!Fire Lord Zuko who can’t seem to take his hands off you.
The war room papers scatter across the table as Zuko's hand finds your waist, pulling you against him with an urgency that makes his breath catch. Your fingers were just straightening his formal robes—a small, innocent gesture—but nothing is innocent anymore.
"Your friends will be here in—" you start, but his lips are already on your neck, hot and insistent, and your words dissolve into a soft gasp.
"Twenty minutes," he mutters against your skin, his voice rough with frustration and need. "I have twenty minutes and I can't—I can't be in the same room with you right now."
You pull back slightly, searching his face. Fire Lord Zuko—composed, calculated, dutiful—is falling apart. His eyes burn with desire, his usually controlled breathing ragged. The scar on his face is flushed, a telltale sign of how worked up he is.
"Zuko, we talked about this," you say, but there's no conviction in it. Your hands are already gripping his shoulders, already pulling him closer.
"I know what we talked about," he growls, and suddenly you're pinned against the war table, papers scattering everywhere. His forehead rests against yours, and you can feel him trembling—actually trembling. The Fire Lord who just unified the nation is coming apart because of you. "I don't care. I need—"
You kiss him before he can finish, and it's like flipping a switch. What was desperation becomes intense hunger. His hands map every curve of you with urgent, possessive touches, pulling your clothes loose with an impatience that's equal parts infuriating and intoxicating.
"This is insane," you breathe between kisses, even as you're helping him, tugging at his tunic, running your nails down the hard planes of his chest. "They're going to walk in—"
"Let them," he says roughly, and the sheer recklessness of it, coming from him, makes you shudder. Zuko doesn't do reckless. Zuko plans. Zuko considers consequences. But right now, he's considering nothing but the feel of you, the taste of you, the desperate need to have you before duty calls him away.
He lifts you onto the table without breaking from your lips, and you gasp his name as he settles between your thighs. There's no preamble, no slow build—he's been holding this back for too long, and it shows in every urgent touch, every breathless kiss, every time he buries himself in you like you're oxygen and he's been suffocating.
"You're driving me insane," he whispers against your collarbone, leaving marks you'll have to hide later. His hips move with desperate rhythm, each thrust deliberate and deep. "Every day. Every single day, I'm supposed to sit in councils and make decisions and pretend I'm not thinking about this, about you, about—"
"Zuko!!" you gasp, both at his intensity and at the title being invoked right now, in this moment, and something about the juxtaposition makes you laugh—breathy and overwhelmed. He silences you with another kiss, and you can feel him smile against your lips.
"Only you," he murmurs. "Only you make me lose control like this."
His hand slides up your spine, holding you tight as he moves against you. The table creaks beneath you both, and you know—you both know—that someone's going to notice if you don't pull yourselves together in the next few minutes. But that knowledge just seems to push him harder, like the danger of being caught only heightens everything.
Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses your name. His forehead drops to your shoulder, and you can feel the tension coiling through his body, the way he's fighting to hold on.
"If your friends see you like this," you whisper, running your fingers through his black hair, "they'll know exactly what you've been doing."
"Good," he breathes, "Let them know you're mine."
The intensity of that—the possessive Fire Lord energy mixed with the desperate need—pushes you over the edge. Your breath catches, your cunt tightens around him, and he follows you immediately, his control shattering as he buries himself deep, his whole body taut as he spills his cum into you with a low sound that's half groan, half your name.
For a moment, you're both still, breathing hard, tangled together on a table that's supposed to be for strategic war planning. His chest is slick against yours, his heart hammering, and his hands are still gripping you like he's not quite ready to let go.
"We're going to be such a disaster when they get here," you say quietly, already running through what you look like right now. Disheveled. Flushed. Definitely well-kissed.
"I don't care," he murmurs against your hair, but you can feel him already pulling back, already transitioning into Fire Lord mode even as his breathing is still uneven. "I'll figure it out."
He pulls back just enough to help you down, and you're hastily adjusting your clothes when the sound of footsteps echoes down the hallway. Getting closer.
"Hide," Zuko hisses, but there's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide in this open war room, and you're both frozen for one crystalline moment of panic.
The doors burst open.
Aang stares first, his eyes going wide as saucers. Katara's mouth literally falls open. Sokka squints like he's not quite processing what he's seeing. Toph's head tilts, and you can almost hear her smirk through the darkness. Suki is trying very hard to look professional, but there's definitely amusement in her eyes.
And Zuko—Fire Lord Zuko, who moments ago was desperate and possessive and completely undone—somehow straightens up and smooths down his tunic with a composure that's almost laughable. Almost. His face is absolutely red.
"You're early," he says, and his voice barely wavers. Barely.
"We're exactly on time," Katara says slowly, her eyes flicking between you and Zuko with a look that promises a very serious conversation later. "The real question is... what were you guys doing?"
"War table briefing," Zuko says, pointing at the scattered papers with a confidence that's honestly impressive given the circumstances. "Tactical discussion."
Sokka lets out a laugh—a real, genuine laugh. "Is that what the fire nation citizens are calling it these days?"
"Sokka," Katara warns, but she's biting her lip to suppress her own smile.
You can feel heat climbing your neck, and you're not even going to attempt to speak. Zuko's grip on composure is clearly fragile enough without you adding fuel to the fire.
Toph, meanwhile, has completely given up pretense. "You two are ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Zuko, you've got a hickey the size of the Fire Nation on your neck, and—" she pauses, tilting her head again, "—you've got about five of them. This is amazing."
"Can we please just start the meeting?" Zuko asks, and there's an edge of desperation in his voice that wasn't there before. The diplomatic desperation is much less fun.
Aang finally finds his words. "Dude, you didn't even—you didn't even *try* to fix your hair. It's all—" he gestures vaguely, "—messed up."
"I thought you said you were gonna be presentable," you mutter to Zuko, who shoots you a look that's equal parts embarrassed and still smoldering with leftover need. Your friends don't miss it. Of course they don't.
Katara sighs, pulls out a chair, and sits down with the air of someone who's decided to simply accept that Fire Lord Zuko has lost his mind. "Alright, let's talk military reorganization. And after this meeting, you two are going to sit down and we're going to have a very serious talk about appropriate uses of the war table."
"It's my war table," Zuko mutters, but he's already moving, trying to pull himself together, trying to look like the dignified Fire Lord instead of someone who was just completely fucked moments ago.
Sokka leans over to Suki and whispers, "I give them two hours before they sneak off again."
"One hour," Suki counters.
His friends settle in, and you catch Zuko's eye across the table. There's still fire in those eyes, and you know—you both know—that Sokka's optimistic estimate might even be too generous.
Pairing: Prince Aerion Targaryen (Modern AU) X Reader ("You" referred, she/her vibes)
In the same universe as: They called me your wife again
Summary:
The family already treats her like one of their own. The child has already reached for her first. The media circles. The internet loses its mind. And when Aerion finally says too much, in public, with cameras rolling, the bachelor market dies screaming.
Because it was never anyone else.
It was always her.
Warnings
modern Targaryen family business chaos | succession angst | old money media frenzy | wife allegations that are maybe not allegations anymore | quiet building-wide gossip | bakery paparazzi disaster | public possessiveness | hand on waist disease | emotional repression in luxury tailoring | one of the youngest billionaire heirs in the country behaving very unseriously about one engineer | Maekar secretly approving but refusing to act like a person about it | the whole Maekar branch basically adopting her in real time | Duncan being the best friend Aerion has to tolerate because she loves him and Egg thinks he’s hilarious | yearning | family integration as foreplay | “the mother of my child” incident | not married but spiritually, politically, and emotionally already there | open ending but romantically devastating
Aerion did not calm down after the boardroom.
That was the first thing you understood.
Not really. Not in any way that brought comfort.
He only grew quieter, and that was worse.
Men like Duncan burned bright when they were angry, all heat and profanity and restless hands, a storm you could hear coming long before it hit. Daeron went sharp when something got under his skin, smiling that beautiful, careless smile of his while he said things meant to bruise. Maekar turned cold enough to make the air in a room feel thinner, as if even the walls understood better than to move the wrong way around him.
Aerion, though, only went still.
He had been still since the moment Donnel called ahead from the car. Still, when Ellyn opened the boardroom door. Still, when he saw the bandage at Maelor’s temple. Still, when he took his son from your arms for just long enough to check him over himself, broad hand cupping the side of the boy’s face, fingers brushing the scrape with such instinctive care it nearly undid you. Still, when Maelor, drowsy and offended and recovering by the second, admitted that yes, he had climbed higher than he was supposed to because he thought he could get the kite down faster than everyone else.
Still, too, when Maekar informed the directors that the meeting would resume when his son decided it was worth resuming.
No one argued.
That said enough all by itself.
Now, in Aerion’s office, with the door shut and the city spread in muted grey behind the glass, he crouched in front of the sofa where Maelor sat with juice, crackers, and the wooden dragon puzzle Ellyn kept in a cabinet that was definitely meant for emotional emergencies, no matter what she claimed. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms. His tie was gone. His hair, usually controlled even in disorder, had been pushed back too many times, and the pale gold at the front had started to fall loose again. The whole room smelled faintly of expensive paper, dark coffee gone cold, and the soft clean scent of the hand soap from his private washroom. Evening light lay dim and silver over the dark wood and black stone, turning the office into something quieter than an office had any right to be.
Maelor fitted one of the dragon pieces into place, looked up at his father, and said with solemn little gravity, “They scared me.”
Aerion’s face changed.
Barely.
Just the slightest tightening around his mouth. A deeper stillness. Something old, dark, and princely flashing once through the violet-blue of his eyes.
“I know,” he said.
His voice was quiet. Gentle, even.
That made it worse.
You stood near the side of his desk, one hand resting on the back of the chair you had never sat in. Aerion looked up at you then. Just once. Just enough for you to see that same expression had not disappeared at all.
It had only shifted targets.
Not Maelor.
The people who had frightened him.
The people who had crowded you both outside the school. The people who had pressed in too close outside the bakery. The whole hungry, flashing, filthy machine of public interest that had started treating Aerion Brightflame’s private life like a sport.
Maelor, oblivious to the several elegant legal destructions his father was probably composing in his head, shoved another piece into place and announced, “I’m okay now.”
Aerion reached out and brushed two fingers along the side of his son’s face. “Yes,” he said. “You are.”
Then Maelor, little traitor that he was, leaned into the touch and said, “She made it better.”
A pause followed.
Aerion’s hand stayed where it was for one beat longer.
Then he glanced at you again.
It was always unbearable when he did that, looked at you as if nothing else in the room mattered beside one small, simple truth.
“I imagine she did,” he said.
Maelor nodded. “I wanted her.”
Your throat tightened.
He did not say it cruelly. He did not say it to wound his father. He said it the way children said the truest thing first, with no strategy and no fear, because they had not yet learned that adults could turn honesty into war.
Aerion did not flinch. He did not look away. He only let out one slow breath through his nose and said, “That’s why she came.”
Then he stood.
The movement was fluid and sudden enough to shift the whole room with it. One moment he had been bent before his son, the next he was all height and heat and black wool and ember-dark shirt, crossing toward you with that terrible, contained purpose that had made entire departments dread the sound of his footsteps long before the press learned how photogenic it was.
He stopped close.
Too close for friendship. Too practiced for accident.
His hand came to your waist the way it always did now, low and firm and thoughtlessly proprietary, as if some deeper part of him had made a decision his mouth had not yet caught up to. His thumb pressed once through the fabric there.
“You haven’t sat down,” he said.
“You haven’t either.”
“I’m not the one who spent half the afternoon with cameras in my face and my son shaking in my arms.”
That landed harder than it should have.
Maybe because he said my son like that. Not to separate. Not to remind. Only because the words had come naturally, and there was room enough inside them for both of you.
You swallowed. “I’m alright.”
Aerion’s gaze moved over your face like he was checking the claim for fractures. “You nearly fell.”
“I didn’t.”
“Because I caught you.”
The words were simple.
The tone was not.
For one stupid second all you could think of was the bakery pavement, the crush of bodies, the slip of your foot, Maelor’s sharp frightened gasp, and Aerion’s hand locking around your waist hard enough that it had almost bruised, dragging you back against him as though gravity itself had made an unacceptable choice.
Behind him, on the sofa, Maelor had begun humming to himself, fitting the dragon’s wing into the puzzle with all the concentrated seriousness of a prince handling statecraft.
Aerion followed your glance and something in his expression changed again. Softer. Not soft, exactly. Aerion was never soft in any way that others could safely survive. But softer than before.
Then he looked back at you and said, low enough that only you heard it, “I need five minutes before I go back in there.”
You blinked. “Into the meeting?”
“No.” His fingers tightened slightly at your waist. “Before I go back in there and decide to ruin several careers.”
That almost made you laugh.
Almost.
Something shifted at the corners of his mouth. Not a smile. Never anything that easy. But enough to change the air between you.
On the sofa, Maelor suddenly lifted the completed dragon puzzle high and declared, “Done.”
Aerion stepped away from you at once.
Not far. Never far. But enough to kneel in front of his son again and accept the puzzle with due seriousness.
“Well done.”
Maelor preened under the praise. Then his expression turned calculating in the hopeful little way it always did before he asked for something he absolutely intended to get. “Can we have a treat because I was brave?”
Aerion looked at him.
Then at you.
Then back at him.
“Were you brave,” he asked, “or have you noticed asking for things works better when she’s here?”
Maelor considered that with comical seriousness. “Both.”
You laughed then, helplessly, and Aerion’s eyes flicked to you as if the sound had caught him by surprise.
Something in his face gave way.
He rose and reached for his jacket where it hung over the chair. “Fine,” he said.
Maelor brightened instantly. “Fine yes?”
Aerion shrugged into the jacket with one hand. The other found your waist again, as if it had gone looking for somewhere to settle and found only one answer worth keeping.
“Fine yes,” he said.
Then, looking at you instead of his son, he added in that lower voice that always seemed to mean more than the words themselves, “Let me take my family out for some pastries and some hot chocolate.”
Everything in you stopped. Not your heart. That only got worse.
But everything else, the easy defenses, the practiced sidestepping, the small safe refusals you had lived inside for years, all of it went still.
Aerion, perhaps realizing what he had just said, did not take it back.
That was the thing.
He could have.
He could have turned it into a joke. Let Duncan wear the word for him. Blamed Maelor. Blamed the day. Blamed the press and the pressure and the thousand grinding things trying to turn him into a harder man than he already was. And behind that steady gaze, you could see it, finally. Not confusion. Not caring is mistaken for a habit. Not affection blurred by routine, proximity, and the child between you.
Maelor bounced upright on the sofa. “Hot chocolate?”
Aerion, still looking at you, said, “Yes.”
“With whipped cream?”
“If you ask her nicely.”
Maelor whipped toward you at once, all curls and bandage and hope. “Please?”
You should have said no.
You should have said maybe later, maybe after Papa’s meeting, maybe after all of you pretended nothing devastating had just happened in this office. Instead, you heard your own voice, softer than intended and far too fond.
“Alright.”
Maelor cheered.
Aerion closed his eyes for half a second like a man being actively tested by gods he did not believe in.
Then he reached for his phone and sent what was probably the single most terrifying message Ellyn had ever received.
Two minutes later there was a knock at the office door.
Ellyn stepped inside first, unruffled as always. Duncan came directly behind her as if summoned by scent alone, with Egg at his shoulder and Daeron strolling in last, already amused by something he had not yet heard.
That, perhaps, was the thing about Duncan. He was yours first. Your best friend, your chaos, your ride-or-die disaster of a person. Aerion tolerated him because he came attached to you, which in practice meant Aerion allowed far more from him than he ever would from anyone else. Somehow, against all logic and probably several laws of nature, Duncan had also integrated himself into the family with disgusting ease. Egg adored him. Daeron found him hilarious. Even Aemon had long since resigned himself to Duncan’s presence the way one resigned oneself to weather, bad but inevitable. Maekar pretended Duncan did not exist, which in Maekar terms was practically a blessing.
Duncan took one look at the three of you and narrowed his eyes. “Why do I feel like something emotionally inconvenient has happened.”
“Nothing has happened,” you said too quickly.
Daeron’s grin was immediate and wicked. “Oh, excellent. So something has absolutely happened.”
Egg’s gaze went from you, to Aerion’s hand still fixed at your waist, to Maelor already trying to put his shoes back on by himself. “Are we leaving?”
“You are not,” Aerion said.
Egg looked offended. “That’s hostile.”
“It’s accurate.”
Duncan folded his arms. “Where are you taking them?”
Aerion slid the phone into his pocket. “Out.”
Daeron tipped his head. “Out where.”
“For pastries,” Maelor announced, far too loudly, “because we are family.”
Silence fell.
A magnificent, echoing, lethal silence.
Duncan made the first sound, a choked little gasp as he folded over laughing hard enough to brace a hand on his knee.
Daeron actually had to lean a hand against the doorframe.
Egg looked delighted in the way only younger brothers could when handed a weapon and no instructions.
Ellyn lowered her eyes at once, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
And Maekar.
Maekar, who had appeared in the open doorway behind them all without a single one of you noticing, said in the driest voice known to man, “Marvelous. The child has started doing press for us.”
You turned so fast you nearly walked into Aerion’s arm.
Maekar stood there in dark charcoal, broad as an old fortress and no warmer for the expensive tailoring. Beside him was Aemon, precise and elegant, already half-smiling in the way he only did when his family lost all control of itself in public. Behind them peered little Rhae and Daella, who had plainly been with whichever nanny had just lost custody of them to curiosity.
Daella spotted you first and made an immediate break for the room.
“Auntie!”
She hurled herself at your legs with the confidence of a child who had never once doubted she would be caught. Rhae followed with considerably more dignity and far less speed, though she still reached for your hand the moment she got close enough.
That was how it always was with Maekar’s side.
They had never announced what you were to them.
They had simply made room.
At first it had been little things. Daeron calling you when he needed a tie chosen for some rehab-softened interview because, as he put it, “you’re the only person in this bloodline who understands color and consequence at the same time.” Egg wandering into your office with match-day kits and gala questions and all the casual entitlement of a younger prince who had already decided you were safe. Aemon, more controlled than the rest, leaving cufflinks and event briefs on your desk with no explanation beyond, “You do them better.” Maelor, of course, refusing on at least three separate occasions to attend a family event unless you had approved both his shoes and his cardigan.
Then Maekar.
That had been the shock.
Not because he asked.
Because he never did.
One winter gala he had simply stood in the corridor outside the family dressing suite, looked down at the tie in his hand, then at you, and said, “This is wrong.”
That was it.
No softness. No request.
Just the fact laid before you like a problem in governance.
You had taken the tie from him, looked once at the black velvet jacket and the old Valyrian steel cufflinks and the silver in his beard, and replaced it with deep wine instead, dark enough to remain his, rich enough to warm the severity.
He had looked in the mirror afterward and grunted, “Better.”
That had been the beginning of the end.
Now it was simply understood.
You dressed Maekar’s line.
Egg for football dinners and family portraits and school galas where he had to look enough like a prince to quiet the tabloids. Daeron for interviews, fundraisers, recovery panels, and every public appearance in which he wanted to look like himself but improved by remorse and good tailoring. Aerion, who acted like he did not care and yet stood in silence every time you adjusted his tie, smoothed his collar, or changed his watch because the darker one suited the line of his coat better. Maelor, who adored matching his father and would tolerate no substitute. Aemon, who preferred cleaner lines and cooler colors and let you choose the exact shade of silver-blue that made him look like the best of the family and none of its chaos. Rhae and Daella, who treated the whole business as ritual and would spin in front of mirrors until you told them they looked like dragon-princesses out of old stories.
Even Maekar had stopped pretending it was temporary.
The whole branch had.
Online, they called it the Brightflame Uniform, the dark dragon wardrobe, the Maekar line aesthetic.
They had no idea.
It was not an aesthetic.
It was love, translated into fabric, collars, cufflinks, polished shoes, and the quiet certainty that somebody would notice if the tie was wrong.
Daeron, recovering first, pointed at Maekar. “Tell them.”
Maekar looked unimpressed. “Tell them what.”
“That she dresses all of us.”
Rhae lifted her chin importantly. “She picked my blue one.”
“And my ribbons,” Daella said.
Egg, bastard that he was, crossed his arms. “And my match-day coat.”
Aemon added, mild as mercy, “She corrected Father’s winter opera look in under ten seconds.”
Duncan made a scandalized noise. “You style Maekar too?”
Maekar’s stare could have stripped paint. “Careful.”
Duncan clutched his chest. “No, I’m genuinely moved. This is domestic monarchy.”
Egg, who had slipped closer to Duncan while all this was happening, was grinning like a menace. Egg always brightened around Duncan, as if Duncan existed solely to validate every bad instinct he ever had. More than once you had suspected they texted one another simply to make Aerion’s life worse.
Daeron laughed. “You think that’s bad? Ask Aerion who finds his watches before donor dinners.”
Aerion looked like he wanted the floor to open.
Egg, glowing with betrayal’s holy light, supplied, “And who has all Maelor’s little sweaters organized by weather.”
“And who remembers Papa doesn’t like the rough wool one,” Maelor chimed in.
Aemon’s mouth twitched.
Rhae announced to the room, “She also fixes Uncle Daeron when he tries to dress like heartbreak in rehab.”
Daeron put a hand over his heart. “That was one time.”
“Three,” Aemon corrected.
Ellyn made a very suspicious coughing sound into her fist.
Duncan was openly crying laughing now. “Oh, this is over. This is fully over. The internet’s gonna combust if this ever gets out.”
Egg looked thoughtful. “It might already be out.”
Aerion turned slowly. “What did you do.”
Egg had the gall to look wounded. “Nothing yet.”
“Yet,” repeated Maekar with deep disapproval.
“It’s not my fault people notice things,” Egg said. “One of the shorts from the school entrance already has a side-by-side of Aerion and Maelor’s coats from this week.”
Daeron leaned against the door. “And the old museum gala clip from last month is trending again. The comments have figured out she color-matches the whole branch.”
Duncan pulled out his phone at once. “Hold on, I need to see this.”
“No,” Aerion said.
Too late.
Duncan was already reading aloud, eyes bright with malicious delight.
“‘How is she at lunch with Daeron, pitch-side with Duncan and Egg, holding Maelor, fixing Aemon’s cuff, and somehow also the only person who can get Maekar into a tie with emotional depth?’”
Egg let out a strangled delighted laugh.
Duncan scrolled again, nearly vibrating. “Oh, this one’s better. ‘She didn’t marry into the dragon family, the dragon family simply found a competent woman and arranged themselves around her like distressed nobility.’”
Even Aemon laughed at that.
Aerion did not.
Which was how you knew it had struck far too close to bone.
You turned slightly. “Aerion.”
His gaze came to you at once.
Always. Immediately. Instinctively.
You did not know if the others saw how fast it happened. Perhaps they did. Perhaps that was half the problem. The whole family had started treating you as central because Aerion already did, and people built habits around the weightiest thing in a room without even meaning to.
“You were going out,” Maekar said then, cutting neatly through the chaos.
It was not a question.
Aerion nodded once.
“With him,” Maekar said, glancing at Maelor.
“Yes.”
Maekar’s gaze shifted to you.
Then, to everyone’s private astonishment, he said, “Take Daella and Rhae too. They’ve been insufferable since noon.”
Daella lit up. Rhae tried, nobly, to appear more reserved and failed at once.
“You want us to take them?” you asked.
Maekar’s stare implied you had asked whether the sun intended to rise. “You’re going anyway.”
Duncan pointed wildly. “See? See? This is what I mean. He’s outsourcing the children to you like you’re already the crown-appointed family management system.”
Maekar looked at him. “And yet I notice no one objecting.”
No one did.
Not Egg, who had already started asking if he could come too, and Duncan immediately chiming in that if Egg went he was absolutely going too because someone had to stop the prince from live-posting a custody battle with pastry. Not Daeron, who wanted to know if the bakery still had those obscene little custard things. Not Aemon, who quietly asked if there might be tea. Not the girls, now attached to either side of you. Not Maelor, who had accepted all of this as the natural shape of the world.
And not Aerion.
Aerion, whose hand came once more to your waist, who looked over the small riot of his kin gathering around you, and whose expression changed in that dangerous quiet way it did when something mattered too much to touch carelessly.
“No,” he said.
The room paused.
Daella blinked. “No?”
Aerion, looking at absolutely no one but you, clarified, “Not all of you.”
Duncan threw his head back. “Oh, he’s jealous. Gorgeous.”
Daeron smiled like the devil at prayer.
Egg said, “I knew it.”
Aemon lowered his head to hide a smile.
Even Maekar’s mouth shifted, infinitesimally, in the direction of understanding.
Aerion ignored them all.
He only looked at Rhae and Daella and said, “Next time.”
Rhae, old enough to catch the tone, narrowed her eyes. “You want her to yourself.”
Maelor gasped softly, scandalized by such naked truth.
Aerion said, without shame, “Yes.”
That shut everyone up for a full two seconds.
Then Duncan made a sound like a dying orchestra.
Daeron covered his face.
Egg started laughing so hard he had to lean into the wall, one hand clutching at Duncan’s sleeve like the man might save him from the force of his own delight.
You could not feel your pulse properly anymore.
Aerion stepped closer.
His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, warmer now, broader, more certain. His head bent toward yours just enough that the others became noise rather than audience.
“Come with me,” he said quietly. “Just us. Him. You.”
Your heart thudded once, vicious and helpless.
“And hot chocolate?” Maelor asked, just to make sure no one had lost the plot.
Aerion’s mouth almost softened. “Yes, little dragon. Hot chocolate too.”
Then he turned, still close enough that your sleeve brushed his, and addressed the room at large like a man making an operational announcement instead of salvaging his own heart in real time.
“Ellyn can reschedule the directors. Donnel comes with us. Roland stays here. Duncan does not.”
Duncan squawked in outrage. “This is discrimination.”
“This is peacekeeping,” Aerion said.
Egg, predictably, burst out laughing again.
“Daeron,” Aerion added, “keep him out of my building.”
“I’ll try,” Daeron said, already failing.
“And Egg.”
Egg straightened.
“If you post anything from today, I’ll have your phone dissolved in acid.”
Egg looked affronted. “That’s medieval.”
“We are Targaryens,” Daeron said cheerfully. “Medieval is branding.”
That, at last, dragged the smallest huff of laughter out of you.
Aerion heard it.
Of course he did.
He turned back and held your gaze for one suspended beat. The room was still full of family, of staff, of cousins and brothers and children and old power dressed in modern black. Yet somehow, as ever, he made it feel like there was only the line of your body near his, the warmth of his hand at your back, Maelor tugging at your fingers, and the terrible, impossible tenderness of being chosen in front of all of them without any of them needing it explained.
Maekar cleared his throat.
When you looked his way, he said in that same gruff iron tone, “Bring the boy back before eight.”
Then, after the briefest pause, “And get him the chocolate one. The vanilla there is useless.”
You stared.
Daeron actually clutched the doorframe laughing. “Father just recommended dessert. Mark the time. Call the historians.”
Maekar glared at him. “Shut up.”
But the damage was done.
Rhae was already whispering to Daella that Grandfather liked the bakery after all. Aemon was smiling into his tea request. Egg was typing something he would absolutely deny later, probably to Duncan, probably about you and Aerion finally acting like two people with eyes. Duncan was still muttering about domestic monarchy under his breath, delighted beyond all reason to be standing close enough to witness it.
And Aerion.
Aerion leaned down just enough that only you heard him when he said, rough and low beside your temple, “Do you see what you’ve done.”
It was not accusation.
It was awe, dragged through exhaustion and want and that darker thing he was always trying to keep on a leash.
You looked at the room.
At Maelor holding one of your hands.
At Daeron and Egg and Aemon and Maekar, all of them impossible in their own ways, all of them somehow bent toward you like iron toward a lodestone.
Then back at Aerion.
“No,” you whispered, because your throat had gone tight. “I think I see what you’ve done.”
Something moved behind his eyes.
Something deep enough to drown in.
He did not answer.
He only took your coat from the chair, shook it out once, and held it for you with that old-world formality he only ever seemed to remember when he was trying very hard not to say the larger thing.
You slipped your arms into it.
His fingers lingered at your shoulders once it settled.
Then he bent, pressed a kiss so fleeting and warm at your temple you almost thought you imagined it, and drew back just enough to say, for all the room to hear this time:
“Come on. Let me take my family out for some pastries and some hot chocolate.”
And because the entire Maekar line had already, long ago, decided what you were to them, not one of them argued the word.
By the time you reached the private lift, the internet was already ahead of you.
Of course it was.
Duncan had somehow managed, despite explicit instruction, to send you three screenshots before Daeron bodily confiscated his phone for, as he had apparently put it, “the sake of the realm.” Egg had sent one anyway through a burner group chat he swore did not exist. Ellyn, in a moment of quiet treason, had forwarded exactly one link with no comment beyond:
this is becoming operationally absurd
The first edit had gone up before noon.
By one, there were seven.
By four-thirty there were entire compilations.
You opened the first one while Aerion adjusted Maelor’s coat where the child sat on the leather bench inside the lift, kicking his feet and asking if whipped cream counted as dinner if he ate enough of it. The lift walls reflected all of you back in soft brass and smoked mirror, too polished, too expensive, too intimate. Aerion stood between the doors and the rest of the world like he always did when things had gone wrong, one hand fixing Maelor’s collar, the other braced lightly against the bench.
The video was one of those TikTok edits made by girls with too much music, too much editing software, and an absolutely diabolical sense of timing. Slow-motion clips. Elegant transitions. A shot of you coming out of a florist with Daeron two weeks ago, him carrying your bouquet because he had insisted it would make him “look rehabbed and reformed in the eyes of old ladies.” A clip of you and Duncan laughing outside a bookstore, his hand flying as he talked, yours on Egg’s shoulder while the boy rolled his eyes in that particular younger-brother way that suggested deep affection wrapped in constant exasperation. Duncan looked exactly like what he was in the clip, your best friend, your chaos, your chronic problem, and yet somehow somebody the dragon family had simply absorbed. Egg, in particular, adored him with the fervent loyalty of a younger prince who loved anyone irreverent enough to make Aerion visibly suffer.
Then came the football clip from Sunday. Egg in white and black on the pitch, you in the stands with Maelor on your lap and Duncan beside you, all three of you shouting yourselves hoarse while Aerion arrived halfway through the second half in a dark coat and sunglasses, looking like he had stepped out of a private-equity threat assessment instead of an ordinary family afternoon.
The edit slowed right at the part where he leaned over the back of your seat, said something into your ear, and settled one hand at your waist as naturally as if it had belonged there all his life.
The comments were a wasteland.
WHO is she because every branch of this family is obsessed with her
no because why is daeron at lunch with her, duncan at football with her, and aerion looking ready to kill for her
that’s not a situationship that’s a succession plan
aerion brightflame has hand-on-waist disease and i support him
maelor matching with his dad every week and now we find out there’s a woman involved??? oh she’s mothering
the targ men said one brunette engineer and we’re keeping her forever
You made some horrible, strangled little sound before you could stop it.
Aerion looked up at once. “What.”
You turned the phone around.
He scanned the screen. His expression did not change much at first. Then it changed just enough for you to know he had reached the part where strangers were speculating whether the three of you were already living together, whether Maelor called you mum when cameras were not on him, and whether Aerion had been “soft-launching his wife for two fiscal quarters.”
His mouth flattened.
Maelor peered at the phone, saw his own face in one clip, and lit up instantly. “That’s me.”
“Yes,” Aerion said dryly. “That is unfortunately you.”
Maelor pointed. “And you.”
“Yes.”
“And her.”
Aerion’s gaze moved to you.
It was only one look. It still landed like something dropped from a height.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Her too.”
The lift opened before you could answer that.
Donnel was waiting outside already. Roland was not with him. Aerion, true to his word, had kept one behind and brought the other. It felt less like a simple errand and more like a royal extraction.
Which, given the last week, perhaps it was.
The bakery sat on the quieter side of the avenue, tucked between an old bookseller and a luxury childrenswear boutique that had once tried very hard to gift Maelor a coat in exchange for visibility. Aerion had returned the coat and bought two more at full price out of spite. The owner had nearly cried.
It should have been safe enough.
That was the lie.
Nothing involving Targaryens was ever quick once cameras scented blood.
The moment Donnel turned the car onto the street, you saw them.
A black SUV half a block down. Another just beyond it. Two men with long lenses pretending very badly to admire a lamp post. A woman with a phone already raised. Three girls outside the café opposite who looked first at the car, then at each other, then immediately down at TikTok like they had just glimpsed a cryptid in cashmere.
Donnel’s jaw tightened once. “Right.”
Aerion saw them too.
Of course he did.
His expression shut like a vault door.
Maelor, oblivious, pressed his nose to the glass. “Pastries.”
Aerion reached out and tugged him gently back from the window. “Stay close.”
You felt it before he touched you, that shift in him, the old instinct, the possessive attentiveness, the way his whole body went from tired to weapon-ready in half a breath.
Then his hand came to your waist again.
Low. Firm. Familiar.
Donnel got out first. He opened Aerion’s door, scanned the pavement, then yours.
“Quickly,” he said.
You stepped out with Maelor on your hip because, despite everything, he had abruptly decided the world was easier viewed from your arms. Aerion came around the car a second later, shut the door behind you, and kept one hand at the small of your back as he guided you toward the bakery steps.
The shouting began immediately.
“Aerion, are you two official now?”
“Is marriage on the table?”
“Did Maekar approve the relationship?”
“Is she moving into Summerhall full-time?”
“Aerion, are you thinking of marrying her?”
He did not answer.
He never did when questions were stupid.
He only stepped closer, one hand flat and possessive at your waist, guiding you up the front steps while Maelor tucked himself against you, suspicious now of the flashes. Donnel moved ahead. One of the girls from the opposite café whispered, far too audibly, “Oh my god, it’s literally the hand-on-waist thing in real life.”
If Aerion heard, he gave no sign.
Inside, warmth hit at once, sugar and butter and chocolate and the rich, soft scent of fresh bread still cooling behind the counter. Gold light spilled over tiled floors and polished glass. There were little boxes tied in deep cream ribbon, dark wood shelves, a display of glazed fruit tarts that looked too pretty to survive children, and at the far end a copper machine steaming milk for hot chocolate in little ghost-white curls.
Maelor made the smallest delighted gasp.
Aerion’s hand tightened once at your waist.
Not because of the bakery.
Because the sound had made him breathe again.
There was no crowd inside, thank God. Only two old women in pearls sharing tea, a young couple pretending not to stare, and the owners, who visibly recognized Aerion and then, far more interestingly, recognized you.
That was how it always went. People saw Aerion Brightflame and straightened. People saw you with him and understood the real story was somewhere else entirely.
The woman behind the counter smiled the second she saw Maelor. “There’s my favorite prince.”
Maelor brightened at once. “I was brave today.”
“So I hear,” she said gravely. “That sounds like a matter requiring chocolate.”
“Grandfather says the vanilla is useless,” he informed her.
Aerion made a quiet, betrayed sound.
You pressed your lips together.
The woman’s eyes danced. “Does he now.”
“He’s correct,” Aerion said.
That startled you enough to laugh.
His gaze flicked to you immediately, catching the sound like it was something far too precious to waste.
The owner’s husband emerged from the back just in time to hear the tail end of it. “The usual?”
Aerion started to say something, then paused.
He looked at you.
The whole room seemed to notice.
“Do you want the usual?” he asked.
Your stomach dropped stupidly. “You remember the usual?”
His expression did not change much. “Yes.”
The old women at the tea table exchanged a look so delighted it bordered on indecent.
You managed, “Then yes.”
Maelor, meanwhile, had already pressed both palms to the glass pastry case and was trying to determine whether courage entitled him to one pistachio éclair, two raspberry custard things, or total social collapse.
Aerion crouched beside him, dark coat folding elegantly around him, and said, “One.”
Maelor did not even look at him. “Counterpoint, two.”
“One.”
“I was brave twice.”
You choked on a laugh.
Aerion’s hand came to the back of your knee where you stood beside him, just a brief grounding touch, while he said to his son, “That is not how mathematics works.”
“It is how pastry works.”
The owner’s husband turned away, shoulders shaking, clearly unwilling to laugh in front of a man who looked like a dragon made of hedge funds and tailored wool.
In the end Maelor got one pistachio éclair, one little pain au chocolat because the bandage had begun to be used as blackmail, and a hot chocolate so extravagant it came with whipped cream, chocolate curls, and a dusting of gold that was absolutely unnecessary and therefore perfect.
Aerion ordered a black coffee he did not want, because what he actually wanted was clearly to stand close to you and watch you breathe in peace for ten consecutive minutes. You got the dark hot chocolate with sea salt and orange the owners always saved for you when you came. Maelor announced that Papa should have had whipped cream too because he was sad and mean-looking.
The entire front of house heard it.
Even Aerion almost smiled.
You took the little table in the back corner beneath the window, half hidden, warm, and private enough to feel like a pocket cut out from the rest of the world. Maelor clambered in beside you, already sticky with pastry flakes. Aerion sat opposite, then changed his mind and moved to your side instead, shoulder brushing yours, knee touching yours beneath the table.
He did not comment on the choice.
Neither did you.
That would have made it realer than it already was.
Maelor took one sip of hot chocolate and sighed like a man who had finally been understood by God.
Then he looked up with sudden seriousness and asked, “Are we really family?”
The question landed on the table like glass.
You froze.
Aerion did not, or perhaps he did, only better than the rest of you.He looked at his son for a long moment. Then his gaze shifted, just once, to you. Not asking permission. Not checking for escape. Only seeing where you were, as if your presence was part of the answer.
“Yes,” he said.
Maelor accepted that at once. Children always knew when adults were telling the deepest truth. He returned to his éclair without another scrap of doubt.
You, unfortunately, were an adult.
You stared at the table for a beat too long. Aerion’s hand settled, low and hidden, over yours in your lap. Warm. Large. Certain.
“Drink your chocolate,” he said quietly, not to Maelor.
You looked at him.
He did not look back.
That was somehow worse.
The peace lasted nine minutes.
That was more than expected.
The first sign was Donnel at the front window, visible only when he shifted. The second was the change in the room, that small, collective tightening when strangers gathered outside with phones and the wrong kind of patience. The third was the old women at the front table turning, not startled but interested, in the way women of a certain age observed scandal as a hobby and weakness in men as a civic duty.
You followed their gaze and saw the crowd.
It was not huge.
Worse.
A manageable number of people were always more dangerous than a mob. They pushed closer. They believed they were individuals, not a pack. They thought they could be reasoned with right up until they were halfway over a boundary.
Phones lifted. Flashes reflected faintly on the glass. A man with a camera stepped closer to the window than any decent person would have. Another pointed discreetly toward the back table.
Maelor noticed none of it.
He had just discovered the whipped cream left a mustache.
Aerion noticed all of it.
His expression did not alter so much as settle. His coffee remained untouched. One hand still lay over yours beneath the table. The other rested near Maelor’s plate.
“Finish,” he said quietly.
Maelor nodded, mouth already full.
You were halfway through your hot chocolate when your phone vibrated.
Then again.
Then again.
Duncan, of course.
You looked despite yourself.
OH MY GOD THERE ARE PICTURES ALREADY
A second message followed immediately.
ONE OF THEM GOT YOU IN THE WINDOW AND HE’S HOLDING YOUR HAND UNDER THE TABLE I CAN SEE IT FROM THE REFLECTION IM GOING TO DIE
You locked the phone and shoved it face down.
Aerion, without glancing away from the window, said, “What.”
You stared at him. “Do you have eyes in my bloodstream.”
“What did Duncan say.”
“That he’s intolerable.”
“That is not news.”
Maelor, who had caught only the name, perked up. “Can Duncan come next time.”
“No,” you and Aerion said together.
Maelor nodded, satisfied by the unity.
Outside, someone called through the glass, muffled but sharp enough to carry.
“Aerion.”
Then another voice.
“Is that your son and girlfriend?”
Then a third, bolder.
“Did you bring her here because this is where your family takes wives?”
Aerion stood.
The whole room changed with him.
Maelor looked up instantly.
You set your cup down too fast, heart tripping in your chest.
Aerion did not move toward the window. He did not need to. He only adjusted the cuff of his coat once, turned to Donnel, and said something too low for you to catch.
Donnel nodded and stepped out the front door.
Through the glass you saw him speak. Saw the first row of phones lower. Saw one man continue filming anyway.
Aerion watched for three seconds more, then sat back down as if none of it had cost him anything at all.
Your pulse was still sprinting.
He looked at Maelor first. “You’ve got cream on your face.”
Maelor licked wildly at the wrong cheek.
“The other side.”
You reached with a napkin. Maelor accepted the assistance as his due. Aerion’s hand returned to yours beneath the table as naturally as breath.
You looked at him. “That’s it?”
“For now.”
“For now?”
“For now,” he repeated.
The old women at the front had given up all pretense of privacy. One of them, silver-haired and magnificent in emerald silk, called across the room, “If you’re going to marry the girl, do it before the press ferments entirely.”
You nearly inhaled your own soul.
Maelor looked delighted. “See?”
The young couple at the front were trying desperately not to laugh.
Aerion, because shame was apparently for lesser dynasties, only inclined his head politely toward the old woman and said, “Thank you for your counsel.”
She beamed.
Her friend leaned in and stage-whispered, “He’s definitely going to.”
That sent the whole bakery over the edge.
Even the owner’s husband had to disappear into the back again.
You turned to Aerion in disbelief. “You’re encouraging them.”
“No,” he said. “I’m failing to care.”
“Those are different things.”
“Not enough to matter.”
Maelor, face now clean but hands hopeless, suddenly announced, “She picks our clothes.”
Silence.
Aerion closed his eyes.
You looked at the ceiling like perhaps it might collapse and save you.
The old women sharpened visibly.
Maelor, once begun, saw no reason to stop. “She picks Papa’s ties, and my sweaters, and Uncle Egg’s football coat, and Uncle Daeron when he looks like sadness, and Grandpa Maekar when he does the grumpy operas.”
The woman in emerald actually clutched her chest.
Aerion muttered, “Treason. Open treason in a pastry shop.”
The owner’s wife behind the counter looked like she might never recover.
Your phone buzzed again.
You did not need to look.
You knew with bone-deep certainty that somewhere online a new set of edits had already begun.
And sure enough, by the time Aerion finally deemed it safe enough to leave, the first video was waiting.
A short, grainy but clear enough, taken through the front window.
Aerion in profile at the little back table, dark coat and dragon-bone structure and cold beauty softened only by the child at his side and the woman beside him. His hand was hidden under the table. Yours resting where his was. Maelor talking with all the heedless authority of a small prince born to a dynasty and whipped cream.
The caption read:
not the dark targ heir taking his family out for pastries after a crisis day
And underneath, as the comments multiplied by the second:
he is DONE FOR
the way he sits next to her instead of across from her? oh that man is terminal
maelor just exposed the entire wardrobe operation
SHE STYLES THE MAEKAR BRANCH??? SHE IS THE MAEKAR BRANCH
sorry but if grandpa maekar lets you dress him you’re already married in old valyria
hand on waist. hand under table. family pastries. somebody sedate me
aerion brightflame is one public incident away from announcing a wife
You locked the screen before it could get worse.
It was already worse.
Aerion rose first. He buttoned his coat with one hand, the other lifting Maelor down from the seat once the child had been made reasonably portable again. Then he looked at you, saw your expression, and held out his free hand.
“Come on,” he said.
There was no world in which you should have taken it in front of the whole room.
You took it anyway.
The old women made matching approving noises. Outside, the crowd had grown.
Donnel opened the door. The air beyond was cold and bright and full of shutters. You had maybe two steps of peace before the questions started again.
“Aerion, is that confirmation?”
“Are you dating, or is marriage already being discussed?”
“Did Maelor just call her family?”
“If you’re not leading Brightflame Holdings outright, what are your next steps as heir?”
“Are there going to be layoffs or structural changes now that Daeron has stepped down?”
Aerion got you halfway down the bakery steps before one of them lunged in too close for a better angle.
A shoulder slammed into your side.
Your foot slipped.
The world tilted.
Maelor jerked in your arms with a frightened cry, and a sharp yelp tore out of you before you could stop it.
And Aerion —
Aerion caught you so fast it almost hurt.
One second you were pitching forward with Maelor clutched to your chest, the next his hand was locked around your waist, hard and unshaking, dragging you bodily back against him before either of you could hit the stone. Maelor was crushed safely between your bodies. The pastry box swung wildly from your wrist. Your heart was suddenly somewhere up in your throat.
For one terrible second, nobody moved.
Then Aerion went still.
That was worse.
His arm stayed around your waist, iron-hard, holding you there like letting go was no longer an option. His other hand came up to steady Maelor, broad over the back of the child’s coat, and only then did he turn.
Slowly.
The street quieted around him. Not truly quiet, not with traffic still moving and shutters still snapping, but it felt like silence anyway. Like the whole block had just remembered who he was.
He looked at the reporter who had hit you.
Then he said, very softly, “Yeah. Fuck no.”
Nobody breathed.
Maelor made a small, shaken sound and buried his face into your shoulder. You were still trying to catch your breath, one hand clenched hard in Aerion’s coat, when he stepped half in front of you without ever fully letting you go.
“You do not touch her,” he said.
Each word landed clean.
Cold.
Measured.
“You do not come near my son. You do not shove a woman carrying a child because you want a better shot.”
The reporter tried to say something. Accident. Didn’t mean to. Aerion didn’t let him finish.
“I do not care.”
God.
That was the part that did it.
Not loud. Not wild. Just absolute.
His hand tightened once at your waist, like he could still feel the moment you’d nearly gone over. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass.
“You want photographs,” he said, pointing once down the pavement, “you take them from there.”
Donnel stepped up beside the car. “Or I can move you there myself.”
No one laughed.
Aerion kept looking at the man like he was one bad breath away from becoming a memory.
“You come that close again,” he said, “and Donnel handles it.”
“With enthusiasm,” Donnel added pleasantly.
