trade routes or military alliances or any of it." He is on his feet now, though he does not remember standing. "I have done everything you asked. Every lesson, every duty, every expectation. I have been the perfect son, the perfect heir, the perfect prince. I have never asked for anything."
Baelor rises too. His expression is pained. "I know."
"Then give me this." His voice cracks. "Give me Y/N. She is the only thing I have ever wanted. The only thing."
"Valarr—"
"Father, please." He is begging now, and he does not care. "I love her. I have loved her since I was eight years old. I waited for her for five years while she was in Summerhall. I wrote her a hundred letters I never sent because I was afraid. And now she is here, and she loves me, and you cannot ask me to give her up."
Baelor's jaw tightens. "The negotiations with Tyrosh are nearly complete. The Archon expects—"
"Then marry Matarys to her."
"Matarys is fourteen."
"Then Daeron. I don't care. Marry her to Daeron. Marry her to anyone. Just let me have Y/N."
"You are not thinking clearly."
"I am thinking more clearly than I have ever thought." He steps closer to his father, his voice dropping. "I will marry Y/N. Whether you want it or not. Whether the king wants it or not. Whether the whole realm wants it or not."
Baelor's eyes widen slightly. "You cannot—"
"I can." His voice is quiet now. Steady. Absolute. "I can, Father. If you refuse me, I will elope with her. We will find a septon somewhere, some village no one has heard of, and we will marry in secret and spend the rest of our lives paying for it."
"You would throw away everything?"
"I would throw away everything for her." He meets his father's eyes without flinching. "The succession. The throne. My name. Everything. I don't care about any of it without her."
Silence stretches between them.
Baelor stares at his son. At this boy who was once shy and round-cheeked, who hid behind tapestries and blushed at every teasing word. This boy who has grown into a man, a knight, a prince—and who stands before him now, trembling with the force of his conviction.
"If you refuse me," Valarr says, "I will abdicate. Matarys can be heir. He would make a fine king—better than me, probably. He has the charm I lack, the ease with people, the—"
"Stop." Baelor's voice is rough. "Stop."
Valarr stops.
His father looks at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sits back down. He presses his palms to his eyes and rubs, hard.
"Your mother is going to kill me," he mutters.
Valarr blinks. "What?"
"The Tyroshi negotiations." Baelor drops his hands. "I am going to have to undo months of work. The Archon will be furious. Your grandfather will be disappointed. The entire court will talk."
"Father—"
"She is Maekar's daughter." Baelor is not looking at him. He is looking at the papers on his desk, the careful lists of alliances and agreements. "Maekar. My brother. Who will probably also want to kill me, for an entirely different set of reasons."
Valarr's heart is pounding. "Are you saying—"
"I am saying that I have never seen you like this." Baelor looks up. His eyes are tired, but there is something else there—something that might be pride. "I have never seen you fight for anything. You have always accepted what you were given, done what you were told, followed the path laid out for you."
"I—"
"Today, you fought." He almost smiles. "Today, you told me what you wanted. What you were willing to sacrifice for. What you would burn down rather than lose."
Valarr says nothing. He cannot speak.
"If this is what you want," Baelor says slowly, "if she is truly the one—then I will not stand in your way."
The words take a moment to register. When they do, Valarr's knees nearly buckle.
"I will need to speak with Maekar. With your grandfather. With the Archon, who will be furious, and with your mother, who will have opinions." Baelor shakes his head. "But if you are certain—if you are absolutely certain—then I will support you."
"I am certain." His voice is barely a whisper. "I have never been more certain of anything."
Baelor nods. He looks older suddenly, wearier, as though the weight of the conversation has settled into his bones.
"Then go," he says. "Go find her. Tell her. Before I change my mind."
Valarr does not need to be told twice.
He is out the door before his father finishes speaking, running through the corridors of the Red Keep with his heart soaring and his future bright before him.
He is going to marry Y/N.
Nothing else matters.
---
Four years.
You count them sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, when your husband's arm is heavy across your waist and the world has not yet remembered to demand anything of either of you. Four years of marriage. Four years of waking beside him, of falling asleep beside him, of learning the shape of his days and the weight of his silences and the thousand small ways he shows you he loves you.
Three years of moon tea.
You had not expected it. Had not even considered it, in those giddy weeks before the wedding, when everything was light and promise and the future stretched before you like an unrolled map. Children, of course. There would be children. You were Targaryens, heirs to a dynasty, and children were the currency of your bloodline.
But Valarr had asked.
Not commanded. Not demanded. Asked, in that quiet way of his, his hands cupping your face, his eyes searching yours for understanding.
Not yet, he had said. Please. Not yet.
He had waited ten years for you. Ten years of wanting, of longing, of building you into something almost mythical in his mind. And now you were his—finally his, truly his, in every way that mattered—and he could not bear to share you.
Not yet.
You had agreed. It seemed a small thing, at the time. A year or two, to have him to yourself, to be young and in love and unburdened by the weight of motherhood. The maester had provided the tea without question—it was common enough, for noble ladies who wished to space their children, to control the timing of their fertility. No one thought anything of it.
A year became two. Two became three.
The court began to talk.
The Princess Y/N has been married four years and still no child. Perhaps she is barren. Perhaps the blood runs thin. Perhaps the gods have cursed her for some slight, some sin, some—
You heard the whispers. You could not help but hear them. They followed you through corridors, through gardens, through the great hall where you sat beside your husband at feasts and pretended not to notice the speculative glances.
Valarr heard them too. His jaw would tighten. His hand would find yours beneath the table. But he did not suggest stopping the tea.
He was greedy. You knew this about him—had always known it, from the first moment he told you he had waited ten years and would wait ten more. He wanted you. All of you. Every moment, every thought, every breath. He wanted to make up for lost time, for the years when you were only letters he never sent, only a face he tried to remember, only a promise he was not certain you had kept.
And you had let him. Because you were greedy too. Because you had waited just as long, wanted just as fiercely, needed just as desperately. Because the thought of sharing him—of pushing your body through the transformations of pregnancy, of dividing your attention between husband and child—felt like a loss you were not ready to face.
But the talks grew louder.
And your body, independent of your wishes, began to ache for something more.
Now you sit in the window seat of your chambers, the afternoon light warm on your face, your hand resting on the curve of your belly. Eight months. Ten months since you stopped taking the tea, since you told Valarr it was time, since you watched his face cycle through fear and joy and fear again.
He had not argued. He had kissed your belly instead, reverent and terrified, and promised to love this child as fiercely as he loved you.
The child kicks. Strong and insistent, a reminder that you are no longer alone in your own body. You smile, though your back aches and your feet have swollen and you cannot remember the last time you slept through the night.
Valarr will be back soon. He has been gone all afternoon, attending to some matter with his father, some duty of the heir that cannot wait. He hates leaving you. He tells you every time, pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, promising to return as quickly as he can.
Stay, he always whispers. Wait for me. I'll be fast.
You always wait.
The door opens. His footsteps cross the room. His hands settle on your shoulders, warm and familiar, before he circles the bench to kneel before you.
His face. You never tire of looking at his face. Four years, and it still makes your heart stutter.
His hands find your belly. His lips follow, pressing soft kisses to the swell, to the place where his child grows.
"Hello," he murmurs against your skin. "Hello in there. Your father is home."
The child kicks. Right where his mouth is. He laughs, startled, and looks up at you with eyes that are still the same winter sky you remember from a library, from a promise, from a lifetime ago.
"She knows me," he says.
"It could be a boy."
"It's a girl. She knows me." He presses another kiss to your belly. "She's impatient. Like her mother."
"You have no proof of that."
"I have four years of proof." He settles more comfortably, his cheek resting against your belly, his arms wrapping around your hips. "Four years of you being impatient for everything except the one thing I asked you to wait for."
You run your fingers through his hair. The silver streak is still there, bright against the dark. You have always loved that streak.
"Are you glad?" you ask quietly. "That we waited?"
He is silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is muffled against your belly.
"I'm glad we had the time. Just us. Four years of just us." He lifts his head to look at you. "But I'm glad we stopped waiting too. I'm glad—" His hand presses more firmly against your belly. "I'm glad for this."
You pull him up. You kiss him. Soft and slow and full of everything four years has taught you about loving him.
The child kicks again.
Valarr laughs against your mouth.
"Eager," he says. "Definitely your daughter."
"Definitely yours."
He kisses you again. The afternoon light fades. The whispers of the court drift away, unimportant, irrelevant.
There is only this. Only him. Only the life growing between you, the future you built from waiting and wanting and four years of greedy, selfish love.
The argument starts quietly.
It always does, with you. You have never been one for shouting, for dramatics, for the kind of fights that echo through corridors and become court gossip. You state your position. You wait for his response. You counter. You wait again.
But this time, his response does not come.
Instead, he stares at you. His face has gone very still, very pale, in a way you have learned to recognize over four years of marriage. It is the face he wears when he is trying very hard not to show how deeply something has affected him.
"You cannot be serious," he says.
"I am completely serious." You keep your voice steady, reasonable. "The Ashford tourney is two weeks away. The journey is not long—four days at most, with proper accommodations. The maester said travel in the later months is possible, as long as one is careful."
"Possible." He repeats the word as though it tastes strange. "Possible is not safe. Possible is not—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "Y/N. You are eight months pregnant."
He steps closer, his hands reaching for yours. "You are heavily pregnant. The maesters said—"
"The maesters said many things. They also said I might have difficulty conceiving, and we both know how wrong they were." You let him take your hands, but you do not soften. "I want to be there. The whole family is going—your father, your brothers, my father, everyone. I don't want to sit alone at King's Landing while you all ride off to Ashford."
"You would not be alone. You would be safe. Here. In our chambers. With maesters and midwives and—"
"Valarr."
"Y/N." His grip on your hands tightens. "Please. Please do not ask me to watch you ride off on some tourney progress when you are this close to your time. I cannot—" His voice cracks. He stops. Swallows. "I cannot."
You have seen your husband afraid before. You have seen him face his father, face the king, face the weight of his name and his duty and all the expectations that come with being heir to the Iron Throne. You have never seen him look like this.
"I would be careful," you say, softer now. "I would take every precaution. The roads are good this time of year, and—"
"Please."
The word is barely a whisper. He drops to his knees.
You stare at him. Valarr—your husband, the heir of the heir to the Iron Throne, the man who has never begged for anything in his life—is on his knees before you, his hands still gripping yours, his face tilted up to meet your eyes.
"My love." His voice is rough, scraped clean of all pretense. "My soul. I am begging you."
"Valarr, get up—"
"No." He shakes his head, his grip tightening. "No, I will stay here until you agree. I will stay here all night if I have to. I will—" He stops. Takes a breath. "You are everything to me. You and this child. Everything. If something happened on the road, if something happened at Ashford, if you were hurt and I was not there—"
"You would be there. You would be right beside me."
"And if I could not reach you in time? If something went wrong and I was on the other side of the tourney grounds, or in the middle of a tilt, or—" His voice breaks again. "I cannot. I cannot lose you. I cannot lose either of you. Please."
You look down at him. At his mismatched eyes, bright with unshed tears. At his hands, white-knuckled around yours. At his knees, pressed against the cold stone floor because he refused to wait for a cushion, refused to wait for anything except your answer.
Four years of marriage. Four years of greedy, selfish love, of moon tea and whispered promises and a jealousy so fierce it sometimes stole your breath. You had thought you understood the depth of his need for you.
You had not understood this.
"You are ridiculous," you whisper.
"I know." His voice is hoarse. "I am ridiculous. I am pathetic. I am on my knees begging my wife not to leave me, and I do not care who knows it. Please, Y/N. Please stay."
The child kicks. Hard. Right against your ribs, as though agreeing with its father.
You close your eyes.
You think about Ashford. The tourney. The chance to see your family, to be part of something larger than these quiet chambers and the endless waiting. You think about four days on the road, about the jostling of the carriage, about the crowds and the noise and the thousand small dangers you had convinced yourself were negligible.
You open your eyes.
