the x reader "consumers" on tumblr lowk are so entitled, i said consumer bcs these people do nothing to support the writers but complain about FREE fanfics that other people write for FUN and for the LOVE of the game. THEY DON'T OWE YOU ANYTHING.
i'm so tired of you people who can only pressure these writers, make memes, and ridicule them for writing something that was not fit to your standards or liking.
you don't even write or contribute anything to the community, don't even support or atleast reblogs to the writers you actually like.
stop filling the tags with your consistent complaints about the fanfics that obviously wasn't meant for you (not to your liking) and start learn how to write.
this scene broke my writer's block - clingy matt????? yes please???? like, hello i want to squish his cheeks and kiss him all over and ride his abs—i mean... look at this cutie pie. also wrote this instead of doing my academic writing homework. totally worth it
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, gn!reader, clingy!matt, matt is kinda a dork, pet name (sweetheart), matt murdock (yes, he's a warning), fluff, cuddling, 1.3k words
The light in the room looks like it’s trying to be gentle, falling through the blinds in thin bands that drift across the floor as the day moves. Someone left a half-finished cup of coffee on the dresser, and the whole place smells faintly like it. You’re stretched out on the bed with one leg tangled through Matt’s, his arm heavy over your middle like he’s worried you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep a hand on you.
You shift, careful at first, but he notices anyway. His head lifts a little from the pillow, hair messy, shirt still on because neither of you bothered to change, and his hand tightens at your waist like a reflex. “Where’re you going?” he asks, soft but already a little offended by the idea.
“Two feet away,” you say, trying not to laugh as you wriggle free. “I’m putting something on.”
His hand slides off you like he’s resisting the urge to grab you back by the hem of your shirt. You hear the small sound he makes, somewhere between a sigh and a complaint. “Oh, come on,” he says, and there’s no bite to it. It’s whiny in that way that makes your chest go warm. “You were right there.”
“I’ll be right back,” you promise, already crossing the room.
“You’re lying,” he says, like you’ve done this to him a hundred times and he’s never recovered from it once.
You glance over your shoulder. “I am not.”
“You are,” he insists, voice low, the corners of it tipped toward a pout. “You’re going to forget about me. I’ll die.”
“Dramatic,” you call, stopping by the little record player like it’s a ritual. “You’ll be fine, Matthew.”
At the sound of his name, he settles back onto the pillow with a theatrical huff, but you can tell he’s listening in the way his breathing changes, in the way the room feels like it has a line drawn straight from you to him. You flip through the sleeves until you find the one you want, slide the vinyl out, set it down, and lower the needle with a careful hand.
The first crackle pops through the speakers, and then the music blooms into the space, warm and a little scratchy, like it’s been waiting all day for someone to remember it exists. You turn back toward the bed and catch him looking in your direction, head angled like he’s tracking you even without his eyes. His mouth is pressed into a line that’s trying not to be pleased, but it’s failing.
“See?” you say, walking back. “Now it’s nice.”
“It was nice before,” he replies immediately, like that’s the entire point. His hand lifts, palm up, inviting. “Come here.”
You climb back onto the mattress, but instead of settling down where you were, you scoot across the sheets and sit up, facing him. His hand finds your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s soothing himself as much as you.
“You’re clingy today,” you say.
“I’m not clingy,” he says, offended on principle. Then he adds, quieter, like it slips out before he can stop it, “I just like you.”
Your smile turns into something softer. “That’s suspiciously close to being clingy.”
He shifts up on one elbow, leaning closer. “Sweetheart,” he says, and the word is gentle, not a performance. “I had you in my arms and then you left. You can’t do that.”
“I left to put music on,” you remind him.
“You could’ve done it from bed,” he argues, and you open your mouth to ask how exactly you’re supposed to reach across the room with your mind, but he’s already moving, pushing himself upright like he can’t take being separated by even the small distance of a few feet.
He swings his legs off the bed and stands, pausing for a second as if he’s listening to the record, counting the rhythm. Then he turns toward you, holding his hands out with a faint tilt of his head.
“You’re inviting me to dance?” you ask.
“I’m insisting,” he says, and even that sounds tender. “Come on.”
You slide off the bed and step into him, and his hands land on you immediately, one at your waist, the other finding your hand with sure confidence. He draws you closer until your bodies line up, chest to chest, and you can feel how warm he is through the fabric.
“You’re not even pretending you don’t want me close,” you murmur.
He huffs a laugh that vibrates against you. “Why would I pretend?”
The music carries on, slow enough that you don’t have to think about it, and Matt sways with you like it’s instinct. His hand at your waist shifts up and down, mapping you like he’s memorizing you again, and the other hand keeps yours anchored between you both. Every time you try to lean back even a fraction, he follows, pulling you in like the world is a little less sharp when you’re pressed against him. His mouth brushes your temple. “Better,” he says, almost to himself.
You tilt your head, trying to meet his face even though you know he doesn’t need it. “Better than what?”
“Better than you being over there,” he answers, like it should be obvious. His fingers squeeze your waist. “Better than you getting up.”
“You’re going to survive me putting on records,” you say, but your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.
He draws back just enough to find your mouth, kissing you slow, not hungry so much as determined. His hands hold you like he’s making an argument with his touch, like he’s proving a point: stay, stay, stay.
When he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t move far. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing evenly. “Can we go back?” he asks.
You blink, a little dazed, and it takes you a second to understand what he means. “To bed?”
“Yes,” he says, like it’s the most reasonable request in the world. “Please.”
“We’re literally standing right next to it,” you point out, but you’re already smiling.
“That’s not the same,” he replies, and then he shifts his grip in a way that makes your stomach flip. One hand slides under your thighs, the other anchors around your back, and before you can protest, he lifts you easily.
You make a surprised noise, your hands flying to his shoulders as your legs automatically hook around his waist. His arms hold you like you weigh nothing, like you belong there.
Matt grins, and it’s all boyish satisfaction. “There,” he says. “Now you can’t go anywhere.”
“I could still get down,” you tell him, but you don’t sound convincing, and you both know it.
He takes two steps, turning you both toward the bed. Your bodies sway with the movement, and the record keeps playing like it’s cheering him on. He kisses the corner of your mouth on the way, quick and smug. “You won’t,” he says simply.
He backs you onto the mattress, lowering you carefully so you land on the sheets with a soft bounce, and he follows you down immediately. His weight settles over you in a way that’s warm, not crushing, his arms bracketing you like he’s building a shelter out of his own body.
Your legs are still around his waist, and he nudges closer until there’s no space left at all. His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, like he’s satisfied now that he’s gotten what he wanted.
When he finally pulls back, he stays close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips. “Happy?” you whisper.
His hand slides up your side and rests over your ribs, fingers splayed like he’s counting your heartbeat for fun. “Mm,” he hums, and he sounds calmer already. Then, softer, like he’s letting himself have it, he adds, “yeah. Much.”
The record keeps spinning in the background, crackling between songs, and Matt tucks his face against your neck as if the entire world can wait as long as you’re right here.
summary: you had everything figured out, and he let you think that. you thought if you were careful enough, quiet enough, he wouldn’t notice. you forgot who you married. (2k+)
pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!reader
content: modern au, canon divergent, age gap, established marriage, toxic!baelor, obsessive!baelor, baby trap, pregnancy. cw: manipulation, coercive control, plan b being removed without consent, emotional distress, reader who loves someone she has every reason not to
note: this is a continuation of ‘the marriage without exit’. originally was going to keep this as a blurb, but it turned into a one-shot instead. any hate in comments will be deleted and you will be blocked. if you don’t like the tags don’t read.
Elizabeth was gone by the morning after, and he hadn’t even waited for you to ask.
His phone was face-up on the kitchen counter when you came out, the email visible without him offering it. Termination of contract. Sent before he’d even come to find you in the bedroom. He saw you reading it and said nothing, and that was that.
The plan B pills were gone the same morning. You had noticed that too, opened the bathroom cabinet and stood there looking at the empty space where they had been, and understood, with a very cold and very quiet clarity, exactly what that meant. He had taken them while you slept.
He had thought of it before you had, which was the thing about Baelor, he always thought of everything before you did, and by the time you understood what was happening it was already done.
You didn’t tell him you’d noticed. You didn’t say anything. You went back to bed and lay there with your eyes open and thought about your options and came up with very few, and three weeks later your period didn’t come.
You told yourself it was stress. You were good at telling yourself things.
A month after that you were standing in the bathroom at seven in the morning with a pregnancy test in your hand and two lines on it and your back against the cold tile wall, sliding down it slowly until you were sitting on the floor, and that was where he found you.
He came in without knocking, because he never knocked anymore, and he looked at you on the floor and at the test in your hand and his face did something you couldn’t read, something that was complicated and controlled and underneath the control was something that looked almost like relief, which made you want to throw the test at him.
“Get out,” you said.
He crouched down in front of you instead. “Hey.”
“Don’t.” Your voice came out wrecked and you hated it. “Don’t hey me, don’t do that, just get out.”
“I’m not getting out.” He reached over and took the test from your hand, gently, and looked at it, and set it down on the tile beside him, and looked back at you. “Look at me.”
“I don’t want to look at you.”
“I know.” He said it quietly, and his hand came up to your face, and you tried to turn away and he followed you, his thumb catching the tears you hadn’t realised were falling, and you sat on the bathroom floor and cried in a way you hadn’t let yourself cry since the night with the divorce papers, ugly and exhausted and completely undone. “I know,” he said again, low against your hair.
“I should have left you,” you said, into his shoulder, because he had pulled you into him and you had let him, which was the story of your life with this man. “I should have left you months ago. I should have left you the morning after, I should have walked out and never come back, I should have—”
“I know,” he said, for the third time, and his arms were around you and his mouth was at your temple and he was kissing your tears away one by one, slow and deliberate, the way he did everything, and you hated him so completely and so hopelessly that it felt indistinguishable from the other thing.
“I don’t want this,” you said. “I didn’t choose this.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I know that too.”
“Then how can you sit there and—” you pulled back enough to look at him, at those mismatched eyes close to yours, and felt the fury of it move through you fresh. “How can you sit there and hold me like everything is fine when you did this to me. When you planned this. When you knew exactly what you were doing and you did it anyway and now you’re sitting here kissing my face like that makes it okay—”
“It doesn’t make it okay,” he said. Simply, without defending himself, which somehow made it worse.
“Then why,” you said, and your voice broke on it. “Why did you do it.”
He looked at you for a long moment, and his hand was still at your face, warm and certain, and his eyes had that quality they sometimes had, the one that made you feel like he was seeing something you couldn’t. “Because you were going to leave,” he said. “And I couldn’t let you.”
“That wasn’t your decision to make.”
“No,” he said. “It wasn’t.”
You stared at him. “That’s it? That’s all you have?”
“I’m not going to stand here and tell you it was right.” His thumb moved along your jaw. “It wasn’t right. I know that. But you’re here, and you’re not leaving, and that child is ours, and I meant what I said that night. I’m going to be good to you. Both of you.” His eyes hadn’t moved from yours. “I need you to believe that.”
“I don’t,” you said.
“I know,” he said. “I’m going to prove it anyway.”
You looked at him, at this man sitting on a bathroom floor holding your face in his hands, calm and certain and completely unrepentant underneath the apology, and felt the particular exhausted misery of a woman who had run out of road in every direction she turned, and you turned your face into his shoulder because you were too tired to hold your own head up, and he held you, and outside the city moved on without caring, and the test sat on the tile beside you, and you sat there for a long time and did not forgive him and did not let go.
That was how it started. The five months that followed had their own shape.
He was there when you woke up and there when you came home and the late nights stopped and the calls happened in front of you and he painted the second bedroom himself on a weekend in old clothes with paint in his hair and asked which colour you wanted, and you pointed at one without looking, and he painted it that colour, and you sat in the hallway and watched him through the open door and felt your anger being taken apart one quiet gesture at a time and could not make it stop.
He touched you like you were something he was terrified of losing. His hand at your back in the kitchen. His mouth at your temple when he thought you were asleep. The way he spoke to you, low and careful, every word chosen with the knowledge that you were always still deciding something.
You loved him. That was the part that made all of it unbearable. The love hadn’t gone anywhere, it was just sitting in your chest next to everything else, next to the anger and the hurt and the memory of a bathroom floor and two lines on a test, and you could not get rid of any of it and he knew that, and he used it, gently and without stopping, every single day.
But the baby was real. And every morning you woke up and put your hand on your stomach and felt the weight of what he had decided for you without asking, and no amount of careful gestures made that smaller. He had taken the choice. The most fundamental one. And told you it would be okay like it was his to give.
You could not forgive that. You had tried. You were not able to.
You packed the bag on a Wednesday.
Two weeks. Smaller than before, more careful, nothing that would leave a visible gap. Cash, not an account, withdrawn in small amounts from different places over the course of a month, kept in the lining of a coat he never touched. A woman two cities away who had known you before him, who had said on the phone three weeks ago, just come. Whenever you’re ready. Just come.
You had thought of everything.
You had not thought of him.
You had not slept.
You had lain beside him for hours with your eyes closed and your breathing measured and your hand resting on your stomach, and you had listened to him sleep, to the slow steady rhythm of it, and you had waited, and you had been patient, and when you were certain— when the quality of his breathing had been the same for long enough that you trusted it— you moved.
One inch at a time. The exact sequence you had practiced in your head every night for two weeks, which side of the bed, which direction, how to shift your weight without the mattress giving you away.
You made it to the floor. Stood in your bare feet in the dark and watched him and he didn’t move, and you exhaled carefully and reached for the cardigan on the chair and pulled it over your pyjamas, because five months along meant you were cold all the time, and you were not going to let something that small stop you.
The bag was in the back of the wardrobe behind the coats. You had your hand on the strap before you let yourself think about the nursery down the hall, the colour you had pointed at without looking, and you pulled the thought out by the root and kept moving. Coat. Shoes in your hand. Bag on your shoulder. Passport inside it. Cash in the lining. Her address on a piece of paper in the front pocket, written by hand, not saved anywhere he could find.
You had the bedroom door handle in your grip.
“Where are you going.”
His voice came out of the dark behind you and it was not the voice of a man who had just woken up.
You went completely still.
The bedroom was very quiet and very dark and the door handle was cold under your fingers and you stood there and understood, with a clarity that arrived all at once, that he had been awake. That he had been lying there in the dark beside you breathing slow and even and he had been awake the whole time.
You turned around.
He was sitting up in bed looking at you, and the room was too dark to see his expression clearly but you knew it, knew the particular quality of his stillness, and it was not the stillness of a man who was surprised.
“I need some air,” you said.
“You have your bag,” he said.
You said nothing.
“And your coat. And your shoes.”
He got out of bed.
He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He crossed the room slowly and you stood your ground because stepping back felt like admitting something, and he stopped in front of you close enough that you could see his face now, those mismatched eyes in the low light, steady and dark and looking at you with an attention that had no softness in it, just the focused quality of a man who had already decided how this was going to end.
His hand came out and closed over the strap of the bag.
You held on for a moment, then you let go because it was six in the morning and you were five months pregnant and you were so tired, and he took the bag and set it on the chair behind him and turned back to you and the chair was between you and the door and you both knew that.
“You thought you could just leave,” he said. Not a question. His voice was quiet and very even and had something underneath it that made the back of your neck go cold. “Five months pregnant with my child and you packed a bag and thought you could just walk out of here.”
“I can do whatever I want,” you said. “You don’t own me.”
“No.” He looked at you. “But that child is mine. And you were going to take it somewhere I couldn’t find you with cash in a coat lining and an address on a piece of paper.” Something moved across his face, something that was not anger but was considerably more dangerous than anger. “Do you understand what could have happened to you. To it. Alone, six in the morning, five months along, running from your own home.”
“Don’t,” you said. “Don’t you dare make this about my safety when you’re the reason I’m trying to leave.”
“I know why you’re trying to leave.” His jaw tightened. “I know exactly why. And you’re still not going.”
“You can’t stop me.”
He looked at you for a long moment and said nothing, and the silence had more in it than anything he could have said.
“Move,” you said. “Please. Just let me go.”
“I can’t do that,” he said.
“Baelor.”
“I cannot do that.” Low and absolute, the voice of a man who had looked at every option and arrived at one. “You are not walking out of this flat at six in the morning carrying my child to go somewhere I don’t know. That is not happening. Not tonight and not any night.”
“You did this to me,” you said, and your voice cracked on it, and you hated yourself for it, hated how easily you cracked around him even now. “You made this decision without me and you stood there and told me it would be okay and now you want to stand in front of that door and act like you’re protecting me when you are the thing I need protecting from.”
Something in his face shifted. Raw, just for a moment, something underneath the control that was not cold at all. “I know,” he said, and this time it sounded different, something genuine and undefended in it. “I know what I did. I know what it cost you.” He reached up slowly and his hand came to your face and you flinched back and he stopped, hand in the air between you, and waited.
The room was quiet.
“I’m not okay,” you said. Your voice was very small.
“I know,” he said.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true every time.” His hand was still there waiting and after a long moment you stopped flinching and he let it come to rest against your cheek, warm and careful. “I’m not going to tell you it was right. It wasn’t right. I’m not going to ask you to forgive me tonight.” His thumb moved under your eye. “But you are not leaving this flat in the dark and that is the only thing I’m asking you to accept right now.”
“That’s not asking,” you said. “That’s never asking.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
You looked at him, at this man who had watched you plan your escape for two weeks from the dark of the bed beside you and said nothing, who was standing in front of the door with his hand on your face and the absolute certainty of someone who had never once in his life considered that he might not get to keep the things he wanted.
“I haven’t forgiven you,” you said.
“I know,” he said.
“I don’t know if I can.”
His hand tightened against your cheek, just slightly, just enough. “I know that too,” he said, and held out his other hand and waited, and the bag was on the chair behind him and the door was behind the chair and you were so tired, so completely finished with all of it, the anger and the love and the impossible weight of carrying both of them at once.