Still nobody laughed.
Your knees felt weak. You could feel Maelor trembling against you, and that more than anything seemed to sharpen something lethal in Aerion’s face. He looked toward the nearest phone, the nearest camera, the nearest person stupid enough to still think this was entertainment.
“If I ever answer any question about my private life,” he said, each word precise and icy, “it will not be because a stranger shouted it at the mother of my child after putting his hands on her in public.”
The world broke open.
You felt it.
Actually felt it.
The collective inhale. The flash of cameras. The violent jerk of phones rising higher. Somebody across the street actually gasped. Three girls near the café turned to each other with the same look people had when they realized they were watching the exact moment something stopped being rumor and became fact.
Aerion didn’t care.
He was already turning back to you.
His hand slid higher on your waist, steadier now, almost careful. His eyes flicked over your face once, then to Maelor, checking, counting, making sure. When he spoke again, his voice had changed.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
“You’re alright.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an order. A promise. A decision he was making for the both of you.
Maelor sniffed against your shoulder. Aerion’s expression shifted at once, some of the violence burning down into something worse somehow, something quieter and more intimate and far more dangerous.
“I’ve got you,” he said, and this time he meant both of you.
Then he opened the car door with one hand and looked back at no one.
“Get in.”
Too late, far too late, for the crowd to pretend they hadn’t just watched him draw a line around you in public and dare the world to cross it again.
Only once you were inside, only once Donnel had rounded the car, and the door had shut out the first wave of screaming internet catastrophe, did Aerion meet your gaze.
Neither of you said anything.
Neither of you could.
Maelor, strapped into his seat and clutching the last bite of pastry, looked between you both with the deep satisfaction of a child who believed the adults around him had finally started behaving sensibly.
In the front, Donnel started the engine.
Your phone exploded.
Duncan.
Egg.
Daeron.
Ellyn.
Three news alerts.
Two unknown numbers.
A headline draft already spreading:
AERION BRIGHTFLAME CALLS MYSTERY WOMAN “THE MOTHER OF MY CHILD” IN STUNNING STREET EXCHANGE
And because the gods hated you personally, a second push notification followed ten seconds later.
SOCIAL MEDIA MELTS DOWN OVER BAKERY CLIP: “HE BASICALLY JUST ANNOUNCED A WIFE”
You made a helpless noise and put your head in your hands.
For one second there was only the quiet hum of the car, Maelor’s content little chewing sounds, and the city moving past the tinted windows in bands of gold and slate.
Then Aerion reached across the seat.
His hand wrapped around your wrist.
You looked up.
His expression was unreadable to anyone else. To you, it was a catastrophe written in perfect control.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You stared at him. “For what part.”
The corner of his mouth shifted, not quite a smile. “All of it.”
“That did not sound like all of it.”
“No,” he said. “It didn’t.”
He still had not let go of your wrist.
Neither of you seemed inclined to make him.
Maelor, from the back, announced around his pastry, “I liked today.”
Aerion closed his eyes once.
When he opened them again, they were on you.
“So did I,” he said.
And that, more than the street, more than the cameras, more than the phrase that would be clipped and slowed and dissected and set to orchestral music by midnight, was the thing that truly ruined you.
Because he meant it.
Every devastating second.
By the time you got back to the tower, the internet had become a funeral pyre.
Not for you but for whatever privacy remained.
Donnel pulled into the private garage while your phone continued its endless death-rattle of notifications, each buzz sharp in the quiet after the street. Egg had somehow found a way to send you seven screenshots despite Aerion’s direct threat against his devices. Duncan had sent a voice note that was only six straight seconds of incoherent screaming followed by, mother of his child??? aerion brightflame i owe you financial compensation for this. Daeron had sent:
Well. That’s one way to do it.
Then, thirty seconds later:
Father has already asked if the clip is real. I hope that frightens you.
It did.
Quite a lot.
Maelor had fallen into the blissful, sugar-sated drowse of a child who had eaten well, been carried often, and witnessed enough family drama to sleep like the dead. His curls were mussed against the seat, his lashes smudged low against his cheeks, one little hand still sticky at the knuckles from pastry. Aerion lifted him out of the car before Donnel could and settled the boy against his shoulder with a tenderness so practiced it hurt to look at. One broad hand spread between Maelor’s shoulder blades, anchoring him there as if the whole terrible day could be kept from touching him any further so long as Aerion held on tightly enough.
Then he turned to you.
Something had gone strangely quiet between you in the car. It was not cold, and not awkward either, not exactly. It felt charged instead, tight with something that made language seem less useful than breathing. The bakery clip had already gone out into the world, and the street statement with it. By now the whole city, perhaps the whole country, was pulling apart that one line with the ruthless fascination people reserved for anything bright enough to cut.
The mother of my child.
Not his son’s emergency contact, not his friend, not merely someone close to their family. That. You still had not asked him whether he had chosen those words deliberately, and you were not at all sure you could survive the answer if he had.
The garage lift doors opened onto the private floor. Of course the tower had already heard.
The first assistant you passed nearly walked into a column because she looked at Aerion, then at you, then at Maelor asleep on his shoulder, and visibly remembered that she enjoyed being employed. The second lowered her tablet much too quickly and pretended, with almost tragic incompetence, that she had not been reading a live update article. At the end of the corridor stood Ellyn, composed as ever, like a woman born to witness dynastic collapse with a straight face. Her gaze swept once over Maelor asleep against Aerion’s shoulder, over your expression, over the atmosphere stretched taut between the two of you.
Then she said, in the calm tone of someone announcing the weather, “The clip has reached twelve million views.”
Aerion did not break stride. “Wonderful.”
“Elaborate edits are now being made.”
“I hate this century.”
“Egg has been placed on temporary device restriction.”
That got his attention. “By whom?”
“Maekar.”
Aerion sounded deeply satisfied. “Good.”
Ellyn’s eyes flicked toward you. “Also, for administrative clarity, would you prefer I continue referring to you as Miss…”
“No,” Aerion said.
Ellyn did not even blink.
You turned to him, but he kept looking straight ahead, jaw set, as though the corridor itself had offended him. “You do not need to clarify anything with anyone tonight.”
There was something in his voice that made the words land harder than they should have. Ellyn, who knew exactly when a line had just been drawn in blood instead of ink, inclined her head once.
“Understood.”
When she peeled away toward the executive offices, Aerion kept walking until he reached the family suite on the residential floor above the tower offices, a private cluster of rooms used for the children, for late nights, and for the sort of long inter-branch days when going all the way back to Summerhall was more trouble than it was worth.
He laid Maelor down first.
You helped ease the little shoes off carefully, trying not to wake him. Aerion bent over the bed and smoothed the child’s hair back from his forehead, then adjusted the blanket with the same fierce gentleness you had seen a hundred times and still had not learned to witness without something in you giving way a little. The suite was dim and warm around you, lit by shaded lamps and the soft wash of city light through the high windows. Somewhere deeper inside, a kettle ticked softly as it cooled. The air smelled faintly of cedar, clean linen, and the sugar Maelor always seemed to carry with him like a second skin.
When the boy settled and stayed asleep, Aerion straightened slowly.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then, because someone had to say it, you did. “Aerion.”
He looked at you and braced himself.
That was the worst part. He braced the way a man did when the thing in front of him mattered enough to wound him clean through.
“You said it.”
“Yes.”
“On purpose?”
There was a pause.
“Yes.”
Your breath caught sharply in your throat.
He looked away first, only for a second, and lifted a hand to the back of his neck. The old gesture. Irritated. Cornered. Honest despite himself.
“I was angry,” he said.
“That doesn’t answer me.”
“No.” His gaze came back to yours, direct now. “I was angry, and they were too close, and they frightened him, and they frightened you, and I was tired of listening to people use the wrong language for what you are to us.”
To us.
Your pulse stumbled.
You crossed your arms, not because you were cold, but because if you did not hold yourself together somehow, you thought you might simply come apart. “And what am I?”
Something changed in him then. Not his face exactly, but something under it, something older and deeper than expression.
Aerion had always looked like a man carved too sharply to belong among ordinary people, too aware, too severe, too beautiful in a way that had once tipped almost cruel because it had not yet learned the cost of being feared. But the cruelty had mostly gone out of him now, burned down into precision, discipline, and that dangerous, impossible tenderness he reserved for almost no one. You. Maelor. Sometimes, in his own sideways fashion, the rest of his blood. But mostly you and Maelor.
“You know what you are,” he said quietly.
“Then say it.”
You had not meant to push him, or maybe you had. Maybe the whole damned day had been one long blade pressed to skin, and now that you were finally alone there was no way not to lean into the cut and see how deep it went.
Aerion took one step toward you, then another. He stopped only when he was close enough that you could see the exhaustion at the edges of his eyes, the strain of the day still living in the set of his mouth, the remnants of that old temper banked hard behind control. He was close enough that when he spoke again, his voice felt less like sound and more like something laid directly against your skin.
“You are the person my son asks for when he’s hurt.”
Your throat tightened.
“You are the person he looks for when he wants comfort, or routine, or someone to tell him which sweater is the right sweater and which story is the bedtime story and whether the sky means boots or not.”
He came a little closer still.
“You are the person Daeron calls before interviews because he trusts you more than any stylist money can buy. The person Egg listens to when he’s already decided not to listen to anyone. The person Aemon lets correct him without argument. The person my father does not thank because he has never learned how, but has already built into the shape of his household as if there were never a world where you were not there.”
You could not breathe properly.
Aerion’s gaze dropped, just once, to your mouth, then lifted again.
“And you,” he said, his voice roughening at last, “are the woman I have been trying not to terrify for years by wanting too much.”
That was what did it.
Not the street. Not the edits. Not the family. Not the old women or the headlines or the hand at your waist or the private language made out of clothes and watches and children and hot chocolate.
That.
You stared at him, and he stared back. Then, because honesty had apparently decided to tear straight through every Targaryen defense left standing tonight, Aerion added, lower now, stripped bare in a way he almost never allowed, “I did not say the wrong thing outside. I said too much too soon.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
He seemed to take that silence for refusal, or shock, or perhaps simply the stillness before being told he had ruined everything. His jaw tightened. He stepped back half an inch.
Then you caught his sleeve.
His gaze dropped instantly to your hand, and your fingers tightened in the fabric.
“Aerion,” you whispered. “I’m not scared of you wanting too much.”
That was not quite true. You were scared of it, only not for the reasons he thought.
You were scared because if he wanted too much, and you wanted the same, there would be no going back. No safe half-life. No pretending the family’s affection was merely affection and not a slow, relentless folding-in around a truth no one but the two of you had been cowardly enough to leave unnamed.
Something in Aerion’s expression shifted. Not visibly, perhaps, not to anyone who did not know him, but to you it changed like a kingdom changing banners.
His hand came up slowly, as if he were giving you every possible chance to refuse him, and touched your waist again.
Then he said, in the quietest voice you had ever heard from him, “No?”
You shook your head.
For one suspended, impossible second, the whole world narrowed to that gesture. His hand at your waist. Your fingers still curled in his sleeve. Maelor asleep a room away, safe inside the life the two of you had somehow built without ever daring to name it.
Then Aerion bent his head.
His forehead touched yours first, brief and deliberate, like an old vow from an older world. When he spoke, the words brushed your mouth.
“Tell me to stop.”
You did not.
So he kissed you.
Not like a man uncertain of himself, but like a man uncertain only of whether he had been allowed this all along.
It was not soft in the easy way first kisses were soft in stories. Aerion was not made for easy things. It was careful, though, terribly careful, controlled only by force of will and all the more intense for it. His hand tightened at your waist. Yours slid from his sleeve to the front of his shirt, and beneath your palm you could feel the steady, hard beat of his heart.
When he drew back, it was only far enough to look at you.
You were not sure what he saw on your face, but whatever it was, it undid him.
His mouth found yours again, and this time the control frayed. Not completely, never completely, but enough that you could feel the hunger in it now, the years of restraint, the years of standing too close and touching too little, the years of letting the world assume what he would not yet dare say.
When he finally let you breathe, he rested his forehead against yours once more and exhaled like a man who had crossed through fire and found, impossibly, that there was still something waiting on the other side.
Somewhere in the suite, your phone began vibrating again.
Neither of you moved.
It buzzed a second time.
Then a third.
Aerion closed his eyes. “If that’s Duncan, I’ll kill him.”
Despite everything, you laughed. The sound felt strange and bright in the quiet room. Then he kissed the corner of your mouth once, brief and warm and devastatingly tender, and said, “Come here.”
As if you were not already there. As if he had not been pulling you toward him for years.
He drew you fully against him then, one arm around your waist, the other settling at your back, and for the first time all day, all week, perhaps even longer than that, you let yourself rest in it.
The Morning After
A collage of clippings, headlines, transcripts, posts, and public hysteria
BRIGHTFLAME HOLDINGS / TARGARYEN INC.
Official Statement
For Immediate Release
Issued 8:14 AM
Targaryen Inc. and Brightflame Holdings today confirmed that, following Daeron Targaryen’s formal decision to relinquish his hold within the Brightflame line of succession, Aerion Brightflame Targaryen has been designated the legal and official heir to Brightflame Holdings, a subsidiary of Targaryen Inc.
As established under the governance framework of the Maekar branch, Aerion Brightflame Targaryen will, upon the future step-down of Maekar Targaryen, assume the voting authority, succession rights, and executive privileges attached to that office. Until that transition takes place, Brightflame Holdings will remain under its current leadership structure, with succession proceeding in a measured and carefully governed manner.
This process is intended to be deliberate, not accelerated.
Targaryen Inc. and Brightflame Holdings remain committed to preserving continuity of leadership, maintaining confidence among shareholders and partners, protecting staff stability, and ensuring that the long-term value of both Brightflame Holdings and Targaryen Inc. is not diminished at any stage of transition.
No disruption to current operations, staffing, or strategic commitments is expected as a result of this announcement. Both entities remain focused on disciplined stewardship, market stability, and the continued protection of enterprise value.
When asked separately whether recent speculation regarding Mr. Targaryen’s relationship status was accurate, representatives declined further comment beyond his public statement outside Maison Aurelle:
“I am not available for public speculation, and neither is she.”
No further statement will be made at this time.
Buried beneath the official language, in the kind of sentence old-money dynasties use when they are trying very hard not to sound triumphant, was the line everyone screenshotted anyway:
He is widely understood to be one of the youngest billionaire heirs expected to inherit a significant share of the long-standing Targaryen business empire.
And that was when the internet, predictably, lost its mind.
THE FINANCIAL REGISTER
Society & Capital
Headline: One of the Youngest Billionaire Heirs in the Country Appears Officially Off the Market
After months of speculation, viral clips, hand-at-waist photographs, and increasingly impossible public denial, Aerion Brightflame Targaryen appears to have confirmed what both society watchers and online sleuths have been saying for weeks.
He is no longer available.
Widely understood to be one of the youngest billionaire heirs positioned to inherit a substantial share of the long-standing Targaryen empire, Aerion has long occupied a rare place in upper-tier society, young, devastatingly wealthy, dynastic, and still unattached.
That era now appears over.
The woman at the center of the frenzy is understood to be an engineer already quietly linked to the family for years, and now, if recent events are anything to go by, very much linked to its future.
“THE HEIRESS HOUR”
Episode: The Dragon Bachelor Is Gone
“I need everybody to sit down and understand the scale here. This is not just some rich guy getting caught with a girlfriend. This is Aerion Brightflame Targaryen. This is dynasty money. This is one of those old families that stayed rich because they were strategic, ruthless, beautiful, and very, very good at keeping power where they wanted it.
“And now this engineer, this smart, gorgeous woman who has apparently been quietly folded into the family for years, has effectively locked down one of the wealthiest men in the country.
“I’m sorry, what do you mean that’s real.
“And let’s also be honest, this whole family had no business producing that many attractive daughters and sons. It’s offensive at this point.
“Aerion is out. Fully out. Gone. Which means the remaining age-appropriate heirs people are going to start circling are basically Valarr, Aemon, and Daeron.
“The market is in collapse, ladies.”
TIKTOK ACCOUNT: @usernamefiller1234
Caption over slow orchestral audio:
one of the youngest billionaire heirs alive
old money
private bloodline
strategic marriages for generations
former wild child
former problem heir
beautiful rich boy with too much money and too much damage
and then he met one engineer
looked at her
and said
no thanks
she’s mine
Top comments:
@v: not him leaving the marriage market like a man withdrawing shares 😭
@x: she didn’t just bag a billionaire heir, she accidentally became infrastructure to an empire
@m: no because she’s gorgeous, smart, has a beautiful son already attached to her, and now a dragon of a man who loves her publicly. i’m unwell
PAGE SIX-STYLE GOSSIP RAG
Headline: HEIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW
Subhead: Aerion Brightflame Targaryen Tied Down After Months of “Mystery Woman” Drama
Sorry to the social climbers, heiress daughters, PR wives-in-waiting, and every woman (or man, for that matter) who thought they had a shot.
Insiders say Aerion Brightflame Targaryen is very much not single anymore.
After months of seeing the same beauty orbiting not just Aerion, but the whole Maekar side of the family, sources now say what the internet has been screaming for weeks:
she’s not a fling,
she’s not temporary,
and she’s been effectively family for a long time.
Better yet, the woman in question is not just pretty arm candy. She is an engineer with her own standing, already deeply tied to one of the wealthiest families in the country, and now, apparently, tied to its future too.
One source put it more bluntly: “She didn’t just marry up. She married into the final boss level of old money.”
YOUTUBE NEWS RECAP
Title: WHY AERION BRIGHTFLAME TARGARYEN GOING “OFF MARKET” IS A BIGGER DEAL THAN YOU THINK
If you’re wondering why the internet is acting like a minor monarchy just fell, let me explain.
Aerion Brightflame Targaryen is not just rich. He is dynastic rich. He is one of the youngest men expected to inherit a major portion of one of the most established family empires still operating at this scale. The other is his cousin Valarr, but that man is another can of worms we can open in another video.
But anyways back to aerion like now he is, by all visible accounts, taken.
Not casually. Not discreetly. Not in a way that leaves room for interpretation.
The woman at his side is an engineer with her own standing, but what’s making people lose their minds is not just that she is beside him. It seems the whole family has already made room for her.
Also, yes, Duncan is just the best friend. Calm down. He is not the rival. He is the tolerated court idiot. Aerion has to live with him because she loves him, Egg adores him, and at this point the family has clearly decided he’s part of the furniture.
TIKTOK ACCOUNT: @heirwatchdaily122usernamefiller
Spoken audio transcript:
Okay, I need everybody to lock in for a second because some of you still do not understand the scale of this.
This is not just some rich guy with a hot girlfriend.
This is Aerion Brightflame Targaryen.
This is one of the youngest billionaire heirs in the country. This is dynasty money. This is one of those long-standing families that stayed rich because they were strategic, terrifying, hot, and very, very good at marriage, alliances, business, and never letting the bloodline fumble the bag.
Families like this do not stay at the top by being careless. They cling to power, money, reputation, and expansion like their lives depend on it, because for people like them, it kind of does.
Nothing is random. Nothing is casual. Nothing gets integrated into the family machine unless it matters.
And now Aerion is effectively off the market.
Gone.
Finished.
Closed for business.
And the woman at the center of it all is not some random socialite they plucked out of a gala lineup. She’s an engineer. She’s gorgeous. She’s clearly been embedded in the family for years. The child already sees her as central. The Maekar branch clearly adores her. And the real kicker is, she works under Baelor’s branch, which means no, she is not just some decorative attachment hanging off Aerion’s arm.
She is part of the whole picture.
That is a huge deal.
Because a family like this does not let just anybody into the structure. Not emotionally, not socially, not professionally. So when people say she married up, sure, yeah, technically.
But that’s underselling it by a mile.
She didn’t just marry up.
She got absorbed into the final boss level of old money.
Also, this family had no business being that attractive across multiple generations. Sons, fathers, mothers, daughters, cousins, everybody looks like wealth, old blood, and bad decisions in formalwear.
And now that Aerion is out, the list of remaining heirs people are going to be weird about is basically Valarr, Aemon, and Daeron.
The bachelor market just lost a nation-state, and frankly, recovery is not expected.”
Caption:
not a boyfriend. a dynastic event.
not her accidentally becoming central to one of the wealthiest families in the country
Top comments:
@usernamefiller: the way he didn’t get “caught” with her, he fully integrated her into the bloodline
@usernamefiller: he was never single emotionally and THAT is what is killing me
@usernamefiller: no because Duncan being the best friend this whole time while Aerion had to just DEAL with him is making me crazy
@usernamefiller: EXACTLY. that’s her emotional support menace and now he’s accidentally the court jester of the dragon branch
@usernamefiller: also this family producing that many attractive daughters and sons should actually be illegal
@usernamefiller: and the fact that she works under Baelor’s branch too??? babe she is not just part of Aerion’s life, she is part of the whole structure
REDDIT THREAD
r/OldMoneyDrama
Title: Aerion Brightflame Targaryen Is Officially Off the Market
u/maekarsledger
People do not get how major this is.
This is one of the youngest billionaire heirs connected to one of those sprawling old dynastic family empires that never really lose. They evolve, acquire, marry well, and keep going. He was basically a walking strategic asset.
And now every signal says he’s tied down to one woman who the family has apparently loved for years.
Not just random socialite wife material either. An engineer. Educated. Competent. Already professionally linked to one of the wealthiest families in the country before the public even realized what they were looking at.
She’s gorgeous, the kid already sees her as central, and Aerion looks at her like the rest of the world is administrative inconvenience.
That’s not gossip.
That’s succession with feelings.
u/c:
i can joke about being available but that man looks so gone over her it feels like applying to a job that was filled three years ago
u/i:
EXACTLY. it’s not even competitive anymore. it’s like showing up to an interview and the hiring manager is already married to the candidate
u/h:
this was not a rich boyfriend situation. this was dynastic acquisition. corporate merger but make it yearning
u/d:
exactly. she did not just marry up socially. she married into a structure of power. that is why everybody is foaming at the mouth
u/s:
the most devastating part is that he does not look trapped. he looks relieved. i need everyone to suffer with me
u/s:
yes. that’s the real killer. he looks like a man who finally got to stop lying
*One year later, Egg posted the wedding photograph with no warning; the entire Targaryen dynasty gathered in one frame behind Aerion and you, every branch, every household, every husband, wife, child, and heir, a rarity so staggering the papers would later call it the photograph of the century.
It broke the internet.
Part 1: You Were Never the Problem | Part 2: Can we try? | Part 3: He was reaching for both of them.
Part 4: You brought yourself. That’s enough. [You are here]
Pairing: Prince Valarr (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her) | Prince Aerion (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her)
Word Count: ~11K
Warnings: drug use/addiction themes, paparazzi harassment, family trauma, emotional breakdown, explicit language, sexual content, pregnancy, invasive questions/media behaviour
Summary:
Aerion has spent a long time convincing himself that distance hurts less than rejection, right up until his younger brother turns up at his door shaken, followed, and in need of somewhere safe.
Egg arrives expecting discomfort and finds something far stranger instead: a version of Aerion who is softer than he remembers, a woman who steadies the room without trying, and a life that looks far more like healing than chaos.
Valarr, meanwhile, remains a shadow at the edge of it all, tied to old damage, older love, and the kind of history no one in the room is fully ready to name.
Duncan is just there to supply tea, commentary, and emotional support with alarming efficiency.
The sharp click of Valarr's shoes rang across the marble floor of The Silver Stag, each step crisp and deliberate, until he stopped short at the front desk.
He stood there like a threat dressed in refinement.
His coat was dark and expertly tailored, severe enough to make him look almost cruel, the shoulders still dusted with fine silver beads of rain from the evening outside. One gloved hand rested lightly atop the marble counter while the other held a phone he had only just lowered from his ear. The young receptionist glanced up, and whatever greeting had first risen to her lips faltered the moment she truly looked at him.
"Welcome to The Silver Stag, sir," she said, her voice catching awkwardly in her throat. "How may I help you?"
Valarr did not answer at once.
Instead, he removed his gloves finger by finger, slow and precise, every movement measured in a way that felt far more unnerving than any raised voice ever could. He set the gloves neatly on the counter before lifting his gaze to her.
"I'm looking for my cousin, Aerion Targaryen," he said coolly. "His assistant told me he was staying here."
The receptionist swallowed. "I'm sorry, sir, we aren't permitted to..."
Valarr's eyes lifted fully to hers, and the rest of her sentence died before it had the chance to leave her mouth.
"Do not," he said softly, "make the mistake of telling me you cannot give me his room number."
He leaned one hand against the counter, not enough to seem aggressive, but enough that the pressure of his presence sharpened.
"This property is owned through one of our subsidiaries. If I chose to, I could have your manager, your manager's manager, and half the administrative body of this hotel replaced before midnight." His voice did not rise. If anything, it became quieter. "I do not have much time, and my patience is already exhausted. So you are going to give me the suite number. And you are going to hand me a key."
The girl stared at him for half a second too long, then scrambled for the card system so quickly she nearly fumbled it.
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."
She passed the keycard over with trembling fingers. Valarr accepted it with a curt nod.
"Thank you."
He slid his gloves into his coat pocket, turned smoothly from the desk, and headed for the lifts with the kind of calm that only existed because his temper was already stretched so thin it had become deadly.
The ride to the thirteenth floor felt longer than it should have.
His reflection stared back at him from the elevator's mirrored walls, immaculate, composed, coldly elegant, and pale with the sort of anger he refused to let fully show. He could still hear his father's voice in the back of his mind, steady and irritatingly reasonable, telling him not to walk in furious, not to escalate, and not to let Aerion bait him before a proper conversation could even begin.
A wasted sentiment.
Aerion had been gone for months now, drifting from city to city, headline to headline, leaving scandal in his wake like expensive cologne. Drugs. Women. Parties. Fights. Tabloids. Photographs. Rumors. Most of it had been buried before it could become a problem. Some of it had been paid off. All of it had been exhausting.
And now this.
Daeron had already relinquished his portion of the family structure, stepping away from the branch of responsibility that might once have fallen to him. Maekar still stood above all his sons, of course, and retained enough control on the board that none of them could truly move without his shadow looming over them. But after that, Aerion mattered far more than he seemed capable of understanding.
Which was precisely the problem.
The elevator doors slid open.
Valarr stepped into the corridor and made his way toward the double doors of the garden suite. He was almost there when he stopped.
From beyond them came the unmistakable sound of sex.
Loud. Vulgar. Unrestrained. The graceless kind that belonged in the back room of some cheap private club, not in a luxury suite attached in any way to the Targaryen name.
Valarr closed his eyes for one brief, murderous second.
Then he swiped the keycard and entered.
The suite smelled like the aftermath of excess. Liquor. Sweat. Smoke. Sex. And beneath it all, the chemical sting of whatever narcotic Aerion had drowned himself in this time. The sitting room was dim, expensive, and in complete disarray, with glasses abandoned on every surface, a half-open bottle perilously close to the edge of the table, and clothes strewn from one room into the next.
Beyond it, in the open doorway of the bedroom, Valarr found precisely what he had expected.
And somehow still found it offensive enough to make his jaw tighten.
A woman with long red hair and tattoos winding over her shoulders and thighs was straddling Aerion at the edge of the bed, moving with drunken enthusiasm. Neither of them had heard him enter.
Valarr crossed the room in three long strides.
The woman barely had time to gasp before his hand closed in a brutal fist at the back of her hair and yanked her backward. She let out a startled cry as she was pulled clean off the bed and onto the carpet. She landed badly, scrambling in shock, while Aerion did little more than make a sluggish, intoxicated shift of his head.
"What the fuck?" she snapped, her Lysene accent turning the words even sharper as she shoved her hair from her face. "Who in the fuck do you think you are?"
Valarr looked down at her with the cool severity of a drawn blade.
"I am his cousin," he said. "Get dressed. Get out. Now."
She blinked up at him, stunned, then glanced toward Aerion as though expecting him to intervene. He barely seemed to register what was happening.
Valarr's expression did not change.
"Now," he repeated.
That was enough.
She gathered the scattered pieces of her clothing with shaking hands, muttering curses beneath her breath, and fled the room in a blur of bare feet, wrinkled silk, and humiliation. A moment later, the suite door slammed shut behind her.
Only then did Aerion stir enough to push himself halfway upright.
His hair was a mess, his eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused, his expression dragged halfway between confusion and indifference. He blinked once at Valarr as though struggling to place him in the room.
Valarr snatched a pillow from the bed and threw it at his chest.
"Cover yourself."
Aerion caught it on instinct and stared at him through a fog of intoxication. "Valarr?"
"Yes, Aerion. Valarr." His voice was pure ice. "Were you under the impression the entire world had died and left you alone in it?"
Aerion let the pillow settle carelessly across his lap. "You always did know how to make an entrance."
Valarr looked him over with open disgust.
"How old was she?"
Aerion squinted, as though the question required more thought than he could presently manage.
"Old enough."
"That is not an answer."
Aerion only shrugged.
Valarr let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Of course."
Aerion's head tipped back. The effort of remaining upright seemed suddenly too much for whatever poisonous cocktail had worked its way through his bloodstream. He muttered something incomprehensible, then collapsed backward against the mattress, nearly unconscious again, before he had fully landed.
Valarr stood over him in silence for a long moment.
"Pathetic," he said quietly.
Aerion woke the next morning with a splitting headache, a dry mouth, and the dull, sour misery of someone who had survived a night he probably should not have.
He lay there for a moment, eyes shut against the pale gold light cutting through the suite. He was naked except for the sheet twisted around one leg, and every inch of him felt heavy, as though his body had been dragged through the night and only loosely returned to him by morning.
Then he heard it.
The faint click of porcelain against glass.
And beneath that, the smell of food.
Real food.
That alone made him suspicious.
He dragged himself upright with a curse, one hand braced against the side of the bed while the room tilted unpleasantly around him. By the time he stumbled out of the bedroom and into the sitting room, he looked half-dead.
Valarr was already there.
He sat at the breakfast table in a fresh shirt and immaculate trousers as though he had not spent the previous night babysitting a disgrace. His laptop sat open beside a small stack of documents, clearly abandoned in favour of whatever was currently on his phone. To Aerion, it looked like work, messages to staff, orders to assistants, logistical rearrangements, another dozen responsibilities in Valarr's endless parade of obligations.
It was not.
Valarr was texting his girlfriend.
Aerion, of course, had no idea Valarr was seeing anyone seriously enough to soften for them. To him, his cousin simply looked composed, expensive, and irritated, with black coffee steaming at his elbow.
A full breakfast had been laid out between them: eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and fruit.
Aerion's gaze went immediately, instinctively, to the dresser instead.
He crossed the room, yanked open the top drawer, and checked for the small packets and rolled cash tucked beneath the tray.
"All still there?" Valarr asked without looking up from his phone. "How reassuring."
Aerion reached for one of the baggies automatically.
"Please," Valarr said, finally looking up from his phone. "Give me a reason, Aerion. Put that anywhere near your nose, and I will be very happy to break your face before I throw you off the balcony."
Aerion paused. Stared at him. Then, after a beat, slowly set it back down.
He pulled on a pair of boxers and sauntered toward the table, affecting an ease he did not feel.
"You don't travel across Lys for casual conversation," he said, dropping into the chair opposite him. "So what exactly do I owe this pleasure?"
Valarr did not answer at once. Instead, he reached for the newspaper lying folded beside his coffee and pushed it across the table.
"What happened to this?"
Aerion glanced down.
There he was on the front of one of the entertainment sections, exiting a nightclub with two women draped over him, one on each arm, bottles in hand, a grin on his face that looked more wild than genuine. Around him stood the usual sort of men, well-born, moneyed, useless. The kind bred into wealth and old names with no sense whatsoever of consequence. Boys who lived off inheritance and proximity, neither heirs nor workers, merely beneficiaries of legacies they had done nothing to build. Valarr knew the type well, because he was technically one of them, too.
The difference was that Valarr still worked.
Aerion's expression flickered. Briefly, but enough.
Valarr saw it. Noted it. Filed it away.
"So," he said smoothly, "you do remember it."
Aerion ignored the bait and reached for the coffee instead.
"You were photographed with them," Valarr continued. "Interviewed beside that little up-and-coming celebrity you were parading around weeks ago, the one now apparently shopping around a tell-all story about you and, by extension, our family. You were smiling, for once, which was unsettling enough on its own. You almost looked functional." He leaned back in his chair. "And yet last night I found you half-dead beneath a stranger whose name I doubt you knew."
Aerion took a slow sip. "Maybe I like variety."
Valarr's mouth flattened. "Maybe you like destruction."
Aerion gave a short, humourless laugh and reached for a strip of bacon. "That sounds dramatic. Even for you."
"Dramatic?" Valarr's voice sharpened at once. "You want dramatic? Your brother Daeron has relinquished his share in the family structure. Right now, whether you like it or not, you are the highest-ranking member of your branch after Maekar. Do you understand what that means?"
Aerion looked away.
Valarr's stare hardened.
"No," he said. "You do not. Because if you did, you would not be snorting yourself insensible in hotel suites and dragging the family name through every paper in the seven kingdoms."
"Spare me the lecture."
"I would love to spare you the lecture," Valarr replied. "Unfortunately, you continue to earn it."
Aerion threw back the rest of his coffee and set the cup down harder than necessary.
"I'm not sitting on some council. I'm not begging for a seat at Maekar's table. I don't give a shit about rank."
Valarr laughed then, once, cold and utterly disbelieving.
"That," he said, "is the most selfish thing you have said in a week. And with you, that is saying something."
Aerion's jaw tightened.
Valarr leaned forward, his voice low and lethal. "You do not have the luxury of not caring. Men have been destroyed for less than what you do for sport. You are watched. You are named. You are measured. And every time you behave like this, someone in this family has to clean your blood off the floor before the world sees it."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Aerion smirked, but it was brittle and ugly and did not reach his eyes.
"The truth hurts, doesn't it?"
"No," Valarr said flatly. "The truth is irritating. What hurts is watching you waste yourself."
That landed.
Aerion's gaze dropped briefly to the plate before him, then away. He shifted in his seat, restless and agitated, fingers tapping once against the table in a rhythm that betrayed more than his face did.
Valarr watched him for another beat before speaking again.
"Where is your supposed girlfriend now?"
Aerion let out a sharp, humourless breath. "Why?"
"Because unlike the girl from last night," Valarr said, "she actually seemed to matter."
Aerion's face hardened at once. "Stay out of it."
"That answer alone tells me enough."
"I said stay out of it."
Valarr's gaze did not move. "Who is she?"
Aerion stood so suddenly his chair scraped harshly against the floor.
"You really don't know when to stop."
"No," Valarr said. "Not when it concerns someone determined to ruin himself."
Aerion stood there staring at him, chest rising and falling, anger fraying at the edges into something more exhausted, more volatile, more dangerous.
Then, finally, he looked away.
"She's just some fling that lasted longer than the others," he said, the dismissiveness too forced to be convincing. "Don't worry. She's not going to be the future Mrs. anything. Father wouldn't even like her, which is why she's never been brought around at family events. By next month, it'll be someone else."
Valarr said nothing.
That silence was worse than judgment.
Aerion raked a hand through his hair and turned sharply away, heading back toward the bedroom as though ending the conversation by force.
"There," he said bitterly. "You have your answer. Now get the hell out of my suite."
At the doorway, he stopped, not quite turning back.
"And stop acting like you can save me."
Valarr's temper finally strained.
"Aerion, for fuck's sake."
His voice cut sharply through the room, enough to make Aerion hesitate.
Valarr rose from his chair.
"I came here to find out you've legally changed your last name to Dayne, forsaking the Targaryen name while still holding a significant share tied to it." His tone was no longer cold. It was furious now, though still controlled enough to wound cleanly. "My father and our grandfather sent me here to sort this out. I need you to work with me because, believe it or not, I already have enough on my plate."
Aerion turned, dazed and irritated, but Valarr did not stop.
"We have a merger coming in six months. They are expecting a united front. Stability. Reliability. Continuity. We cannot afford this." He gestured sharply toward Aerion, the suite, the drugs, and the entire state of things. "We are billionaires, Aerion, but the line of work we are in does not allow mistakes of this magnitude. One public fracture, one badly timed scandal, one investor who decides the family is unstable, and suddenly everyone starts circling. The public support weakens. The stakeholders hesitate. The investors start asking questions. There are beasts out there waiting to take a piece of the fucking business the moment they smell blood."
Aerion stared at him for a long moment, then gave a slow, crooked smile that was more mocking than amused.
"You are profoundly boring," he said. "Mergers this, documents that, research, statistics, projections. Do you ever get tired of staring at data, history, and numbers all day? Forecasting the likelihood of events just to build policy and make sure no one loses money?"
Valarr glared at him.
"Our wealth is a privilege," he said sharply. "A luxury our family bled for over generations. We keep it because it does not belong only to us. It belongs, in part, to the people before us who built it and the people after us who are meant to inherit it."
He took a step closer, fury pulling his composure taut.
"I was sent here to make sure of that. And for God's sake, do you really think I would come all the way here just for this mess if it did not matter?"
His voice dropped, but it only made the strain in it more pronounced.
"I have a life too, Aerion. I have people I care about who are waiting for me. I have responsibilities that do not pause just because you cannot keep yourself sober for twelve consecutive hours." His jaw flexed. "You think I wanted to prioritize this? You think I wanted to be dragged here because your father and our grandfather decided you need to be leashed? And yet here you are, unable to keep a low profile despite all the money in the world, choosing over and over again to be a fucking moron with it."
Aerion stared at him, dazed enough now that even his usual sharp reply seemed to lag behind his thoughts.
Before Valarr could continue, his phone rang.
Aerion's first assumption was that it was work. Another assistant. Another board member. Another person is waiting for Valarr to fix something.
But the moment Valarr looked at the screen, something in him changed.
It was subtle, but unmistakable.
His shoulders eased.
The tension in his jaw softened.
Even the hand that had been curled tight at his side unclenched.
Aerion watched with narrowed eyes as Valarr answered.
"Hi, sweetheart," Valarr said, and his voice changed so completely it was almost jarring. Softer. Warmer. Human, in a way, Aerion had rarely seen from him. "Yeah, I landed. Give me a second."
Without another glance at Aerion, Valarr turned away, already walking toward the adjoining room. He shut the door behind him, shutting Aerion out with it.
And just like that, the suite fell silent again.
Aerion stood in the middle of the room, hungover and hollow-eyed, staring at the closed door with a strange expression flickering across his face, something between disbelief, annoyance, and the faintest sting of being left behind.
Aerion remained standing on the other side of the bedroom door long after Valarr had stepped away.
The suite felt different without him in it. Too still, too empty, too honest. Only a little while ago, the room had been sharp with Valarr's anger, crowded with his presence, his lectures, and his cold disappointment. Now all of that had gone quiet, and what remained behind was worse. The silence pressed in from all sides and settled over the room like judgment, like the aftermath of a storm that had left everything stripped bare.
He exhaled unsteadily and dragged a hand down his face. His head was pounding, his nerves felt flayed raw, and the edges of Valarr's words still scraped at him, refusing to soften and refusing to go.
Highest-ranking after Maekar. Get your shit together.
And beneath even that, tangled through the mess in his skull, was another thought he did not want to touch.
His mother.
Aerion swore under his breath, harsh and low, and turned back toward the dresser. He yanked the drawer open harder than necessary, the wood knocking sharply against its frame, and pulled out the tray he had hidden beneath the folded shirts. His hands were not steady. He hated that Valarr had done this to him, had walked in here with that cutting, superior calm and somehow left him more rattled than any shouting match ever could. Still, he bent over the tray anyway, because that was easier than sitting with himself and infinitely easier than sitting with the truth.
By the time he straightened, his thoughts had begun to blur again at the edges. The sting in his nose grounded him first, and then the numb float of it all settled in, softening the room into something more manageable. The panic dulled. The anger loosened. The sharpest parts of the morning lost their edges.
Better. Cleaner. Quieter.
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding. For a moment, he thought that might be enough.
It was not.
Because even now, even drugged and dulled and half-unravelling, Valarr's voice would not leave him. It stayed in the room like smoke and in his head like a splinter, impossible to ignore, no matter how badly he wanted to. Aerion cursed again and jerked the bedroom door open, half-ready to call Valarr back before pride could catch up to him, half-ready to spit something vicious down the hallway just to get the last word. He did not even know which impulse would win.
Instead, he froze.
Valarr had left his laptop open on the table.
Aerion's gaze landed on it almost absently at first, but then the screen brightened from sleep, and his attention sharpened despite the haze in his bloodstream.
A photograph filled the screen. It was not work, not reports, not charts, forecasts, schedules, or some miserable merger presentation. It was a woman, and for a second Aerion could only stare.
Several photographs cycled slowly across the background, candid enough to feel private, intimate in a way that made him feel as though he had stumbled into something he was never meant to see. In one, Valarr sat somewhere outdoors beneath warm golden light, his expression unguarded in a way Aerion had never seen before. The woman leaned in with a smile and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and Valarr, Valarr of all people, was smiling too.
Not that usual faint, dry, irritated almost-smirk he offered the world when it had earned a fraction of his amusement. Not the polished expression he wore through boardrooms and family dinners and every situation where feeling too much could be used against him. This was a real smile, soft and genuine and easy in a way that startled Aerion more than it should have.
For a moment, he wondered whether he was too fucked up to be seeing it properly.
Since when was Valarr with a woman? Since when did he have time for one? He was a workaholic, a machine in polished shoes and expensive cufflinks, a man who lived between meetings, flights, spreadsheets, and obligations. He never brought anyone home. He never mentioned anyone. Aerion had long ago assumed that sort of softness simply did not belong in Valarr's life.
And yet here she was, on his screen, on his laptop, hidden in plain sight.
Aerion stepped closer before he even realized he was moving.
The photos shifted again. The same woman appeared, laughing, her head thrown back, sunlight catching the side of her face, while Valarr looked at her from beside her with an expression so unguarded it felt almost indecent to witness. There was no impatience in him there, no sharpness, no practiced reserve. He looked softened by her, as though being near her had quieted something restless in him. In another photo, they stood shoulder to shoulder somewhere abroad, dressed for the evening, close enough that there was no mistaking what she was to him. She was not some passing woman. Not some disposable thing. Not someone brought in for appearances or convenience.
Whoever she was, she mattered.
That realization struck him strangely. It was not that Valarr having a woman should have been impossible. It was that Valarr having someone he actually let matter felt almost absurd. Aerion could not imagine him handing over that much access, that much softness, that much of himself to anyone. And yet the evidence was glowing right in front of him.
It was there in the way Valarr looked at her when he thought no one was watching, in the ease of his smile, in the quiet intimacy of a hand at her back, and in the instinctive turn of her shoulders toward him. For one stolen second, he looked less like an heir and more like someone simply, helplessly, in love.
Aerion kept staring, dazed enough now that the room seemed to tilt around him. He had the vague, detached thought that he was too far gone to remember any of this properly the next day, and maybe that was a mercy. Maybe he would wake up convinced he had hallucinated the entire thing. Valarr smiling. Valarr softened. Valarr apparently loved.
But even through the fog, one truth had already landed hard enough to stay.
Valarr cared about her.
Not in the shallow, convenient way men like them were expected to care when it cost them nothing.
No, this was worse than that.
This looked like the kind of care that changed a person.
Then something in her face shifted, not alarm, not quite surprise, but recognition by association. Aerion had mentioned him often enough, though never carelessly. He always spoke of his younger brother in that restrained way of his, as though even saying too much required him to handle something fragile with rough hands.
"Egg," she repeated gently, as though testing the name. "Right."
The boy standing in the doorway could not have been much younger than she had first thought, but there was something about him that made him seem younger anyway. Maybe it was the tension in him. Maybe it was the school uniform, too severe and formal for the hour, his black blazer still buttoned, collar neat, dark tie slightly loosened as though he had tugged at it in the car and then thought better of taking it off completely. His backpack hung from one shoulder, and his fingers were curled tightly around the strap.
He had Aerion's colouring, though in a younger, sharper way. Aerion had described him differently, and in the photographs she had seen, Egg had worn the same fair Targaryen hair, more gold than silver. But now his head was fully shaved, and the change made his striking blue eyes stand out all the more. They were more open than Aerion's, touched with uncertainty where Aerion so often hid behind irony, distance, or something much less gentle.
He looked past her, into the penthouse, and swallowed.
"I'm sorry," he said after a beat, the apology abrupt enough to sound sincere. "I should have called first. I just... he wasn't answering."
Her hand, which had rested instinctively over the soft curve of her stomach beneath Aerion's oversized shirt, tightened slightly.
"He's here," she said. "Come in."
Egg hesitated only briefly before stepping across the threshold.
Behind her, she heard Duncan shift off the stool in the kitchen. Aerion was still in the living room, not yet fully aware of who had arrived. The match remained muted on the television, bright bodies moving soundlessly across the screen. At the same time, the kitchen still carried the warm smell of garlic, butter, roasted vegetables, and something softer beneath it that already felt like the shape of an ordinary evening.
An evening that, quite suddenly, was no longer ordinary.
She closed the door gently behind Egg. He stood awkwardly in the entryway for half a breath, looking as though he were not sure where to put himself. His gaze flicked once more over her, taking in the bare feet, the borrowed shirt that hung to mid-thigh, the lounge shorts, the domestic ease of the room, and then, not very subtly at all, the bump she had long since lost the ability to fully conceal.
Understanding moved across his face in stages. Confusion first. Then surprise. Then something quieter and harder to name.
Not judgment.
Not exactly.
But certainly realization.
Duncan came around the island and offered Egg an easy half-smile, the sort meant to keep him from bolting.
"You made it upstairs, then," he said lightly. "That's always a good start."
Egg blinked at him. "You're Duncan."
Duncan placed a hand against his own chest as though deeply honoured. "I am, tragically, Duncan."
That got the faintest twitch from Egg's mouth, though it vanished quickly. Then Egg looked up properly.
And up.
And then a little farther up.
He frowned with the solemn seriousness only younger brothers seemed capable of and said, "You are very tall."