Valarr is still there. Still on his knees. Still waiting.
"I will stay," you say.
The breath leaves him in a rush. His forehead drops to your belly, pressing against the swell, against the child who kicks in response.
"Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you. Thank you."
You run your fingers through his hair. The silver streak. The dark strands. The familiar shape of his head beneath your hands.
"Get up," you say gently. "You are going to ruin your knees."
"I do not care about my knees."
"Get up anyway."
He rises. Slowly. His hands find your face, cupping it with the same reverence he has shown you since the first moment he held you in that tent four years ago.
"I love you," he says. "I love you more than anything. More than the throne. More than my name. More than—"
"I know." You cover his hands with your own. "I know."
He kisses you. Soft and desperate and full of everything he cannot say.
You kiss him back.
The child kicks again, and you laugh against his mouth, and the argument is over.
The letter arrives a week before they return.
You know something is wrong the moment you see the maester's face. He is pale, paler than you have ever seen him, and his hands tremble slightly as he holds out the folded parchment.
"A raven from Ashford, my princess," he says. His voice is not steady. "You should sit down."
You do not sit. You take the letter. You read it.
Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, is dead. Killed by a blow to the head during a trial of the seven. The king has been informed. The party will return within the week.
That is all. Official words, carefully chosen, stripped of emotion. A prince is dead. Your uncle is dead. The man who smiled at you when you arrived at court, who clapped your brother's shoulder with easy affection, who raised the boy you married to be the man he is—
Dead.
You read the words again. They do not change.
Your father's hand. Your father, who taught you to ride, who held you when you cried, who told you that you would have made a better prince than any son in the kingdom.
Your father killed his brother.
You do not remember sitting down. You do not remember the maester leaving. You only know that suddenly you are on the floor, the letter crumpled in your hands, and the child is kicking and kicking and kicking as though trying to remind you that life continues even when the world has ended.
They return on a grey morning.
You stand in the courtyard of the Red Keep, wrapped in a cloak that does not quite keep out the chill. The child shifts within you, restless, as though sensing your tension. Around you, the court gathers in somber silence. No music. No banners. No celebration.
The gates open.
They ride in slowly, a procession of mourners rather than victors. Black banners hang from lances. Horses walk at a funereal pace. Faces are drawn, pale, marked by grief.
You see Valarr first.
He is at the front, as befits his new station—heir to the Iron Throne now, though the title tastes like ash in your mouth. His face is grey. His eyes are empty. He looks at you as though you are the only solid thing in a world that has turned to water.
your gaze searches the procession for your father.
You find him near the back.
He is alone. The other riders have given him space, a wide berth as though his grief might be contagious. His horse moves mechanically, responding to cues he probably does not remember giving. His face—
You have never seen your father's face like this.
He looks old. Broken. Hollowed out by something worse than grief—by guilt, by knowledge, by the unbearable weight of having killed his own brother with his own hand.
His eyes find yours.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The procession continues around you, horses and riders and mourners flowing past like a river around stones. But you and your father are still, frozen in each other's gaze.
Then he looks away. His horse carries him forward, toward the stables, toward whatever solitude he can find in a castle full of people.
You want to follow him. You want to hold him. You want to tell him that it was an accident, that no one blames him, that Baelor would not want him to carry this weight alone.
But the child kicks. Valarr is approaching, his grey face breaking into something almost like relief at the sight of you. The court watches. The world continues its terrible turning.
You stay where you are.
And you wait for your husband to reach you.
Three weeks pass.
The sickness spreads like fire through dry grass. Servants first, then guards, then nobles. The maesters work day and night, their faces growing more grim with each report. The Red Keep becomes a labyrinth of quarantined chambers and forbidden corridors, of doors that open only one way and close forever.
Valarr has you locked in your room before the first noble falls ill.
You do not argue. You cannot argue—he is already gone, standing in the doorway with his hand on the frame and his eyes fixed on you like a man saying goodbye.
"I will not risk you," he says. "I will not risk either of you. Only the maids I trust. No one else. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
He wants to cross to you. You see it in the way his fingers curl against the wood, in the way his weight shifts forward before he forces it back. He wants to hold you, kiss you, press his face to your belly and feel the child move.
He does not.
"I love you," he says. "Stay safe."
The door closes.
You do not see him again for twelve days.
He uses other chambers. You know this because Lyra tells you, her voice carefully neutral as she brings your meals and changes your linens and checks that you are still breathing. The prince sleeps in the Tower of the Hand now, in rooms far from yours. He sends messages—short notes in his familiar hand, I am well, I miss you, Stay safe—but he does not come.
You understand. You hate it, but you understand.
The child grows heavier. The days grow longer. The sickness takes more names each morning, each evening, each hour between.
One morrow you wake to Lyra's face.
It is wrong. You know it immediately, the way you know things are wrong in that moment between sleep and waking. Lyra never comes this early. Lyra never looks like this.
"What?" You are already sitting up, your heart pounding, your hand flying to your belly. "What is it?"
"It's Prince Valarr."
The world stops.
"He's sick." Lyra's eyes are bright, too bright. "The fever took him last night. He's in his chambers. The maesters are with him but—" She stops again. "They don't know if he'll—"
You are already moving.
"My lady, you cannot—" Lyra reaches for you, but you are faster, stronger than you have any right to be. "The sickness, the baby, you cannot risk—"
You do not hear her.
You are already through the door.
The corridors blur past you.
You do not remember walking. You do not remember the guards who step aside, their faces shocked, their protests dying unspoken. You do not remember the stairs, the turns, the doors that should be locked but are not, because someone has forgotten in the chaos of the night.
You remember only him.
Valarr. Your husband. Your heart. The boy who waited ten years, who begged you to stay, who cried in your arms each night since his father died. The man who locked you away to keep you safe, who used other chambers so he would not breathe the same air as you, who wrote you notes each day saying I am well when he must have known, must have felt the sickness creeping toward him even as his pen touched the paper.
The door to his chambers is open.
You step through.
He is alone.
This is the first thing you notice, the thing that cuts deepest. He is alone. The heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince of Dragonstone, the Hand of the King—and he lies in his bed with no one beside him, no hand to hold, no voice to comfort.
The maesters have been here. You see the evidence—the bowls of water, the cloths, the half-empty cups of potions that have not worked. But they are gone now. Called away to other patients, other crises, other lives that might still be saved.
Valarr lies in the center of the vast bed, drowning in sheets, drowning in fever.
His face is flushed. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. His breath comes in short, shallow gasps, each one a struggle. His lips move, forming words you cannot hear.
You cross to him.
Your body protests. The child kicks hard, fierce, angry at being jostled. You ignore it. You ignore everything except the man on the bed, the man who is everything to you, the man who might be dying while you stand here doing nothing.
You climb onto the bed.
The sheets are damp. His skin is burning. You settle beside him, fitting yourself against his side the way you have done a thousand nights, a thousand times. Your arm crosses his chest. Your head rests on his shoulder. Your belly presses against his hip, and the child kicks again, and you do not care.
"I'm here," you whisper. "I'm here, my love. I'm here."
He stirs. His eyes open—just slightly, just enough to show the fever-bright blue beneath. His lips move.
"Y/N?"
"I'm here."
"You can't—" His voice cracks, barely a whisper. "Sickness. The baby. You have to—"
"I'm not going anywhere."
He tries to push you away. His hands are weak, useless, falling against you like leaves. You catch one of them, press it to your chest, hold it there.
"I love you," you say. "I love you, and I am not leaving you alone."
"Y/N—"
"Stop." Your voice is fierce. "Stop trying to protect me. Stop trying to send me away. I am your wife. I am carrying your child. And I will be here, with you, no matter what happens."
He stares at you. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, but something in them shifts. Something like understanding. Something like relief.
"I was so scared," he whispers. "Not of dying. Of leaving you alone."
"You're not leaving me."
"But if I—"
"You're not." You press your lips to his burning forehead. "You cannot sleep."
Your voice is firm, though it trembles at the edges. You are propped beside him in the bed, your hand still wrapped around his, your body pressed against his side. The fever burns through him like a fire, but his eyes are open now, cloudy, exhausted, but open.
"I'm so tired," he whispers.
"I know." You squeeze his hand. "But you cannot sleep. Not yet. Just a little longer."
He smiles. It is a weak thing, barely there, but it is a smile. "You're bossy."
"I'm your wife. It's my job."
"Mm." His eyes drift closed. You shake his shoulder gently.
"Valarr. Look at me."
He forces his eyes open. They find yours. Even now, even burning with fever, they hold you like you are the only thing worth seeing.
"Tell me something," you say. "Anything. Tell me about the first time you saw me."
"You were six." His voice is a rasp, barely audible. "You walked into the great hall like you owned it. Looked at me like I was furniture."
"I did not."
"You did." A ghost of a laugh. "I was hiding behind my mother's skirts. You came right up to me and told me hi, i was too shy back then"
You kiss his forehead again. His skin is too warm, too dry. You try not to think about it.
"Tell me more," you say.
"I wrote you letters." His eyes drift again, and you let him keep them open this time—he is still looking at you, still present. "Hundreds of them. After you left. I never sent any."
"Why not?"
"I was afraid." His voice cracks. "Afraid you would reject me."
"Foolish boy."
"Foolish man." He smiles again. "Still foolish. Still yours."
"Always mine."
You kiss him. You do not care about the fever, the sickness, the risk. You kiss him because he is here, because he is breathing, because you do not know how much longer you will have either.
He kisses back. Weakly. Desperately. His hand cups your face, and you feel the heat of his skin, and you do not care.
When you break apart, his eyes are brighter. Not just from fever.
"We never chose names," he says.
"What?"
"For the baby." His hand moves to your belly, resting on the swell. "We never chose names."
You laugh. It is a wet sound, half sob. "You want to name our baby now?"
"Now is all we have." He looks at you. "Tell me names."
You think. The child kicks beneath his hand, strong and insistent.
"If it's a girl," you say slowly, "I thought—perhaps—"
"Baela." He says it quietly, reverently. "For my father."
Your throat tightens. "Valarr—"
"She will be a pretty girl." His voice is soft, dreamy. "I know that already. A brave girl, like her mother. She will have your courage and my—" He stops. Smiles. "My complete inability to say no to her."
"She will have you wrapped around her finger."
"Good. That's how it should be." His hand presses gently against your belly. "Baela. Our daughter. Baela Targaryen."
"And if it's a boy?"
He is quiet for a moment. His eyes drift, and you shake him gently again.
"Valarr."
"Sorry. Thinking." He focuses on you. "If it's a boy—you choose."
"Me?"
"I chose the girl. You choose the boy." His thumb traces circles on your belly. "But it's a girl. I can feel it."
"You cannot feel it."
"I can." His smile is stubborn, even through the fever. "She kicks like you argue. Constant and insistent."
You laugh. You cannot help it.
"What about Baelor?" you ask quietly.
Something flickers across his face. Pain. Loss. Love.
"No." His voice is soft but firm. "No, that would bring me too much grief. I don't want our child born into sadness. I don't want to look at him and see—" He stops. Swallows. "I don't want that."
You understand. You squeeze his hand.
"Then you choose," you say. "When he's born. If he's born. You choose."
"If he's born." He looks at you. "But it's a girl."
"You are impossible."
"I am correct." His eyes are closing again. You let them close this time, just for a moment. "Baela. Our daughter. She will be beautiful."
"She will be stubborn."
"Like her mother."
"Like her father."
He smiles. It is peaceful, that smile, even through the fever and the fear and the uncertain hours ahead.
You hold his hand. You watch his face. You wait.
The child kicks.
You wait.
He falls asleep.
You feel it happen, the slow slackening of his grip, the evening of his breath, the way his body sinks deeper into the mattress. Your heart seizes. Your hand tightens around his.
"Valarr." Your voice is sharp, too loud in the quiet room. "Valarr, wake up."
He does not move.
"Valarr!" You shake his shoulder, harder than you should, desperate and afraid. "Wake up. Please. Please wake up."
