Hi! Do you still take requests? If so, I just saw this fanart of modern Valarr and I HAD to read a fic about him still being royalty in modern times and scholar to a prestigious university. Maybe reader is a rival and she challenges him immensely, I’m not so good with creating scenarios but thought I’d shoot my shot still.
Hiii @raashluvsff idk if you remember taking this request (no surprise if you forgot it’s been a while sorry !) but I did it, I hope you like it and thank you for your good request !
Beginning v. End started off so serious and then went off the rails towards the end in the best and funniest way possible. Idk if you intend reader to be unintentionally funny and unhinged but I really enjoyed reading!! I can't wait to see how the whole series play out!!!
Love your support 🫶 yeah I wanted her to be like this and I’m glad you saw it ! Can’t wait to post chapter 2 too !!!
Beginning v. End started off so serious and then went off the rails towards the end in the best and funniest way possible. Idk if you intend reader to be unintentionally funny and unhinged but I really enjoyed reading!! I can't wait to see how the whole series play out!!!
Love your support 🫶 yeah I wanted her to be like this and I’m glad you saw it ! Can’t wait to post chapter 2 too !!!
Hi! Do you still take requests? If so, I just saw this fanart of modern Valarr and I HAD to read a fic about him still being royalty in modern times and scholar to a prestigious university. Maybe reader is a rival and she challenges him immensely, I’m not so good with creating scenarios but thought I’d shoot my shot still.
Hiii @raashluvsff idk if you remember taking this request (no surprise if you forgot it’s been a while sorry !) but I did it, I hope you like it and thank you for your good request !
Beginning v. End started off so serious and then went off the rails towards the end in the best and funniest way possible. Idk if you intend reader to be unintentionally funny and unhinged but I really enjoyed reading!! I can't wait to see how the whole series play out!!!
Love your support 🫶 yeah I wanted her to be like this and I’m glad you saw it ! Can’t wait to post chapter 2 too !!!
Chapter 1 - Beginning vs End - Valarr Targaryen x you
Summary : Day one turned into battlefield as you met the prince Valarr.
Word count : 11k
Notes : Someone requested a modern Valarr fic, here it is. Not everything is realistic but I tried my best to keep it. Hope you like it !
You pushed open the woody door. Inside, the air was thick scent of old books. You preferred to think of it as the Hall of Hypocrisy. Every person in this room was here for one reason: to kiss the boots of Valarr Targaryen, the prince. He’s at the center of the room, surrounded by a small, reverent crowd. He stood near the fireplace, a glass of something amber in his hand. He wasn’t tall, but he carried a presence that seemed to push the air aside for him. His hair was a brown with a silver hair strand on the side, cut short and neat, a stark contrast to the modern, messy styles around him. He was impeccably dressed; the mere cost of his sweater could have covered two months of your rent.
His eyes, one blue and the other brown, only ever seen in paintings, scanned the room with a detached, almost bored curiosity. He could have passed for any other man, were it not for the sheer arrogance of his expression and the way his gaze stripped others of their worth. His lineage lived in his posture: that sharp, high-born tilt of his jaw that suggested the very air he breathed was more expensive than yours.
Your doctoral thesis on the socio-economic collapse of late medieval trade networks was groundbreaking, it challenged the very foundations of Valarr’s published work on Targaryen economic dominance. He’d dismissed your initial paper in a published rebuttal, calling your methodology “novel but fundamentally naive.” The phrase had burned in your mind ever since. Taking a deep breath, you walked directly toward the circle around him. The conversation died as you approached. Valarr’s eyes found you, and for a second, the boredom flickered into annoyance.
“Mr. Targaryen,” you said, your voice clear and steady, cutting through the quiet. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
A faint smile touched his lips, not inviting or nice. “And you are?”
“The author of ‘Trade Winds and Fallen Kingdoms.’ The one you called naive.”
The murmur around you grew, someone coughed. Valarr’s smile didn’t waver, but his gaze sharpened. “I recall, a bold piece, unsubstantiated, in several key areas.”
“Unsubstantiated because the primary sources you rely on are compromised,” you countered, stepping closer. The circle of academics instinctively widened, giving you space. “The Targaryen ledgers from the Dragon’s Bay period were curated by the crown itself. They’re propaganda, not economics.”
His mismatched eyes held yours. “You believe the royal house would falsify its own financial records?”
“I believe any regime in its twilight would paint a portrait of stability, even as the walls crumbled. Your analysis treats them as gospel. Mine treats them as a narrative to be deconstructed.”
He took a slow sip from his glass. “Criticism is a hobby for the powerless. You find it so easy to judge the foundation of this kingdom, yet you’ve never had to bleed to maintain it. You tear down what you don't understand because you've never had anything worth protecting. You speak of crumbling walls from the safety of a library. We speak of holding the gates from within the castle.”
The metaphor was pointed, a dismissal of your entire perspective. The heat of the argument rose in your chest. “That’s exactly the blind spot! You’re still inside the castle. Even now. You interpret history through the lens of the ruler, not the ruled. Your work isn’t just history, it’s apologia.”
For a moment, the room was utterly silent. Valarr’s expression cooled, the smile vanishing. The pale light from the fireplace glinted in his eyes.
“A provocative accusation,” he said, his voice low but carrying to every ear. “From a provocator with no stake in the realm she criticizes. You challenge my scholarship because you think my blood compromises my objectivity.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“It informs it. It provides context you can never access. You see words on a page and I see my ancestors’s signature, the weight of the decisions behind each entry. It’s is a dimension you lack.”
“A perspective that colors the data. Your emotional context is a bias, one you refuse to acknowledge. It makes your work beautiful, but ultimately… unreliable.”
Then, Valarr let out a short, soft breath like a quite laugh. “Unreliable. You have a gift for the final word, it seems.” He picked up his glass again, swirling the contents. “I have a proposal.”
“What proposal?”
“The university archives hold a collection of un-transcribed merchant letters from Dragon’s Bay. Personal correspondence, smuggled out before the fall. They are… messy. Emotional. Full of the fear and speculation of the ‘ruled,’ as you call them.” He looked directly at you. “They’ve never been properly analyzed because no one has dared to cross-reference them with the official ledgers. It would be… contentious.”
You understood immediately. He was offering you the raw, unfiltered counterpoint to his own sources. “Why hasn’t anyone dared?”
“Because it would require to work on tons of books,” he said, the words slow and deliberate. “We’ll compare your ‘propaganda’ with my ‘narrative’ to see which lens brings the clearer picture.”
It was either a trap to discredit you further or a genuine, staggering opportunity.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, in my office, tomorrow at ten a.m. If your theory holds, the letters will scream of economic panic where the ledgers show calm.” He took a final sip. “If they do not… then you will have to reconsider your accusation of apologia… and your place at this university.”
The invitation was a command dressed in a collaboration. You met his gaze again, the challenge now a tangible thing in the space between you.
“Ten a.m.,” you said.
•••
At precisely ten a.m., you knocked and no one answered. You tried the handle; it was unlocked and the office was empty. It was a spacious room, dominated by a massive, antique desk. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and scrolls in protective cases. A large window offered a view of the university’s central garden. Everything was orderly, precise, and cold. You waited for fifteen minutes, pacing by the window. The anger started as a slow simmer. He’d commanded your presence. He’d set the time. And he didn’t respect his engagement. He’s not coming, you thought.
He’d stood in the Driftwood Lounge and issued a royal decree disguised as an invitation, his way of showing his title, his high statue compared to you, a simple student. The rest of the day was a blur of fuming productivity. You buried yourself in the library, pulling every secondary source on Dragon’s Bay merchant guilds you could find, trying to pre-arm yourself for the collaboration that now seemed like a cruel joke. Your notes were aggressive, your handwriting slanted with irritation. A stupid man. That thought looped in your head. A stupid, arrogant man who has zero respect for anyone.
By evening, your friends found you. Lara, from the linguistics department, and Mark, a fellow economic historian. They sensed the tension in your shoulders.
“He stood you up?” Lara asked, sipping her coffee in the common room.
“Apparently his royal schedule is too full for peasant scholars,” you muttered.
Mark grinned. “Well, the royal schedule clearly doesn’t include the party tonight. You should go. Get out of this tomb. Actually talk to people who aren’t dead monarchs.”
You needed some distraction. The party house was a classic stone mansion, now thrumming with bass and colored lights. You let yourself be swept into the crowd, for a few hours, it worked, the music was loud enough to drown out thought. You danced and laughed with your friends, had a shallow but entertaining conversation with a grad student from the engineering school. But he was there, near the back of the main room, leaning against a wall. He was dressed casually, making him appear almost indistinguishable from the crowd, nearly accessible, as if his status as a prince had finally dissolved. His silver strand of hair catching the pulsing violet light. He held a bottle of water. Even in casual clothes, he was isolated. Only one friend dared to stay by his side, while the rest of the room swirled around them, keeping a fearful distance that only reinforced his isolation and his power. He was watching the crowd with that same detached, assessing gaze. All the simmering anger erupted into a flash of heat.
You cut through the dancing bodies, your focus narrow and sharp. You stopped before him, the music pounding around you.
“You missed our meeting.” you said, your voice cutting through the bass.
His mismatched eyes shifted to you. Annoyed, again. “Hum… who are you ?
You can’t believe it, he’s doing it, his disdainful way of acting. “The appointment at the archives at 10 a.m.” you clarified.
“Ohhh… Did I ? I had other obligations.”
“You set the time and commanded me to be there.” The words came out louder than you intended.
He took a sip of water. “My obligations changed, the world does not revolve around your thesis.” He doesn’t even look at you, he’s looking around like he’s searching for an escape. “It was an offer, offers can be revoked.” His tone was flat, devoid of any academic courtesy now.
“On what condition? My unwillingness to kiss your royal ring? Was that just another performance for your audience ?”
He looked away from you, back toward the crowd. “Honestly, I’m not interested about your opinion and I don’ have time for this.”
“You’re a fraud,” you spat out, the heat in your chest turning your voice sharp. “A privileged fraud who uses his bloodline as a shield against critique. You’re not a scholar, you’re a custodian of your family’s myth.”
He turned his head back toward you, slowly. The pale light made his eyes look almost glacial. “A custodian. Interesting term.” He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering so you had to strain to hear it over the music. “You spend your life digging through the dust of my family’s legacy, trying to find cracks in the foundation. You define yourself by your opposition to it. Who is more obsessed with the Targaryens? The custodian, or the grave robber?” He straightened up, finishing his water. “Will you excuse me, I have some things to do.”
Your arm swung forward, a short, sharp motion. The contents of the cup, a fizzy liquid arced through the air. It struck Valarr’s face and the back of his head with a wet, slapping sound. A circle of faces froze, their expressions shifting from joy to utter, stunned disbelief. A collective, silent gasp seemed to suck the air from the room. All eyes were on him, waiting for the eruption. It was an act of… what? Insult. Definitely something you couldn’t take back. He turned, slowly, to face you again. The liquid dripped from his hair, down his temple, along the sharp line of his jaw. It soaked into the collar of his dark shirt; his face was wet. His eyes met yours, and they held a gentle, almost pensive look. There was no fury, just a quiet, assessing stillness. He blinked once, the motion slow. A drop of beer fell from his eyelash. The crowd held its breath. You could feel the tension. He raised a hand, not to wipe his face, but to simply touch his cheek, feeling the wetness. He looked at his fingertips, then back at you.
His voice was soft, so soft it cut through the thumping music easier. “Are you happy now?”
You stood there, your own breath caught, your heart hammering against your ribs. His gentleness was more disarming than any rage, he stole from you your satisfaction.
“Happy?” you managed, the word sounding small and foolish.
“You wanted a reaction,” he said, still in that low, even tone. “A proof that I am the arrogant prince you imagine. You got your spectacle.” He gestured slightly with his wet hand toward the frozen audience around you. “They’re all watching. How dare she.” He paused. “So, I ask again. Are you happy with the result?”
“No proof needed, you’re so full of yourself.”
He took a step closer, not an aggressive move, but one that closed the distance. The smell of the cheap beer mixed with his own scent. “My father,” he said, his eyes never leaving yours, “used to say that true power isn’t in the reaction, it’s in the choice of reaction. A man who strikes back at every insult is a puppet. A man who chooses his response… remains free.” He shook his head, a tiny motion. “I choose not to play this little game with you. Like I said you’re not important.”
Valarr merely reached into his pocket with agonizingly slow grace. He pulled out a square of heavy, cream-colored linen. As he began to dab the beer from his skin, the light caught the flash of gold thread at the corner: V.T. His initials. Hand-embroidered and perfectly legible. You couldn't help but stare, a fresh wave of disdain hitting you. It was so characteristic of him—the sheer, archaic arrogance of carrying a monogrammed handkerchief in a world that had moved on to paper and pragmatism. To him, even a spill was an opportunity to showcase his status.
He walked away, through the gaping crowd, which parted for him. He disappeared into the shadows at the back of the house, leaving you standing in a ring of stunned silence, with an empty plastic cup in your hand.
Lara approached slowly. “What the hell was that?”
“It was nothing.” You didn't want to talk about it; the sting of the encounter was still too fresh.
“You just doused a prince, you're insane,” she added, her voice hushed with worry and a big smile. “What if he complains to his father?”
“Let him. I don’t care.” The truth was entirely different. You had worked so hard to get here; getting expelled or fired now was definitely not part of the plan.