Duncan looked delighted.
"Thank you," he said at once. "That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week."
Egg glanced at her, then back at Duncan. "Was it not obvious before?"
She had to press her lips together to stop herself from laughing.
Duncan put a hand over his heart. "Brutal. Absolutely brutal. No, apparently not. Most people prefer to insult my personality first."
Egg blinked once. "Do you have one?"
That did it.
She laughed softly before she could stop herself, and even Egg looked faintly startled by his own boldness. Duncan stared at him for one dramatic beat, then pointed a finger in solemn accusation.
"Right. I see what this is. You're one of those. Quiet for five seconds, then suddenly lethal."
Egg's mouth twitched again, this time lingering.
From the living room, Aerion finally called, "Who is it?"
There was no concern about it yet. Only distraction. Mild curiosity. The casual tone of a man who thought this was likely a delivery or an inconvenience that could be handled from a distance.
Egg visibly tensed.
She saw it at once.
Without thinking too hard about it, she touched his forearm lightly. Not enough to crowd him. Just enough to steady the moment.
"It's alright," she said quietly.
His eyes flicked to hers. She was not entirely sure why he listened, only that he did.
"Come sit down first," she added. "You look like you're about to face a tribunal."
Duncan snorted. "He does, actually."
Egg shot him a brief, annoyed look, but it had more nerves than hostility in it. Duncan, apparently deciding the moment still needed rescuing, held out a hand toward the living room as if presenting a luxury resort.
"This way, Your Very Tallness," he said. "Please enjoy the seating arrangements and emotional complications."
Egg stared at him. "Is he always like this?"
She smiled faintly. "Unfortunately."
"That hurts," Duncan said. "And after I welcomed you with such grace."
"You made one joke," Egg said.
"I made several. You simply lack the experience to appreciate a master at work."
Egg looked unconvinced but followed them anyway.
She led him into the living room.
And somewhere in the strange, slow rearranging of the evening, what Aerion did not yet know was that a circle he had once thought broken beyond repair was beginning, however awkwardly, to close around him. Had he been even a little more sober that morning in Lys, more than a year ago now, he might have remembered her face well enough to place her instantly. He might have understood that she was the same woman from Valarr's laptop, the same woman now standing in his home with quiet certainty. He might have realized that she had once been the woman Valarr loved most, perhaps the only woman he had ever truly loved, and that she moved through Aerion's space with the calm of someone who had already learned what it meant to love a man who came with storms attached to him.
But Aerion had not been sober then, and he was not prepared now. For her part, she only touched Egg lightly on the arm and guided him toward the sofa.
"Sit," she said gently.
He did, though stiffly, setting his backpack by his feet as if he might need to leave again at any second.
Duncan dropped into the armchair across from him and stretched one arm along its side in an effort to make the room feel looser than it suddenly did.
Egg looked at the armchair, then at Duncan, then back at the armchair again.
Duncan caught it immediately. "Yes," he said, deadpan. "I do, in fact, take up more furniture than seems necessary. It's a burden I carry with dignity."
This time, Egg's smile came quicker, small but real.
Only then did she lift her voice just enough to carry.
"Aerion," she called.
From the living room sofa, there was the rustling of movement. "Yeah?"
Her tone remained calm. Steady. Leaving no room for alarm, but no room for dismissal either.
"You have company."
A beat of silence followed.
Then another.
And then Aerion appeared at the edge of the room, one hand still braced against the back of the sofa from where he had risen. He had changed after work, the sharpness of the office pared back into dark lounge trousers and a thin black shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Even at home, he still carried that same impossible Targaryen beauty, silver-blond hair falling carelessly, blue eyes sharp beneath lowered brows, his posture loose in the way only someone perpetually braced could ever call loose.
He looked first at her.
Then at Duncan.
Then, there was the boy seated on the couch.
Aerion stopped dead.
Egg, as if suddenly uncertain he had done the right thing after all, looked up and said nothing.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
And what Aerion understood first was not the shock of seeing his brother there, nor even the strange, immediate jolt of guilt that followed close behind it.
It was this.
He was not alone.
Not in the room. Not in the wreckage. Not in whatever came next.
The woman from Valarr's screen was in his home. Duncan was there too, steady and impossible to rattle. Egg, the younger brother he had not spoken to in nearly a year because he had convinced himself distance hurt less than rejection, sat on his sofa in his school uniform with his backpack still at his feet.
And all at once, with no lecture and no cruelty, she had made it painfully clear that Aerion was no longer facing any of this alone.
It was not the sort of stare strangers mistook for coldness. She knew better than that now. There was too much happening beneath it. Shock first. Then the calculation. Then something quieter and much more dangerous in its tenderness: concern arriving too fast to hide itself properly.
His eyes dragged over Egg's face once, then higher.
And stopped.
His mouth tightened.
"What happened to your hair?"
The question came out before anything softer could. Just startled enough to sound rough.
Egg went very still.
For one brief second, she had the strange impression that he had expected many things tonight, but not that question. Not that particular note in Aerion's voice. Not something so immediate and familial that it bypassed anger, bypassed distance, and landed straight in the softest place.
His fingers tightened once against the strap of his backpack.
Then he said, too quickly and far too flatly, "I shaved it because I didn't want to look like you."
The room fell silent.
It was not dramatic silence. No one gasped. No one moved.
But she felt it all the same, the way the words landed between them with the force of something sharper than Egg had meant to throw.
Aerion did not flinch.
He was too controlled for that.
But she saw it.
Saw the minute shift in his expression, the almost imperceptible stillness that moved through him, the way something behind his eyes shuttered for just half a second before he caught it. It would have been easy to miss if she had not already learned him in the small ways that mattered.
She moved before she thought too much about it.
Crossing the short distance between them, she reached for Aerion's hand and curled her fingers around it. His hand was warm, larger than hers, already tense with something he was trying very hard not to show. The moment she touched him, he looked at her once, briefly, and some of the sharpness in his face loosened.
Then, almost absently, as if it were pure instinct, he drew her closer into his side.
One arm came around her waist. Not to shield himself. Not even really to shield her. Just to keep in contact while his gaze remained fixed on Egg.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed.
Not gentler exactly.
More careful.
"Why are you here?"
Egg opened his mouth.
Closed it.
His throat worked once.
And then, all at once, the earlier sharpness seemed to collapse in on itself, as if he had only just realized how what he said must have sounded.
"That's not—" He swallowed hard. "I didn't mean…"
His fingers slipped off the backpack strap and curled into his palm instead. He looked younger again, suddenly. Not because his face changed, but because whatever armour had brought him all the way up here was beginning to crack.
Aerion did not speak.
He only waited.
Egg dragged in a breath that came shakier than he probably intended.
"There were photographers outside school," he said at last, voice tight. "And paparazzi. They were waiting when classes ended." He laughed once, but there was no humour in it. "I thought if I used the side entrance, it'd be fine, but they were already there."
Her whole body went still.
Egg kept looking somewhere just left of Aerion, as if direct eye contact might make the humiliation worse.
"They kept asking questions," he said. "Nasty ones. About you. About the family. About whether I'd met…" He glanced, just once, toward her stomach, then away so quickly it made her heart ache. "About whether it was true. One of them asked if this was why I shaved my head. Another asked if I was trying to distance myself before the family's split properly."
Duncan's expression changed at once, whatever humour had been lingering there vanishing beneath something darker and quieter.
Egg went on anyway, like once the words had started, he could not quite stop them.
"I just wanted them to leave me alone." His voice cracked slightly on the last word. "I got in the car, and they followed all the way from school. I thought they'd stop, but they didn't, and I didn't know where else to go, and I just…" He took another breath that did nothing to steady him. "I just thought if there was anyone in this family who'd understand what that feels like, it would be you."
That did it.
She saw the exact moment Egg lost his grip on whatever composure had gotten him through the elevator, through the hallway, through her opening the door and through Aerion standing there asking hard questions with his beautiful, wounded face.
His mouth tightened.
His chin trembled once.
And then, horribly, he tried to look away as if he could outpace the tears by refusing to acknowledge them.
He couldn't.
She slipped from Aerion's side before she thought too much about it.
By the time Egg realized she was moving toward him, she was already there, already kneeling in front of the sofa, already reaching for him with the same steady certainty she used when someone was hurt and pretending not to be.
"Hey," she said softly. "Hey, sweetheart. It's alright."
That was all it took.
The first tear fell before he could stop it, quick and furious, immediately followed by the kind of shaking inhale that said he was trying not to let himself completely break in front of them.
She did not give him the chance to retreat into embarrassment.
She wrapped both arms around him and drew him in.
At first, Egg stiffened with sheer shock. Then something in him gave way all at once, and he folded forward into her, awkward and trembling and trying very hard not to cry harder just because someone had been kind to him.
"It's okay," she murmured, one hand sliding up between his shoulder blades. "It's okay. You're safe now."
Behind her, she could feel rather than see Aerion still standing there.
Still stunned.
Still watching.
Still, perhaps, trying to understand the sight of his younger brother curled in on himself in his living room while the woman he loved held him together with quiet hands.
Duncan moved first.
Of course he did.
He rose from the armchair and crossed toward the windows, already reaching for the remote controls and the heavy blinds. "I'm shutting these," he said, voice calm and practical in a way that made the moment easier to survive. "Last thing we need is some absolute ghoul with a telephoto lens getting ideas."
Aerion gave a single sharp nod, eyes never leaving Egg.
"Check downstairs too," he said, the command automatic, the old family instinct in him surfacing not as cruelty but as control. "Call the concierge. Tell them if anyone unauthorized made it past the lobby, I want names."
"On it," Duncan said at once, already pulling his phone from his pocket.
Egg made a small, miserable sound against her shoulder, half laugh and half broken breath.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "This is so stupid."
"No, it isn't," she said immediately.
"It really isn't," Duncan added from near the window, far more serious now than he had been five minutes earlier. "That's insane, actually. Following a school kid is genuinely unhinged behaviour."
Egg scrubbed hard at his face with the heel of one hand, though he didn't pull away from her. "I'm not a kid."
Duncan glanced over, deadpan. "You arrived in uniform with a backpack and the energy of someone one inconvenience away from a stress-induced collapse. Respectfully, mate, I'm calling it as I see it."
That, somehow, made Egg let out a weak, wet sound that was almost a laugh.
Good.
She kept rubbing slow circles over his back until the shaking eased even a little.
Only then did Aerion move.
He came closer slowly, not because he was hesitant exactly, but because he seemed to understand that one careless motion might send Egg retreating again.
When he stopped in front of the sofa, Egg finally looked up.
Aerion's face had gone very still.
Not empty.
Never empty.
Just carefully held together.
"You should have called me sooner," Aerion said quietly.
Egg's eyes flashed at once, defensive reflex colliding with hurt. "You weren't answering."
Aerion inhaled once through his nose. "I know."
The answer was so simple it seemed to catch Egg off guard.
No excuse.
No deflection.
I just know.
Egg looked down again.
"I didn't know if you'd want me here," he admitted, so low she almost missed it. "I didn't know if… after everything…"
Aerion's expression changed then, only slightly, but enough.
The distance in him cracked.
He crouched in front of the sofa so that he and Egg were closer to eye level, his forearms braced lightly on his knees, his focus absolute now in a way that made the whole room narrow around it.
"Egg," he said, and there was nothing careless in his voice anymore, nothing ironic, nothing sharp enough to hide behind. "You do not ever have to ask yourself that again."
Egg's breathing caught.
Aerion looked at the shaved head once more, slower this time, and whatever hurt had flickered through him earlier settled into something much older and sadder.
"I don't care what you've done to your hair," he said. "I care that you got here frightened and thought you had to stand outside my door rehearsing whether you were welcome."
Egg stared at him.
Then he looked away so quickly it was almost painful to watch.
"I didn't mean it like that," he muttered, voice thick. "About looking like you. I just…"
Aerion waited.
Egg's fingers twisted in the fabric of Aerion's borrowed shirt, where it still brushed against her arm.
"I got tired of people looking at me and seeing this family first," he whispered. "Seeing you. Seeing all of you. I thought if I changed something obvious, maybe they'd stop. Or maybe I'd stop feeling like every time I looked in the mirror I was just…" He broke off, jaw tightening. "I don't know."
Aerion was quiet for a moment.
Then, very gently, he said, "You are allowed to want to look like yourself."
Something in Egg's face folded inward at that.
She felt his shoulders shake again and tightened her arms around him just a little.
Behind them, Duncan ended the call and turned back toward the room. "Concierge's having a small panic," he said. "Which is fair, honestly. Security's checking the outside now. No one's getting up here."
"Good," Aerion said, without looking away from Egg.
Duncan hovered awkwardly for half a beat, then added, with surprising softness, "I can make tea? Or actual food. There's pasta. The garlic situation is strong. We're a very carb-forward household tonight."
That got another tiny, unwilling twitch from Egg's mouth.
She smiled faintly into his hair.
"Tea first," she said.
Duncan pointed at her like she had made an excellent strategic decision. "Correct. Good. Right. I'm useful again."
As he disappeared toward the kitchen, the room settled into a different kind of quiet.
Not the tight, frightened kind from before.
Something warmer.
Something trying.
Aerion rose only enough to sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of the sofa, close now, close enough that Egg would not have to raise his voice or bridge a room to reach him.
For a second, none of them said anything.
Then Aerion asked, more softly than before, "Did anyone touch you?"
Egg blinked. "What?"
"Did anyone put their hands on you? On the way here. At school. Outside."
Egg shook his head quickly. "No. Just cameras. Questions. They got too close, but no one—" He swallowed. "No one touched me."
Aerion nodded once, jaw tight.
Then his gaze flicked, briefly, to her.
To her hand, still rubbing slow comfort into Egg's back.
To the way Egg had leaned into her without even thinking.
And something in Aerion's face eased, only slightly, only enough that she knew he was letting himself breathe again.
She reached blindly for his hand.
He gave it to her at once.
Their fingers laced together between the sofa and the coffee table while Aerion kept his attention on Egg.
"You're staying tonight," Aerion said.
It was not a suggestion.
Egg blinked up at him. "I didn't bring anything."
"You brought yourself. That's enough."
Egg looked as though he wanted to argue, mostly on principle.
Instead, his face crumpled just enough to betray how badly he needed not to.
She squeezed his shoulder gently.
"You can shower," she said. "I'll find you something comfortable. Duncan will probably try to lend you a shirt, and you'll disappear inside it, so we'll avoid that."
From the kitchen, Duncan called, offended, "My clothes are generous, not ridiculous."
Aerion, without looking away from Egg, said flatly, "Your sleeves are longer than his future."
"Cruel," Duncan called back.
Egg actually laughed then, small and shaky, but real, and the sound of it changed the room.
Aerion heard it too. She knew he did by the way his expression softened, not openly, not enough that anyone else might have called it softness, but enough. Enough to see the brother beneath the distance. Enough to see the man who had once been left alone with too much of himself and had perhaps decided, wrongly and for far too long, that solitude was kinder than dragging anyone else into his damage. But not tonight. Tonight, Egg had come here. Tonight, he had chosen Aerion. And whether either brother quite knew how to say it yet, that choice mattered. A lot.
As the room slowly settled, Egg sat curled into the corner of the sofa, quieter now, though not fully at ease.
"You seem good for him," he said, quieter than before.
The room did not freeze exactly, but it softened. She looked back at him, surprised enough that it must have shown, while Egg glanced down into his tea as though embarrassed by his own honesty. Even so, he kept going.
"I mean..." He lifted one shoulder awkwardly. "He's different. Not in a weird way. Just..." He frowned, trying to find the words. "Less awful to be around."
Duncan snorted into his tea.
Aerion cut him a look. "Careful."
"No, let him finish," Duncan said at once, already grinning.
Egg ignored them both and settled his gaze back on her. "He looks happier, I think," he admitted after a beat. "Which is disturbing, obviously."
That got the faintest laugh out of her.
From the kitchen, Aerion muttered, "Thank you, Egg. Your warmth is overwhelming."
But he did not sound angry. If anything, he sounded almost embarrassed, which only seemed to encourage Egg a little more. His gaze flicked briefly toward the stove, the half-finished dinner, the open cupboards, and the unmistakable evidence that this place had been lived in tonight rather than merely occupied.
"And she cooks," he added, as though this were somehow further proof of his point. "Which you clearly need, because you used to survive on coffee, fast food, and whatever expensive takeout happened to arrive before midnight."
Duncan made a strangled noise into his tea.
She laughed properly then, covering her mouth for a second as Aerion turned to stare at his brother in open offence.
"That is a deeply uncharitable summary of my habits."
"It's an accurate one," Egg said, looking far less apologetic now. "There was that one summer where I'm fairly sure the only vegetable you consumed was whatever had accidentally fallen into your noodles."
Aerion folded his arms. "I eat perfectly well."
"No, you eat efficiently," Egg replied at once. "That is not the same thing."
Duncan pointed at Egg like a man witnessing greatness in real time. "Christ. He's even funnier when he's right."
Egg ignored that, though the corner of his mouth twitched again. When he looked back at her, his expression had gentled in a way that made him seem younger and more earnest all at once.
"I just mean..." He lifted one shoulder awkwardly. "You seem good for him. He looks happier, less awful to be around, and significantly less likely to die of caffeine and spite."
That finally made Aerion laugh once under his breath, reluctant and brief but real enough to change the room again.
"And you have actual friends," Egg added.
Duncan, who had just taken a sip, nearly choked. "Actual friends? Christ. I sound like a medical breakthrough."
Egg's mouth twitched. "I'm serious."
Aerion folded his arms. "I had friends before."
Egg lifted a brow. "No, you had rich idiots who liked your penthouse and your bad decisions."
That landed so cleanly that even Duncan went still for half a second before bursting into laughter. She covered her mouth, shoulders shaking, while Aerion looked deeply offended, which only made it worse.
"That is a vicious thing to say in front of the company."
"It's true," Egg said, and now there was more confidence in it, more life. "They weren't your friends. They were just always there when there was something to drink or destroy."
Duncan pointed at him like a proud coach. "There he is. Tiny and ruthless."
Egg ignored that too, but when he looked back at Aerion, something in his face had gentled.
"I just mean..." He swallowed once, then said it anyway. "This is better."
Aerion said nothing at first. He only looked at his brother for a long moment, and she saw that look in him again, the one that always came when he cared too much and did not quite know how to set it down gently. When he finally answered, his voice was quieter than before.
"Yeah."
It was such a simple answer, but Egg heard everything inside it anyway. Yeah, this is better. Yeah, they are better. Yeah, I know.
Then Duncan, because he could never leave a sincere moment unmolested for too long, leaned back in the armchair and said, "I'd just like it officially noted that I am being used here as evidence of emotional development."
Aerion rubbed a hand over his mouth. "You are unbearable."
"And yet," Duncan said solemnly, raising his mug, "deeply beneficial."
This time, Egg laughed properly, and when Aerion looked at him again, there was nothing guarded in his face at all.
An hour passed, and Duncan returned first with tea.
It was not elegant tea, and certainly not the sort of polished, curated thing Aerion's kitchen might have led anyone to expect. There was nothing particularly refined about it. It was simply three mismatched mugs pulled together with surprising speed, steam curling lazily into the air as he carried them in with both hands. He handed one carefully to her first, then set another down near Egg with a gentleness Duncan would probably deny under torture and finally placed the third within Aerion's reach on the coffee table.
"No one is getting up here," Duncan said, more firmly this time, as though repeating it might somehow make the walls hold. "Concierge has gone into full panic mode. Security is checking the front entrance and the service corridor. If there's anyone still lurking downstairs, they're about to have a very bad evening."
Egg nodded, though his hands remained curled too tightly around the mug for him to drink from it. The ceramic sat trapped between his palms like he was using the heat to convince himself that he was still here, still safe, still in a room where no one was shouting questions at him through a camera lens. She stayed beside him on the sofa, one arm still around his shoulders, her thumb moving slowly against the back of his arm in the same absent, steady rhythm she always used whenever she was trying to coax someone back into themselves. Across from them, Aerion remained seated on the edge of the coffee table, close enough to feel present and close enough that Egg could see him clearly, but not so close that he might risk sending him bolting.
The room had steadied, if not settled. The football match remained paused on the television, frozen mid-play in bright, soundless colour. The smell of garlic butter still hung warmly in the air, rich and domestic and almost absurd against the tension now seated among them. Duncan's half-open bag of shredded cheese still sat on the kitchen island. A fork lay abandoned beside the stove. The whole penthouse looked like an ordinary evening interrupted halfway through itself, as if life had been moving along in its usual small domestic rhythms right up until the moment fear had come in and sat down among them.
Aerion looked at Egg for a long moment before speaking again.
"What exactly did they say?"
Egg stared into the tea for a second too long. At first, she thought he might not answer. His jaw worked once, tight and uncomfortable, as though he were trying to decide how much humiliation he could bear repeating aloud now that he was finally somewhere safe enough to feel it properly. Then he exhaled through his nose and said, "At first, I thought they were just fishing. You know. General family nonsense."
Aerion's face did not change, but she knew him well enough now to see how attentive he had become. He was not relaxed. He was not casual. He had gone very still in that particular way he did when every part of him narrowed toward the thing that mattered.
"They asked if I'd seen you recently," Egg went on, lifting one shoulder in a small, helpless motion. "That wasn't weird at first. People ask that. They always do. Where are you, what are you doing, are you still involved with the board, are you still impossible, all that."
Duncan muttered into his tea, "Charming."
That earned the faintest, humourless twitch from Egg's mouth before it faded again.
"But then they started getting specific."
Aerion's eyes narrowed slightly. Egg swallowed.
"They asked who she was."
The room went still again, not violently, but all at once. Her fingers paused briefly against Egg's sleeve before resuming their slow, steady motion. Across from them, Aerion did not look at her, and that somehow made her more aware of him, not less. Egg glanced between them once, quickly, like he regretted having to say any of it in front of either of them, then looked back down at the mug in his hands.
"They asked why you were always being seen with the same woman," he said, his voice tightening. "One of them asked if you were trying to keep things quiet before making some kind of announcement. Another asked if you'd..." He stopped, visibly hating the words before he had even finished them. "If you'd hitched yourself to a pregnant woman and were keeping it low-profile until the family figured out how to spin it."
Duncan went very still in the armchair. She felt Aerion's entire body sharpen, not in movement but in stillness, in the kind that meant anger had arrived too cleanly to show itself yet. Egg looked miserable now, as though saying it aloud had made the whole thing filthier than it had been when it was only a memory.
"I didn't know what they meant," he said quickly. "Not properly. I just thought they were making things up because that's what they do. But then one of them said there'd been pictures. Grainy ones, maybe, but enough that people were starting to ask questions about the woman you've been keeping out of sight." His eyes flicked involuntarily toward her stomach. "They mentioned the bump."
There it was, named plainly and made real. The room felt very small for one beat too long.
Egg's hands tightened harder around the mug. "They were asking if you'd married her. If she were carrying your child. If this was another one of those family disasters everyone was trying to bury before it got messier."
Duncan's mouth flattened. "Jesus Christ," he said softly.
Egg's face reddened faintly, not from anger but from the embarrassment of repeating other people's cruelty in a room where it had suddenly become intimate. "And then one of them asked if you were still the family fuck-up," he added more quietly. "Only this time with better tailoring and a domestic angle."
Aerion's expression did not shift at all. That was worse than anger would have been. She knew him well enough now to understand what that flatness meant: he was already pulling threads tight.
Egg looked at him at last, as if bracing for impact. "I didn't answer," he said. "I swear I didn't. I told them to get out of my way and kept walking, but they followed me all the way to the car. I just..." His voice wavered, though he forced it steadier. "I think they were talking about you. About her. About this."
Aerion finally moved, though only slightly. One hand dragged slowly over his mouth before dropping back to his knee, his gaze fixed somewhere just past the room as pieces began clicking into place. Not everything, not the most dangerous part, but enough: the paparazzi photos, the whispers, the timing, and the message from his cousin the week before.
Need a meeting. When are you free?
At the time, Aerion had assumed it was business. Board projections. Strategy. One more inherited nuisance with numbers attached. That had been the easy assumption, the safe one. His cousin only ever came down on him directly when there was damage to assess, and Aerion knew that better than most. A year and a few months ago, he had crossed a city and walked into a hotel suite just to drag Aerion out of one of his worst spirals before it could stain the family name beyond repair. Aerion had not forgotten that morning, however much he might have preferred to.
Now, with Egg still in uniform and shaken from the cameras that had followed him here, that message no longer looked so routine. Someone had noticed enough to start circling. Someone had let the shape of something slip out. And his cousin, if this was anything like every other time, was already moving because he could smell risk before the rest of them were even done naming it.
Duncan caught part of the shift in Aerion, even if not all of it. He sat forward in the armchair, forearms braced on his knees. "This isn't random, is it?"
Aerion lifted his eyes to him. "No."
The word landed clean and hard.
Egg looked between them. "What does that mean?"
Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose. When he answered, his voice was steady, but there was an edge beneath it now, not fear exactly, but something colder than that. More precise. "It means photographers don't start asking that specific a set of questions unless someone has given them reason to believe there's something there."
She felt the room change again, not warmer, but sharper.
Duncan frowned. "So somebody leaked something?"
"Maybe not formally," Aerion said. "Maybe they saw enough to start building theories. Maybe somebody in the building talked. Maybe someone heard a whisper and pushed it in the wrong direction. It doesn't take much." His jaw tightened. "The press doesn't need facts. It just needs a shape to chase."
Egg went pale all over again. "I'm sorry," he said at once. "I didn't mean to make it worse, I just..."
"You didn't," Aerion said immediately.
There was no hesitation in it. No room for misunderstanding. Egg blinked, and Aerion leaned forward slightly, forearms on his thighs now, his full attention settling back on his brother. Aerion's penthouse, the paparazzi, the gossip, all of it seemed to pull back for a second beneath something more personal.
"You came here because you were being cornered and you needed somewhere safe," he said. "That is not making anything worse. That is you using your judgment."
Egg stared at him, visibly startled by the praise.
Duncan, from the side, murmured, "That's genuinely the nicest thing anyone in this family has probably said in ten years."
Aerion did not look away from Egg. "Probably."
That, somehow, made Egg laugh once through the last of the tightness in his chest. His hand found hers without looking, and she let him take it. His fingers threaded through hers tightly, grounding himself there while his thoughts raced elsewhere.
Duncan cleared his throat lightly. "So what now?"
Aerion's focus shifted again, turning from tenderness back toward structure. "Now," he said, "I find out who started asking the wrong questions."
Egg tensed. "Do you think it's someone in the family?"
Aerion was quiet for half a beat before answering carefully. "I think families like ours don't need to say much out loud for other people to start circling. But I also think timing matters." His eyes flicked briefly toward the kitchen, toward where his phone sat on the counter. "And one of our cousins asked for a meeting last week."
She froze, though she hoped not visibly. Duncan's head turned slightly at that, but only with the wary interest of someone hearing about another wealthy family complication, nothing more. Neither of them had enough to attach that detail to anything specific, and Aerion, mercifully, noticed neither reaction.
"At first I thought it was business," he said. "Board projections. Something tedious and inherited." His jaw tightened. "Now I'm less convinced."
Egg stared at him. "Do you think he knows?"
Aerion's mouth flattened. "He knows something. Or he suspects enough that he wants the conversation before anyone else gets there first."
It was not the full truth. Not even close. But it was the truth as Aerion understood it. As far as he knew, this was still about optics, reputation, family management, and the usual quiet brutality of keeping the right things buried before they turned into headlines. He did not know there was anything more personal underneath it. He did not know that the woman sitting here in his penthouse, barefoot and tense and trying to comfort his brother, had ever belonged to his cousin's life in any serious way at all.
Duncan rubbed a hand over his mouth. "That's grim."
"Yes," Aerion said. "It is."
Egg looked stricken again, as if coming here had just made everything larger instead of safer. She shifted closer to him at once.
"None of this is your fault," she said quietly.
Egg shook his head, but weakly. "If I hadn't come..."
"They still would've asked," Duncan cut in. "You just wouldn't have been here with tea and pasta and emotionally complicated billionaire older brother to help you process it."
Egg looked at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement. "That is the worst sales pitch I've ever heard."
"And yet," Duncan said gravely, "you remain seated."
That got a tiny smile out of him. Good.
Aerion rose then, not abruptly, but with purpose. She felt the loss of his hand only for a second before he stepped toward the kitchen counter and retrieved his phone. He looked at the screen. Whatever he saw there did not visibly alter his expression, but she knew that stillness now. It meant he was filing things into order.
Then he turned back toward them. "I'm not calling our uncle or cousin tonight. Not until I know more. If this is business, it can wait. If it isn't, I'd rather not have that conversation without understanding exactly what's already out there."
Duncan nodded. "Reasonable."
Egg looked up at him. "Should I go back to school tomorrow?"
Aerion's answer came instantly. "No."
Egg blinked. "I have classes."
"You also have photographers outside the gates asking about private matters that have nothing to do with you." Aerion's tone stayed calm, but there was iron under it now. "You are not going back there tomorrow unless I know the school has handled it."
Egg started to protest. "They won't like that."
Aerion lifted a brow slightly. "I'm devastated."
Duncan choked on his tea. Aerion looked at him for a second after the laugh faded, and something warmer settled behind his eyes.
Then he said, "You can stay as long as you need."
Egg's face changed all over again. He looked younger for one aching second, like some part of him had been braced for that offer not to come.
"Okay," he said softly.
She stood then, smoothing a hand over Egg's shoulder as she moved. "Right," she said gently, dragging the room back toward something ordinary on purpose. "Tea first. Then food. Then somebody is showering and changing out of that uniform before I personally declare war on it."
Duncan pointed at the blazer. "Horrendous little thing, honestly."
Egg looked down at it. "It's just a blazer."
"It's oppressive," Duncan replied. "Spiritually."
That earned another faint smile.
Aerion watched all of it from where he stood by the counter, phone still in hand, expression unreadable to anyone who did not know him. But she did know him. She knew the look in his eyes now. He was thinking about photographers, timing, Valarr's message, and the way the family machine turned the moment it scented vulnerability. Beneath all of that, though, she could still see the quieter truth in him: relief, because Egg was here and, for tonight at least, Aerion had not been shut out.
She crossed to him while Duncan started arguing with Egg about whether anyone under twenty should ever be forced into a tie after sunset. When she reached him, she touched his arm lightly.
His gaze dropped to her at once.
"You're miles away," she murmured.
"Only half a mile," he said, but the dry answer lacked its usual force.
Her eyes searched his for a moment. "You still think it's about the family."
Aerion looked past her briefly, toward Egg on the sofa. When he answered, his voice had gone quieter.
"For now."
It was honest. And incomplete. But it was what he had.
She nodded once. Then she took his phone gently from his hand, set it face down on the counter, and said, "For tonight, you can be angry tomorrow."
Something in his expression loosened, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for her.
Behind them, Duncan raised his voice toward the kitchen. "Also, for the record, if this becomes a proper scandal, I want it noted that I handled it with grace."
Egg, already sounding lighter, called back, "You called me 'Your Very Tallness.'"
"And I stand by it," Duncan replied.
Aerion closed his eyes for one brief second and exhaled through his nose. When he opened them again, some of the sharpness had eased. Not gone, but eased enough to survive the night. Then he drew her gently into his arms, careful of the bump between them, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
By the time the penthouse finally began to quiet, Duncan, Egg, and she had already decided that none of them was sleeping separately. Instead, the entertainment room had been transformed into a chaotic, cozy arrangement that could only really be called a sleepover. Mattresses had been dragged out onto the floor and layered with comforters, pillows, and enough blankets to suggest a full occupation of the space rather than a simple movie night. Plates of dinner and snacks had been piled up within easy reach, and Disney movies were already playing, which left Aerion standing in the doorway for a long moment, wondering why half the linen supply had apparently been relocated when they could easily have eaten first and then watched a film like normal people. He did not say any of that, however, because the moment she noticed him hovering there, she simply beckoned him over, made room for him beside her, and began putting together a plate for him as though his place among them had already been decided.
That alone was enough to silence whatever complaint he might have made. So he sat, accepted the plate, and let the room settle around him: Duncan half-sprawled in comfort as though he had been born for this sort of nonsense, Egg looking younger and lighter than he had only an hour earlier, and her tucked beside him with that same steady warmth that had somehow become the center of the room without ever demanding to be. At some point, while the television cast soft shifting light over all of them and the others were distracted by the film, Aerion glanced down at his phone and sent a single message to his father.
Aegon is with me. He is safe. I will take care of him.
After a moment, he sent a photograph too. In it, Egg sat between Duncan and her, laughing openly at something on the screen, one hand lifted as he pointed mid-reaction. Duncan was caught half-laughing too, while she leaned toward Egg with easy, unthinking softness, adding more food to his plate as though looking after him had already become instinctive. Her face was partly hidden by her hair, but not so much that the shape of her face could not be seen.
When Maekar received the message and the photograph, he paused longer than he meant to. His first instinct was to disapprove of the room's condition altogether. The mattresses on the floor, the blankets in disarray, the casual clutter of plates and cushions and bodies strewn too comfortably across the space all struck him as faintly uncouth for people of their standing. But that irritation failed to settle properly, because what caught him first, and held him longer than he liked, was not the room, nor the woman, nor even the message itself. It was Aegon's expression.
The boy looked comfortable. Not merely safe. Not merely present. Truly comfortable, seated there without visible strain, laughing in a way that suggested something more than temporary peace. For one unwelcome moment, Maekar found himself wondering whether his sons had in fact changed more than he had allowed himself to believe. It was not a thought he cared to entertain for long, and he pushed it down almost as soon as it surfaced.
Even so, his gaze returned to the photograph, this time narrowing slightly at the woman seated beside them. Her face was half-obscured by her hair, yet not so hidden that he could not see the way she tilted toward Aegon, the quiet attentiveness in the way she served him more food, or the ease with which she occupied that room. Maekar found, to his irritation, that he was curious. Curious about the woman Aerion now spent his time with, curious about the one he had grown so visibly protective of, and curious above all because Aerion had always guarded the private parts of himself with near-hostile precision. Yet here he was, however unintentionally, allowing his father a glimpse into something plainly cherished. That, more than the message itself, unsettled Maekar most of all.
A/N: not to be like oh nooo the consequences of my own writing but this chapter did in fact make me stare at the wall for a bit 😭
The beginning came in swinging with trauma. Aerion got hit with feelings; she kept the whole room from collapsing, and Duncan continued his lifelong mission of being the funniest man alive in the middle of other people’s emotional devastation. and egg just needs a big ole hug. It's not easy being a Targaryen. also lowkey spoling all y'all with these parts. I had other things to do., jk, jk.
Part 1: You were Never the Problem [You are here] | Part 2: Can we try? | Part 3: He was reaching for both of them. | Part 4: You brought yourself. That's enough.
Pairing: Prince Valarr (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her) | Prince Aerion (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her)
Word Count: ~5k+
Summary:
She loved him for three years. Valarr loved her too — just not enough to choose her.
Now there are two pink lines, a closed door, and Valarr's cousin standing in a campus café asking for her number.
Reader addressed as “she” | Pregnancy Angst | Class Difference | Filthy Rich Heir Energy | Poor Scholarship Student Reader | Secret Relationship | Emotional Breakup | Swearing | Mean Valarr (controlled, calculating) | Legacy Pressure | Unplanned Pregnancy | Hurt / Comfort (eventual) | Aerion Getting His Shit Together | NOT Polyamory | NOT a Threesome | Foolishness from Valarr | Aerion good guy? | Reader has mother, younger brother | open ended, don't know feeling the sad vibes Modern AU | University Campus | Corporate Heiress/Heir World
Her apartment was small, but not in a way that felt pitiful or neglected. It was the kind of small that came with effort, with compromise, with someone making something work because it was what they could afford. The building itself was a second-floor walk-up with chipped beige stairs that creaked under every step, as though the wood had grown tired of carrying other people’s lives. The metal railing rattled faintly if you leaned on it too hard, a thin, hollow sound that echoed in the narrow stairwell. The hallway outside her door always carried the scent of someone else’s dinner: onions sautéing in oil, curry simmering low, sometimes the sharp tang of something burnt and forgotten on a stove.
Inside, though, the air changed. It smelled like laundry detergent and garlic butter, and the vanilla candle she only lit when she wanted the space to feel warm and intentional. The laminate floors imitated wood grain with a repeating pattern that became obvious if you stared long enough. Near the kitchen, one corner had started to peel, the edge curling upward like a lifted sticker she kept meaning to fix. The baseboards didn’t quite meet at the seams; a faint shadow line marked where precision had run out.
But it was hers.
The living room glowed beneath a soft yellow floor lamp, casting everything in a quiet, forgiving light. An IKEA bookshelf leaned slightly to the left — just enough to notice if you were looking for flaws. It was crammed with thick engineering textbooks: Power Systems II, Advanced Circuit Analysis, binders exploding with neon sticky notes, loose circuit boards tucked carefully into plastic trays. Tangled charging cables were neatly wrapped and arranged to look deliberate rather than chaotic. In one corner, a small potted plant drooped stubbornly, still alive despite irregular watering and long study nights.
The couch was second-hand, dark gray and a little too firm, with one cushion that dipped more than the others. A knitted throw it was uneven stitches and slightly mismatched yarn. It rested folded over the arm. Her mother had mailed it the previous winter. It wasn’t perfect. That was why she loved it.
The TV hung slightly crooked on the wall.
She knew it was crooked. She had measured the studs three separate times before drilling, her knuckles scraped from threading the cables through the drywall herself. The right side dipped slightly lower than the left. She noticed it every time she sat down.
And she was proud of it.
Tonight, she had changed into a soft cream knit sweater, slightly oversized so the sleeves slipped over half her hands. Dark high-waisted jeans hugged her hips. She stood barefoot against the cool floor, her hair brushed carefully and tucked behind one ear. She had added a touch of mascara and small gold hoops she’d bought on sale, convincing herself they looked minimalist rather than inexpensive.
Nothing flashy.
Just intention.
On the tiny dining table, she had set two plates. Pasta steamed gently in a ceramic bowl she’d found at a thrift store. Garlic bread rested wrapped in foil to keep warm. A fourteen-dollar bottle of wine stood between two mismatched glasses, one thick and sturdy, the other thin and slightly cloudy from too many washes.
Her phone buzzed.
I’m outside.
Her heart leapt in a way that still surprised her after three years. She hurried to the door and pulled it open.
Valarr stood there, slipping his phone into the inside pocket of his charcoal wool coat. In his other hand, he held a small paper bag from the upscale grocery store down the street — the one she only walked into when she wanted to feel ambitious.
“I remembered,” he said lightly.
Inside the bag were strawberries, bright and perfectly shaped. A box of the granola bars she liked, but had complained were overpriced. A small container of Greek yogurt she bought only when it was on sale.
“You didn’t have to,” she said, smiling widely as she stepped into him.
He wrapped one arm around her waist without hesitation, his hand settling warm against her hip as if it belonged there. He kissed her softly at first, then deeper, smiling faintly against her lips the way he always did when she leaned into him.
For a moment, everything felt uncomplicated.
When he stepped fully inside, the apartment seemed to draw inward around him. His charcoal-tailored coat fit perfectly across his shoulders. Beneath it, a deep navy cashmere sweater hugged his frame, the crisp white collar of his shirt peeking at the neckline. Slim black trousers fell cleanly to polished leather shoes that likely cost more than her monthly rent. A silver watch gleamed subtly at his wrist — understated but unmistakably expensive to anyone who knew.
He smelled like winter air and clean cologne.
And she smiled as though none of it intimidated her.
“Come in,” she said brightly, tugging his hand. “Okay, wait — look.”
She pulled him toward the living room, gesturing proudly at the wall.
“I mounted it myself. And I hid the cables.... see? I ran them through the wall. It took me three hours because I kept hitting studs in the wrong place, but I figured it out.”
She laughed at herself, cheeks flushed.
“And I finally figured out how to mirror from my laptop so we don’t have to squint at your tablet anymore.”
She was glowing, not because of the TV, but because she had built something with her own hands.
Valarr’s smile was faint, careful. “You did all this yourself?”
“Yeah,” she grinned. “YouTube and spite are powerful tools.”
She moved quickly to the table.
“Oh-, and my mom and little brother sent a care package.”
She opened the box with a kind of reverence that softened her features. Inside were small containers, wrapped carefully, and a flash drive.
“It’s not much, but look- he sent this 3D animation he made.” She opened her laptop and turned it toward him. “Remember, I told you he was taking that animation course for credits? Turns out he really loves it. I think he might switch into fine arts.”
Her voice warmed.
“He pretends he doesn’t care if it’s good,” she said with a soft laugh, scrolling through the animation again, “but he keeps asking for feedback. Oh- that reminds me. Please message him when you have time. He wants help with something.”
Valarr’s mouth curved faintly. “Let me guess,” he said, already knowing the tone. “It’s about a girl.”
She grinned. “He said it’s ‘hypothetical.’”
Valarr shook his head. “It’s never hypothetical.”
He didn’t mind it, the late-night texts from her brother, the awkward screenshots of conversations asking, “Is this smooth or is this cringe?” The way he’d once spent twenty minutes drafting a response for him, only for her brother to panic and send something completely different.
There had been video calls too. Casual ones. The kind where her brother would pop into frame and say, “Hey, man,” like they’d known each other longer than three years.
Valarr had never corrected him.
“I’ll text him,” he said simply.
And she smiled in a way that was entirely unguarded.
“And my mom picked up extra hours, so she slipped me grocery money. I told her not to, but she won’t listen.”
There was no embarrassment in her tone. Only affection.
Valarr’s gaze drifted again around the apartment - the narrow kitchen barely visible beyond the counter, the fridge cluttered with magnets and one slightly faded family photo. Her engineering notes lay spread across the coffee table, equations half-solved and streaked with highlighter.
“You’ve been busy,” he said.
“Always,” she replied lightly. “Full-time engineering. Full-time job. But it’s temporary. Once I graduate…”
Her eyes brightened as she spoke.
“I’ve been looking at internships. There’s this grant for sustainable microgrids that could really help. And maybe we could go to that farmer’s market this weekend? I saved a little extra this month - not much, but enough for something fun.”
She looked at him with hopeful warmth.
“Oh - and my mum and brother really want to meet you. They’re thinking of visiting during summer break. She found cheap economy flights, and they could come during reading week.”
That was it. The moment she mentioned the flights.
In his world, flights were not something you searched for at midnight while comparing layovers and baggage fees. They were not planned around reading week or booked only when prices dipped low enough to justify them. If Valarr wanted to leave the country, he left. If he needed to land somewhere by morning, arrangements were made. There were jets for that. There were assistants for that. There were entire teams whose sole purpose was to make inconvenience disappear before he ever had to acknowledge it.
He did not look at grocery prices. He did not stand in an aisle doing mental math over yogurt brands. He had never calculated how many tutoring shifts it would take to cover a weekend outing. He had never refreshed a scholarship portal with his heart lodged in his throat, praying a GPA had not dipped below a required decimal.
And standing there in her warm, slightly crooked apartment - beneath the faint hum of that yellow lamp, surrounded by textbooks she quite literally could not afford to fail - he felt the distance between them as something tangible. It pressed into his chest like a quiet weight. Like a seam in the floor slowly widening under both their feet.
Because for her, everything was measured.
Her grades were measured. Her hours were calculated. Her spending was measured. Her scholarship demanded excellence with no room for exhaustion, no allowance for burnout. If she slipped, the funding disappeared. Tuition doubled. Rent became impossible. There would be no family trust, no quiet bailout, no legacy cushion waiting to soften the fall.
And she carried all of it without ever once asking him to carry the burden for her; only to give the support where it was requested, not demanded.
That was what he loved about her.
He loved her stubborn resilience, the way she squared her shoulders and treated impossible workloads like puzzles meant to be solved. He remembered the night she had fallen asleep on her notes, highlighter still in her hand, only to wake up thirty minutes later and mutter, “Voltage collapse can wait, but pasta cannot,” before dragging herself to the stove. He remembered the way she laughed when her simulation crashed after three hours of work, shaking her head and saying, “Guess we’re rebuilding the grid from scratch,” instead of crying.
He loved that she refused to let him pay for everything. He remembered trying to slip his card to the waiter once, and she had kicked him lightly under the table before insisting, “We’re splitting it. I saved for this.” She had grinned at him like it was a victory. He loved that she treated a simple farmer’s market trip like a grand expedition, waking up early, clutching her reusable tote bag, narrating the price of tomatoes as if they were rare artifacts.
More than that, he loved how she made him feel safe in ways money never had.
She made him feel accepted without expectation. When he had come to her after a brutal board meeting, shoulders tight with pressure he couldn’t explain, she had simply listened. No strategy. No agenda. Just a quiet presence and warm hands wrapped around a mug of tea, she had pushed into his grip. “You’re allowed to be tired,” she had told him once, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. No one in his world had ever said that to him.
She saw him - not the surname, not the succession plan, not the future CEO - but the man underneath it. She remembered small details: how he preferred his coffee too hot, how he hated cilantro but pretended not to when it was served at corporate dinners, how he got quiet when he was overwhelmed. When he caught a cold one winter, she showed up at his apartment with soup and scolded him for answering emails while feverish, tucking him into blankets like he was something precious rather than powerful.
She encouraged him in ways that felt dangerously freeing. When he admitted he sometimes wondered what life would look like if he didn’t inherit everything, she hadn’t laughed. She had leaned forward, eyes bright, and asked, “Okay. So what would you choose instead?” As if it were possible. As if he were allowed to choose.
She brought humour into spaces that had always felt rigid. He remembered her dragging him into that haunted house on Halloween, her hand gripping his while she shrieked dramatically at fake ghosts. He had almost not made it that night - obligations, family expectations - but he had arrived late, breathless, and she had beamed at him like he had crossed oceans. He had laughed more in that single hour than he had in weeks.