His eyes open.
Slowly. Blinking against the light. But open.
"You're so loud," he whispers. His voice is weak, but it is there. He is there.
You collapse against him, your face pressed to his chest, your body shaking with relief. His hand rises slowly, heavily, to rest on your head.
"I had a dream," he says. His voice is dreamy, distant, still half-lost in whatever world he visited. "A beautiful short dream."
You lift your head. His eyes are glassy but focused on you, and you need him to stay awake, need him to keep talking, need anything that will keep him here with you.
"Tell me," you say. "Tell me about the dream."
He smiles. It is a soft thing, peaceful, untouched by the fever that burns through him.
"I was a dragon."
You almost laugh. It bubbles up, unexpected, breaking through the fear. "Did Aerion infect you with his delusions?"
He chuckles. It is a weak sound, barely there, but it is a laugh. "No, no. I was a dragon. A big dragon. I was—" He pauses, brow furrowing. "Green. I was green."
"You dislike green."
"I still looked good." His smile turns teasing, even through the exhaustion. "Very handsome. Very intimidating. All the other dragons were jealous."
"I'm sure they were."
"And you were also a dragon." His hand moves from your head to your face, cupping your cheek. "You were beautiful. Cream and gold at the same time, like—" He pauses, his gaze drifting to the wall.
You follow his eyes.
The painting hangs there, commissioned in the first year of your marriage, capturing your wedding day in oil and pigment. You stand at the center, your cream and gold dress catching the light, Valarr beside you in black and red. The artist captured your expression perfectly—the joy, the love, the absolute certainty that you were exactly where you belonged.
"Like our wedding day," he whispers. "You looked so beautiful. You were so strong."
"Valarr—"
"But even though you were strong, I was still your protector." His eyes return to you, bright with fever and love. "I flew beside you. Above you. Around you. I kept you safe. You had eggs—you were pregnant with our children, like now. And I loved you." His voice cracks. "I love you. I love you so much."
You cannot speak. Your throat is too tight, your eyes too full. You lean forward and press your lips to his, soft and desperate and full of everything you cannot say.
He kisses you back. Weakly, but he kisses you back.
When you break apart, his eyes are closing again.
"No." You shake him gently. "No, stay with me. Tell me more about the dream."
"Tired."
"I know. But stay with me. Please."
He forces his eyes open. He looks at you—his wife, his heart, the cream and gold dragon who carries his child—and he smiles.
"Beautiful," he whispers. "So beautiful."
Then his eyes close, and this time, when you shake him, he does not wake.
But his chest still rises and falls. His hand still holds yours. He is still here.
You settle beside him, your face against his chest, listening to his heart. The child kicks. The fever burns. The world waits.
You wait with it.
You do not know how long you lie there.
Time has lost meaning. The candles burn lower, gutter, die. New ones are lit by hands you do not see. The window darkens, lightens, darkens again. Hours or minutes or days—you cannot tell.
All you know is him.
His chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. His hand limp in yours. The heat of his skin, the rattle of his breath, the terrifying stillness between each inhale and the next.
You hold him. You do not let go.
The child kicks. You barely feel it.
Something is wrong. You know this distantly, the way you know the sun rises and sets, the way you know winter follows autumn. Something is wrong with your body. Pain, low and constant, building like a wave. But you cannot move. You cannot leave him.
You hold him. You do not let go.
The pain grows.
It starts as a ache, a pressure, something easy to ignore when all your attention is fixed on the man in your arms. But it grows. Deepens. Becomes something sharp and insistent, demanding attention you cannot give.
You ignore it.
You hold him. You do not let go.
The scream tears from you without warning.
It is not a sound you recognize. It is raw and desperate and animal, ripped from somewhere deep in your chest. Your body convulses, arching against him, and your grip on his hand tightens until your knuckles go white.
The pain. Gods, the pain.
But you do not let go.
You curl around him, pressing your face to his chest, breathing him in. The fever, the sweat, the familiar scent of him beneath the sickness. You hold him and you scream and you do not let go.
More screams. Yours. You cannot stop them. They come with each wave, each contraction, each terrible pulse of your body trying to do what bodies do even when the world is ending.
You hold him. You do not let go.
Time passes. You do not know how much.
The door opens.
You do not look up. You cannot look up. All your focus is on him, on the rise and fall of his chest, on the heartbeat you can still feel beneath your cheek.
Hands on you. Gentle at first, then firm.
"Y/N."
A voice you know. A voice from childhood, from Summerhall, from a thousand memories you cannot reach right now.
"Y/N, you need to let go."
You shake your head. Your face presses harder against Valarr's chest. Your arms tighten around him.
"No."
"Y/N—"
"No. I won't leave him. I won't."
The hands try to pull you away. You fight them. You scream—not from pain now, but from fury, from desperation, from the absolute certainty that if you let go he will die.
"Y/N, please. You're hurt. The baby—"
You do not care about the baby. You do not care about anything except him.
The hands stop pulling. Instead, they touch your leg. Your thigh. Your—
They freeze.
You feel it too, distantly. Wetness. Warmth. Blood.
"Gods." Your father's voice, rough with fear. "Y/N, you're bleeding. You're in labor. The baby is coming."
No. No, it is too early. Weeks too early. The baby cannot come now, cannot come while Valarr is dying, cannot—
Another wave of pain tears through you. You scream again. Your body curls, convulses, presses you harder against Valarr's unmoving form.
"I won't leave him." The words are broken, gasped between contractions. "I won't. He'll die. He'll die alone."
"Y/N." Hands grip your shoulders. You are lifted, pulled, torn away from the warmth of him. You fight—kicking, screaming, clawing—but your father is stronger, and the pain is overwhelming, and you cannot—
"NO!"
You are in his arms. Cradled against his chest like when you were small, like when you fell and scraped your knees, like when the world was too big and he was the only safe place.
But he is not safe. He is taking you away from him.
"Put me down! Put me DOWN!"
He does not put you down. He carries you through the doorway, into the corridor, away from Valarr's room, away from Valarr's body, away from—
"MAESTERS!" His voice roars, filling the corridor. "MIDWIVES! NOW!"
You are still screaming when he carries you into another room. Still screaming when they lay you on a bed. Still screaming when hands begin to pull at your clothes, check your body, prepare you for something you cannot face.
Still screaming.
Because he is alone.
Because you left him.
The pain takes you. The screaming stops. And there is only the dark.
The labor takes hours.
You are aware of it only in fragmentspa, in, then darkness, then pain again. Voices shouting. Hands pressing. Your father's face, close to yours, his voice rough with an emotion you have never heard from him.
"Stay with me. Stay with me, daughter. You're strong. You're so strong."
You want to tell him that you are not strong. That you left Valarr. That you are nothing without him.
But the pain takes you again, and you cannot speak.
She comes at last.
A cry. Small and fierce, cutting through the chaos. You hear it distantly, like a sound from another room, another life.
"A girl," someone says. "A healthy girl."
They place her on your chest.
She is tiny. Perfect. Her skin wrinkled, her fists clenched, her mouth open in a wail that already sounds like a demand. Her hair—what little there is—is dark. So dark. Just like his.
You touch her face with trembling fingers. She turns toward your touch, instinctive, seeking.
"Baela," you whisper. "Your name is Baela."
Your father's hand rests on your shoulder. Warm. Steady. You had forgotten he was there.
"She's beautiful," he says. His voice is thick. "She looks just like him."
"She does." You cannot stop looking at her. At the shape of her face, the curve of her cheeks, the dark hair that matches his exactly. "When Valarr wakes up, he'll be so glad. He'll be so happy. He wanted a girl. He said he could feel it."
Silence.
You do not notice it. You are too focused on Baela, on her tiny fingers, on the way her cries are quieting as she settles against your skin.
"He'll be so glad," you repeat. "He'll wake up and I'll show her to him and he'll—"
"Y/N." Your father's voice is careful. Too careful. "Y/N, love, Valarr is—"
"He's sleeping. He was so tired. The fever—" You look up, searching his face. "But he'll wake up. He always wakes up. I just have to wait. I just have to—"
Something is wrong.
The room is too quiet. Everyone is looking at you with the same expression—careful, pitying, afraid. Your father's face is grey. The maesters exchange glances. The midwives have stopped moving.
You look down at Baela. She has not opened her eyes yet. They are still closed, those tiny lids, hiding whatever color lies beneath.
"I don't feel well," you say.
The maester steps forward. He is old, experienced, his face weathered by decades of delivering babies and pronouncing deaths. He presses a hand to your forehead, checks your pulse, nods to himself.
"It is normal, Your Highness," he says. "The body has been through great strain. You are distressed. Rest will help."
"No." The word comes out sharper than you intended. "No, there is something wrong. I can feel it. Something is—"
"Princess." His voice is gentle, the voice one uses with frightened children. "You have just given birth. Your body is exhausted. Your mind is overwhelmed by grief. It is natural to feel unwell. Rest, and it will pass."
Grief.
The word hits you like a blow.
"What grief?" You look at your father. "Father, what grief? Why did he say grief?"
Your father's face crumbles.
"Y/N—"
"Where is Valarr?" You try to sit up, but your body will not cooperate. "Why isn't he here? He should be here. He should be—"
"Y/N, please—"
"Valarr!" You are shouting now, your voice raw. "Valarr! Someone get Valarr! He needs to see her! He needs to see Baela!"
Hands hold you down. Gentle but firm. The maester's face appears above you, and in his hand is a small cup.
"Drink this, Princess. It will help you rest."
"No. No, I don't want to rest. I want Valarr. I want—"
The cup presses to your lips. Liquid slides down your throat. Poppy, honey, something to dull the edges of the world.
"No," you whisper. But it is too late. The darkness is already creeping in.
You look at Baela one last time. Her eyes are still closed. Her dark hair. Her tiny fists.
"She looks so much like him," you murmur. "When he wakes up, he'll be so glad."
Your father takes Baela from your arms. You try to hold on, but your hands will not obey.
"Rest," he whispers. "Rest, my love."
The darkness takes you.
You do not wake up.
Hours pass. The maesters check on you, nod, leave. The midwives tend to Baela, who sleeps in a cradle nearby, her dark hair soft against the white linen. Your father sits beside you, holding your hand, waiting for you to open your eyes.
You do not.
The sun sets. The candles are lit. Your mother comes, her face wet, and sits on your other side. They hold your hands together, these two people who have loved you longest, and they wait.
You do not wake up.
Your father's hand tightens around yours.
"No," he says. "No, she's strong. She's always been strong. She'll wake up. She has to wake up."
Baela cries in her cradle. Someone picks her up, soothes her, feeds her. The sound fades. The room grows quiet.
Your father does not leave your side.
During the night your heart stops beating.
The pyre burns for two days.
Their bodies lie together, entwined as they were in life. Their hands are clasped. Their faces are peaceful.
Maekar stands at the front of the mourners and does not weep.
He cannot weep. The tears are frozen somewhere inside him, locked behind a wall of ice that will never fully thaw. He watches the flames consume his daughter, her husband, the future they should have had. He watches and he does not move.
In his pocket, his fingers close around a ring.
Gold, with a red ruby. The one Valarr placed on her finger during their wedding ceremony. The one she loved so much, that she touched absently when she was thinking, that she spun around her finger when she was nervous. The one they removed before the pyre, because Maekar could not bear to see it burn.
He remembers when Valarr came to him.
Months before the wedding. The boy had sought him out in the training yard, nervous and formal, asking for a private word. Maekar had expected a discussion of alliances, of dowries, of the endless practicalities that accompanied royal marriages.
Instead, Valarr had asked: What kind of rings does she like? What would she love?
Not what was traditional. Not what would impress the court. What she would love.
Maekar had told him. And Valarr had listened.
The ring in his pocket is proof of that.
Baela came to him after the funeral.
She is small. So small. Wrapped in blankets, held by a wet nurse who looks terrified to be anywhere near the grieving prince. But Maekar takes her. He holds her against his chest, this tiny creature who has his daughter's face and his daughter's husband's coloring.