You took his hand.
He said nothing. Did not smile, did not look satisfied, just closed his fingers around yours and walked you back to the bed and held the covers back and waited until you were in, and then got in beside you, and his arm came around you from behind, immovable and warm, and his hand came to rest over yours on your stomach.
Outside the city finished waking up without you. The car drove away empty.
“This isn’t over,” you said, into the dark.
“No,” he said, against your hair, and it was the first thing he had said all night that wasn’t I know, and it landed with a weight that had nothing reassuring in it, just the flat certain quality of a man stating a fact.
You closed your eyes.
You did not sleep for a long time and neither did he, and you lay in the dark together in the silence of two people who both understood, without saying it, that this was not an ending.
Modern AU | Working At the Gas Station That They Frequent Headcanons
Pairing (Separately): Maekar Targaryen x Reader, Valarr Targaryen x Reader, Daeron Targaryen x Reader
Tags: Modern AU, gender-neutral reader, second hand embarrassment, humor, intense yearning on the part of Targaryen men, anime geek reader in Valarr’s part, implied age gap in Maekar’s part, meddling Egg appearance in Maekar’s part
Word Count: 4.3K words
A/N: Okay, this is wholly self indulgent. I don’t at a gas station, but I work at a Dollar General, that’s basically the same thing. This one goes out to my fellow dorks, my comrades in retail, and those who spend their shifts daydreaming about their favorite character coming into their place of employment. <333
Life was simple. It had been for a very long time, winding into a monotonous loop that you felt nothing but indifferent toward. You would wake up, shower, get dressed, and go to work, where you’d slave away for peanuts, only to go home to begin the cycle anew. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again. Unfortunately for you, your manager was more of a subscriber to the modern day grindset than you were to even your competitive video games, so you were expected to do the work of two people in order to save company costs. All alone, working the nightshift, in this dingy little gas station settled near the suburbs. It was a wonder how you hadn’t gotten robbed yet.
Maybe it was because, despite the circumstances, you were nice. Chipper in a way that would make regulars into acquaintances into friends. When you worked holidays, several people would bring you plates from their own family meal so that you had something good to eat aside from gas station hot dogs. Danielle told you about her husband who passed away last May, Harold talked incessantly about his ever-growing hoard of cats, Donna told you what her neighbors got up to, it continued endlessly. That’s what a bit of friendliness got you, actual kindness in return. Despite the occasional bad apple, you liked your regulars, for all that it mattered. They made your life worth living.
As it turned out, there were a handful of frequent fliers who had caught your attention as of late, more so than the average customer:
Maekar
- It took a while to get Maekar’s name. When he first appeared, out of the blue one day, you knew he must have been new in town. That, or he was new to your store. You’d certainly remember a handsome older man such as himself. In true to your character, you greeted him as he entered the door with a bright smile and a ‘hello, how are you?’ While you hadn’t expected a genuine answer in return, it was more for pleasantries than an actual question, you hadn’t expected what you got either. Maekar had lifted his chin to regard you, his lip curled ever so slightly, before heading deeper into the store. You had felt your eyebrow twitch, though your smile did not fall. Fine then, quick and curt you’d be with this one. It seemed that he would appreciate that far more than your overt cheer. Thankfully, you were correct. When he approached the counter, you nodded at him rather than blast him with the full force of your formalities and scanned his purchases without a word. Only when he left did you offer, “Have a good day.” Not that he acknowledged it.
- Weeks passed and Maekar continued to frequent, often getting a simple black coffee and nothing else. When he got gas, he paid for it at the pump rather than come inside, you only caught glimpses of him from the window— not that you were looking! Over the course of several months, you noticed that you might have been… actually getting through to him. His sneer at your instinctive greeting became a nod, his features had softened into something almost pleasant, and once, he’d even bought you a chocolate bar you’d been trying to ring up. You hadn’t noticed him come in and had assumed you were alone in the store, only to find Maekar behind you, tapping his foot as you fumbled with the card reader. “Put it with mine,” He said. When you tried to argue, he snatched the chocolate from your hands and put it alongside his coffee. You knew better than to argue with that.
- Eventually, when you asked your fair weather ‘how are you?’ Maekar would give you an honest answer. More often than not, he was doing pretty bad. His kids ran amok, always causing some sort of mischief that he had to clean up, and his brothers, save for one, were not all that much better. When you joked that all of this nonsense would likely send him to the hospital with stroke complications, Maekar huffed out a laugh. It was then that you exchanged names. After that, instead of paying for his gas at the pump, Maekar came inside, even if he was paying with his card, and with it came questions of his own. Each one was asked with relative distance, but you could tell that his interest was earnest. You had made some half-decent friends out of your regulars at times, another, especially one so handsome, wouldn’t be something you regretted.
- It all came to a head when you found yourself in a spot of trouble. You were on a late night shift, well into the early morning when you closed, and your car wouldn’t start. Letting out an annoyed huff, you tried the key again, to no avail. The engine refused to turn over. Maekar had pulled up to a pump, intending to fill his tank before work for the coming Monday, to find you still here, only half visible under the hood of your car. So as not to frighten you given the late hour, Maekar made his approach obvious. First, he was harsh, scolding you for not planning ahead. How did you even get here in the first place with your battery this dead? No matter, he would give you a quick jumpstart. To his frustration, you didn’t have any jumper cables to call your own, having left them in the garage at home. “You are lucky that I have some in my trunk,” Maekar had said with a bite in his tone. You couldn’t help but flush and duck your head.
- While Maekar jumped your car, he took the time to check the oil too, only to find that it was ridiculously low. His slow turn to you, oil slick paper towel in one hand, would be forever seared into your brain. That was another scolding, this one worse than the last. Without giving you the chance to object, he pulled out his phone, a sleek black android, and demanded your phone number. He couldn’t have you running about and getting kidnapped because your car broke down somewhere unsavory. Phone number. Now. You had no choice but to oblige.
- You had promised yourself that you would only contact Maekar in case of an emergency, but you found yourself tipsy on dessert wine one night, and shot him a text on pure impulse. His response was instantaneous, much to your surprise. In accordance to his age — and his interest in felines, particularly the fluffy ones, a fact he had implied rather than outright informed you — a meme featuring a persian cat that you had plucked off of your Facebook feed was what you had sent. All Maekar sent in response was “What?” Before you had time to apologize and explain who you were, he sent, “Why are you still up, [Name]?” You kindly informed him that it was only 10 PM and you were off the next day, and he replied, “Now I know not to bother with my coffee tomorrow. The people who you work with are imbeciles.” You reacted to his text with a laughing emoji and, for some reason, he stopped responding after that. Unbeknownst to you, it was because his daughters were hounding him, trying to figure out who had him smiling at his phone ‘like that.’
- Texts with Maekar became commonplace, and your meetings at work all the more friendly— or, as friendly as he could manage. It was nice, but your attraction to him was starting to become a very dangerous crush. One that you were certain would not be reciprocated given his age— and the fact that he had six kids. Six! All of indeterminate age, though you figured a handful of them were quite young. From Aerion’s antics, and his apparent belief that he was a dragon reborn, you were assuming that he was no more than fifteen (imagine your surprise when you discovered he was a grown man). It wasn’t until a little voice from a boy so tiny, that he was barely visible over your counter, arrived with questions, did you meet one. “What are your machinations on my father?” The boy asked.
- “What?” You said, thoroughly confused. With the amount of men who hit on you, this kid could be anyone’s. Standing on your tiptoes, you tried to get a better look at him. “I don’t have any machinations on anyone’s dad.”
- “My father is Maekar Targaryen,” The boy replied. Okay, maybe you had a few machinations on his father. Glancing around, you moved a little so that you were out of sight of the cameras and plucked a candy bar off of the shelf. You offered it to the boy, noting that he was bald and had an adorable sort of sternness you could easily see a young Maekar carrying. He took it with, though he did not soften. “A bribe?”
- You shook your head. “A token of goodwill, son of Maekar Targaryen. I will be honest with you, I’m fond of your father, but I am not delusional. I am aware I have no chance.”
- The boy examined the candy bar before deeming it sufficient and stuffing it in his pocket. “You have more of a chance than you think.”
- With that, he was gone, and your heart had swelled two sizes. Maybe that DILF wasn’t as off the menu as you thought.
Valarr
- Golden boy, eldest son Valarr had entered your gas station as you’d imagined the sun would, glowing on a sweet summer’s day. He swept in, leaving you wishing for a coworker to send to the register so that you could hide in the back, or a case of the runs that would trap you in the bathroom long enough for Valarr to get impatient and leave. Alas, you had none of that. All you could do was pull the brim of your uniform’s hat to cover your face and deepen your voice so that you were unrecognizable. As he meandered around the aisles, that tell-tale white streak in his hair doing little to hide him from your burning gaze, you thought back to that humiliating incident that led you into this situation to begin with.
- Valarr had been a junior when you were a sophomore, a transfer student from the UK with that knee-buckling accent that made him the apple of the student body’s eye. He was smart, in the classes with the geniuses who were going places, and he was the whiz at soccer that sent your school’s team to nationals the two years that he played. The only reason you knew him was because he was in your graphic arts class, stationed smack dab next to you in your ratty hoody that you wore everyday, your favorite anime character front and center across your chest. He had asked about it once, and when you excitedly began to spill the plot to him, speaking far too fast to be kept up with, he let out a friendly laugh, albeit a confused one. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow. The orange haired one is cursed to turn into a cat whenever the main character hugs him?” Though he wasn’t unkind, you got embarrassed after that, so you quickly shut your trap. Valarr, to his credit, seemed to notice this and gave you another awkward smile.
- It was quiet after that, until you noticed that the perfect Valarr was… struggling? It seemed that graphic design was decidedly not his passion. Beside you, he zoomed in on the image he was working on to see it better, only for it to become a pixelated mess. He sighed and scrubbed his face. Now, if you had been someone smart, you would have kept your mouth shut and allowed Valarr Targaryen to suffer one thousand photoshopped lashes. You, however, were an idiot and extended the offer to help him, which turned into you doing each and every project he was assigned for him. In return, he bought you lunch. Not just at the cafeteria, but he’d have his personal chefs — yes, he was rich enough for that and you couldn’t even fund your figurine collection — to make you whatever you wanted for him to deliver come lunch time. Outside of that graphic art class, the two of you didn’t interact much, but it was enough for you to develop a ridiculous crush.
- You were a geek and Valarr was the most popular boy in school, it would never work out. As delusional as you were, you knew that deep, deep down. Despite this, you had drafted up a note explaining your feelings to him, just to get it all out, with no intention of him ever seeing it. Of course, karma had its kiss for you, and your sordid love note fluttered from your backpack and found its way to Valarr. When you sat next to him in class, he looked more awkward than usual, unable to meet your eyes. Finally, he broke the silence, “You know I have a girlfriend, right?” It was like the universe shattered into one thousand tiny pieces at those seven words. Valarr went on a tangent about how you’re very sweet, and if things were different, then— Honestly, you kind of tuned him out, more humiliated than you ever had been in your life. As soon as he finished talking, you stood up, eyes burning with unshed tears, and left to visit your counselor, intent on dropping that stupid class. After that, you and Valarr never spoke again, though he always did seem a little guilty when he passed you in the halls. Wishful thinking, you knew that the thought of someone like you having a crush on someone like him disgusted him. Eventually, Valarr left town to go to college elsewhere while you stayed and rotted at your gas station job, the embarrassments from the past long forgotten. Until now.
- At first, Valarr didn’t notice you, approaching the register and examining his yogurt drink at the same time. It was some sort of mixed berry, the same kind that he drank in high school. The reminder shouldn’t have made you flush— the warm and sweet kind this time. “Hello.” He didn’t look up until after he said it, his lips pursing into an ‘o’ shape once he processed who you were. Valarr was more handsome than ever, having grown into his features well. You, on the other hand, felt more ungainly than you did during puberty, if that was possible. He looked away again, swallowing hard, seemingly proving your point. “It’s been a while, [Name]. You look g— well.” It was odd to hear him stutter. You’d never known him to stutter, though you hadn’t known him for very long. Maybe you could pretend that you didn’t know him. “Hello, sir, will that be all?”
- Valarr’s face fell and he shifted from foot to foot. “Yes, that will be all. Thank you.” After he paid, he gave you one last look, bordering on longing if you were stupid enough to believe that, and left. You almost expected to never see him again, only for him to appear every single day buying that stupid yogurt drink like clockwork. At first, he didn’t try to make conversation, though it was obvious that he wanted to. He’d stare at you with those bicolored eyes, nearly expectant, waiting for you to take the first step— even now, he was noble in some twisted way, hovering around you and awaiting your decision. No matter how embarrassed you were of the past, you didn’t have the heart to trespass him from the store. Your manager would have done so in an instant. For all the long hours you worked, she would not abide by cruel customers, even if they had money. Besides, trespassing Valarr seemed like overkill, for now, you were fine dooming yourself to dancing around the obvious, all while he watched — waited — like a stalking lion in the savannah grass.
- Finally, painfully, and mercifully, you gave him what he wanted. Two months after this whole song and dance occurred. Valarr got in line, always picking the perfect time to leave only you and him in the store, and you addressed the dancing elephant in the room. Kind of. “I’m sorry,” You murmured as you scanned his yogurt. Valarr blinked, confused. “For what?” That left you stumbling. For him finding that note, for writing that note, for even thinking that you could be with someone such as him. Your jaw worked up and down, mouth drier than a bone. “For… For— You know.” Valarr smiled at that, a chivalrous sort despite his behavior these past few months being anything but. “I should be the one apologizing, I— Well, it was a long time ago. I enjoyed being your friend and I missed you when you were gone. It’d be nice to…” He trailed off, waiting for you to finish that thought. A real, but awkward grin pulled at your lips. “You mean it? I didn’t… humiliate the sweat outta your pores?” His bark of a laugh, more regal than clumsy, caught you off guard. “Humiliate? I was flattered.”
- You stopped talking after that, your face far too hot to even try. Whether Valarr softened, muttering something about taking his time, was up for debate. All you cared about was ushering him out the door. Well, until tomorrow came.
Daeron
- As any seasoned gas station attendant knows, there was no shortage of bums who would frequent your establishment. From the homeless, to the average alcoholic, they are everywhere and seem to flock to your job as flies would to honey. At first, Daeron didn’t stick out to you in the sea of faces. In fact, you hardly even recognized him whenever he came in as he never offered anything, save for swiping his card, that would lend to interest. In retrospect, you realized that Daeron always came in past ten pm, either drunk already, or tipsy, never sober, and he always bought a bottle of cheap red wine. Or two. Occasionally, three. Then, he would disappear into the night — apparently, he walked, worrying if not preferable to him drunk driving his brother’s convertible straight through the front doors. It wasn’t until one fateful night, when he was drunker than usual, did you finally start to remember him. To say it was a bad first impression would be an understatement.
- Daeron Targaryen stumbled through the doors, barely able to stay upright. This time, he was driven here, though you watched in horror as the car pulled back out into the road, decidedly ditching Daeron to his own devices. He stood as straight as he could, turned to you, slurred something you could barely understand as “Where is the wine?” before he puked down his front and passed out. He had also pissed his pants. Unsure of what to do, you debated calling an ambulance, just in case he had alcohol poisoning. Staring down at your cellphone, your gaze would occasionally flicker to Daeron, who was splayed like a starfish on the floor. He was breathing, his back rising and falling, and every so often, he would twitch. You took that as a good sign, and the last thing you wanted was to foot him with an ambulance bill, so you dragged him by his underarms behind your counter so that no one would trip over him and retrieved a mop to clean up his mess. Before you left him, you propped him up on his side in case he puked again and cushioned his head on your balled up jacket.
- It took about an hour for him to be sober enough to wake up. Daeron squinted against the fluorescent lights, his nose scrunched when the smell of bile and his own piss wafted from his clothes. You heard him smack his lips, followed by another retch. Before he could ruin your jacket, you offered him a bottle of water to rinse his mouth with. For a moment, he stared at it like it was about to turn into a snake and bite him. Eventually, the foulness in his mouth won out, guzzling the contents in a few gulps. Man, he could chug. No wonder he got so trashed. “Where’s my brother? Where’s Aerion?” He croaked. You gave him a sympathetic smile. “He left as soon as you got here. When I clock out, I can drive you home.” Daeron looked about ready to protest, but when his attempt at standing sent him straight back on his ass, he had given up. The rest of the shift carried on quietly, with Daeron nursing a second bottle of water, curled up in the corner behind the register like a cat. Upon dropping him off, you stared at the frankly massive manor that he called home. With a quiet, “Thank you.” He was gone, leaving you alone with the thought that, in the end, he could absolutely have afforded that ambulance bill.
- Days turned to weeks and Daeron made himself frequent. No more than usual, you just… had never really taken notice of him before. Now that you did, though, you couldn’t help but notice how sad he looked. How haunted, the shadows in his clouded eyes casting down his face and throughout his body. There was a bone-weary exhaustion to him, to the point where, if you were being honest, you had started giving him candy and soda for free. The first time you did it, you had slipped a Mountain Dew into his bag with a few of his screwdrivers. He got halfway to do the door before he realized his bag was heavier than he had expected. With lazy motions, he peered inside and pulled out the bottle of Dew. “I didn’t buy this.” You hushed him with a motion and gave him a wink. “Oh, look at that, lucky day.” There was a pause as he examined the bottle. Daeron scrunched up his nose and looked about ready to say he wasn’t a fan of the drink before he caught your expression. Mirroring your smile, he put the drink back in the bag. “Thank you.” With that, he left, and many other gifts came with him.