She celebrated his victories as if they belonged to both of them. When he closed that massive deal - the one that had kept him in conference rooms for weeks - she had been waiting in her tiny kitchen with pasta simmering on the stove, pretending she wasn’t checking her phone every five minutes. The moment he walked through the door and told her it was done, she didn’t hesitate. She laughed, dropped the wooden spoon straight into the sauce, and threw herself into his arms, eyes bright with a kind of pride that felt almost reverent.
“I knew you could do it,” she’d said, like she had been in the boardroom beside him instead of studying circuit diagrams at her cramped dining table.
She hadn’t been allowed to stand next to him in the photographs. She hadn’t been mentioned in the speeches. But she was the first place he went afterward. The first door he knocked on. The first person he wanted to see when the congratulations became too loud and too formal.
What he never forgot, or tried not to, was that she had a major lab project due that same week. A project worth nearly half her grade. She had been running on four hours of sleep, eyes strained from simulation software, fingers smudged with pen ink and highlighter. And still, she had stayed up an extra three hours after finishing her calculations just to bake him congratulatory muffins.
They weren’t perfect. One had sunk in the middle. Another leaned slightly to one side. But she had iced them carefully anyway, piping a slightly crooked “You did it” across the top of the tallest one.
The next morning, when he picked her up on his way to work - dropping her off at campus before heading to his office - she handed him the small container with shy excitement, like it was something fragile.
“I didn’t know what flavour boardroom-success is,” she had joked softly, “so I went with chocolate.”
She had a lab presentation in two hours. Dark circles under her eyes. Backpack slung over one shoulder.
And she still looked at him like he had just conquered the world.
With her, he was not a legacy. He was not a strategist. He was not a succession plan mapped out in quarterly reports.
With her, he was just Valarr.
He loved the way she would ramble about sustainable microgrids and then pivot mid-sentence to show him a video her brother had sent. He loved the way she spoke about her mother with admiration instead of embarrassment. He loved the way she believed in building something slowly, honestly, from the ground up.
He loves her.
And that was the worst part.
Because loving her meant acknowledging that what he was about to do would hurt something real — something safe, warm, and human—in favour of something that merely made sense.
When she handed him the wine and said lightly, “Okay, sit. Episode three. And you are not allowed to fall asleep this time,” she was smiling - that easy, teasing smile she always wore when she was trying to carve out softness from exhaustion.
He didn’t sit.
The pause was small at first. Just a beat too long. She noticed immediately. The smile faded, not dramatically, just enough that the light in her eyes dimmed.
“Val?” she asked, searching his face.
He exhaled as though steadying himself for impact.
“I don’t think this is going to work.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t harden his tone. But the words moved through the room like a fracture running down glass.
She let out a short, confused laugh. “What?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?”
“About long term.”
The brightness drained from her face in real time.
“You’re always busy,” he continued carefully. “You’re exhausted. We barely see each other.”
Her eyebrows pulled together, disbelief flickering into hurt. “I’m busy because I have to be,” she said, her voice tightening around the edges. “My GPA has to stay high, or I lose my scholarship. I can’t just relax. I can’t afford to.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s my fucking reality,” she shot back, tears rising before she could stop them. “I don’t have a safety net, Val. One bad semester and everything collapses. I’m not doing this because I love stress. I’m doing this because I need that degree.”
Her hand pressed flat against her chest, like she was trying to keep her heart from climbing out.
“I always make time for us,” she continued, words spilling faster now. “Even if I’m drowning in midterms, I sacrifice sleep to see you. I save up money so we can go out. I have never - not once - used you for money.”
His jaw flexed.
“It’s not just that,” he said quietly.
There it was.
“Our families are different. Our lifestyles. Our expectations.”
Her face went frighteningly still.
“So this is about money,” she said, her voice lowering. “And the fact that I don’t come from it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It kind of is.”
“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under.”
“Then explain it to me,” she pleaded. “Please. Explain it.”
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t say that his parents already had someone else in mind. He couldn’t admit that he had never told them about her because he had been afraid they would make him choose.
Instead, he said the safest thing he could.
“I think we want different things.”
Her breath left her in a broken sound.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t make it vague because you’re scared.”
He looked away.
And that look felt like abandonment.
“Then let me meet them,” she said suddenly, desperation sharpening her voice. “Let me meet your parents. If this is about expectations, let me try.”
His head lifted quickly. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Why is it not a good idea?”
“It would complicate things.”
“For who?”
“For everyone.”
She stared at him as though he had physically struck her.
“You’ve never introduced me,” she said slowly, each word cutting cleaner than the last. “Three years, Valarr. Three years and I’m still a secret. You take their calls when you’re with me. You step outside. You lie about where you are.”
Her voice cracked violently.
“You were celebrated for that big fucking deal, and you spent the entire day with your family. I couldn’t even call you because you told me you couldn’t talk. But somehow you came to me that night like I’m some hidden afterthought.”
Her breathing turned uneven.
“When I achieve something, you and my family are the first people I call. The first. I’ve never hidden you. What the fuck do you mean by ‘make it work’?”
He stepped toward her instinctively. “I love you.”
“You love me?” she choked. “Then why am I a secret?”
He tried to pull her into him, hands settling on her arms, but she shoved against his chest. Her fists hit him once, twice, three times. It was not hard enough to injure, just hard enough to express everything she couldn’t contain.
He absorbed it, wrapping his arms around her anyway.
And then she broke.
She collapsed into his chest, sobbing into the cashmere of his sweater.
“You bastard,” she cried, her voice muffled. “Why now? Why wait three fucking years?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”
She pushed him away again, creating space between them.
“Then leave,” she sobbed. “If you’ve already decided, then just leave.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice finally cracking under the weight of it. “I don’t.”
“You already have!” she screamed. “You chose them. You chose what makes sense. So go make sense somewhere else.”
He reached for her one more time, wiping tears from her cheeks with trembling fingers.
“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t do this like this.”
“Just go,” she cried, her voice breaking apart. “Please just fucking go. I can’t breathe when you’re standing here.”
He froze.
He did love her.
But not enough to defy everything he had been raised to protect and uphold. He was the next CEO after his father. His future was mapped in contracts, mergers, and alliances. Even next week’s schedule was already dictated.
His eyes flickered to the framed photo on the table.
Halloween.
She had dragged him to a haunted house and bought the tickets herself. He had almost not come because he was taking his younger brother trick-or-treating. He had arrived late, breathless, apologetic, and she had smiled like it didn’t matter. They had spent one ridiculous hour screaming at actors in fake blood, and he had laughed - genuinely laughed, in a way he hadn’t in months.
Afterward, she had packed homemade pasta into a cheap plastic container and insisted he take it home.
He had thrown the container away before stepping into his house that night, red sauce still smeared along the cheap plastic lid, because he couldn’t justify walking through marble floors and curated art pieces with something so unmistakably hers in his hands. In his world, nothing was accidental. Nothing was messy. Everything was deliberate. And her pasta, warm and homemade and wrapped in love, had felt too real to survive under chandelier light.
Now he stood at the door of her apartment, coat draped over his arm, fingers tightening around the handle. For a second, he almost turned back. He almost stepped toward her instead of away. He almost chose the harder thing.
He looked over his shoulder.
She was standing in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped around herself as though trying to hold something inside. Her mascara had smudged faintly beneath her eyes. The lights coming from the lamp enveloped her in gold, making the room look warmer than it felt. The crooked TV hung behind her like a stubborn badge of effort and pride.
For a heartbeat, he imagined walking back. Pulling her into him. Saying he’d fight. Saying he didn’t care what anyone thought.
But the truth pressed in from every side. Board meetings. Expectations. His father's voice. The weight of inheritance that had been placed on his shoulders long before he knew how to carry it. He saw it clearly - not just the resistance, but the years of quiet war that would follow. The compromises. The resentment. The slow erosion.
Fuck me, he thought.
He loved her.
But love didn’t erase the structure he had been built inside.
And somewhere deep down, he feared that even if he turned back now, the difference between them would keep bleeding through every polished room, every family dinner, every expectation he could never quite shake.
They were just too different.
His jaw tightened. The moment passed.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time, almost to himself.
Then he opened the door.
It closed behind him with a quiet click that sounded unbearably final.
Inside, the pasta on the table continued to cool untouched. The garlic bread stiffened slowly in its foil. The lamp hummed steadily, indifferent to what had just fractured beneath it.
She stood there long after the hallway footsteps faded, her chest rising and falling unevenly. Her hands trembled at her sides until her knees finally buckled. She sank onto the couch beneath the slightly crooked TV she had mounted with scraped knuckles and stubborn determination.
The room felt too small and too large at the same time.
She grabbed her mother’s knitted blanket and pulled it over her face. The first scream tore out of her before she could stop it, raw and ugly and uncontained. It broke into sobbing that shook her whole body, grief spilling out in waves she couldn’t hold back.
Two pink lines stared back at her from the edge of the sink, impossibly bright against the cheap white plastic. The bathroom light hummed faintly overhead, a small electrical buzz she had never noticed before but now couldn’t tune out. It felt too loud, too sharp in the narrow space. Her hands trembled just enough that she had to place the test carefully on the counter before she dropped it. The tile beneath her bare feet felt colder than usual. She lowered herself slowly onto the edge of the bathtub, knees nearly brushing the cabinet in the cramped room. A toothbrush sat in a chipped ceramic holder. A towel hung slightly crooked. A thin crack ran across the mirror, splitting her reflection into two uneven halves. The word “positive” didn’t flash anywhere on the test, but it didn’t need to. The meaning was clear, steady, unarguable.
Her mind didn’t race, it stalled. Valarr’s face flickered into her thoughts, not angry, not cruel, just distant and composed, the same expression he had worn when he chose what made sense. She pressed her palms against her knees to steady herself, telling her body what her thoughts could not. She had been late because of stress, because midterms were brutal. After all, she had barely been sleeping. After all, her scholarship depended on maintaining a high enough GPA to survive another semester. That had to be it. But the evidence sat on the counter, silent and unmoving. “I can’t,” she whispered to the empty room, the words barely audible over the hum of the light. The test didn’t respond. It didn’t accuse or comfort. It simply existed and now, so did this new, irreversible truth.
A few days later, she walked to the campus coffee shop instead of taking the bus.
The air was cold enough to sting her cheeks, and she welcomed it. She needed something steady beneath her feet. Pavement, gravity, the rhythm of her own steps. The walk gave her something to focus on besides the echo of the bathroom light and those two pink lines she hadn’t stopped thinking about.
She didn’t order coffee anymore.
Not until she figured things out.
The smell of espresso drifting through the open café doors made her stomach turn slightly. It used to comfort her, that bitter, sharp scent of late nights and problem sets. Now it felt like something she wasn’t allowed.
But she could have apple pie.
Three dollars and seventy-five cents.
She stood in line longer than necessary, staring at the display case while students in heavy coats shuffled impatiently behind her. The pie slices were unevenly cut, the crust a little darker on one side. Nothing fancy. Just warm and familiar.
“You deserve it,” she murmured under her breath before ordering.
It sounded like something her mother would say on the phone after a challenging exam week.
The shop was alive with noise. Espresso machines hissed and spat steam in bursts. Milk frothed with a mechanical whine. Chairs scraped against tile. Laughter flared too loudly near the window where a group of undergrads crowded around laptops and energy drinks. Someone’s headphones leaked tinny music.
Midday rush.
She wore a faded university hoodie, the fabric softened by too many washes. The sleeves were pushed up past her wrists, exposing faint indentations from where she had been leaning on her desk too long. Black leggings. Sneakers with frayed laces she kept meaning to replace. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun that refused to sit neatly, loose strands brushing against her temples. There was no mascara today. No gloss. Just exhaustion.
She carried her tray to her usual corner table near the wall outlet and opened her laptop out of habit. Simulation software blinked across the screen: graphs shifting, numbers recalculating. She stared at them, but they might as well have been written in another language.
Her mind had been elsewhere all morning. The café was loud: espresso machines hissing, milk steaming, chairs scraping against tile, but the noise barely reached her. Once, unconsciously, her hand drifted to her lower stomach. Just once. The motion was small, instinctive, as if she were steadying something fragile. She pulled it back quickly, glancing around as though someone might have seen, might have understood something she wasn’t ready to say aloud. When the barista called her name for the pie, she stood too fast. The legs of her chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing a few distracted glances. She turned and walked straight into someone solid.
Her shoulder hit first, then her balance tipped forward. The small plate in her hand wobbled dangerously. Before she could brace for impact, strong hands caught her at the waist. Not grabbing. Not possessive. Just steady. Grounding. “Whoa there.” The voice was warm, lightly amused without crossing into mockery. She looked up.
He had silver hair, slightly tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it absentmindedly. Under the café’s overhead lights, it softened what might otherwise have been sharper features. He wore black jeans that fit well without appearing tailored, boots scuffed just enough to look worn rather than neglected, and a dark charcoal Henley beneath a fitted leather jacket. The leather was good: supple, the kind that aged into character, but he wore it as if it were nothing special. A thin silver ring caught the light as his hands steadied her. He looked expensive too, but not in the polished, curated way she had grown used to. There was no performance in it. No signal. Just ease.
His smile tilted to one side, crooked and effortless. “I think,” he said smoothly, “you just fell for me.”
Despite everything heavy and complicated pressing against her ribs, a laugh slipped out. It startled her as much as it did him. “Did you practice that?” she asked, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
He nodded solemnly. “Only twice this morning.”
The corner of his mouth twitched as he released her the moment she found her footing. There was no lingering pressure from his hands, no attempt to prolong the contact. He stepped back enough to give her space but not so far that it felt like retreat. His eyes dropped briefly to the stack of textbooks and the open simulation running across her laptop screen.
“Electrical engineering?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.
She blinked at him, still slightly off balance. “I’m sorry,” she said carefully, “are you in one of my classes? Because I don’t remember seeing you.”
His grin widened. “I enjoy living,” he replied. “So no.”
That did it. She smiled fully, the first unguarded smile she’d felt in weeks. It stretched across her face like a muscle remembering its purpose. He extended his hand. “Aerion.”
She hesitated for only a heartbeat before placing her hand in his. His grip was warm and steady, confident without squeezing, present without overwhelming. It was the kind of handshake that didn’t try to dominate.
“I was just grabbing coffee,” Aerion said, nodding toward the counter where his drink waited. “But if you’re on a break from stress limits and voltage collapse, I wouldn’t mind the company.”
She almost said no. The instinct to retreat tugged at her, back into her chair, back into her thoughts, back into the quiet weight she was carrying alone. The scholarship. The future. The two pink lines she hadn’t told anyone about. “I think I’m okay,” she said softly.
He didn’t push. “Fair,” he replied easily. “But I wouldn’t mind getting your number.”
There was no smirk behind it. No entitlement. Just interest, plain and uncomplicated. Maybe it was exhaustion that made her say yes. Maybe it was loneliness. Perhaps it was the way he was looking at her — not like she was something fragile to protect or something complicated to assess. Just like she was there.
“Okay,” she heard herself say.
They exchanged phones, fingers brushing briefly as they handed them back. He slid his into his jacket pocket and stepped back, hands settling casually at his sides. “No pressure,” he added. “But I’m usually around this time. In case gravity betrays you again.”
She rolled her eyes, but warmth lingered in it. “I’ll watch my footing.”
He gave her one last amused glance before turning and weaving through the crowded café. He moved easily, instinctively finding space between tables and conversations. People shifted without quite realizing they were doing it. He was confident, unbothered, unaware that he had just flirted with his cousin’s ex. Unaware that she was carrying something far heavier than textbooks.
She watched him go longer than she meant to, tracking the easy line of his shoulders, the relaxed set of his posture. Then her phone buzzed in her hand.
She looked down.
Hey, sorry — couldn’t wait. How are you for a Friday two weeks from now? Movie. My treat. 🙂
Her chest tightened, not painfully, just differently. Two weeks from now. Two weeks ago, she had been crying beneath a crooked TV in a too-small apartment. Now someone was asking her out with a smiley face and no visible calculation behind it.
The café noise blurred into background static as she stared at the screen. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel weighed against invisible standards. She didn’t feel dismissed or hidden or measured. She felt noticed.
And somewhere beneath the anxiety, beneath the uncertainty, beneath the fear, there was the slightest flicker of something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since everything fell apart.
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Aerion Targaryen x Common!Reader
Synopsis: The brightflame prince believes that everything and everyone should either flatter or fear him. During one of Aerion’s tirades, a small breath of laughter from your lips betrays your safety.
—Warnings/Disclaimers: 18+ MDNI, Explicit smut, possessive behavior (if you squint), power imbalance, EXTREMELY dubious consent, prostitution, reader works in a brothel but is not actually a prostitute
—Word Count: ~4.7k
—Posted also on AO3
Your place of work resides on the Street of Silk, but you yourself are not for sale. You keep your head down, walk in the shadows, and make yourself immune to whatever debauchery the doors and curtains hide. Luxury whorehouse or not, the only commodities you offer to Lady Chenei are cleaning and management.
You’re fortunate enough to be working in the background; it is somewhere your body remains your own. The women, or at least the younger ones, treat you as if you’re their own: gossiping about whose cock was the biggest for the week, what sob story one noble drunkenly confessed between someone’s thighs, or the men who didn’t even fuck and lied flat on their sheets and snored.
You couldn’t afford the gifted silks and perfumed oils of the ladies, and they have so much in store that you could almost mistake them for noble stock. Still, you do not mind washing and drying their gowns or styling their hair as if weaving an ornate tapestry because you have seen what they have done in order to obtain them. Ripped pillows with feathered guts spilling on the floor, blood on the fabrics, girls with tear-stained skin and others with bruises on their otherwise smooth skin. You erase, or attempt to, the aftermath of every coupling and wake up to do so all over again.
‘Normal’ days are more common than most. Today, however, the girls murmur of dragonborn. Two figures enter as you’re replacing the old, melted candles with newer ones for the early evening. The women usually speak freely around your presence, and most of your knowledge comes in the form of gossip.
“Surely, you cannot expect me to bed him again,” one of the newer girls whines to Linette, Lady Chenei’s unofficial right hand.
“And surely you didn’t expect this job to not come with trials?” Linette replies flippantly.
The girl paces back and forth, frustrated at her lack of understanding. “What of Malina? She hasn’t had a temperamental client in 3 moons!”
“Please, he threw a cup at her head because she looked just the slightest bit bored when he was reciting Targaryen pedigree.”
“If she can handle that then she—“
“I really do not get to decide which girl fucks whom,” Linette deadpans, “besides, you need not do more than open your legs and goad the prince’s pride.”
With a cautioning stare, the older woman leaves the candled hallway, the beads chiming her exit, and the new girl bites her nails in anticipation. From the corner, you wish to ease her nerves.
“Prince Aerion cannot be that horrible,” you murmur, fluffing up the embroidered pillows. “I have seen more despicable men in these chambers.”
Turning to you, she is silent before bursting into a one loud laugh.
“You must have been born yesterday,” she huffs in your face. “Imagine those despicable men and multiply their egos by a million. He truly is that horrible. He is…” She trails off before turning towards another hallway, her hair whipping from her anxious gait.
The sunset comes quickly when you are pacing the corridors to verify if everything is in order. You are checking the linens when you realize that the women are whispering more than giggling, and it has been that way ever since the ebony carriage was docked by the entrance.
Some of the girls peek their heads from the shadows, eyes fixed to a certain door. The guards are stiffer beside one of the more exclusive rooms compared to the rest, and you don’t need to linger long enough to pick out the shrieking of the bed. Or it could be a woman’s voice. Whatever it may be, your job isn’t to care, so you dart off to whatever room needs your concealed assistance more.
It must not have been more than an hour later when the brothel is in a state of high alert. The guards no longer monitor the hall, and that door from earlier is ajar enough to reveal a room which appeared to be the result of a wild boar attack. Cautiously, you tread the halls, following the sounds of hushed voices and shuffling feet. In the main gallery stood Prince Aerion in all his white-haired glory, candleglow bouncing off his hair like flames.
“They said that this whorehouse was the best of the best that even Aegon IV sang nothing but praises,” Aerion proclaims loudly. “The quality of your whores say otherwise.”
As a simple worker, you’ve only seen the aftermath of the more… unpleasant moments, but never the actual storm that caused it. Tiptoeing to blend with the witnesses, you crane your head to see the new girl prostrated at her lowest towards the Targaryen prince.
Even from your unstable view, you can see she trembles like a leaf. Lady Chenei is seldom seen, and truly, this is one of the few moments you have seen her countenance so stressed.
“Whatever you wish, your grace,” Lady Chenei says, and hopefully her placating tone would be enough to disarm him. “We will fetch a new girl at once. Whichever one you desire.”
The thought of being victim to Prince Aerion sends the rest of the brothel into an eerie silence, so quiet even those in the throes of sex have stopped their coupling.
“I don’t want another one of your undeserving whores,” Aerion unabashedly proclaims. “They will most likely be as lousy as the last one you offered me,” he continues, pointing at the still trembling girl near his feet. Her sniffles are quiet but still noticeable, and Aerion looks at her with what can be none other described than apathetic disgust.
“Oh gods, take this simpering mess away,” Aerion orders. Almost immediately, two of the bystanders pull the girl to her feet, dragging her to where she might be either consoled or punished for upsetting the volatile prince.
“If there is anything else we may offer you. Your happiness is of utmost priority,” Lady Chenei coaxes. She approaches the prince and gestures to one of the tables near the wall filled with sustenance for the guests. “Whatever food or drink you crave, we are sure to have them in store.”
The prince comes closer to the table, fickle eyes inspecting the rich cured meats, dried fruit, and the gleaming liquid inside each pitcher. Everyone’s shoulders seem to relax, even for a moment, and you are even debating sneaking away to continue the routine.
He circles the table maybe twice or thrice. You’re halfway from exiting before Aerion brings both of his forearms to swipe the contents of the table onto the floor.
“I desire neither your food, wine, nor your excuses,” Aerion flatly remarks. He stares at Lady Chenei with hard eyes. “I have access to the finest meals not even the richest of you could afford to taste. You think your simple meats are worthy of my tongue?”
Turning to the table again, he grabs onto the heavy tablecloths and yanks them unceremoniously to a random direction, spilling everything with it. You wince at the scene while others' jaws open in shock at the brazen acts of hubris.
Lady Chenei is holding her tongue but her face says what her mouth cannot. She wants to strangle him, you think, and you cannot possibly blame her.
“My prince, you must tell us what you want, and we will do everything in our power to provide,” Lady Chenei says through her teeth, and her calculating eyes are conjuring up ways to humble Aerion.
“Another word from you and I might consider taking you to my chamber,” Aerion interrupts. “What if that is what I desire…” A thinly veiled threat.
Lady Chenei approaches the prince and the rest of their words are too faint for your own ears to pick up. Sensing the end of his anger, no longer boiling but at a steady simmer, you observe the absolute mess he made.
The pillows you worked hard to arrange have alcohol stained on them and the floors are growing sticky with liquid and flattened meat. You shake your head, muttering under your breath about Targaryen madness until you spot Linette holding a rag and bucket.
“You,” she calls through the crowd. When you point at yourself incredulously, Linette approaches you and nudges your body to the front. “Yes, you. Clean this up.”
“In the middle of this…?” She’s a superior, technically, but you have no more responsibilities for the night.
“You’re paid to clean, not to question. Hurry, girl,” Linette urges as she hands you the bucket and rag.
Before you could even protest, she’s shoving through the lingering bystanders. How wonderful… You walk in the dim corners with your gaze warily on the two imposing figures in the center. The crowd watches with bated breath still, though not as engaged as before.
On your knees, you begin to pick up the wasted food and scrub at the residue left behind. The marble you polished is stained with orange and dark red spills, fruits bruised from the impact.
From your view, you see his petulant pout. He shifts unbalanced and you can tell he’s growing more irate now that he isn’t as intimidating as he was before. As you scrub, you can see him for what he really is: a small man with an ego that exceeds his frame.
A prince who acts like this is no prince at all; he even dares to call himself a ‘dragon’. You find yourself huffing in amusement with a small grin donning your face.
You’re still cleaning but you notice that the icy silence has returned. Slowly, you look up and nearly flinch when you see Aerion’s sour look focused on you. There was no mistaking it.
“Care to explain what you found so funny?” Aerion’s voice cuts through like a steel-hot blade. “I was not aware there was a minstrel show here.”
Your body is too tense, and maybe—just maybe—if you don’t move, he will lose interest and redirect his tirade to someone else. Aerion makes no move towards your direction with a body still half turned to Lady Chenei, whose jaw is clenched to the point you begin to worry for her teeth.
“Stand,” Aerion commands, and honestly, the prince is more frightening when his fury is soft spoken and not a flurry of loud insults.
Immediately, you pull yourself to your feet, too scared to further increase his ire. Clenching at the soaked rag in your trembling hands, your breathing grows shallow. Only then does Aerion walk to you, his footsteps loud against the silence. Your head hangs low and you see his fine leather boots right in front of you.
Suddenly, his fair hands grab at your face with no care for basic human decency. Tilting your jaw from side to side, you make note of how his mouth curves into a somewhat satisfied expression.
“How curious this is…” Aerion says slowly. “The only thing in this place not for sale, and yet…” He does not finish his thought, but you have spent enough time in this place to see where his intentions lied.
“I wonder why you aren’t a whore like the rest of them,” the prince says to no one in particular. Face still in his hand, he loosens his grip just enough for your mouth to move. When you make no move to speak, Aerion simply stares until your reluctant tongue finds the right words.
“I am more useful in other endeavors,” you reply, though your voice is still muffled by his grip.
Aerion hums, but he barely acknowledges your response. Moments pass before he pushes you away as if he was burnt. Rubbing his hands to rid himself of your presence, he turns his attention to Lady Chenei, still awkwardly watching the scene with bated breath.
You stare holes into the prince’s back while you massage your sore jaw—waiting for his next action as if anticipating a battle.
“What is she worth to you?” Aerion asks flippantly, and he is already gesturing for one of his guards to hand him his pouch of coins.
“She is not one of my girls–”
“I did not ask what she was, I asked how much she was.” He continues to press.
When Lady Chenei does not answer immediately, Aerion rolls his eyes. “How much for this measly servant girl?”
His questions catches your attention, and you begin to see for yourself how he single-handedly earned his infamous reputation.
“20 dragons,” she is quick to bargain.
The prince scoffs. “You think too high of her,” he says sharply with a wry smile.
“10.” The number hangs heavy in the air, but you know too well that you were beyond return. The rag in your hand is being squeezed to oblivion while your own knuckles grow pale from pressure.
“Done.” It is surreal to hear your whole existence being calculated to a price; you view your dignity as priceless. After all of this is done, what will you think yourself to be worth?
And like that you are sold like the girls you cleaned after. You spent so much time in the brothel that you even forgot the possibility that you might end up like them. Soon, two of the prince’s guards latch onto your arms and drag you out the main hall.
Lady Chenei gives something as close to an apologetic smile as she can, but she is a businesswoman before anything else she might have been to you. You believe that if you were in her shoes that you would have done it too. Still, you look at her with muted scorn and hate the fact that you are the compromised one.
The door to the brothel opens, and you see the Targaryen carriage waiting to swallow you whole. With one last look, you watch as Prince Aerion counts the glimmering gold into Lady Chenei’s palm.
That was the last thing you see of the brothel—of the heady, scented candles, the silk curtains, and the wicked stories you were told—before you are pushed up into the carriage that is headed towards uncertain territory.
The Red Keep was more imposing than your mind could have conjured, and you did not know that people were capable of living in such exuberance. You follow closely to Aerion and his guards and the thought of slipping past their grasps has come up many a time. But you fucked up too badly to fuck up again, so you decide against it.
Really, you have no clue where they were leading you; the steps and turns are dizzying and identical to one another at this point. Before you can pass out from exhaustion and end whatever torture Aerion means to put you through, you stop at adorned double doors. They open to reveal a room that can only be described as elaborate as Prince Aerion thinks to be fitting for himself.
“Leave us,” Aerion instructs. He still has that insolent look on his fair face, and now that the guards are gone, you are in your right to smash a candleholder to his jaw. You could put an end to his menace.
“You ought to be proud of yourself,” Aerion’s voice interrupts your violent thoughts. “Sulk all you wish, to be in service of a prince is far better than your previous station.”
You give him no visible reaction.
“You serviced whores and the men that pay for them,” Aerion states. “Have you ever wondered if that made you above or below them?”
“I don’t think of such things,” You say steadily.
“Ah, so you don’t think much at all. Fitting for something like you, and I’d much prefer that,” the prince comments. “I suppose I can make you my own personal attendant. That’s all you know how to do anyway.”
“Don’t you suppose you have enough of those?” One quick glare from him is enough to shut you up, even though your question was truly genuine.
“You mean to be smart with me, girl?”
“It would just be that I’d be useless…” Aerion raises a pale brow. “With all the people in your retinue already, I mean, what else is there for me to do?”
He hums and walks toward the vanity, examining his short, pale hair and unblemished skin. “Plenty and plenty more,” Aerion looks at you casually from the reflection.
“Well then, your first duty to me would be to clean my robes,” Aerion says from the mirror as he looks down at his dirtied cuffs.
You nod stiffly and stand near his canopied bed, still too afraid that any move from you will set him off—gods know it will.
“Are you dull or did you think you can wash them while my robes sit on my back?” Aerion frustratedly questions. “Take them off of me.”
Gulping, you feel your hands get clammy as you face his back. You remove his cloak, and it smells soured from the drink previously spilled on it. The whole scene replays in your mind. You nudge him to face you, and you can see your own hands trembling when they hover over his doublet. Button by button, it reveals his linen undershirt; you swear you see him grow more smug.
“Is that all you need?” you ask, his fine clothing tucked in your arms.
“Ah, ah. Not yet,” Aerion tuts. “All of it.”
Awkwardly, you kneel to unclip his belt, take off his boots, and roll down his pants to reveal his milky skin. With each piece of clothing you remove, you feel the heat from his body—like he wants to burn you physically and not just with his words. You dare to look up, and lo behold, he is already staring at you with hunger.
Hastily, you stand, and his body was as sculpted as anyone of his nature would be. Truly a pretty man, and you would voluntarily bed him if he were anyone else. Yet it is him—cruel and vain—and your heart grows heavy. The new girl was right: multiply any man’s ego by a million, and it will still not surpass Aerion’s.
“Mind your staring,” he says haughtily. He walks to you, but your legs refuse to move as if they were turned into lead. Aerion is all you can see, hear, and smell; there’s nothing else to do but to stare.
“Don’t mistake my staring as want, for it isn’t,” you state. The white-haired prince laughs dryly in response.
“You don’t have to want any of this,” Aerion breathes into your face. “You will, in due time. Now, you only need to endure it.”
He kisses you as if he wants to devour you, and it is angry and messy as he is. Your hands hold limply onto his forearms, and everything about him is overbearing. Aerion only breaks away to tear at your feeble and simple kirtle, leaving you in your smallclothes and even those weren’t spared.
As strong as he is, Aerion humps at your leg like a desperate dog and whines into your mouth like one too when he kisses you again. You wince when he grabs your hair and pulls your face to his.
“The bitch couldn’t even make me cum. Maybe you will be different.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips as they curl into a smirk. The things you would do to kill him.
He pushes you onto your knees and takes his cock from his breeches, already hard and leaking. Aerion waits not for you, and you have no choice but to open your mouth. The princeling groans deeply when your lips wrap around him, inch by inch.
There’s tears in your eyes when he begins to thrust his hips, but he cares not for your comfort.
Your vision grows squinted, but you look up to see his head thrown back in pleasure, breathing heavily as he brings his hands to push your head towards his pubic bone. You know your voice will be hoarse, and your throat will be bruised from the abuse.
For the first time in years, you feel slow tears come out from your eyes though you’re not sad—yet, you have no idea how you actually feel.
“Shhh, fret not,” Aerion pants. “You’re doing much better than I expected, they really should have made you a whore when they had the chance—could’ve made a good name for yourself—ah, fuck…”
You whine around the base of his cock, and your nails are digging harshly into his smooth thighs just to hurt him slightly. The hold on your hair puts immense pressure on your scalp yet you hold on because you feel the tell-tale signs of his oncoming climax. When you squeeze your eyes shut to let it happen, he pulls your head off of his manhood with a low groan. Your eyebrows are etched with confusion, does he not wish to finish?
“Why did you stop–”
“Get on the bed…” He catches his breath. You stumble and blink widely as if he spoke in a foreign tongue. Clearly, you aren’t quick enough for his liking, and Aerion holds your shoulders before shoves you onto his lavish bed.
Your skin is too hot and the rich velvet of his covers does nothing to hinder the warmth. It’s a fever that threatens to consume you whole, that is, if Aerion doesn’t consume you first. He prowls over you like any animal would a wounded prey, and his hands are oddly cool against your sensitive skin.
Aerion’s fingers press against your body, and it surprises you how he can go from impatient to deliberate. His hands find from breasts and tweaks your nipples with a fascinated expression. A gasp tears from your worn throat.
“Mmm, there it is,” Aerion murmurs into your breast. You hate him for noticing, as if your reactions were a prize to covet. Most of all, you hate yourself for giving in.
He teases you more than he should while your body squirms underneath his. Your eyes widen in a panic when you feel his fingers push your smallcloths to the side, exposing your pussy to the humid air around you. Already, Aerion grabs his cock and lines it with your opening.
Brows furrowed, you look at him to invoke a sense of pity within him. Unfortunately, he finds great pleasure in your discomfort: rubbing the tip of his cock up and down your folds, a wicked smile on his mouth as he begins to push in.
You are no pure maid, but gods, you let out a cry in sync with his groan as the barrier between the two evaporates. He sinks in and stretches you as if you were a maiden—back arching and head tossing from the overwhelming pressure.
For a second, Aerion looks as if he vanquishes control for a minute with his hands holding onto your thighs for support. Just as quickly as he loses his composure, he returns it back tenfold when he begins to rut his hips into yours.
It is uncomfortable, uncouth, and downright savage yet his pants above you begin to stir something within your core. You bite your lip with enough force to make it bleed to hold in your whimpers, however, one directed thrust from the prince makes you keen into his ear.
The prince laughs in your face while driving into you like a broodmare. His face is flushed rosy and you see his skin glistening with sweat, as does yours.
“Even if you were a whore, I would have bought you with a thousand dragons or one copper, it makes no difference,” he confesses in between his passion.
The words fall into your pounding ears, too focused on how he buries himself in you and slams his hips in a way you could get no reprieve. His fingers dig into your legs which rest upon his shoulders.
By this point, you moan unabashedly out to his chambers, uncaring of his reaction or the satisfaction he receives from hearing your body surrender to him. Aerion, in all his disheveled glory, drags his mouth up your throat until he is level with your ear.
“You were to be mine,” he sighs. “I’ll take a wife, and I'll still have you at my chambers every morn and moon,” If he wasn’t fucking you into oblivion, you would have given his words more weight. You only gasp more.
You’ve no idea how long he’s had you pinned beneath him, but you feel that familiar sensation you only achieved through your own fingers. You push back against him because Aerion is a monster and thief. He takes and takes and takes, and even now he is stealing something from you that you cannot earn back. Your hands slam against his chest, but it only encourages him further.
“Don’t— Not like this—” You heave.
“It’s funny because you’re not actually asking me to stop,” he replies. He’s right as well…
You feel it travel from the tips of your toes until your chest grows so heavy that it could collapse in on itself. Aerion, though his mind is clouded with lust, watches with scarily perceptive eyes. His tongue licks his lips again, and he intensifies his thrusts to further bring you into completion.
“If you’re so scared of finishing, I’ll finish with you then,” Aerion says with a gravelly voice, each syllable punctuated with every rock of his hips.
Before you can register anything else, your protests are cut short from a wave of unearthly pleasure surging through you—like you were struck with lightning itself. Your cry echoes in his ear, and you feel the warmth of his seed flooding your insides to further pollute you.
Aerion twitches and grinds himself into your pussy before falling flat on your weak form. After a few moments of slight reprieve, you wince at the feeling of Aerion pulling his softening cock out of you. His cum rubs against your thigh as he does so, further staining and eliminating any dignity and little honor you did possess.
You could only really stare at the canopy above you, even as Aerion moves away from you and sighs heavily. He runs a hand through his hair, scarcely throwing you a glance. He walks to the vanity again, assessing his form and furrowing his brows at his unkempt state. There’s a beat of silence, and the thundering rhythm of your heart begins to subside.
“Clean me, would you?” Aerion charges you, and it brings you out of your stupor.
With a heavy groan, you force your body to comply with your brain. The cold marble of his room alerts you even more, though you believe you look quite stupid as you look around for the basin and washcloth.
Aerion doesn’t admonish then, simply pointing to the general direction and waiting oddly calm near his mirror. You bring the basin and towel to him, soaking the fabric and wringing out unnecessary moisture before dabbling at his skin.
You wipe the sweat away, and as you do, you stare at him back instead of casting your eyes down. Aerion doesn’t take it as a challenge; after all, he had won beforehand. You’re wiping the remnants of your tryst off his body up until the weight of the situation threatens to crush your psyche.
“About what you said…” You mumble hesitantly. The white-haired prince bears no smugness or his usual bravado. He even looks honest.
“I meant it,” Aerion huffs. “Every word.”
Your mouth opens momentarily, however, no words come out. Tilting his head, Aerion exhales through his nose then gazes at you with indecipherable opinion.
“I’m sure you’ve heard them. How they call me mad and a brute,” Aerion recounts. “Think what they must, they cannot call me a liar. I am not known to back down from what I say.”
You almost laugh at his unusual integrity, but you remember where that had brought you. One smile. Your livelihood had only cost you one smile, and yet you swore that would be the last he would ever take from you.
Your place had been the Street of Silk, but you were not for sale. You repeated it to yourself like a prayer, even now. Most especially now.
Notes: This is actually my first work on this blog! I hope you guys enjoyed!! I wish to write for more AKOTSK characters too so we'll see
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Valarr Targaryen x Septa-in-Training!Reader
Synopsis: Valarr reminisces of your sweet voice and kind face, and more often than not, he even dreams of them. Many a year have passed, and he should be joyful that you have returned to King’s Landing. His happiness is trampled when he hears that you intend to be godsworn to the Seven.
—Warnings/Disclaimers: 18+ MDNI, Explicit smut, forbidden, semi-public sex, sex in the sept, first times, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, childhood friends to lovers, porn w/ plot, narrative shifts back and forth between Valarr and the reader, light angst
—Word Count: ~6.9k
—Posted also on AO3
Valarr had always been more keen for the early halves of the year. It signified new beginnings, an end to what fell short of the previous year, more harvest balls, but most especially when your house’s banners would enter the gate. As a boy of 14, Valarr was nearing the end of his boyhood. There would be no more sparring with wooden swords nor listening to stories of giants and dragons while on his father’s lap.
There were grander duties on the morrow, each more imposing than the last. While Valarr looked wistfully at the Council door—assuring himself that he will take his father’s place and hope to do as well as he is—he knew that when the time had come, he would wish for his childhood back.
He represented the throne now, young as he might be, and he was still sore from his training. But with you, he felt younger than he already was, like the times when he was a lad of 9 and you were still a girl of 7.
When you would enter the Red Keep, Valarr would already be waiting—mismatched eyes gleaming. Once formalities have been exchanged, you would take his hand and make way to the west end of the castle, most especially to an alcove you have unofficially claimed as your own.
After the two of you mingled with the other high-born children, playing maidens-and-monsters and what not, you and Valarr would retreat into that corner, where only the stone could listen.
Through his childhood, you had already discussed anything and everything, and Valarr would listen to each syllable and all the things that made you happy, sad, and angry. Very rarely, you would run from your septa in the middle of embroidery so that you could seek Valarr’s silver streak as fast your small legs could—simply frustrated at her nagging.
There would be other times where Aerion would say things in passing, not enough to make you cry, but a small sting in the back of your thoughts. Valarr would dismiss him as soon as the insult came from Aerion’s mouth, and with nothing to retaliate, the white-haired prince would turn his snooty nose away and prance off.
When the noise of the Red Keep got too loud, you would retreat to that forgotten tower, your skirts bundled up while you sing soft tunes. It would give your father a great fright, for no one would know where you had disappeared to, but Valarr knew. He always did.
This time, when his brown hair peeked past the walls, you looked at him with curious eyes and patted to the ledge beside you, beckoning him to sit. Comfortably, he watched you play with your fingers and waited for you to tell him what led you to come here in the first place.
“Your brother called me meek mouse again,” you broke the first silence. “I don’t mind; I prefer being a mouse than a rat.” You grinned at your small insult to Aerion.
“I’ll speak with him,” Valarr reassured, but you shook your head to his confusion.
“It won’t change him, I fear,” you explained. “It would only encourage him more. Besides, they are nothing more than words.”
“I was going to say something regardless,” Valarr shrugged, his voice holding a gentle imposition.
“You truly need not,” your brows furrowed stubbornly.
“I know,” the prince acknowledged.
Sighing, you peered at him earnestly. “You’re much nicer than he is,” you stated. “Even your uncle is more bearable, crass as he might be.”
“Anyone is nicer than Aerion,” Valarr smiled. “The bar is embarrassingly low.” You giggled in response.
“Out of everyone in Westeros, you are my favorite person,” you said casually, your hands now busy with tracing the patterns on your skirt.
Valarr felt himself still with an inexplicable pit in his gut. “More than your mother and father?” He caught himself.
“Umm, not quite yet,” you teased. “If you sneak me one more berry tart, you would easily surpass them.”
He picked up on your playful tone. “That’s an awfully high price,” he teased back.
“A berry tart for my companionship is a high price?” you smacked lightly on the arm, your expression in disbelief.
“My point still stands.”
Your laughter sounded like bells, clear and airy. For a swift second, Valarr could relinquish his responsibilities and the looming burden of what being a prince entailed. The chuckles died down, replaced by a balmy tranquility.
You stared out the window this time, your eyes darting past the buildings to settle on the golden dome of The Great Sept. Valarr half expected you to say something by now, talkative as you are, but you’re solemnly staring ahead. It worried him that he might have upset you.
“I only jest,” Valarr expressed lightly, “Your companionship is worth more than thousands of berry tarts.”
“Valarr, I’d never be upset about something as trivial as that,” you turned to him, lips slightly turned upward with crinkled eyes. “That isn’t what I’m thinking of.” Your already miniscule smile falls before you turn your head at the Sept’s roof once more.
“I would like to know what occupies your mind,” Valarr prodded. “If you allowed me to.”
“I go sometimes,” you answered, pointer finger aiming at the Great Sept of Baelor. “In the early mornings before the rooster wakes. If I am not here nor in my chambers, I am there. I think… I believe it is the only place in King’s Landing that doesn’t feel as if it wants something from me.”
“What… What exactly do you think King’s Landing wants from you?”
“The same it wants from you, I suppose: to be presentable, to say the right things to the right people, and to remember who outranks whom,” you listed. “The sept cares not for those matters.”
“The gods do. Isn’t that the whole point, well, especially in the Sept?” Valarr inquired, not to disprove your claim, but to further understand you.
“Yes,” you agreed. “But they’re quieter about it. It is humans who mock and kill.”
The pensive silence washed over the two of you, and your words held weight to Valarr even if he couldn’t place what made him feel it so. He mirrored you, with his slim frame rotating towards the window to look at the Great Sept. Valarr watched the sun reflect on its surface, and he wondered if he would be able to see what made it so special like you did.
The weeks passed rapidly, and before the dark-haired prince knew it, your trunks were already being loaded onto the wagons as your bannermen prepared their exit through the gates. His father conversed with your father as does his mother with yours, bidding farewells.
Valarr walked slowly toward your carriage, hands sweaty and a lump in his throat. There you were, wrapped in your favorite cloak and a brief drop of your courtly facade that revealed your dejection. You bowed to him and gave him a stare that made him feel exposed despite his heavy robes.
“If it is possible, I hope that you will not cast me aside once I return to the Reach,” you admitted. Your face was calm even if your words were heavy. “I would much rather stay here.”
“The Red Keep gets dull after a while, as ridiculous as that is to say. The Reach suits you best,” Valarr remarked, though the words seem false on his tongue. “And no, I won’t forget you. I will not allow such a thing.”
After your final embrace, he helped you step inside your carriage, closing the door as you made your way in. You peeked your head out and held your hand to him, which he gladly took. With his other hand, he gave you a berry tart, much to your amusement and giddiness.
You took a bite long after he had to let go of your soft palm, and he fondly remembered the cream that stuck to the corner of your lips as he watched you depart.
The passage of time continued, and you began to scarcely visit as the years went on. Valarr did get the occasional raven, and he read each letter in the voice he remembered, but how can a piece of parchment compare?
You told him of your duties, of the suitors you were presented with (alongside a brutally honest review of each of them which made him grin), and how your father and mother fared.
The first year of your absence, you wrote to him every fortnight—dutifully and without fail. The second, once a moon. The mentions of suitors dwindled, and there was a small doubt that your hand may have already been claimed.
By the third year, the letters with your sigil came with the changing winds. He had kept every parchment scroll, all tucked away in the same cedar box his mother had given to him for his name day. By the time Valarr was seventeen, there were no more visits at all—no shared giggles nor the comfort of a kindred spirit.
Your lost visits and ravens had been replaced by the particular quiet of someone who had simply gotten on with living.
Valarr did the same, or so he told himself.
The afternoon sun looks kindly on the day you arrive, a much needed comfort after the long journey. You push back the curtain to see the once familiar cobblestone around you. It smells as you remember it: of smoke and salt and grit, something others would turn their nose to but yours toward.
To say you missed King’s Landing was a loaded statement; the Reach is much more beautiful, yes, but you feel as if your soul remains in the city.
Your ride comes to a still, a guard opening the door and lending his hand to help you disembark. The Red Keep casts a shadow on your face, and you gaze at it with something that isn’t quite nostalgia but sits close to it.
It has been four… No, it has been five years since you last stepped foot here. You are not the girl who left, and you know it the way you know morning prayers as quietly as you did with little examination.
The crystal pendant around your neck catches the welcoming sun, and it reminds you of the purpose of your stay. Valarr, you think almost as an afterthought, will be pleased to see you.