She opens her eyes.
Blue and brown. Just like Valarr.
But her face,the shape of her cheeks, the curve of her chin, the way her brow furrows in thought,that is Y/N. That is his daughter, looking at him from the face of her child.
"Baela," he whispers. "Hello, little one."
She blinks. Her tiny hand escapes the blanket, reaching up, finding his beard.
Just like her mother used to do.
Maekar does not weep. But something cracks, deep inside.
He raises her as his own.
---
maekar
The hour is late.
Summerhall sleeps around him, quiet and still, but Maekar cannot rest. He sits in the nursery. The fire burns low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the walls. In her cradle, Baela sleeps. She is so small. So perfect. So terribly like her mother.
A goblet rests in his hand. Wine—Arbor gold, the same vintage he shared with Y/N on her sixteenth nameday, when she had laughed and told him it was too sweet and he had pretended to be offended. He drinks. The wine does nothing.
Baela stirs. A small sound, a shift of blankets. He sets down the goblet and rises, crossing to the cradle before he is fully aware of moving.
She looks up at him.
Her eyes are open, Valarr's eyes, the eyes that looked at his daughter with so much love it had sometimes made Maekar uncomfortable to witness. But her face. The shape of her cheeks. The curve of her chin. The way her brow furrows slightly, studying him.
That is Y/N.
That is his daughter.
"Y/N," he whispers.
The name falls from him without thought, without control. He is tired. He has had too much wine. The firelight is low and treacherous, painting shadows that lie.
"Y/N, I'm sorry." He reaches into the cradle, his big, scarred hand gentle as it ever was with her. His fingers brush her cheek. "I should have been there. I should have protected you. I should have—"
Baela makes a sound. Not a cry—something softer, questioning. Her tiny hand escapes the blanket and finds his fingers, gripping with that same fierce hold her mother had, the hold she had used since the moment she was born.
He freezes.
For a moment—just a moment—he lets himself believe.
"You used to hold my beard," he murmurs. "When you were small. You would grab it and not let go. I told your mother I would have to cut it off to survive you." A sound escapes him, something between a laugh and a sob. "I never did. You loved it too much."
Baela blinks up at him. Her grip on his finger does not loosen.
"You grew so beautiful," he continues. "So smart. So fierce. I watched you become everything I could have hoped for, and I was so proud, and I never told you enough." His voice cracks. "I never told you enough."
The door opens.
Daeron stands in the threshold, his face soft with sleep and sorrow. Daeron looks at him—his father, bent over the cradle, speaking to his granddaughter, as though she were Y/N—and something in his face breaks.
"Father." his voice is gentle. "Father, that's Baela."
He does not move.
"I know." His voice is rough. "I know. I just—for a moment—"
"I know, Come to bed."
"Daeron—"
"Go to bed." He tugs gently. "Baela will be here in the morning. She will always be here."
He lets Daeron lead him away. At the door, he looks back.
Baela's eyes are still open. Still watching him. Still so like her mother.
"Goodnight, little one," he whispers. "Goodnight, Y/N."
In the nursery, Baela sleeps.
She will not remember this night. She will not remember the way her grandfather looked at her and saw someone else, the way his voice broke on a name that was not hers, the way her grandmother led him away like a wounded animal.
But she will grow up knowing she was loved.
By both of them.
Always.
300 A.C
The Meereenese sun hangs heavy in the sky, thick and golden through the open arches of the pyramid. Daenerys Targaryen sits on her cushions, a bowl of grapes beside her, her silver-gold hair loose around her shoulders. She has been listening for hours.
Ser Barristan Selmy stands before her, his heavy armor pristine despite the heat, his weathered face marked by the weight of the story he has just finished telling.
Silence stretches between them.
Daenerys plucks a grape from the bowl. She looks at it for a long moment—small, purple, perfect. Then she throws it at him.
It bounces off his white breastplate and falls to the floor.
"I asked you for a love story," she says. Her voice is light, but there is something beneath it. "A funny story. Something to pass the time before the next round of petitions."
Barristan does not flinch. He has served too many Targaryens to flinch at a thrown grape.
"I told you the story you asked for, Your Grace."
"I asked for a love story. You told me a tragedy." She gestures vaguely, encompassing the pyramid, the city, the whole of Meereen. "They died. Both of them. On the same day. Before they could even see their daughter's face."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And then her father—my great-great—" She stops, counting on her fingers. "Maekar. He raised the girl. He wore the ring. He died feeling guilty for something that wasn't his fault."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And the girl—Baela—she lived happily. That part was nice." Daenerys reaches for another grape. "But everyone else died."
"That is often the way with Targaryen love stories, Your Grace."
Daenerys laughs. It is a surprised sound, pulled from her against her will. "You have a dark sense of humor, Ser Barristan."
"I have served your house for a very long time, Your Grace. One develops certain… perspectives."
She pops the grape into her mouth. Chews. Swallows.
She is quiet for a moment. Then she looks past him, through the open arches, toward the top of the pyramid where her dragons rest.
Viserion lies sprawled across the warm stone, his cream-and-gold scales gleaming in the sun. He is comfortable, relaxed, one wing draped carelessly over the edge of the platform. Asleep, perhaps, or simply basking in the heat he loves.
But it is Rhaegal who catches her attention.
The green dragon is not resting. He is curled around Viserion, his long neck wrapped protectively across his brother's back, his head resting against Viserion's neck. His eyes are half-closed, but every few moments they open, scanning, checking, ensuring that Viserion is still there, still safe, still his.
It is not unusual for dragons to cluster together. They are siblings, littermates, bonded in ways even she does not fully understand.
Rhaegal has always been the wild one. The angry one. The one who snaps and bites and seems to carry some ancient fury in his green scales. He does not cuddle. He does not curl protectively around anyone.
Except for Viserion.
Always Viserion.
The cream-and-gold dragon who is gentle where Rhaegal is fierce, calm where Rhaegal is storm, the only living creature who can approach Rhaegal without drawing blood.
Daenerys watches them. The green wrapped around the gold. The protective curl of his body. The way he shifts whenever Viserion stirs, making sure his brother settles back into comfort.
They look like they have been doing this forever.
Daenerys smiles. It is a small thing, soft, nothing like the commanding expression she wears for petitioners and ambassadors.
"Thank you, Ser Barristan," she says. "For the story. Even if it was a tragedy."
"It was a love story, Your Grace. The two are often the same."
They look peaceful.
Daenerys watches them for a long time.
And somewhere, in a place beyond time and death and the long grief of centuries, two souls who once promised to wait for each other sleep wrapped in each other's arms, finally at peace.
Ser Dunk x Targaryen!cousin fem!reader (NO DESCRIPTIONS OR TARG FEATURES USED)
Overview: You've been promised to Aerion since you were a girl. You thought that when your aunt passed and Maekar doomed you to marriage, that your life was over. Until a nameday tourney in Ashford changes everything.
You find yourself a hedge knight that reminds you of the life you might have if you can finally escape the dragons.
a/n: Uhm, this fic is pretty telling that I do not like Aerion. Nor will I ever forgive him for traumatizing my baby Egg. Fuck Aerion man, and not in the fun way. (Love Finn Bennett tho)
mdni! 18+ for the following: fem! receiving oral. Thigh-riding, dunk is a munch that finishes in his pants (I don’t make the rules)
wc: 8.4K
You had not wanted to attend the tourney. When you’d heard of it, you’d been elated. Aerion would be sure to enter the lists and refuse to miss a chance to humiliate lesser men. Which meant that you might finally have a moment alone to yourself. Something you had not been granted in so long.
But Aerion had been displeased at the notion that his future lady-wife might actually enjoy herself. Thus, you’d been tossed on a horse and marched down to this farce of a nameday.
You had no interest in watching men gore one another with pointy sticks. And you certainly couldn’t sit up in the audience and suffer through every smirk Aerion might send your way at one of his ‘victories.’ Though you were of the opinion it wasn’t a victory if one had to cheat.
“Could you pretend you're enjoying yourself?” Maekar hisses, glancing over at you as you ride into Ashford.
You cut him a glare and he sighs. “Could you pretend to understand why I am the epitome of misery? It is your fault, after all.”
Maekar shakes his head and rides off with a grumble. Baelor smiles at you pityingly as he follows his brother. You choose to ignore them both. Just as they have ignored your desperate pleas for freedom since you were entrusted to Maekar’s care.
You lead your horse to the stables and see a rather large stable boy waiting. Gods above, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man so big. Must’ve been kicked in the head as a child, poor thing, he looks utterly lost.
“Would you ensure she has some oats and a good groom?" You run your hand over your mare's mane as you approach him. "She does hate muddy roads, and I’m afraid that’s all we’ve had,” you tell the boy.
He blinks big blue eyes up at you before frowning. “Beg pardon, m’lady, but I’m no stableboy.”
“Oh,” you tilt your head and smile. “That certainly makes more sense.” He lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You find yourself endeared by such sheepish behavior. It’s as if he has not one idea how to act around a woman.
Perhaps he doesn’t. It seems a skill lost to most these days.
“You there! Fetch me a nice wench and have her brought to my rooms.” You glance over your shoulder at your betrothed and scoff.
“How very princely.”
Aerion bares dragon-like teeth at you in a stiff smile that makes you grimace. “Until my lady flowers, I’m afraid I must find entertainment in other forms.”
“Better them than me,” you grumble, swinging your leg over your saddle.
“Here,” the large man steps forward, offering his hand. You smile, taking it gratefully as he eases you from your mare, steering you away from the thick puddles of mud.
“Flirting with the stable hands, now?” Aerion taunts, failing to hide the venom in his tone.
“He’s no stable hand,” you scold Aerion. “He’s…” you glance back at the man for some help.
He straightens, puffing his chest proudly. “A knight, your grace.”
Aerion’s eyes flit up and down the knight before he scoffs. “What a sorry state the realm is in that you are a knight.”
Aerion slips from his horse and heads into the keep. You’re going to apologize to the man when Aerion’s monster of a horse bucks out at one of the true stable hands. The man flies back, blood spraying from his face as his body slams against the ground.
You jump back with a sharp gasp as the knight rushes past you. He reaches Aerion’s mount and hushes her, grabbing the reins as he soothes her. You can’t help but be awed at the display as he leads her quietly to the stables.
“It’s alright, girl,” he whispers and you smile, following after him with your own mare.
“I don’t believe I got your name, Ser.”
“Oh, um, Dunk- Duncan,” he quickly corrects. “See Duncan the Tall.”
“A pleasure, Ser.”
“And you, m’lady?” He asks, still calming Aerion’s wily horse.
You give him your first name and then smile, “Waters,” the last name of all bastards born in the crownlands. “Soon to be Targaryen,” you sigh.
Dunk’s eyes go wide and you can’t help but laugh. “Fret not, sweet knight. I hold no true importance. I am betrothed to Aerion, the very same man who that beast belongs to,” you nod toward the horse.
“I am sorry for how he spoke to you. Could I make it up to you in some way?” Dunk begins to shake his head no. You appreciate the attempt at honor, but all men want something.
Slowly, his eyes drift back to the keep before he faces you once more. “Actually, m’lady, I’m trying to get my name in the lists. But I need a knight to vouch for me. All others have forgotten Ser Arlan of Pennytree. But he did always boast of his joust with Baelor Targaryen, perhaps the prince might remember.”
You let out a huff of laughter and nod your head. “It won’t be too hard for me to get an audience with him. Besides, if any man remembers a hedge knight, it would be Baelor. Come along, Dunk.”
His feet thud against the mud as he follows quickly after you. You glance over your shoulder and smile at the hopeful look on his face. Perhaps you’ve just found a reason to be interested in this damnable tourney.
“Will you be gracing us with your presence today, cousin?”
You glance at Valarr and sigh at the smirk on his face. “Only if you allow me some of that wine you keep in your tent.”
He laughs and nods, leading you out toward the field. “But of course, my lady.”