- Daeron was a little odd once you met him— genuinely met him, not just another blurry face in the crowd. He took to your kindness as a cat would a sunbeam, insistent on basking in it whenever the opportunity arose. Whenever it came time to leave, he always looked hesitant, oftentimes drinking on the curb and popping back inside to chat with you whenever you didn’t have a customer to attend. Sometimes, and oddly enough, he seemed almost jealous that you were just as sweet to all of your regulars as you were to him. While he never said anything, the way he’d sway in place, glaring at whatever poor soul was in your light at the moment made it more than obvious. There were times now when you interacted with him sober. He looked more miserable than ever, shaking from withdrawals, though the intensity of his stare was more powerful than ever before. It felt as though he was drinking you in rather than his usual wine.
- “I dreamed of you,” He said, the words carrying a weight that you did not recognize. It was hard not to grimace. This was not the first time that you had been the subject of a customer’s dreams, the last being an old man who had informed you that your dreamself had particularly soft lips. While you wouldn’t mind hearing that from Daeron — he was pretty in a bum sort of way — you also would rather it not go further than a kiss. Then again, he was sober, and despite no longer staring at you from afar like a puppy left in the rain, his eyes bored deep, deep into your soul. The likelihood of him describing a wet dream you featured in was low. With a slow nod, you offered him an indulgent smile. “Was I? Hopefully, I was polite.”
- Daeron huffed out a laugh, his chin dipping as he smiled. “You’re always polite, I—“ He cut himself off with a swallow, seemingly debating on continuing. “We were— It wasn’t important. I… I just dreamed of you.” Another nod and a hum came from you. “That’s nice.” He looked almost offended until a sigh left him. “My dreams are important, they come true.” Okay, maybe he was drunker than you thought. Pursing your lips, you placed your hand over his. “That’s really cool.” That got his hackles to raise. “Don’t condescend me.”
- “Okay fine, you have prophetic dreams, you’re pretty enough for me to bite.” The compliment, no matter how backhanded, earned you a dusting of pink on his cheeks and his palm flipping over to grip yours. “What was I doing in your dream?”
- Your question sent his face aflame, and at your grimace, he tightened his grip on you so that you couldn’t pull away. He tried to explain, “It wasn’t dirty, only…” He still looked hesitant to say, looking around pensively. It was only when you made to pull back did he blurt it out, “We were married!”
- Now you were the one who was blushing, a wry laugh tumbling from your lips. “This is a new way of being hit on.” Daeron began to stammer, “I— I’m not—” You cut him off, “It’s too early for marriage, but maybe, maybe I will indulge you for one date.”
- The relief in his smile smothered any regret you could have felt at the offer.
summary: you thought you could leave baelor targaryen. you had the lawyer, you had the papers, you had every reason in the world. what you didn’t have was any idea how far he was willing to go to make sure you didn’t. (6k)
pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!reader
contents: modern au, canon divergent, age gap, established marriage, jealousy, toxic!baelor, obsessive!baelor, dark!baelor, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, he loves you badly but he loves you completely cw: toxic relationship dynamics, manipulation, blackmail, threats, dubcon elements, baby trapping, smut 18+ (MDNI): unprotected sex, possessive sex, he will not let you leave and your body is a traitor about it, don't like the tags don't read it.
You had been sitting in the dark long enough to finish two glasses of wine and start a third, long enough for the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows to stop being beautiful and start being just light, long enough to rehearse what you were going to say so many times that the words had stopped feeling like words and started feeling like something final, and you were still sitting there, in the dark, on the couch you had picked out together, wondering where it had gone all wrong.
Your family had no name and no money, not the kind that mattered in this city, not the kind that got you into rooms like this one, and Baelor Targaryen had both in quantities that other people spent their lives chasing and never caught, and you had never understood, not when he first looked at you across a room and decided, with quiet certainty of his, that you were the one he wanted, and not in the years since what it was he had seen in you.
You still didn’t. You had turned that question over in your mind for years now and still had no answer for it, and maybe that was the problem.
Or maybe the problem was something else entirely, something that smelled like Chanel No.5 and worked the front desk on the forty-second floor of Targaryen Group and had absolutely no business being the reason your three year marriage was falling apart.
You had tried for longer than you wanted to admit, not to believe it. Had told yourself it was nothing, that you were merely just being foolish, that Baelor Targaryen was many things but he was not that, he had never been that. You tried telling yourself that he was just busy, that the acquisition was demanding, that the late nights were the industry and not the woman, that the business trips were exactly what he said they were. You had told yourself that story so many times it had almost started to sound true.
And then there was the office party.
He had wanted you there, had said it was expected, had kissed the top of your head and said he didn't want to go alone, and you had gone because you loved him and because saying no to Baelor when he looked at you like that had never been something you were particularly good at.
The venue was the kind of place that made you very aware of your own posture, all clean lines and open bars and people who wore their money, and you had been standing beside him, his hand at the small of your back, feeling almost like yourself, until she appeared.
She had smiled at you first, which was the thing you remembered most. That smile, bright and deliberate, her red lipstick immaculate, her eyes moving over you with an assessment so quick and so thorough you almost missed it. “You wouldn’t mind if I steal your husband for a few quick minutes,” she had said, and her hand had gone to his upper arm as she said it, her red nails against his sleeve, easy and familiar, the touch of someone who had done it before. “Something just needs to be checked in the office, urgently.”
Baelor had given nothing away. He had looked at you, said he’d be right back, and followed her, while you stood there with your drink and your smile, and your very well-practiced composure and told yourself it was nothing.
Seconds became minutes, minutes became an hour.
You had found daeron at the bar, Baelor’s nephew, who was good company in the uncomplicated way of someone who wasn’t trying to be anything other than he was, and you had drunk more than you intended to and not questioned out loud why an hour was somehow still a few minutes, but when Baelor eventually reappeared you had let him put you in the car, and take you home and you said nothing, because what were you going to say, because you had no proof, because you were his wife and you trusted him.
You told yourself that too. For months.
There were always secretes, you had come to understand, in lives like this one. Wealth like Baelor’s didn’t come clean, it never did, and you had known that when you married him, had chosen it anyways, had told yourself that the way he looked at you when it was just the two of you made up for everything else that came with his name.
But now you weren’t sure you still believed that.
And so you sat in the dark, and you drank, rethinking the choice of getting married to a guy who was a widow for years, and waited for the sound you had gotten very good at waiting for.
His key in the door.
It came at two forty-seven am, because you had been watching the clock the way you had started watching everything lately, tracking the evidence, and the lock turned and the door opened, the light from the hallway came in first, a rectangle of it falling across the floor, and then Baelor, still in his suit blazer, his tie loosened, looking down at his phone as he came in, the way he always looked down at his phone.
He reachedd for the light switch without looking up.
The lamp came on.
He saw you.
“What–” He stopped. Looked at you properly for the first time, at the glass in your hand and the bottle on the coffee table and whatever was on your face, and something shifted in his expression, the phone coming down to his side. “What’s going on?”
You looked at him from across the room, this many you had married, this man whose shirts you wore on a regular basis, whose coffee order you could recite in your sleep, whose laugh you had not heard properly in months, and felt the words that you had been repeating sitting in your chest like stones.
“Where have you been,” you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended, the kind of soft that wasn’t calm at all, the kind that came from trying very hard to hold something together.
He heard it. You could tell he heard it by the way something in his face settled into a careful expression, the one he put on when he was deciding how to manage a situation.
“Work,” he said. “I told you I had a late meeting, I sent you a–”
“You sent me a text at seven saying you’d be home by nine.” You kept your eyes on him, and kept your face as still as you could make it, “It’s nearly three in the morning, Baelor.”
He set his phone down on the console table by the door with quiet deliberateness, and came further into the room, loosening his tie the rest of the way, and you watched him move through your home like a man with nothing to answer for and felt something tighten in your chest.
“How much have you had,” he said, glancing at the bottle.
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“I’m asking you something first.” He said it the way you said things to children, patiently, reasonably, and you felt your jaw tighten. “How much wine have you had tonight?”
“Enough,” you said.
“Clearly,” he said, the word landed with a lightness that was worse than if he had shouted it, and he draped his jacket over the back of the chair and turned to look at you with a patient expression, one that made you feel like a problem he was calculating how to solve. “Come to bed.”
You felt something flicker across your face that you couldn’t quite stop– something between disbelief and the exhaustion of a woman who had been having this conversation in her head for months and was only now having it out loud. “I don't want to go to bed.”
"You've been sitting in the dark drinking by yourself," he said, evenly, "which means you've been in your head all evening, which means whatever you've decided to pick a fight about is going to seem considerably less significant in the morning." He said it like he was being reasonable. He said it like he was doing you a favour. "Come to bed."
"The phone calls," you said. Your voice was steady. You were proud of that, how steady your voice was. "The ones where you leave the room."
He looked at you and said nothing, and you looked back at him and kept going.
"Every time," you said. "You look at the screen, you get up, you go to the kitchen or the hallway or wherever it is that you go, then you come back, kissing me like nothing happened and sometimes you say you need to go back into the office and you leave. Every time." You swallowed. "Who are you talking to."
"Work," he said, simply, like the word was self-evident, like you were being slow.
"At ten o'clock at night."
"I'm the CEO of a private equity firm with holdings across three continents," he said, still in that patient voice that was going to make you lose your mind, "yes, sometimes at ten o'clock at night. You know this."
"The business trips." You pressed on because if you stopped you would lose your nerve. "Four in the last two months. You used to go twice a year."
"The Essos acquisition–"
"The dinners." Something in your face shifted, something you couldn't help, the particular look of a person trying very hard not to feel what they were feeling. "Date night, three weeks ago, you cancelled an hour before. Our anniversary dinner, you were two hours late and you smelled like–" your voice caught on the word and you pushed past it, "you came home and you kissed me and you smelled like her perfume, Baelor, and you said you needed to go back in, there was something you forgot, and you left, and I sat here–"
"The wine," he said, "is clearly getting to you."
You stopped.
You looked at him, at the calm of his face, at the patient set of his mouth, and felt something that had been soft in you go very quiet and very cold.
"I'm serious," he said, and his voice had gone gentle in the way that made it worse, the way that said I am the reasonable one and you are not, "you've been sitting here alone for hours working yourself up into something and I understand that you're–"
"Don't," you said.
"I understand the last few months haven't been easy, I know I've been distracted, I'm not dismissing that–"
"You're doing it right now." Your voice came out harder than you planned. "You're making it about how I'm feeling instead of what I'm asking you. You're making me the problem."
“Because how you’re feeling is relevant,” he said, and glanced at the bottle, “when you’ve had most of that by yourself and you’re sitting in the dark waiting to–”
"I'm waiting for my husband," you said, and your voice cracked on the last word, just slightly, just enough, and you saw it land on his face, saw something move through his expression that you could not name, and you looked away from him because you were not going to cry in front of him tonight, you had promised yourself that, "who told me he'd be home hours ago."
The room was quiet.
He crossed to the coffee table and sat down in front of you, close, closer than you wanted, close enough that you could see his eyes clearly in the lamplight, one brown and one blue, both of them on you with attention that had made you fall in love with him and was now making you feel like a witness being cross-examined, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and said, low and even, "I am not cheating on you—”
"I want a divorce," you said suddenly.
Something moved across his face. Raw, just for a moment, before the composure came back down like a shutter.
"No," he said.
“Baelor–”
"No." Flat, absolute, the voice of a man who had made a decision and was not interested in discussing it. "We are not doing this."
You stood up. Your legs were steadier than they had any right to be. "I'm getting a lawyer."
He stood too, and he was broader than you forgot sometimes, his bearded jaw set, something in his face that was no longer the patient composure, no longer the careful evenness, it was something that had dropped its mask, and his hand closed around your arm, not hard but firm, and he said, "Stop. Just– listen to me for one minute–"
"No." You pulled your arm away, sharply, and the sharpness of it surprised you both. "I have listened to this bullshit for months! Every single excuse, every single reasonable explanation, I am so done with listening, I'm getting a goddamn lawyer–"
“A lawyer.” He let out a short sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You think it’s going to be that simple.” His voice had gone low again, and he looked at you with those mismatched eyes and said, “I know every lawyer in this city. Every single one. You think one of them is going to take a case against me because my wie has had too many glasses of wine and decided I’m cheating on her.”
You went still.
You looked at him, at the cold certainty of his face, and felt something move through you that was not quite fear and not quite fury but lived somewhere between the two.
You let out a short laugh, humourless, and shook your head. "Of course," you said, quietly, more to yourself than to him.
“I’m serious–”
"So am I." You turned away from him and started toward the bedroom. "I'll find someone. I don't care how long it takes, I'll find someone who will make you sign the papers."
"You're drunk out of your mind." He was following you, his voice behind you, still with that controlled edge that was unravelling at the seams. "You're not thinking straight. I'm telling you it won't go the way you think, I'm asking you to stop and talk to me properly, we are not getting a—"
You slammed the bedroom door in his face.
The force of it shook the frame, and you turned the lock before the sound had finished echoing, and stood there with your hand still on the handle and your chest heaving and the silence on the other side pressing back against the door like something solid.
"I'm getting a lawyer, Baelor." Your voice came out steady, which was the only thing you had left. "I mean it."
Nothing came from the other side. Then, after a long moment, his footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving away down the hall.
You stood there in the dark for a long time after that.
Eventually you lay down on the bed, still dressed, and looked at the ceiling, and did not cry, because you had been crying alone in this penthouse for months and you were finished with it. You were so finished with it.
He had started coming home early.
That was the thing you hadn't anticipated, the thing that made the week after considerably harder than it should have been, because you had built your anger on a foundation of absence and he had removed the absence, which left you standing on something that felt less solid than it had.
You avoided him at all costs. You lay in bed and listened for the sound of the front door closing, and only then, only when you were sure he was gone, did you come out. You padded around the flat in one of his shirts, which was too big for you and which you had grabbed in the dark one morning without thinking and then refused to acknowledge the irony of, and you made yourself coffee and ate whatever was in the fridge then moved through the rooms like you were the only person who lived there.
He had tried to talk to you the morning after. You had heard him outside the bedroom door, and when you opened it he had looked at you with something on his face that you didn't want to name and started to say something careful and measured and you had cut him off before he got three words in.
"I want the divorce," you said. "It's not changing."
He had looked at you for a long moment and said nothing, and you had closed the door again, and that was that.
The days that followed had their own particular shape. He came home earlier than he had in months, which you noticed and did not comment on. The late calls stopped, or became shorter, or moved somewhere you couldn't track them. He left coffee for you one morning before he left, made exactly the way you liked it, and you stood in the kitchen in his shirt looking at the cup and felt something complicated move through your chest and then put it away and went back to looking for lawyers.
Because that was what you spent your days doing. Searching, calling, being passed from one firm to the next, each one either conflicted out or quietly unwilling the moment you said the name Targaryen. He had not been exaggerating about that, which made you furious in a way you had not expected, a cold and very specific fury that had nothing to do with the perfume or the late nights and everything to do with the fact that even trying to leave him was something he could make difficult without trying.
You found one on the ninth day. His name was Gerold Hightower, a small firm, old school, the kind that had been around long enough not to be impressed by anyone, and he listened to everything you said without writing anything down and then looked at you over the top of his glasses and said he'd take it.
You had explained everything– the trips, the calls, the hours, the perfume, the office party, the hour that was supposed to be a few minutes– and he had listened to all of it and nodded and handed you the papers and told you they needed Baelor's signature, and that if Baelor declined, they were going to court.
You had signed your name on the line and felt, for the first time in weeks, like you could breathe.
You did not go home first. You drove straight to Targaryen Group.
The building sat in the middle of the city the way everything Targaryen sat– like it had always been there and always would be, like the city had been built around it rather than the other way around. You had walked through those lobby doors on Baelor's arm more times than you could count, had smiled at the staff and taken the private elevator and sat across from him at his desk while the city spread out below the floor-to-ceiling windows and thought, more than once, that you would never entirely get used to the scale of it.
Today you walked in alone, in a baggy tracksuit, your hair barely done, the red folder under your arm, and you didn't care even slightly about the way the lobby staff clocked you and looked away. Who were you trying to impress? You were here to end a marriage, not attend a board meeting.
You pressed the button for the lift and waited, and that was when you heard it. The click of heels on marble, and underneath it, the obnoxious rhythmic sound of someone chewing gum, and you turned your head and there she was.
Elizabeth. You had learned her name somewhere along the way, in the particular grim investigative way you had learned a lot of things over the past months. She was dressed the way she always seemed to be dressed, like she had given the morning a great deal of thought, her red lipstick already immaculate, and when she saw you her jaw slowed on the gum and something moved across her face that she recovered from quickly but not quickly enough.
"Mrs Targaryen," she said, and her voice came out bright and smooth, the voice of someone who had done customer-facing work long enough to smile through anything. "What a pleasure, I wasn't expecting you–"
"Can't say the same," you said pleasantly, and watched the smile flicker.
The silence that followed had an uncomfortable quality that she tried to fill. "How have you been lately?" she asked, and she was clicking the heel of one shoe against the marble now, a small unconscious tap, her eyes moving briefly to the closed lift doors and back.
"Honestly?" You tilted your head, like you were considering it. "Really quite good. Better than I've been in a while, actually. I'm getting a divorce, which I think is going to suit me very well."
Her mouth opened then closed, then the hell stopped clicking. “You’re–”
The lift doors opened.
You stepped toward them and then stopped, and turned back to look at her, and held out the red folder. "You're going up to his office, aren't you."
"I have some paperwork to– he didn't say anything about a–"
"He wouldn't." You pressed the folder to her chest, and she grabbed it before it could fall, both hands closing around it with a startled instinct, and you looked at her very directly and said, "Be an angel. Before you get up to whatever it is you both love getting up to after everyone else goes home– tell him to sign those papers. Tonight. Or I'm dragging him to court, and I have a very good lawyer who is very much looking forward to it."
"Mrs Targaryen, I genuinely don't know what you think is–"
You left her alone as you walked back out from where you came from, and ignored the doubt that settled into your gut, as you recalled her confusion.