The welcome party is composed of unfamiliar faces—save for Prince Baelor and Maekar—and frankly, the whole thing was something you could have gone without. A handful of faces, yet none of them were his to your surprise. You bow, as is your responsibility, until Baelor sweeps you into his arms with the tenderness of a mother bear. His own split-hued eyes are like his son’s, and the wrinkles on his face soften with his smile.
“You’ve grown into yourself,” Baelor assesses favorably, the kindest words you have heard in a while.
“As do most children, don’t they, your grace?” You respond lightly, and the man only smiles in agreement.
“Do you wish for a cup of wine,” Baelor begins. “To share the stories of your growth? The Red Keep did seem the slightest bit duller without your presence.”
“I do not partake in wine, your grace.” you refuse, and you see Baelor’s eyes flash with brief skepticism. “Besides… I would much rather stay here for the moment to get my bearings straight.”
“You’re of age,” the heir states, bemused. “Lest my memory fail me so, which I highly doubt.”
“Of course not,” you wave off. “It’s only a personal preference, nothing more.” Baelor’s contrasting eyes flicker once to the pendant on your sternum, humming knowingly.
“So be it, my lady,” Baelor concludes. “Take as much time as you need. This was once your home as well.”
With a subtle nod, Prince Baelor takes his brother’s side, whose only interaction with you was a slight bow and a terse grin. The entourage immediately follows on their heels, and the courtyard is as empty as it would be at midnight. In your head, you see the brief memories of each brick and pillar.
Alone in your thoughts, there is nothing much to trace on your modest gowns now, compared to the ostentatious ones of your adolescence.
Then you hear it: the rhythmic clopping of a horse and the commands of its rider. It did not take much for you to recognize him, because throughout the years, Prince Valarr’s demeanor remained unchanged. He mounts his horse intrinsically, it is in his blood to do so: core engaged, neutral spine, and relaxed arms. Valarr smiles just as naturally when he sees you, stopping his ebony horse in time.
“You’re late,” he begins.
“Wouldn’t you be the late one?” you question back. “Your father and uncle, along with their company, have already departed.”
“Five years late, that is,” there was a small edge in his statement, but you know he meant nothing ill.
“You say it as if it were my fault.” With a slight pout, you crane your neck to address him properly. “Perhaps you are only so outspoken on top of your steed.”
Shaking his head, Valarr dismounts and pulls you into an embrace much like his father’s, warm as if no harm were to reach you in this position. Pulling away, you feel a large hand at the back of your hair, almost petting. For the next moments, you observe him carefully just as he did you.
His slim frame broadened, now athletic, though his face was still as lovely and benevolent as you remembered it to be.
You blink and step back. “For someone so eager for my return, you weren’t there at my assembly,” you jest.
“Yet here I stand before you,” Valarr declares. “I only wished to find you properly, not in a crowd.”
You smile at that, for despite his more regal shell, there lies the old Valarr. When he offers his arm, you link yours in tune, setting a comfortable pace as he leads you to the Red Keep’s interior. The inside is cooler than the courtyard, and you gawk at the ceiling and architecture with wandering eyes—simply thinking about how much larger the Keep seemed when you were but a child.
If Valarr notices your gaping, he does not mention it. Valarr holds your arm against his tighter than he should have, but it troubles you not; you were exactly where you wished to be.
Walking alongside him feels like what it used to be. The same paths, the same topics, the same laughs. Dinner was fast approaching, and like the proper man he was, the dark-haired prince escorted you back to your chambers, lingering at the doorway for a few beats until you closed the door to ready yourself.
When the maid offered you heavy silk gowns with beading that could blind men, you declined them hurriedly, settling for a dress that was much more your taste: simple and elegant.
The dim candlelight gifts an easy atmosphere, and you were surprised to see the direct relatives of the royal family seated. Spare for the maids and cupbearers, the table held nine people: Maekar and his six children along with Baelor and his eldest. You take your place across Valarr, a look of acknowledgement on your face as you sit.
The table was smaller than most occasions warranted, which Valarr had always been privy to; fewer faces did mean fewer performances. Without even meaning to, he assesses you. You are modest for a high-born lady, and one would think that without the plaited braids and shimmering fabrics that you seem plain, yet Valarr begs to differ.
It was your humility that had always intrigued him, and he appreciates how your lack of pearls and jewels only highlighted your natural comeliness.
He watches how you navigate through the conversations with an easy air,: how his father draws you out with the particular focus he reserved for people worth listening to, with you receiving it without vanity nor pride.
When his uncle, ever the cynic, says something dryly, he catches your glance in a knowing fashion, smirking under the candlelight in amusement together.
Valarr listens more than he contributes to the conversation, yet you would address him directly—always considerate of his input, sparse as it may be.
The evening continues with no memorable hindrance or spectacle, that is until Baelor raises his cup, a universal sign that something of importance was to be said. Valarr had seen it hundreds of times, and he set his own cup down.
“Forgive me if I overstep, but I find myself wanting to acknowledge something,” his father begins, and the whole table quiets around him as it always did for Baelor Targaryen.
“We are most blessed in our timing,” Baelor looks over at you, gesturing his goblet in your direction. “She returns not only to us. She returns with a purpose.”
In your seat, you straighten your spine, smiling attentively for you knew what was to come.
“The Great Sept of Baelor is to receive her within the fortnight. The stories of your devotion do not go unheard,” his father announces, a fond and equally proud look on his face, unaware that Valarr feels the opposite. “The Faith gains something true, a rare spectacle.”
The swell of congratulatory obligations ripple throughout the table, small applause taking over the space. It bothers him how he cannot share in your joy, how it pains him to see the look of accomplishment that he does not agree with. Valarr gives a sidelong stare, and he watches how you receive their compliments with modest deflection.
“Your grace flatters me,” you say warmly, a beaming smile on your lips. “I only hope to be worthy of it.”
Valarr looks at you how one looks at something they are afraid to lose.
“A shame,” Maekar remarks, taking a sip from his cup. “You would have been a fine match.” To me, Valarr thinks instinctively, and it shocks him how the thought was so natural.
“Maekar…” A slight warning from Baelor, calm yet pointed.
“I only meant it as a compliment,” Maekar grumbles unbothered, examining the contents of his chalice. The table sits at an awkward standstill, nevertheless, you play it off kindly without embarrassment.
As the table returns to its usual calm, few heads share glances at Valarr’s direction, waiting for his response.Valarr: your bosom friend and old confidant. Everyone would have half expected him to say something by now.
“The Sept is fortunate,” Valarr nods, his voice entirely steady.
Your eyes find him across the table. “Thank you,” you say simply, the same saccharine grin that makes his stomach twist.
You, none the wiser, regard him with a wholehearted gladness, as if to say you knew he would accept your vocation. Valarr holds your glance with the courage of a knight in battle, sighing in relief only when he looks down at his half-eaten plate. He understood you in every rant and quirk, but he cannot fully grasp the gravity of the situation.
Baelor, taking the lead, raises his cup as tribute. Valarr reached for his and raised it along with everyone else, albeit his more loose and slightly lower than the rest.
The dinner winds down as Maekar stands first without ceremony, indifferent and self-contained. Aerion regards you as politely as he could before following in his father’s footsteps. Daeron must have stumbled out many moments ago, and Aegon ends the night with a sincere farewell.
With an attendant, you approach his seat last, squeezing his forearm before you are escorted out as well, leaving only his father and him.
Baelor never stayed long after dinner, always having correspondence or council matters, yet he stayed long enough to exchange a few words. The heir pauses at Valarr's chair on his way out, warm and entirely unknowing.
"She turned out well," Baelor says quietly. "I always believed she would." Valarr only hums in agreement. Without much mind, his father claps him on the shoulder and leaves, the gesture landing heavier than intended.
Valarr had kept every letter in a cedar box. He had been waiting at the gate before her banners appeared. He had found her in the courtyard because he always knew where she would be. And she had come back for the sept. Has it always been that way? He sat with the thought begrudgingly before he blew out the nearest candle and stood.
The sept is fortunate, he had said. Valarr meant it and hated that he meant it.
The prince has been lying in his bed long enough to know that sleep will not arrive, and Valarr rolls over to find that the morning sun had not yet greeted the world. He groans and massages at his temples, and he knows he cannot chase slumber in this state. His body long makes the choice, and Valarr rises to his wardrobe.
He dresses in what he could find, forgoing the embroidered doublets and accessories and donning a black cloak to shield him from the dawn’s shiver. Leaving his chambers, his footsteps sound hollow in the empty halls.
The Red Keep at this hour belongs to guards, ghosts, but also to nobody at all. As he ambles the corridors, movement from the window piques his attention. In the courtyard, he spots a small figure, grey cloak flowing past them. Even with the obstruction, he recognizes your gait and schedule; only you would be up this early.
Valarr maneuvers through the Red Keep’s layout, determined to catch up to create a pace where he was near enough to watch your directions. Having walked this path before, Valarr almost struggles to keep up with your pace, slinking around every alleyway to maintain the most efficient path.
Before long, the looming shadow of the Great Sept announces itself, intimidatingly large. The prince slows down his steps, viewing how you fly up the stairs to enter through its doors.
When he does enter, the air is noticeably stiller, but Valarr doesn’t want to describe it as peaceful. The statues of the Seven look down upon him, shadows from the candles flickering their almost quizzical expressions at his presence. It does not take long for him to spot you—so miniscule against the statue of the Crone—on your knees and head bowed down in deep contemplation.
The signs had always been there, he supposed, though he always chalked up your piety as just another aspect of your nature. You were always modest, as if humility were your shield, and religious but never overzealous.
Valarr was never daft—far from it—but when he thinks upon your constant mentions of the gods, your devout personality (even outside of the Faith), and your fascination with spirituality, he almost curses himself.
“I would have thought that you would have been more subtle,” your voice contrasts against his internal monologue. “I saw you following me the moment I left the gates.”
“I don’t believe I was trying to be subtle,” Valarr admits as he goes down to kneel beside you. “I’m even more surprised you did not call me out on it.”
“That is no business of mine,” you state from your folded hands, head still facing the Crone. “Anyone can enter this place.”
Valarr mimics your actions, but it feels forced. He does not connect to the gods as easily as you do, and he wonders if they mean to shun him. Eyes still closed, he feels a shift on the hassock.
“When was the last time you prayed, I wonder?” He is glad your voice interrupts his shoddy attempt at worship.
“Two moons ago,” Valarr replies. “My invocation held that I would be successful against Lord Cafferon at the tourney in Stonehelm.” He cannot reveal that he actually prayed for you.
“Were you victorious?”
“Yes. Yes, I was.” Valarr examines your features for a beat longer than what is considered normal.
“Then I am glad the gods have heeded your prayers. Back then, I had oft prayed that I could remain here, but the gods did not agree,” you respond. “You are the few I can speak to without thinking, and it made leaving considerably more difficult than I let on.”
“Yet you managed,” the prince asserts. “You are not the meek mouse Aerion painted you to be, not that you ever were.”
“The Reach kept me busy, as did the matters which came with being a woman,” you describe. “Then the faith after that.”
“I had not realized how far your devoutness followed you… But it is much more obvious now.”
“Well, there is a sept near my family’s seat, one not nearly as grand as this,” you explain, your eyes looking into the candles. "I found myself there most days, if not all, and it became—oh, I don't know… Necessary, I suppose.”
“What I mean to say is that it prepared me well,” you continue. “For here, and for what comes next, come what may.”
“Come what may,” Valarr repeats, words like lead on his tongue. “Don’t you ever wish things were different?”
“Everyone does,” you return. “The only matter is what they wish to be different.”
“Well, any of it,” the prince goes on. “Your home, your interests, your appearance, the years in between, your future, the f—”
“The faith,” you cut in. His silence that follows alone is confirmation enough.
“All of this was not a spontaneous choice one makes in the dark. The High Septon summoned me himself,” you announce. “I have been anticipating it for some time.”
“Have you now?” Valarr questions despite already knowing the answer.
“Since I was twelve, I think,” you look into your memory. “Perhaps longer. You must know I have obligations now.”
“They are obligations that you are not yet entitled to fulfill.”
“Yet wishing would hardly affect anything,” you incline your head to his, your voice slightly trembling against your efforts. “Wishing things were different erases who you are. I am glad for what I am and what brought me here, though I won’t pretend this comes easily.”
There is a crack in your composure, a small split that lets Valarr see the dilemmas you work hard not to reveal.
“I prayed for you then,” he confesses, voice just as feeble as yours, and your furrowed brows deepen. “Not for victory, not glory, not power. I only prayed for you.”
“Valarr—”
“I only— The sept asks for honesty, does it not? You said so yourself,” he retaliates.
“It does,” you say slowly.
“Then I am being honest.”
You don’t pull away immediately, not yet. However, there’s concern and acknowledgement all at once. Still kneeling towards the Crone—who Valarr needs now more than ever for her wisdom—you shake your head and clutch at your necklace. Valarr, sensing your distress, only wishes to take the weight off your shoulders, to show you that a life with him might do you better than your current one.
There was a touch to your cheek before his deft hands went to your shoulders. trailing down before he reaches your tightly folded hands.
In that gentle manner of his, you almost melt when he covers them with his own, his fingers enveloping them, thumb stroking the skin. As tender as the action is, you pull away as if burnt, the eyes of the Seven piercing through more than what you would like.
Your consciousness forbids you to entertain him further, and you remove yourself from his hold. You rise to your feet only to gawk at him.
No words can escape your lips, and you can only walk to the other halls of the Great Sept, the weight of the Seven’s watch too much for you to bear. You hear his footsteps as he follows you out the main chamber, and you are now out of the light when you regard him.
“Have you gone mad?” You almost accuse, voice still low but stern. “So that is why… You wish to ruin me? A fortnight before my consecration?”
“No— No, I wouldn’t dare,” Valarr confirms. “I have been trying for a considerable amount of time. To want nothing from you that you have not offered.”
“Valarr,” you utter, his name on your tongue sounds different than it usually does. “I have made a commitment to something much larger than—” your hands gesture to the space and to the ceiling. To you and him.
“Then let me be selfish for once,” he steps closer. You step back.
“I have sacrificed many things for duty, to uphold my name and title, and so have you for your faith,” Valarr confesses in earnest.
“I cannot unmake my word,” you declare with your head cast down.
“Cast me away if it need be, but you can only do so if you tell me,” when Valarr closes in, you cannot bring yourself to cower.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you do not crave it too.”
You see eyes like ocean and earth, of the world you held dearly. You know it in your heart that you could never refuse him, that he could ask you to perform a miracle and you would do so regardless. Your mouth goes dry, and he is close enough for you to see the rosiness of his cheeks and the plushness of his lips.
The protests you should have said dies down not even in your throat but the moment they formulate in your head. You stare at him for moments on end, unwavering and with bated breath. His parted mouth serves as invitation enough, and you lean in to capture what you never knew you needed so much.
Valarr surrenders his lips to yours, taking only what you gave him and gratefully as well. He inhales you like the oxygen he needs to live, drinking in your sighs like water. Your hands are already in his streak of silver, tugging at the roots to kiss him deeper.
The prince clenches his fists, he cannot bring himself to touch you. It is only until you place them on your hips that he begins to savor your form.
The prince pushes you against the stonewall, and you feel him press open-mouth kisses against your jugular—almost reverently. He breathes in your scent and tastes your skin while you gasp soundlessly into the air. His hands trace, not grab, at your body beneath your clothing, as he sinks to his knees before you.
“Let me worship you,” Valarr pleads into your clothed thighs. “Let me show you devotion that rivals your own…”
Once he sees your shaky nod, he bunches your skirt upwards for you to hold. Like before, he presses warm kisses into your supple thighs, untouched by none other than yourself. You feel his fingers brush against your linen smallclothes, prodding and rubbing enough to make you bite your lip.
Looking down, Valarr’s mismatched eyes look black and blown out from desire, and you begin to spread your legs wider.
The prince unties them and gives a subtle lick to your folds; your eyes almost roll to the back of your head. At your reaction, Valarr increases his efforts, and what he lacks in experience, he makes up for in vigor and enthusiasm.
You have to smother your whines into your palm, eyes darting to see if any of the septas and septons would discover your location. You can feel him groaning into your wetness, and it is utterly sinful.
He doesn’t intend to let you rest, not when he has been waiting oh so patiently. One of his fingers coats itself in your slick before delving in. With a few experimental thrusts that have you squirming, he inserts another finger before pistoning his hand in and out of your heat.
You are now fully aware that you do not have to die first before knowing what heaven was.
It is divine to feel his lips suctioned around that sensitive bud that has you trembling in his hold simultaneously as two strong fingers push repeatedly into your pussy. The noises are bound to be heard by anyone close by.
While your head thrashes more than what your neck can handle, Valarr looks almost in peace as he devours your cunt: eyes closed, a contentness in his face, and a posture that makes it seem like it was his true calling to be in the altar between your legs. Your slick gushes out with each movement of his fingers, but his tongue catches every drop.
The action is a lewd sort of worship, but worship nonetheless.
The sensation builds the way prayer does—slowly, insistently, until there is nothing else. By now, your head is clouded by inordinate amounts of pleasure, and you almost seem to forget that you are in a sacred place. Your other hand finds purchase in Valarr’s brown hair when the pressure grows too much to bear.
You’re getting wound up tighter and tighter, your body shaking with molten ecstasy, and it just feels too good, too warm, too hot—
Then it bursts. Your muscles spasm with a feeling you cannot wholly describe, nerves too sensitive and raw. The stone wall holds you while you remember how to breathe, and you are sure to have teeth marks on your hands from how hard you were biting down to suppress your breathy moans.
Your body is boneless, almost sinking down into the floor until Valarr pulls you up by your waist as he stands. Your haze-addled eyes see the glint of your wetness coating around his chin, and he looks more devilish than man in this light. A whine almost comes out as you buck your hips for more friction, only stopped by his palm bearing down at your mouth.
“Shhh…” he shushes you, his calloused hands cupping at your damp cheeks.
Dutiful Valarr, honorable Valarr, courteous Valarr… None of that shows here. Valarr is all want and need and desire; his only duty lies in pleasing you.
You have not yet recovered from your previous climax and he is already hoisting one of your legs to his hips, your aching core now flush with the noticeable tent of his lower half. Valarr pulls down his trousers just enough for him to release his cock from his breeches, and the sight alone is enough for your breath to hitch.
Curved upwards, tip leaking, and twitching with just as much anticipation as you are. You feel the blunt head of his cock rubbing itself up and down, lathering from the base to the tip with your arousal. You could almost climax again from the sight, however, one second too long in your thoughts has you shifting uneasily. Valarr, noticing your change in demeanor, ceases his movements.
“Valarr…” you say his name so pleasantly. “I– I have never laid with a man before.”
“And I with a woman,” the prince admits.
“Would this not leave us sullied?” You question so vulnerably. Valarr responds with a kiss, one so slow and sure that it erases all of the doubts until there is none to begin with.
With one hand holding up your thigh, the prince slides himself into your willing heat gradually. You nearly faint from the sensation, stretched open and throbbing, and you are glad for his preparation or else you would have been in much discomfort. Valarr himself loses his competence at the feeling of your tight cunt, and each move of his hips serves to draw him deeper into your core with no escape.
He curses into your temple, all of his composure gone at the whims of your body without you even trying. No amount of seduction or charm from anyone else can compete with how your lovely mouth sighs near his ears—nor how your pretty face contorts into one of pure rapture once he fully sinks in.
His hip rock into yours, and he moves with you and not against. Each motion has you keening and whining into his ear, arousing him even more to see your usually graceful countenance filled with lust. You take everything he gives you, letting him rut into your sopping pussy with such reckless abandon.
Now both of your legs are wrapped around his hips—feet interlocked at the back to keep Valarr close—while he bounces your body up and down on his cock.
You have never been more grateful for your rise at dawn, early enough to the point no septa or septon is present at the Great Sept. Because now the sounds of skin slapping against skin are far too obvious to even conceal; anyone would be aware of your lewdness.
Yet how can you contain your moans? How can you when Valarr holds you like a doll and fucks you sosososo deeply, desperately, and aimlessly?
Valarr’s training shows you his strength and endurance. He shudders near your ear when he changes his tempo to thrust into you slowly but passionately, cock sliding in and out until it nudges the ends of you.
You plead with him to not ease his pace, legs tightening around him to encourage the prince. You found his silver streak again without meaning to, your fingers finding their way there the way water finds a groove in stone. You pull and hold at his roots, back arching in an almost feline manner, because Valarr is filling you to the point you have no semblance of where you begin and where he ends.
The morn is still early and the sun barely begins to peek over the horizon when you feel that same all-consuming heat make itself known. Tensing up, it releases within the next few thrusts. You cry into the junction of his neck and shoulder, biting hard at the fabric of his cloak and tunic.
Valarr comes apart quietly, the way he does with everything—with restraint and then without it, your name on his tongue spilling as he would a prayer. You can feel him spill inside you, cock throbbing against your clenched walls and keeping you full as if you weren’t already.
You think distantly that you owe the Seven an extraordinary apology.
The haze is still too heavy when he sets you back on your unstable feet. As the fog fades, you straighten your dress with unsteady hands. Valarr even adjusts the cloak around your shoulders without you needing to ask him too, ignoring his own disheveled state.
“Are you cold?” Valarr inquires when noticing your slight trembling.
“Far from it,” you respond, and he does not press further.
Your breath has come to a steady rhythm despite your legs feeling slightly weak. You begin to tread back to the main chamber, away from the shadowy corner of your coupling, and Valarr follows.
The stained glass is beginning to glow at its edges now, the sun still below the horizon yet making its intentions known. The sept transforms gradually from the intimate dark of the candlelight to something more exposed, more ordinary, and more legible. You have the sense that you need to leave before the septas arrive for their own prayers, unaware of the heresy that has occurred in a place so reverent.
“I still plan to take my vows,” you blink the doubts away from your head.
“I never asked you to do otherwise,” Valarr glances down at you.
The ache in your abdomen and the remaining wetness between your thighs feels ever the more foreign when you stand next to the sculptures. Valarr stands beside you, basking equally in this sin.
“Do you regret it?” Valarr asks slowly.
“No,” you decide. “I don’t think I’m supposed to say that.”
The prince exhales through his nose. “We are rather past that point.”
“You should pray more,” you suggest halfheartedly. “You will find it offers some assistance.”
He nods, but he does not know if he wants to.
“Go,” Valarr murmurs. “Before they see us together.”
“I want to stay.”
“I’ll be alright,” Valarr insists, a sense of finality in his words.
You want to believe him, but knowing yourself, he is far from it. The rooster has already made its call to all the townspeople, and life springs into King’s Landing in each passing minute. The muffled sound of the bells ringing outside snap you into reality, and you limp slightly to the large double doors. Halfway through, you pause, a few more words crawling up your throat.
“I prayed for you too,” you disclose. “In the reach, when my letters to you stopped. It is only right that you know now as well.”
You don't wait for his answer, rather, you step out into the grey dawn. You don't look back because you know that if you do, you won't be able to keep walking.
The door slams shut with an impending decisiveness, with him alone in the vastness of the arching ceilings and the watch of the Seven’s sculptures. He lights a candle—one of the small ones near the Maiden's alcove, with the flame catching easily and burning steady. He stands and peers at it for a moment.
Valarr wasn't entirely certain who he lights it for, but he supposed that it was between him and the gods.
Author's Note: This took so incredibly long, but I will be writing more smutty headcanons I can't get this concept out of my mind it is driving me insane. I hope everyone enjoyed this rather long fic tho!!
Summary: You sacrificed everything to earn your place at Harvard — sleepless nights, broken friendships, relentless pressure. You were supposed to be the best. But then there’s Valarr Targaryen — brilliant, infuriating, untouchable. No matter how hard you work, he’s always one step ahead. Until...
Warnings: academic rivalry, dark academia vibes, toxic competitiveness, rough make-out, public setting, all over themselves, intense touching and kissing, +18.
PS.: I want to thank @crazytom0712, who created one of the best fanarts I've ever seen and gave me the inspiration to write about Valarr Targaryen, preppy boy style.
Harvard Law was supposed to be your proving ground.
You clawed your way here — sleepless nights, ruthless discipline, top grades, a near-perfect LSAT, flawless recommendation letters. You belonged.
But belonging didn’t mean winning. Not when Valarr Targaryen existed.
He topped every curve without apparent effort. The one professors turned to when they wanted a scalpel-sharp answer that gutted any bullshit in the room. You were consistently second or third whenever some overachieving second years decided to flex. It burned. Not because you were mediocre. You were exceptional. You worked harder than anyone.
Valarr didn’t work. He simply reigned. Silver spoon, silver-streaked dark-honey hair that fell exactly where it should, that effortless aristocratic ease.
Today it was the dark argyle polo, the sleeves rolled to those unfairly veined forearms, and dark trousers that probably cost more than your rent, and that ridiculous vintage watch catching every stray beam of light as he wrote. He sat perfectly still, never fidgeting, never glancing sideways. His laptop screen looked suspiciously clean while yours was a battlefield of highlighted paragraphs, red-inked notes, and neon Post-its.
You hated the real estate he occupied in your mind.
Professor Langford—former federal prosecutor, terrifyingly precise—paused mid-lecture on standing doctrine, hands in pockets, scanning the room like a predator choosing prey.
“Alright. Someone explain why Lujan v. Defenders of Wildlife gutted environmental citizen suits.”
Your hand shot up before your brain fully processed the question. Across the aisle, Valarr’s was already raised, his rings glinting while the arm extended lazily like he was doing the class a favour. He didn’t even look up from his screen.
Langford’s gaze bounced between you both.
“You.” He pointed at Valarr. Of course.
That low, measured voice, faint upper-class drawl making every syllable feel inevitable. “Lujan requires concrete, particularised, actual or imminent injury. The Court held that generalised environmental grievances don’t confer standing. Plaintiffs failed to show distinct, personal harm—”
You didn’t wait. “They did show personal injury. Affidavits proving regular use of the affected habitats. The majority simply decided aesthetic injury wasn’t enough.”
“Affidavits saying ‘maybe I’ll visit someday’ aren’t imminent.” Valarr finally turned, eyes drinking in your anger with faint, amused hunger. “The Court called it speculative. You’re conflating desire with injury.”
“I’m not conflating anything. You’re cherry-picking the holding to pretend injury has to be economic or physical. Scalia wrote the opinion narrowly on purpose—”
“Scalia wrote it correctly,” he countered, still infuriatingly calm. “You want standing for anyone vaguely disappointed by policy? That’s not Article III. That’s judicial overreach dressed up as access to justice.”
The room went graveyard quiet. Everyone watching the rally.
Heat crawled up your throat. “I want standing for people who can actually demonstrate injury. Not just those who can afford private jets to the Galápagos.”
Scattered snickers. Valarr’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but colder.
He turned forward again, dismissing you like background noise. Leaned back slightly. “I don’t need to raise my voice. My argument speaks for itself.”
The room felt ten degrees hotter. Langford cleared his throat, amused. “Moving on. Graded exams are posted in the corridor.”
You simmered for the rest of the hour, staring at the back of his head where that rogue silver streak curved perfectly behind his ear.
You packed fast, pulse hammering. Valarr rose with that maddening grace. He barely acknowledged the orbit of sycophants trailing him. The polite, impatient smiles for the trust-fund kids who thought proximity to a Targaryen bought social capital.
The list was alphabetical by section. Your eyes flew down the column.
Your name. 98.
His name, two lines below. 96.
For the first time in three semesters, you beat him.
Breath caught. A stupid, triumphant grin split your face before you could stop it.
Then you felt him, warmth at your back, that expensive cedar-and-arrogance cologne wrapping around you.
“Finally,” he murmured, voice so close his breath ghosted the shell of your ear.
You spun. He stood there, hands in pockets, posture relaxed, but his eyes burned brighter than usual—molten amber.
“Finally what?” you snapped, chin high.
“You managed to pass me.”
Before you could fire back, he walked away. Spine straight, owning the corridor like his family could buy the entire building if they felt like it.
Bastard.
Langford had mentioned a treatise on federal jurisdiction—key for the seminar paper. You headed straight to the library, determined to claim it first.
The stacks were nearly deserted, heavy with the scent of old leather and dust. You prowled the dim aisles for twenty minutes, cursing under your breath, until you rounded a corner and there he was.
Valarr.
Seated at a long oak table, reading the exact book you needed, occasionally jotting notes while glancing at that damned watch.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He didn’t startle.
“Looking for this?” He lifted the volume slightly, calm as ever.
You strode over, dropped your bag onto the table with a thud. “Do you ever stop?”
“Do you?”
Silence stretched, thick and electric.
“I need it.”
He finally met your eyes. “There’s only one copy.”
“Then give it to me.”
“I already requested it.”
Fuck him.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly, setting his pen down, feigning innocence so perfectly you wanted to slap it off his face.
“You think you’re untouchable. Because your last name is Targaryen and your family has more money than God, no one can touch you. Guess what? I just did. Two points. And it felt so fucking good.”
Something flashed across his face—surprise, maybe. Or hunger.
He rose slowly. Too tall. Too close. Closed the book with a sharp snap and turned to leave. “Congratulations,” he murmured. “And I said *finally* because I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”
You didn’t think.
Your hand shot to his tie—black-and-crimson silk, knotted with infuriating precision—and yanked hard, forcing him to turn and bend until his mouth crashed into yours.
It wasn’t gentle. It was months of frustration exploding—teeth clashing, tongues warring, raw need. He groaned low and rough against your lips, startled and starving, and his hands found your waist instantly, hauling you flush until your back hit the cold metal shelf behind you.
Books rattled.
“Quiet.” he breathed against your mouth, voice dark and dangerous. “Library rules.”
“Fuck the rules.” you hissed, already dragging his sweater up, exposing the hot, taut skin of his abdomen.
You bit his lower lip hard enough to draw a sharp hiss. He retaliated, fingers threading into your hair, yanking your head back so he could drag open-mouthed kisses down your throat, teeth grazing, sucking marks that would bloom purple by morning. Your lipstick smeared across his collar, staining the crisp white beneath.
His hands slid to your thighs, gripping through the thick fabric of your black trousers, thumbs pressing firmly into the sensitive inner crease until you arched involuntarily, hips seeking him.
“Always so argumentative,” he whispered against your collarbone, voice wrecked with want. One broad palm slipped under your blouse, searing against your ribs, climbing until it cupped the underside of your breast. His thumb brushed over the lace, slow deliberate circles that made your nipples pebble instantly, aching.
You arched harder into his touch, a stifled moan slipping free.
“Say it.” His voice was gravel now. “Say you want this.”
“I hate you,” you gasped, even as your fingers tore at his belt buckle.
He laughed—dark, breathless. “I know.”
His other hand returned between your thighs, palm pressing flat against your center through the fabric. The friction was immediate, devastating—slow, firm circles exactly where the ache lived. Heat flooded you, wetness soaking through, hips rolling shamelessly against his hand, chasing more.
Your boots scraped the floor as you tried to widen your stance, but he pinned you in place, controlling the rhythm, torturing you with pressure that promised release and delivered only enough to fray your nerves.
Your own hand found him—sliding over the straining bulge, feeling him throb thick and hot beneath your palm. You squeezed slowly, deliberately, dragging a choked groan from his throat against your neck.
For long moments you stayed locked like that—panting, hands roaming, bodies fused, the ever-present risk of footsteps around the corner sharpening every sensation. His heart slammed against yours. Your thighs trembled.
Then he slowed—reluctant, deliberate. Withdrew his hand. Straightened your blouse with fingers that still shook faintly. Stepped back.
“Still hate me?” he asked, almost tenderly, lips swollen, hair mussed for once.
You smirked, breathless, legs unsteady. “Ask me again after I beat you on the final.”
His laugh was low, ruined. “Challenge accepted.”
He kissed you once more—slower, deeper, savoring the mutual surrender. Then he pressed the book into your trembling hands.
“Chapter seven,” he rasped, voice still thick. “It’s the best part.”
You took it, fingers unsteady.
He walked away—still impossibly composed, your lipstick smeared on his collar like a brand.
request (anon): modern!valarr going shopping with his girl at luxury stores, her styling outfits for him while he carries the bags and pays for everything.
valarr had never intended to spend his entire afternoon standing in the middle of a luxury boutique holding five shopping bags and a wallet that kept coming out every fifteen minutes.
but he also had never intended to fall in love with someone who looked so pleased every time she found another outfit to put him in.
“stand still,” you said, squinting at him in concentration.
valarr obeyed immediately.
you held a dark green sweater against his chest, tilting your head as you inspected the color against him like a very serious stylist deciding the fate of a runway model.
“hm.”
he raised his brows slightly. “Is that a good ‘hm’ or a concerning one?” you ignored him, reaching for a pair of trousers from the rack beside you and holding them up next to the sweater.
the boutique was quiet, polished marble floors reflecting soft golden lights. somewhere in the background a sales associate hovered respectfully, already aware that whatever you chose would be purchased without hesitation.
valarr, simply watched you.
you were completely absorbed in the task. brows furrowed, lips slightly pursed, comparing shades and fabrics like it was the most important decision in the world.
“turn,” you ordered suddenly. he turned. of course he did.
you stepped closer, pressing the sweater flat against his chest and adjusting it with both hands. your fingers brushed his collarbone as you tried to imagine the fit. “okay, wait—no, this one with the beige pants,” you murmured to yourself, grabbing another hanger. “that would look stupid with black.”
valarr bit back a smile. people assumed rich men liked spending money on themselves. he didn’t particularly care about clothes. but watching you shop for him? that he would fund forever.
you pulled another sweater from the rack and held it up against him.“valarr.”
“yes?”
“arms up.”
he lifted them without question while you switched the sweater out, examining the color against him again. he stood there patiently like a mannequin that occasionally spoke. in his left hand hung several expensive shopping bags. In the right, his phone and his card.
a woman passing by the store glanced at him with obvious envy. valarr didn’t notice. he was too busy watching the way your eyes lit up when you found something that worked.
“okay, wait,” you said suddenly, grabbing his wrist and dragging him toward a mirror. “stand here.”
he obeyed again. you stepped back, looking between him, the sweater, and the pants you’d draped over your arm. “god, you’re like… unfairly good for outfits,” you muttered.
“i assume that’s a compliment.”
“it means everything looks good on you.”
“that sounds like your talent, not mine.”
you rolled your eyes, and showed the sweater into his hands.
“try this one on.”
valarr glanced at the changing rooms, then back at you. “yes ma’am.”
ten minutes later he stepped out in the sweater and trousers you’d chosen. you froze. then your entire face lit up.
“oh my god.”
valarr leaned casually against the wall, completely comfortable under your inspection. “well?”
“you’re buying that,” you decided instantly.
he didn’t even ask the price. “of course I am.”
the sales associate appeared as if summoned by magic. “shall I prepare this for purchase, sir?”
valarr nodded once.“yes.”
you looked up at him suspiciously. “you didn’t even check the price.”
he shrugged lightly. “i don’t need to.”
“valarr—”
“you like it,” he said simply.
you opened your mouth to argue. then closed it again.
he held out his hand expectantly. you stared.
“…what?”
“the bags,” he said patiently.
“oh.”
you passed him two more shopping bags without protest. valarr now held approximately half the store. but he didn’t look bothered in the slightest.
if anything, he looked amused, delighted even.
“next store?” he asked.
your eyes immediately brightened.
“oh my god yes there’s a place down the hall that has the perfect coats for you, and i think there’s the new channel store that just opened..” you went on, and on, and on.
valarr pushed off the wall, shifting the bags in his hands. “lead the way.”
you grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the boutique. he followed willingly, already searching for his card again
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader - modern AU (see part 1 here, part 2 here)
Maekar found Aerion in the library on a Sunday afternoon, staring at a stuffed dragon.
The absurdly soft, customizable, slightly lopsided build-a-dragon you had given him after enduring weeks of designer bags and gold earrings. You had stitched his initials into the wing.
He hadn’t commented much when you’d handed it to him, just stared at it like you’d handed him a diplomatic treaty instead of a stuffed animal.
Now he was turning it over in his hands, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the embroidered thread.
Maekar paused in the doorway. “You had a quarrel.”
Aerion didn’t look up. “No.”
Maekar stepped inside anyway. “You’re staring at a toy.”
“It’s not a toy.”
Maekar raised a brow.
Aerion exhaled through his nose. “We didn’t quarrel.”
“Then why do you look as if you’ve misplaced something?”
Aerion went still.
Maekar studied him for a moment, then said evenly, “If you’re serious about the girl, take the first step towards reconciliation.”
Aerion frowned faintly. “We study together.”
“That is not what I meant.”
Maekar’s tone shifted, less severe, more pragmatic. “Take her somewhere proper, firstly. Somewhere that shows effort. It usually works.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened. He should have done that before kissing her.
The realization struck him with irritating clarity.
Maekar left him alone with the dragon.
That evening, you received a package.
Inside was an elegant dress: deep burgundy, structured but soft, snatching waist, hem falling just above the knee. With a decollate but nothing scandalous. The fabric was obviously expensive.
Your phone buzzed.
Aerion: Wear the dress. 7 PM. I’ll pick you up.
You stared at the message. You typed.
You: This is unnecessary.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Aerion: Wear it.
You exhaled.
You wore it.
When he arrived and you opened the door, he short-circuited. You saw it happen. His gaze traveled down slowly. Then back up. Then down again, as if recalibrating.
“Don’t,” you said automatically.
“Don’t what.”
“Say something insulting.”
He blinked once. “…You look...” He stopped. His throat worked.
“You look good,” he finished, almost irritated with himself.
“Thank you.”
Dinner was at an expensive waterfront restaurant whose name you recognized only from articles about political fundraisers and corporate galas. Soft lighting, crisp linens, a view of the harbor at night.
He held your chair out. He ordered wine confidently but didn’t pressure you to drink much. For once, he didn’t call you stupid when you mispronounced something on the menu.
He was still himself. Sharp, observant, occasionally biting, but there was an undercurrent of tension in him, like he was trying not to ruin something he didn’t fully understand.
After dinner, instead of taking you home immediately, he said, “There’s something I want to show you.”
You eyed him. “If this is another insult about my wardrobe...”
“It’s not.”
He drove you to a different Targaryen property, smaller than the townhouse but older, private, gated.
Inside, the lighting was dim like in a museum. Glass cases lined the walls. You stepped closer to one and felt your breath hitch.
Dragon skulls.
Relics collected over generations. Massive, ancient, preserved. Some mounted on black velvet stands. Others suspended with discreet wiring. The space in the center was occupied by the largest among them. You knew Meraxes' skull had been donated to the national museum and therefore no longer resided on Dragonstone. This must've been Balerion's.
“They’re not on display anywhere,” Aerion said quietly. “Private collection.”
You stared at the curve of bone, the sharpness of teeth.
“They’re beautiful,” you murmured.
He watched you instead of the skulls. “You’re not cowering.”
“They’re dead.”
He huffed faintly. “You’re strange.”
“So are you.”
He didn’t deny it.
He drove you home. The dress brushed your knees when you stepped out of the car. You turned back to him. He was watching you again like he had earlier: calculating, unsettled.
You leaned down slightly and kissed him.
It was gentle. Just a peck, really.
His hand came up automatically to the back of your neck. He kissed you back with almost too much fervor, like he’d been holding something back all evening and finally let it snap.
When you pulled away slightly, he followed.
“Let me come upstairs,” he said.
You blinked. “Aerion.”
“I won’t try to sleep with you,” he said quickly. “I swear.”
You hesitated.
“I just...” he exhaled, frustrated with his own lack of articulation. “I don’t want to go home with one shy kiss.”
Your heartbeat stumbled. “You swear.”
“I swear.”
You studied him. “…Fine,” you said quietly.
Your apartment was small. You didn’t have a couch. Only a table, a bed, one computer chair, and one wobbly chair for someone else to sit down.
He took in the space with one brief glance but didn’t comment.
You stood awkwardly for half a second before he stepped closer.
His hands found your waist again, firmer this time. You didn’t resist.
He sat in the chair with the broken leg and pulled you gently onto his lap. The chair wobbled.
You inhaled sharply. He kissed you before you could speak.
His hands slid up your back, then settled at your hips. Yours found his shoulders, then his hair.
His self-control lasted approximately thirty seconds.
You felt it before he said anything. The shift in his body. The tension snapping tight beneath your hands.
He inhaled sharply against your mouth, and the sound that escaped him was low and miserable.
“Fuck,” he muttered into your lips, almost accusingly, like this was somehow your fault.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “I thought you swore you wouldn't.”
“I did.”
You were sitting on his lap, knees bracketed around his hips, dress riding higher. His hands were firm at your waist, fingers pressing through the fabric as if grounding himself.
He kissed you again. And again. Slower now. Deeper. Like he was trying to drown the frustration instead of fight it.
You felt him harden beneath you.
He groaned softly against your mouth when your weight shifted.
“I said I wouldn’t try,” he reminded himself under his breath, as if reciting a rule.
“You did,” you agreed.
He dragged his mouth down to your jaw. To your throat.
“Ridiculous,” he murmured again, this time about himself.
His tongue brushed lightly over the curve where your neck met your shoulder. “I've been wanting to snap off the top button of your cardigans with my teeth since you're so inclined to hide your neck.”
You sucked in a breath.
His fingers tightened.
“Don’t react like that,” he muttered.
“You’re the one...”
He cut you off with another kiss.
His hips moved before he seemed to realize they had.
A subtle rock upward.
You froze.
Then you caught him instantly, palm pressing lightly against his chest.
“Aerion.”
He stilled. “I’m not,” he said defensively.
“You are.”
His jaw clenched. “Barely.”
You raised a brow.
He looked irritated at being caught.
“I’m not trying to,” he insisted. “It’s involuntary.”
“Your hips don’t look involuntary.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re sitting on me.”
“And whose idea was that?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. His hands slid up your back again, slower this time.
“You’re testing me,” he accused quietly.
“I’m sitting.”
“You’re existing in a very inconvenient way.”
You huffed a short laugh.
His mouth found your neck again, softer now. A press of lips instead of teeth. A lingering touch that felt less desperate and more thoughtful.
“Stop frowning,” he murmured against your skin.
“I’m not...”
“You are. You always do when you’re thinking too much.”
His thumb brushed absentmindedly between your brows, as if smoothing the crease like before.
You sighed.
Aerion rested his forehead against your collarbone for a second. Breathing. Regaining control.
“This is nonsensical,” he muttered. “I said I wouldn’t push.”
“You’re not pushing.”
He looked up at you, eyes darker than usual. “Don’t tempt me into redefining that.”
You swallowed.
The room felt smaller.
Aerion’s hands had been everywhere by the time he finally pulled his mouth from your throat long enough to speak coherently.
“If you truly do not intend for our first time to occur in this suspiciously wobbly chair,” he said, breath warm against your ear, “you should get off me.”
You blinked down at him. “You’re the one who pulled me onto it.”
“Yes. A tactical error.” His fingers slid beneath the hem of your dress, slow, maddening. “One I am willing to correct. Though I would not be opposed to the chair collapsing dramatically beneath us. It would at least be memorable.”
You shifted slightly, entirely unintentionally, and the chair creaked in protest beneath you.
His fingers dug into your waist. “Exactly my point.”
You looked down at him. His hair slightly disheveled from your hands, his lips reddened. Eyes dark and fixed on you in a way that made your stomach dip. His thumb traced absently along your side.
“You don’t even have a proper bed,” he added, glancing toward the narrow thing against the wall. “That isn’t made for two. I measured it with my eyes the moment I walked in.”
You should've gotten up immediately. His lidded eyes and your dazed brain from kissing kept drowning out common sense.
“I am trying to behave,” he said more quietly. “You’re not helping.”
You searched his face. He wasn’t joking.
He wanted you. But he was holding himself back because you’d hesitated. Because he’d promised.
That did something to you.
Slowly, you slid off his lap.
He exhaled like you’d physically wounded him.
“This is cruel,” he muttered.
“You’re the one who told me to move.”
“Yes. I know. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”
He stood, adjusting himself subtly, jaw tight with restraint.
Then he stepped toward you again because of course he did. His hands found you instantly. At your waist. Your ribs. Your back. Like he couldn’t leave without touching you.
“You’re not staying,” you said, even as his mouth pressed against your jaw.
“No.”
His lips moved to your neck. “But I don’t have to leave immediately.”
His hands roamed as he walked you backward toward the door unhurriedly.
He kissed the side of your throat. Your shoulder. The hollow beneath your ear. Each step closer to the door felt like theft.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accused softly.
“Immensely.”
When you reached the door, he leaned his forehead against yours.
“This,” Aerion said quietly, “is the last time I’m leaving like this.”
You raised a brow. “Is that a threat?”
“A promise.”
He kissed you once more, then forced himself back.
The door opened.
Cool air hit your flushed skin.
He stared at you a moment longer than necessary.
Then he left.
Part 4: pending... (We're gonna meet Baelor and Egg!)
a/n: My inbox and messages are open for commissions. You can also donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: I honestly cannot remember who wanted to be on every Aerion fic taglist and who on just the Growing Strong series taglist. Hope you guys like the fic. But if you don't, just comment a literal dot, just this - . , and I will remove you from this series' taglist. Hope I made it easier for you to just comment a dot instead of writing a message. If you do want to be added to the taglist, comment that you do and I'll add you.
✹ NICE TO EACH OTHER — modern au daeron taragaryen x reader (part of the welcome to the family series)
synopsis. daeron targaryen finally begins to see the point of recovery after egg’s babysitter becomes a regular part of the family or the five times daeron targaryen asks you out, and the one time you finally say yes…
word count. 8.0k
warnings. mentions of struggling with alcoholism, not proofread so sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes, english is not my first language!
note. this one is for my daeron girlies. sorry for the wait, also I recommend listening to the song ‘nice to each other’ by olivia dean while reading since I took inspiration from it <3 as always hope you enjoy reading 🤍
welcome to the family series.