“Enough,” you scold, shaking your head at his antics. You'd rather be treated as a bastard than a proper lady, and he knows it. Always teasing you with formalities that only serve to remind you of the noble place you will soon be marrying into.
The king might have decreed you legitimate, but you still carried a bastard’s name. And a bastard's dislike for higher-borns.
Though Valarr was a rare exception to your hatred. Maekar had never quite mastered parenting after your aunt had died. His boys ran wild from him and slipped between his fingers. At least Baelor had brought up an honorable man.
Valarr leads you to his tent on the edge of the jousting field. He ducks inside while you sit on a chair outside the tent. He returns with two goblets generously filled.
You doubt he’ll drink much. He prefers to be clear of mind when competing. But you’ll happily finish his. The drunker you are, the quicker this will go.
Aerion rides out onto the field. His ridiculous armor clinks with each beat of his horse's hooves. He travels down the fence, stopping before you and Valarr.
Valarr tenses immediately. A wise instinct on his part, considering how much Aerion threatens his own brothers, he could hardly care much for a cousin.
“Do not worry, Valarr, I will not embarrass you. Not yet, at least.” You roll your eyes at his cocky demeanor as his gaze drifts to you. “I wish only for a kiss of luck from my beautiful betrothed.”
You choke slightly on your wine and cut him a sharp glare. “Perhaps a kiss of victory after, darling," you grit out.
Aerion’s eyes narrow and he tilts his head. “No,” he drawls, a lilt to his voice that has your body tensing on instinct. “Come here, love.”
There is no sweet lover’s lilt or crooning affection in his tone. It is wholly and entirely ownership, domination over your body and soul. You are something that has belonged to him since you were first forced to go to Summerhall. No means nothing to him.
You place your goblet on the table and rise to your feet. Your boots slip against the mud and he grins as he watches you struggle. Placing your hands on the pommel of his saddle, you push up to your toes.
Aerion slides the front of his helmet down and leans until you’re face-to-face with a metalworked demon. “Come on,” he taunts, voice echoing beneath the helm.
You force yourself to press your lips to the cold face, to the twisted visage of death he wears so proudly. He lets out a laugh, jerking back and urging his horse forward. The pommel slips from your hands abruptly and you nearly fall to the mud.
You glare at the back of his head and wish you would one day grow old enough to see him hanged or worse.
Oh, how he loves to taunt you like that. With little moments that show you the rest of your life. Visions of him commanding you as he sees fit. For all that you are is also his. As it always has been and always will be.
If you weren’t so stubborn and intent on living. You would have let the Stranger take you years ago. Slipped Tears of Lys into your supper wine and entered the long sleep as a child.
Valarr offers a pitying look as you walk back to him. It only serves to anger you further. It’s not as if he or his father ever said a word in your defense. No, you were Maekar’s burden. If he wished to marry you to his mad son, then you were a sacrifice that might benefit them in keeping Aerion subdued.
You throw yourself back down in your chair, tipping your head back and downing as much of your wine as you can swallow without drowning. Aerion looks toward you before he faces his opponent across the field. The horn bellows from the seats above and you avoid Valarr’s stare burning into you as the other men charge.
It is of no surprise to you when Aerion ducks to the side, a coward’s attempt at getting his opponent off balance. But he does not give the man time to recover. He turns his horse around and drops his lance low.
“It’s too low,” Valarr mutters, straightening up in his seat.
“Indeed,” you mutter, taking another swig of your wine. And, again, it is no surprise to you when Aerion drives the lance into the neck of his opponent’s horse. But that does not mean you enjoy listening to the piercing screams of the beast as it dies.
“Gods above,” you look over at Valarr and scoff. It is astounding to you that Aerion’s family is still surprised at his cruelty.
Your betrothed flips up his helm, grin wide on his face as the horse writhes, crushing his rider’s leg. The goblet in your hand spins against the table. You run your fingers over the gold and the jewels embedded in it.
The crowd shouts profanities at Aerion, cursing him for such poor sportsmanship. They riot, shoving up against one another as a violent, hungry wave of hate. Their screams fill you, remind you of the many injustices the Gods have dealt you.
The goblet is flying from your hands before you can think. Aerion flinches, jolting forward as it slams against the back of his helmet. You get to your feet just as he turns. But someone from the crowd sends a rock flying into his face before the full force of his anger can find you.
“Cousin,” you ignore Valarr, lifting your skirts and storming from the field before you have to take in the full consequence of your recklessness. You have had enough Targaryens for a lifetime. You need to be in the presence of someone who hates them as much as you do.
Lyonel’s tent is full and rowdy. They do not let the energy of today’s match dim their mood. Nor their generosity with their wine. You sit toward the back of the tent, sulking as you drown your sorrows.
“M’lady?”
You jolt at the voice and whip around to find the knight from the stables. “Ser Duncan,” you greet, wiping Dornish wine from the corner of your lips. “Please,” you nod to the seat beside you.
He offers a tentative smile before sitting on the bench. You let out a quiet groan as the table dips, gripping the edge of your seat so you don’t slide toward him. You’re sure a man like him is aware of his size, but you wonder how much he truly understands the effect it has on those around him.
“Did you enjoy the match today?” You ask dryly, already certain you know the answer.
Dunk blanches and shakes his head. “No offense meant, m’lady.”
“Nonsense,” you wave him off with a little laugh. “There is no bigger critic of my betrothed than myself. It was unseemly for a prince and absolutely abhorrent for a knight. Did you not wonder where that goblet came from today?”
Dunk chokes on his wine and sends you a wide-eyed look. “That was you?”
You let out a weary sigh and nod. “I am not keen to go back to the keep and face the consequences of my action.”
“No,” Dunk mutters, shaking his head.
You slam your hand on the table and Dunk jolts. Pushing off the wood, you stand on wobbly legs, warmed by the wine. “I wish not to think of my future husband. Would you dance with me, Ser?”
He blanches at the idea. You cannot fault him. You would not be eager to take the hand of a woman destined to marry such a cruel man. “M’lady, I shouldn’t-“
“I understand,” you cut him off. “Perhaps it’s time I retire, anyway. Face the music as is so often said.” You bite your lip, brushing off your skirts. You take in a shaky breath as you struggle to imagine how cruel Aerion might be tonight as he sneaks into your chambers.
Just as you turn to leave, Dunk jumps to his feet. You startle at the abrupt movement and he rocks on his heels. He’s slumped, like he’s unsure what to do with all his height. You have a few ideas.
“Perhaps, one dance,” he amends. You smile and let out a huff of laughter. You hold your hand out, smile only widening when the size of his palm completely dwarfs your own.
“Lead the way, Ser.” You sweep your arm out toward the dance floor and he eagerly leads you to it. His dancing is clumsy, but it’s more enthusiastic than anything your betrothed might ever give you.
He doesn’t care how he looks as you spin him about the floor, or how many times you step on his toes. He leads you through one dance before relinquishing control and letting you lead him through two more.
It is, perhaps, the most fun you’ve had since your tenth name day. The last year you remember being happy. He is a breath of fresh air, a man who reminds you of a time before you became Targaryen property.
When the dancing is over and sweat dots your temple, you take a seat with Duncan once more. You pick at honeyed bread while he devours a turkey leg nearly as big as his own bicep. You watch him with rapt attention. Such different mannerisms from the properly bred and behaved nobles. It is endearing, in a strange way.
“Might I ask you something, m’lady?” You nod your head with a smile, taking another drink of your wine. “You don’t seem to love the prince. How is it you came to be betrothed?”
“It’s sweet that you think love might have anything to do with a noble’s marriage.” Dunk flushes, ducking his head, and you smirk. “Aerion’s mother is my aunt. After my own mother passed, she took me in. They didn’t know who my father was, so I was named a bastard. But when Maekar noticed just how enchanted my cousin had become with me, he had the king legitimize me. He thought promising Aerion my hand might tame his son. But I’ve spent long enough time around him to know that when Aerion becomes tamed is the day dragons return to Westeros.”
You scoff and shake your head, “Aerion often likes to tell me he can forgive me the impurity of my bastard blood for the sake of the love he holds for his mother.”
Dunk's face is aghast as he listens, lips parted with disgust. You snort into your wine. “Trust me, I’m just as disgusted by a Targaryen’s tendency toward kin-fucking as you are. The day I actually have to marry Aerion, I’ll likely fling myself from the highest window. But!” You slap Dunk’s shoulder and he jolts.
“That is not tonight, so distract me with a tale of your travels, hedge knight. I wish to hear of this Ser Arlan you love so much.”
Dunk hesitates for a moment, looking like there’s a word of sympathy he wishes to give you. Blessedly, he simply nods and does as you ask. Regaling you with a ridiculous tale of his master’s drunken fights with gold cloaks and Lannisters alike.
The tourney ends up being far more enjoyable than anything you had ever expected. You can lay credit to that on Dunk’s shoulders. The nights you are here are spent dancing in Lyonel’s tent, getting drunk off Dornish wine and listening to stories you scarcely believe are real.
But your mornings, unfortunately, are owned by your kin.
You break fast around Lord Ashford’s table. There has been silence since Aerion’s incident on the field. He has been more temperamental after Baelor forced the prince to give his horse to that knight he’d dishonored.
“It is barely past dawn,” Maekar grumbles, glaring down the table as Daeron orders a flagon of wine from one of the servants.
“I know and I am already unfortunately sober,” he smiles, taking a deep swig. You bite your lip to hold back your laughter. They had found Daeron at an inn the night past, you don’t think your uncle has been able to get information about Aegon’s disappearance from him, yet. You’re certain it will be even more unlikely, considering how intent Daeron is on drinking himself to exhaustion.
“Have you enjoyed the tourney?” Baleor directs at you, attempting to dispel the tension between father and son.
You hum and look up from your meal to Aerion. He sends you a smirk that makes your blood boil.
“It is as all tourneys are,” you vaguely respond, wishing for your own goblet of wine right about now. Perhaps Daeron’s drunkenness is not a weakness of character but a sorry consequence of prolonged exposure to Targaryens.
“That’s hardly an answer,” your betrothed interrupts. Baelor shoots him a tired look. “Give us your honest feelings, my love.”
You suck in a sharp breath and lean back in your chair. “Honest?” He nods and you grin.
“I am ashamed that the man I am to marry has been the only one to perform so poorly that a riot broke out. I am disgusted that I had to listen to an animal screech in pain while it waited to be put down. And I am entirely sick of lord Ashford’s gruel and soggy bread.” You shove your plate away and get to your feet.
Aerion’s face has gone bright red, his hand tightening dangerously around his knife. Maekar lets out a tired sigh and pinches his brow. “You obstinate little-”
“Enough,” Baelor interrupts your betrothed. “Do not insult our host,” he chides you, making no mention of how you’d disrespected Aerion. Most likely because he knows it to be the truth.
“Apologies,” you mutter, glancing at the man in question, who was staring down at his plate with flushed cheeks. “But I do recommend you spend more gold on your crops rather than elaborate displays of wealth for the monarchy. Excuse me,” you snap, storming from the room.
They would not have an obstinate bastard to deal with if your uncle had simply granted you freedom after your aunt’s passing. No, instead, he swore to marry you to your cousin. To sate the itch Aerion seemed to crave for the old ways of Targaryen blood purity. Even if you were not pure.
By now, you should be heavy with Aerion’s child. You should already be wed and tamed by marriage. But Maekar had sworn that Aerion would only marry you once you had been flowered. After long over a decade, you think Aerion would have caught on that you’d flowered when you were thirteen and had been hiding it ever since.
Just this morning, your blood came. A servant had caught you burning the sheets. But they did not know of any such deal made, so you had hope it would not get back to your betrothed.
Rushing down the steps of Ashford Hall, you wonder what you might entertain yourself with until Evenfall. Until you can see your hedge knight again.
You stand in Lyonel Baratheon’s tent once more, hovering at Dunk’s side while he pillages the desert table. “Are you really going to be able to eat that all?” You wonder, eyes wide as you take in the three tarts balanced in his palm.