“Come on, let’s go dance to take your mind off it,” your friend suggested, noticing that your smile had completely vanished
•••
The charity gala was less of an event and more of a coordinated display of soft power. The Grand Ballroom was a sea of black ties, silk gowns, and the kind of hushed, expensive laughter that makes a person feel like they’re breathing thinner air. You stood near a fluted marble column, smoothing the fabric of your dress with trembling hands. You shouldn’t have come, but your department head had made it clear: the university’s funding relied on these optics, and after the "incident" at the party, your presence here was less an invitation and more a probation.
“Try not to throw any beverages tonight,” Lara whispered beside you, her eyes scanning the room. “The champagne here costs more than my car. I don’t think the security guards are as 'pensive' as Valarr.”
“I’m not going near him,” you muttered, clutching your clutch bag like a shield.
The crowd shifted, a gravitational pull announcing the arrival of the inner circle. Valarr appeared, flanked by his cousins and a phalanx of board members. He was in a bespoke tuxedo, the silver strand in his hair groomed to perfection. He looked every bit the prince, untouchable, polished, and calm like he owned the piece, every gesture from his seems meticulously executed. He was laughing at something a rich old man said, a sound that felt like a personal insult to your ears. It was going perfectly well, despite the times Valarr mistook you for one of the servers. You were only there to lend a hand, simple as that, but he seemed to take a wicked delight in summoning you for the most trivial tasks, his eyes mocking you, a silent, smug reminder that in this room, he held all the cards.
His gaze swept the room and locked onto yours. His laughter didn’t die; it simply detached from his eyes. He said something to his companions and began to walk, directly toward you.
“Oh god, he’s coming over,” Lara hissed, suddenly finding a very interesting painting to study three rooms away, she vanished.
“Don’t leave me alone with him.” You hissed.
Valarr stopped two feet from you. Up close, the mismatched colors of his eyes were even more jarring under the crystal chandeliers.
“I assumed you’d be hiding in a basement somewhere, deconstructing my family’s tax codes,” he said, his voice a low, melodic drawl.
“I’m here to support the university,” you replied, chin tilting upward. “Despite your best efforts to make me feel unwelcome.”
“Unwelcome? I’m including you in the festivities, literally. I’m nice with you even if the other night you responded with a cheap lager shower.” He took a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter, his fingers lingering on the crystal. “A bit pedestrian, don't you think? If you want to ruin the suit, you should have gone for the red wine. The tannins are much harder to lift.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” You answered him curtly, having no desire to endure another second of his presence.
“There won’t be a next time,” he said, the lightness leaving his voice. He stepped into your personal space. “My father was curious about the girl who lacked the basic decorum to function in polite society. He wanted to know why a doctoral candidate with such a... vibrant resume was allowed to stay.”
Your heart skipped. “And ?”
Valarr leaned down, his lips inches from your ear. The warmth of his breath sent a traitorous shiver down your spine. “I told him that you were a necessary irritation. That your work is brilliant enough to be dangerous, and that your temper is the only thing keeping you from actually succeeding. I told him I’d handle you.”
He pulled back, a smirk playing on his lips, his mismatched eyes tracking the flash of anger in yours.
“You speak of me like some object,” you hissed, stepping closer rather than backing away. You cast a pointed look at the room, at the bowing waiters and the donors vying for a second of his time. “Everything in this room exists to remind us that you are different. You play the humble professor by day, but tonight you’re exactly what you are: a relic who thinks the world owes him its silence.”
Valarr’s jaw tightened. “I owe this world my services. But I suppose to someone like you, who views things at such low level, duty looks a lot like arrogance.”
A group of older men approached, their heavy laughter cutting through the air. Valarr didn't move away from you, but his posture shifted, becoming more rigid and serious.
“Valarr! There you are,” one of the men boomed, a glass of cognac in his hand. He didn't even acknowledge you, treating you as little more than a piece of the furniture. “We were just discussing the recent unrest in Meereen. Terrible business, but I suppose that’s what happens when you give these backwater territories a taste of autonomy. They don't want democracy; they want to kill each other with better equipment.”
Another man chuckled, adjusted his silk pocket square. “Quite right. It’s a pity about the infrastructure, though. My firm had three projects there. Now? It’s just more rubble for the peasants to throw at each other. They’re more comfortable in the dirt anyway, I find.”
You felt the blood drain from your face, replaced by a searing, white-hot heat. You looked at Valarr, waiting for the man who claimed to understand the "context of the ruled," to say something. To push back. Valarr stood there, his face a perfect, unreadable slate. He didn't agree, but didn’t disagree neither. He simply took a slow sip of his water, his eyes fixed on the middle distance.
“It’s a complex geopolitical theater,” Valarr said finally, his voice devoid of any emotion. It was a non-answer, a polite and neutral response.
You felt like you were going to vomit. You marched over.
"The slaughter at the Bay of Meereen involved the burning of three harbor towns," you said, stepping directly into their circle, your eyes fixed solely on Valarr. "Thousands of civilians died. They drowned in fire and harbor silt while men like you sat safely behind their home. Is that the values the Crown is fostering tonight?" your voice cut through the laughter, cold as a winter gale.
The old men blinked, startled by the intrusion of a girl he didn’t even knew existed. Valarr’s eyes shifted to you, dark, calculating, and instantly narrowing. The men sputtered, looking offended, but Valarr stepped forward, his presence effectively dismissing them. With a flick of his hand, the elders hurried away, grumbling about "ill-mannered staff."
"You have a penchant for theatrics," Valarr remarked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "This is a gala, not a war council. Control your temper."
"How can I control it when I heard atrocities ?" You stepped closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear the venom. "But I forget who I’m talking to. You’re the 'Butcher of the Reach.' To you, Essos is just a map, and lives are just statistics to be traded for more gold on these tables."
Valarr’s expression hardened into a mask of pure disdain. He took your arm, not in a show of force, but with a lingering touch that felt like a caress. The intent, however, was sharp and clear. He led you onto the terrace, pulling you away from the bustling room.
“And you didn’t say anything,” you said, your voice trembling with pure, unadulterated loathing.
Valarr stopped, frowning slightly. “I beg your pardon?”
“They were joking about people dying ! They were laughing about war-torn countries like it was a bad quarter on the stock market and you just stood there,” You stepped into his path, your voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "You aren't the man you pretend to be. All those oaths you and your family swear are nothing but hollow trifles; in reality, you serve no one but yourselves."
“You have no idea how the world works.” He said. "You think you’re the only one who carries the weight of the dead?" he hissed, the heat of his anger radiating off him. "I don't laugh because I know the cost. But I also know that if we don't keep these 'old men' happy and distracted, the funding for your precious relief efforts vanishes. I play the part of the bored soldier so you can play the part of the righteous martyr."
"Don't you dare pretend there’s a drop of altruism in your blood," you spat, your heart hammering against your ribs. "You enjoy the power, the fear. Every time I look at you, I’m reminded that the wrong side won."
Valarr took a step toward you, his presence suddenly suffocating. “Listen to me, you self-righteous child. Do you think a public scene with the men who fund your research would have saved a single life in Essos?”
“It would have shown that you care!”
“Caring for everyone is a luxury for those who don't have to navigate controversies every time they open their mouths,” he hissed. “You want me to be the villain so badly because it makes your little crusade feel noble.” he sneered, his gaze raking over you with disdain. "But you’re just a bitter girl playing at revolution in a dress you can’t even afford. You think your 'outrage' is a virtue?”
"If everyone saw you as I do, your house would be reduced to nothing by morning.” Your eyes meeting his stare with a fire of your own. “Every lies that passes your lips, Valarr, know this: I will do everything in my power to drag the truth into the light. Whether you like it or not."
“Are you threatening the Crown? “ he challenged, his voice was a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through you. “Watch your tongue, those words carry the heavy scent of treason.” He leaned in then, his breath hot against your ear, his voice becoming a dark, intimate murmur that made your skin crawl and burn all at once. "It’s so sweet, really... how much of your life you’ve dedicated to watching mine. Tell me," he breathed, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to yours, "when you’re not busy plotting my ruin, do you think of anything else? Or am I the only thing that makes you feel alive?"
You swallowed hard, refusing to let the vibration of his voice unsettle you, even as your pulse hammered against your skin. "And what happened to freedom of speech? Are we still so primitive that a difference of opinion is called treason? We aren't living in some ancient feudal nightmare anymore where you can simply execute everyone who speaks a truth you don't like. I'm not one of your subjects, and I certainly don't fear you.”
He laughed, a soft sound that made his eyes crinkle and revealed a perfect, devastating smile. "I may not be able to execute you," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, virile rumble again, "but I can ensure your life becomes a living hell. Whispers spread quickly. Do not tempt me."
"Do as you wish. Unleash every lie you can invent, spread every rumor you can conjure, I don’t give a damn.”
"Interesting," he murmured, that lopsided smirk resurfacing. He watched you with a sudden, sharpened intensity, the look of a man who had just found a new, fascinating toy to dismantle. Deep down, you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch, but a fresh wave of rage surged through you. Seeing him smile didn't just annoy you; it made your blood boil.
"Why are you smiling?" you demanded. "Do not treat me like one of your stupid games and don’t speak to me again, or I’ll sue. And..." Without touching him, you made a sharp, dismissive gesture for him to move. He was standing so close that the scent of his cologne, something surely expensive, filled your lungs. "If you could step back, it would be immensely appreciated."
He took two deliberate steps back, his eyes never leaving yours, his expression shifting as he feigned wiping the amusement from his face. You were done. You were sick of breathing the same air, sick of the weight of his gaze. Without another word, you turned your back on him and began to melt into the restless movement of the gala.
"What is your name, again?" he called out after you, his voice cutting through the hum of the crowd.
"You really think I’m going to make it that easy for you?" you threw over your shoulder, your voice ringing with defiance before you vanished into the crowd.
•••
Valarr was buried in a mountain of paperwork, the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear as he scribbled notes. It was his daily ritual: a frantic dance of scheduling appointments and trying to claw back even a few minutes of personal time. He was so deep in his focus that he didn't notice his father enter. Baelor didn't bother knocking; he simply stood in the doorway, taking in the organized chaos of the room.
Valarr glanced up for a split second—a quick nod of acknowledgment—before his eyes darted back to his documents.
"Your desk is a disaster," Baelor remarked, his voice smooth and resonant.
"Really? I hadn't noticed," Valarr replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Baelor let out a soft chuckle. “As they say: a full desk, a full mind."
"Or a busy one," Valarr muttered, finally cracking a small, tired smile.
Baelor’s attention shifted to a heavy, neatly bound stack of papers—nearly two hundred pages thick. He picked it up, feeling the weight of it, and began to skim the first few paragraphs.
"This... this is actually quite sophisticated," the King noted, his eyebrows rising in genuine surprise.
"Huh?" Valarr looked up properly this time, having lost track of his father’s movements.
"Who wrote this?" Baelor asked, his curiosity clearly piqued.
Valarr glanced at the title page and felt a slight pang of nerves. "Oh. That’s just... it’s the work of a classmate of mine. It’s... in my best effort to not compliment this person, it is pretty good."
"It’s more than good. The prose is captivating. Why is it sitting on your desk? Why don’t you want give some of your compliment on this person? What did this person do to deserve your lack of flattery ?” Asked the king, curious on the behaviour of his son.
Valarr shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearing his throat, avoiding his father piercing gaze. "Because, Father, the author possesses an utterly insufferable personality. She lack any shred of respect for protocol, decorum, or... well, me. She’s stubborn, reckless, and entirely too blunt for their own good. I can recognize talent, but I refuse to stroke the ego of someone who goes out of their way to be a thorn in my side."
“Is she on of your conquest ?” Baelor teased. He knew his son wasn't the type to go chasing after girls from the campus, but he couldn't resist the opening.
His son let out a heavy sigh, his face flushing a subtle shade of crimson. "Dad... please. You know how much I hate talking about my dating life. Or the lack of it. And also, every women that I interact with isn’t some alleged girlfriend, don’t be like the media. "
"I know," Baelor grinned. "That’s why I find it so rewarding. But you’re righr.”
"You and the rest of the realm," Valarr grumbled. "The tabloids talks of nothing but my... lack of romantic activity or a girl that might be my girlfriend."
"Then stop listening to them. You shouldn't even be aware of this."
"Not quite easy. Hard to ignore them when the entire campus thinks I’m gay just because I haven't been seen with a girl in years."
"And?" Baelor asked, his voice softening as he continued to flip through the pages. "There’s no shame in being gay, Valarr. If they want to believe that, let them. Their imagination isn't your responsibility."
Valarr shook his head, a reluctant smile returning. "You always have an answer for everything, don't you?"
"It’s a family trait. No one will ever put you in a corner. No one—not even me."
Valarr looked at him, his gaze heavy. "Sometimes... I wonder if life would have been simpler if we were just normal."
“Everyone is dreaming of this life, it’s your destiny, you’re born for this.”Baelor said gently.
Valarr bristled. To him, it felt more like a line of state propaganda.
"It’s just... forget it," Valarr whispered, waving the thought away.
"In any case," Baelor said, tapping the manuscript, "this thesis is brilliant. Do you know her well?"
Valarr looked at the manuscript, his expression souring as a very specific, very vivid memory flashed in his mind. "You really like it? Even the parts where she tears into our family history? She basically calls our name a relic of a darker age."
"Those are the best parts," Baelor replied firmly. "It takes real spine to challenge an institution that’s stood for centuries. Without critics like her, we’d rot from the inside out. We have to be able to look in the mirror, Valarr. After all, we’re only human."