The first time it happened, you were traversing the blissful, silent plains of REM sleep, dreaming of something remarkably peaceful, probably a world where professor Ashford didn't bore you to death with his lectures and the Targaryen family tree wasn't quite so dysfunctional.
But then came the unwelcome noise. It wasn't a gentle chime but rather a rhythmic, digital intrusion that felt like a tiny jackhammer against your skull.
You groaned, the sound muffled by your pillow, and flailed a hand toward the bedside table. Your fingers brushed against cold glass, and you squinted as the aggressive blue light of your phone screen seared your retinas.
"Gods be good," you croaked, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through a gravel pit.
The digital clock read 3:14 AM.
At this hour, there were only three reasonable possibilities: a telemarketer with a serious death wish, Kiera having a breakdown over a last minute deadline for a class, or your mother forgetting the eight hour time difference between your home and King's Landing.
However, as your vision deblurred and the dancing spots of light settled, a name crystallized on the screen.
Daeron Targaryen.
Your heart did a strange, uncoordinated little somersault, partly from the shock of the name, and partly from the immediate, gnawing dread that settled in your chest after the mention of the Targaryen name at this hour.
You had become incredibly familiar with Daeron in the past few months.
You were practically a fixture in the Targaryen household by now. Your days were regularly spent bonding with his youngest brother and looking after the rest of his family. In general you were the one keeping things in check.
But with Daeron it was different. It had always been different.
Daeron was a professional at not letting you babysit him, like you did with the others. He was kind but awfully weary, and possessed a talent for finding the bottom of a bottle faster than anyone you’d ever met.
You swiped the green button, bracing yourself for the unexpectable. "Hello?"
A heavy, shaky breath exhaled on the other end. "Y/N."
He said your name like a parched man stumbling upon a desert spring. It was a prayer, a sigh, and a confession all in one, but it was also incredibly slurred.
He was definitely drunk, you immedieatly concluded.
He dragged the syllabells of your name for a second too long, vibrating with the unmistakable aftermath of high-quality wine or knowing the dive bars Daeron frequented, low-quality ale.
"Daeron," you sighed, rubbing the bridge of your nose. "It’s three in the morning. Where are you?"
"You have such a beautiful voice," he murmured, completely ignoring the question. You could almost hear the lopsided, sleepy grin on his face.
"Have I ever told you that? It’s like... like silk. But, you know, the soft kind. Not the kind that makes your skin all itchy."
"You’re poetic when you’re wasted, Daeron. It’s a gift really," you snorted, leaning back against your headboard and staring into the darkness of your room.
"Now, focus." You half guided, half commanded. "Look around. Are you safe? Are you in a ditch?"
"And a beautiful face," he continued, his voice dropping an octave into a conspiratorial whisper. "I love when you wear your hair in that one particular... the twisty thing. With the clip. You look like a painting. A very tired, very pretty painting."
You felt a treacherous warmth creep up your neck at his words, which you promptly ignored and pushed aside.
"Daeron!" you snapped, using the 'babysitter voice', the one that came out when Egg lied to you about the homework Maellon had assigned him.
"Oh! Y/N! It’s you!" he exclaimed suddenly, sounding genuinely delighted and utterly surprised as if he hadn't been the one talking to you all this time.
"Yes, it’s me. Now, for the third time: where exactly are you?"
There was a long, thoughtful silence. You heard the distant sound of a cat screeching somewhere beside him and the low rumble of a car engine several streets away.
"I’m not entirely sure," he admitted cheerfully. "But the ground is very firm. I think it's reliable ground."
"Look at your surroundings, Daeron. Give me a landmark. A sign — anything." You attempted to guide him, as a very clear vision of him curled up in some forgotten corner of Flea Bottom, grimy and full of dust formed in your head.
"Um... there’s stones. And... like houses. Old ones” he muttered, his words beginning to melt into one another. "Oh, wait. There’s a dragon. A huge, red, ugly beast on the wall. He’s looking at me, Y/N. I think he’s judging my life decisions."
Your tension snapped, replaced by a wave of humor and relief. You almost chuckled.
You knew that mural. It was a piece of street art in a narrow alleyway just off the main square in Flea Bottom. It was less than ten minutes from a bar you sometimes frequented.
He wasn't in a ditch, and he wasn't about to stumble into the Blackwater Bay. Which was good.
"Okay. Stay there Daeron. Do not move. I’m calling Valarr, and he’s going to come pick you up. Okay?” Your voice left no room for argument.
"No! No, no, no!" Daeron’s voice rose to a desperate, whiny pitch that was almost comical. "Don’t call Valarr! He’ll give me the look. You know which one I'm talking about. The 'I’m the perfect heir and you’re just a disgrace look. It hurts my feelings, Y/N. It really does."
"Daeron, you’re drunk, you’re outside in the middle of the night, and you need to get home," you chided softly, feeling that familiar tug of pity.
He was a grown man, but in moments like this, he was as fragile as the glass he’d been emptying all night.
"'M not a child," he grumbled.
"You’re currently sitting on a curb in the middle of the street, talking nonsense, so I’m going to have to disagree," you countered. You sighed, the cold air of the room finally making you shiver. "I’m calling him, Daeron."
"Fine," he huffed, sounding like a disgruntled toddler. "Call the golden Boy. But... on one condition only.”
You closed your eyes, bracing for the inevitable. "And what would that be?"
"I am going to take you out," he said, his voice suddenly gaining a shred of misplaced confidence. "On a date. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever I can stand up without the world spinning like a carousel."
You let out a short, surprised puff of a laugh, leaning forward. "Yeah... no."
"What do you mean, 'no'?" He sounded genuinely offended, as if you’d just insulted his entire lineage. "I’m a catch! I have... hair! And a car I’m.. ocassionally allowed to drive!" You almost laughed at that. Almost.
"Daeron, I work for your father. I spend eight hours a day making sure your little brother doesn't transform into a wildling or run off to Dorne. I don't think either of them would be thrilled to find out I’m dating… well you."
"Who cares?" he slurred, his bravado fading into a mumble. "They’re just a bunch of... they don't see... you're the only one who..." His voice trailed off, words slurring into one incoherent blur.
"Daeron?" you called out, your brow furrowing. "Daeron, are you still there? Please don't be dead." Your voice was vaguely filled with panic.
The only response was a rhythmic, heavy sound, the unmistakable snoring of a man who had reached his limit and decided that the pavement of Flea Bottom was as good a bed as any.
"Gods be good," you muttered, hanging up. He really was unbelievable.
You quickly dialed Valarr. He picked up on the third ring, sounding remarkably awake but deeply annoyed. After you gave him Daeron's location and apologized profusely, he sighed and promised to retrieve "the family embarrassment."
"Text me when he's inside," you insisted.
"I will, Y/N. Go back to sleep. You have to deal with Egg tomorrow."
You tossed the phone back onto the nightstand and collapsed into your pillows, but sleep didn't return as easily as it usually did. The silence of the room felt much heavier now.
Drunk words are sober thoughts.
The phrase echoed in the back of your mind, a persistent little annoying ghost.
You had spent months meticulously maintaining a professional distance, treating Daeron with the kind of fond exasperation one might show a stray dog.
You weren't supposed to think about the way his tired eyes lit up when you walked into a room, or the fact that beneath the scent of whiskey, he always smelled faintly of old books and rain.
Your phone buzzed.
Valarr
Package secured. He’s snoring in the backseat. Thanks for the heads up.
You let out a long breath, your heartbeat finally slowing. Peace returned to the room, but as you finally drifted back into dreams, the image of a messy-haired blonde boy with a sad, crooked smile followed you all the way down.
It was just the alcohol talking, you told yourself. But as you fell asleep, you couldn't help but wonder what he would say when he was sober. If he remembered — that was.
—
The second time it happened, the sun was streaming through the high, arched windows of the Targaryen kitchen, turning the marble countertops into polished mirrors. The air smelled sharply of citrus and the faint sweet scent of the new vanilla candles you insisted on burning.
You were currently engaged in a battle of wills with a particularly stubborn lemon.
"King Viserys Targaryen took to wife..." Egg’s voice droned from across the island. He was slumped over his History of Westeros workbook, scratching at his buzzed blonde hair. "...Aemma Arryn."
He paused, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. You gave the lemon one last, brutal squeeze, the juice stinging a small papercut on your thumb.
"They had one daughter," Egg continued, his eyes suddenly lighting up with the triumph of a remembered fact. "But after she died, he took another — younger one. Alicent Hightower, am I right?"
"Spot on." you hummed, offering him a small, encouraging smile as you wiped your hands on your apron.
You tried not to think too hard about the messy, recursive nature of his family tree. It was enough to give anyone a headache, let alone a ten year old.
"Alright, I’m done!" Egg proclaimed with the dramatic finality of a judge passing a sentence. He slammed his notebook shut with a satisfying thwack and hopped off his stool, scurrying over to your side.
"Are you sure?" You arched an eyebrow, reaching for the sugar canister. "One hundred percent sure? Because if I find out you skipped the Blackfyre rebellions again, there will be no extra cookies later."
Egg looked at you with wide, innocent eyes. "I’m not lying... this time. It’s done. Cross my heart."
You were about to press him for proof when the heavy oak door swung open and in walked Daeron.
To your surprise, he didn't look like the walking ghost who had called you at 3 AM two weeks prior. His golden silver hair was brushed back, and while a few strands remained defiantly ruffled, he looked... healthy. Decent even, you dared venture.
He was wearing a simple dark shirt that made his purple eyes pop and casual trousers that actually fit him.
"Oh, hello," he said, and his voice was clear, devoid of the gravelly slur from his drunken escapade. His eyes lit up the moment they landed on you, and a small genuine smile tugged at his lips.
"Egg," he added with a casual nod to his brother as he moved toward the fridge.
Egg didn’t respond. Instead, he narrowed his eyes tracking Daeron’s every move like a miniature hawk.
Daeron feeling the weight of the stare, paused with his hand on the refrigerator handle. He looked back at his little brother, who was currently shaking his head with a slow, deliberate intensity that clearly translated to — don’t you dare.
Daeron rolled his eyes, a silent "piss off" directed at the ten-year-old, and shut the fridge door without taking anything out.
He opted instead to lean against the counter right next to where you were stirring the lemonade. "So... you made lemonade.” he noted, raising his brows in a polite manner.
His presence was suddenly very large in the room. He wasn't crowding you, but the scent of him, this time of clean laundry and a hint of peppermint seemed to overcrowd and replace the lemon scent entirely.
"I did," you replied, focusing very intently on the sugar dissolving in the jug. "It’s Egg’s favorite."
Daeron looked at the pitcher, then at Egg who was still glaring at him with enough heat to melt steel.
"Could I have some?" Daeron asked innocently, his tone shifting into something uncharacteristically soft.
"Um yeah sure, there's plen—"
"No." Egg’s voice was sharp enough to cut glass. He lunged forward, grabbing his own glass and pulling it closer to his chest as if Daeron were some sort ofcommon thief.
"No?" Daeron repeated, giving his youngest brother an incredulous look. "It’s a jug of juice Aegon. Not the crown jewel."
"No." Egg parroted, his chin tilted up defiantly.
Daeron let out a loud, frustrated scoff. "Fine. Keep your sour water." He turned his attention back to you, his expression softening instantly which was somehow more unnerving than his bickering. "What are you doing after your shift?"
The question hit you like an unexpected blow. You felt Egg’s gaze burn into the side of your head, and for a frantic second you considered pretending you’d suddenly gone deaf and not heard his question.
"Well... I have a few things to—"
"Come to see this play with me," Daeron interrupted, not wasting a second and leaning in a fraction closer. "It’s an open-air performance in the Godswood tonight. The weather is perfect for it. No crowds, just the trees and the stage and..."
His eyes were so bright, so full of a rare hopeful energy you hadn’t seen in a long time that you felt a genuine pang of guilt in your chest. For a split second, the idea of sitting in the cool evening air next to him, away from textbooks and sticky countertops, laughing at some stupid play sounded like absolute heaven.
Then you looked at Egg. Who seemed absolutely bewildered by the idea, his mouth slightly agape as he processed his brother’s audacity.
"I’m sorry Daeron…” you spoke quietly, scratching the back of your head and looking anywhere but at his violet expectant gaze. "I’m sorry but I really can’t."
"Wha— why not?" he pressed, his shoulders dropping just an inch. "It’s just a play. I promise I won’t do anything suspicious."
Before you could formulate a polite excuse about laundry or sleep, Egg swooped in like your tiny savior.
"Because brother," Egg said, his nose pointed toward the ceiling in a perfect imitation of his father’s sternest expression, "she has already agreed to take me and Tanselle to the cinema."
Daeron blinked, thrown off his rhythm. "Well... then I’ll just come along. I like movies." He reasoned.
"No space." Egg countered instantly, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Kiera and Duncan are coming too. The car is full."
The silence that followed was heavy with Daeron's defeat. He looked at you, seeking some kind of desperate loophole, but you just gave him a helpless apologetic shrug.
"Maybe next time?” you offered, though the words fell hollow even to your own ears.
"Right. Next time," Daeron muttered, the light in his eyes dimming as he pushed off the counter. He turned and headed for the door, his posture returning to that slightly slumped weary gait you knew so well. You couldn't help the guilt suddenly festering in your chest.
As the door clicked shut Egg let out a long, triumphant breath and took a huge theatrical gulp of his lemonade.
"He's so annoying sometimes.” Egg grumbled, wiping a sugar mustache from his lip.
"He was just being nice Egg," you reasoned softly, eyes still stuck on the door where Daeron had just disappeared through.
"He was being weird," Egg corrected. "Now, can we go over the Dance of the Dragons? I think I forgot who killed who."
You sighed and picked up the notebook but your mind stayed on the Godswood. You found yourself wondering if the play was a tragedy or a comedy and why, for some unknown reason the rejection felt like it belonged to the former.
—
The third time it happened, it was your own words backfiring at you.
“I am Daeron Targaryen’s girlfriend.” The words had left your lips in a haste. A swift lie in hopes of getting through the reception lady.
—
“Excuse me?” Daeron walked up to the reception. The hospital air reeked of cheap coffee and antiseptic as he padded through the lobby.
The lady working there had her hair tied into a ponytail and was aggressively chewing gum. She looked up with an annoyed sigh.
However when her gaze landed on Daeron her demeanor immediately changed. “Yes?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, in a much better mood. He internally cringed at the shift.
“Do you happen to know if there’s an ice machine anywhere?” He wondered leaning against the counter politely.
“Yeah it’s there opposite the hallway your girlfriend just came through.”
Daeron was about to thank her but he froze in his tracks. His what?
For a moment he simply stood there, utterly dumbfounded. All he could hear were those two words.
Your girlfriend.
“My girlfriend?” he repeated dumbly, the phrase slipping out before he could stop it.
The woman behind the desk had already begun blowing a small bubble with her gum, her attention drifting somewhere over his shoulder as if the conversation bored her now that she had already answered his question.
She popped it lazily. “Um, yeah.”
Her eyes flicked back to him with mild confusion, like she couldn’t understand why he was still standing there.
“The girl with the messy hair and wrinkled clothes,” she added, gesturing vaguely down the corridor with a pen. “She came through about twenty minutes ago.”
Messy hair? Wrinkled clothes?
A strange warmth crept slowly up Daeron’s neck.
She was talking about you.
For a moment he simply stared at the counter, the polished surface reflecting the pale hospital lights.
He could see the faint outline of himself there — tall, slightly hunched forward, one hand still resting on the edge of the desk.
You had said that.
You had said that.
His heart lurched in his chest in a way that felt embarrassingly boyish.
Not just nervous and not just surprised.
But the sort of wild, impossible flutter he thought he had grown out of years ago —— the kind boys felt when a girl smiled at them across a classroom or brushed their hand by accident.
My girlfriend. Gods.
“Is she not your girlfriend?” The receptionist’s voice snapped through his thoughts with a sharp edge of impatience.
Daeron blinked. “Oh—”
He cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of how long he had been standing there like a starstruck idiot.
“Yes.”
The word came out a little too quickly.
“Yes… yes, she is.” It was a lie. Or rather — it was continuing your lie.
And yet the moment the words left his mouth something warm and reckless bloomed in his chest.
Because for a split second, in the strange suspended quiet of the hospital hallway, it felt almost real.
The receptionist gave a short nod, clearly uninterested in whatever internal crisis he had just endured.
“Mhm. Right.”
She was already looking down at her computer again.
Daeron lingered there another moment before finally stepping away from the counter.
His head felt oddly light.
You said I was your boyfriend.
The thought returned again and again, circling through his mind like something fragile he didn’t dare examine too closely.
You could have said anything. You could have claimed to be a cousin or a friend or a distant relative.
Instead you had chosen the one lie that placed you beside him.
Not beside Aerion, not beside Valarr — not even Maekar, whose name carried enough weight to open almost any door.
You had chosen him.
Daeron scrubbed a hand slowly through his hair, pushing the soft golden strands back from his face as he walked down the corridor.
Gods. His face was warm. He felt like a green boy once again.
If anyone from the family saw him like this they would never let him live it down.
Aerion would laugh himself sick and mock him. Maekar would stare at him with that terrifyingly perceptive expression and say something blunt and humiliatingly accurate.
And Aegon — Aegon would strangle him.
You had probably said it without thinking. Just a convenient lie to get past the desk. You likely hadn’t even considered the implications.
But Daeron’s mind, traitorous thing that it was, refused to leave the thought alone. The ice and the disgruntled lady at the desk were long forgotten. Instead the only picture in his mind was — you.
His stomach flipped. Seven hells.
You were going to be the death of him.
Which is how you found yourself in your current position.
Curled in one of the garden chairs in the backyard, scribbling furiously across the pages of your notebook while the warm spring air drifted lazily through the estate gardens.
The Targaryen property was absurdly large the kind of place that felt more like a small park than a private residence.
Tall trees bordered the garden, their new leaves glowing soft green under the afternoon sun. Flowerbeds had burst into color almost overnight — pale roses, lavender bushes, little clusters of yellow wildflowers that had pushed through the soil like they owned the place. Birds chirped somewhere overhead.
And the patio which was large enough to host a small wedding, had become your unofficial office.
You sat cross-legged in the chair, dressed comfortably in soft grey sweats and an oversized shirt. Your hair had been hastily twisted into a bun that had long since begun falling apart.
Your pen rested between your teeth as you stared thoughtfully at the half-finished notes in your notebook.
Across the yard Aegon ran in wild circles. He had a wooden sword clutched in one hand and a ridiculous cardboard shield strapped to his arm, shouting something incomprehensible about dragons and battles as he attempted what could only loosely be described as a cartwheel.
You winced. “Try not to break your neck!” you called out instinctively.
Aegon wobbled mid-cartwheel, collapsed sideways into the grass, and immediately sprang back up like nothing had happened.
You shook your head fondly, returning to your notes. Just as you began scribbling down another idea the back door creaked open.
You glanced up lazily. Stepping out onto the patio, shielding his eyes from the sun like some sort of offended vampire was — Daeron. He looked characteristically disheveled.
His pale hair was a soft tangled mess, falling into his face in sleepy waves. He wore loose dark pajama pants and a wrinkled T-shirt that looked like it had been slept in, probably for several days.
And it was three in the afternoon. Perks of being both a college dropout and a Targaryen you supposed.
You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your mouth.
“Well hello there, sleeping beauty.” You teased, your pen tapped idly against the notebook as you watched him shuffle toward the patio table like a man being dragged unwillingly into daylight.
He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and collapsed into the chair opposite you with dramatic exhaustion.
The sunlight hit his face immediately. He squinted hard, violet eyes narrowing as if personally offended by the existence of the sun.
“…you look like you’ve just crawled out of a cave,” you added lightly.
He grunted in response.
You studied him a little more carefully then.
The faint shadows under his eyes and the slight tension in his shoulders. The way he leaned back in the chair like gravity itself had suddenly doubled.
Your expression softened. “…is it the dreams again?” Your voice was quieter now.
He didn’t look at you. Instead his gaze drifted across the lawn toward Aegon, who was now valiantly battling an imaginary enemy near the rose bushes.
Daeron yawned — long and tired.Then he nodded.
You swallowed slightly. The notebook rested against your chest now, long forgotten.
You had learned over the past few weeks that the dreams were not something he liked discussing. Not with anyone. Not even you.
“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked gently.
He shook his head. “No.” His voice was quiet but firm.
“Not this time.”
For a brief second his eyes flicked toward you and he gave you a small grateful smile.
You nodded, accepting it immediately. You had learned that too — pushing would get you nowhere.
Instead you reached for your notebook again and flipped it open. A comfortable quiet settled between you — only broken by Aegon’s occasional war cries from the lawn.
“So…” Daeron leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. His fingers drummed awkwardly against the surface.
“Do I finally get a date with my girlfriend?”
Your pen froze mid-word.
“…What?”
You blinked at him slowly. Girlfriend? What was he talking about?
For a second your brain simply refused to process the sentence.
And then it clicked and your stomach dropped as your eyes widened.
“Wait.” You sat up straighter, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.
“Do you know about the reception?”
He didn’t answer but he laughed and that was more than enough to answer your question. It was soft at first but the moment he saw the horror creeping across your face it grew louder.
There was even a mischievous crinkle in the corner of his eyes.
“Oh my god.” You slapped a hand over your face. “How do you know about the bloody reception?!” You screeched.
Daeron leaned back in his chair looking unbearably pleased with himself.
“The receptionist told me.” He explained with a proud look in his eye.
“Of course she did.” You groaned, dragging your hands down your face.
“Unbelievable.” You muttered under your breath, face burning with embarrassment.
“I quite liked it actually.” He admitted and your heart did an involuntary leap, but you quickly covered it with casualness.
“Yeah I bet you would.”
“For the record,” he continued lazily, “you could have picked someone else.”
You shot him a look. “Oh please. Who else was I supposed to say? Aerion?”
He made a face. “Fair.”
“Valarr? He already came in with Kiera, having two girlfriends would be kind of weird… even for a Targaryen.” You added and he snorted.
“You have a point.”
“Exactly.” You pointed your pen at him.
At some point Aegon had begun galloping across the yard pretending to be a dragon rider.
Neither of you noticed but the laughter eventually faded and the gentle calm settled in again.
Daeron cleared his throat quietly. His fingers fiddled with the edge of the table.
“So…” he said again, slightly more hesitant this time.
“What do you say?” He glanced up at you expectantly.
“Just you and me, nothing fancy. Maybe dinner..” he shrugged lightly. “Coffee if that feels less… terrifying.” He gave you a sheepish smile.
Your stomach twisted because the way he was looking at you — so careful and so hopeful. Trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t nervous, when the nervous tremor in his hand gave him away.
“I—”
The word caught in your throat. You looked down at your notebook in shame.
“I can’t Daeron.”
The silence that followed felt incredibly heavy. “I’m sorry, but I can’t...”
He slumped back in his chair as a long sigh slipped out of him.
“Why?” The question came quietly, his brows furrowed in irritation. “Just… why?”His eyes flicked toward you again.
“Just give me a reason and I promise I’ll let it go.”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Do you not like me?”
You opened your mouth immediately.
“Daeron—”
“Do you think I’m ugly?”
You stared at him.
“What?”
“I mean I know I’m not the most handsome looking but—”
“Daeron.”
You leaned forward, cutting him off firmly. “You know that’s not the problem.”
He didn’t respond, his gaze had dropped to the table now. The sunlight caught in his hair, turning the pale strands almost silver.
You hesitated — then finally said the thing you had been avoiding since that first day.
“It’s the drinking.” The words landed quieter than you had intended. But they hit.
He stilled in his seat.
“I’m serious,” you continued quietly “you drink yourself into oblivion half the week.”
His jaw tightened, because he knew — you were only speaking the truth.
“You disappear for days, and no one knows where you are, no one knows if you’re even alive. You could be in a ditch or the bottom of Blackwater Bay for all we know.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. Which somehow made it worse.
“And you don’t even try to get better.” You looked back at him.
“I like you,” you admitted softly. “I really, really do.” His head lifted slightly at that and you could see the hopeful spark return to his eyes.
“But I’m not going to watch you destroy yourself.” Your fingers tightened around your pen.
“I’ve done that before.”The words slipped out before you could stop them and you swallowed nervously.
“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation and your honesty seemed to surprise him.
For a long moment neither of you spoke.
“I don’t know how to stop.” The admission was so quiet you almost missed it. Your chest tightened at his words.
Daeron rubbed a hand over his face tiredly.“I wake up and my head feels like it’s splitting open, or I’m terrified of things only I can see.” He let out a humorless laugh. “And the only thing that makes it better is drinking again.”
“Then get help.” Your words were so blunt his surprised gaze immediately flickered to you.
“…Would you go on a date with me if I did?”
Your heart twisted and you sighed “That’s not why you should do it.”
“I know.” His voice was softer now. “But would you?” He still wondered.
You held his gaze for a long moment “Maybe.”
It wasn’t a promise. But it wasn’t a no either — which encouraged him somehow.
And for the first time all afternoon he found himself smiling.
—
The fourth time it happened was entirely accidental. And in your humble opinion, deeply unfair.
You had not come to the Targaryen house that day expecting to be ambushed. Yet somehow that was exactly what had occurred.
You had originally stopped by just to visit Aegon, since you weren’t on babysitting duties that day. You had decided to check in, maybe play a board game or drink tea in the kitchen while you prepared a snack for Egg.
Instead when you had stepped through the front door Daella and Rhae had descended on you like two extremely determined teenage girls. And you immediately realized — there was no escape.
“Oh perfect! We were just about to ask Aegon where you are!” Daella screeched excitedly quickly taking your bag from your shoulder as Rhae jumped with excitement.
You barely had time to take off your shoes before they were dragging you upstairs to their room.
“Sit.” You opened your mouth to protest as they all but shoved you into their chambers.
“And don’t argue.”
“We just came home from the mall and we bought all of this new stuff we need to try out!” Daella gestured as your eyes landed on the two enormous Sephora bags sitting in the corner of the room.
That had been roughly two hours ago.
Which is how you now found yourself sitting in the middle of the girls’ enormous bedroom like some kind of experimental doll.
The room itself looked like something out of a movie set. A massive vanity mirror lined with glowing bulbs illuminated the entire space in soft golden light.
Makeup brushes, palettes, curling irons, hair sprays, powders, creams, and bottles of things you could not even begin to identify were scattered across the surface like the aftermath of a cosmetic hurricane.
Some faint pop song played from a small JBL speaker on the dresser.
You sat in the middle of it all wearing an expression somewhere between amusement and mild terror.
Rhae stood directly in front of you, holding a sleek little bottle like it contained liquid gold.
“Close your eyes.” You obeyed and squinted as a cool mist hit your face.
“Charlotte Tilbury setting spray,” she announced proudly.
You blinked as she waved the cloud toward you like some kind of makeup priestess sealing a ritual.
Meanwhile behind you, Daella was carefully twisting sections of your hair onto a curling rod with the concentration of a surgeon.
“You have really good hair,” she murmured approvingly.
“Thank you?” you replied politely, though you had absolutely no idea what she was doing back there.
In the mirror your reflection stared back at you looking… suspiciously expensive.
Your skin looked smooth enough to belong on a porcelain doll. Your eyelashes were longer than seemed biologically possible. And your cheeks glowed faintly like you had just run through a field of roses.
You suspected the products on your face probably cost more than your monthly groceries.
“…I mean it’s absolutely ridiculous,” Rhae was saying while touching up your blush with a tiny brush.
“Why would he ever want to go out with her?” She wondered as if it were the most suspicious thing in all the Seven Kingdoms.
“Right!” Daella chimed in from behind you. “They’re so incompatible it’s horrible!”
You nodded slowly. “Mhm.” You had absolutely no idea who they were talking about.
At first you had genuinely tried to follow the conversation — but somewhere around the third “no wait that was Alyssa’s ex not Elia’s ex” you had completely lost the plot.
“Honestly it’s a disaster,” Rhae sighed dramatically, then she leaned closer to the mirror inspecting your face. “Oh no.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What is it? Is my hair burning?” Your hand instinctively went to reach for the back of your head but Daella slapped it away.
“The concealer looks cakey.” She whined.
You stared at your reflection. Your skin looked absolutely flawless. It looked like you had been airbrushed by a professional.
“Rhae it’s perfect—”
But she was already frowning deeply like a disappointed artist.
“No it’s not.”
“It absolutely is.”
“No it’s—”
A polite knock interrupted the argument and the door opened.
Daeron’s head of golden hair poked through the tiny opening. He paused immediately — as if debating if he wanted to take part in any of this.
“Seven hells.” He wrinkled his nose. “It smells like a Sephora in here.”
“DAERON!” Daella gasped.
“You’re not supposed to be here!” Rhae added, waving both hands at him like he was a stray animal wandering into sacred territory. “We’re having a girls day!”
Daeron looked mildly offended. “I live here.” He deadpanned.
You quietly noticed how for the first time in weeks he seemed— not disheveled. Which was particularly unusual for him.
He had a healthy glow in his cheeks and his skin didn’t look like it hadn’t seen daylight in years. His eyes weren’t bloodshot and there weren’t dark circles under them.
“You’re still not supposed to be here.”
He opened his mouth to respond but then his gaze landed on you and he completely froze.
You sat there in the giant vanity chair, your makeup glowing under the lights, hair styled neatly over your shoulders.
You gave him a sheepish little smile. “Is it really that bad?” you attempted to jest.
He did not answer. He was still standing in the doorway utterly dumbstruck.
Rhae snapped her fingers in front of his face — no reaction.
Daella waved a hand dramatically. “Hello? Earth to Daeron!” She mimicked but still nothing.
“Are you deaf or something?” Rhae squinted at him.
Daeron finally blinked and then suddenly straightened.
“No, no.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, as if realizing how foolish he had been.
“It’s perfect.”
“I mean— you’re perfect.”
“I mean—”
He gestured vaguely at the air like he had lost control of the common tongue.
The girls exchanged identical looks — and immediately burst into giggles.
You felt your face heat up instantly.
“Okay well,” Daella said sweetly, clearly enjoying this far too much, “I think Y/N ought to go somewhere nice when she’s so prettied up.”
Rhae nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Obviously!”
Both of them slowly turned toward their brother, raising their eyebrows expectantly.
Daeron noticed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“No reason.” Rhae said innocently “None at all.”Daella added.
He sighed then looked back at you.
“Would you maybe want to…” he started carefully. “…go for a stroll by Blackwater Bay?” He cleared his throat. “Maybe grab a bite?”
The girls practically vibrated behind you.
You smiled softly. “I— I’d love to.”
Daeron’s face brightened instantly, almost believing your words.
But then you winced — because you knew what was going to follow. “But I’ve already agreed to go to this new bar with Kiera and Tanselle tonight.”
His expression fell instantly. “Oh.” The poor boy looked like a kicked puppy.
You hurried to add. “But maybe another time?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly, masking his disappointment. “Yeah, of course.” He gave you a weak smile.
“No problem.” Then after a slightly awkward pause he gestured vaguely toward the hallway.
“I was actually just… looking for Aegon.”
“He escaped earlier,” Daella pointed.
“Smart child…” he muttered before backing toward the door. “Anyway I’ll… leave you to the Sephora.” And with that he disappeared, the door shut closed behind him.
As soon as he was gone the girls exploded.
“Oh may the Seven look down upon us.”
“He has the biggest crush on you.” They both exclaimed loudly.
Your eyes widened immediately “What?!”
“Yes he does!”
“Did you not see his face?”
“He literally forgot how to speak!”
You shook your head rapidly, denying their accusations. “No he didn’t!”
“He said you were perfect!”
“He says stupid things all the time!” You countered as they collapsed onto the bed laughing.
You buried your burning face in your hands. “That means nothing!” God you felt like you were a teenage girl all over again and not a university student.
“Sure,” Rhae said between giggles, rolling her eyes. “Totally nothing.”
Daella grinned.
“He’s been wandering around the house for weeks looking like a kicked puppy whenever you’re not here.”
“That is NOT true!” Your eyes widened.
They looked at each other and then burst into another round of laughter.
You pointed at them accusingly. “You two are just delusional.”
“Mhm.”
“Completely.”
“Absolutely.”
They were still giggling.
And despite your determined denial you couldn’t quite stop yourself from smiling.
After a peaceful silence filled only with occasional giggles from them they returned to finish their handiwork.
“No I mean… Daeron has seriously changed since you’re here with us.” Rhae spoke, but this time there was no banter in her voice.
“Yeah… he’s actually been eating and sleeping normally again. He even goes to rehab twice a week.” Daella revealed and it felt like they were letting you in on some grand scheme. Not discussing Daeron’s weekly habits.
“Oh.” you let out dumbly. Though you couldn’t deny the warmth that had filled you at the revelation. He was doing better then.
“Oh she says.” Rhae snorted. “It’s because of you silly! Do you know how many times father has attempted to refine him..”
“And all it takes is one smile from you…” Daella giggled treacherously.
“I… no that’s not true.. he’s finally just come to his senses.” You reasoned and they hummed in response— clearly not believing your words for a single moment.
—
The fifth and final time it happened, the world was all but melting. And with it all your resolve too.
It was mid-July in King’s Landing, and the city felt like it was being held under a magnifying glass. The air was a thick, shimmering curtain of heat that turned every movement into a chore.
Inside your apartment, the only thing standing between you and total physical dissolution was an old electric fan that rattled on your counter, valiantly pushing lukewarm air around the room.
You were dressed in nothing but he lightest clothing you could muster. You wore a pair of linen shorts so short they were more of a suggestion than a garment, and an oversized threadbare t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, the cotton sticking damply to the small of your back. Your hair was piled into a chaotic, bird’s-nest bun held together by a single claw clip and sheer willpower.
You were hunched over the sink, aggressively cracking an ice tray to harvest cubes for a desperately needed iced coffee when the doorbell unexpectedly rang.
You froze as an ice cube skittered across the floor. Who could it be? Kiera had keys and she would've texted you if she was planning on coming. The delivery man usually just shouted from the street and you were pretty sure you hadn't ordered anything.
You padded toward the door, slightly wary, your bare feet sticking to the hardwood, and slid the safety lock back with a metallic click.
When you pulled the door open you were hit with a smell akin to a flower field. A massive sprawling bouquet of summer blooms—wild peonies, deep blue delphiniums, and sunshine yellow lilies filled your entire field of vision. It was a riot of color so vibrant it made your heat-strained eyes ache.
"Oh Seven Hells... hi." The flowers shifted, revealing a pair of bright expectant eyes and that familiar, lopsided grin. Daeron.
"Hi," you breathed, the word caught in your throat.
He looked... incredible — better than you had ever seen him. The weary, haunted shadow that usually clung to his features had vanished. He was dressed in a crisp, white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms tanned by the summer sun. His silver-gold hair, usually a nest of drunken neglect, was neatly trimmed and swept back from his face. He looked clean. He looked whole. You could hardly believe it.
"I—this is, um... these are for you," he stammered, his voice steady despite the slight flush on his cheeks.
You reached out to take the arrangement, and as the weight of the flowers transferred to you, his fingers brushed against yours. The contact felt like a shock, a jolt of electricity that went straight to your pulse.
The scent of the lilies filled your entire apartment, drowning out the smell of stale city heat. "Daeron, gods... they’re beautiful," you whispered, burying your nose in the petals for a second to hide the way your hands were shaking.
You stepped back, setting the heavy vase-less bouquet on the hallway table so you could actually look at him.
Now that the flowers weren't a shield, his gaze swept over you. You saw the exact moment he realized how little you were wearing. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes darkening as they traced the curve of your bare legs and the soft line of your collarbone. For a second, the heat in the room seemed to spike by ten degrees.
"Listen," he started, his voice dropping into a register that made your skin tingle. He took a half-step into the apartment, closing the door behind him. "I know I have absolutely no right just to crash in like this… hell you have every single reason to throw me out." He began, nervously running his hands through his hair.
"But I really, really like you. And I know I’ve been a disaster. I know I’ve given you every reason to keep saying no."
He took a breath, his chest expanding under the thin linen. "But I listened to you. I've… I've been better. I went. I’m three months clean, Y/N. I haven't touched a drop since that afternoon on the patio. And gods, it’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done." He admitted as he reached out, his hand hovering near your waist before he pulled it back clenching it into a fist. Willing his restraint to manifest.
"But every time I wanted to give up, I thought of you. I thought about how I wanted to be someone who deserved to stand in front of you and ask one more time. I’d do it all over again, every miserable withdrawal, if it meant you’d just give me one chan—"
You didn't let him finish.
The three months of suppressed longing, the midnight phone calls, the stolen glances in the kitchen it all surged forward at once. You stepped into his space, your hands flying up to cup his face.
His skin was warm, smelling of expensive soap and summer air. You pulled him down and crashed your lips against his. He let out a muffled sound of pure shock, his body turning to stone for a heartbeat. Then it was like the dam broke.
His arms wrapped around your waist with a sudden, bruising intensity, lifting you slightly off your feet as he pulled you flush against him. The thin fabric of his shirt was no barrier to the heat of his chest. His mouth was soft, far softer than you had imagined but his kiss was hungry and desperate, tasting of mint and pure unadulterated devotion.
You threaded your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, needing to anchor yourself as the world tilted. In that nothing matter — no Aegon, no Maekar, no complicated family situations. You would deal with that later.
Right not it was just you and Daeron and his lips chasing your own as if his life depended on it.
It was a collision of months of pent-up tension, a release that felt like finally reaching the surface after being underwater for a lifetime.
When you finally broke apart you stayed in the circle of his arms, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together. The only sound in your ears were your frantic breaths and both of your rapid heartbeats beating in sync.
"Gods..." Daeron’s voice was a wrecked hoarse whisper. He kept his eyes closed, his thumb tracing the hem of your short shorts against your hip, his touch reverent.
You let out a small, breathless giggle, the sound bubbling up from a place of pure relief. You were doomed — but in the best possible sense.
He opened his eyes then violet irises glazed with a mixture of passion and disbelief. He looked at you as if you were a miracle he hadn't quite figured out how to deserve.
"So..." he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. "I take it you’ll go out with me? For real this time? No excuses about going out with Kiera or babysitting my brother?"
You looked at him — really looked at him, and saw the man he had fought the last three months so hard to become.
The "no" that had lived on your tongue for months suddenly dissolved into nothingness. Not even crossing your mind.
"Yes," you smiled, your heart feeling dangerously full. "Yes, Daeron Targaryen. I will go out with you."
His eyes were overwhelmed with love and relief as he simply let out a long, shaky exhale and leaned down to steal another kiss, slower this time as if he finally had all the time in the world.
As your lips interlaced once again — this time in a slower steadier manner, you found yourself utterly appreciative of that day you decided to listen to Kiera and take up a part time job.
Because it had led you exactly to this moment — into his arms.
synopsys: In which you're oblivious and try to set him up.
wordcount: 4.1k
requested by @verouys
The gardens of the Red Keep had always been your sanctuary, though today they felt more like a cage of blooms and buzzing insects. You sat on the stone bench beneath the weirwood sapling—the one that would never grow properly in this southern soil—and pretended to read a book about Dornish poetry.
You weren't reading. You were watching.
Across the garden, Valarr Targaryen stood with a cluster of courtiers, his black doublet immaculate despite the afternoon heat. That ridiculous streak of silver-gold in his brown hair caught the sunlight like a promise, and when he laughed at something one of the lords said, you felt your stomach do something entirely inappropriate.
Not that you'd ever admit it.
You'd known Valarr since you were both children, stumbling through dance lessons and falling asleep during Maester's lectures. He was your best friend. Your only real friend, if you were being honest with yourself, which you tried not to be about certain things.
He caught you staring and grinned, excusing himself from the courtiers to cross the garden toward you.
"You've been on that same page for twenty minutes," he said, dropping onto the bench beside you. Close enough that his knee brushed yours. Close enough that you could smell the faint sandalwood of his soap. "Is Dornish poetry that captivating, or are you just avoiding Lady Elisweth again?"
"Both," you admitted, snapping the book shut. "She wants to discuss her daughter's upcoming marriage to some Reach lord, and I've heard the details fourteen times. I counted."
Valarr's mismatched eyes softened with amusement. "Fourteen? You're certain it wasn't fifteen?"
"I'm an excellent counter."
"You're excellent at everything." He bumped his shoulder against yours, and warmth bloomed through your chest like spilled wine. "Walk with me? The Small Council is meeting, and I'm meant to be observing 'the duties of a future king' or some such nonsense. Father won't notice if I'm late."
You should have said no. You should have remembered that every time you spent alone with Valarr, you ended up feeling confused and fluttery and generally nonsensical. But you never did.
"Fine," you said, standing. "But if your father asks, I was lecturing you on Dornish poetry."
"Tyrannically, I'm sure."
The walk through the godswood was comfortable, familiar. Valarr talked about his younger brother Matarys's latest mischief—something involving a cat, a pie, and the Master of Coin—and you listened, laughing in all the right places. This was easy. This was how it had always been.
Which was why you felt safe enough to bring up the topic that had been nagging at you for weeks.
"Valarr?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I ask you something? Something... personal?"
He stopped walking, turning to face you with an expression of genuine concern. "Of course. You can ask me anything."
You bit your lip, suddenly uncertain. But the question had been burning in your mind ever since Lady Florent's dinner party, when Valarr had spent the entire evening speaking to exactly three people: you, his father, and the wine steward.
"Why don't you ever... talk to women?"
His face did something complicated. "I talk to you."
"That's different. I'm me." You waved a hand dismissively. "I mean other women. Ladies at court. Eligible ones."
Valarr's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I talk to them when necessary."
"Necessary." You stared at him. "Valarr, you're the heir to the heir. You're eight and teen, unmarried, and I've watched you literally walk around Lady Cassana rather than pass her on the stairwell."
"I was going the other direction anyway."
"You turned around mid-step and walked into a tapestry."
He had the grace to look embarrassed. "It was a very nice tapestry."
You grabbed his arm, pulling him toward a stone bench beneath an ancient oak. "Sit. We're having a proper conversation about this."
"I don't want to have a proper conversation about this."
"Sit."
He sat.
You settled beside him, tucking your feet up on the bench and turning to face him fully. "Valarr, be serious with me. Your parents have been trying to arrange matches for you since you were fifteen. Your mother sends you to speak with eligible ladies at every feast. And you... what? Grunt at them and leave?"
"I do not grunt."
"You absolutely grunt. I've heard it. It's a very distinctive grunt."
He crossed his arms, looking remarkably like a sulking child despite being nearly six feet of Targaryen prince. "I simply haven't found anyone suitable."
"No one? In three years of introductions? There have been dozens of women, Valarr. Beautiful ones. Clever ones. One of them could recite the entire lineage of House Targaryen from memory."
"That one tried to correct my Valyrian pronunciation."
"So?"
"So, my Valyrian pronunciation is perfect."
You threw your hands up. "You're impossible."
"I'm selective."
"You're turning down every match your parents suggest. Lady Roslin? Rejected. Lady Alysanne? You hid in the stables for three hours. Lady Jeyne? You told her you preferred horses to people, which I suppose is honest, but—"
"She asked if I thought she was prettier than my horse."
"Was she?"
Valarr paused, considering. "My horse has very kind eyes."
You burst out laughing, and after a moment, he joined you. This was why you loved— liked. This was why you liked spending time with him. He could always make you laugh, even when you were trying to be serious.
"Valarr," you said, once you'd composed yourself. "You have to marry eventually. You're the heir."
His expression shifted, something flickering in those mismatched eyes. "I know."
"So why not at least try? Give someone a chance? You might be surprised."
He was quiet for a long moment, studying your face with an intensity that made your skin warm. "And what about you?" he asked softly. "You're unmarried as well. I've noticed you turn down your share of suitors too."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
"Yes." You looked away, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "I just haven't found anyone who... who makes me feel..."
The way you make me feel, your traitorous mind supplied. Who looks at me the way you do. Who makes my heart race without even trying.
"Who makes you feel what?" Valarr prompted, his voice unusually gentle.
"Safe," you said finally. "Comfortable. Like I can be myself without pretending."
He reached out, tucking a nonexistent strand of hair behind your ear with such casual intimacy that you forgot to breathe. "You deserve that," he said. "Someone who loves you. All of you. Not just the lady at court, but the girl who feeds bacon to the castle cats and argues with maesters about Dornish poetry."
Your heart was doing something alarming in your chest. "You remember the cats?"
"I remember everything about you."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning you couldn't quite grasp. Valarr's hand lingered near your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, and for one wild, impossible moment, you thought—
"Your Grace!"
You both jerked apart as a page came running down the path, red-faced and breathless. "Your Grace, the Small Council—your father sent me to find you—he's very insistent—"
Valarr closed his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly. "Of course he did." He stood, smoothing his doublet, and for just a moment, his gaze caught yours. "We'll finish this conversation later."
It sounded like a promise.
Except you didn't let him finish it.
Because the more you thought about that moment in the godswood—the way he'd looked at you, touched you, spoken to you—the more confused you became. Valarr was your friend. Your best friend. He'd never given any indication of wanting more than that.
Had he?
No. No, certainly not. He was just... affectionate. That was all. He'd known you forever, so of course he was comfortable with you. It didn't mean anything.
He remembers everything about you.
You shook the thought away. It meant nothing. Valarr was simply a good friend. A very close, very handsome, very attentive friend who happened to make your heart race and your thoughts scatter.
Stop it, you told yourself firmly. He's your friend. Nothing more.
The problem, you decided, was that Valarr needed to find someone. Someone who wasn't you. Someone he could actually marry and love and—
Your stomach clenched painfully at the thought.
But it was the logical solution. If Valarr found a wife, he'd stop looking at you like that. Touching you like that. Making you feel things you had no business feeling. He'd be happy, and you'd be happy for him, and everything would go back to normal.
Normal. Yes.
You just had to find him the perfect match.
Lady Emilia Massey was beautiful, accomplished, and had a laugh like chiming bells. You'd positioned yourself strategically near the lemon cakes at the afternoon gathering, watching as Valarr approached her with the expression of a man walking to his own execution.