Dunk gives you a proud grin, “‘Course-”
“Is that a fucking Targaryen in my tent?” Lyonel’s voice breaks through the revelry. He stands in the middle of the tent, eyes narrowed as he glares over at you. Dunk stiffens and shifts to stand in front of you.
You place your hand on his arm and step around him. “Call me that again and you’ll lose your tongue. Won’t be the laughing storm much longer.”
Dunk whips around with an aghast look, but you pay him no mind. Lyonel is quiet for a moment longer before bursting out into laughter. The people in the tent laugh along with him, the liveliness returning as they go back to their drink and dance. “I have missed that barbed wit of yours.”
He strides forward and pulls you into a rough hug. You pat his back with a grin. “I’m sure you miss any wit out in those forsaken Stormlands of yours.”
Dunk’s eyes dart between the pair of you and he frowns. “You two know each other?”
Lyonel glances toward him, but ignores Dunk in favor of questioning you. “What’re you doing with my giant?”
“Oh,” you chuckle. “He’s your giant now, is he? I met him after he was introduced to the hospitality and grace of the Targaryens.”
Lyonel groans and shakes his head. “Your betrothed, then?”
“And his beast of a horse.”
You glance over at Dunk to see him looking bewildered. If not a little relieved that you’re not getting your tongue taken for speaking to a nobleman so brazenly.
“The monarchy likes to make a scene of visiting the lords and ladies of important houses. I have met Lyonel quite a few times during those tours.”
“Yes, and she’s the only royal I haven’t wanted to kill the moment I met,” Lyonel adds with a smirk, taking a swig of his mead.
“How flattering,” you drawl, shooting him a sharp look.
“Tell me, how is it that I have not seen you?” Lyonel questions, leading you over to his table. Dunk hovers behind you both, hand still laden with sweets.
“I imagine you’ve been too drunk to recognize the face dancing with your giant.”
“And what an interesting dance partner he makes.” You hum your agreement as Lyonel throws himself down in his chair. “Entertain me, Waters, I grow bored of the same Lord’s prattling on.”
You shoot Dunk a sly look that he returns with a hesitant smile, cheeks now full of tart. With a slight laugh, you sit down, preparing to regale your Lord with whatever wild tales you might think of.
“How long have you known Lyonel?” Dunk asks as he walks you from the tent and back on the path to Ashford.
“Since I was a girl. Though I have grown up and I don’t think he ever plans on it.”
Dunk laughs and shakes his head, “I don’t think I’ve ever met such an interesting man.”
“I doubt you ever will again,” you tell him. You look back at the tent before tossing him a weary glance. “You know, I don’t think you’ve shown me your pavilion, yet.”
Dunk flushes, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. You worry for a moment that you were too forward. “That’s because I don’t have a pavilion, m’lady. I sleep under the stars as any proper hedge knight would. I have only a tree for cover.”
“Hm,” you let out a little laugh. “Trees leak.”
Dunk chuckles, glancing over at you with a soft smile that makes something inside of you melt. “That they do.”
“Would you show me, Dunk? This grand tree of yours. The night is far too young to return to the dragons of Ashford.” Dunk hesitates at the mention of your family, sending you a worried look. You offer a smile, nodding toward the path.
“Alright,” he huffs out, only slightly reluctant. “But I’ll have you back before dawn,” he swears.
“Whatever you say, sweet knight.”
Dunk gives a firm nod and takes the hand you hold out to him, rough callouses a pleasurable change to your own smooth palms. You hold onto his arm as he leads you toward this tree of his.
It lies beneath a stone wall and isn’t half as large as you’d been expecting. But the trunk is wide enough for one to lie against and you suppose that’s all that matters. The rest of his camp is empty, his squire apparently quite enamored with the puppeteers at the tourney.
“Hm,” you hum, circling the base before resting with your back against it. “You know, I’m still not quite convinced that this is any better than a pavilion like Lyonel’s.” Dunk hovers a little way away from you, hands tight around the hilt of his sword as he watches you. He almost seems ashamed.
“Dunk,” you frown, “I’m only teasing.”
“Yes,” he nods and lets out a strained laugh. “I know. But… you’re used to castles and- and grander things than a hedge knight has ever known.” He moves closer to you as you wait beneath the boughs of the elm tree.
“Yes, and with gold and glory comes cruelty, entitlement, and some of the worst men to ever grace the seven kingdoms.” You step closer to him, reaching out for his hands. He releases his sword in favor of holding onto you. “Do you truly think I care for those things?”
Dunk finally meets your eye, and slowly he shakes his head. “No,” he whispers.
“No, sweet knight, I don’t.” Your eyes dip to his lips for a moment and you see him do the same. It would be foolish, stupid, even, to do this. You could be damning him to Aerion’s anger and revenge.
But, it’s as you said, nobles are bad people. Selfish people. You never said you were any different.
You push onto the tips of your toes and press your lips against his. It’s stiff, at first, hesitant on both your ends. Just as you begin to pull back, Dunk’s hand cups the back of your head, and he’s tugging you forward. You let out a slight gasp against his lips, clutching onto the front of his shirt as he walks you backwards.
Your back hits the rough bark of the tree while his other hand squeezes at your waist. The pommel of his sword digs into your stomach and you grimace, trying to ignore it and instead focus on the feeling of his lips against yours. The taste of Lyonel’s mead that still coats his tongue.
He undoes his roped belt with one hand, letting his sword drop to the grass in favor of tugging you even closer. Your body arches into his as he tilts your head, deepening the kiss. His thigh shifts, slotting between the loose skirt of your dress. You’re shocked by how brazen he’s being. You’d expected rejection, a claim that this was dishonorable to do as a woman promised to another.
But Dunk seems to care not for propriety as his hands drop to your hips, urging them to action. You let out a little moan as you grind against the firm muscles of his thigh. The girth of him alone is enough to have your skin buzzing with pleasure. He’d once told you his master used to call him thick as a castle wall. The old man certainly had a point.
The number of times you’d thought about mounting him is shameful to say the least. But you hadn’t actually thought it would happen. Certainly not under a tree, with nothing but the stars above you. Though you can’t say you’re complaining. Not as his lips leave yours, trailing down your neck and shoulder, before he drops to his knees before you.
“Dunk,” you whisper, staring down at him with wide eyes. For once, he’s caught you off guard.
“Would you allow me this, m’lady?” he asks, eyes wide as his hands skim the hem of your skirts. You cannot think of any reason you might say no. But you’re so flustered, you can hardly get the words out. So you simply nod, nails biting into the bark of the elm as he lifts your skirts to your hips.
Again, Dunk exceeds expectations. You’d thought there’d be hesitancy, a sheepish look as he delved beneath your skirts. But your permission is all Dunk needed. He wastes no time in shoving your smallclothes aside, pressing his lips to your core and taking in your taste like a man starved.
“Gods above,” you gasp, hands jumping from the tree to Dunk’s hair. He lets out a groan as your fingers tangle within the strands; the sound vibrates through you. Your head falls back against the tree as he lifts your leg onto his shoulder.
His tongue flattens against you, swiping between your folds as his hand lifts to your core. One thick finger breaches inside of you, and your hips jolt against his face. His nose bumps against your bundle of nerves and you let out a gasp, chasing the shock of pleasure. A rumbling moan vibrates against you as you use him.
You can’t tell who’s enjoying this more, you or the knight kneeling between your legs. But each buck of your hips incenses him further, until he’s stretching you wide with two fingers and you’re struggling to gasp out his name.
The pleasure hits you in a wave, thighs twitching and tightening around his head as your hips convulse. He lets you ride out the feeling, never stopping his ministrations as you catch your breath. He only relents when you begin to slow, pushing his face away rather than pulling him closer.
You open your eyes to the stars shining through the leaves of the elm. Perhaps he had a point about a tree being better than a tent. It is a much prettier sight than a roof of silk. “M'lady?” Dunk questions, thumbs rubbing lazy circles into your thighs.
You glance down and nearly laugh at the sheen of your release on his chin. The way your leg is still hiked upon his shoulder. “Gods,” you whisper, rubbing your hands down your face as you slowly stand straight. “I hadn’t expected that,” you tell him honestly.
The man grows flustered, as if he had not just devoured you moments prior. “Was it too much?”
“No,” you’re quick to object. He gets to his feet and you smile. “Do you need any…”
You trail off as he begins to shake your head. Brows furrowed, you glance down to see a slight stain on his pants. If you’d thought him sheepish before, his cheeks are now burning a bright red. He can scarcely meet your eyes.
“Well, I can’t say I’ve ever met a man to take so much pleasure from a woman’s,” Dunk says nothing, rubbing the back of his neck as he stares at the ground. “Thank you, sweet knight,” you press a kiss to his cheek and he finally meets your eye again. “I wish I could stay with you a while longer, but,” Dunk nods his head and you offer a sorry smile.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks, almost eager.
“Most certainly,” you promise. “Perhaps I can return the favor.”
His eyes fly wide and you let out a laugh, pushing away from the tree and him. “Until tomorrow, Ser.”
“Tomorrow, m’lady,” he says, giving you a soft smile that makes your chest ache. Were the Gods the type to spare any mercy, it would be Dunk you marry. Or a man like him. Not the dragon you are about to return home to.
You offer a brief wave before making your way back to the path. Reluctantly traveling back to Ashford.
Suddenly, the idea of sleeping beneath a tree did not seem as silly as it once had. No, the thought fills you with a mourning ache of something you will never truly have.
When you return to the keep, you race through the servant's entrance to your bedroom. It is not empty as you’d expected it to be. Aerion sits on your bed and you go still in the doorway, heart jumping to your throat.
He tilts his head with a sharp smile. “And where have you been?”
You swallow thickly, fingers trembling around the door as your mind empties. No answer comes to you. After what just happened with Dunk, you’re too petrified thinking that Aerion might discover the truth.
But Aerion does not wait for an answer. He gets to his feet, walking to your vanity and pouring himself some wine from the flagon the maid had left. “I was looking for you, so we might celebrate together.”
“Celebrate?” You finally find your voice again. But you’re still too afraid to step from the doorway. To be alone in this room with him.
“Yes,” he turns with a wide smile that shows off his sharp teeth. He’s never looked more like a dragon.
“The maids here, love, are not as loyal as the ones at Summerhall. They tell their prince the truth because they know what’s best for them. And today, I heard that you have finally flowered.”
Your entire world stops. The elation from a night with Dunk is gone, scattered against the cold stone of Ashford. Aerion stalks closer and you wish you could run, but you have been frozen with terror. He knows the truth, now. You can no longer hide from your fate or run from him. He will never let you free. Not now.
He stops just beside you, head dipping to your ear. You pray he cannot smell the events of the night on you. “When we return to Summerhall, we will be wed. Until then, you will remain locked in this room.” He pulls back, pressing a light kiss on the corner of your lips. “Wouldn’t want you to get any ideas of running away, would we?”
Aerion walks past you and lightly nudges you into your room. The door clicks shut behind him, and the lock falls in place after. But you just stand there, still. Sick with disgust and terrified by what your future now looks like. You are doomed.
There is no escaping this.
Two nights follow with no word of what’s going on at the tourney. No news of when you might leave this place. You pace within your room like a caged beast. You have already tried pleading with the guard outside your door, but he will not release you. You wonder if Maekar knows what his son is doing or if he would even care.
You think of Dunk, of the promise you’d made to return. You wished you had been able to keep it. You imagine how that night could have gone. You imagine a night where you convince him to run with you and you leave the Targaryens far behind. It’s a laughable idea, one that never would have come true. Especially not now.
The lock on your door clicks and you tense, quickly running to grab your empty flagon of wine. A poor defense, but Aerion had left you with few options. But it is not your betrothed who finds you. It is his father.
“Uncle?” You question, the flagon dropping to your side. His face is grave, even more serious than it typically is. But beneath that, he wears a similar sadness to one you’d only seen when your aunt had passed.
“What’s wrong?” You question, and as wicked as it is, you pray he has come to deliver the news that Aerion perished during a joust.