Valarr let out a dry, frustrated laugh. "Oh, she’ll make sure you feel human, alright. I know exactly who she is. I met her at a house party off-campus a few months ago."
Baelor leaned back, his eyebrows shooting up. "I thought you only attended sanctioned events." He said with a light severe expression.
"I was trying to be 'of the people,' as you always suggest," Valarr muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "It was a disaster. We got into it over some political theory, and she told me I was 'genetically predisposed to being a snob. I ignored her and she got angry, and spat a mouthful of cheap beer right across my face.”
Baelor stared at his son for a beat, until he let out a roar of laughter that echoed off the high ceilings. "And you just stood there? You let her disrespect you like that?"
"What was I supposed to do?" Valarr groaned, his face flushing at the memory. "She’s reckless, she’s stubborn, and she has absolutely no filter. She’s the last person I want to be anywhere near me.”
•••
Just as you were about to head home, two men in sharp suits and dark sunglasses stepped into your path. Bodyguards, clearly. They moved with a practiced, immovable precision that made your heart skip a beat.
"Excuse me,miss." one of them said, his tone polite. "Would you please come with us?"
"Hello?" you stammered, clutching your bag tighter. "On whose authority? Who exactly are you?"
"We are with the Royal Security Detail," he replied, gesturing toward a black sedan idling at the curb. "The King has requested an immediate audience with you. If you would please step into the car."
"Is this… necessary ?” You asked. “I have some things to do.” you excused yourself politely, trying to keep your voice steady.
"The King cleared your schedule, so there's no need to worry. Miss, to the car, please."
You let out a frustrated sigh, having absolutely no desire to go anywhere with them. "Is this mandatory?"
The two bodyguards winced, visibly suppressing their smiles. "We're sorry, Miss. It is."
"Well, I suppose it’s not your fault," you muttered, stepping toward the car as one of the guards held the door open for you.
Once inside, the air in the vehicle felt increasingly heavy, suffocating even. You took deep, ragged breaths, trying desperately to calm your racing heart. Your foot tapped frantically against the floor of the luxury car. It was an incredibly beautiful vehicle, you had never set foot in anything remotely like it before.
"Nicest car I've ever been in, by the way," you offered, trying to break the heavy silence. "Must be nice to drive around without having to worry about fuel costs."
The two men up front remained entirely stoic.
"Great..." you muttered to yourself, slumping back. "What is this even about? What did I do?" Still, no response.
Your mind began frantically cycling through every minor infraction you’d ever committed, but nothing came close to warranting a private audience with the King. Then again, you didn't actually believe it was the King himself you were going to see. It was impossible. A man like that was far too busy to meet with you; at most, it would be one of his high-ranking representatives. Maybe he had found out about your subversive thesis, or maybe Valarr had lied about what happened. That rich brat was exactly the type to run to his father to cause trouble.
The palace was quiet, save for the rhythmic clicking of your shoes on the marble floors. You were led into the King’s private office, a room that felt more like a fortress than a study. King Baelor was standing by the window. An undeniable aura of charisma emanated from him, far more imposing in person than it ever appeared on television. A deep, unshakeable calm rested upon his features. Baelor actually seemed approachable, carrying himself with the simple, grounded warmth of a father.
Baelor turned away from the window as the heavy doors clicked shut behind you. You couldn’t read his expression; if anything, there was a faint, amused glint in his eye, as he gestured toward a plush velvet chair in front of his desk.
"Sit, please," he said, his voice a rich, grounding baritone. "I apologize for the dramatic escort. My security team can be a bit... heavy-handed when I ask them to fetch someone quickly."
You sank into the chair, your posture stiff. He bypassed the massive desk entirely, leaning against the edge of it just a few feet away from you. He’s a man of remarkable presence, salt and pepper-haired, olive-skinned from his Martell blood, and carrying himself with the effortless grace of a true leader. He crossed his arms, looking down at you with a disarming smile. “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee or anything?” He proposed politely.
“Nothing, thanks.” You declined, you wanted this to end as fast as possible.
“I’ve spent the last hour reading your thesis on our family's historical administrative failures. It is quite a piece of work. Bold. Scathing. Painfully accurate in some chapters."
Your heart did a nervous flip. You didn’t even know why, you assume every single word you wrote on this paper. The most surprising thing was that the king himself had the time to read all of your papers.
"I liked it," he said with a short laugh. "It shows you have a brain that functions outside of royal sycophancy. Which brings me to why you are here. I have a proposition for you. I want you to be Valarr’s personal assistant."
You blinked, completely derailed by the sudden pivot. "I'm sorry... what?"
"My son is currently buried under a mountain of logistics, public relations disasters, and state scheduling. And he is failing miserably," Baelor explained, his tone turning pragmatic. "The problem isn't his intellect; it's his circle. Everyone who works for him is so blinded by his title that they just bow, scrape, and tell him exactly what he wants to hear. No one dares to go against him. No one tells him when he's being an arrogant idiot."
Why would he reveal such personal details about his son ? It didn’t seem right, you didn’t feel comfortable with this, you had nothing to do with this self sufficient human being.
The King leaned in slightly, his mismatched eyes locking onto yours. "But you? You threw a beer in his face because he was being rude. You clearly don't care."
Your face burned crimson. "I—"
"I’m not angry about the beer either. He deserved it," Baelor chuckled, though his expression quickly smoothed into something more business-like. "I need someone who isn't intimidated by the prince to keep him grounded and force him to get his work done. I need you. He had tons of subordinate, every single time he made sure to fire them for no reason, that’s why I want to try with you.”
"With all due respect, I can't," you stammered, shaking your head. "I have my own life, my own studies. I already work three jobs, I can’t add another one. Valarr and I... we despise each other. It would be a disaster."
"Quit every job now, I’ll compensate you for it. And It's only for six months," Baelor countered smoothly, raising a finger. "And before you give me a final 'no,' let me enumerate exactly what those six months will do for you."
He began ticking points off on his fingers.
"First, your university tuition for the remainder of your degree? Paid in full. Second, you will have unrestricted, 24-hour access to the Royal Archives for your research, documents that no civilian historian has laid eyes on in a century. Third, the salary I am offering you for these six months is more than your professors make in three years. Also, this job gonna count as an internship for you to finalise your degree."
He paused, letting the numbers settle in your head before delivering the final blow.
"And finally, the networking. A recommendation letter signed by the King opens every door on this planet. You want a fellowship at Oxford? Done. A position at a top-tier global think tank? A single phone call from me makes it happen. Everything will be paid, you’ll be housed and fed. You’d be incredibly, utterly dumb to turn down a future like that just because my son has an attitude problem."
You sat frozen in the chair. The best argument was the money, actually. And it was only six month, all the money you could get to leave the country and do whatever you want.
"And then I can leave?"
"Of course," Baelor confirmed, a triumphant, knowing smile spreading across his face as he straightened up. "Just long enough to whip him into shape. So do we have a deal?"
“Are you aware that your son’s gonna be furious about this?”
He chuckled. “Well, with great power comes great responsibility. I’ve faced many battles, I think I can handle my son.” Truth be told, Baelor wasn’t used to being spoken to with such casual familiarity. Everyone in his orbit spent their days bowing and scraping, terrified of stepping out of line. He found this sudden lack of pretense strangely refreshing. “And besides, you already know how to handle Valarr," he joked, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Just ensure there is a cold cup of beer within arm's reach at all times.”
You managed a small, tentative smile. Honestly, you weren't entirely sure how to react. In the old feudal days, throwing a drink at a prince would have landed you in a dungeon, if not facing a death sentence or a lifetime of forced servitude. Daring to strike the royal blood was once the ultimate capital offense. Fortunately, those brutal times were long gone, and Baelor truly seemed to be an honest, humble man.
“You’ll start, let's say, in a week," Baelor continued smoothly, straightening a few papers on his desk. "That should give you enough time to sign the contract, pack your things, and allow the staff to prepare your room here at the palace.”
Living at the palace sounded like a dream, and you knew you’d adjust quickly. The hardest part would be managing that absolute idiot of a Prince, who constantly walked around with his head stuck entirely up his own royal ass.
The week had flown by, which spoke volumes about how little you actually wanted to work for this spoiled trust-fund baby. You hadn't brought any luggage with you, you had zero intention of sleeping at the palace, and you were positive Valarr wouldn't want you hanging around 24/7 anyway. Still, your mind raced with questions. What kind of tasks would you be given? Knowing the royal family, you were bound to cross paths with important figures and celebrities. At the palace entrance, you were greeted by a tall, bald man wearing thick-rimmed glasses that framed his entire face. He smiled warmly at you.
"Good day, miss. I am the Prince’s major-domo. My name is Stewart, but everyone calls me Stu. I shall give you a tour of the palace and show you to your quarters."
"Nice to meet you! I’m Y/n, and I’m here to... help this clown," you said, gesturing toward Valarr, who happened to be walking past. He didn't even glance your way.
"T-this clown? Whom do you mean?"
"The prince," you whispered.
Stu flushed, quickly adopting a serious expression. "We do not indulge in such nicknames here, unless they have been formally approved by the Prince himself."
"Nicknames are never approved. That's exactly why they're nicknames."
In the distance, Valarr was watching the two of you over the rim of his sunglasses. Abandoning his luxury car, he strolled over. As he approached, the major-domo offered a polite bow.
"It was," Valarr drawled, his voice dripping with icy disdain, "until I spotted this particular eyesore. What on earth is she doing here?"
He was shockingly rude. You would think royal children would be raised with impeccable manners by the greatest tutors, but apparently not. His comment caught you off guard, though—was he completely oblivious? Of course. His father either hadn't warned him or simply hadn't found the time.
"Uh, s-she is your new assistant. Your father personally hired miss for you," Stu stammered, clearly wishing the ground would swallow him whole.
"I’m standing right here, you know. You can speak to me directly," you interjected. Who did he think he was?
"Out of all the competent people in this kingdom, this is the best he could find?" Valarr sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"Competent people just can't stand the sight of your face, it's that simple."
"Ha. Ha. Hilarious. Truly mature," he mocked. "You don't possess a single qualification for this role. You take things entirely too personally, you're wildly impulsive, and you'll do nothing but slow me down. I'd have to spend half my day monitoring you just to make sure you don't ruin something. You have zero class, zero concept of court etiquette, and I just don't like you."
"Well, you'll have to take that up with your father, because he practically begged me to take this stupid job," you shot back. "Don't flatter yourself into thinking I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart."
Valarr burst out laughing, his voice dripping with heavy sarcasm. "My father? Begging you? Are you suffering from pathological delusions? Or perhaps a touch of altered perception of reality ?”
“That’s the same thing.” you cut in, doing it purely to annoy him.
He stopped briefly, his look turning incredibly sharp as his mismatched eyes locked onto yours. “You're imagining things. Why on earth would my father choose you when he has his pick from an agency representing the most elite individuals across the Seven Kingdoms?" His voice grew sharper. "Don't pretend you didn't want this job. You're just like the rest, constantly chasing money. Don't even try to deny it. In the end, it's highly convenient for you to get free room and board on top of a hefty salary, isn't it? Am I wrong?"
"Is this a monologue? My god, do you ever stop talking? I don't give a damn whether you believe me or not. Your father summoned me personally for this. And as for your accusations of greed, tell me, who on this Earth doesn't want money, besides literal children and animals? You really aren't well-versed in basic sociology, are you? And I—"
"Shh. Shut up," he cut you off.
"You bargain-bin prince, cutting me off—"
"You're fired. Go home and never come back."
"I'll leave when the King orders me to."
"Well, I am the future king, and I am ordering you to leave."
You didn't budge. Stu stood rigidly between the two of you, visibly caught in the crossfire. The prince sighed, running his hands through his hair once more. He pulled out his phone, his tense posture making it obvious that whoever he was dialing wasn't picking up.
"Of course he doesn't answer. He's always too busy," he muttered to himself.
"Should I proceed with the tour for the young lady, sir?" Stu asked weakly.
"Give me a second please, Stu."
He dialed a different number, and this time, someone picked up. Valarr walked a few paces away, launching into an incredibly animated, hushed argument, waving his hands wildly.
"Why exactly did he fire twenty assistants in the past? He's so bizarre. Stu, you can tell me. I'll keep it between us."
Stu cleared his throat sharply, staring straight ahead. "I am not at liberty to disclose personal royal matters, Miss."
A third person joined you, an older woman, around Stu's age, clearly part of the extensive royal staff. She quickly introduced herself and leaned in to whisper:
"A few years ago, the Prince—"
She cut herself off instantly as Valarr began striding back, his face a mask of pure defeat. The woman offered a quick, panicked bow before vanishing down the corridor.
Valarr wore an expression of pure defeat. "Despite my numerous arguments, my father is forcing me to..." He paused, letting out a heavy sigh, "...accept you."
You remained silent, letting him swallow his pride.
"We will set the ground rules later," he added curtly. "Have a good day, Stu." He insisted on the Stu, a mark for you to know that he didn’t want you to have good day. With that, he turned on his heel and walked back toward his luxury car.
The major-domo turned to you with a comforting smile.
"This is going to be a very long experience," you sighed.
"You'll manage quite well. The prince is a good person."
You doubted it. You had absolutely no desire to get to know him; your mind was thoroughly made up. Still, Stu proved to be an excellent guide, showing you the breathtaking layout of the palace: the massive, multi-level library, the high-tech game room, a private cinema, the sprawling, manicured gardens, and even a private lake.
As for your bedroom, it was located right next to Valarr's. It was significantly smaller than his, of course, but still remarkably spacious—about the size of the entire apartment you share with your friend back home. The room itself was basic: a bed, a desk, and an en-suite bathroom.