"Lady Emilia," he said, bowing stiffly. "Would you care to walk with me in the gardens?"
She dimpled prettily. "I would be honored, my prince."
You watched them disappear down the path, feeling oddly hollow. This was good. This was what you wanted. Valarr deserved someone lovely and appropriate, someone who wouldn't make him grunt and flee.
Twenty minutes later, Valarr reappeared—alone.
"That was quick," you said brightly, perhaps too brightly. "Did you enjoy your walk?"
"There was a bee."
"A bee."
"A very aggressive bee." He sat down heavily beside you, reaching for a lemon cake. "It kept circling us. She was quite distressed. I escorted her back inside."
"You escorted her back inside because of a bee?"
"Would you prefer I let her be stung?"
You stared at him. "Valarr, there are bees in the gardens constantly. You've never once escorted me inside because of a bee."
"That's different."
"How?"
He took a bite of cake, avoiding your gaze. "You're not afraid of bees."
"I'm terrified of bees."
"You've never mentioned it."
"You've never given me a reason to."
He had no response to that, just looked at you with an expression you couldn't read.
Lady Marcella Crane was next. You engineered an introduction at the library, knowing Valarr spent his mornings there. She was clever, well-read, and shared his interest in dragon lore.
You watched them from behind a shelf of histories, pretending to be absorbed in a book about the Dornish Marches. They talked for nearly an hour. An hour. You'd never seen Valarr talk to anyone for that long except you.
When they emerged, Lady Marcella was smiling. Valarr was... Valarr.
"The library was pleasant," he reported later, when you found him in the training yard. "She knows quite a bit about dragons."
"That's wonderful!"
"Yes." He parried a practice blow from a knight, then turned back to you. "She suggested I grow a beard."
"A beard?"
"To look more 'kingly,' she said. More 'distinguished.'" He paused, lowering his sword. "Do I need to look more distinguished?"
You studied him—sweaty, flushed from exertion, that ridiculous silver streak and his brown hair plastered all over his forehead. "No," you said honestly. "You look like you."
Something warm flickered in his eyes. "Good. That's what I prefer to look like."
By the fourth rejection, you were beginning to suspect a pattern.
Lady Celine Hightower was too tall. Lady Arwen Oakheart talked too much about her horses. Lady Jenna Marbrand laughed too loudly. Lady Sara Westerling had an unfortunate preference for boiled eggs.
"She boiled them," Valarr said, as if this explained everything. "At the breakfast table. In front of everyone."
"People eat boiled eggs, Valarr."
"Not at my breakfast table they don't."
You pressed your fingers to your temples. "You're impossible. You're genuinely impossible. What do you want in a wife? Tell me. Give me something to work with."
He considered this, tilting his head in that way that made your heart flutter traitorously. "I want someone who doesn't try to be someone they're not. Someone who's comfortable with silence. Someone who laughs at my jokes even when they're not funny."
"Everyone laughs at your jokes. You're a prince."
"You don't."
You blinked. "What?"
"You don't laugh at my jokes just because I'm a prince. Sometimes you don't laugh at all. You just look at me like I'm an idiot and change the subject."
"You are an idiot sometimes."
"Yes." He smiled, that real smile, the one he saved for you. "That's what I mean."
You didn't understand. You never understood, not really. But something in his words made your chest ache.
Lady Rosa's Frey's cousin was the final straw.
You'd watched Valarr spend exactly four minutes with her before excusing himself to check on his horse, a horse that was, as far as you knew, perfectly healthy and didn't require checking. He didn't speak to another woman for the rest of the evening.
You were brooding about it in the library the next morning when Matarys Targaryen—Valarr's younger brother, all of fourteen and insufferably pleased with himself—slid into the chair across from you.
"You're doing that thing again," he said.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you stare at my brother like he's a puzzle you can't solve and your face does that crinkly thing."
"My face does not do a crinkly thing."
"It absolutely does. It's very sad to watch." He helped himself to an apple from the bowl on the table, biting into it with a loud crunch. "Still trying to marry him off?"
"I'm trying to help him find happiness."
"By forcing him to talk to women he clearly doesn't want to talk to?"
You frowned. "He has to marry eventually. He's the heir."
"Does he, though?" Matarys leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I mean, have you considered why he doesn't want to talk to them?"
"Because he's difficult and picky and once rejected someone because she ate boiled eggs?"
Matarys snorted. "No. Well, yes, that's also true. But there's another reason." He glanced around dramatically, as if checking for spies. "A secret reason. A family secret."
You leaned in despite yourself. "What kind of secret?"
"The kind that explains why my brother has turned down every eligible lady in the Seven Kingdoms." Matarys bit into his apple again, chewing with infuriating slowness. "Think about it. He's handsome, charming when he wants to be, heir to the Iron Throne. Any woman would be thrilled to marry him. And yet—"
"And yet nothing," you said. "He's just... particular."
"He's particular about women because he's not interested in women." Matarys raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "At all."
The words took a moment to land. And then another moment. And then they crashed into your brain like a runaway cart.
"You're saying—"
"I'm saying nothing." He held up his hands innocently. "I'm merely suggesting that if my brother has shown zero interest in every eligible lady you've thrown at him, perhaps the problem isn't the ladies. Perhaps the problem is that they're ladies."
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"But he—we've been friends forever—he's never—"
"Never what? Shown interest in anyone? Talked about wanting to marry? Glanced twice at any woman at court?" Matarys shrugged. "Strange, isn't it? Almost like he's waiting for someone who isn't a woman."
He stood, brushing apple crumbs from his tunic. "Anyway, just a thought. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually. You seem clever." He paused at the door. "Well. Clever enough."
And then he was gone, leaving you alone with the most horrifying realization of your life.
Valarr Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne, your dearest friend in all the world—
Preferred men.
It made so much sense. The discomfort around eligible ladies, the avoidance, the way he seemed utterly uninterested in every woman presented to him. He wasn't being picky. He wasn't being difficult. He simply... wasn't attracted to them.
And you, his closest friend, had been torturing him by forcing introductions to woman after woman.
Guilt crashed over you like a wave. How could you have been so blind? So stupid? He'd trusted you with his friendship, and you'd spent weeks trying to marry him off to people he could never love.
Well. You'd fix this. You'd make it right.
You just had to find him a man instead.
Ser Davon Fossoway was handsome, chivalrous, and currently unattached. You cornered him after the midday meal, explaining that the prince had expressed interest in discussing—something. You hadn't quite worked out the details.
"He wants to discuss... swordplay?" Ser Davon looked confused but hopeful. "With me specifically?"
"You're an excellent swordsman, aren't you?"
"I like to think so, my lady."
"Perfect. He specifically mentioned wanting to speak with an excellent swordsman. In private. In the gardens. By the rose arbor."
The rose arbor was romantic. Everyone knew that. You were very clever.
Ser Davon arrived promptly. You watched from behind a hedge as Valarr approached, looking baffled.
"Ser Davon? My... my friend said you wished to speak with me about something?"
"I understood it was you who wished to speak with me, my prince."
"Oh. Well. I suppose we can... speak?"
They stood there awkwardly for a long moment.
"Lovely weather," Ser Davon offered.
"Yes. Very... weather."
"Good for swordplay."
"Is it?"
"Generally, yes. Dry ground, you know. Less mud."
"I... see."
Another long pause.
"Well," Ser Davon said finally, "if that's all, my prince, I should return to my duties."
"Yes. Duties. Of course."
Ser Davon bowed and fled. Valarr stood alone in the rose arbor, looking like a man who'd just survived a battle he hadn't known he was fighting.
You needed a different approach.
Ser Addam Rowan was older, more confident, and reportedly very charming. You arranged for him to encounter Valarr in the library, where the prince spent his mornings. Surely a shared interest in books would—
"Are you... following me?" Valarr asked, when you appeared behind a shelf for the third time that week.
"What? No. I'm researching. For a thing. A research thing."
He raised an eyebrow—the one above his blue eye, which always made him look particularly skeptical. "You're researching in the military history section? You once told me you'd rather clean the dragonpit than read about battles."
"This is... different research."
"What kind of research?"
"The kind I don't need to explain to you."
He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell sandalwood and parchment. "You've been acting strange for weeks. Setting me up with ladies, then suddenly with knights. What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on. I just want you to be happy."
"I'm happy."
"You're lonely."
His expression shifted, something vulnerable flickering across his features. "I'm not lonely. I have you."
"That's different. That's—I'm your friend. You need more than a friend. You need someone who can be... who can give you..."
"I have everything I need."
You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "Valarr, you don't have to pretend with me. I understand. I figured it out."
"Figured what out?"
"That you're not... that you don't..." You lowered your voice, glancing around the empty library. "That you prefer the company of men."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Valarr stared at you. His mismatched eyes went wide, then narrower, then wide again. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
"You think," he said slowly, "that I prefer men."
"I understand if you can't say it openly. With your position, it must be—"
"I don't prefer men."
"But you never—all those ladies—you never showed any interest—"
"I showed interest in exactly one person." His voice was strange, tight with something you couldn't identify. "For years. Constantly. Relentlessly. To the point where my parents have a bet about it."
You blinked. "A bet?"
"Mother thinks I'll confess by my nineteenth nameday. Father thinks I'll wait until I'm twenty. They've been wagering for three years."
"I don't understand."
"I know you don't." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's the problem. That's always been the problem. You don't see it. You've never seen it."
"See what?"
He stepped closer, and closer still, until you were backed against a shelf of musty histories with nowhere to go. His hands came up to frame your face, gentle but insistent, and his eyes—one blue, one brown—burned into yours.
"You," he said softly. "Only you. Always you."
And then he kissed you.
The world stopped.
No—the world started, for the first time in your life. Colors brightened. Sounds sharpened. Everything you'd never understood, never let yourself feel, came crashing down in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
Valarr's lips were soft against yours, tentative at first, then firmer when you didn't pull away. His hands slid into your hair, tangling in the strands, and you made a sound you didn't recognize—somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.
When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, breath coming fast.
"Now do you understand?" he whispered.
You couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only stare at him—this boy you'd known your whole life, your dearest friend, the one who remembered everything about you.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you finally managed.
"I tried. Constantly. You never noticed."
"I'm stupid."
"You're not stupid. You're..." He laughed softly, warm breath ghosting across your lips. "You're you. And I love you. I've always loved you."
Something cracked open in your chest, flooding warmth through every part of you. "I love you too. I think I have for years. I just didn't—I couldn't—"
"I know." He kissed you again, quick and sweet. "I know."
"What do we do now?"
"Now?" He smiled—that real smile, the one you'd always thought was just for you. It was. It had always been. "Now we tell my father he owes my mother a foot massage."
You pulled back, confused. "What?"
He took your hand, pulling you toward the library door. "Come on. I want to see the look on my father's face."
The walk through the Red Keep was a blur. Valarr's hand stayed wrapped around yours, warm and solid, and you couldn't stop staring at the way your fingers intertwined. His thumb traced patterns on your skin, soothing and electric all at once.
Prince Baelor Breakspear and his wife Princess Jena were in the hand's tower, enjoying the afternoon sun on their private terrace. When you appeared in the doorway, hand in hand with their son, Baelor's eyebrows shot upward.
"Valarr?" Jena set down her wine glass, a smile already curving her lips. "And... oh. Oh."
"Mother. Father." Valarr squeezed your hand. "I believe you know the Lady Y/N."
Baelor's gaze dropped to your joined hands, then rose to meet his son's eyes. Something passed between them, a look of understanding, of recognition, of finally.
"Son," Baelor said slowly, "is there something you wish to tell us?"
"I wished to introduce you to my future wife."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You turned to stare at Valarr, who was watching you with an expression of such warm certainty that your knees went weak.
"Future—Valarr, we haven't even—"
"I've been waiting years," he said simply. "I'm not waiting any longer."
Jena clapped her hands together, beaming. "I knew it. Baelor, pay up."
Baelor sighed, reaching for his coin purse. "You said by his nineteenth nameday. His nameday is still three moons away."
"The spirit of the bet, husband. The spirit."
"I don't believe in the spirit of bets. I believe in strict interpretation."
"You owe me a foot massage, and you know it."
While his parents bickered good-naturedly, Valarr tugged you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. "They've been doing this since I was fifteen," he murmured. "Every time I looked at you too long, Mother would nudge Father and whisper 'there it is.'"
"You looked at me?"
"Constantly. Relentlessly. To the point of embarrassment."
You thought back over the years—every lingering glance, every casual touch, every time he'd appeared at your side without being called. How had you missed it? How had you been so blind?
"I really am stupid," you murmured.
"No." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "You're perfect."
"Now you're just being romantic."
"Is it working?"
You smiled up at him—this boy, this prince, this man who'd loved you for years without you ever knowing. "Yes," you said softly. "It's working."
On the terrace, Baelor handed over a small pouch of coins with exaggerated reluctance. Jena accepted it with a triumphant grin, then raised her wine glass in your direction.
"To the future," she called. "And to my son finally having the sense to act on what's been obvious to everyone except the two of you."
Valarr groaned. You laughed.
And when he kissed you again, right there in front of his parents and half the court, you finally understood what you'd been missing all along.
Nothing at all.
Because he'd been there the whole time. Waiting. Hoping. Loving you.
| summary: valarr takes you to summerhall to introduce you to his family and has to protect you from some gossiping old-money wives.
from fury, from fire: @sehaedazokla
| summary: Lady Baratheon encounters an unexpected visitor when she sneaks out to the jousting lists in the late hours of the night during the tourney at Ashford Meadow.
hopelessly devoted: @ghost1nn
| summary: in which valarr can’t help but yearn for his betrothed
the young prince’s lady: @starxs-s
rescue mission: @spcncershybrid-library
| summary: the scorching heat of kings landing and pregnancy was a fierce combination. taking it upon yourself to find the coolest place leads to your husband Valarr searching the whole castle for you.
make it count: @tcrgarien
| summary: in which it’s your name day and a tournament is being held in your favour. however, you hadn’t expected a certain relative who you loved for as long as you could remember to participate.
pretty when you cry: @konalis
| summary: You saw the future. You saw that spring would be the last for the young heir prince, Valarr. On the day they buried the Breakspear, you convinced him to trade his crown for a life with you.
not the realm’s, but mine: @cosmictheo
| summary: as maekar’s eldest daughter, you are a trophy to every man of the realm. and for that, one evening your husband’s protective streak turns into a cruel accusation that escalates into a heated argument. you’ve mastered the art of the silent treatment, and for a man who treats you like his entire religion, one day of being ignored is enough to drive him to the brink of insanity.
nobody’s son, nobody’s daughter: @vvesteros
| summary: you have always yearned valarr, he was the perfect man to you, but you did not act on those feelings due to your promise to aerion, your betrothed. but what happens when baelor’s death make those mutual feelings stronger?
in the night: @vvesteros
| summary: during the commemoration of prince baelor, you had kissed valarr and you had absolutely no regrets or sympathy for your betrothed, aerion, until you step into his chambers, but then spot valarr, what happens when your mixed emotions threaten to spill out?
only yours: @valarrsgirl
| summary: Valarr is forced to confront the fact that being everyone’s golden boy means nothing if the only person he loves feels unseen.
| divider by: @honeyluvsw !
always check any warnings before reading! I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I do! :) Big thank you to these authors for creating such immersive and interesting plots! <3 Teach me how to write fr!! 😚💞
+ SUMMARY. you just got word your boyfriend cheated on you, you’re disgusted, you’re angry, but throughout this, you’re with your best friend, and the ideas she placed in your mind about seeking revenge with your ex’s hot roommate replayed when you went to pick your stuff from you ex’s apartment.
+ WC. 2.7k
+ PAIRING. modern!aerion targaryen x fem!reader.
🗡️. WARNINGS. established relationship, infidelity, profanities, mild angst, alcohol & drug use, smoking, cheating as revenge, sexual tension, tongue piercing aerion, dry humping.
+ underrated the weeknd song 🙈🙈 anyway, i didn’t know how to envision modern aerion, whether as finn in eye for an eye or him in crazytom’s artwork. but he has piercings so yall can imagine him how yall want 🙈
“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” You exclaim, looking down at the video displayed on your friend’s phone. Rowan purses her lips as she watches your reaction, the grip you hold on her phone growing stronger.
It’s your boyfriend, Duncan, making out with another girl at the party Lyonel Baratheon hosted last night. You hand Rowan her phone and scoff, your fingers held firmly between your eyebrows. “This—this can’t be happening.” You deny, Rowan knits her eyebrows, walking toward you to comfort you.
“No, no, fuck him, he doesn’t deserve you anyway, forget him.” She holds your face gently, tucking strands of hair behind your ear, watching as tears pool in your eyes.
“I love him…” You croak, tears falling.
“No, you loved him. Not anymore, come on, we can’t be out with you like this.” She holds your hand, caressing it lovingly as you continue to cry.
You stop by a gas station and Rowan buys some snacks and alcohol and right after you go to your shared apartment.
“Fuck my life.” You curse, throwing your keys on the coffee table, sighing, and holding your head together. Rowan takes a deep breath and shakes her head, putting aside the things bought from the gas station.
“No. Stop that, do not curse yourself like that. You do not get to do that over one guy, not on my watch.” Rowan says and you look at her in disbelief.
“One guy?” You question. “One guy?!” You scoff now, rising from your seat. “Rowan this is my boyfriend of 3 years! This was the man I wanted to marry, start a family, I-“
“Oh, piss off! If he wanted the same with you, he wouldn’t have been doing all of that. Matter of fact, he wouldn’t even have gone to the party.” You recoil at her words. They were harsh, you thought, you became angry, at her, at Duncan, at yourself, at the world.
You shake your head slowly as more tears flood in. Rowan holds you closely, caressing your hair and shushing you. “He shouldn’t have you like this. Please, forget him. Stay with me now, here. Look, we have pizza, they have snacks, chocolate, and alcohol.” She sings the last word and you sniffle a soft, faint smile. “We can watch a movie too.” She smiles and you nod.
You wipe away your tears and grab the bottle of alcohol. You chug down enough, the liquid traveling through your lips, and you clean it off when you remove the bottle from your mouth. “You’re right.” You swallow and sniff before looking back at the redhead in front of you. “Which one should we watch?”
You end up watching World War Z, a random pick since you had already spent an hour browsing what to watch.
Throughout the entire movie, it consisted of Rowan asking questions, and getting scared since she had never watched the film before, and also the two of you thirsting over Brad Pitt, until one moment you mentioned that Dunk sort of resembles him, which earned you a loud, annoyed groan from Rowan.
After the film ends, you remain silent, dazed. Then, you speak. “I have to get my stuff from his apartment.” You say and look at Rowan.
“When does he come back from Storm’s End?” Rowan asks.
“Well, he’s supposed to return tomorrow, but I have the keys to his apartment.” You state.
“Then we can pass by his apartment tomorrow and pick up your belongings.” Rowan says and you nod.
The day after, you awake with a headache, but you do not fuss. You pop some pain relievers and eat breakfast alongside Rowan who was already up and thriving.
“What things do you need from Dunk’s apartment?” Rowan asks, stuffing herself with the pancakes she made for both of you.
You pause and think. “Clothes. lingerie, toothbrush, makeup, shit like that.” You shrug, taking a bite from your pancake.
“You keep lingerie in Dunk’s apartment? Doesn’t he have a pervy roommate?” Rowan questions and you chuckle.
“Aerion?” You laugh. “He’s weird as hell but I don’t think he’s a perv. Can’t fucking stand him, though.”
“Then sit on him.” Rowan mumbles as she takes a sip from her drink. You shoot daggers at her.
“I heard that.”
She gulps and shrugs. “Hey, all I’m saying is… Dunk did it with an unknown bitch, what better way to take revenge than doing the same with his roommate.”
“No! Rowan, ew!” You scoff. “I’m trying to be the bigger person here. Revenge? What the hell?”
“I thought you said you wanted to murder him last night.”
“Well…” you gulp, shrugging awkwardly. “People change. Shut up.” You continue to eat your pancake and Rowan laughs.
Rowan clears her throat aggressively as you grab your car keys. “You’re going to pick your things up dressed like that?” Her eyes trail over your body, shorts that had your ass peaking out.
“Like what?” She cocks an eyebrow and smirks.
“Mhm, then you say you aren’t going to sit on Aerion?” You roll your eyes and flip her off.
“Fuck you.” You snap, you turn around and you yelp, feeling Rowan’s hand slap your ass hard. “Goddamn!”
“That’s what I can say when you turn around like that.” She exhales sharply and you laugh.
“Shut up! Are you coming or not?” You hold your smile, waiting for her to come outside with you.
As you lock the door to your apartment, you walk side by side with your ginger friend. “I do have a good ass, don’t I?” You smile, and your friend laughs, humming.
You take in a deep breath as you park in the driveway to Dunk’s apartment. “Stay here.” You tell Rowan and she hums.
“She's definitely fucking him.” She mutters to herself, giggling as she watches you walk away.
Upon entering the apartment, you can already smell the scent of marlboro reds and weed. Fuck you hate the smell of weed. Plus, the loud, muffled nu metal playing. You place your hand below your nose to block the stench and head to Dunk’s room.
You begin to open drawers, grabbing your clothes and shoving them in your duffel bag.
Suddenly the music is clear, meaning Aerion had just left his room. You can hear him call out Dunk’s name and you try to hurry before he can enter his room, but, he’s already there.
“Oh! Hey.” You gulp, turning your face to look at him. Pushing away the thoughts Rowan placed in your mind. “Dunk’s not here… he’ll be back soon though. Unless, you’re here for…” he says, looking at you carefully.
“I—I’m picking up some of my stuff.” You say, opening another drawer, when your breath hitches.
“Oh? Why?” He questions, but your state makes him pause. He sees as your lip begins to tremble, eyes wet.
The drawer consisted of pictures of you, memories you and Dunk shared, gifts you have given him over the years, including love notes and many, many pictures of the two of you, hugging, kissing, holding hands, or just normal. You take a deep breath and slam the drawer shut. Your palm quickly covers your eyes. “Fuck!”
Aerion’s eyebrows raise. He doesn’t know what to do, part of him wishes to comfort you, but he doesn’t exactly know how. He just grimaces and sits on the edge of Dunk’s bed. He places a recently wrapped joint between his lips and begins to light it.
You sniffle and shake your head. “Please, don’t light that in here.” You say, disgusted as you hold yourself together.
“This is my house, babe.” He successfully lights it and takes a drag. His gaze travels over your frame, pale eyes firm on your ass, not removing.
You slam your hands on the dresser and turn toward Aerion, marching his way. You mutter a soft “gimme that.” And yank the blunt from his lips and hold it to yours, taking a long drag. Aerion watches, eyebrow held high, he licks his lips, teeth nipping on his bottom lip.
You cough repeatedly, but you manage to catch your breath. “Slow down.” He says softly. You hand him the joint again and sit next to him. You hold your head in your palm, holding yourself. “Do I need to hurt him?” Aerion questions, eyes burning into you while you remain unaware.
“What?” Your eyebrows furrow.
“What the fuck did he do to you?” He asks again, voice rising slightly. His hands find your jaw and he makes you look at him. His eyes were studying your face, searching for a sign of harm.
“It’s none of your business.” You shake your head, licking your lips. You watch him carefully. His stupid platinum-blonde hair was carefully taken care of, and his piercing nicely decorated his eyebrow.
“He cheated on you. How dare he?” Aerion squints his eyes, your nose flares, annoyance and anger flowing throughout your body. “None can compare with you. He’s an idiot. Fuck him.” He says, leaning forward. “He didn’t know your worth, makes him an idiot… a loser.” He shrugs.
 You roll your eyes and look away. “Look at me.” Aerion whispers. His rare, soft tone sends chills down your spine. “That giant cunt doesn’t deserve you…goddess.” He says, placing your hair behind your shoulder, leaning closer. “You need better.” He blows the smoke from his mouth and you laugh.
“Let me guess, you?” You question jokingly, but Aerion’s silence speaks loudly. You swallow uncomfortably, watching him as he takes another drag, eyes firmly on yours. “Duncan is your friend. I’m his girlfriend.”
“Ex.” He corrects, and you raise an eyebrow. “Or is your self-respect so low you’ll take him back?” He spits and you stand still. His words drill into your consciousness. “C’mon… if he got pleasure from somebody else, why shouldn’t you?” His hand creeps over your leg, his fingers brushing your calf gently.
“That’d be immature.” You smile.
“No?” He said. “Defense? Payback? Revenge. Whatever you call it.”
“Little kid shit?” You flash a quick frown, followed by a shrug.
“Then I guess we’re little kids.” Aerion remarks, silence falls upon you. Your eyes stay on each other as the tension grows, smoke clouding the room, the smell of cannabis filling your lungs, and already affecting your way of thinking. The faint sounds of the guitar playing from a song in Aerion’s room is the only thing heard.
You lean to pick the joint from Aerion, but he pushes it away from your hands. “No…” Aerion whispers, his voice so soothing it’s almost sexual. You lick your lips, and his hands cup your face softly. He brings you closer to him, your lips parted from each other beautifully, your lips graze upon each other’s, that’s when Aerion exhales the cloud of smoke into your mouth.
Your pupils blow back at the act, half-lidded staring into his pale ones. You blink slowly, but he doesn’t lean back, he remains with your face in his palm, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. Your eyes analyze him just as his do yours.
Aerion can feel the weed making him act up, even though he was technically already acting up the moment he saw you searching through Dunk’s room. His heart beats at a racing pace, he doesn’t know if that’s the herbal drug, or you.
Your eyes find his lips, and you bite softly into yours. Now, you lean in, and so does Aerion, fully, closing the gap between you, though, he kissed your cheek, and you moved to grab the blunt between his fingers, not kiss him.
You smile when he has a defeated look on his face. You back away from him, leaning down on the bed, your shoulders holding you up. The blunt is held firmly between your fingers as you take in a long inhale.
Your gaze was still plastered on Aerion, who sat at the edge of the bed, while you lay in the center, cocky grin shaping your lips as you removed the blunt from your mouth.
Aerion stays frozen, not knowing what his next move will be. He knows you’re taunting him, teasing him. He knows what you want.
Thankfully, you gave him the green light.
Your knees begin to separate, agonizingly slow, wide enough for Aerion to pass between them. You look at him, eyes squinting as you wonder if he will move or not.
He does. Aerion practically crawls between your legs, he takes you to where you’re basically straddling him. Your faces are mere inches apart. You tilt your head as your hand roams over his shoulder. You take the last drag of the blunt and exhale it. Your fingers flick the blunt away, and you grab Aerion’s face and kiss him.
You don’t waste time, the kiss was rough, messy, no love just pure euphoria. The two of you smile against each other’s lips before getting back together, tongues fighting against each other, the bar from his tongue grazing your teeth, making you smile even more.
Just wait until you tell Rowan about the tongue piercing.
Aerion’s grip on your hips is that of iron, so strong you’re sure it’ll leave marks. You grip onto his tattooed biceps when his lips move to your neck, kissing politely now, lovingly. His cold fingers are traveling up your baby tee, gripping your bare breast, making you let out a soft gasp.
“Holy fu…” You exhale, barely audible, you don’t even think Aerion heard it.
Your hips grind against his crotch, feeling him grow underneath you, you smile as you grip his hair, holding his hand as he continues to massage your breast, lips sucking softly on the skin in your chest.
Aerion lays you down completely, his hands intertwining with yours endearingly as he places them next to you. You break free from one of his hands and move to unbuckle his belt, you remove your mouths from each other so you can see what you’re doing.
Aerion peppers kisses along your face, taking in your scent as he kisses down your jawline once again. You grow more desperate when you finally unbuckle Aerion’s belt, then he places you up once again, your growing heat becoming stronger when you can feel his bulge more clearly now.
Aerion buries himself between your cleavage kissing just between your boobs. You giggle as his kisses, his thumb brushing over each point of your hips. You let out his name softly and Aerion smiles, growing more under at the mention of his name.
Suddenly, the door flies open, your face quickly points to the open door, and a shocked, paralyzed Duncan stood silent at the sight.
You were still straddling Aerion, grinding on him, feeling him up, and desperate to know when he’ll finally he inside you or feasting between your legs. Aerion’s hand was under your shirt, over your tummy while his face was between your breasts, and his belt was unbuckled.
Your neck was red now, bruises growing. Hickeys. You smile widely at Duncan, and Aerion looks up.
You can see the rage grow in Duncan, when his breathing becomes unsteady and when he storms over to Aerion, tearing him away from you. You smile as Duncan throws him to the ground.
“You don’t fucking touch her ever again!” Duncan calls your name as he towers over Aerion who was standing up. “Get out of here. I’ll deal with this.” Your eyebrows furrow in annoyance and you walk over to Aerion.
“No, Dunk. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” You look up at him, watching as the realization hits him like a truck, swallowing his guilt. “Besides, I touched him first.” You lick your lips and chuckle. You grab Aerion’s hand and pick up your duffel bag filled with your clothes.
Aerion places a hand over your ass, looking at you in approval. Before he walks out of the room, he disses Dunk. “I got it from here, mate.” He shoots a wink, that makes Duncan’s blood boil more than it already was.
You look at Aerion and share a smile as you leave the apartment together. Rowan from your car laughs. “Fuckin’ called it.” She claps to herself before sighing.
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader - modern AU (see part 1 here)
Warnings: Targaryen family disfunction, the reader is implied to be kinda nerdy.
You thought the misunderstanding at the Targaryen townhouse would quietly dissolve and be forgotten.
You underestimated Aerion Targaryen’s pride.
He doubled down.
The very next week, as you were staring miserably at your laptop in the Science Complex café, drowning in a spreadsheet for Economic Business Processes, a course you had taken as an elective and regretted immediately, he slid into the seat next to you.
“You’re doing that wrong,” he said without greeting.
You didn’t look up. “I didn’t ask.”
“You don’t have to.”
He reached over, turned your laptop slightly toward himself, and began pointing out inefficiencies in your model with irritating precision.
Economic Business Processes was not your field. You understood systems, not corporate logistics and supply chain frameworks wrapped in jargon. You needed the elective credit, but the course felt like walking through fog while random formulas were being thrown at you.
“You missed a variable here,” he said. “And your risk assessment matrix is linear when it shouldn’t be.”
You clenched your jaw. “I’ll fix it.”
He leaned back. “I’ll help you.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why.”
He didn’t even pretend. “Because you’re helping me.”
“In Cryptography?”
“Hah, funny. No. You’d be surprised how often I let you take the lead.”
You scoffed.
He didn’t smile.
“In return for my help,” he continued, “we study at my house.”
There it was.
You held his gaze. “Your house.”
“Yes.”
You knew why.
He wanted Maekar to see it. To see him sitting at a table, focused, disciplined, tutoring a scholarship student instead of getting dragged out of bars at midnight.
You should have refused on principle.
But you needed straight As.
Your stipend depended on it. You couldn’t afford to lose it.
“…Fine,” you said at last.
The Targaryen townhouse became a second campus.
You arrived in the afternoons, always modestly dressed. You refused to play into the fantasy further than necessary.
Aerion set up in the library, a room lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, leather chairs, and a long polished table that could seat twelve.
He was annoyingly good at both courses. Cryptography, despite not being his major, seemed to come to him naturally. Economic Business Processes, of course, was practically his native language.
He was ruthless about mistakes.
“That’s stupid,” he’d say flatly when you misapplied a formula.
You’d bristle. “Explain it properly then.”
He would. He never withheld knowledge out of spite. He insulted your understanding, not your potential.
It was infuriating.
Yet effective.
One evening, while you were working through a particularly dense assignment, he spoke without looking at you.
“I should have had a position by now.”
You glanced up. “In what.”
“One of our companies. Venture capital. Fintech. Something.”
“You’re still in undergrad.”
“So are half the analysts at some of the firms we invest in.”
He leaned back, frustration tightening his shoulders.
“Since Daeron is apparently hopeless, I assumed I’d be slotted in somewhere. Instead, my father says I’m immature. That I need to finish my Bachelor’s and Master’s before he’ll consider it.”
You closed your laptop slightly. “That’s not unreasonable.”
“It’s archaic.” He ran a hand through his hair. “He thinks I don’t take anything seriously.”
You studied him. “Do you?”
He shot you a look. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
That was the point.
You were here. And he was using that.
The next time Maekar passed through the library and saw the two of you buried in textbooks, Aerion didn’t look up. Didn’t posture. Didn’t brag.
He simply continued explaining an economic model in measured tones.
It was calculated. You realized you were an example. Proof. 'See? I can sit still. I can focus. I can commit.'
When Maekar left, you raised an eyebrow. “You’re using me shamelessly.”
He didn’t deny it. “You benefit too.”
You sighed.
He wasn’t wrong.
“Once I have a position,” he added casually, “I’ll put in a good word. You can intern. If you don't fumble it, they'll most likely hire you afterwards.”
You blinked. “I don’t need charity.”
“It wouldn’t be charity. It would be merit.”
You didn’t respond.
But the offer lingered.
Slowly, the townhouse stopped feeling like enemy territory.
You met his siblings properly.
Daeron, sober, was nothing like the slurring figure from that night. He was quiet. Soft-spoken. There was a strange gentleness about him, and a tendency to make self-deprecating jokes. He asked you once about your home country with genuine interest.
Daella and Rhae were more observant, amused by Aerion’s attempts at maturity. They liked you almost immediately, perhaps because you didn’t fawn.
Egg, still young, still finishing secondary school, followed you around and stared at you with open curiosity.
“Aemon’s in Oldtown,” Daella told you one afternoon. “Studies there. He loves missing family chaos.”
You found yourself laughing more than you expected.
Aerion monopolized your time. If you studied in the library on campus, he’d text. If you stayed late in the lab, he’d “coincidentally” be there.
But he never touched you unnecessarily. In front of his father, he played the role of a boyfriend without physical theatrics. No hand-holding. No overt intimacy.
Maekar, fortunately, was not the type to pry into romantic details. But he was old-fashioned.
One evening, you arrived to find Maekar seated at the dining table with a newspaper. The zipper of your rucksack got stuck and you were trying to discreetly wrestle with it.
He looked at Aerion. “You have bought her nothing, haven't you, boy? I've yet to see anything.”
Aerion froze. “It’s not...”
“You bring a girl into this house and you don’t even give her a proper gift?” Maekar’s tone was cutting. “What are you teaching Egg?”
Your face burned.
“It’s not necessary,” you tried quickly.
Maekar waved you off. “It is.”
The next day, Aerion handed you a designer bag.
You recognized the brand immediately. It cost more than your entire semester’s rent.
“No,” you said flatly.
“Yes.”
“I can’t accept this.”
“You can.”
“I won’t.”
He stepped closer and shoved it into your hands.
“Keep it,” he said through his teeth. “Or I’ll buy something worse.”
You kept it because you didn't want Maekar to hear that you rejected his son's gift.
Then came the earrings. Gold. Small rubies set delicately, understated but unmistakably expensive.
“Aerion.”
“Just wear them.”
You glared at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you look ridiculous in that cardigan.”
You looked down at your outfit. It was a perfectly normal cardigan.
“Stop insulting my clothes.”
“They’re tragic.”
“At least they’re mine.”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I need to buy you new clothes.”
“No.”
“I cannot be seen next to you in...in grandma turtlenecks.”
“They’re warm!”
“You’re not eighty.” He looked genuinely offended by your resistance.
“I am not letting you buy me an entire wardrobe,” you said firmly. “I don’t need expensive cashmere to exist.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Scowled.
The insults continued regardless.
“Why do you button everything to the throat.”
“Because I like it.”
“It’s tragic.”
“You’re dramatic.”
Sometimes he’d snap, “That’s stupid,” when you struggled with an assignment.
When you stared at a particularly dense formula and muttered in frustration, he said flatly, “You’re being stupid.”
Your head snapped up. “I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were. I said you’re being.”
“Same difference.”
You rubbed your temples, exasperated.
He watched you for a long second.
Then, without warning, he leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to the furrow between your eyebrows.
Right where your frown had settled.
As if smoothing out an error.
You froze.
He pulled back just as quickly.
“Stop doing that,” he muttered. “You look like you’re about to cry over modular arithmetic.”
You stared at him. “What was that?”
“You were overthinking.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He ignored you and sat back down. “Focus.”
Your face felt hot.
You didn’t mention it again. But the place between your eyebrows tingled long after he’d returned to insulting your cardigan.
You realized you’d left your charger approximately twelve seconds after sitting down at your desk on Friday evening.
Your laptop blinked at you in accusation.
You stared at it.
You had an entire weekend of studying planned. The old, overheated, poor excuse of a laptop would not last you more than an hour.
Your charger was still plugged into the outlet beside the leather sofa in the Targaryen library.
You closed your eyes.
Then you texted Aerion.
You: I left my laptop charger at your place. I need it to study this weekend. Could you bring it to me? Preferably soon, please.
He didn’t respond immediately.
You paced your small apartment.
It was one bedroom, compact kitchen, a desk tucked by the window. Clean. Organized. Rent barely within your range.
Your phone buzzed.
Aerion: I’m on my way.
You assumed that meant he’d text when he arrived so you could go downstairs and grab it.
You had changed into pajamas as soon as you'd gotten home, loose long-sleeved cotton shirt and matching long pajama pants. You figured you'd just put your coat over it when you'd go downstairs.
You were washing the coffee mug when the doorbell rang.
You frowned.
Aerion hadn’t texted.
You shuffled to the door and opened it without thinking.
He stood there. Black coat. Dark jeans. Hair slightly wind-tossed from the evening air.
He took one look at you and swore. “Are you shitting me?”
You blinked at him. “What?”
He stepped inside automatically, holding your charger loosely in one hand. His eyes dragged over your pajamas like you’d committed a personal offense.
“You’re going to bed like that?”
“Yes?”
“Covered from head to toe?”
You frowned. “It’s still early spring.”
“I’m starting to fear,” he muttered, “that you won’t show a sliver of skin even in summer.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then realisation flickered across his face.
He straightened slightly.
“I don’t actually care,” he said abruptly. “If you show skin or not. Or if you’re…ashamed to. Because of scars or something.”
Your eyebrows drew together. “I’m not ashamed.”
He looked almost irritated with himself. “I know. I mean...it wouldn’t matter.”
You tilted your head.
“It’s genuinely just a preference,” you said calmly. “I like being covered.”
To prove it wasn’t insecurity, you rolled up the sleeves of your pajama shirt casually.
“See? Nothing tragic.”
He stared at your forearms like they were scandalous.
Then he laughed under his breath. “You take everything too literally.”
“What does that mean?”
“There are a million ways you could’ve used my words to attempt flirting.”
You crossed your arms. “I will not entertain ridiculousness.”
Aerion's mouth twitched.
You hadn’t protested him stepping into your apartment. You hadn’t protested when he placed the charger on your desk. You didn’t protest when his hands slid to your hips.
His arms wrapped around your waist and squeezed, more testing than crude. You went still.
He leaned down and kissed you.
Your hands remained at your sides for half a second too long before you remembered you had them.
He pulled back first.
“You’re right,” he muttered. “I am being ridiculous.”
He stepped away as abruptly as he’d stepped in. “Goodnight.”
And then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
You stood in the middle of your apartment in cotton pajamas, charger on your desk, lips still tingling.
You stared at the door.
Then you grabbed your phone.
Kiera picked up on the second ring.
“Aerion is insane,” you whisper-yelled into your phone in order to not disturb the neighbors.
“Tell me everything,” she demanded immediately.
“He brought my charger,” you said blankly.
“And?”
“He insulted my pajamas.”
“Standard.”
“He said he fears I won’t show skin even in summer.”
Kiera snorted. “And?”
“And then he said he doesn’t care if I show skin or not.”
There was a pause.
“Oh,” Kiera said, delighted. “So he already finds you good-looking.”
“He did not say THAT! And then he said I take everything too literally and that I could’ve flirted with him.”
“Correct.”
“And then he kissed me.”
Silence. Then a shriek.
“He WHAT?”
“He kissed me and then said he’s being ridiculous and left.”
Kiera’s laughter echoed through the phone.
“Men,” she declared, “are idiots.”
“I need a more detailed explanation.”
“Okay,” she said, shifting into analysis mode. “He likes you.”
“He insults me.”
“He insults your clothes. Not you.”
“He calls me stupid.”
“He calls you stupid when you’re being stupid. That’s different.”
You frowned.
Kiera was not deterred. You could imagine her gesturing wildly. “He came to your apartment on a Friday night immediately after you texted him. He didn’t make you come downstairs. He wanted to see you.”
“In pajamas?”
“Especially in pajamas.”
You paced. “He said I could’ve flirted.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“Why would I?!”
Kiera groaned dramatically. “Because he was practically begging you to!”
You pressed your lips together. “I don’t understand what’s happening in his brain.”
“It’s very simple,” Kiera said. “He wants you. He also wants to win against his father. But he wants to win against himself. So he’s being dramatic about it.”
“He left.”
“Because he probably scared himself.”
You stopped pacing. “…Scared?”
“Yes. You’re not like the girls he’s used to. You don’t throw yourself at him. You don’t flirt back. You don’t melt when he buys you things.”
You glanced at the designer bag sitting untouched in your closet.
“He kissed me,” you said again, quieter.
Kiera’s tone softened. “He’s confused. And so are you.”
You looked down at your sleeves, still rolled up.
You rolled them back down slowly.
“I don’t like ridiculousness,” you muttered.
Kiera laughed gently.
“Too bad. You’re apparently dating a Targaryen.”
Part 3: pending...
a/n: My inbox and messages are open for commissions. You can also donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: I honestly cannot remember who wanted to be on every Aerion fic taglist and who on just the Growing Strong series taglist. Hope you guys like the fic. But if you don't, just comment a literal dot, just this - . , and I will remove you from this series' taglist. Hope I made it easier for you to just comment a dot instead of writing a message. If you do want to be added to the taglist, comment that you do and I'll add you.
synopsis. your frantic search for aegon continues as uncomfortable truths surface and you realize that perhaps you never stood a chance of surviving among the dragons.
word count. 9.8k
warnings. smoking, dysfunctional family dyanmics, english is not my first language so sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes
note. there is A LOT of stuff going on in this chapter, be prepared, and do not fret it’s not the last one!! as always hope you enjoy reading🤍 ( and sorry to everyone who I forgot to tag!!)
previous part.
When you arrived in King’s Landing for your first year of university, the city did not greet you gently.
It nearly swallowed you whole.
The descent into King's Landing International Airport had been turbulent, and you had gripped the armrest like it might detach and send you spiraling into the Narrow Sea. You had cried somewhere above the clouds, quiet and ugly tears streaming down your cheeks you hoped the man beside you would mistake for fear of flying. It wasn’t that.
It was the weight of leaving.
You could still vividly picture your mother’s hands at the departure gate. Your father pretending not to cry. Your childhood bedroom back home, now stripped of any remnants of you living there.
As you got off the plane the late august breeze greeted you, slightly ruffling your hair. You were in a t-shirt and shorts. It was still warm in King’s Landing at that time.
As you walked through the security check and went through passport control you noticed how the airport was way too bright, too loud and too alive.
Announcements echoed in three languages. People moved with the brisk confidence of those who belonged there.
In the middle of it all you stood still for a second too long, two oversized suitcases at your sides, backpack digging into your shoulders and your entire life compressed into a few small bags.
You had made it.
—
The Uber ride into the city was obscenely expensive, but you didn’t care. You’d rather pay a ridiculous amount of money than drag your things through public transport while navigating a city for the first time.
You watched King’s Landing through the cab window, unfolding like a fever dream in front of your eyee, you had dreamed about this since you were a little child.
Glass skyscrapers glinting in the late afternoon sun, old stone buildings squeezed between new steel monstrosities, golden banners hanging from lampposts in honor of some political gala you would later learn was hosted by the Targaryens. The Blackwater shimmered in the distance like molten glass.
You pressed your forehead to the window.
This was the Capital. This was where everything happened. And somehow, you were here.
When the car dropped you off in the district you’d be living in — not quite glamorous, not quite grimy, somewhere in the liminal middle — you nearly cried again. This time from exhaustion or relief you weren't quite sure.
The building you would call home for the next four years wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t grand. It was narrow and slightly crooked, brick darkened by years of rain. But it was yours.
You dragged the suitcases up three flights of stairs because the elevator was “temporarily out of service,” a sign that would, as you would later discover, never be removed. By the second floor you were sweating. By the third you were bargaining with the Seven.
Your landlord arrived fifteen minutes late. He was an older man with a round belly, who smelled faintly of cigar and sweat. He inspected you suspiciously as if making sure you weren’t some kind of hooligan.
After deeming you respectable he croaked out the few rules you had to follow, notified you when he’d come for the rent and handed you over the keys.
He wobbled down the hallway and disappeared down the stairs.
You stood there with the key in your hand, giddy with excitement.
Inside, the apartment was painfully bare. There was a bed in what you presumed would be your new bedroom. A tiny table in the living room. A kitchenette that looked like it could combust if you boiled pasta too aggressively. White walls that felt too big for your small existence.
You stood in the doorway, chest heaving, hair sticking to your neck.
And you whispered to the empty room, almost shyly. “I’ll make you mine.”
You promised yourself you’d fill it with thrifted lamps and mismatched mugs and music playing at midnight. You’d study at that tiny table until your eyes burned. You’d cry here. Laugh here. Fall in love here, maybe.
You didn’t know with whom. You didn’t know how. But you knew this was the beginning.
—
Your first morning at King's Landing University felt like preparing for war.
You woke up before your alarm. Your stomach churned violently. You brushed your teeth twice because you were convinced your breath smelled like anxiety. You changed outfits three times. You applied an appropriate amount of makeup, that hopefully wouldn’t melt off in the heat.
You googled “how to not look like a first year” and immediately closed the tab because every suggestion required money you did not possess.
What if you got on the wrong bus? What if you misread your schedule? What if everyone else already had friends?
What if you embarrassed yourself so spectacularly on day one that the humiliation echoed for four years and you’d have no friends and you would be miserable for the rest of your life?
Your brain was cruel like that.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink. Your hands were trembling.
“Stop,” you whispered to yourself.