You did not look back, you didn’t dare to.
You came home later than him.
You knew before you even opened the front door, some animal awareness of the changed quality of the air, the particular stillness of a space that had someone in it waiting, and you turned your key slowly and pushed the door open and reached for the light.
He was sitting on the couch. Just like you had, days ago, except he had already turned the lights on, and his blazer was off, his tie was loosened all the way and he was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, with the red folder that was open on the coffee table in front of him, the papers spread out, looking at them when you walked in.
He looked up at the sound of the door.
"You signed them?" The surprise in your voice came out before you could stop it. Maybe Elizabeth had finally gotten what she wanted. Maybe the mistress had made her case in person and he had decided the easiest thing was to just let you go, so that he could finally be with her, without any complications.
He looked at you for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away, and then looked back at the papers.
"No," he said.
Something dropped in your chest. "Baelor–"
"I'm not signing this." He sat back, unhurried, and looked at you, the corner of his mouth moved into something that was almost a smile, small and certain, and the sight of it made your blood run hot.
The absolute audacity of him, sitting there smiling at you like this was amusing, like you were amusing, like three years of marriage and a week of silence and a folder full of divorce papers were something he found faintly entertaining.
"Just sign the damned papers." You let your bag slide off your shoulder and drop to the floor, as you looked at him across the room and felt the desperation of it, how tired you were, how much you just needed this to be over. "Please. Sign them and let us both out of this."
"Let's talk about what happens if I don't." He tilted his head, still with that smile, and there was something in his eyes that was cold in a way you hadn't let yourself see before, or hadn't wanted to.
"You take this to court. These people, in this city, outside of this city– they kiss the ground my family walks on, the ground I walk on. You know that. You've seen it. You think a judge is going to look at you, at where you came from, at what you had before me, and side with you?" He paused, letting it land. "You leave me, you leave with nothing. Your family leaves with nothing. Everything you have, everything they have, it all came through this name. You know that's true, beautiful, so stop playing stupid."
"Sign the papers," you said, and your voice had gone flat.
"And then there's the other thing." His voice dropped into something quieter, and he picked up one of the papers and looked at it like it mildly interested him, like he was reading the weather and not dismantling your life. "The video."
You went still.
"Few months back. You came to the office after hours." His eyes came up to yours, slow and certain.
"Security cameras in that building are thorough. Very thorough that they got a clear shot of you coming in. Got a clear shot of you going to my office. Got a very clear shot of you on your knees under my desk with your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock." He said it the way he said everything, evenly, without drama, like it was simply a fact he was presenting. "My face isn't in the frame. The angle never catches me. But yours is. Every second of it, your face, perfectly clear." He set the paper back down.
"You want to think about what a courtroom makes of that. The Targaryen heir's wife, caught on her own husband's office security footage, on her knees for someone whose face the camera never caught." The smile returned, small and dark. "They won't know it's me. That's the part that's going to be very difficult for you to explain."
"You sick–" Your voice broke on it and you hated yourself for it, hated the burn behind your eyes, hated that he could still do this to you, that after everything he could still make your hands shake. "You would actually use that. You would stand there and threaten me with that."
"I'm not threatening you." He looked at you patient and cold and entirely focused. "I'm telling you what exists. I'm explaining the situation clearly, the way you've always said you wanted things explained." He stood up slowly, and crossed to the coffee table, and looked down at the papers spread out across it. "You walk into that courtroom and I promise you, you will walk out with nothing. No settlement, no name, no dignity, and that video somewhere it cannot be recalled. And I will be very, very sorry about all of it." The corner of his mouth moved. "Seems like a great deal of trouble for a divorce you don't actually want."
"It's blackmail!" The word tore out of you and your voice cracked on it and your tears fell and you didn't even try to stop them, because you were past that, you were so far past that. "That is blackmail, that is a threat, you are threatening me, and you have the absolute audacity to stand there and do this when you've been the one–" your voice broke again and you pressed your hands over your face, your fingers shaking against your cheeks. "When you've been cheating on me. You've been cheating on me this whole time and you're standing there threatening me with a video of me and acting like I'm the problem–"
"That," he said, and something shifted in his voice, the coldness dropping out of it entirely, replaced by something that sounded almost like frustration, like genuine frustration, like a man who had reached the end of something, "is where you are completely wrong."
You looked at him through your hands.
"I never cheated on you." He said it simply, without the performance of it, without the careful evenness, just the words. "I never did. Not once. Not even close."
He stood and walked toward you slowly, and you watched him come and couldn't make yourself move, couldn't make yourself do anything, your hands still pressed to your face and your tears still falling and all of it, the whole terrible weight of the past weeks, sitting on your chest. "I know how it looked. I know what the late nights looked like and the calls and the trips, I know exactly how it looked, and I should have–" he stopped. His jaw tightened. "I should have seen what it was doing to you and I didn't, and that's on me. That is entirely on me."
He reached up and took your hands away from your face, gently, and held them, and then his hands moved to your face, cradling it, his thumbs moving across your cheeks and catching your tears, you looked up at him with all of it written on your face, the hatred and the hurt and the desperate exhausted want for any of this to make sense.
"I'm not lying to you," he said, low and close, his eyes on yours. "I have never lied to you. This–" he glanced briefly toward the papers on the coffee table, "this is how far I am willing to go to stop you from throwing away something real because of something that isn't. You made me come to this point. You pushed me here."
"Don't you dare," you said, and your voice came out wet and furious, "make this my fault–"
"I'm not." His hands tightened slightly on your face. "I'm saying I love you. I'm saying I am not letting you go. Those are not the same thing."
You looked at him, at those mismatched eyes close to yours, at the particular quality of his certainty that had always undone you and was undoing you now in a way you resented completely, you felt something pull in your chest that you did not want to feel, and so you reached up, pushed his hands away from your face and stepped back and shook your head, you turned and walked to the bedroom with fury carrying your feet because if you slowed down you were going to fall apart.
"Do whatever the fuck you want," you said, shoving the bedroom door open hard enough that it swung back against the wall. "I'm leaving."
You went straight to the wardrobe and grabbed the first bag you could reach and started pulling things off hangers, off shelves, underwear, shirts, whatever your hands found first, not folding anything, not thinking, just moving, because moving was the only thing that was holding you together.
"I'm talking to you." His voice from the doorway, and then his footsteps behind you.
"I'm not listening," you said, and grabbed another handful of clothes.
"Look at me."
"No."
"Look–"
His hand closed around the bag and yanked it out of your grip and threw it across the room and it hit the floor with a dull thud that landed in the silence like a full stop.
You spun to face him. He was right there, closer than you'd realised, and he looked at you with something that was past cold now, past the boardroom composure, past all of it, something that was just raw and furious and desperate all at once, the face of a man who had run out of patience and hadn't found anything calmer underneath it.
"You're not getting this," he said. "Are you? You genuinely don't understand that I am not letting you walk out of here."
"Just let me go!" Your voice came out ragged, and you meant it, you meant every word of it, and you tried to move past him but his hands found your arms and held you, not hard, just immovable, and he walked you back slowly, step by step, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you sat down hard and looked up at him.
"Tell me what you need," he said. "Anything. You name it, it's done. You want me home every night, I'm home every night, no exceptions. You want the trips stopped, they stop. You want Elizabeth out of that building by tomorrow morning–" something moved across his face, "she's already gone, I'll call it in tonight, I don't care." His hands tightened around yours. "You want me to prove it to you, I will spend however long it takes proving it. Whatever it is. Just tell me."
You looked at him, at his face this close to yours, and felt your chin tremble and hated it.
"You can't just say that," you said. "You can't just say whatever I want and expect–"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart." His voice was low against your skin, as he laid you back against the bed slowly, his hand pressing into the mattress beside your head, and pressed his lips to your jaw, your neck, moving down with unhurried patience, the patience that had always undone you, that you had spent months missing without letting yourself name what you were missing.
"Baelor–" His name came out unsteady and you hated how unsteady it was, hated what it gave away.
He didn't stop. His mouth moved to your collarbone, your neck, and then lower, to the neckline of the shirt, his shirt, one of the many you had been wearing around the flat for a week without acknowledging why, and he paused there with his lips at the edge of the fabric and looked up at you, and his eyes in the low light of the bedroom had that quality they sometimes had, the one that made you feel like the only thing in the room worth looking at.
You tried getting up, but it was to no avail as he pushed you further into the bed, his weight shifted and you weren’t going anywhere, and some part of you that you weren’t proud of didn’t entirely want to.
"Have I not given you everything," he said, his voice dropping against the slope of your neck, his lips finding the skin there, slow and deliberate. "Have I not given you all of it."
You had no answer for that. Because the honest answer was yes, and you both knew it was yes, and the yes of it didn't make any of the other things less true– the manipulation, the threats, the cold certainty of a man who had decided you belonged to him and acted accordingly– but it sat in your chest anyway, heavy and real and deeply inconvenient.
"You did– and I know that," you said, and your voice came out shaky in a way you couldn't help, and your eyes were burning again, and you were so tired of your own tears at this point, so tired of how easily he could bring them out of you.
His hand found your throat.
Not hard. Not hurting. Just the weight of it, warm and certain, fingers curving lightly at your jaw, and your hand came up without thinking and rested over his, and his eyes moved to yours and stayed there. His breathing had changed. Something in his face had dropped every last layer of the composure, every last bit of the boardroom and the cold and the careful patience, and what was underneath it was something rawer and considerably more dangerous.
"You say that, my love," he said, very quietly, "and then you spend a week locking doors and walking around in my shirt like I'm supposed to pretend I don't notice." His thumb moved once along your jaw. "I think it's time I reminded you what you keep trying so hard to forget."
"Baelor–" His name came out wrong again, too soft, not enough warning in it.
His lips came down on yours and it wasn't gentle. It was hungry and certain and relentless, the kiss of a man who had been patient for a week and was completely finished with patience, and you felt it move all the way through you, your hands coming up to his chest without quite managing to push.
He followed when you turned your face, his mouth finding your jaw, your neck, and then back again, and his hands were warm and certain on your skin, pulling the shirt over your head before you had entirely decided not to stop him.
The cold air hit you and you pressed into him without meaning to, and he was already there, arms pulling you in, and his lips were at your throat and his hands were everywhere and you felt your thoughts go quiet one by one, the lawyer and the papers and the week of locked doors and all of it dissolving under his hands until there was nothing left but the warmth of him and the dark of the room and the specific, devastating patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and had all night to do it.
"Baelor," you said, against his shoulder, and it didn't sound like stop anymore.
"I know," he said, low against your skin. "I've got you."
You hadn’t even realised when your pants had been pushed down and discarded somewhere on the floor. The only thing that made it register was the sudden pressure of Baelor’s knee sliding between your thighs, forcing them apart with a quiet insistence that made your breath catch.
He didn’t rush.
That was the worst part of it.
Baelor moved slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world. His mouth trailed down your body in unhurried kisses, each one lingering just long enough to make you tense, waiting to see where he’d go next. There was something restless in the way he touched you, an impatience buried beneath control, like he was holding himself back by sheer force.
You watched him through a haze as he straightened briefly, unbuttoning his top and letting it fall somewhere beside the bed. The movement was quick, careless, his attention never really leaving you.
When he leaned over you again, his gaze was darker.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rougher than usual. His hand slid up your side, slow enough to make you shiver.
The shift of his weight stole the breath from your lungs. Your vision blurred again as you clutched at his shoulders, tears slipping past your temples from the intensity of it.
Baelor let out a strained groan under his breath, the sound deep in his chest. For a moment he pressed his forehead to yours, jaw tight like he was trying to keep himself composed.
“God,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself. His hand tightened slightly where it held your hip. “You’ve no idea what you do to me.”
The restraint didn’t last.
His grip grew firmer, movements more certain, like the control he normally carried so carefully was beginning to slip. Each breath he took sounded heavier than the last, his composure unraveling piece by piece.
“You want to leave?” he said quietly, his voice rough now, but still controlled enough to cut. “You think you can just walk out and untangle yourself from me like I’m a bad investment?”
His hand slid down your side, slow, deliberate, possessive.
“You don’t understand,” he continued moving inside of you, eyes locked on yours. “There is no version of this where you and I end separately.”
Your heart was beating too fast. Too loud. You hated that your body still reacted to him, hated that even now he could make your thoughts blur.
His forehead pressed to yours again, but this time there was no softness in it.
“I’ll never let you go.”
“I promise I’m going to be good to you,” he said softly, like he was offering you something generous. “It’s going to be us… and a baby.”
Your eyes widened instantly, panic breaking clean through the haze.
The word landed heavier than the threats had. He felt it. You knew he did.
“Baelor, no what are you talking–” you said, your voice sharp with fear now, hands pushing at his chest.
He caught your wrists easily. Not hurting. Just immovable.
“Yes,” he corrected, calm as ever.
“You wouldn’t leave then,” he continued, quieter now, studying your face like he was already seeing the future play out. “You wouldn’t take my child away from me. You wouldn’t drag this through court when there’s something tying us together.”
His hand slid up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing under your eye where tears had gathered again.
Part 3: He was reaching for both of them. [You are here]
Pairing: Prince Valarr (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her) | Prince Aerion (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her)
Word Count: ~11K
Summary:
Valarr wants back what he was too cowardly to keep.
Aerion is still trying, quietly, to become someone good enough to stay.
And when Aegon Targaryen (Egg) comes looking for his brother, he finds far more than he was meant to see.
Duncan is just there to make sure his friend survives the fallout.
Valarr lowered the phone slowly, his expression unreadable at first, as though his face had not yet caught up to what he had heard.
The balcony was cold. Wind moved sharply between the towers, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the low throb of the city below. Behind him, through the glass doors, the corporate floor still glowed in clean amber light. Assistants were finishing up. Someone laughed faintly down the hall. A board member's voice carried for a moment and disappeared again.
But Valarr remained where he was, one hand tightening around the phone.
At first, he had not been sure. The voice had caught him off guard enough that disbelief came before recognition. Then recognition settled in, hard and unmistakable, because, of course, he knew that voice. He had grown up with Aerion, and more than that, he had grown up being forced to account for him. Whenever Aerion had gone too far, which he often had, someone had to contain the mess before it spread far enough to stain the Targaryen name. More often than not, that burden had landed somewhere in Valarr's orbit: damage control, quiet intervention, the usual reshuffling of schedules, press, appearances, and family strategy required whenever Aerion decided to implode in public.
Valarr knew far more about Aerion's life than affection alone would ever justify. He knew his work schedule, the gym he preferred, the projects currently under his name, and the spending patterns that still drew occasional scrutiny from the finance team. As the son standing second in line to take over the main body of the family business, Valarr knew everything worth knowing about the family, or close enough to it.
What he had not known, what had never even occurred to him, was that Aerion knew her, much less that he had somehow ended up with her.
What the fuck.
Of all people, it had to be Aerion.
Now that recognition had fully taken hold, Valarr could hear every layer of him in that voice. The careless drawl had been worn down into something more controlled with age, but it was still there beneath the surface. So was that infuriating ease, the kind that sounded almost lazy if you did not know better, the kind of calm that could sharpen into insolence in a breath. Tonight, though, it had not. Tonight, Aerion had sounded composed, casual, and comfortable enough to answer her phone, as if he belonged in the room with it.
Valarr stared out over the city, jaw tightening.
Brightflame. His fucking cousin.
Three years ago, Aerion had finally gone far enough that even the family had grown tired of dragging him back into line. The benders, the stupid scandals, the frivolous spending, the endless sense that he was one bad night away from becoming a headline no amount of money could fully bury. He had been the problem child with a legacy surname, clever enough to be dangerous and reckless enough to make it everyone else's problem. Valarr remembered the whispers, the abrupt damage control, his grandfather's cold fury, the way Aerion's name would begin appearing in conversations with that particular tone, tight and clipped and already exhausted. He had been a liability wrapped in good tailoring and expensive education, a prince of bad judgment and costly mistakes.
Then, eventually, something had changed.
Not redemption. No one in their family believed in anything so sentimental.
Containment, perhaps.
Aerion had gotten his shit together, at least publicly. He kept his head down now, did his job, showed up when required, stayed on the board, held his shares, and fulfilled the bare obligations of his position with a cool, almost impersonal efficiency that made him tolerable again. Useful, even. He still came to family events when absence would have caused more inconvenience than presence. He still sat through meetings, still voted, still signed what needed signing, still wore the family name without dragging mud across it. But that was all. He had not come back into the fold so much as learned how to stand at its edge without provoking anyone into pushing him farther out.
He was quieter now, harder to read, less volatile, less connected.
That, somehow, made this worse.
If it had been anyone else, Valarr could have dismissed it faster. Some stranger. Some forgettable rebound. Some late-night mistake that meant nothing by daylight. But Aerion was not random. He was not harmless.
And he was certainly not good enough for her.
That thought came fast, ugly in its certainty.
She was better than him. Better than Aerion had ever managed to be. More disciplined. More decent. More real. The idea of this version of Aerion, the reined-in, tightly controlled remnant of the family's former disgrace, sitting comfortably in her apartment and answering her phone like he had any place there at all, made something dark and immediate move beneath Valarr's ribs.
What made it worse, what made it truly intolerable, was the memory that rose up with it.
One winter evening in her apartment, he had arrived exhausted and half-sick after a board meeting that had stretched far too long, shoulders tight with the sort of pressure no one in his family ever acknowledged unless it could be weaponized. She had taken one look at him and said, "Oh, honey," so softly it had nearly undone him on the spot before stepping forward to undo his scarf with gentle hands and guide him inside.