"You are welcome to redecorate as you please," Stu explained. "You have been placed here specifically to facilitate smooth communication with the prince. If he requires anything at all, you are easily reachable."
This felt like it violated every labor law in existence, but the King had explicitly warned you that this was a 24/7 commitment.
"Any other question ?" Stu asked.
"Very well. I notice you haven't brought any luggage. Was that intentional?"
"Oh, completely. I don't plan on sleeping here," you stated firmly. "I highly doubt Valarr needs my help that much."
Stu looked deeply skeptical, adjusting his glasses. "Oh... I see."
He didn't look convinced, but you knew deep down that Valarr would do everything in his power to get you fired. Staying here around the clock would only give him more opportunities to torture you. It looked like you were going to have the rest of the morning to yourself. He wasn't around, which meant no work for you. Until, suddenly, your phone began to ring.
"Hello?"
"It's Valarr," his voice barked through the speaker, tight and annoyed. "Go to my office right now and bring me the Reyne Infrastructure Report.”
He hung up before you could even ask where the hell the report was located. Grimacing, you headed down to his ground-floor office. You pushed open the heavy doors and instinctively checked the surface of his massive desk, but found absolutely nothing in view. You searched all around the room, but you simply didn't know the layout well enough, and you had no idea where he could have hidden it. Your phone buzzed again. A text.
Valarr: I said now. If you can’t manage a basic delivery, I’ll gladly tell my father his sociologist is illiterate.
"Oh, you arrogant little..." you muttered, your blood starting to boil. You shoved the phone into your pocket.
Right at that moment, Stu walked past the open doorway. He glanced inside, intrigued by the rustling noises since he knew the prince was out. Spotting him, you called out in pure relief.
"Ah, Stu! By any chance, do you know where the Reyne Infrastructure Report is?" you asked, your absolute last resort.
"Oh, yes, the Prince mentioned it this morning." Stu walked straight into the room, bypassed the main desk, and pressed a small panel to open a hidden drawer, pulling out a perfectly organized stack of papers.
How on earth was I supposed to find that... you thought.
He handed it to you, and you grabbed it tightly. "Thank you! You're an absolute lifesaver!"
Stu smiled timidly. Without wasting another second, you bolted toward the Royal Commerce House. You jumped into your car and tore down the road. Pushing through the grand entrance of the corporate building, you spotted Valarr across the lobby, deep in conversation with three people. You marched toward him, but he ignored you entirely.
You instantly recognized Tysha Lyroy, the powerhouse international human rights lawyer, alongside Tino Rivera, the environmental mogul whose waste-to-energy infrastructure was so massive that every kingdom and even several cities in Essos, shipped their refuse to him. The third man you didn't recognize; he was tall, dark-haired, impeccably tailored, and easily rivaled Valarr in pure presence.
"Good morning," you said, smoothly sliding into the conversation the moment a lull opened up. You thrust the folder into Valarr's hands; he didn't say a word, merely snatching it from you. "I'm Y/n, a pleasure to meet you. Ms. Lyroy, I absolutely admire your work on the recent maritime trade labor disputes. And Mr. Rivera, your environmental initiatives are incredible. Do you have further sustainability measures planned for the upcoming fiscal cycle?"
They both smiled warmly at you, stretching out their hands to shake yours. You engaged in a brief, brilliant discussion about green energy policies and legal precedents, while the third man introduced himself as the Director of Regional Development. Valarr watched the entire exchange in a stony, brooding silence. Once the pleasantries wrapped up and the dignitaries said their goodbyes, they walked away, leaving you entirely alone with the prince.
"Thanks for the folder, but it's too late," Valarr muttered dryly.
You rolled your eyes. "I can't help it if you give me zero notice."
"It's your job to anticipate, I'll have you know," he countered, a smug glint returning to his eyes. "I can't wait to list every single one of your catastrophic failures to my father to justify your dismissal. Mistake number one."
The two of you started walking toward the exit. You were just preparing a lethal, sarcastic retort when your attention drifted out the glass doors. Your heart dropped. A tow truck was currently hitching up your car.
"No, no, no, no, not now, not my car!"
By the time you burst through the doors, the tow truck was already roaring down the street, dragging your vehicle away.
"I almost feel bad for you," Valarr chuckled from behind you.
"This is completely your fault!" you yelled, spinning around.
"Hey, I didn't force you to park on commercial delivery zone."
"It is your fault! You stressed me out over the phone, and I had to park in a hurry!"
"You're an adult. Take some responsibility for your actions."
You let out a desperate, miserable sigh. Your car was your only reliable way to get around, especially since the palace was an hour's drive from your apartment, buried deep in the countryside with absolutely miserable public transit links.
"Well, seeing as it wasn't a handicapped spot, which wouldn’t have been justified in your case, I suppose I can offer to drop you off," Valarr said, stepping up to his luxury sedan and swinging the passenger door open with a thoroughly fake, theatrical smile.
"No, thank you. I don't need your charity. I'll take the bus."
"Get in the car, and don't make me repeat myself," he said, keeping his voice uncharacteristically calm despite the flashing frustration in his eyes.
"No," you replied flatly. "I am not accepting any favors from you."
"And yet you accept your paycheck?"
"That is completely different, and you know it."
"Oh, really?" Valarr leaned against the car door, crossing his arms with a mocking tilt of his head. "Would you still be my assistant if I were completely broke and couldn't pay you at the end of the month?"
"Pfft. I can barely stand being here right now with the money," you shot back.
"So you admit it ? you're only here for money," Valarr purred, a triumphant, venomous spark in his mismatched eyes. "Where did that fiercely principled girl go? The one who loved to verbally assault the wealthy back at the university? It turns out you're just like the rest of them, craving fortune and power."
"When you say 'like them,' you mean like you, don't you?" you countered, taking a step closer, your voice cutting right through his smugness. "I see what you're doing. You are desperately trying to project your own superficial, perfidious behavior onto me because it would comfort you to know I'm just as miserable as you are. If it helps you sleep at night to believe that, then go ahead. Think what you want."
Valarr’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before hardening. "Aren't you just delightfully perceptive," he muttered ironically. "I'd love to stay and dissect your little psychological theories, but I actually have things to do. Not that you aren't fascinating... or not."
He slipped into the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel, and looked up at you through the open window with a cold, ruthless smile.
"You don't want a ride? Fine. But know this: if you aren't back at the palace in exactly thirty minutes, you are fired. And you need to pick up my tailored tuxedo from the dry cleaners on your way. So, I'll be generous, I'll give you forty minutes total."
Before you could even process the words, he slammed the door, revved the engine, and tore out of the parking lot, leaving you standing on the curb in a cloud of exhaust.
"Forty minutes?!" you screamed at the empty street. "The palace is an hour away by car, you royal psycho!"
Panick setting in, you frantically whipped out your phone, your fingers trembling as you opened the transit maps. The local bus network in this rural district was practically prehistoric. The next connection toward the palace gates wasn't scheduled for another forty-five minutes, which meant public transit was completely out of the question. You stared at the screen, your heart hammering against your ribs. He would hold it over your head forever. Then, your eyes caught the second part of his impossible demand. The dry cleaners.
Which dry cleaners? He hadn't given you a name, an address, or a receipt. Your mind raced back to your exhaustive research on the Targaryen family's daily habits for your thesis. Valarr was meticulous about his appearance and notoriously snobbish about his clothes. He would never trust a standard commercial cleaner. There was only one high-end, traditional boutique near the Royal Commerce district that handled silk-lined formal wear for the nobility. You checked the digital map. It was six blocks away. Glancing down at your watch, you saw the digital numbers ticking away relentlessly. You had thirty-eight minutes left, no car, an entire countryside to cross, and a prince's tuxedo to steal.
The six blocks felt endless; your lungs were burning, and your professional shoes were clearly not designed for sprinting. But anger and pure stubbornness served as your fuel. There was absolutely no way you were going to let this spoiled prince savor his victory. You pushed open the door of the luxury boutique to the chime of a silver bell. An old gentleman, impeccably dressed in a suit vest, looked up from behind a mahogany counter.
"Hello..." you panted, desperately catching your breath. "I'm here... for Prince Valarr Targaryen's tuxedo."
The man frowned, looking you up and down, his eyes lingering on your flushed cheeks and slight sweat. "Hello. Do you have the pickup ticket, miss?"
Shit. He didn’t give you anything, but you’re his assistant, you should’ve known this information, he won’t give you any help, you're the one who's here to help him, not the other way around. Then you remembered what he told you, “You're gonna be a weight. I'll have to micromanage your every move just to keep your incompetence from causing a disaster.”
You quickly glanced around to ensure there were no lingering ears, then leaned across the counter, lowering your voice to a confidential whisper.
"Look, this stays strictly between us, but the Prince has suffered an... unexpected gastrointestinal emergency. To put it bluntly, he completely soiled himself, and it is a total disaster. I need this tuxedo right now," you lied, without a single shred of shame.
The man’s face twisted into an expression of sheer, horrified bewilderment. "I am quite certain His Royal Highness have an extensive wardrobe back at the palace that could resolve his problem.”
"Mm, not an option," you countered smoothly, shaking your head. "He’s currently nowhere near the palace, and he needs this immediately. Your boutique is right down the street, it's a literal miracle."
The old man let out a heavy, defeated sigh.
"Come on," you pressed, tilting your head. "Are you really going to leave your beloved prince stranded in such a shitty situation? Besides, think of the business. You’d lose a loyal and very rich client."
"Fine," he muttered reluctantly. "But I expect you to return later with proper identification proving you are actually on his payroll."
He disappeared into the back of his shop, returning thirty seconds later with the crisp garment bag and a few small sachets of herbal tea.
"Here," he said, handing them over with an earnest expression. "And give these to the Prince as well. It’s an old family remedy, it helps with digestion."
"Thank you so much," you beamed, taking the bag and the tea. "I will take absolute pleasure in handing these over to him."
"Have a pleasant day, miss."
You bolted out of the shop, the heavy door chiming behind you. You were out of the building, but now came the real impossible task: finding a way to cross the countryside and reach the palace gates in under twenty-five minutes. As you scanned the busy street in desperation, your eyes suddenly locked onto a parked police cruiser, and the two officers standing right beside it. A wicked, desperate idea sparked in your mind. You gripped the royal garment bag in one hand, stuffed the herbal digestion tea into your pocket, and marched straight toward the two officers.
"Officers! Thank god," you cried out, deliberately making your voice sound breathless and frantic.
"Miss? Is there an emergency?" the taller officer asked, stepping forward.
"I am Prince Valarr’s personal assistant, and I desperately need your services," you said, leaning in closer and dropping your voice to a hushed, conspiratorial whisper. "He is currently in a critical, highly compromised position. To put it bluntly, his absolute safety and dignity is at stake, and I must deliver this to him immediately." You gestured sharply to the luxury garment bag. "I need to be at the palace gates right now."
The two officers exchanged a glance, their expressions deeply skeptical. "We're sorry, miss, but we can't just authorize an emergency escort on your word," the shorter one explained, crossing his arms. "You'll need to provide actual proof of your deployment."
Frustrated, you flipped the garment bag around, pointing aggressively at the silk label stitched near the collar, which proudly displayed the intricate, gold-embroidered Targaryen three-headed dragon. "Look at the seal! Who else wears bespoke silk from a high-end district tailor?"
They looked at it, but it only seemed to half-convince them. "Anyone could buy or steal a fancy coat, miss," the taller officer countered smoothly.
"Are you seriously refusing to come to the aid of your future king?" you snapped, your eyes narrowing as you pulled your final bluff. "What do you think will happen to your precinct when King Baelor finds out you left his son stranded in a total crisis because you wanted to play bureaucratic gatekeepers?"
"Look, lady, no identification, no ride," the shorter cop said firmly, turning his back to walk around the car.
Without a second thought, you lunged for the driver’s side door, yanked it open, and threw yourself inside, tossing the clothes onto the passenger seat. You quickly slammed the door and cranked the ignition, those idiots had actually left the keys right in the car.
"Ma'am, what are you doing?! Stop right now!"
They pounded on the windows and yanked at the handles, but you had already locked the doors. One of them threw himself right in front of the car to block your way, but you threw it into reverse, gunned it, and swung the wheel around, missing him by inches. You hit the gas, never looking back.
"I'm just borrowing it for a few minutes. I'll be back," you tell yourself.
You flipped on the flashing lights and the sirens. The effect was immediate: everyone on the road pulled over to let you pass, and you flew down the streets at a crazy speed. The moment you cleared the city limits and hit the country roads, you accelerated even harder, doubling your speed. Finally, you arrived at the palace, but the gates were taking their sweet time to open.
"Come on, open up, you stupid gate!" you muttered to yourself in pure frustration.
Outside, Valarr was leaning against the hood of his luxury car, sunglasses on his nose. He was already savoring his victory. With barely a minute left on the clock, there was absolutely no way you were going to make it. He was already thinking about the severance pay he’d have to give you—a tiny amount, considering how short your time here had been. He figured he might even do you a small favor and give you a little extra just to get under your skin, making sure you knew it was out of pity and that he was simply above you. But his smile quickly vanished when he heard a siren getting louder and louder. He spotted the police car.
"What on earth...?" he muttered to himself.
The moment you reached him, you pulled the handbrake to execute a sharp drift, just to give him a good scare. He didn't flinch an inch. You stepped out of the car with a triumphant grin, checking your watch as you marched toward him.