You were not a coward. You had moved across the country. You had boarded a plane alone. You had survived airport security with two overweight suitcases and dignity mostly intact.
You could survive a campus.
—
The bus ride was chaos. You missed your stop the first time and had to circle back, cheeks burning as if anyone noticed. You clutched your phone tightly, the KLU digital map glowing like sacred scripture.
When you finally got off at the right stop, clutching your bag for dear life you saw the campus gates looming in the distance.
They were massive, wrought iron intertwined with golden accents, the university crest etched proudly at the center.
Beyond them sprawled a city within a city — modern glass lecture halls, older ivy-covered stone buildings, fountains spraying water into the air like something out of a film.
It was enormous and terrifying at the same time. Labyrinthine.
You stepped through the gates. And that’s when something in you shifted.
There were people everywhere. Not uniformed rich kids, not polished crownlanders like you had feared.
There were students with sun-darkened Dornish skin and silver jewelry that chimed when they walked. Tall Northmen wrapped in oversized sweaters despite the killing heat. Girls speaking rapid Braavosi into their phones. A group of Dothraki boys laughing loudly, all sharp cheekbones and braided hair. Stormlanders in athletic jackets. Someone wearing a Myrish band tee.
It was chaos and it was beautiful.
And no one was looking at you. No one cared about you.
Your heartbeat slowed.
For the first time since landing, the weight on your chest loosened. You were a stranger here — yes — but so was everyone else in some way.
This city did not revolve around you. Your awkwardness was not revolutionary. You could be anyone you wanted to be.
You stared at your phone again, trying to locate the building for your first lecture. The name of your professor glared back at you:
Lyonel Baratheon.
The surname alone felt intimidating. You'd imagined some ancient, booming-voiced academic who’d chew up first years for breakfast.
You were navigating the map on your phone trying to get to class when— you aggressively bumped into someone.
The collision was abrupt and humiliating.
“Oh shit!” you yelped as your phone slipped from your hand and clattered against the pavement.
You bent down instantly, mortified.
“I’m so sorry, I—” Your eyes immedieately shot up to your unfortunate victim as heat spread to your cheeks.
The girl in front of you looked like she’d stepped out of an art exhibit.
Bubblegum pink hair fell in glossy waves around her shoulders, the color vivid against her deep brown skin. Her eyeliner was sharp enough to draw blood. She wore layered gold jewelry and a denim jacket splattered with paint like it had stories to tell.
She was stunning. Not in an intimidating way. Just… radiant. For half a second you were sure she’d snap at you. But instead, to your utter relief she laughed.
It wasn’t mean or annoyed liked you had expected it to be. On the contrary it was warm and bright and conspiratorial.
“It’s all right,” she said, voice lilting with an unfamiliar accent you couldn’t quite place but loved immediately. “Let me guess. First year? Wandering around wondering where the seven bloody hells you’re supposed to be?”
You blinked. “Yeah,” you admitted, scratching the back of your neck. “Right on the spot.”
She snorted. “Same.”
You both stood there for a moment, awkward and smiling.
“I don’t really know anyone here,” she added, glancing around as if hoping a familiar face might materialize.
“Me neither,” you croaked out, equal parts embarrassed and relieved.
There it was. The shared vulnerability. The invisible thread.
“What class are you heading to?” she asked, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder.
“Um — hold on.” You fumbled with your phone, unlocking it quickly. “Professor… Lyonel Baratheon.” You said it like you were invoking a curse.
Her eyes widened dramatically. “Oh shit! Me too!”
“Seriously?”
“Yes! Oh thank the gods,” she groaned dramatically. “I was about to cry in a bathroom stall if I had to walk in alone.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
“We should go together,” she said decisively. “At least if we get lost, we’ll be ditching first day together. You know like…solidarity!”
“Solidarity,” you echoed, grinning.
She extended her hand suddenly, as if remembering something important. “Oh by the way I’m Kiera. Kiera of Tyrosh.”
Tyrosh. That explained the color.
You shook her hand and gave her your name, feeling something click into place in your chest — small but certain.
The two of you began walking, eyes darting between the digital map and the physical world, narrating your confusion like sports commentators.
“Is that the humanities building?”
“No, that says engineering.”
“Why is everything so far apart?”
“Because they obviously hate us.”
You missed one turn. Then another. At one point you almost walked into the fountain.
But you were laughing. Actually laughing.
By the time you finally stood outside the correct lecture hall — slightly out of breath, slightly flushed — the anxiety that had threatened to swallow you whole that morning had thinned into something manageable.
Students were filing inside in clusters. You hesitated.
Kiera nudged you gently with her elbow.
“Ready?”
No. But also — yes.
You took a deep breath.
And together, with the girl you had just met fifteen minutes ago, you stepped through the doors of Lyonel Baratheon’s class for the very first time, unaware that this chaotic, pink-haired collision would become one of the most important friendships of your life.
And just like that, your life in King’s Landing truly began.
—
Same lecture hall. Same slanted seats that made your back ache if you leaned wrong. Same faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Same professor.
But everything was terribly different.
Kiera wasn’t beside you anymore — hadn’t been since she’d dramatically dropped the class halfway through second year, declaring that she refused to let “a man with that much main character energy grade her essays.” You could almost hear her whispering commentary in your ear now, something irreverent and comforting.
Instead, the seat next to you was empty. And your leg would not stop bouncing.
At the front of the hall stood Lyonel Baratheon, as enigmatic as ever.
His curls were particularly unruly today, dark strands falling into his eyes as he paced in front of the whiteboard. Small silver hoops glinted in his ears when he turned his head. He wasn’t tall. He wasn’t broad. He didn’t resemble the stag of his ancestral sigil in any obvious physical way.
But spiritually? He was all storm.
Not because of the volume which he spoke, in truth he never shouted. Not in intimidation either, he didn’t demand impossible workloads or assign heaps of homework.
No, his storms came in passion. In the way his hands moved when he explained something he loved. In the way his voice sharpened when discussing injustice or softened when describing history like it was something alive and breathing.
He genuienly cared. Which was more than could be said for professors like Ashford, who taught like he was reading off a teleprompter in his own head.
Normally, you adored this class. Today however, you could not absorb a single word.
Your heartbeat had not steadied since dawn. Since Daeron’s name had flashed across your phone screen while you were still half asleep.
Since his voice filled with a strange unease — had said, We can’t find him.
Aegon was gone. He had left his phone behind. Hadn’t packed a bag. Hadn’t told anyone.
Just… gone. Your stomach twisted again at the memory.
A part of you clung desperately to the logical angle — he hadn’t planned anything elaborate. He hadn't take anything with him.
No clothes missing. No food taken. That had to mean something. He was a smart boy. Impulsive, yes. Moody. Dramatic in the way only a ten year old Targaryen could be.
But he wasn’t reckless.
Still, he was alone in this cavernous city. He could be anywhere.
Some grimy bar in Flea Bottom or on a bus north to Winterfell for all you knew. Wandering the Blackwater docks or sneaking into a sept. Thought you highly doubted that last option.
The endless possibilities clawed at your brain.
You kept your phone face-down on the desk in front of you. If you turned it over, you knew you’d refresh your messages every thirty seconds. You’d stare at the screen willing it to magically light up.
So you didn’t look. And yet you didn’t listen either.
Lyonel’s voice washed over you in waves — articulate, animated, entirely wasted on your fraying focus. Your pen hovered uselessly above your notebook. Your handwriting, when you tried, came out crooked and illegible.
The minutes dragged. Every second felt swollen, spanning into one infinite loop.
A class you once cherished now felt like deliberate torture. Like being trapped behind glass while your house burned and all you could do wass watch.
You checked the clock mounted above the door. Three minutes left.
Your leg bounced harder. And then finally —
“Alright,” Lyonel’s familiar voice rang out, cutting through the haze. “I’m expecting the assignments to be handed in by this time next week.”
A chorus of groans erupted around you. “Now now, I told you all about this three weeks ago. No excuses.”
You shoved your notebook into your bag. You needed to move. To call someone.
Kiera? She was probably in class too, but at least she’d answer on the first ring.
Daeron? He was probably trying not to die from a hangover.
Maekar? The thought alone made your pulse spike.
You didn’t know. You just knew that sitting still was impossible. You were halfway to the aisle when—
“Miss.” Your name followed, precise and unmistakable. You stopped mid-step and turned, jaw tight. Your patience was running thin.
Lyonel was leaning casually against his desk, one eyebrow arched in that infuriatingly perceptive way.
“Yes, professor?” You couldn’t quite keep the edge out of your voice.
He tilted his head at your tone. “Has my class bored you?” If this were any other day, you would have probably laughed.
“Of course not,” you replied quickly, adjusting your bag strap. “It’s just—”
He straightened a little, studying you now. Not accusatory, just assessing.
“You were not listening to a word I said the entire lecture,” he said calmly. “I tend to notice when my best students stop engaging.”
Your throat tightened. That word — best — landed heavier than it should have.
“It has nothing to do with the topic,” you said. “I’m just… busy.”
Busy was certainly one way to describe a missing Targaryen heir.
His gaze lingered on you a moment longer. You could see the storm gathering behind his eyes — not anger, but concern.
He didn’t believe you. But thank the gods, he didn’t press.
“Well,” he said after a pause, pushing off the desk, “the reason I stopped you wasn’t to interrogate your academic devotion.”
You blinked, not sure where this was heading.
“The student exchange application from Sunspear arrived this morning.”
For half a second, you just stared at him. Your eyebrows squinted.
The what?
And then your brain placed it.
Back at the beginning of the year — in one of those restless, impulsive moods where you felt suffocated by routine — you had applied for the exchange program in Dorne. Hosted in Sunspear. A semester under the Dornish sun. Slower pace of life. With new professors and a new perspective.
You had told yourself you needed the warmth. A change that would do you some good. Distance from King’s Landing’s grim relentless pulse.
You had filled out the application at two in the morning and almost forgotten about it entirely. Ninety percent of you had assumed you wouldn’t get in.
Apparently, you had.
“Oh,” you said dumbly. You should feel ecstatic.
People fought for these spots. Kiera had once joked she’d commit mild crimes for a term in Dorne. The opportunity meant prestige and valuable experience. A different academic network.
It meant escape. Instead, all you felt was the frantic need to leave this building and start searching for Aegon.
Lyonel’s voice softened, losing its teasing edge. “I hope you won’t pass up on this opportunity because of… whatever is weighing on you so heavily.”
Your chest tightened.
Were you really this transparent? Or maybe he just saw too much.
“I’ll… think about it,” you managed.
But not now.
Now there was a missing boy with too many feelings and a tendency to do impulsive, stupid things.
Now there was an entire dragon family in quiet panic. Now there was no room in your brain for sun-drenched courtyards and Dornish lectures.
Lyonel nodded slowly, as if accepting the answer for what it was — insufficient, but honest.
“Very well,” he said.
You didn’t wait for his dismissal. You turned and hurried up the aisle, heart hammering, fingers already reaching for your phone before you’d even cleared the lecture hall doors.
The corridor outside suddenly felt too bright. Too normal.
Students were laughing outside. Complaining about assignments. Discussing their lunch plans.
And somewhere in this sprawling, indifferent city — Aegon Targaryen was missing.
The sky above King’s Landing was painfully blue. How could the world look so normal?
You descended the stone steps two at a time, heart hammering. You had left behind Dorne and exchange programs with Lyonel Baratheons classroom. None of that mattered right now.
Aegon was still missing.
You pulled out your phone, thumb hovering.
You had mentally decided that calling Kiera would be your best and safest option.
You pressed her contact. It rang twice before she picked up.
“Hey.” Her voice was steady. Grounding.
“Hey—what’s up? Any news of Aegon?” The words tumbled out too fast as you pushed through the crowd of students.
“Unfortunately, no,” she replied, and you could hear street noise behind her. “Valarr’s dad told us to meet at Maekar’s. They’re trying to handle the situation.”
Of course he had. You hadn't doubted for a single moment Baelor Targaryen would be the voice of reason in all of this.
He was always calm and measured about these things. Endlessly strategic. He was the second most important man in the family after Daeron the Good for a reason.
You exhaled shakily.
“Where are you right now?” Kiera asked.
“Still on campus. Just finished Baratheon’s lecture. I’m… I think I’m skipping the rest of today.”
The words felt foreign on your tongue. You never skipped class.
“Okay,” she said simply. No teasing comment. No mock gasp of academic betrayal this time. “Wait at the front. Me and Valarr will pick you up.”
“Okay.”
You ended the call and stood near the iron gates, people brushing past you, their conversations blurring into white noise.
You opened your messages. Aegon’s name stared back at you.
You knew his phone wasn’t on him. Daeron had said it was still on his desk.
But you typed anyway.
You
hey egg. bad time to disappear. you’re kind of giving us all a heart attack.
You stared at the blinking cursor.
You
please come home.
Your fingers hovered. He wouldn’t read it. Not now, maybe not ever.
What were you trying to accomplish? To ease the guilt clawing at your chest, to ease the storm in your mind? A poor attempt that you had reached out?
Before your thoughts could spiral further, a car screeched to a halt in front of you.
A sleek black Mercedes benz pulled up beside the curb where you were standing.
The passenger window rolled down and Kiera’s bubblegum pink hair spilled into view. “Come on, get inside.”
You didn’t hesitate.
The door opened and you scrambled in. Normally you’d admire the interior , the soft leather seats, the ambient lighting, the faint scent of expensive cologne that lingered in the air.
Right now, you barely registered it.
Valarr was behind the wheel, his posture straight, hands steady on the wheel. He had inherited his father’s composure — that terrifying ability to compartmentalize even under pressure.
“So,” he said after you muttered your greetings, eyes fixed on the road. “Did he say anything? Any indication he’d want to run away?”
You swallowed.
“No. We just… we talked about Dyanna before I left.” Your voice softened at the name. “But I didn’t think he’d run away because of that.”
Valarr’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. The car fell quiet for a moment.
“Should I have known?” The doubt crept in before you could stop it. “Should I have seen something?”
“No.” Kiera turned in her seat sharply, fixing you with a stern look. “Absolutely not. None of this is your fault. Do not blame yourself for a single second.”
“It doesn’t feel like that,” you muttered, watching the city blur past.
They drove toward the Red Keep district, the buildings growing grander, older, more suffocatingly opulent.
Valarr spoke again. “My father thinks he ran because of the Lannister charity gala tonight.”
You blinked. It sounded like a place for the members of the great houses to drink obscure amounts of alcohol and silently insult each other.
“The what?”
“He probably didn’t want to attend,” Valarr said carefully. “Thought disappearing would get him out of it.”
A gala? Aegon hadn’t mentioned a word about it.
“That would make more sense,” you murmured. “But why wouldn’t he tell me?”
Valarr’s eyes flicked to you in the rearview mirror. “Maybe he felt embarrassed about it. Does that sound like something Aegon would do?”
You hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
The car turned into the long driveway of the Targaryen manor — red stone, manicured hedges, iron gates that whispered old money and older secrets.
You all stepped out at once, the tension thick between you.
—
As you stepped through the entrance door, the house was louder than you’d ever heard it.
Voices were overlapping as footsteps echoed off the wood. The air was heavy with restrained panic.
Baelor stood near the window, phone pressed to his ear. He was dressed in a white shirt and navy vest. “Yes, we have notified them..” He gave you all a nod as you entered, acknowledging your presence.
Maekar sat rigid in an armchair, jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack.
Daeron was slouched on the couch, pale as a ghost and hollow-eyed. Part of you wanted to reach for him and ask him if everything was alright. Even if you knew nothing was.
Aerion was conspicuously absent, likely outside, avoiding the emotional circus.
“Thank the gods you’re here,” Rhae said as Daella lounged nearby. The tension in her shoulders was barely masked by her posture. “It’s kind of a… disaster.”
“Yeah,” you replied quietly, scanning the room. “I can see that.”
“Baelor’s speaking to grandfather — Daeron" Rhae clarified. “He says we need to keep this quiet. No pr circus. It’s better this way. We don’t want all of King’s Landing to know a Targaryen child is alone in the city.”
There were many things left unsaid in that sentence.
To protect the family reputation. You thought bitterly.
“Oh, fuck me,” Maekar muttered darkly from his chair. You looked around at all of them.
“So what do we do?” you asked expectantly. You thought they would have devised some kind of plan by now.
Baelor ended his call and stepped forward. Voice as measured and composed as ever. “What we do is we wait and we stay calm.”
Your eyebrows shot up, turning to look at him. “You’re joking— I mean the kid is missing!.”
“Yes,” Baelor’s voice cut through the air, his mismatched irises not revealing anything. “And the City Watch has been notified. They’re searching. We have to trust they’ll find him. Until tonight’s charity gala—”
When you heard him say the word ‘charity gala’ you snapped. That was it. This was the last straw. The anger burst out of you before you could cage it.
“The lot of you are unbelievable!” Your voice cracked through the room like thunder. "All of you!" All their eyes were trained on you now. “Your son is missing and all you care about is finding him in time for a stupid charity gala?”
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Rhae gulped as Daella watched on in disbelief. Daeron’s lips quirked up in amusement and Kiera opened her mouth to say something but Valarr grabbed her hand.
Maekar scoffed as Baelor pinched his brows. “Get her out of here. She’s clearly hysterical.”
Something in you snapped.
“No, you!” you shot back. “Maybe if you spent less time scowling and more time showing emotional maturity toward your children, they wouldn’t feel the need to disappear!”
The words hung there. Ugly and irreversible. He knew you weren't only talking about Aegon right now. Everyone did.
The way Daeron was constantly in and out of taverns, how the girls always avoided being home as much as possible, how Aemon had decided to leave for Oldtown, how Aerion always strayed into trouble. And now Aegon, missing.
Maekar stared at you, genuinely taken aback at the nerve. He opened his mouth, perhaps to fire you on the spot, would have been reasonable, but no words came out.
The patio door swung open and Aerion strode in, his eyes sharp, assessing the tension in the air.
Baelor sighed, rubbing his temple. “Perhaps we ought to listen to her…” He reluctantly nodded.
Heat flooded your cheeks as the reality of what you’d just said sank in.
“He couldn’t have gone too far,” Baelor reasoned. “We can maybe search the neighborhood.”
“That sounds better than just sitting around,” Kiera added quickly, showing her support. Her hand still interwoven with Valarr’s.
Baelor nodded. “I’ll stay here with the girls for updates. Valarr and Kiera, you go together.”
Daeron shifted, about to speak, but Maekar cut him off and raised a finger at him.
“You. Are not going anywhere boy. I’m keeping you in my sights after that stunt you pulled last eveing.”
His tone was final. Which left you with.
Baelor’s gaze moved to you.
“Aerion and you can check the city center. If he wanted to blend in, that’s where he’d go.”
You and Aerion both opened your mouths to protest but Baelor’s look shut you up instantly.
Great, of all people, him. The one person who hated your guts and who you hated in equal measure. If not more.
To your surprise Aerion grabbed his keys without a word, already heading for the door.
You composed yourself and swallowed your pride. Aegon mattered more than your pettiness right now.
And if that meant searching King’s Landing with the one Targaryen who looked at you like you were an inconvenience. So be it.
—
Aerion’s car was exactly what one would expect it to be.
A black sleek Porsche, low to the ground and gleaming like it had never known dust. The kind of car that didn’t just move through the city, it roared through it.
As you opened the passenger door, a shiver crawled up your spine. Not because of the fine leather interior. But because of him.
You slid into the seat beside him in silence, spine rigid, hands folded in your lap as if bracing for impact. The door shut with a heavy click that felt far too final. You could only hope he didn’t drive you into a ditch out of spite.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
He started the engine. It purred to life smoothly, controlled power, and you rolled out of the manor gates without ceremony.
The silence inside the car was suffocating. It pressed against your ears, against your ribcage. It was charged and volatile, testing both your patience.
You kept your gaze forward, watching the estate disappear in the rearview mirror. Your heart still hadn’t settled from the argument. From Maekar’s scoff and from your own outburst. Would he fire you once he realized what you had done?
Aerion’s jaw was tight, sharp profile illuminated by streaks of sunlight filtering through the windshield. His hands were steady on the wheel.
He looked completely unaffected. But you could tell he wasn’t.
You could feel it.
“So…” you began carefully, more to break the unbearable quiet than anything else. “I think we could maybe start looking near the bay area.”
He didn't respond, he didn't even glance at you.
The city blurred past, ancient stone buildings, café umbrellas, a few pedestrians crossing the street recklessly.
He took a sharp breath through his nose.
“The impudent little idiot couldn’t find a better time to disappear,” he muttered finally, words edged with bitterness.
You turned toward him.“He’s your brother.” You reminded.
The words left you harsher than you had expected.
His mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “He’s an idiot.”
You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your calm. “He’s ten.”
“And therefore incapable of basic reasoning.”
“He’s scared and he's alone,” you snapped before you could stop yourself.
Aerion’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.
“I can’t believe I have to do this,” he continued after a beat, voice low and irritated. “With you of all people.”
You blinked at him. “Why do you hate me so much?”
He didn’t answer. The car’s engine hummed steadily beneath you.
You pressed on. “Did I do something to you? Insult you? Exist incorrectly?”
Still nothing.
You studied his profile — the sharp cheekbones, the cold line of his mouth, the faint scar near his temple you’d only ever noticed in certain lighting.
“Because trust me,” you said, heat rising in your chest again, “I’m not exactly thrilled I have to search for Aegon with you of all—”
“I don’t hate you.”
The words were so out of character you didn't want to believe he was the one saying them. You stared at him dumbfounded. That was not what you had expected.
His jaw flexed before he swallowed, and for a brief, disorienting second, his eyes flicked toward you.
There was something there. Something that had never been there before. Not contempt and not anger. Something sharper. More dangerous and unfamiliar.
You opened your mouth—
And then movement caught your eye through the windshield.
“Wait—do you see that?”
You leaned forward, pointing. Ahead, the central park had transformed into chaos.
Colorful stalls lined the pathways. Banners fluttered in the breeze. A stage had been erected near the fountain as music drifted faintly through the air.
It looked like some kind of carnival. A festival perhaps?
Aerion followed your gaze.
“Reckon he could be there,” you murmured, more to yourself than him.
If Aegon wanted anonymity, distraction, noise loud enough to drown his thoughts and distract him— this would be it.
Aerion pulled into a parking spot along the curb, movements efficient and precise. The engine cut off and the silence returned.
You stepped out into warm sunlight and the distant scent of fried dough and roasted meat filled your senses. Laughter carried on the wind. Somewhere, a child shrieked in delight.
You glanced back. Aerion was still standing by the car, unmoving.
“Are you coming?” you asked.
His expression shuttered instantly, the brief vulnerability from earlier long gone, replaced by the familiar cold.
“I’ll circle the perimeter,” he said flatly.
You sighed. Of course.
“Fine.”
You turned and headed into the festival alone. The air was practically electric.
Stalls sold honeyed pastries and mugs of dark, brewed beer. Children crowded around a puppet show, shrieking at exaggerated dragon costumes. Artists painted faces in swirls of gold and crimson. A group of musicians played something lively and off-key near the center.
You scanned every head of hair, looking for a light blonde buzz. Every slight figure. Every possible little boy.
Your pulse pounded in your ears.
You spotted Tanselle near an arts-and-crafts table, painting what looked like a wooden shield in careful strokes of red and orange. You almost approached her, almost asked if she’d seen a bald little boy trying to look inconspicuous—
But something barreled into you. Or rather someone?
You stumbled backward as a large dog nearly knocked you flat onto the grass.
“Hey—!”
“Thunder!”
The voice shrieking was familiar. Childlike.
Your heart slammed against your ribs and you turned sharply.
There he was. Aegon.
Dressed like any other boy — striped green shirt, loose shorts, slightly dirty and dusty. No expensive clothes. No fine posture drilled into him by etiquette tutors.
Behind him came Duncan the Tall, sprinting in long, frantic strides, two equally massive dogs bounding beside him.
“Thunder, get back here!” Duncan called, breathless.
The dog that had nearly flattened you barked happily and ran back to him.
For a second, you just stood there gaping.
Relief crashed into you so violently your knees nearly buckled.
Duncan reached you first, chestnut hair messy in the sunlight, freckles flushed across his nose.
“I am so sorry!” he blurted. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him—Thunder, sit! Sweetfoot, Chestnut, calm down!” The dogs obeyed instantly, tails wagging furiously.
You barely registered them. “Aegon.” Your voice was breathless.
You crossed the distance in two strides and pulled him into your arms. His face pressed against your stomach.
You squeezed him like you were making sure he was solid, real and warm. Made of flesh and blood and bones and not some strange hallucination of your mind.
He stiffened in surprise, then slowly relaxed in your embrace.
“Are you alright?” you whispered, hands moving instinctively — caressing his head, checking his shoulders, his arms, his face for cuts or bruises.
To your relief you found none.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
But there was something in his eyes. Guilt sparkled in his violet irises.
You swallowed hard, fighting the sting behind your own.
“Don’t do that,” you choked. “Ever again.”
His shoulders sagged slightly.
“The next time you want to get out of a stupid charity gala,” you said more firmly, pulling back to look at him, “you come to me. We figure something out together. You don’t just disappear.”
His lips twitched. But before he could respond—
“I’m sorry—what?” Duncan interjected, staring between you. “Aegon… as in—?”
“Yes,” you confirmed gently. “As in Aegon Targaryen.”
Duncan’s eyes widened in comical horror.
“He told me he was a farm boy!” he exclaimed, pointing at Aegon. “Said his family had goats!” He blurted out.
You turned slowly toward the boy in question.
“Egg.” You gave him a sharp look as if reprimanding him, but you couldn't find it in your heart to be cross with him. Not right now.
He raised his shoulders in exaggerated innocence. A small, guilty grin tugged at his mouth.
“He was very convincing,” Duncan added weakly.
You huffed a shaky laugh, relief still flooding your veins. “I bet.”
“Thank you,” you told Duncan sincerely. “For looking after him.”
He blinked. “I didn’t know I was looking after him.”
“You were,” you said softly. "Believe me."
Aerion silently appeared behind you. His eyes locked onto Aegon instantly. He scowled as his gaze fell upon Duncan.
“Well,” he drawled, voice cool. “Found the prodigal idiot. Or shall I say idiots?”
Aegon rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. You shot Aerion a warning look.
“Let’s go,” you said gently, placing a hand on Aegon’s back.
He hesitated, glancing at Duncan and the three happy dogs. He petted them and promised to meet them sometime and then bid farewell.
You thanked Duncan one last time before giving him a quick hug. He still looked dazed as you led Aegon away from the carnival noise. Poor guy.
—
The walk back to the car was quieter this time. Aegon walked between you and Aerion, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Did you really think no one would notice?” Aerion asked coolly.
Aegon didn’t respond.
“You left your phone,” you added softly.
He kicked at a pebble. “I didn’t want them to track me.”
“We were all terrified,” you swallowed.
That made him glance up.
“Even my father?” he asked, skeptical.
You didn't hesitate. “Everyone.”
That seemed to land somewhere.
Aerion unlocked the Porsche and the doors clicked open.
You guided Aegon into the back seat before sliding into the passenger side again. This time, the silence felt different.
Less sharp and more fragile. Aerion started the engine once more. As you pulled away from the curb, you finally allowed yourself to breathe properly.
You pulled out your phone. Your fingers trembled slightly as you typed a message to Kiera.
You
we found him.
You paused. Then continued.
You
he’s safe, everythings alright. we're together with aerion, going back home.
You hit send. Within seconds, your screen exploded with notifications.
But you didn’t look at them yet. You leaned back in the seat, eyes closing briefly.
Aegon was behind you alive and unharmed. That was all that mattered.
The city rolled past outside the window, golden in the afternoon sun. And for the first time all day, your heartbeat began to slow.
—
The front door had barely clicked shut behind you when the sound of a chair scraping against polished marble echoed through the foyer.
Maekar was already on his feet. The house suddenly felt wrong. Too quiet.
When you had stormed in earlier with Kiera and Valarr, the place had been absolute chaos—voices ricocheting off vaulted ceilings, the twins anxiously chattering between each other, Aerion smirking outside like he was enjoying seeing everyone so riled up.
Now the air was eerily silent once again, as though someone had wiped the house clean of all sound.
Baelor must have left with Valarr and Kiera. The Lannister charity gala was still being hosted tonight ; no doubt they had gone to prepare. Daella and Rhae were likely upstairs in their own rooms, getting ready for the same event.
Maekar crossed the distance between himself and Aegon in three strides.
“What were you thinking?” His voice cracked like a whip against marble. Aegon shrank beneath it.
You noticed, not for the first time, that Maekar never raised his voice thoughtlessly. It was always controlled. Measured. The anger was real, but it was forged, hammered into shape before it ever left his mouth.
“Someone could have taken you,” he continued, now towering over the boy. “Or worse! Do you know what kind of situation you put us in? You’re not some stable boy to go running around wherever you please!”
Aegon’s shoulders curved inward. You felt the urge to protect him somehow, to wrap a hand around him or assure him everything would he alright.
He looked like something fragile, something caught in a storm without shelter.
“I am sorry, Father.”
His voice was small and meek. Almost swallowed by the house. He was shaking like a lear.
Maekar’s jaw flexed.
He turned away abruptly, as if the sight of the boy’s lowered head did something unbearable to him.
And you saw it then, for the first time, the lines carved deep around his mouth, the exhaustion beneath his eyes. Grief had aged him unevenly. There were days he looked carved from iron, almost immovable. And then there were days like this, when he looked like a man stitched together only by heartache.
“Go to your room. Wash yourself,” he commanded at last, quieter now. “We are attending the gala tonight.”
The decree fell final and cold.
Aegon opened his mouth, defiance flickering for half a second but one look from his father extinguished it.
Aegon glanced at you instead. As if asking you for some kind of apology. You just nodded. I’m not mad at you.
Then he disappeared down the hall.
“You too, boy.” Maekar turned to his other son.
Aerion had been leaning in the doorway, silently witnessing the scene, arms folded over his chest. His eyes glittered with something sharp and unreadable. For a moment you thought he might argue as he so often did, unable to resist striking flint against steel.
But Maekar only tilted his head. Warning him not to challenge further.
Aerion said nothing. He merely brushed past you, shoulder grazing yours deliberately, and vanished upstairs.
And then it was just the two of you.
You became suddenly aware of your appearance—the wind-tangled hair, the crease in your blouse, the faint smear of city dust along your wrist. In this cathedral of glass and stone, you looked painfully human.
Maekar remained in the threshold. The house behind him was cavernous. Grand and immaculate as ever.
And in that moment you realized why you felt so uneasy in this house, it was haunted.
Haunted by ghosts and memories.
The picture of Dyanna’s portrait flashed in your mind, the one tucked away in the room just above the sweeping staircase.
Graphite on paper. She was smiling in it, soft almost amused, as though she knew some secret no one else did. Whoever had drawn it had captured her gentleness, the warmth in her eyes.
And you knew the ghost of it followed Maekar everywhere.
“I…” he began. The word seemed foreign in his own mouth.
He glanced toward the stairwell, ensuring no one lingered within earshot. His pride demanded privacy even when he was being vulnerable. Especially then.
“I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.”
For a moment you wondered if you had imagined it. Maekar Targaryen did not apologize. He issued statements, corrections and orders. This is the closest you had ever heard him come to an apology.
You swallowed, shifting on your feet.
“I shouldn’t have said those things either, sir—”
“Please.” His voice frayed. “Just… Maekar.”
The name hovered between you.
You had said it countless times in your mind. To Kiera. In frustration. In quiet understanding. In arguments with yourself about why he unsettled you the way he did.
But never like this.
“Maekar,” you repeated softly, testing the word on your lips.
Something in his gaze shifted.
“And you have nothing to apologize for,” he continued, exhaling sharply, almost laughing at himself. “You were right.”
The admission seemed to cause him physical pain as he winced. “I know I’m not the best father.” His gaze drifted, not meeting yours. “Hell. I don’t even know if I qualify as a good one.”
You absorbed that confession like a septon. Ready to decree mercy.
He pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose, as though staving off a headach or memory.
“I don’t…” His voice faltered. “I can’t.”
He had been raised in a dynasty that worshipped restraint.
In a family where love was implied through expectation, not spoken.
Where sons were shaped and not comforted.
He didn’t know how to love properly.
His affection came out sharpened. He feared softness the way other men feared failure.
“He’s my last son.”
The words were quiet, but they rang with terrible clarity. Not his last in blood. But the last one still untouched by something darker, by his own shortcomings.
Daeron had grown distant. He had lost himself in the dreams and had numbed it all by drinking. Aerion burned too brightly, too cruelly at times. Even Aemon, golden and composed, carried his own private fractures.
Aegon was still unformed clay. His last chance at being a good father.
You stepped closer, careful as one might approach a wounded animal.
“I know,” you said.
His eyes were glass-bright now, though no tears fell. Maekar would sooner break than weep.
“They know you care,” you continued carefully. “But sometimes it’s…” You searched for a word that would not wound him. “…harsh.”
He considered that. You could almost see the machinery of pride grinding against reflection.
“That’s why Dy—” He stopped himself.
The name caught in his throat like a shard of glass. Alas he forced himself to finish it.
“Dyanna… she knew how to handle them. To be… gentle.”
The sketch of the woman with black curls was burned behind your eyelids.
“I don’t know how to be a father and a mother.”
The confession landed heavily between you.
Dyanna Dayne Targaryen haunted this house not through superstition, but through her absence. Every moment, every waking hour of every day.
Her presence lingered in the way Daella folded her hands. In the way Rhae hummed under her breath when she was nervous. In Aegon’s soft heart. In Aerion’s fury. In Daeron's silence. In Aemon's absence. In Maekar’s fury.
“You don’t have to be both,” you said quietly.
He looked at you then, not as an employee. Not as an inconvenience. But as though you were something steadier than the very marble beneath his feet.
And for a moment, the steel left him.
“Perhaps Aegon could stay home tonight,” you suggested gently. “He’s shaken. The gala will only—”
“No.” The walls snapped back into place as if they had never been lowered.
“Aegon is blood of the dragon. His place is beside his family.”
The old creed was back. The armor on him once more. He straightened his cuffs as though adjusting himself back into position, mentally and physically.
You felt something inside you wilt. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” you whispered.
Because you could not soften him if he would not allow it. You could not mother his children while he demanded they be warriors.
He held your gaze one second longer than necessary.
There was something unspoken there. Perhaps gratitude and a pinch of frustration. Perhaps even fear of needing you too much.
He said nothing more. He turned and ascended the staircase.
You watched his back disappear.
You remained in the foyer alone, listening to the stillness.
Soon, doors would open. Suits would be buttoned. Dresses zipped. Faces composed.
And somewhere in the quiet of his bedroom, Maekar would stand before her picture—small and private—and wonder whether he was failing the ghosts as much as the living.
He loved his children fiercely. But love, in this house, was always earned before it was given.
—
You sat on the garden porch with your elbows resting on your knees, staring out at the backyard as though it were a painting you had memorized but still could not fully understand.
The first time you had stood here, the house had felt like a museum—too large, too polished, too aware of your smallness. The stone had seemed colder then. The glass sharper and the silence heavier.
Now it felt… almost familiar.
The pond in the far corner reflected the dying light of the sun, its surface trembling faintly with the breeze.
The purple flowers beside it swayed gently, stubborn little bursts of color against the disciplined geometry of trimmed hedges and imported marble.
The goal post still leaned slightly to the left from when Aegon had collided with it during your first makeshift match. The course he had built stood empty.
He was a good boy.
Sweet-hearted, quick-witted and a little bit wild. Sometimes too smart for his own good.
And you—God help you—you cared for him. More than you had ever cared for anyone’s child. More than you had allowed yourself to care in years.
He had undone something in you. Loosened that invisible rope that was choking you.
He taught you that not everything required perfection. That sometimes you could laugh too loudly. That sometimes it was alright to be messy and barefoot and unapologetically soft.
Your throat tightened.
The sun sank lower, bleeding orange and crimson across the sky like something wounded. The overhead porch light flickered to life with a dull hum.
You wiped your eyes quickly when the door behind you creaked open. You didn’t turn immediately. You already knew who it was.
The footsteps were quieter than Aerion’s, less deliberate than Maekars’s. Slower, almost reluctant. And his presence was undeniable.
You looked up. Daeron stood there, framed in the doorway.
His dirty-blonde hair hung loose around his face, not yet disciplined by whatever gala expectations awaited him. He wore a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled carelessly, dress pants slightly creased as though he’d been sitting too long on that couch in the living room. He had not put on his blazer yet.
The corners of his mouth were upturned in a sad little smile.
His eyes—those unmistakable Targaryen violet irises—held secrets and knowledge far older than he was.
He stepped outside without asking permission and came to sit beside you on the steps. Close enough that your knees almost brushed, not touching. But almost.
The silence between you was not empty. It was crowded with unsaid things. You took in a sharp breath, not knowing how to proceed.
After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette pack, tapping it lightly against his palm.
“Where’d you get that from?” You raised a brow at him. “I thought you were under house arrest or something.”
“Father always keeps a pack in his study room.” He revealed.
“Want one?” he asked. You didn’t smoke and normally you would have refused. Old you would have definitely made some comment about lung cancer and poor coping mechanisms.
But your chest burned in a different way tonight. So you just nodded.
He slid one between your fingers and brought the lighter up, shielding the flame from the wind with his hand.
For a second his knuckles brushed your cheek. The cigarette caught and the smoke curled upward and dissolved into twilight.
He lit his own and leaned back on his hands, staring at the garden. For a while neither of you spoke.
The smoke drifted between you like a ghost. The heavy smell settled into your bones.
“My mother planted those,” he said at last, nodding toward the purple flowers by the pond.
His voice had shifted, it was softer. Stripped of its usual fatigue
“She said they reminded her of back home.” Of Dorne you thought.
The word lingered unspoken but heavy. Warm sands and sunburned terraces and laughter that did not echo in these cold marble halls.
You picked at the skin around your thumb, unsure what comfort could possibly sound like here.
“Now you know the truth,” he continued quietly. “This is who we are. This is our family.”
He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I know it’s hard to believe but… we weren’t always like this. We weren’t always so broken.” The word broken seemed to dissolve into the evening air.
“I’ve always had the dreams,” he added after a pause. “But… my dreams aren’t like yours.”
“Like mine?”
He shook his head faintly. “Yours are hopes. Futures you build in your head. Perhaps memories.”
He looked at you then. “But mine come true.” The air in the garden suddenly felt colder.
You had heard whispers, of course. Of such things as dragon dreamers. But you had never actually entertained the thought as something real. It was more of a good night tale wetnurses told children.
But hearing him say it like this, without any mysticism, with so much pain in his eyes, it made them real.
“They don’t feel like dreams,” he continued. “They feel like memories from a place I haven’t been yet.”
His gaze drifted to the pond.
“I see things." He swallowed.
"Little things, like a broken glass before it shatters or a phone call before it rings" He explained.
"Sometimes bigger things.”
He took a long drag of his cigarette.
“Sometimes I see fire.”
The word sat between you. Not metaphorical fire. He meant real fire.
“I know I’m doomed to hell,” he added with a faint, crooked laugh. “Likely one without wine.”
You didn’t smile. There was something hollow beneath the humor.
“And Aerion,” he went on quietly, “he wasn’t always so cruel.”
You glanced at him, not believing his words..
“He liked fishing,” Daeron said. “And we used to play outside, in this very garden. Pretending we were dragons, ready to conquer the world.”
You searched his face for irony. You found none.
“And then Father made a man out of him,” he murmured. “As he surely he will do with Aegon.”Bitterness laced the words.
“I tried talking to him,” you said hoarsely. "Your father."
Daeron’s mouth twitched, as if knowing what reply to expect. “And?” He offered regardless.
“There’s no point in flogging a dead horse.” You whispered.
He nodded, as though you had confirmed his suspicion. The cigarette between his fingers had burned almost to the filter.
“I dreamt of you,” he said quietly, your hand stilled on the railing.
“Before I met you,” he clarified. “Weeks before.”
“I saw your face,” he said, eyes distant now, unfocused. “I didn’t know your name. Didn’t know why you were there or who you were. You were just… standing in our hallway.”
Your heartbeat quickened.
“I remember feeling warm,” he continued. “Like the sun through a window in winter. And I remember thinking, this must be what angels look like.”
The admission was simple. There was no teasing or seduction in his voice. Just… honesty.
“And then,” he said softly, “a few days later you walked through the front door.”
You swallowed, smoke catching in your throat. So his dreams were real.
“You can’t fix us,” he said abruptly. It wasn't a challenge or an accusation, it was a fact. One he had come to accept a long time ago.
The dragondreamer had seen too much to believe in fairy tales.
But before you could respond, a sharp knock sounded against the glass of the door behind you. It was Aerion.
He stood inside, dressed in a deep red blazer. He gestured sharply for you both to come in.
Daeron didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything more. He merely flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his polished shoe.
You followed suit and stood up.
—
When you stepped inside, the sight before you stole your breath.
Maekar stood at the center of the foyer, immaculate in a black tuxedo. The cut was severe, perfect. His posture unbreakable.
Rhae and Daella wore black and red gowns with silk that shimmered under chandelier light, ornate detailing tracing their waists like something out of an old dynasty portrait. Their white hair pulled into sleek buns.
Aerion looked like a prince of something dangerous.
And Aegon— Aegon wore a suit identical to his father’s, only smaller. A black hat rested atop his head, slightly too large. You knew why.
Your chest ached. They looked perfect. So regal, so untouchable. Like the picture of a dynasty that did not fracture behind closed doors.
But you knew the truth.
“Daeron, fix your hair and put on your blazer,” Maekar commanded without looking at him. “We are leaving.”
The children filed toward the door one by one.
“Our driver will drop you home,” Maekar said to you, voice controlled once more.
“It’s alright,” you replied softly. “I prefer to take the bus.” You were a simple girl after all.
He hesitated. Something flickered in his eyes. Then he nodded, too tired to argue. “Very well.”
The door opened and the cold evening air rushed in. Aegon was the last one to linger.
He looked at you as though memorizing your face. Apology and fear and hope were all tangled in his violet gaze.
“I’ll see you,” you whispered.
But something in your chest tightened painfully and something in your brain was screaming at you. Liar.
—
When you reached your apartment, the hallway light flickered the way it always did.
Usually it would have comforted you—that small, predictable imperfection. The faint hum of the fridge when you stepped inside. The familiar creak of the floorboard near the kitchen. The soft yellow lamp you always left on in the corner of the living room, casting everything in a gentler shade.
The books on your shelf stood untouched, dirty dishes in the sink.
Tonight it felt completely wrong. Too small and too quiet for your loud thoughts.
You locked the door behind you and leaned your forehead against it for a moment, listening to the echo of the latch sliding into place.
The world of dragons and marble and suffocating legacy was on the other side now.
And yet somehow — they were still here with you. In your lungs. In your throat. In your mind and perhaps in the very carvings of your soul.
You moved without really thinking. Brain on autopilot. Out onto the small terrace.
You didn't bother with removing your shoes or your jacket.
The terrace was barely large enough for two chairs and a small rusted table, but you had always loved it.
The city stretched out beneath you in a blur of headlights and neon signs. You had always found serene peace here.
The traffic pulsed like veins. Sirens wailing in the distance. Life, messy and anonymous and ordinary, carried on without dynasties or dragonblood.
You wrapped your arms around yourself tightly and stared down at the moving lights.
And somewhere in that silence, something inside you had already been decided. And the clarity was so terrible you almost didn't want to see it.
The way rot sets in quietly. The way winter arrives not in one storm but in gradual frost.
You loved that boy so much. That was the problem.
You loved him in a way that was beginning to frighten you. In a way that blurred lines and hollowed out parts of you that had once belonged solely to yourself.
You loved him enough to know you could not stay and watch him be reshaped into something harder. Something cruel.
You sighed and slide the balcony door open. It clicked shut behind you as you stepped into the living room.
Your laptop sat on the coffee table where you had left it that morning, dark screen, slightly ajar.
You sank down onto the couch and opened it fully. The glow illuminated your face in pale blue.
You opened your mail and inbox blinked with unread messages. Assignments. Notifications. Reminders that you had another life beyond House Targaryen.
You clicked on “compose.”
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment. Then you began to type.
To: Lyonel Baratheon
Dear Professor, I hope this email finds you well. After careful consideration, I have decided to take part in the exchange program to the University of Sunspear this semester. Please let me know what steps I need to take in order to carry through my full application.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you signed your name.
You didn’t allow yourself to think about Dorne’s heat. Or it’s distance. Or how fitting it was that you would be leaving for the very place Dyanna had once come from.
You opened a second email.
The cursor blinked accusingly.
To: Maekar Targaryen
You swallowed and began.
Dear Sir, I am sorry to inform you that I can no longer continue working for you as Aegon’s babysitter. Due to personal and academic commitments, I will be stepping down from my position effective immediately.
You paused. The words looked sterile. Cowardly.
You deleted the last sentence and rewrote it.
Dear Sir, I am sorry to inform you that I can no longer continue working for you as Aegon’s babysitter. This was not an easy decision, and I am deeply grateful for the time I have spent with your family. However, I believe it is best for everyone if I step away.
Everyone. What a lie. It would not be best for Aegon. It would not be best for you. It would not be best for anyone.
You hesitated again and your vision blurred.
You added one more line before you could stop yourself.
Please tell him I am proud of him.
Your breath hitched the moment you typed it. You quickly erased it.
You closed the email with a simple:
Thank you for the opportunity. Sincerely.
You stared at both drafts on your laptop screen.
You imagined someone else in your place looking after him. Someone colder. Or worse—no one at all.
You pressed your palm against your mouth to stifle the sound threatening to rip from your throat.
You were not his mother. You were not his sister. You were not bound by blood or name or dynasty.
You were a girl with a bus pass and a scholarship and a future that did not include burning with them. And yet the tears spilled over, hot and relentless.
annaxmalina
tangentwithtanner
dededos
blakekathryn
stormborns
pixelskylines