Later, she had warmed soup on the stove from whatever she had in the kitchen, pried his phone from his hand when he tried to answer emails, and tucked a blanket around him on that ridiculous, too-firm second-hand couch as though he were something worth tending carefully. There had been no performance in it, no expectation, no calculation. Just care, offered so naturally it had made something in him unclench before he had even realized how tightly wound he was. He remembered the lamplight on her face, the smell of garlic and laundry soap, the way she had brushed his hair back from his forehead when she thought he was already asleep. In her apartment, beneath the soft light of that crooked lamp and surrounded by all the small, determined evidence of the life she had built for herself, he had not been an heir or a strategist or a future obligation.
He had only been tired.
And she had loved him anyway.
The memory hit hard enough to make him look away from the glass. Because what made this unbearable was not merely the thought of her with someone else. It was the possibility of Aerion being welcomed into that same quiet tenderness, that same intimate softness Valarr had once, perhaps arrogantly and perhaps shamefully, assumed belonged to him alone.
Aerion had no business inheriting any part of that.
For months, people had been quietly asking where Aerion had been. Not directly, of course. No one in their family ever asked directly. But staff had noticed his penthouse sitting empty more often than not, and his calendar had become selective in a way that irritated the older generation. He was no longer readily available for impromptu meetings, last-minute appearances, or the kind of family obligations that used to swallow everyone else whole unless his presence was absolutely, monumentally required. If someone wanted Aerion in a room, they had to schedule him properly, and even then, he was ruthless with his time. He came in, did precisely what was needed of him, and left. He was efficient in a way that felt almost insulting, as though he had reduced the family business to a series of obligations to be fulfilled rather than a world he was expected to inhabit.
Valarr had never thought much of it before. Up until now, Aerion had been so far out of his mind that the absences barely registered beyond mild irritation. As long as Aerion still attended what was mandatory, still fulfilled his obligations, still voted when needed and signed what had to be signed, the rest of the family tolerated the distance. He vanished in between, not scandalously and not loudly, but with just enough consistency to remind everyone that duty was not the same thing as devotion. Somehow, Aerion had carved out a version of survival that allowed him to skate by with a freedom Valarr had never once been granted.
And now Valarr knew where at least some of that absence had gone.
He pushed himself off the balcony railing and stepped back inside. The office felt too warm after the cold. Crossing toward his desk, he moved with the same measured precision that made him look effortless from the outside, though the pressure in his chest had not eased in the slightest. He set the phone down beside a stack of signed papers, loosened his tie again, and sat down slowly, leaning back in the chair with one hand dragging across his mouth.
For a moment, he only stared at the ceiling, willing himself into clarity.
It was a mistake.
Because the mind was a treacherous thing, and hers came back to him not as grief at first, but as warmth.
He remembered another winter evening in her apartment, late enough that the city outside had gone soft and distant beneath the frost on the windows. He had arrived exhausted after a board meeting that had stretched too long, tie loosened, shoulders tight with the kind of pressure no one in his family ever acknowledged unless it could be used against him later. She had taken one look at him and laughed under her breath.
"God," she had said, stepping aside to let him in, "you look like a Victorian widower."
Even then, tired as he was, he had let out a quiet laugh. "That bad?"
"Worse," she had said, reaching up to loosen his scarf with warm, gentle fingers. "Honestly, tragic. Very handsome, obviously. But tragic."
He had looked down at her, and for a moment all the strain of the evening had eased simply because she was there, smiling at him like that, lit by the soft yellow lamp in the living room and the cheap overhead light from the kitchen behind her.
"You're cruel," he had murmured.
"I'm observant," she corrected, and then, softer, "Come inside, honey. You're freezing."
Later, he had been stretched along that ridiculous, too-firm second-hand couch while she moved around the kitchen in socks and one of those oversized sweaters that kept slipping off one shoulder. The apartment smelled like garlic, laundry soap, and whatever candle she had lit to make the place feel warm. She had stood over the stove stirring soup from whatever she had in the fridge, glancing back at him every few seconds as if checking he had not vanished.
When he reached for his phone, already half out of habit and half out of panic over the unread emails waiting for him, she had turned and pointed the spoon at him.
"Don't you dare."
He had looked at her over the top of the screen. "I have things to answer."
"You have a fever."
"I have responsibilities."
"You," she had said, abandoning the stove long enough to cross the room and pluck the phone neatly from his hand, "are, at present, a very expensive-looking plague victim."
He had actually smiled then, tired and helplessly fond. "That's a horrible thing to say to a sick man."
"And yet I say it with love."
She had set the phone on the coffee table well out of reach, then returned with a bowl of soup and a blanket, tucking the blanket around him with a level of determination that suggested resistance would be pointless.
"There," she had said. "See? Now you look less like a corporate martyr and more like a person."
"A terrible downgrade."
"Mm. Debatable."
He remembered the warmth of the bowl in his hands. The way she had curled up beside him afterward, one leg tucked under her, watching him with that quiet little smile she got when she was pleased with herself.
"What?" he had asked eventually.
She had shrugged, though her eyes stayed on him. "Nothing."
"That never means nothing."
She smiled wider. "I just like you like this."
He had frowned faintly. "Half-dead?"
"Human," she said.
The answer had been so simple, he had not known what to do with it.
He remembered looking at her then, really looking, at the softness in her face, the kindness in her hands, the little apartment she had built out of determination and thrift and sheer refusal to let life crush anything gentle out of her. He remembered how safe it had felt to be there. How easy. How dangerously easy.
And because she was her, because she never seemed to understand the full force of what she gave him, she had leaned over and kissed his temple before saying lightly, "You know, for the record, I do not care about the fancy things."
He had gone still. "No?"
"No." Her thumb had brushed once over his wrist, absent and affectionate. "I just want you. The actual you. Not the meeting version. Not the family version. Just you."
Something in his chest tightened so sharply at the memory that he had to look away now, back in the office, back under the cold, impersonal glow of the city.
Because he had loved her.
That was the ugliest part of it. Not that he had cared for her a little. Not that she had merely comforted him. He had loved her, truly, deeply, with the part of himself he kept hidden even from his own reflection.
And still he had chosen them.
He had chosen the boardrooms, the expectations, the inheritance already mapped across his future like a cage gilded so expensively no one was permitted to call it one. He had chosen family, business, blood, the suffocating architecture of obligation that had been built around him since birth. He had chosen to protect all of that instead of protecting her. He had chosen convenience and called it duty because that sounded cleaner than cowardice. He had taken the easy way out, the path with fewer arguments, fewer headlines, fewer battles waiting at the dinner table. He had chosen the world that had been built for him, the one that never once asked whether it made him happy, only whether it kept everything orderly and intact.
And the ugliest part was that he had known, even then, that she was better than all of it. Better than the money. Better than the name. Better than any polished woman his family might one day have placed before him with quiet approval, suitable and connected and utterly acceptable. Not one of them would have been her. Not one of them would have loved him with that same open, unguarded warmth. Not one of them would have made a crooked little apartment feel more like home than any penthouse he had ever stood in.
A sharp breath caught in his throat. He leaned his head back further and shut his eyes, but not before one traitorous tear slipped free and tracked hotly down his cheek. He wiped it away almost at once, jaw tightening with visible irritation.
She had been so good to him.
So good, in fact, that she had made him feel for a while as though there might be a life outside the machinery of his name.
And he had still let her stand outside the polished gates of his real life like something precious he was too cowardly to claim in daylight.
That was what made the memory unbearable. Not merely that he missed her, but that he had been loved well, loved gently, loved without calculation, and had answered that love by choosing the family and business that would never love him back the same way.
His phone lit against the desk, and for one stupid second his pulse jumped before he saw the name on the screen.
Not her. Kiera.
Valarr stared at it until the call stopped. A moment later, another notification from his father, Baelor, appeared.
Board briefing moved to 8. Don’t be late. And call Kiera back.
He looked at the message for a long moment, jaw tightening. There it was again: the life he had chosen, arriving on cue with its usual precision, as if grief could be managed between meetings and obligation could always be made to outrank everything else. When Kiera called a second time, something in him finally gave. Before he could think better of it, he hurled the phone across the office. It struck the wall with a sharp crack and dropped out of sight.
The silence afterward felt enormous. Valarr stood there breathing hard, his hand still half-curled from the throw, shame rising almost as quickly as the anger had. Men like him did not lose control. And yet the broken quiet of the room held the proof that he had.
He should leave it alone. That was the rational choice, and he knew it. Whatever this was, whatever had happened in the months since he left, he had forfeited the right to react to it. He understood that as clearly and logically as he had understood every other unbearable decision he had made. But logic had never been the same thing as indifference, and Valarr was not a man permitted the indulgence of visible disorder. Men like him did not pace. They sat very still instead and made plans.
He was not angry yet. Anger was messy. This was worse.
He had been raised to solve problems before they ripened into scandal. Unfortunately, this one had once slept in his arms. He knew the feel of her bare skin cooling against his after they had made love, the way she would tuck herself into his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the soft, sleepy things she said when the lights were off, and neither of them was pretending to be anyone else. They had whispered about the future in bed, half-laughing and half-serious, her fingers tracing idle patterns over his chest as if tomorrow were something gentle and reachable. And already the part of him trained by boardrooms was trying to turn all of that into something manageable, something strategic, before the rest of him could admit this had never been just about wanting a conversation.
When he sat down and unlocked his phone, he opened their old messages without immediately typing. For a long moment, he only looked. The thread felt strange now, like a hallway in a house he had once lived in and abandoned too quickly, with all the furniture still standing where he had left it. There were practical messages, a few colder ones, gaps too long to excuse, and the unmistakable shape of something once intimate that had since been hollowed out by silence.
His fingers hovered over the screen as too many possible openings presented themselves, all of them wrong. Not because they were untrue, but because they were too true. He could not send anger. That would reveal too much. He could not level an accusation because he had no right to do so. He could not send anything grand or raw enough to resemble confession, because that would be too easy, too selfish, too close to weakness disguised as honesty.
So he typed the only thing restraint would allow.
Can we talk?
He stared at it for a moment before adding another line.
Please.
Even that seemed precarious, either too little or already too much. His jaw tightened, and after another pause, he added one final line beneath it.
I need to see you.
He read the three messages twice, then once more, and the more he looked at them, the more dangerous they felt for their restraint. Each line was controlled, sparse, careful, which made them far more unsettling than anything longer might have been.
His thumb hesitated over the screen for half a second before he sent them.
The messages left in an instant and disappeared into that terrible modern silence where anything might be seen immediately or left unread for hours. Valarr set the phone face down on the desk, and that should have been the end of it.
Instead, the room seemed to grow even quieter.
Because somewhere across the city, whether tonight or tomorrow, in the middle of class, while studying, or while sitting beside someone else who had no business being woven into any of this at all, her phone would light up.
Not enough to be comfortable. Just enough to make the fluorescent-lit study room feel stale, like air that had already been breathed too many times. The windows along the corridor were faintly fogged at the edges from tracked-in slush and from too many bodies moving in and out all day. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed too loudly. A printer whirred. The vending machine near the stairwell gave off its constant mechanical hum, low and irritating, like a sound the building itself had learned to live with.
She sat hunched over a spread of notes and half-worked problems, one elbow on the table, highlighter uncapped beside her laptop. A campus coffee cup sat untouched near her notebook, purchased out of habit and abandoned after two sips. Beside it lay a folded piece of paper with numbers scribbled across it: rent, groceries, baby wipes, prenatal vitamins, transit, and estimated costs for things she still had not figured out how to afford without feeling faint.
Duncan sat across from her, long legs stretched out beneath the chair, a coffee balanced dangerously close to the edge of the table. He had been talking for the past three minutes about something one of his classmates had said in lab, something so profoundly stupid, according to Duncan, that it deserved to be preserved for future generations, and she had been trying, genuinely trying, to follow.
"And then," Duncan said, lifting a hand for emphasis, "this man looks at the simulation output like it personally betrayed him and goes, 'Well, the software clearly has bias.'"
That got a laugh out of her.
A real one. Small, but real.
Duncan pointed at her immediately, triumphant. "There it is. Thank you. I needed that reaction, because otherwise I start to feel insane."
"You are insane," she said, eyes dropping back to the page in front of her. "You're just occasionally correct."
"Devastating," he replied. "Cruel. Unnecessary."
He nudged a granola bar across the table toward her. "Eat."
She made a face. "I'm not hungry."
"That wasn't a request."
Her mouth twitched faintly despite herself.
Duncan had settled into her life in the strange, unceremonious way some people did, through repeated presence, coffee runs, shared deadlines, and the kind of friendship built in the trenches of impossible coursework. He was safe in a way she had not known she needed until after everything had already broken. He did not pry unless she let him. He noticed more than he said. He had the rare gift of making concern feel like company instead of scrutiny.
He also had the deeply annoying habit of being right about when she needed food.
"I hate you," she muttered, unwrapping the granola bar.
"Liar."
Duncan tore open another protein bar and glanced at the list beside her laptop.
"Aerion got the car seat sorted, then?"
She nodded without looking up. "Yeah. Found one that hadn't expired, checked the manual, watched like six videos, then cleaned it himself because apparently I 'wasn't allowed' to inhale mystery dust."
Duncan snorted.
"And he dropped those bags at my apartment yesterday," she added. "Nappies, wipes, some baby bath stuff. But he took the labels off the pharmacy bag first because he said he didn't want the neighbours being nosy."
That made Duncan go quiet for a second.
"What?" she asked.
He leaned back in his chair and gave her a look. "Nothing."
"Duncan."
He sighed. "It's just, he's not doing blokes-who-want-credit helpful. He's doing blokes-who-are-properly-gone helpful."
She blinked at him.
Duncan shrugged. “I’m just saying. Men do not research insurance coverage, sanitize second-hand bottle parts, and make nice with your teenage brother for sport.”
Her face warmed instantly. “He’s just being kind.”
“Mm,” Duncan said, unconvinced. “And I’m the King of England.”
She made a face at him. “He did try to buy half the baby aisle at one point, if that helps. I had to tell him no.”
Duncan stared at her. “You said no?”
“Yes, Duncan.”
“Madness,” he said flatly. “Couldn’t be me.”
That pulled another laugh out of her.
He pointed the protein bar at her like he was making a serious moral argument. “If a rich man wanted to lovingly throw useful things in my general direction, I would let him. In fact, if I swung that way, I’d have shown the man some gratitude, if you catch my drift.”
She snorted and smacked his arm across the table. “Shut up, you idiot.”
“I’m being sincere,” Duncan said, rubbing his arm with exaggerated offence. “I’d have been insufferable about it too. ‘Oh, Aerion, you shouldn’t have. No, really, buy me the nicer one.’”
She laughed harder, shaking her head.
“There she is,” he said, smug again. “That’s the sound of someone who knows I’m right.”
Then, as if realizing he had said enough sincerity for one afternoon, he tore open the rest of his protein bar and said, with the air of a man confessing to tax fraud, "I've been speaking to this girl from the gym."
She looked up from her notes. "Speaking to, or having full conversations with?"
He gave her a wounded look. "That feels unnecessarily pointed."
She smiled faintly. "So which is it?"
He sighed and slumped deeper into the chair. "Well. She's an arts student. Tanselle's is her name. Theatre focus. Very fit. It's a bit terrifying, honestly. Gorgeous in a way that makes you feel as though you've accidentally shown up underdressed to your own life."
That pulled a real laugh out of her.
Duncan pointed at her with the protein bar. "Thank you. Yes. Exactly. Anyway, I've been absolutely floundering."
"In what sense?"
"In the sense," he said gravely, "that every time she speaks to me, I become a complete dunce."
"A dunce?"
"Yes, a dunce. An absolute pillock. She asked me what I studied, and I said, 'Engineering,' as if that were somehow the end of a thought. Full stop. Curtains. Brilliant work from me."
She laughed harder this time, hand over her mouth.
"I mean it," he said. "She smiled, and I forgot every word in the English language. Just gone. Vanished. Head empty. No thoughts. Only protein powder and panic."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being accurate," Duncan said. "Yesterday she asked if I was using the bench and I said, 'Mm.'"
She stared at him.
He stared back.
"Mm?" she repeated.
"Mm," he confirmed darkly. "Not even a proper word. Just a little haunted sound. I am, apparently, not a man built for romance."
"You are such an idiot."
"Yes, well, thank you," he said. "That's more or less what I've been telling myself. I keep thinking next time I'll say something normal and charming, and then she appears, and I turn into a Victorian child seeing an ankle."
She snort-laughed at that, shaking her head.
Duncan looked unbearably smug for all of two seconds before his eyes dropped back to the paper near her elbow.
His expression softened.
"You've been doing the budget thing again."
Her laughter faded a little.
"It's not a thing," she said quietly. "It's just… numbers."
"It's two columns, three crossed-out totals, and what appears to be you trying to price a pram while solving differential equations."
She looked down at the paper as if she had forgotten it was there. "I'm trying to be realistic."
"You are being realistic."
"I mean financially realistic."
Duncan leaned back a little, studying her face.
She hated this part. Hated how quickly her chest tightened whenever anyone was kind about money. Hated how shame arrived before gratitude these days, sharp and instinctive, like she had done something wrong by needing anything at all.
"The school insurance covers more than I thought," she said after a moment, voice low. "The clinic helped me sort some of it out. Prenatal appointments, some testing, and some of the prescriptions. Not all of it, but enough that it's not…" She swallowed. "Not impossible."
"That's good."
She nodded, though her eyes stayed on the paper.
"And Aerion…" She stopped for a second, not because she did not want to say his name, but because saying it out loud still made everything feel more real. "He's been helping."
Duncan said nothing, just waited.
"He found some supplies second-hand," she said. "Not junky ones. Good ones. He checked everything first, cleaned it, and made sure it was safe. A bassinet, some clothes, bottles, a few things I didn't even know I'd need yet." Her mouth trembled faintly into something that was almost a smile. "He made a whole spreadsheet."
Duncan blinked. "Aerion made a spreadsheet?"
She let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh. "I know."
"That's genuinely unsettling."
"It was colour-coded."
"Christ."
That got another small laugh from her, though it faded quickly.