"Thirty-nine minutes and forty-six seconds! I have fourteen seconds to spare!" You thrust the suit into his hands.
As you were about to pull out the tea bags, five police cars roared through the gates, which opened instantly for them, way faster than they had for you. The cars swarmed the courtyard, completely surrounding the two of you. A dozen officers spilled out of their vehicles, all pointing their weapons dead at you.
“What the fuck did you do ?” He hissed, deeply concerned about the absolute chaos on his front lawn.
Chapter 1 - Beginning vs End - Valarr Targaryen x you
Summary : Day one turned into battlefield as you met the prince Valarr.
Word count : 11k
Notes : Someone requested a modern Valarr fic, here it is. Not everything is realistic but I tried my best to keep it. Hope you like it !
You pushed open the woody door. Inside, the air was thick scent of old books. You preferred to think of it as the Hall of Hypocrisy. Every person in this room was here for one reason: to kiss the boots of Valarr Targaryen, the prince. He’s at the center of the room, surrounded by a small, reverent crowd. He stood near the fireplace, a glass of something amber in his hand. He wasn’t tall, but he carried a presence that seemed to push the air aside for him. His hair was a brown with a silver hair strand on the side, cut short and neat, a stark contrast to the modern, messy styles around him. He was impeccably dressed; the mere cost of his sweater could have covered two months of your rent.
His eyes, one blue and the other brown, only ever seen in paintings, scanned the room with a detached, almost bored curiosity. He could have passed for any other man, were it not for the sheer arrogance of his expression and the way his gaze stripped others of their worth. His lineage lived in his posture: that sharp, high-born tilt of his jaw that suggested the very air he breathed was more expensive than yours.
Your doctoral thesis on the socio-economic collapse of late medieval trade networks was groundbreaking, it challenged the very foundations of Valarr’s published work on Targaryen economic dominance. He’d dismissed your initial paper in a published rebuttal, calling your methodology “novel but fundamentally naive.” The phrase had burned in your mind ever since. Taking a deep breath, you walked directly toward the circle around him. The conversation died as you approached. Valarr’s eyes found you, and for a second, the boredom flickered into annoyance.
“Mr. Targaryen,” you said, your voice clear and steady, cutting through the quiet. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
A faint smile touched his lips, not inviting or nice. “And you are?”
“The author of ‘Trade Winds and Fallen Kingdoms.’ The one you called naive.”
The murmur around you grew, someone coughed. Valarr’s smile didn’t waver, but his gaze sharpened. “I recall, a bold piece, unsubstantiated, in several key areas.”
“Unsubstantiated because the primary sources you rely on are compromised,” you countered, stepping closer. The circle of academics instinctively widened, giving you space. “The Targaryen ledgers from the Dragon’s Bay period were curated by the crown itself. They’re propaganda, not economics.”
His mismatched eyes held yours. “You believe the royal house would falsify its own financial records?”
“I believe any regime in its twilight would paint a portrait of stability, even as the walls crumbled. Your analysis treats them as gospel. Mine treats them as a narrative to be deconstructed.”
He took a slow sip from his glass. “Criticism is a hobby for the powerless. You find it so easy to judge the foundation of this kingdom, yet you’ve never had to bleed to maintain it. You tear down what you don't understand because you've never had anything worth protecting. You speak of crumbling walls from the safety of a library. We speak of holding the gates from within the castle.”
The metaphor was pointed, a dismissal of your entire perspective. The heat of the argument rose in your chest. “That’s exactly the blind spot! You’re still inside the castle. Even now. You interpret history through the lens of the ruler, not the ruled. Your work isn’t just history, it’s apologia.”
For a moment, the room was utterly silent. Valarr’s expression cooled, the smile vanishing. The pale light from the fireplace glinted in his eyes.
“A provocative accusation,” he said, his voice low but carrying to every ear. “From a provocator with no stake in the realm she criticizes. You challenge my scholarship because you think my blood compromises my objectivity.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“It informs it. It provides context you can never access. You see words on a page and I see my ancestors’s signature, the weight of the decisions behind each entry. It’s is a dimension you lack.”
“A perspective that colors the data. Your emotional context is a bias, one you refuse to acknowledge. It makes your work beautiful, but ultimately… unreliable.”
Then, Valarr let out a short, soft breath like a quite laugh. “Unreliable. You have a gift for the final word, it seems.” He picked up his glass again, swirling the contents. “I have a proposal.”
“What proposal?”
“The university archives hold a collection of un-transcribed merchant letters from Dragon’s Bay. Personal correspondence, smuggled out before the fall. They are… messy. Emotional. Full of the fear and speculation of the ‘ruled,’ as you call them.” He looked directly at you. “They’ve never been properly analyzed because no one has dared to cross-reference them with the official ledgers. It would be… contentious.”
You understood immediately. He was offering you the raw, unfiltered counterpoint to his own sources. “Why hasn’t anyone dared?”
“Because it would require to work on tons of books,” he said, the words slow and deliberate. “We’ll compare your ‘propaganda’ with my ‘narrative’ to see which lens brings the clearer picture.”
It was either a trap to discredit you further or a genuine, staggering opportunity.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, in my office, tomorrow at ten a.m. If your theory holds, the letters will scream of economic panic where the ledgers show calm.” He took a final sip. “If they do not… then you will have to reconsider your accusation of apologia… and your place at this university.”
The invitation was a command dressed in a collaboration. You met his gaze again, the challenge now a tangible thing in the space between you.
“Ten a.m.,” you said.
•••
At precisely ten a.m., you knocked and no one answered. You tried the handle; it was unlocked and the office was empty. It was a spacious room, dominated by a massive, antique desk. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and scrolls in protective cases. A large window offered a view of the university’s central garden. Everything was orderly, precise, and cold. You waited for fifteen minutes, pacing by the window. The anger started as a slow simmer. He’d commanded your presence. He’d set the time. And he didn’t respect his engagement. He’s not coming, you thought.
He’d stood in the Driftwood Lounge and issued a royal decree disguised as an invitation, his way of showing his title, his high statue compared to you, a simple student. The rest of the day was a blur of fuming productivity. You buried yourself in the library, pulling every secondary source on Dragon’s Bay merchant guilds you could find, trying to pre-arm yourself for the collaboration that now seemed like a cruel joke. Your notes were aggressive, your handwriting slanted with irritation. A stupid man. That thought looped in your head. A stupid, arrogant man who has zero respect for anyone.
By evening, your friends found you. Lara, from the linguistics department, and Mark, a fellow economic historian. They sensed the tension in your shoulders.
“He stood you up?” Lara asked, sipping her coffee in the common room.
“Apparently his royal schedule is too full for peasant scholars,” you muttered.
Mark grinned. “Well, the royal schedule clearly doesn’t include the party tonight. You should go. Get out of this tomb. Actually talk to people who aren’t dead monarchs.”
You needed some distraction. The party house was a classic stone mansion, now thrumming with bass and colored lights. You let yourself be swept into the crowd, for a few hours, it worked, the music was loud enough to drown out thought. You danced and laughed with your friends, had a shallow but entertaining conversation with a grad student from the engineering school. But he was there, near the back of the main room, leaning against a wall. He was dressed casually, making him appear almost indistinguishable from the crowd, nearly accessible, as if his status as a prince had finally dissolved. His silver strand of hair catching the pulsing violet light. He held a bottle of water. Even in casual clothes, he was isolated. Only one friend dared to stay by his side, while the rest of the room swirled around them, keeping a fearful distance that only reinforced his isolation and his power. He was watching the crowd with that same detached, assessing gaze. All the simmering anger erupted into a flash of heat.
You cut through the dancing bodies, your focus narrow and sharp. You stopped before him, the music pounding around you.
“You missed our meeting.” you said, your voice cutting through the bass.
His mismatched eyes shifted to you. Annoyed, again. “Hum… who are you ?
You can’t believe it, he’s doing it, his disdainful way of acting. “The appointment at the archives at 10 a.m.” you clarified.
“Ohhh… Did I ? I had other obligations.”
“You set the time and commanded me to be there.” The words came out louder than you intended.
He took a sip of water. “My obligations changed, the world does not revolve around your thesis.” He doesn’t even look at you, he’s looking around like he’s searching for an escape. “It was an offer, offers can be revoked.” His tone was flat, devoid of any academic courtesy now.
“On what condition? My unwillingness to kiss your royal ring? Was that just another performance for your audience ?”
He looked away from you, back toward the crowd. “Honestly, I’m not interested about your opinion and I don’ have time for this.”
“You’re a fraud,” you spat out, the heat in your chest turning your voice sharp. “A privileged fraud who uses his bloodline as a shield against critique. You’re not a scholar, you’re a custodian of your family’s myth.”
He turned his head back toward you, slowly. The pale light made his eyes look almost glacial. “A custodian. Interesting term.” He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering so you had to strain to hear it over the music. “You spend your life digging through the dust of my family’s legacy, trying to find cracks in the foundation. You define yourself by your opposition to it. Who is more obsessed with the Targaryens? The custodian, or the grave robber?” He straightened up, finishing his water. “Will you excuse me, I have some things to do.”
Your arm swung forward, a short, sharp motion. The contents of the cup, a fizzy liquid arced through the air. It struck Valarr’s face and the back of his head with a wet, slapping sound. A circle of faces froze, their expressions shifting from joy to utter, stunned disbelief. A collective, silent gasp seemed to suck the air from the room. All eyes were on him, waiting for the eruption. It was an act of… what? Insult. Definitely something you couldn’t take back. He turned, slowly, to face you again. The liquid dripped from his hair, down his temple, along the sharp line of his jaw. It soaked into the collar of his dark shirt; his face was wet. His eyes met yours, and they held a gentle, almost pensive look. There was no fury, just a quiet, assessing stillness. He blinked once, the motion slow. A drop of beer fell from his eyelash. The crowd held its breath. You could feel the tension. He raised a hand, not to wipe his face, but to simply touch his cheek, feeling the wetness. He looked at his fingertips, then back at you.
His voice was soft, so soft it cut through the thumping music easier. “Are you happy now?”
You stood there, your own breath caught, your heart hammering against your ribs. His gentleness was more disarming than any rage, he stole from you your satisfaction.
“Happy?” you managed, the word sounding small and foolish.
“You wanted a reaction,” he said, still in that low, even tone. “A proof that I am the arrogant prince you imagine. You got your spectacle.” He gestured slightly with his wet hand toward the frozen audience around you. “They’re all watching. How dare she.” He paused. “So, I ask again. Are you happy with the result?”
“No proof needed, you’re so full of yourself.”
He took a step closer, not an aggressive move, but one that closed the distance. The smell of the cheap beer mixed with his own scent. “My father,” he said, his eyes never leaving yours, “used to say that true power isn’t in the reaction, it’s in the choice of reaction. A man who strikes back at every insult is a puppet. A man who chooses his response… remains free.” He shook his head, a tiny motion. “I choose not to play this little game with you. Like I said you’re not important.”
Valarr merely reached into his pocket with agonizingly slow grace. He pulled out a square of heavy, cream-colored linen. As he began to dab the beer from his skin, the light caught the flash of gold thread at the corner: V.T. His initials. Hand-embroidered and perfectly legible. You couldn't help but stare, a fresh wave of disdain hitting you. It was so characteristic of him—the sheer, archaic arrogance of carrying a monogrammed handkerchief in a world that had moved on to paper and pragmatism. To him, even a spill was an opportunity to showcase his status.
He walked away, through the gaping crowd, which parted for him. He disappeared into the shadows at the back of the house, leaving you standing in a ring of stunned silence, with an empty plastic cup in your hand.
Lara approached slowly. “What the hell was that?”
“It was nothing.” You didn't want to talk about it; the sting of the encounter was still too fresh.
“You just doused a prince, you're insane,” she added, her voice hushed with worry and a big smile. “What if he complains to his father?”
“Let him. I don’t care.” The truth was entirely different. You had worked so hard to get here; getting expelled or fired now was definitely not part of the plan.
“Come on, let’s go dance to take your mind off it,” your friend suggested, noticing that your smile had completely vanished
•••
The charity gala was less of an event and more of a coordinated display of soft power. The Grand Ballroom was a sea of black ties, silk gowns, and the kind of hushed, expensive laughter that makes a person feel like they’re breathing thinner air. You stood near a fluted marble column, smoothing the fabric of your dress with trembling hands. You shouldn’t have come, but your department head had made it clear: the university’s funding relied on these optics, and after the "incident" at the party, your presence here was less an invitation and more a probation.
“Try not to throw any beverages tonight,” Lara whispered beside you, her eyes scanning the room. “The champagne here costs more than my car. I don’t think the security guards are as 'pensive' as Valarr.”
“I’m not going near him,” you muttered, clutching your clutch bag like a shield.
The crowd shifted, a gravitational pull announcing the arrival of the inner circle. Valarr appeared, flanked by his cousins and a phalanx of board members. He was in a bespoke tuxedo, the silver strand in his hair groomed to perfection. He looked every bit the prince, untouchable, polished, and calm like he owned the piece, every gesture from his seems meticulously executed. He was laughing at something a rich old man said, a sound that felt like a personal insult to your ears. It was going perfectly well, despite the times Valarr mistook you for one of the servers. You were only there to lend a hand, simple as that, but he seemed to take a wicked delight in summoning you for the most trivial tasks, his eyes mocking you, a silent, smug reminder that in this room, he held all the cards.
His gaze swept the room and locked onto yours. His laughter didn’t die; it simply detached from his eyes. He said something to his companions and began to walk, directly toward you.