“Sit down,” he instructs. Frowning, you obey, taking a seat before the fire. He paces toward you, hands tucked tightly behind his back, but he does not sit. “I had not known that Aerion had you locked in here,” he tells you, cutting his eyes toward you for a moment.
Reluctantly, you actually believe that to be the truth. “Baleor is dead,” he tells you, such a blunt delivery that you almost don’t believe him.
“What?” you scoff, almost laughing.
But he nods and does not laugh as if it were one big jest. “My son,” he shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “He got into a fight with a hedge knight over some puppeteer’s honor.” Your heart stills at the mention of a hedge knight. Your hedge knight?
“The knight demanded a trial, and Aerion invoked a trial of seven. Baelor died fighting for that knight. But that is not why I’m here.”
“Why?” You ask, but something in his face, something of the guilt he wears, tells you that you already know the truth.
“I once thought that you might be the answer to Aerion’s madness. I know I was wrong. But I had little other choice.”
“You had plenty of choices,” you snap and he whips his gaze back to you. The glare he shoots you has you backing down, sinking further into your seat.
“I will be sending him to the East,” he grits out. “Perhaps there he might finally calm.”
Your stomach drops. The East, the Free Cities, as far from Westeros as you’ve ever been. Further still from all that you’ve ever known. Stuck in a foreign city with Aerion. His father wouldn’t be there to hold him back, to protect you.
You almost drop to your knees, beg for mercy, but Maekar is not done. “I release you, girl. You are no longer bound to my son. After what he has done, he does not deserve to marry you. And you do not deserve to be married to him. Consider yourself free from us, I know how much you’ve longed for that.”
“Uncle,” you get to your feet and he holds up his hand. He has no interest in empty platitudes. You nod, biting your lip so he can’t see you smile while he grieves. He turns to leave, but you stop him. “The knight, the one Baelor fought for. Who was he?”
Maekar scoffs and when he looks at you, you swear there is blame in his eyes. “The very one you brought to him. So he could be enlisted in the games.”
It was humming that Dunk awoke to. A foreign melody he’d never heard in Fleabottom. But it reminded him of the sort of songs the Sisters would hum to the sickly orphans. The type who wouldn’t make it through the night.
His left eye was fuzzy, a smudged shape becoming clearer as he slowly blinked. The humming stopped abruptly and Dunk missed the sound already. It reminded him of how he used to feign sickness for an extra serving of bread for him and Rafe. How kindly the Sisters would bless him.
“Calm, now, Dunk.” Her voice is soothing, low and calm. The type one would use to soothe a restless babe. “They’d told me that the maester hasn’t seen to you yet. I need you to be still.”
Dunk groaned and nodded lazily. “There you are,” she whispered. A stool scraped against stone, slippered feet padded away from him before quickly returning.
The feelings of his body were slowly returning to him. The pain brushed against the edges of his mind. A burn in his thigh, aching, weeping pain through his stomach. A hundred other bites of agony, but he couldn’t feel them. Not fully.
“I’ve given you milk of the poppy,” she tells him softly. “I was afraid you might not make it through the night.”
Dunk can only grumble, eyes rolling lazily about as he struggles to recall what brought him here to this kind voice and sweet melody.
Something cool and damp presses against his forehead. A cloth that she pats down before her humming begins again. “Awake yet, Dunk?”
Another grumble and she lets out a laugh. “Consider yourself lucky. I do not think this is a world you’re ready to wake to.” Cold fingers press against the skin of his stomach, checking a wound there before she pulls his shirt back down.
“Rest,” she instructs. “You will need all that you can get.” Dunk’s asleep before she leaves the room.
Your uncle had told you that Baelor had taken up the Maester’s attention, though there was nothing they could do for a dead man. So you’d seen to Dunk’s injuries the moment you’d been freed from your room. You had been trained by your mother as a girl how to heal. A skill you kept up as you grew older.
You weren’t as knowledgeable as a Maester, but you were decent enough to know boiling wine was the best thing for the large hole in Dunk’s side. A result of Aerion’s lance, apparently. You didn’t know how your former betrothed was ailing, but you intended to leave Ashford before you had to find out.
As soon as you were sure Dunk wouldn’t die in his sleep, you’d left him. You’d packed what little belongings you had and bought a white horse to travel with. Before you left, though, you thought it wise to see Dunk one last time.
He had been moved from Ashford Hall, back to his elm tree. You rode your new mare down the path, your bags attached to your saddle. Stopping at the stone wall, you slipped from the mare and jumped over the muddy rocks.
You found Dunk slumped against his tree, staring out at nothing. He did not move as you approached, merely blinked, the light gone from his eyes as you sat beside him.
Your stomach twisted, unsure what you should even say to him. It has only been a handful of days, but it feels like a lifetime has passed since you’ve seen him last.
“How’re your wounds?” You ask, fiddling with a loose thread on your skirt.
“Were you there?” He asks, ignoring your own question. “At the trial?”
“Aerion had me locked in my rooms. A servant told him I’d flowered and he wanted to make sure I could not run before he wed me. I tended to you after, though. When the Maester could not see you, I did my best to keep you alive. ”
Dunk’s head lifts at that. He turns to face you and you offer a weak smile, but he doesn’t return it. “Probably saved me, he’s a shit maester.”
You scoff, “That he is.” You clear your throat and shift uncomfortably. “I came to thank you, Dunk. Were it not for you, Maekar would never have released me from Aerion. I am free now, because of you. I owe you my life.”
“You owe me nothing,” he grunts, turning his head to stare back into the distance. Something burns within you, pity or anger, you cannot tell. But this empty look in his eyes, the disconnect in his face, it does not sit well within you.
With a short sigh, you press your lips to the only spot on his cheek that is not bruised. “Thank you nonetheless,” you whisper. He doesn’t even twitch. Pulling back, you get to your feet. “I hope I might see you again one day, Ser.”
You’re almost back to your horse when you hear him. “I don’t. I bring only pain and death to those around me.” You glance back at him but shake your head and mount your mare. You’ve only just received your freedom; you cannot risk staying here much longer. Not even for him.
Weeks of traveling on your own have already proved far more interesting than any time spent with the royals. It reminds you of when you were a girl. When it was just you and your mother. Before her sister had found you and you’d been cursed to be trapped within one keep for the rest of your life.
You still have the same mare from the Ashford tourney, though you’ve yet to settle on a proper name for her. She’s sweet, with a gentle disposition that’s far different from any other horse you’ve ridden. Perhaps something like Sugar might work.
Leading her to the side of the road, you dismount. You tie her to a low branch on the closest tree and rush down into the forest. You lift your skirts, squatting as you make water beside a stream. Perhaps today you might finally settle on a destination for where you want to go.
You’ve been riding aimlessly, but that doesn’t seem to be providing you with much luck. The number of bandits and sellswords you’ve come across this past fortnight has been worrying. You might have to part with some gold and invest in a decent dagger.
“Sweetfoot!” The sounds of hoofbeats come to a stop along the road.
You freeze from where you’ve squatted and glance over your shoulder. “Do you know this horse, ser?”
“Aye, but I sold her at the tourney. What’re you doing out here, girl?”
You frown, you would swear that you recognize those voices. Rising, you drop your skirts and rush back up to the treeline. A towering man stands beside your horse, petting her nose and smiling down at her.
Gods above, is that… “Dunk?” You question, wary as you approach. He jumps back from your horse and his head whips toward you.
His eyes widen as he takes you in, traveling up and down your body as his lips part quietly. “You?” He stutters out.
“Me,” you laugh, racing toward him. He pulls you into a tight embrace that you return eagerly. It has been far too long since you’ve seen a friendly face on the road. And you are more than relieved to see that he is far different from the broken man you’d left behind.
“What are you doing with my horse?” He questions, puling back.
“Your horse?” You glance back at the mare and frown. “I bought her at Ashford.”
But he’s no longer listening to you. He’s finally noticed the bruise along your cheek, the jagged cut decorating the bridge of your nose. His palm cups your chin, tilting your face as he runs his thumb lightly across the markings. “What happened?”
“Bandits,” you tell him. “Attacked me a few nights past. I was lucky to get away-” You cut yourself off as you finally notice the boy on the horse behind him. Your jaw drops and the boy’s eyes widen with recognition. “Aegon?” You squeak out. “Tell me there are no more Targaryens with you?”
You glance back at Dunk and he shakes his head, but his eyes are still trained on the injury. “No, Egg is my squire now. He’s traveling with me. Perhaps you should, too,” he mutters, frowning.
“What?” You and Egg both demand.
Dunk startles at the sudden tone of your voice and he backs up a step. “Well," he stutters, "you just said you got attacked. It might be safer for you.”
“Well of course it would be, look at the size of you. But are ladies really fit to be travling with knights?”
Egg rolls his eyes from where he’s seated. “Have you never read a fairytale?”
“Oi,” you snap, glaring over at him. “I’m the one who introduced you to damsels and knights, you little brat.” He shrugs, shooting you a smug grin that makes you feel like you’ve walked into a trap.
“Then you know very well, with a knight is the best place for a lady to be.” Sometimes that boy is too smart for his own good.
Dunk steps back with a smile. “He has a point. Besides, it’d be nice to travel with Sweetfoot again.”
You grin, already knowing your answer. “Just the horse, ser?”
Dunk flushes and shakes his head. “No, no, not just the horse. I mean it would be nice to be with you again, as well. Not again as in-”
“Relax,” you laugh, cutting off his rambling as you mount your horse. “I would be most grateful for you and your squire’s company. If you would have me?”
Dunk’s shoulders drop and he gives you a soft smile. “Of course I would have you.” The sharp smile you send him makes his cheeks burn red at the unintended insinuation.
“Where are you going, anyway?” You ask Egg.
He smiles, “I’ve never been past the red mountains. I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like beyond them.”
“So have I, what luck it is that we’ve found each other, once more.” You turn toward Dunk as he mounts his horse. “Perhaps the Gods favor bastards and hedge knights most.”
Dunk smiles, but Egg cuts in. “And squires,” he adds with a huff, urging his horse past you both.
“And squires,” you add with a reluctant smile. It seems your fate hadn’t been cursed as you’d once thought. You just needed to endure the dragons until your sweet knight came along to slay them.
a/n: I have little faith in my smut in this one but, hey, what about that plot?
Bit weird to ask, but how do you draw babies?? I have never seen them drawn like that before! (would you mind if i decided to draw them the same way?)
Idk they are like little balls of dough with beady eyes to me...
Make 'em squishy and only kinda aware of their surroundings. Beady eyes and lil whispy hairs essential for maximum babee. Also yes pls feel free to draw them however u like. I love cute lil babee drawings.
the introduction to volunteer!reader; a series of headcannons
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this was inspired by a fic i saw where reader read to the kids in paediatrics! i can't find it rn but when i do i'll link the fic and tag the author! it was also inspired by what i do at work for the kids, so this is very self-indulgent of me bc i miss working while at uni.
i'm planning on having a few different aus floating about and basing my fics about it :) they'll all have different nicknames; if you have any au ideas please let me know!