"He's been… good," she admitted. "Really good. Not weird about it. Not making a big show of it. Just…” She looked away. "There."
Duncan nodded once.
"And my mum's saving what she can," she went on, quieter now. "She keeps saying not to worry about it, that she'll figure something out. My brother picked up another job after school." Her voice cracked just slightly on the last part. "He's still in high school, Duncan."
There it was.
The real wound.
Not just fear. Not just money.
Guilt.
Her eyes burned, and she stared hard at the notes in front of her so she would not start crying in a fluorescent study room over a list of baby expenses and granola bar crumbs.
"I hate it," she whispered. "I hate that they're doing that because of me. My mum should not be skipping things to save money. My brother should not be working extra shifts when he should be worrying about exams or being a teenager or literally anything else." Her breathing started to go thin around the edges. "It just feels like everyone is carrying me and I—"
Duncan cut in gently. "Oi."
She looked up.
His face had gone serious in that quiet way of his, not dramatic, not pitying, just steady.
"That is not what's happening."
Her mouth tightened. "It is."
"No," he said, firmer now. "It isn't."
She looked away again.
Duncan leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. "They're helping because they love you. Aerion's helping because he wants to. Your mum is helping because she's your mum. Your brother's helping because he loves you and probably thinks he's dead hard for doing it."
That pulled the tiniest, wettest laugh from her.
"He does, actually."
"Exactly. There you go. Masculine pride and familial devotion. Grim combination."
She huffed a laugh, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
Duncan's voice softened again. "You are not some burden everyone's reluctantly dragging uphill. You're a person they love who needs support. That's different."
Her throat worked. "It doesn't feel different."
"I know." He paused. "But it is."
She stared at him.
He held her gaze, kind and unbearably certain.
"You deserve support," he said simply. "You deserve to be looked after too. Not just everyone else. You."
That nearly undid her.
She looked down fast, blinking hard.
After a moment, Duncan said, far too casually, "He's gone for you, by the way."
She frowned. "Who?"
Duncan gave her a flat look. "Don't be thick."
Her cheeks warmed. "Aerion is just helping. And we're… doing well. We're taking it as it comes, but we're good. I think he's testing the waters. He's a great guy."
"Mm. Sure," Duncan said. "And I just discuss fluid mechanics for the sex appeal."
She made a face at him.
"I'm serious," he said, gentler now. "He looks at you like you're something he's trying not to frighten away. It's very embarrassing to witness, actually."
That made her go quiet.
Duncan shrugged and took a sip of coffee. "Not saying you need to do anything about it. Just saying I've got eyes."
She looked down again, throat tight.
"Bloody hell," Duncan murmured, softer now. "Don't cry, or I'll start feeling useful, and it'll go straight to my head."
That made her laugh through the tightness in her throat.
"Idiot."
"Correct."
Her phone buzzed against the table.
She glanced down automatically, still half-listening as Duncan reached for his coffee.
Then she stopped.
Completely.
Duncan trailed off mid-sentence.
Her screen lit her face in pale white-blue.
Valarr.
For a second, her mind did not process anything beyond the name.
Just that. Just him.
And then her body reacted before thought could catch up.
Her stomach dropped so fast it felt like missing a step in the dark. Heat climbed up into her chest in one sharp rush, while her hands turned suddenly, horribly cold. The room did not disappear, exactly, but it shifted, went distant at the edges, as though the fluorescent light above them had flattened everything into something unreal.
She could hear the printer down the hall. The scrape of a chair outside. Duncan is breathing across from her.
But underneath all of it, stronger than the present, was memory.
A crooked television on her wall. Garlic bread stiffening slowly in foil. Valarr was standing in the living room, an apology on his lips and distance already in his eyes.
I don't think this is going to work.
Her thumb hovered over the notification, but she didn't open it.
Not yet.
Just stared.
Duncan's voice softened instantly. "Hey."
She did not look up.
The phone buzzed again.
Then once more.
Three messages.
Her throat tightened.
Duncan leaned forward slightly, all trace of joking gone now. "What happened?"
Still, she didn't answer.
She tapped the screen.
Can we talk?
Please.
I need to see you.
The air in the room seemed to leave all at once.
Not because the messages were dramatic.
Because they weren't.
They were restrained. Sparse. Controlled. Exactly the kind of thing he would send when he wanted to sound measured, when he wanted to make the disruption look reasonable. And somehow that made it worse, worse than pleading, worse than a paragraph, worse than drunken regret spilling across her screen at one in the morning.
Her fingers tightened so hard around the phone that her knuckles began to ache.
Duncan watched her face change in real time.
He did not need to ask again.
"Is it him?" he said quietly.
Her laugh came out wrong. Thin. Breathless. Not amusement.
She swallowed once and nodded.
Something flickered in Duncan's expression then, anger, immediate and protective, there and gone in a second beneath restraint.
"He texted you?"
Another nod.
She stared at the words again, hating the way her pulse had begun to pound against the base of her throat. Hating that even now, even after everything, her body still recognized him as a disruption. As danger. As grief.
Humiliation burned hot beneath her skin.
Because some traitorous part of her had reacted before she could stop it, not with longing, not even with hope, but with that awful involuntary jolt that meant he still had the power to ruin an ordinary afternoon by existing on her screen.
She locked the phone without replying.
Then, immediately unlocked it again.
Then locked it once more.
"I want to throw it," she said, voice unsteady. "I want to answer. I want to tell him to go fuck himself. I want to ask what the hell he thinks he's doing." She sucked in a tight breath. "I also want to pretend I never saw it."
"All valid," Duncan said at once.
Her eyes stung.
She looked away fast, blinking hard at the simulation graph still open on her laptop, the numbers blurring into meaninglessness.
"I hate this," she whispered.
"I know."
"No, I really hate this." Her voice thinned further. "I hate that he can still do this. I hate that it's just three stupid messages, and suddenly I feel like I can't breathe properly."
Duncan stood and came around the table without fanfare, pulling the empty chair beside her out with a quiet scrape. He sat close enough to anchor, not crowd, close enough that his knee touched the side of hers for half a second before settling.
"You don't have to answer him; he is an absolute prick," he said.
She laughed again, rawer this time. "That's the problem. I know I don't."
Because she didn't.
And yet the urge sat under her ribs like a live wire.
To answer immediately. To demand an explanation. To punish him with silence. To ask why now, after months, after all that pain, after she had spent so long piecing herself back together with shaking hands and determination and routine. To ask whether he had finally remembered she existed.
Her hand drifted toward her lower stomach without her noticing at first, a small unconscious motion, protective, brief.
Duncan noticed.
He noticed everything.
But if it struck him as odd, he gave no sign beyond going even gentler when he spoke next.
"Do you want me to take your phone?"
That almost made her cry.
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "No. If I give it to you, I'll just ask for it back in thirty seconds."
"Probably," Duncan agreed.
She stared at the screen again.
The messages sat there with awful calm.
Can we talk?
Please.
I need to see you.
No explanation. No apology. Just a request shaped like a reopened wound.
"He doesn't get to do this," Duncan said quietly, and this time there was steel under it.
Her throat worked. "I know."
"Do you?"
That made her turn toward him.
Not because he was harsh. Because he wasn't. Because his face held that infuriatingly kind look people wore when they saw right through you and refused to let you hide in the version of yourself that minimized the damage.
Duncan exhaled softly and leaned back in the chair.
"You don't owe him speed," he said. "You don't owe him access just because he's finally uncomfortable enough to reach out."
Her mouth trembled.
"He's not uncomfortable enough," she whispered before she could stop herself.
Duncan's jaw tightened, but he only nodded once. "No. Probably not."
She looked back down at the phone.
Then, with more effort than it should have taken, she flipped it face down on the table.
The gesture felt tiny.
At least for now.
"I'm not answering," she said, though the words sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.
"Okay."
"Not today."
"Okay."
She dragged both hands through her hair and closed her eyes for one brief second.
Her whole body still felt wrong. Too warm and too cold at once. Her stomach turned with the sick adrenaline of old grief dragged suddenly into daylight. Beneath the anger was something uglier, shame, maybe. Shame that a part of her still wanted to know what he would say. Shame that some old reflex still perked toward him before remembering the cost.
Duncan nudged the granola bar wrapper toward her again.
"Eat the rest."
She looked at him in disbelief.
He raised an eyebrow. "What? Trauma and blood sugar crashes are a terrible combination."
A startled laugh broke out of her, uneven but real.
And just like that, the room came slightly back into focus.
Not fixed. Not okay. But survivable.
She picked up the granola bar and took another bite, mostly because he was watching.
Her phone stayed face down between them like something alive and venomous.
Across the city, Aerion was halfway through a quarterly review when his own phone lit up on the desk.
His office looked nothing like the family's main corporate floors, though it sat inside one of their buildings all the same. The windows were broad and clean, giving him an uninterrupted view of the city below, but the room itself was spare in a way that felt intentional rather than austere. Dark shelves. Clean lines. A low lamp in one corner, rather than the aggressive overhead lighting preferred elsewhere. No family portraits. No inherited oil paintings of dead men with narrow mouths and broader ambitions. Just a few carefully selected pieces: a minimalist brass clock, a black stone paperweight, a framed abstract print no one in the family would have chosen.
His jacket lay folded over the back of a chair. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and his tie was abandoned sometime around noon. His sleeves were rolled neatly to the forearms. A file lay open in front of him, marked with figures and board notes, while one of the senior analysts across from him was still speaking in that dry cadence people adopted when they wanted to sound neutral around money.
Aerion listened with half his attention, pen tapping once against the margin of the report.
Then his phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
Valarr.
Aerion's expression did not change much, though one brow lifted faintly.
Interesting.
He let the analyst finish his sentence before holding up one finger in silent apology and checking the message.
Need a meeting.
When are you free?
Aerion looked at it for a second, then leaned back slightly in his chair.
No greeting. No embellishment. Very Valarr.
He did not think much of it at first. Annoying, maybe. Inconvenient. Probably something to do with board strategy, family assets, or one of the endless internal cleanups the older generation preferred to discuss quietly and late, where everyone wore the same expression and pretended decisions made in private were somehow less ugly. Valarr usually only reached out directly when something required efficiency more than warmth, and warmth had never exactly been the foundation of their relationship.
Still, it was not unusual enough to alarm him.
Not yet.
Aerion typed back one-handed.
Tomorrow after 3. If this is about Q2 projections, send all the documents so I know how much I'll hate it.
He hit send and tossed the phone back onto the desk.
The analyst had gone very still in that careful way employees often did around family members, trying not to show curiosity about something they knew better than to ask.
Aerion gave him a dry look. "Don't stop on my account. I'm sure whatever you were about to say was devastating."
The analyst blinked, then hurriedly resumed.
Aerion looked back down at the numbers, pen moving again in short, precise marks.
Valarr wanting a meeting barely registered as more than another item in the machinery of family business. Another conversation. Another set of expectations. Another hour to sit across from his cousin and talk in clipped sentences about things neither of them especially respected but both understood.
That was, more or less, what his relationship to the family had become.
Aerion had spent years being their cautionary tale. The one people referenced only when necessary, as if saying his name too directly might invite another scandal. Lately, he had settled for becoming forgettable, which in their world was the closest thing to peace. He no longer arrived drunk. He no longer missed votes. He no longer gave anyone fresh ammunition. No one praised him for it. That was not how families like theirs worked. You did not get rewarded for finally becoming manageable. You simply stopped being discussed as often.
He had not rejoined the family so much as learned how to survive at its edge.
That suited him fine.
Or it had, until recently.
Until a crowded coffee shop and a girl with tired eyes, frayed hoodie sleeves, and far too many engineering textbooks had looked up at him like he was simply a man who had caught her before she dropped her pie. Until she had laughed at his terrible line instead of recoiling from it. Until she had listened to the truth of him without flinching.
That, more than anything, still unsettled him.
He had told her about the money early because it was easier than letting her discover it later and decide he had been putting on a front for her benefit. He had told her enough of the past, too, enough that she could have judged him cleanly if she'd wanted to. Enough about the benders, the mess, the years where he had treated his own life like something disposable and everyone else's patience like a renewable resource.
She had listened.
Then she had said, with that quiet steadiness of hers, "That was you then. I can't fault you forever for who you were yesterday, because if we do that to people, then no one is ever allowed to become better."
No grand speech. No sanctimony. No attempt to fix him.
Just grace.
It had landed harder than criticism ever had.
And that was the real trouble, wasn't it?
For all his worst past, he had somehow stumbled into the best thing that had ever happened to him. She had come into his life carrying her own fear, her own exhaustion, her own grief, her own impossible practical burdens, and still she had met him as he was. She had not treated him like a cautionary tale or a project. She had not demanded he atone theatrically before being allowed tenderness. She had simply let him show up, let him try, let him be better without making him beg for permission first.
That kind of mercy was dangerous.
He had not meant to fall in love with her.
He had not meant to fall at all.
And yet here he was, sitting in an office with a quarterly report open in front of him and a family name hanging over his head like weather, thinking not about margins or board projections but about whether she would like the place he had half been researching earlier. Nothing grand. Nothing flashy. Somewhere quiet, somewhere warm, somewhere she could actually enjoy without worrying about cost or appearances or being looked at too closely.
The analyst was still speaking.
Aerion made a note in the margin and asked two clipped questions that were sharp enough to prove he had, unfortunately for everyone involved, still been listening. The analyst relaxed by degrees and kept going. Aerion nodded at the relevant parts, corrected a projected figure, and crossed out a recommendation he disliked. By the time the meeting wrapped, the report had been thinned to something more useful.
Once the analyst finally left, closing the door behind him with the relief of a man escaping a minor aristocratic inconvenience, Aerion sat back in his chair and rubbed a hand once over his mouth.
The office was quiet again.
He picked up his phone.
For a second, he only looked at the dark screen, his mind flicking first to Valarr's message and then, almost immediately, away from it. The family business could wait until tomorrow afternoon. It always could, no matter how much it liked to pretend otherwise.
Instead, he opened a new tab and typed in three different possibilities for places to take her.
Nothing ostentatious. Nothing that would make her bristle. He knew better now.
A little independent cinema downtown that hosted old film nights and had the kind of seats she could curl sideways into if she got tired. A late-opening dessert café with proper tea and absurdly overpriced tarts, he suspected she would mock before secretly loving. A weekend farmers' market with handmade soap, local honey, and one stall that sold the kind of warm apple pastries she liked.
He added two to a note on his phone, then a third, then another option in case she wanted something easier, quieter, closer to home.
His mouth curved faintly.
He could already hear her.
She would call the tart place extortion dressed up as homemade charm, say the prices were criminal, and then still insist on supporting them anyway because she knew when people were simply trying their best. She would grumble about the cost while taking another bite, half-annoyed and half-delighted, making that soft sound of reluctant approval she never seemed to realize she made. Then she would feed some to Aerion without thinking, and he would let her, arms wrapped loosely around her shoulders or her neck, burdened with far too many bags of pastries and whatever else she had decided they suddenly needed.
And he would be smiling, listening to her talk, making little jokes under his breath, pointing out strangers and inventing stories about them just to hear her laugh.
There were many things Aerion loved about being with her.
That was one of them.
Aerion saved the note anyway.
Outside, the city kept moving in glass and light, its towers glowing against the dark. Somewhere beyond the clean order of his office and the manageable cruelty of spreadsheets and scheduled meetings, something older and sharper had already begun to shift.
But Aerion did not know that.
He did not know that across the city, three restrained messages had already landed like a blade set quietly on a table. He did not know that her hands had gone cold at the sight of Valarr's name. He did not know that something old and painful had just been pulled taut again.
So he went back to work.
He reopened the report, capped his pen, uncapped it again, and bent over the page with the same deliberate focus he brought to anything he intended to finish properly. And when his concentration drifted a second time, he clicked back to the note on his phone and added one more line beneath the dessert café and the film listing:
Ask if she wants something low-key. She's been tired lately.
Then, after a moment's thought, he made a few more notes.
Message her mother and brother about appointment updates, school, and anything else that still needs sorting. Help plan their arrival for the birth. Reach out to Duncan about the next football match they were supposed to watch.
Small things. Ordinary things. The kind that mattered.
Then he returned to the numbers, unaware that by this time tomorrow he might be walking into something that had nothing at all to do with quarterly projections.
That evening, the apartment was dim except for the light over the stove and the glow of her laptop propped open on the counter. Her mother's face filled most of the screen, slightly too close to the camera in the way mothers always seemed to be on video calls, while her brother kept leaning in and out of frame from somewhere to the side, half in his school hoodie, half distracted by whatever snack he was eating.
"I'm serious," her mother was saying. "If the appointment is on Thursday, then you need to text me once you're done. I don't care if you think you're fine, hun, I want the messages."
"I will," she said, smiling despite herself.
"You said that last time."
"And I did text."
"Three hours later."
From off-screen, her brother muttered, "She's got you there."
Aerion looked up from where he was sitting on the floor beside the coffee table, assembling something that had arrived in a brown box with far too many screws and instructions clearly written by sadists. He had one sleeve rolled to the elbow and her reading glasses perched low on his nose, borrowed because he had declared the print size "actively hostile."
"She did text," he said mildly, without looking up. "Admittedly, not in a timely fashion."
Her mother went still on the screen.
Not suspicious, exactly. Just assessing.
Aerion seemed to feel it a second later. He glanced up and gave a small, respectful nod toward the laptop. "Good evening."
Her brother immediately grinned. "You're still there?"
Aerion deadpanned, "No, this is an advanced hologram."
That got a laugh out of both of them, and even her mother's mouth twitched despite herself.
"What are you building?" her brother asked, craning toward the screen.
Aerion held up a small plastic part, looking visibly annoyed. "Apparently, a pram designed by demons."
Her brother laughed so hard he nearly disappeared out of frame.
Then, without making a show of it, Aerion fitted the wheel into place and asked, "How was your shift?"
Her brother blinked. "What?"