“Oh god, he’s coming over,” Lara hissed, suddenly finding a very interesting painting to study three rooms away, she vanished.
“Don’t leave me alone with him.” You hissed.
Valarr stopped two feet from you. Up close, the mismatched colors of his eyes were even more jarring under the crystal chandeliers.
“I assumed you’d be hiding in a basement somewhere, deconstructing my family’s tax codes,” he said, his voice a low, melodic drawl.
“I’m here to support the university,” you replied, chin tilting upward. “Despite your best efforts to make me feel unwelcome.”
“Unwelcome? I’m including you in the festivities, literally. I’m nice with you even if the other night you responded with a cheap lager shower.” He took a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter, his fingers lingering on the crystal. “A bit pedestrian, don't you think? If you want to ruin the suit, you should have gone for the red wine. The tannins are much harder to lift.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” You answered him curtly, having no desire to endure another second of his presence.
“There won’t be a next time,” he said, the lightness leaving his voice. He stepped into your personal space. “My father was curious about the girl who lacked the basic decorum to function in polite society. He wanted to know why a doctoral candidate with such a... vibrant resume was allowed to stay.”
Your heart skipped. “And ?”
Valarr leaned down, his lips inches from your ear. The warmth of his breath sent a traitorous shiver down your spine. “I told him that you were a necessary irritation. That your work is brilliant enough to be dangerous, and that your temper is the only thing keeping you from actually succeeding. I told him I’d handle you.”
He pulled back, a smirk playing on his lips, his mismatched eyes tracking the flash of anger in yours.
“You speak of me like some object,” you hissed, stepping closer rather than backing away. You cast a pointed look at the room, at the bowing waiters and the donors vying for a second of his time. “Everything in this room exists to remind us that you are different. You play the humble professor by day, but tonight you’re exactly what you are: a relic who thinks the world owes him its silence.”
Valarr’s jaw tightened. “I owe this world my services. But I suppose to someone like you, who views things at such low level, duty looks a lot like arrogance.”
A group of older men approached, their heavy laughter cutting through the air. Valarr didn't move away from you, but his posture shifted, becoming more rigid and serious.
“Valarr! There you are,” one of the men boomed, a glass of cognac in his hand. He didn't even acknowledge you, treating you as little more than a piece of the furniture. “We were just discussing the recent unrest in Meereen. Terrible business, but I suppose that’s what happens when you give these backwater territories a taste of autonomy. They don't want democracy; they want to kill each other with better equipment.”
Another man chuckled, adjusted his silk pocket square. “Quite right. It’s a pity about the infrastructure, though. My firm had three projects there. Now? It’s just more rubble for the peasants to throw at each other. They’re more comfortable in the dirt anyway, I find.”
You felt the blood drain from your face, replaced by a searing, white-hot heat. You looked at Valarr, waiting for the man who claimed to understand the "context of the ruled," to say something. To push back. Valarr stood there, his face a perfect, unreadable slate. He didn't agree, but didn’t disagree neither. He simply took a slow sip of his water, his eyes fixed on the middle distance.
“It’s a complex geopolitical theater,” Valarr said finally, his voice devoid of any emotion. It was a non-answer, a polite and neutral response.
You felt like you were going to vomit. You marched over.
"The slaughter at the Bay of Meereen involved the burning of three harbor towns," you said, stepping directly into their circle, your eyes fixed solely on Valarr. "Thousands of civilians died. They drowned in fire and harbor silt while men like you sat safely behind their home. Is that the values the Crown is fostering tonight?" your voice cut through the laughter, cold as a winter gale.
The old men blinked, startled by the intrusion of a girl he didn’t even knew existed. Valarr’s eyes shifted to you, dark, calculating, and instantly narrowing. The men sputtered, looking offended, but Valarr stepped forward, his presence effectively dismissing them. With a flick of his hand, the elders hurried away, grumbling about "ill-mannered staff."
"You have a penchant for theatrics," Valarr remarked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "This is a gala, not a war council. Control your temper."
"How can I control it when I heard atrocities ?" You stepped closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear the venom. "But I forget who I’m talking to. You’re the 'Butcher of the Reach.' To you, Essos is just a map, and lives are just statistics to be traded for more gold on these tables."
Valarr’s expression hardened into a mask of pure disdain. He took your arm, not in a show of force, but with a lingering touch that felt like a caress. The intent, however, was sharp and clear. He led you onto the terrace, pulling you away from the bustling room.
“And you didn’t say anything,” you said, your voice trembling with pure, unadulterated loathing.
Valarr stopped, frowning slightly. “I beg your pardon?”
“They were joking about people dying ! They were laughing about war-torn countries like it was a bad quarter on the stock market and you just stood there,” You stepped into his path, your voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "You aren't the man you pretend to be. All those oaths you and your family swear are nothing but hollow trifles; in reality, you serve no one but yourselves."
“You have no idea how the world works.” He said. "You think you’re the only one who carries the weight of the dead?" he hissed, the heat of his anger radiating off him. "I don't laugh because I know the cost. But I also know that if we don't keep these 'old men' happy and distracted, the funding for your precious relief efforts vanishes. I play the part of the bored soldier so you can play the part of the righteous martyr."
"Don't you dare pretend there’s a drop of altruism in your blood," you spat, your heart hammering against your ribs. "You enjoy the power, the fear. Every time I look at you, I’m reminded that the wrong side won."
Valarr took a step toward you, his presence suddenly suffocating. “Listen to me, you self-righteous child. Do you think a public scene with the men who fund your research would have saved a single life in Essos?”
“It would have shown that you care!”
“Caring for everyone is a luxury for those who don't have to navigate controversies every time they open their mouths,” he hissed. “You want me to be the villain so badly because it makes your little crusade feel noble.” he sneered, his gaze raking over you with disdain. "But you’re just a bitter girl playing at revolution in a dress you can’t even afford. You think your 'outrage' is a virtue?”
"If everyone saw you as I do, your house would be reduced to nothing by morning.” Your eyes meeting his stare with a fire of your own. “Every lies that passes your lips, Valarr, know this: I will do everything in my power to drag the truth into the light. Whether you like it or not."
“Are you threatening the Crown? “ he challenged, his voice was a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through you. “Watch your tongue, those words carry the heavy scent of treason.” He leaned in then, his breath hot against your ear, his voice becoming a dark, intimate murmur that made your skin crawl and burn all at once. "It’s so sweet, really... how much of your life you’ve dedicated to watching mine. Tell me," he breathed, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to yours, "when you’re not busy plotting my ruin, do you think of anything else? Or am I the only thing that makes you feel alive?"
You swallowed hard, refusing to let the vibration of his voice unsettle you, even as your pulse hammered against your skin. "And what happened to freedom of speech? Are we still so primitive that a difference of opinion is called treason? We aren't living in some ancient feudal nightmare anymore where you can simply execute everyone who speaks a truth you don't like. I'm not one of your subjects, and I certainly don't fear you.”
He laughed, a soft sound that made his eyes crinkle and revealed a perfect, devastating smile. "I may not be able to execute you," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, virile rumble again, "but I can ensure your life becomes a living hell. Whispers spread quickly. Do not tempt me."
"Do as you wish. Unleash every lie you can invent, spread every rumor you can conjure, I don’t give a damn.”
"Interesting," he murmured, that lopsided smirk resurfacing. He watched you with a sudden, sharpened intensity, the look of a man who had just found a new, fascinating toy to dismantle. Deep down, you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch, but a fresh wave of rage surged through you. Seeing him smile didn't just annoy you; it made your blood boil.
"Why are you smiling?" you demanded. "Do not treat me like one of your stupid games and don’t speak to me again, or I’ll sue. And..." Without touching him, you made a sharp, dismissive gesture for him to move. He was standing so close that the scent of his cologne, something surely expensive, filled your lungs. "If you could step back, it would be immensely appreciated."
He took two deliberate steps back, his eyes never leaving yours, his expression shifting as he feigned wiping the amusement from his face. You were done. You were sick of breathing the same air, sick of the weight of his gaze. Without another word, you turned your back on him and began to melt into the restless movement of the gala.
"What is your name, again?" he called out after you, his voice cutting through the hum of the crowd.
"You really think I’m going to make it that easy for you?" you threw over your shoulder, your voice ringing with defiance before you vanished into the crowd.
•••
Valarr was buried in a mountain of paperwork, the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear as he scribbled notes. It was his daily ritual: a frantic dance of scheduling appointments and trying to claw back even a few minutes of personal time. He was so deep in his focus that he didn't notice his father enter. Baelor didn't bother knocking; he simply stood in the doorway, taking in the organized chaos of the room.
Valarr glanced up for a split second—a quick nod of acknowledgment—before his eyes darted back to his documents.
"Your desk is a disaster," Baelor remarked, his voice smooth and resonant.
"Really? I hadn't noticed," Valarr replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Baelor let out a soft chuckle. “As they say: a full desk, a full mind."
"Or a busy one," Valarr muttered, finally cracking a small, tired smile.
Baelor’s attention shifted to a heavy, neatly bound stack of papers—nearly two hundred pages thick. He picked it up, feeling the weight of it, and began to skim the first few paragraphs.
"This... this is actually quite sophisticated," the King noted, his eyebrows rising in genuine surprise.
"Huh?" Valarr looked up properly this time, having lost track of his father’s movements.
"Who wrote this?" Baelor asked, his curiosity clearly piqued.
Valarr glanced at the title page and felt a slight pang of nerves. "Oh. That’s just... it’s the work of a classmate of mine. It’s... in my best effort to not compliment this person, it is pretty good."
"It’s more than good. The prose is captivating. Why is it sitting on your desk? Why don’t you want give some of your compliment on this person? What did this person do to deserve your lack of flattery ?” Asked the king, curious on the behaviour of his son.
Valarr shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearing his throat, avoiding his father piercing gaze. "Because, Father, the author possesses an utterly insufferable personality. She lack any shred of respect for protocol, decorum, or... well, me. She’s stubborn, reckless, and entirely too blunt for their own good. I can recognize talent, but I refuse to stroke the ego of someone who goes out of their way to be a thorn in my side."
“Is she on of your conquest ?” Baelor teased. He knew his son wasn't the type to go chasing after girls from the campus, but he couldn't resist the opening.
His son let out a heavy sigh, his face flushing a subtle shade of crimson. "Dad... please. You know how much I hate talking about my dating life. Or the lack of it. And also, every women that I interact with isn’t some alleged girlfriend, don’t be like the media. "
"I know," Baelor grinned. "That’s why I find it so rewarding. But you’re righr.”
"You and the rest of the realm," Valarr grumbled. "The tabloids talks of nothing but my... lack of romantic activity or a girl that might be my girlfriend."
"Then stop listening to them. You shouldn't even be aware of this."
"Not quite easy. Hard to ignore them when the entire campus thinks I’m gay just because I haven't been seen with a girl in years."
"And?" Baelor asked, his voice softening as he continued to flip through the pages. "There’s no shame in being gay, Valarr. If they want to believe that, let them. Their imagination isn't your responsibility."
Valarr shook his head, a reluctant smile returning. "You always have an answer for everything, don't you?"
"It’s a family trait. No one will ever put you in a corner. No one—not even me."
Valarr looked at him, his gaze heavy. "Sometimes... I wonder if life would have been simpler if we were just normal."
“Everyone is dreaming of this life, it’s your destiny, you’re born for this.”Baelor said gently.
Valarr bristled. To him, it felt more like a line of state propaganda.
"It’s just... forget it," Valarr whispered, waving the thought away.
"In any case," Baelor said, tapping the manuscript, "this thesis is brilliant. Do you know her well?"
Valarr looked at the manuscript, his expression souring as a very specific, very vivid memory flashed in his mind. "You really like it? Even the parts where she tears into our family history? She basically calls our name a relic of a darker age."
"Those are the best parts," Baelor replied firmly. "It takes real spine to challenge an institution that’s stood for centuries. Without critics like her, we’d rot from the inside out. We have to be able to look in the mirror, Valarr. After all, we’re only human."
Valarr let out a dry, frustrated laugh. "Oh, she’ll make sure you feel human, alright. I know exactly who she is. I met her at a house party off-campus a few months ago."
Baelor leaned back, his eyebrows shooting up. "I thought you only attended sanctioned events." He said with a light severe expression.
"I was trying to be 'of the people,' as you always suggest," Valarr muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "It was a disaster. We got into it over some political theory, and she told me I was 'genetically predisposed to being a snob. I ignored her and she got angry, and spat a mouthful of cheap beer right across my face.”
Baelor stared at his son for a beat, until he let out a roar of laughter that echoed off the high ceilings. "And you just stood there? You let her disrespect you like that?"
"What was I supposed to do?" Valarr groaned, his face flushing at the memory. "She’s reckless, she’s stubborn, and she has absolutely no filter. She’s the last person I want to be anywhere near me.”
•••
Just as you were about to head home, two men in sharp suits and dark sunglasses stepped into your path. Bodyguards, clearly. They moved with a practiced, immovable precision that made your heart skip a beat.
"Excuse me,miss." one of them said, his tone polite. "Would you please come with us?"
"Hello?" you stammered, clutching your bag tighter. "On whose authority? Who exactly are you?"
"We are with the Royal Security Detail," he replied, gesturing toward a black sedan idling at the curb. "The King has requested an immediate audience with you. If you would please step into the car."
"Is this… necessary ?” You asked. “I have some things to do.” you excused yourself politely, trying to keep your voice steady.
"The King cleared your schedule, so there's no need to worry. Miss, to the car, please."