˖°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
volunteer!reader who volunteers at the weekend to supervise any children in the ER who's parents are unable to. you used to do days, but when you realised how isolated and scary it must be for them at night, you decided to swap.
volunteer!reader who always keeps little badges and stickers on you, which you hand out to them when they're on their way home. you calls them your heroes, and say that you think they are the 'absolute bravest'.
volunteer!reader who has holiday-themed earrings and jumpers that you make sure to wear. and when it's not, you make sure to wear bright colours or have your nails done with something that they can notice and point out. you ask them for ideas on how you should get your nails done next time, and even though they'll never see them, you'll stick to it, and get mismatched nails with animals, cartoon characters and more on them everytime.
volunteer!reader who is so incredibly in tune with the kids; you knows all of the superheroes, old and new, all of the trends and slang and spend you free time learning random facts to tell them.
volunteer!reader who gets permission to print, cut and laminate colourful dinosaurs and dot them around the childrens' area, just so you can ask them to help you find them all.
volunteer!reader who is always so enthusiastic, and never exasperated or fed up with them. you answer all of their questions, and never discourage them, even when the questions are asking why their parents won't get better.
volunteer!reader who bakes for the staff. you try to do a mix of savoury and sweet, taking her time to write out little cards in case of allergies.
volunteer!reader who everyone calls 'angel'. everyone adores you and thinks you're a delight.
jack abbot who can't help but notice the pretty face that he started seeing a few weeks ago during the night shift. he couldn't avoid you – not that he would ever want to. he noticed everything, even the small stuff.
jack abbot who saw you crouch down and talk to the little boy who had broken his arm. who saw you offer to hold the fussy toddler of a mother who seemed to be having a night from hell.
jack abbot who watched in amusement as you laminated and cut out dinosaurs in the staff room for the better part of an hour (and ended up helping out and laminating some triceratops for you).
jack abbot who offered, no, insisted, that he bought your coffee for you, saying it was the least he could do for keeping the ER in one piece.
jack abbot who was the first to call you 'angel', and would never forget how you blushed when you first heard it.
for the first time since the two of you started dating, you aren’t there to greet kyle when he comes home.
he tries not to let disappointment curdle the relief he feels at stepping into the home the two of you have built together. he's finally home after a long deployment that only got longer, his return date pushing back time and time again, and he's home in one piece, something he has to appreciate every time it happens.
but there was supposed be relief, too, for the ache that's sat in his chest since the moment he left, an emptiness around his heart at the prospect of leaving you without knowing if you'd ever see him again.
but you aren't propped up at the kitchen table, biting at your nails as you worry and wait, lighting up the second you see him.
you aren't on the couch in the living room either, half asleep but so damn happy to see him, all the fears that keep you up at night tamped down for a little while at being able to reach out and touch him, to kiss him again.
he frowns as he drops his duffel in the entryway and tugs off his boots.
it isn't too late at night for you to still be awake- not that that's ever stopped you before; you've waited up until four in the morning just to see him before- but it's hardly pushing eight. you're never asleep by then.
and your car is in the driveway, so he knows you're not gone.
you're just... not waiting for him.
his frown deepens. a shot of worry shoots through his system, burning like alcohol as it does so, that you've given up on waiting for him to come home altogether, that you're so used to him being gone that him being there makes little difference.
if he could choose to never leave you again, he would, but his work is just...
someone has to do it.
you've always understood that- has that really changed?
he wanders deeper into the house, poking his head into your office because maybe you'd gotten too wrapped up in work, but you aren't there either.
it isn't until he reaches the bedroom the two of you share that he finally finds you.
you're sprawled out on his half of the bed, half of your limbs splayed out and the other half tucked close, face mashed into his pillow. your legs are tangled up into the blanket, like you tried to kick it off and failed.
and then, that relief finally hits, a deep breath coming easily to him for the first time in months. his shoulders droop, and the tension in his body melts.
you're just asleep.
you aren't sick of him or no longer phased by his coming and going; you just fell asleep much earlier than normal.
his weary body settles next to yours on the bed, and he reaches out a hand to brush through your sleep-mussed hair, a soft smile tugging at his lips at the state of you. fondness threatens to drown him- god, he loves you.
your head lolls to the side at the touch, and your brows pinch together before your stubbornly stuck-shut eyelids open.
you blink at him for a long time, eyes glazed over for a moment- and then it takes even longer for your brain to process his presence and- "kyle- you're 'ome- 'n safe," you rasp out, voice hoarse and hardly above a whisper.
"hey, lovey," kyle greets softly. so affectionately and full of sweet concern for you. "you feelin' alright?"
"ach," you scoff, but it only leads into you coughing. "jus' tired- took a..." your mind blanks, and you blink up at him. "a... nap."
kyle laughs, eyes cheeky as he prods, "a nap? sure you're not sick?"
"mhh-mhh." you push yourself onto your side and scootch closer to drop your head onto his lap, pressing your face into his stomach. your body curls around him as he sits on your bed. into his stomach, you begin to ramble out all the reasons you aren't sick, but they don't hold much weight, not with the heat radiating off of you and the deliriousness in your voice.
kyle just hums along anyways, running his hands through your hair and brushing his hands down your back, and letting you talk about whatever comes to mind, like denise- no, janice- no, definitely denise from work and how you despise her and how you saw this ad for a movie the two of you should see.
and eventually, your ramblings die down until you're not saying anything at all, no sounds escaping you besides soft little snores muffled into his stomach.
kyle holds you like that for a long time, relieved at having you close again and so utterly fond of you.
he's already running through a checklist of all the things you'll need and want to help you feel better, like him making you his mom's homemade chicken noodle soup recipe, lots of cuddles, and swapping between heat and ice packs for the muscle aches and chills that come with being sick.
he'll handle everything later, but for now, he just wants to hold you close, memorizing how you look curled up in his lap, so soft and sweet even in sickness.
thank you for over 160 followers- that's insane, where did all of you come from lol
thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed :)
as always, my asks are always open if there’s a trope or a character you wanna see :)
genuinely i do think it's crazy how this show hit every single mark for no reason other than pure love of the game. like this wasn't a money grab and it didn't think it would be a big success, jacob just read a book he enjoyed and thought huh i think that would be a cool thing to make into a tv show. and then he brought on hudson and connor and they're fresh and passionate and not bogged down by the industry yet and they instantly became best friends and wanted to just have fun bringing these characters to life. and they didn't have a huge budget but they did the most with what they had and everybody took the show seriously and everybody took the book seriously. the cinematographer worked his magic. the music supervisor managed to snag a well-known queer hit and an up and coming new release and old school gems that have been around since the 2000s. it's canadian to the core, built from the ground up. it takes russians and the russian language seriously. it uses sex in such a specific, meaningful way that almost no other show has done thus far, and especially not in a queer context like this. they interlaced every episode with callbacks and parallelism and self-references. they didn't take themselves too seriously. they took everything so seriously. there is love and care baked into the core of this show and it's deeply queer and it doesn't shy away from the horrors of toxic masculinity and hockey culture but it is also, always, a story of joy and love and happiness. and on top of everything, it's almost word for word, the original source material from the book.
like damn it's no wonder this thing has made us all insufferable and become a huge fucking success! so few productions in hollywood are doing it like this!!!
the problem with the gay hockey show is that the acting is great, the lighting is great, the music and costuming are great, the care taken is incredible, but you can't recommend it to normal people without sounding like a pervert
Thinking about omega!reader joining the 141, and never having been in a pack before...
You grew up pretty sheltered, in the kind of family that didn't really do packs. You're constantly thrown off by the teams weird interactions with eachother, completely unaware that they're actually normal.
Like when ghost scrubs his wrist into gaz and soaps necks in the morning, his scent lingering on them all day. It makes you frown and look away, confused why they were being so openly affectionate.
Or how price will occasionally comment about having a 'nest night' with the team, whatever that is. You thought for a moment it was about the team sleeping in prices nest but...surely not. A nest is personal space, why would anyone want others in there?
You spend your time watching all these interactions, completely baffled. People aren't this...affectionate with eachother normally, right? That sort of stuff is just for your mate.
Because if this is how unrelated soldiers act, then what does that say about your family? You try not to think about it, the implications making your stomach twist.
All the while the team are waiting for you to signal that you want in on the pack. Months in and you still haven't even scented anyone. You...seem happy enough? So why don't you act like it?
Maybe they need to be more direct...
Inspired by [this] post by @ohclaire go read it now
A/N: this is so self-indulgent, I made myself basically pocket sized and put into this fic. I just have no Kyle who basically says "I know you can take care of yourself, but let me." please only read if you're up for it and no guilt if you can't - take care of yourself
content (warnings): overstimulation (but in the bad way, the grating way, the wanting to make yourself disappear kinda way), itchiness, dizzy, headaches, tiredness, thoughts of ripping your skin open, Kyle being way too soft (he deserves and gets a forehead skin), non-sexual intimacy
word count: 0.8k words
Masterlist Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick
It's one of those days, the key to the office won't work. Your jeans sit in an awkward way, your hair brushes your neck in an itching way, and you would rather be anywhere else than here.
The office is loud, probably always is but you notice it more when you're like this. The typing gets on your nerves, so is the radio playing the music. You want to scratch your eyes out.
The skin under your jeans tingle and hurt, food gives you the ick and the computer screen-brightness is hurting your eyes. It has been coming slowly for a few days, but you didn't read the symptoms until now.
The dizziness put to the lack of water you had on the weekend, the headache just as a small little thing fought off with some painkillers.
Nevertheless you want to go home.
Kyle is home, has cleaned the flat, not a restless bone in him. He comes home from deployment and cannot sit still, the small library is rearranged, the cans in the kitchens are labelled and old sauces are thrown away.
Before you open the door you have to take a deep breath and collect yourself. Never told Kyle about this state you find yourself in. You'd rather him not knowing at all, it's no ones fault but yours right?
You only mutter a "Hello" under your breath before you're taking off your shoes, dropping your bag and beelining to the bathroom. The thought is, if you don't immediately shower you will not, which would result in you feeling worse than today. So you're stripping and getting under the shower. Hating how Kyle's shampoo scent wafts over the warm water. On good days you would revel in it, maybe even rinsing once with it, today is not that day. You take your non-scented soap, speficially picked out and just stay under the stream. Trying to ignore the hair that sticks to your skin.
Drying off with a softer towel than usually and walking to the bedroom to find some clothes, which will not get on your nerve (hopefully). But you find your perfect boyfriend, he's sat on your bed, with the biggest smile. You give a small one back, rewarding you with a lowering of Kyle's lips. "Is everything okay, lovie?" He asks and reaches out, but you step back. Hating how your eyes tingle with tears, you cannot take them. It would make you hate how they feel on your skin. "I'm sorry, it's just.." You swallow, "Bad Day." You smile and open the closet door, not wanting to look at the heartbroken look in Kyle's eyes. "What do you need?" He stands and tries. "I need something loose, not cutting into me somewhere, and covering my legs." You try. He understands.
Kyle helps you assemble, a pair of sweats and a loose henley of his. He spots how you scratch your neck when your wet hair touches, so he gently assembless a little bun. Being careful to avoid touching you anywhere else, just grabbing your hair and using the hair tie on his wrist to close it.
He hates how you haven't told him about this, haven't texted him once today, he could've been prepared; dimming the lights, make something comforting for a meal. But he is not mad, is what he told you for the past ten minutes, whilst watching you dress and turning off the bedroom lights.
You try to cook, Kyle stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulders. "I can do this, I have done this for a long time, thank you Kyle." "I know you can, but let me. You have me for this exact reason okay?" He smiles and washes his hands. He prepares a pot of salted water, as soon as they cook he puts in Penne all while he starts on the sauce. "Did you have a good day?" You ask, sipping on a water. "The most perfect now, because I get to see you. But outside of it?" You nod. "I assembled a new shelf for my dresser and then my order of comics arrived so I read the newest one." You smile. "That's good."
Dinner is perfect, noodles are not too long, the sauce doesn't drip and looking at your handsome boyfriend is also a bonus.
The kitchen light is dim, like in the living room it's not the big light anymore. But the small tucked away warm light.
"I bought you one of these as wells." When Kyle is washing the dishes, shielding you from the awful consistency of food remnants and water he nods his chin at a little blue/orange box. Your heart flutters open. Terry's Orange. "Thank you Kyle." You smile and open the package. Slamming the orange and opening the crinkle of aluminum. You steal a little slice and thank Kyle again with a hand to his shoulders. "Thank you, thank you." You mumble. "You're welcome, and the next time. Please tell me." He mumbles back, drying off his hands. "Can I kiss you?" You nod, yes this is okay.
It's not all at once, but slowly the overwhelming feeling of feeling everything ebbs away. Lifting the curse off of you. Slipping into bed and allowing Kyle to cuddle you to his chest. Pressing a soft kiss to his forehead and finally closing your eyes.
"I love you Kyle."