"Your shift," Aerion repeated. "You said yesterday your manager had started putting you on evenings. I was asking how it went."
Her brother looked startled, as people do when they realize they have been listened to.
"Oh. Uh. Fine, actually. A bit dead. Got home late."
Aerion nodded once. "You've still got that chem test Friday?"
Now both of them were staring.
She looked at him from across the room, something quiet and tender catching in her chest. He kept most of his attention on the half-built pram, as if this were nothing remarkable, as if remembering details about the people she loved mattered less than breathing.
Her mother noticed that too.
So did her brother.
That was perhaps the more delicate thing.
Because he had liked Valarr. More than liked him, really. He had admired him in the easy, trusting way younger boys sometimes admired older men who seemed composed, capable, and effortlessly sure of themselves. Valarr had answered his texts, given him advice, let him feel included, and then, in the end, had still walked away from her. Her brother had never said much about that after the fact, but she knew him well enough to recognize the shape of his hurt. It had not only been anger on her behalf. It had been the quieter, meaner disappointment of realizing someone you had let yourself trust could still leave your sister shattered.
So now, even as he laughed, even as he answered Aerion and leaned closer to the screen, there was caution in him, too. Not cruelty. Not hostility. Just a watchfulness that had not been there before.
Her mother had every reason to be wary as well. She knew what her daughter had gone through with Valarr. She knew how deeply she had loved him, how for a long time she had truly believed he would be the end of the story, not the wound at the centre of it. And now, with a child on the way, a child that carried the shape of an old heartbreak inside an already uncertain future, she would have been well within her rights to look at any new man in her daughter's life with suspicion first and softness later.
But suspicion, she was beginning to realize, was not the same thing as fairness.
Aerion had not arrived in her daughter's life, making grand promises or performing good deeds for applause. From what she had gathered so far, he had been honest in strange, imperfect ways. He had told her daughter outright that he had money, but that it was not his life. He had not tried to dazzle. He had not tried to take over. He simply kept appearing, kept helping, kept making himself useful in all the small, unglamorous ways that mattered.
He was trying, and trying without swagger was rarer than people liked to admit.
Her mother's expression softened, so slightly that most people would have missed it.
"That's kind of you," she said quietly.
Aerion's hands paused for just a second. "I'm trying," he said, and for once, there was no dry wit in it, no performance, no easy deflection. Just truth. "I know this is a lot. I'm trying to do right by her."
The words settled over the room with a weight that was not uncomfortable, only full.
Her brother looked down first, suddenly pretending to be very interested in the drawstring of his hoodie. But she caught the shift in his face before he looked away, the guardedness in him easing by the smallest degree, not gone, not fully, but dented. Her mother, meanwhile, studied Aerion through the screen for a long moment, taking his measure in that quiet, devastating way mothers did when the stakes were their children.
Then she nodded once.
"Good," she said. "Keep trying."
Aerion inclined his head like she had handed him terms in a negotiation, and he meant to honour every one.
Across the room, she had to look away.
Something in her chest had gone tight.
Not from fear this time, and not from grief either, though grief still lived close beneath everything these days. This was something softer and somehow more painful for it, tenderness so sudden it almost hurt. Watching him there on the floor with her glasses slipping down his nose, quietly building something for a future he had not asked for but was trying, in his own way, to help carry, made her throat tighten without warning.
Neither of them, not her mother on the screen, not her brother pretending not to stare, not Aerion with his careful hands and dry mouth and quiet sincerity, had any idea that elsewhere, beyond the warmth of this small apartment and the soft domestic peace of this ordinary evening, something colder had already begun to move.
During the day, it was all glass and skyline and carefully controlled quiet, the kind of place that seemed built for meetings no one actually enjoyed and silences that cost too much money. But at night, with the city lit in gold beneath the windows and the kitchen warm from the stove, it felt almost human.
She was standing barefoot at the counter in one of Aerion's old shirts and a pair of soft lounge shorts, stirring a pan of garlic butter pasta while Duncan leaned against the island, eating shredded cheese straight from the bag like an animal.
"That is disgusting," she said without looking up.
"It's efficient," Duncan replied.
"It's feral."
"It's protein."
From the living room, Aerion looked up from where he was sprawled across the sofa with one ankle over his knee, sleeves rolled, watching the match with the kind of intense irritation only football seemed able to produce in otherwise rational men.
"Technically," he said, "he's right."
She turned to stare at both of them. "I cannot believe I've chosen to spend my weekend with two men who share a single brain cell and use it exclusively for sports commentary and poor nutritional decisions."
Duncan grinned. "And yet here you are."
"And yet here I am," she muttered.
The penthouse was warm with the smell of butter, garlic, black pepper, and the roasted vegetables she had shoved into the oven twenty minutes earlier. Duncan arrived with snacks and two drinks, and absolutely no useful contribution to dinner. Aerion had at least had the decency to cut mushrooms before standing around looking expensive and pretending that counted as labour.
From the sofa, Aerion lifted one hand. "I diced things."
"You massacred things," she corrected.
"They were cut."
"They were emotionally damaged."
Duncan laughed so hard he nearly choked on his cheese.
Aerion looked offended. "That's wildly ungrateful for someone wearing my shirt."
She glanced down at herself. "It was on the chair."
"Yes," he said. "Where I had placed it."
"Suspiciously convenient."
"Thoughtful," he corrected.
Duncan made a noise of exaggerated disgust. "Christ. You two are revolting."
She hid a smile and turned back to the stove.
One week here and there had somehow become a weekend bag left more casually by the door, then a toothbrush in the bathroom, then her standing in Aerion's kitchen on a Friday night cooking dinner while Duncan heckled both of them and the match played in the background. None of it had been announced. None of it had been named too sharply. It had simply happened in the quiet way some things did when no one was trying too hard to force them.
There were signs of her everywhere now, small enough that a stranger might not notice them at first, but obvious once you knew where to look. A framed photo of the two of them had appeared on one of the dark shelves near the window, tucked beside the brass clock as though it had always belonged there. Another sat more carelessly on the kitchen counter, one Duncan had taken without permission when she had been laughing at something Aerion had said, her head tipped back, his mouth curved in that rare, unguarded way that made him look younger. There were snacks in the cupboard he would never have bought for himself, but now kept stocked without comment because she liked them. A blanket had appeared over the sofa too, soft and heavy and entirely unlike the rest of the penthouse, there for the evenings when she liked to curl into his side with a book. At the same time, he worked through emails on his laptop, one arm around her almost absentmindedly as if keeping her close had already become second nature.
Behind her, Duncan dropped onto one of the kitchen stools and said, "Anyway, theatre girl spoke to me again."
Aerion muted the television with one hand. "This already sounds catastrophic."
Duncan pointed at him. "It is. She asked if I was doing anything this weekend, and I, for reasons known only to Satan, said, 'Potentially.'"
She turned, wooden spoon still in hand. "Potentially?"
Duncan dragged both hands down his face. "I know."
Aerion looked at him for a long moment. "That is the least seductive word in the English language."
"I panicked."
"You made 'weekend' sound like a legal risk assessment," she said.
Duncan looked deeply offended. "I'd like the record to show I am suffering."
"You are an idiot," she said.
"Yes," Aerion added. "But with admirable consistency."
Duncan pointed between them. "See, this is what I mean. I come here for community, and instead I'm bullied in a luxury high-rise."
"You came here for free food," she said.
"That too."
Aerion unmuted the television just long enough to watch one terrible pass unfold, swore under his breath, then muted it again with renewed disappointment.
Duncan snorted. "You are taking this far too personally."
"I hate watching professionals make choices I could condemn more efficiently from a sofa."
"That might be the most rich-boy scouting report I've ever heard," she said dryly.
Aerion's mouth twitched.
Then the buzzer sounded.
All three of them looked up.
She frowned slightly and checked the oven clock out of habit, as though the time might somehow explain who was at the door. Duncan straightened on the stool. Aerion muted the television fully this time and glanced toward the hall.
"Are you expecting someone?" she asked.
Aerion shook his head. "No, sweetheart."
Duncan immediately said, "Maybe it's theatre girl, come to finally appreciate me."
"It isn't," both of them said at once.
Duncan looked briefly crestfallen, then laughed as though he were in on the joke anyway.
The buzzer sounded again.
She wiped her hands on the dish towel and said, "I'll get it."
Aerion was already half-rising from the sofa, but she waved him back. "It's fine."
The hallway outside the Aerion's penthouse was quieter than the kitchen; the city hummed dulled behind thick glass and expensive walls. She crossed the polished floor, still barefoot, and pulled open the door without much thought.
The boy standing on the other side was younger than she had expected, though not by much. He had a shaved head, sharp features, and the sort of expensive school uniform that looked severe even on someone his age: black and red, with a dark blazer, black trousers, polished leather shoes, and a black backpack slung over one shoulder. He carried himself with the kind of restless tension that suggested he had arrived in the middle of a thought and resented being delayed by the existence of a door.
He blinked at her.
She blinked back.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then his eyes flicked over her face and dropped lower, taking in her bare legs, the oversized shirt that was obviously not hers, and the gentle curve of the bump beneath it where one hand rested without thought. Something in his expression changed at once, confusion giving way to a sharp, startled disbelief.
She offered him a small, gentle smile, not wanting to spook him when he already looked caught between curiosity and worry.
"Hi," she said softly. "Who might you be?"
He hesitated for only a second.
Then, with the wary awkwardness of someone falling back on the only name that had ever really felt like his, he muttered the nickname he had carried since childhood.
A/N: um. yeah. I did the thing again and left it on another open ending 😭 I wish I could say this was planned, but honestly, I just can’t commit. baby Egg makes an appearance though, and i still have a few ideas rotating around for what happens next, so i’m just gonna let it breathe a little and see where it wants to go. Hopefully you guys still enjoy this because whew... this chapter was just awweee.
Young and Beautiful | Baelor Targaryen x Lannister!Reader PART 2
After your arranged marriage to Prince Baelor, he keeps his promise not to hurt you, but there are many things within the Red Keep that end up doing so for him.
WORDS: 6.3k
WARNINGS: depression and suicidal thoughts, pregnancy loss/miscarriage mention (not from the reader), non-con touching insinuated, emotional neglect, court cruelty, blood.
PART1
●●●
Your wedding to Prince Baelor was grander than you had ever imagined.
The celebration lasted three full days in the Red Keep: tables laden with roasted venison, eel pies, and Dornish wine flowing like water; musicians with harps and flutes filling the courtyards until well past midnight; laughter echoing off the reddish stone walls and dances that swept even the sternest lords into their rhythm.
But beneath all that splendor, you remained nervous for the entire three days. From the moment the Septon spoke the sacred words and declared you husband and wife, from the instant Baelor inclined his head and placed a chaste, cold kiss upon your forehead, a dull unease settled in your chest and refused to leave.
On your first night of marriage, you arrived together at his chambers. Your legs trembled beneath layers of silk, and each step you took behind him felt heavier than the last. You felt like a lost pup trailing at the heels of a dragon you did not entirely trust.
Baelor stopped before the unlit fireplace and removed his black cloak embroidered with silver dragons. He draped it carefully over the back of a chair, as though the gesture demanded concentration. You remained frozen several paces away, hands pressed against your stomach, bracing for the worst.
You knew it. It was a cruel necessity to avoid scandal: a marriage left unconsummated would be questioned, and the court adored its rumors. He would force you, of course. How could he not—
Then you saw him draw a dagger from the left side of his belt. The steel gleamed briefly in the candlelight. He climbed onto the bed on his knees, pulled back the white linen sheets with precise movement, and without hesitation made a thin but deep cut along his left forearm. Blood welled at once, bright and red, dripping onto the fabric in dark stains that spread like ink.
“Prince!”
Your voice came out sharper than you intended. You stepped toward him without thinking.
Baelor lifted his free hand to stop you, the gesture calm, almost bored.
“I would prefer you call me Baelor,” he said evenly, as though he had not just opened his own flesh before you.
You looked again at the crimson stain slowly spreading across the sheet. He shrugged lightly.
“For everyone else, we have just consummated the marriage. That is the end of it.”
You nodded, stunned. Relief washed over you like cold water, but it left a strange aftertaste.
He rose and walked to a copper basin, cleaning the wound with a cloth he had prepared beforehand. The bleeding slowed almost immediately; the cut was clean, deliberate. Meanwhile, you remained motionless in the center of the room, unsure where to put your hands or how to behave. Your heart still pounded, though it was no longer pure fear. It was… discomfort. A dense discomfort, as if the air between you had thickened.
“Make yourself comfortable. Sleep,” he continued while wrapping his arm with practiced movements. “We will have to sleep together from now on, but do not trouble yourself over me again. Simply ignore my presence.”
He walked to the balcony doors and opened them wide. The cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of salt from the Blackwater and the distant murmur of a city that never entirely slept. It stirred your loose hair and cooled the sweat at the nape of your neck.
You did not sleep that night.
You lay on the farthest side of the enormous canopy bed, wrapped in a nightgown that suddenly felt too thin. Baelor stretched out at the opposite end, removing nothing but his boots. He did not draw closer, did not even brush you with his gaze. He simply breathed slowly, steadily, until the rhythm became almost hypnotic. Even asleep he remained in his corner, rigid as a statue, as if he feared invading your space more than necessary.
The weeks that followed were nearly identical.
Each night he entered the room. He greeted you with a slight nod, sometimes a curt “Good evening”, and dismissed himself with the same gesture. He undressed down to his nightshirt, extinguished the candles one by one, and lay on his side of the bed. He never touched you. Never attempted conversation beyond the barest courtesies. In the mornings he rose before you, dressed in silence, and disappeared toward the throne room or the training yards.
At first, that silence comforted you. Then it began to weigh on you.
You realized that although he did not hurt you, he did not keep you company either. The court was a nest of vipers: ladies who smiled sweetly while whispering behind your back about your “Lannister coldness” or your “insufficient blood”; lords who regarded you with pity or calculation, wondering how long it would take the prince to tire of a wife who did not truly warm his bed. Audiences, banquets, hawking parties… everything became exhausting when you returned to your chambers and found the same emptiness.
One night, after an endless banquet in honor of envoys from Lys, you found yourself staring at the ceiling while Baelor already breathed deeply at your side. Boredom struck you like a slow but relentless wave.
It was not only the solitude in bed. It was solitude in everything. You were the wife of the heir to the Iron Throne, and yet you barely knew the man who slept three feet away from you. You knew nothing.
And the court did not forgive ignorance. Each day brought new reminders: a lady-in-waiting who “forgot” to deliver an important message, a councilor who asked with feigned innocence about the prince’s “family plans,” stifled giggles when you entered a hall and conversations paused a second too long.
You decided you could not continue like this.
●●●
The silence in your chambers had become as familiar as the thickness of the stone walls. Your ladies-in-waiting moved around you like courteous but distant shadows. Now… now you simply accepted it as another extension of the castle’s cold.
Without the option of going down into the city (a luxury forbidden by the lingering echoes of the last Blackfyre rebellion when it was said that their supporters saw any Targaryen as a legitimate target, and a distracted prince or princess would be far too tempting a trophy) your days had taken on a watery, monotonous quality. You wandered the fortress corridors, counting tiles without realizing it, or sat by the window in your private sitting room with embroidery in your hands. The needle slipped in and out of the fabric with mechanical precision while your gaze drifted to the garden below, a composition of carefully tended greens and colors shaped by other hands.
It was then, on one of those fog-laden days, that the idea came to you like a shaft of sunlight breaking through clouds: your nephews. The youngest ones, at least. Maekar’s children. They were the only ones in the vast and complicated web of the court who did not look at you like a piece of furniture—or worse, a rival. The only ones who did not laugh behind your back or simply ignore you.
Maekar’s three youngest possessed something the rest of the court had lost: innocence. Perhaps it was because they were still too young to grasp the complexities of rank and kinship, or because the loss of their mother, the gentle Lady Dyanna Dayne, who had died giving birth to little Rhae, had bound them together inside a fragile bubble of vulnerability. Whatever the reason, they welcomed you without reservation. Aegon, the eldest of the three, seven years old with a keen, curious gaze; Daella, six, with a sweetness almost painful in its purity; and little Rhae, three, who still crawled with more determination than steadiness and felt a dangerous fascination for anything that bore a flame.
That afternoon, you found them in the nursery, a round and warm chamber thanks to a large fireplace roaring in one corner. The floor was strewn with wooden toys and scraps of cloth.
“Do you like to draw, Aunt?” Daella asked in her melodic little voice, holding up a wrinkled piece of parchment. The word aunt always reached your heart. To them, you were not a consort princess from some distant land—only their aunt. Only family.
“Oh, I love drawing,” you replied, and your smile was genuine for the first time in days. You sat on the floor with them, feeling the warmth of the stone through your clothes. “When I was a child, I used to draw dragons all the time.”
“Dragons?” Aegon’s large blue eyes lit up as if you had mentioned hidden treasure.
You nodded, carried away by memory. “I loved our house’s sigil, the Targaryen,” you said, pointing to the vaulted ceiling, where a painted reproduction of the red-and-black banner hung unmoving. “I still do. It’s so… powerful.”
“Could you draw it?” Aegon’s voice trembled with excitement. “Then we could paint it, together, the three of us!” As he spoke, he stretched an arm around Rhae, gently guiding her away from the edge of the fireplace, toward which she had been creeping with fascination.
You let out a light, unrestrained laugh. Daella, smiling triumphantly, placed a thin piece of charcoal into your hand, likely stolen from some corner of the kitchens or her father’s solar. You leaned over a blank parchment Aegon had laid on the floor.
With the charcoal dancing between your fingers, you began to draw. First the shape of the dragon, sleek and fierce, its wings spread in eternal flight. Then the three heads, side by side, their necks entwined in a knot of power and fury. Your nephews watched you with complete attention, lips slightly parted and breath held, as though the slightest sound might shatter the spell you were weaving across the page.