You let out a frustrated sigh, having absolutely no desire to go anywhere with them. "Is this mandatory?"
The two bodyguards winced, visibly suppressing their smiles. "We're sorry, Miss. It is."
"Well, I suppose it’s not your fault," you muttered, stepping toward the car as one of the guards held the door open for you.
Once inside, the air in the vehicle felt increasingly heavy, suffocating even. You took deep, ragged breaths, trying desperately to calm your racing heart. Your foot tapped frantically against the floor of the luxury car. It was an incredibly beautiful vehicle, you had never set foot in anything remotely like it before.
"Nicest car I've ever been in, by the way," you offered, trying to break the heavy silence. "Must be nice to drive around without having to worry about fuel costs."
The two men up front remained entirely stoic.
"Great..." you muttered to yourself, slumping back. "What is this even about? What did I do?" Still, no response.
Your mind began frantically cycling through every minor infraction you’d ever committed, but nothing came close to warranting a private audience with the King. Then again, you didn't actually believe it was the King himself you were going to see. It was impossible. A man like that was far too busy to meet with you; at most, it would be one of his high-ranking representatives. Maybe he had found out about your subversive thesis, or maybe Valarr had lied about what happened. That rich brat was exactly the type to run to his father to cause trouble.
The palace was quiet, save for the rhythmic clicking of your shoes on the marble floors. You were led into the King’s private office, a room that felt more like a fortress than a study. King Baelor was standing by the window. An undeniable aura of charisma emanated from him, far more imposing in person than it ever appeared on television. A deep, unshakeable calm rested upon his features. Baelor actually seemed approachable, carrying himself with the simple, grounded warmth of a father.
Baelor turned away from the window as the heavy doors clicked shut behind you. You couldn’t read his expression; if anything, there was a faint, amused glint in his eye, as he gestured toward a plush velvet chair in front of his desk.
"Sit, please," he said, his voice a rich, grounding baritone. "I apologize for the dramatic escort. My security team can be a bit... heavy-handed when I ask them to fetch someone quickly."
You sank into the chair, your posture stiff. He bypassed the massive desk entirely, leaning against the edge of it just a few feet away from you. He’s a man of remarkable presence, salt and pepper-haired, olive-skinned from his Martell blood, and carrying himself with the effortless grace of a true leader. He crossed his arms, looking down at you with a disarming smile. “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee or anything?” He proposed politely.
“Nothing, thanks.” You declined, you wanted this to end as fast as possible.
“I’ve spent the last hour reading your thesis on our family's historical administrative failures. It is quite a piece of work. Bold. Scathing. Painfully accurate in some chapters."
Your heart did a nervous flip. You didn’t even know why, you assume every single word you wrote on this paper. The most surprising thing was that the king himself had the time to read all of your papers.
"I liked it," he said with a short laugh. "It shows you have a brain that functions outside of royal sycophancy. Which brings me to why you are here. I have a proposition for you. I want you to be Valarr’s personal assistant."
You blinked, completely derailed by the sudden pivot. "I'm sorry... what?"
"My son is currently buried under a mountain of logistics, public relations disasters, and state scheduling. And he is failing miserably," Baelor explained, his tone turning pragmatic. "The problem isn't his intellect; it's his circle. Everyone who works for him is so blinded by his title that they just bow, scrape, and tell him exactly what he wants to hear. No one dares to go against him. No one tells him when he's being an arrogant idiot."
Why would he reveal such personal details about his son ? It didn’t seem right, you didn’t feel comfortable with this, you had nothing to do with this self sufficient human being.
The King leaned in slightly, his mismatched eyes locking onto yours. "But you? You threw a beer in his face because he was being rude. You clearly don't care."
Your face burned crimson. "I—"
"I’m not angry about the beer either. He deserved it," Baelor chuckled, though his expression quickly smoothed into something more business-like. "I need someone who isn't intimidated by the prince to keep him grounded and force him to get his work done. I need you. He had tons of subordinate, every single time he made sure to fire them for no reason, that’s why I want to try with you.”
"With all due respect, I can't," you stammered, shaking your head. "I have my own life, my own studies. I already work three jobs, I can’t add another one. Valarr and I... we despise each other. It would be a disaster."
"Quit every job now, I’ll compensate you for it. And It's only for six months," Baelor countered smoothly, raising a finger. "And before you give me a final 'no,' let me enumerate exactly what those six months will do for you."
He began ticking points off on his fingers.
"First, your university tuition for the remainder of your degree? Paid in full. Second, you will have unrestricted, 24-hour access to the Royal Archives for your research, documents that no civilian historian has laid eyes on in a century. Third, the salary I am offering you for these six months is more than your professors make in three years. Also, this job gonna count as an internship for you to finalise your degree."
He paused, letting the numbers settle in your head before delivering the final blow.
"And finally, the networking. A recommendation letter signed by the King opens every door on this planet. You want a fellowship at Oxford? Done. A position at a top-tier global think tank? A single phone call from me makes it happen. Everything will be paid, you’ll be housed and fed. You’d be incredibly, utterly dumb to turn down a future like that just because my son has an attitude problem."
You sat frozen in the chair. The best argument was the money, actually. And it was only six month, all the money you could get to leave the country and do whatever you want.
"And then I can leave?"
"Of course," Baelor confirmed, a triumphant, knowing smile spreading across his face as he straightened up. "Just long enough to whip him into shape. So do we have a deal?"
“Are you aware that your son’s gonna be furious about this?”
He chuckled. “Well, with great power comes great responsibility. I’ve faced many battles, I think I can handle my son.” Truth be told, Baelor wasn’t used to being spoken to with such casual familiarity. Everyone in his orbit spent their days bowing and scraping, terrified of stepping out of line. He found this sudden lack of pretense strangely refreshing. “And besides, you already know how to handle Valarr," he joked, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Just ensure there is a cold cup of beer within arm's reach at all times.”
You managed a small, tentative smile. Honestly, you weren't entirely sure how to react. In the old feudal days, throwing a drink at a prince would have landed you in a dungeon, if not facing a death sentence or a lifetime of forced servitude. Daring to strike the royal blood was once the ultimate capital offense. Fortunately, those brutal times were long gone, and Baelor truly seemed to be an honest, humble man.
“You’ll start, let's say, in a week," Baelor continued smoothly, straightening a few papers on his desk. "That should give you enough time to sign the contract, pack your things, and allow the staff to prepare your room here at the palace.”
Living at the palace sounded like a dream, and you knew you’d adjust quickly. The hardest part would be managing that absolute idiot of a Prince, who constantly walked around with his head stuck entirely up his own royal ass.
The week had flown by, which spoke volumes about how little you actually wanted to work for this spoiled trust-fund baby. You hadn't brought any luggage with you, you had zero intention of sleeping at the palace, and you were positive Valarr wouldn't want you hanging around 24/7 anyway. Still, your mind raced with questions. What kind of tasks would you be given? Knowing the royal family, you were bound to cross paths with important figures and celebrities. At the palace entrance, you were greeted by a tall, bald man wearing thick-rimmed glasses that framed his entire face. He smiled warmly at you.
"Good day, miss. I am the Prince’s major-domo. My name is Stewart, but everyone calls me Stu. I shall give you a tour of the palace and show you to your quarters."
"Nice to meet you! I’m Y/n, and I’m here to... help this clown," you said, gesturing toward Valarr, who happened to be walking past. He didn't even glance your way.
"T-this clown? Whom do you mean?"
"The prince," you whispered.
Stu flushed, quickly adopting a serious expression. "We do not indulge in such nicknames here, unless they have been formally approved by the Prince himself."
"Nicknames are never approved. That's exactly why they're nicknames."
In the distance, Valarr was watching the two of you over the rim of his sunglasses. Abandoning his luxury car, he strolled over. As he approached, the major-domo offered a polite bow.
"It was," Valarr drawled, his voice dripping with icy disdain, "until I spotted this particular eyesore. What on earth is she doing here?"
He was shockingly rude. You would think royal children would be raised with impeccable manners by the greatest tutors, but apparently not. His comment caught you off guard, though—was he completely oblivious? Of course. His father either hadn't warned him or simply hadn't found the time.
"Uh, s-she is your new assistant. Your father personally hired miss for you," Stu stammered, clearly wishing the ground would swallow him whole.
"I’m standing right here, you know. You can speak to me directly," you interjected. Who did he think he was?
"Out of all the competent people in this kingdom, this is the best he could find?" Valarr sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"Competent people just can't stand the sight of your face, it's that simple."
"Ha. Ha. Hilarious. Truly mature," he mocked. "You don't possess a single qualification for this role. You take things entirely too personally, you're wildly impulsive, and you'll do nothing but slow me down. I'd have to spend half my day monitoring you just to make sure you don't ruin something. You have zero class, zero concept of court etiquette, and I just don't like you."
"Well, you'll have to take that up with your father, because he practically begged me to take this stupid job," you shot back. "Don't flatter yourself into thinking I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart."
Valarr burst out laughing, his voice dripping with heavy sarcasm. "My father? Begging you? Are you suffering from pathological delusions? Or perhaps a touch of altered perception of reality ?”
“That’s the same thing.” you cut in, doing it purely to annoy him.
He stopped briefly, his look turning incredibly sharp as his mismatched eyes locked onto yours. “You're imagining things. Why on earth would my father choose you when he has his pick from an agency representing the most elite individuals across the Seven Kingdoms?" His voice grew sharper. "Don't pretend you didn't want this job. You're just like the rest, constantly chasing money. Don't even try to deny it. In the end, it's highly convenient for you to get free room and board on top of a hefty salary, isn't it? Am I wrong?"
"Is this a monologue? My god, do you ever stop talking? I don't give a damn whether you believe me or not. Your father summoned me personally for this. And as for your accusations of greed, tell me, who on this Earth doesn't want money, besides literal children and animals? You really aren't well-versed in basic sociology, are you? And I—"
"Shh. Shut up," he cut you off.
"You bargain-bin prince, cutting me off—"
"You're fired. Go home and never come back."
"I'll leave when the King orders me to."
"Well, I am the future king, and I am ordering you to leave."
You didn't budge. Stu stood rigidly between the two of you, visibly caught in the crossfire. The prince sighed, running his hands through his hair once more. He pulled out his phone, his tense posture making it obvious that whoever he was dialing wasn't picking up.
"Of course he doesn't answer. He's always too busy," he muttered to himself.
"Should I proceed with the tour for the young lady, sir?" Stu asked weakly.
"Give me a second please, Stu."
He dialed a different number, and this time, someone picked up. Valarr walked a few paces away, launching into an incredibly animated, hushed argument, waving his hands wildly.
"Why exactly did he fire twenty assistants in the past? He's so bizarre. Stu, you can tell me. I'll keep it between us."
Stu cleared his throat sharply, staring straight ahead. "I am not at liberty to disclose personal royal matters, Miss."
A third person joined you, an older woman, around Stu's age, clearly part of the extensive royal staff. She quickly introduced herself and leaned in to whisper:
"A few years ago, the Prince—"
She cut herself off instantly as Valarr began striding back, his face a mask of pure defeat. The woman offered a quick, panicked bow before vanishing down the corridor.
Valarr wore an expression of pure defeat. "Despite my numerous arguments, my father is forcing me to..." He paused, letting out a heavy sigh, "...accept you."
You remained silent, letting him swallow his pride.
"We will set the ground rules later," he added curtly. "Have a good day, Stu." He insisted on the Stu, a mark for you to know that he didn’t want you to have good day. With that, he turned on his heel and walked back toward his luxury car.
The major-domo turned to you with a comforting smile.
"This is going to be a very long experience," you sighed.
"You'll manage quite well. The prince is a good person."
You doubted it. You had absolutely no desire to get to know him; your mind was thoroughly made up. Still, Stu proved to be an excellent guide, showing you the breathtaking layout of the palace: the massive, multi-level library, the high-tech game room, a private cinema, the sprawling, manicured gardens, and even a private lake.
As for your bedroom, it was located right next to Valarr's. It was significantly smaller than his, of course, but still remarkably spacious—about the size of the entire apartment you share with your friend back home. The room itself was basic: a bed, a desk, and an en-suite bathroom.
"You are welcome to redecorate as you please," Stu explained. "You have been placed here specifically to facilitate smooth communication with the prince. If he requires anything at all, you are easily reachable."
This felt like it violated every labor law in existence, but the King had explicitly warned you that this was a 24/7 commitment.
"Any other question ?" Stu asked.
"Very well. I notice you haven't brought any luggage. Was that intentional?"
"Oh, completely. I don't plan on sleeping here," you stated firmly. "I highly doubt Valarr needs my help that much."
Stu looked deeply skeptical, adjusting his glasses. "Oh... I see."
He didn't look convinced, but you knew deep down that Valarr would do everything in his power to get you fired. Staying here around the clock would only give him more opportunities to torture you. It looked like you were going to have the rest of the morning to yourself. He wasn't around, which meant no work for you. Until, suddenly, your phone began to ring.
"Hello?"
"It's Valarr," his voice barked through the speaker, tight and annoyed. "Go to my office right now and bring me the Reyne Infrastructure Report.”
He hung up before you could even ask where the hell the report was located. Grimacing, you headed down to his ground-floor office. You pushed open the heavy doors and instinctively checked the surface of his massive desk, but found absolutely nothing in view. You searched all around the room, but you simply didn't know the layout well enough, and you had no idea where he could have hidden it. Your phone buzzed again. A text.
Valarr: I said now. If you can’t manage a basic delivery, I’ll gladly tell my father his sociologist is illiterate.
"Oh, you arrogant little..." you muttered, your blood starting to boil. You shoved the phone into your pocket.
Right at that moment, Stu walked past the open doorway. He glanced inside, intrigued by the rustling noises since he knew the prince was out. Spotting him, you called out in pure relief.
"Ah, Stu! By any chance, do you know where the Reyne Infrastructure Report is?" you asked, your absolute last resort.
"Oh, yes, the Prince mentioned it this morning." Stu walked straight into the room, bypassed the main desk, and pressed a small panel to open a hidden drawer, pulling out a perfectly organized stack of papers.
How on earth was I supposed to find that... you thought.
He handed it to you, and you grabbed it tightly. "Thank you! You're an absolute lifesaver!"
Stu smiled timidly. Without wasting another second, you bolted toward the Royal Commerce House. You jumped into your car and tore down the road. Pushing through the grand entrance of the corporate building, you spotted Valarr across the lobby, deep in conversation with three people. You marched toward him, but he ignored you entirely.
You instantly recognized Tysha Lyroy, the powerhouse international human rights lawyer, alongside Tino Rivera, the environmental mogul whose waste-to-energy infrastructure was so massive that every kingdom and even several cities in Essos, shipped their refuse to him. The third man you didn't recognize; he was tall, dark-haired, impeccably tailored, and easily rivaled Valarr in pure presence.
"Good morning," you said, smoothly sliding into the conversation the moment a lull opened up. You thrust the folder into Valarr's hands; he didn't say a word, merely snatching it from you. "I'm Y/n, a pleasure to meet you. Ms. Lyroy, I absolutely admire your work on the recent maritime trade labor disputes. And Mr. Rivera, your environmental initiatives are incredible. Do you have further sustainability measures planned for the upcoming fiscal cycle?"
They both smiled warmly at you, stretching out their hands to shake yours. You engaged in a brief, brilliant discussion about green energy policies and legal precedents, while the third man introduced himself as the Director of Regional Development. Valarr watched the entire exchange in a stony, brooding silence. Once the pleasantries wrapped up and the dignitaries said their goodbyes, they walked away, leaving you entirely alone with the prince.
"Thanks for the folder, but it's too late," Valarr muttered dryly.
You rolled your eyes. "I can't help it if you give me zero notice."
"It's your job to anticipate, I'll have you know," he countered, a smug glint returning to his eyes. "I can't wait to list every single one of your catastrophic failures to my father to justify your dismissal. Mistake number one."
The two of you started walking toward the exit. You were just preparing a lethal, sarcastic retort when your attention drifted out the glass doors. Your heart dropped. A tow truck was currently hitching up your car.
"No, no, no, no, not now, not my car!"
By the time you burst through the doors, the tow truck was already roaring down the street, dragging your vehicle away.
"I almost feel bad for you," Valarr chuckled from behind you.
"This is completely your fault!" you yelled, spinning around.
"Hey, I didn't force you to park on commercial delivery zone."
"It is your fault! You stressed me out over the phone, and I had to park in a hurry!"
"You're an adult. Take some responsibility for your actions."
You let out a desperate, miserable sigh. Your car was your only reliable way to get around, especially since the palace was an hour's drive from your apartment, buried deep in the countryside with absolutely miserable public transit links.
"Well, seeing as it wasn't a handicapped spot, which wouldn’t have been justified in your case, I suppose I can offer to drop you off," Valarr said, stepping up to his luxury sedan and swinging the passenger door open with a thoroughly fake, theatrical smile.
"No, thank you. I don't need your charity. I'll take the bus."
"Get in the car, and don't make me repeat myself," he said, keeping his voice uncharacteristically calm despite the flashing frustration in his eyes.
"No," you replied flatly. "I am not accepting any favors from you."
"And yet you accept your paycheck?"
"That is completely different, and you know it."
"Oh, really?" Valarr leaned against the car door, crossing his arms with a mocking tilt of his head. "Would you still be my assistant if I were completely broke and couldn't pay you at the end of the month?"
"Pfft. I can barely stand being here right now with the money," you shot back.
"So you admit it ? you're only here for money," Valarr purred, a triumphant, venomous spark in his mismatched eyes. "Where did that fiercely principled girl go? The one who loved to verbally assault the wealthy back at the university? It turns out you're just like the rest of them, craving fortune and power."
"When you say 'like them,' you mean like you, don't you?" you countered, taking a step closer, your voice cutting right through his smugness. "I see what you're doing. You are desperately trying to project your own superficial, perfidious behavior onto me because it would comfort you to know I'm just as miserable as you are. If it helps you sleep at night to believe that, then go ahead. Think what you want."
Valarr’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before hardening. "Aren't you just delightfully perceptive," he muttered ironically. "I'd love to stay and dissect your little psychological theories, but I actually have things to do. Not that you aren't fascinating... or not."
He slipped into the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel, and looked up at you through the open window with a cold, ruthless smile.
"You don't want a ride? Fine. But know this: if you aren't back at the palace in exactly thirty minutes, you are fired. And you need to pick up my tailored tuxedo from the dry cleaners on your way. So, I'll be generous, I'll give you forty minutes total."
Before you could even process the words, he slammed the door, revved the engine, and tore out of the parking lot, leaving you standing on the curb in a cloud of exhaust.
"Forty minutes?!" you screamed at the empty street. "The palace is an hour away by car, you royal psycho!"
Panick setting in, you frantically whipped out your phone, your fingers trembling as you opened the transit maps. The local bus network in this rural district was practically prehistoric. The next connection toward the palace gates wasn't scheduled for another forty-five minutes, which meant public transit was completely out of the question. You stared at the screen, your heart hammering against your ribs. He would hold it over your head forever. Then, your eyes caught the second part of his impossible demand. The dry cleaners.
Which dry cleaners? He hadn't given you a name, an address, or a receipt. Your mind raced back to your exhaustive research on the Targaryen family's daily habits for your thesis. Valarr was meticulous about his appearance and notoriously snobbish about his clothes. He would never trust a standard commercial cleaner. There was only one high-end, traditional boutique near the Royal Commerce district that handled silk-lined formal wear for the nobility. You checked the digital map. It was six blocks away. Glancing down at your watch, you saw the digital numbers ticking away relentlessly. You had thirty-eight minutes left, no car, an entire countryside to cross, and a prince's tuxedo to steal.
The six blocks felt endless; your lungs were burning, and your professional shoes were clearly not designed for sprinting. But anger and pure stubbornness served as your fuel. There was absolutely no way you were going to let this spoiled prince savor his victory. You pushed open the door of the luxury boutique to the chime of a silver bell. An old gentleman, impeccably dressed in a suit vest, looked up from behind a mahogany counter.
"Hello..." you panted, desperately catching your breath. "I'm here... for Prince Valarr Targaryen's tuxedo."
The man frowned, looking you up and down, his eyes lingering on your flushed cheeks and slight sweat. "Hello. Do you have the pickup ticket, miss?"
Shit. He didn’t give you anything, but you’re his assistant, you should’ve known this information, he won’t give you any help, you're the one who's here to help him, not the other way around. Then you remembered what he told you, “You're gonna be a weight. I'll have to micromanage your every move just to keep your incompetence from causing a disaster.”
You quickly glanced around to ensure there were no lingering ears, then leaned across the counter, lowering your voice to a confidential whisper.
"Look, this stays strictly between us, but the Prince has suffered an... unexpected gastrointestinal emergency. To put it bluntly, he completely soiled himself, and it is a total disaster. I need this tuxedo right now," you lied, without a single shred of shame.
The man’s face twisted into an expression of sheer, horrified bewilderment. "I am quite certain His Royal Highness have an extensive wardrobe back at the palace that could resolve his problem.”
"Mm, not an option," you countered smoothly, shaking your head. "He’s currently nowhere near the palace, and he needs this immediately. Your boutique is right down the street, it's a literal miracle."
The old man let out a heavy, defeated sigh.
"Come on," you pressed, tilting your head. "Are you really going to leave your beloved prince stranded in such a shitty situation? Besides, think of the business. You’d lose a loyal and very rich client."
"Fine," he muttered reluctantly. "But I expect you to return later with proper identification proving you are actually on his payroll."
He disappeared into the back of his shop, returning thirty seconds later with the crisp garment bag and a few small sachets of herbal tea.
"Here," he said, handing them over with an earnest expression. "And give these to the Prince as well. It’s an old family remedy, it helps with digestion."
"Thank you so much," you beamed, taking the bag and the tea. "I will take absolute pleasure in handing these over to him."
"Have a pleasant day, miss."
You bolted out of the shop, the heavy door chiming behind you. You were out of the building, but now came the real impossible task: finding a way to cross the countryside and reach the palace gates in under twenty-five minutes. As you scanned the busy street in desperation, your eyes suddenly locked onto a parked police cruiser, and the two officers standing right beside it. A wicked, desperate idea sparked in your mind. You gripped the royal garment bag in one hand, stuffed the herbal digestion tea into your pocket, and marched straight toward the two officers.
"Officers! Thank god," you cried out, deliberately making your voice sound breathless and frantic.
"Miss? Is there an emergency?" the taller officer asked, stepping forward.
"I am Prince Valarr’s personal assistant, and I desperately need your services," you said, leaning in closer and dropping your voice to a hushed, conspiratorial whisper. "He is currently in a critical, highly compromised position. To put it bluntly, his absolute safety and dignity is at stake, and I must deliver this to him immediately." You gestured sharply to the luxury garment bag. "I need to be at the palace gates right now."
The two officers exchanged a glance, their expressions deeply skeptical. "We're sorry, miss, but we can't just authorize an emergency escort on your word," the shorter one explained, crossing his arms. "You'll need to provide actual proof of your deployment."
Frustrated, you flipped the garment bag around, pointing aggressively at the silk label stitched near the collar, which proudly displayed the intricate, gold-embroidered Targaryen three-headed dragon. "Look at the seal! Who else wears bespoke silk from a high-end district tailor?"
They looked at it, but it only seemed to half-convince them. "Anyone could buy or steal a fancy coat, miss," the taller officer countered smoothly.
"Are you seriously refusing to come to the aid of your future king?" you snapped, your eyes narrowing as you pulled your final bluff. "What do you think will happen to your precinct when King Baelor finds out you left his son stranded in a total crisis because you wanted to play bureaucratic gatekeepers?"
"Look, lady, no identification, no ride," the shorter cop said firmly, turning his back to walk around the car.
Without a second thought, you lunged for the driver’s side door, yanked it open, and threw yourself inside, tossing the clothes onto the passenger seat. You quickly slammed the door and cranked the ignition, those idiots had actually left the keys right in the car.
"Ma'am, what are you doing?! Stop right now!"
They pounded on the windows and yanked at the handles, but you had already locked the doors. One of them threw himself right in front of the car to block your way, but you threw it into reverse, gunned it, and swung the wheel around, missing him by inches. You hit the gas, never looking back.
"I'm just borrowing it for a few minutes. I'll be back," you tell yourself.
You flipped on the flashing lights and the sirens. The effect was immediate: everyone on the road pulled over to let you pass, and you flew down the streets at a crazy speed. The moment you cleared the city limits and hit the country roads, you accelerated even harder, doubling your speed. Finally, you arrived at the palace, but the gates were taking their sweet time to open.
"Come on, open up, you stupid gate!" you muttered to yourself in pure frustration.
Outside, Valarr was leaning against the hood of his luxury car, sunglasses on his nose. He was already savoring his victory. With barely a minute left on the clock, there was absolutely no way you were going to make it. He was already thinking about the severance pay he’d have to give you—a tiny amount, considering how short your time here had been. He figured he might even do you a small favor and give you a little extra just to get under your skin, making sure you knew it was out of pity and that he was simply above you. But his smile quickly vanished when he heard a siren getting louder and louder. He spotted the police car.
"What on earth...?" he muttered to himself.
The moment you reached him, you pulled the handbrake to execute a sharp drift, just to give him a good scare. He didn't flinch an inch. You stepped out of the car with a triumphant grin, checking your watch as you marched toward him.
"Thirty-nine minutes and forty-six seconds! I have fourteen seconds to spare!" You thrust the suit into his hands.
As you were about to pull out the tea bags, five police cars roared through the gates, which opened instantly for them, way faster than they had for you. The cars swarmed the courtyard, completely surrounding the two of you. A dozen officers spilled out of their vehicles, all pointing their weapons dead at you.
“What the fuck did you do ?” He hissed, deeply concerned about the absolute chaos on his front lawn.
You wanna log in? What's your username? No. What's your email address? What's your password? What code did we just send to your email address? Now what code did we just text to you? New IP address detected. We sent you an email. Click the link to confirm the new address. Scan your fingerprint. Turn on your camera for age verification. Sign the updated user agreement. Accept all cookies? That feature isn't available on the website. Download the app. Those features are in the app. The app that's really a web browser.
Hey so a small thing that literally everyone who sees this is capable of is correcting any “used to” statements about native people in this country.
“Native people used to live in this National Park” No. They still do.
“Native people used to tell these stories-” No. They still do.
“Native people used to use this plant as a natural remedy-” No. They still do.
Better yet, familiarize yourself with the tribes local to you. Odds are, they do not yet have federal recognition. You can still read the stories they have to share, you can share their ongoing battle for recognition with others, you can sign petitions and spread the word to others to do so as well. But do something.
Actually when I say “fuck all billionaires” I particularly mean Taylor “having my wedding in the middle of the busiest city in the world on the busiest weekend in the world in the part of the city the majority of commuters need to get through because fuck working people” Swift