The door creaked open like a dagger of ice against your spine.
You turned, and the bubble of warmth burst. There, framed against the dim corridor, stood Aerion. Your other nephew. The one who always sent an unexplainable chill through you. His presence seemed to drain the light from the room, leaving only the flickering glow of the flames to illuminate features that somehow always managed to look disdainful.
“Hello, Aunt,” he greeted, dragging the words out with a mockery as sharp as a blade. He approached at an unhurried pace, and you felt the calm of your younger nephews evaporate. Daella pressed closer to you, and Aegon’s shoulders stiffened.
You nodded in his direction, lowering your gaze to your drawing, hoping he would leave. But he did not. He stood before you, a tower of arrogance, studying the parchment and your charcoal-stained fingers.
“Fascinating,” he murmured, making the word sound like an insult. “I didn’t know you were such a talented artist, dear Aunt.”
You forced a smile that ached in your jaw. “Thank you.”
Then, with the elegance of a serpent, he dropped down beside you and snatched the drawing from your hands. Aegon lunged to retrieve it, but Aerion sidestepped him without even looking, quick and dismissive.
“Dragons,” he said, tracing a ringed finger along your lines. “I adore dragons. My family used to have one for each of us, you know.” He glanced at you sideways, and there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Isn’t that unfair? Why did the gods decide to take from us what was ours by right?”
You shrugged, uncomfortable, repeating only what your septa had once taught you. “They disappeared after the Dance of the Dragons,” you said, not lifting your eyes from his hands holding your drawing. “My septa said it was a punishment from the gods for fighting among their own family.”
A heavy silence fell. Aerion stared at you with a challenge that made you feel small. He did not like your answer.
“Don’t you think we deserve them?” he asked, his voice a venomous whisper. “No one in our generation harms their own.” He lifted his chin toward his younger brother. “Isn’t that right, Egg?”
Aegon shot to his feet, instinctively placing himself between his sisters and the conflict. “Don’t call me that!” he shouted, his childish voice cracking with fury.
“Aemon calls you that all the time.”
Aegon planted himself in front of Aerion, fists clenched at his sides. “Aemon can. You cannot.” And without waiting for a response, he ran from the chamber, leaving the door wide open.
Aerion huffed, an amused smirk on his lips, and turned his attention back to you. He watched you fidget nervously with the charcoal, staining your fingers further. He reached out and took it from you—but instead of letting go, his fingers closed around yours and held them there. The contact was dry, deliberate. Your heart pounded in your chest, pure discomfort.
He held your hands for what felt like an eternity, then rose in one fluid motion and, without breaking eye contact, snapped the charcoal in two with a cold ease.
“You shouldn’t spend so much time with children, Aunt.” His voice was falsely kind now. “The court laughs at you, you know. They think you’re a glorified nursemaid. If you spend more time with them instead of… creating your own, you may never manage to have any. And I must say, the court is especially cruel to women who fail to fulfill their… purpose.”
The words struck like a bucket of ice water. You did not lift your gaze. A sharp, real stab of worry pierced you. You rose slowly, turning your back to him to form a barrier between him and the little girls, who stared wide-eyed without understanding.
“Or is it that my uncle can no longer…?” Aerion let the insinuation hang in the air, barely audible, yet enough to make your blood boil. You turned toward him, frowning for the first time.
“You should leave,” you said. Your voice trembled, but it was firm.
He smiled, a smile that never reached his eyes. He stepped closer, ignoring the curious glances of his younger sisters. He was so near you could smell his perfume, leather and something bitter.
“I will always be willing to help you, if you need it, Aunt.” And after dropping the words like a stone into still water, he turned and left with the same measured calm with which he had arrived.
You spent the rest of the day with a knot in your stomach that would not let you eat or sew. It was a mixture of disgust at Aerion’s insinuation and deep concern over his words. Because as much as you hated to admit it, he was right. You knew that once the honeymoon glow of your marriage faded, the court would begin to expect. They would wait to see your belly swell, for you to give another heir, then a spare for the spare… and then you would live beneath their murmurs and their looks of pity or contempt if you failed.
You wanted to believe that when Baelor ascended the Iron Throne, things would be different. That being queen would grant you a respect now denied. But perhaps the problem was not your position—it was that they did not know you. Perhaps you had to stop being a shadow. Insert yourself into conversations, show interest in the history of the house that was now yours, prove you were worth more than your womb.
That night, you had retreated to your small sofa, legs tucked beneath a red velvet cushion. A book lay open in your lap, one you had found in the tower’s private library. It was titled Dreams of Blood and Fire: The Prophecies of Daenys the Dreamer. You skimmed it intently, ignoring the passing hours. The yellow, trembling candlelight cast dancing shadows over the words.
The door opened without warning. You turned your head, startled, and found your husband standing in the doorway. Baelor studied you for a moment before entering with his usual serene bearing. His hair was loose, and faint lines of fatigue marked the corners of his eyes.
“Are you not in bed yet?” he asked. It was the first direct question he had addressed to you in days.
Your eyes widened in surprise, and you nodded, closing the book over your fingers to mark the page. He read the title, and a genuine smile—one that did not show teeth but illuminated his face—appeared on his lips.
“It is a good read,” he said, gesturing toward the book as he removed his black coat and laid it on the bed. Then he approached and, with a gentleness that disarmed you, took the book from your hands to flip through it himself. “I read it when I was fourteen. I remember well, because my father had punished me for sneaking into the city at dawn with some squires.”
Your eyes drifted from his face to his hands, large and deft, turning the pages carefully. The rings of his house glimmered in the candlelight, clinking softly together.
“I imagine the city was dangerous then as well,” you murmured, watching him.
Baelor closed the book and sighed, his nostalgic smile lingering. “Not as much as it is now,” he assured, turning his back to place the book on a small table. “But my father always believed that temptations corrupt a man. I agree to a point, but he exaggerated. I suppose he still does.”
You smiled faintly and let out a soft, almost unconscious laugh as he moved to the wardrobe to retrieve his nightshirt. The sound seemed to please him, for he cast you a quick glance over his shoulder.
“I’m glad to see you reading something like that,” he commented while unfastening his doublet. “Surely the company of my young nephews must exhaust you.”
The mention made you straighten. “Have they told you?”
Baelor nodded calmly. “Aerion mentioned it during our Small Council meeting this afternoon. He said he had found you drawing with them.”
Damn Aerion. You lowered your gaze so Baelor would not see the flicker of irritation in your eyes. He had surely not mentioned the rest—the poisonous insinuations, the invasive touch.
“Your nephews do not exhaust me at all,” you said, your tone sharper than intended. “In fact, their company is the most pleasant I have these days. They are the only ones in this court who ask me interesting questions and look at me as if I were a person, not a piece of furniture.”
Baelor sat on the edge of the bed, never taking his eyes off you. There was no reproach in them, only thoughtful calm. He nodded slowly.
“I can imagine,” he said gently. “I do not blame you. Court can be cruel to those who did not grow up within it. And my family… well, they lead complicated lives.”
He said nothing more, but his silence was not uncomfortable. It was as though he were offering you space to say more, if you wished.
You did not. Instead, you rose from the sofa and walked to your side of the bed. “I will extinguish the candles myself.”
Baelor sighed, as if he wished to add something, but the words never formed. He watched you as you moved through the room, snuffing out the candles one by one, plunging the chamber into an orange gloom broken only by the dying glow of the hearth.
He finished changing into his nightshirt and slipped into bed. You did the same a few minutes later, sliding beneath the covers on your side, leaving a strip of cold sheets between you.
Darkness enveloped you both. In the silence, only the distant crackle of the hearth and Baelor’s steady breathing could be heard.
But you could not sleep. Again.
●●●
"You haven't consummated your marriage, have you?" Maekar asked his older brother as he watched Baelor seated behind the desk, bent over open parchments and books.
Baelor sighed without looking up, the sound heavy and weary.
"I don't have to share my private matters with you."
"Oh, but you already have," Maekar replied with a sharp half-smile. "If you don't want to tell me now, then I take it you haven't touched her."
Baelor finally raised his gaze, his mismatched eyes narrowing.
"Have you been spying on us? The maids said there was blood, didn't they?"
"Don't play the fool with me, brother."
Baelor shrugged—a small gesture, but one loaded with deliberate indifference. He leaned back slightly in the carved chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
Maekar stared at him in disbelief for a moment before sitting down across from him, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his forehead with two fingers.
"If our father finds out your marriage is… failed, he will be furious. And not just him. The entire court will use it as a weapon."
"That's why he won't find out," Baelor answered with a sarcastic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And if he does, I'll say it was my decision. End of story."
Maekar let out an exasperated snort.
"Just have one more son and they'll leave you alone forever."
"I already have two sons. I won't have another."
Maekar leaned forward, his voice low but firm.
"This isn't just about heirs, Baelor. We need to solidify the alliance with the Lannisters. Do you really think they'll stand by with folded arms while the King of the Seven Kingdoms doesn't have a single child with Lannister blood? Do you think they won't look for any excuse to break the pact and hand us the Blackfyre bastards on a silver platter?"
Baelor turned his gaze back to the open books in front of him. His fingers brushed the edge of a parchment without really reading it. The silence stretched for several seconds, broken only by the distant crackle of the fire in the hearth.
"Stop meddling," he said at last, his voice flat. "Better take care of your own. Tell Aerion to stop getting too close to my wife."
Maekar frowned, visibly puzzled.
"What?"
Baelor nodded slowly, and a sarcastic smile curved his lips.
"The maids informed me that Aerion has been… trying to get close to her. Physically. I don't put him in his place because he's your son, but talk to him before I forget that I'm his uncle. And that she is my wife."
Maekar's expression hardened instantly. The muscles in his jaw clenched. Without another word, he stood up—the back of the chair scraping against the stone floor—and left the room with quick, furious steps. The door closed with a sharp thud that echoed down the hallway.
Baelor let out a long sigh. He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and ran a hand through his black hair, as if trying to erase the entire conversation from his mind.
Meanwhile, you were in the gardens of the Red Keep. The afternoon sun fell warm over the trimmed hedges and the roses climbing the iron trellises. The sweet, heavy scent of the flowers mingled with that of freshly turned earth. In the distance, you saw Kiera of Tyrosh, your stepson Valarr's wife, bent awkwardly over a flower bed.
She wore a simple dark-green linen dress, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and gardening gloves stained with dirt. Her already prominent belly forced her to move carefully; every time she tried to bend lower, one of the maids steadied her by the arm so she wouldn't lose her balance.
You hesitated. You always hesitated before approaching her… or Valarr. Both of them avoided you with icy courtesy, as though your mere presence were an awkward conversation no one wanted to have. As though you were the living reminder of something they preferred to ignore.
Even so, you quickened your pace. Your lady-in-waiting followed two steps behind, hands clasped in front of her apron. You stopped a few meters away and cleared your throat softly to announce your arrival.
Kiera turned slowly. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, a pink strand stuck to her temple, and her gloves covered in black soil. Her eyes traveled over you from head to toe before she lowered her gaze in the barest of curtsies.
"Blessed day," you greeted, inclining your head slightly.
"Princess," she replied in a neutral voice, and drove the small trowel back into the earth.
She said nothing more. The rules of courtesy demanded that the hostess—or in this case, the daughter-in-law—continue the conversation, but Kiera simply went on working, turning the soil around a young rosebush as though no one else were there.
You swallowed.
"May I help you?" you asked at last, gesturing toward the rosebush.
She looked up again, assessing you. Her belly brushed the handle of the tool every time she leaned forward.
"Do you know about roses?"
"My mother loved them. I know a little. But I learn quickly."
Kiera hesitated. She glanced at the rosebush, then at the maid waiting nearby with a basket of tools, and finally back at you.
"As you wish," she said with an almost imperceptible shrug. "But don't get your dress dirty. I don't want them saying I forced the crown princess to kneel in the mud."
You knelt carefully beside her, ignoring the warning. You took the gloves the maid offered and began removing the dry leaves from the lower stems. The earthy smell enveloped you, comforting.
For several minutes there was only the snip of shears, the rustle of soil, and the distant song of a bird. Kiera pruned with precise but slow movements, the pregnancy slowing her down. You tried to imitate her, but your hands—more accustomed to holding quills and books than gardening shears—trembled slightly.
"That stem is too high," she murmured suddenly, nodding toward it. "If you don't cut it back, the flower will snap in the first strong wind."
You nodded and cut. The stem fell with a clean snap.
"Thank you," you said softly.
Kiera didn't reply. She kept working.
The silence settled again, heavier. You felt her sideways glance every few seconds, as though waiting for you to say something wrong. You, for your part, didn't know how to break the ice without sounding false.
"Does it hurt?" you asked at last, vaguely gesturing toward her belly.
She stopped. The shears hung suspended in the air.
"What?"
"The pregnancy. Walking, bending… everything."
Kiera let out a short, dry laugh. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of dirt on her skin.
"Yes, I'm afraid it hurts all of it," she answered without quite looking at you. "The back, the legs, even the teeth if you're not careful. But…" She shrugged with resignation . "I don't mind, really. I just want this one to be born healthy."
You leaned a little closer, resting one hand on the low wooden fence.
"I'm sure he will be," you said, trying to sound convinced. "You and Valarr are young. Strong. Why wouldn't your child be just as strong and healthy?"
Kiera stopped pruning the lavender sprig she held between her fingers. Very slowly, she turned her face toward you.
Her eyes were no longer the same.
There was something dark in them—something beyond mere exhaustion. It was a deep, ancient well, from which rose a cold that brushed the back of your neck even though the sun still beat down fiercely on both of you.
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she opened her fingers. The pruning shears fell with a dull thud onto the damp earth, next to the small rake and the half-full basket of cut stems. The sound was louder than it should have been, as though the ground itself had decided to swallow them in anger.
She turned her back to you.
The grayish linen dress clung to her back with sweat, outlining the pronounced curve of her belly. Her shoulders were rigid, as though bearing an invisible yoke.
You frowned, genuinely confused.
You mentally reviewed your words, searching for the mistake, the clumsy phrase. You found nothing.
"Lady Tyrosh…?" you insisted, softening your voice.
She stopped abruptly halfway down the gravel path. She didn't turn.
But when she spoke, her voice came clear, low, sharp as the shears she had just dropped.
"I hope you never live what I have lived, princess. May your mockery never come back to you. "
And she walked on.
More slowly than usual, as though each step cost her an effort different from the pregnancy itself. The gravel crunched under her worn shoes. She didn't look back.
You remained there, hand still resting on the fence, feeling the warm wood burn your palm.
Behind you, your lady-in-waiting said nothing either. Only her soft, held breath could be heard, as though she too had felt the blow without fully understanding it.
The silence stretched.
Heavy. Uncomfortable.
At least until you returned to the castle and a septa explained to you that Kiera and Valarr had already lost three babies before.
●●●
It seemed that none of your attempts had worked after what happened with Kiera.
Not the careful smiles you rehearsed in front of the mirror before descending to the throne room, not the measured phrases you prepared to sound interested in court affairs, not even those brief political comments you dropped like someone tossing a pebble into water, hoping not to splash too much. Everything unraveled with the same ease that courtesy smiles dissolved when you turned your head.
You realized, with a clarity that hurt, that you knew almost nothing. Not about alliances, not about crossed bloodlines, not about the old grudges that still bled beneath the surface of courtesies. You were a piece on the board, but you didn’t understand the real rules of the game.
And then you stopped trying.
You were no longer—or perhaps you had never been, according to the whispers—a good wife. Nor a tolerable stepmother, an acceptable daughter-in-law, a pleasant sister-in-law, a woman worthy of admiration… not even a convincing princess. The title clung to your name like a poorly sewn label; the wedding ring still weighed on your finger. But none of that was enough to fill the silence that had settled inside you.
King’s Landing had become suffocating.
The smell of saltpeter and rotting fish rising from the Blackwater, the constant smoke from the torches, the echo of hurried footsteps through the stone corridors… everything pressed down on you a little more each day. You no longer went down to the yard to watch the knights train, nor sat in the gardens pretending to read. You simply stopped appearing.
Baelor noticed long before you thought he would.
He didn’t say anything, of course. He never said anything that wasn’t strictly necessary. But for weeks he had been hearing you cry—two nights in a row at first, then three, then almost every night. You cried with your face buried in the pillow, trying to muffle the sound against the feathers, but the mattress creaked under your trembling body and that was enough to wake him. He lay still, staring at the canopy of the bed in the darkness, listening to your breath hitch until you finally fell asleep exhausted.
By day you were a ghost. You appeared at court just long enough not to be considered rude, offered the barest nod of greeting, and withdrew as soon as you could. You stopped approaching your nephews; every time one of the Targaryen children saw you coming, their shoulders tensed and they found excuses to slip away. You didn’t blame them. You had probably seemed cold to them, or sad, or simply… someone had likely taught them to avoid you too.
And Baelor, without meaning to, also began to keep his distance.
You hardly shared the bed in any real sense anymore.
He arrived late, when you were already asleep, and lay down on the far opposite edge, as though an invisible line ran down the middle that neither of you crossed. In the mornings he left before you opened your eyes. You were little more than a pale silhouette on the other side of the mattress, a soft breath that barely disturbed the silence.
One night, beside the crackling fire in the princes’ private solar, Rhaegel brought up the subject with his usual lack of tact.
"Great. Another depressed future queen." He leaned back in his chair, idly swirling a goblet of red wine. "Who do you think will be worse? The Lannister girl or poor Jaehaera Targaryen?"
His laugh rang out for a moment before crashing against his brothers’ blank faces.
Baelor and Maekar turned toward him at the same time, identical in their lack of expression.
Rhaegel looked at them, blinked, and let the laugh die in his throat.
"Well. If there’s no sense of humor, then there’s nothing, dear brothers."
"Does other people’s suffering amuse you, Rhaegel?" Baelor asked in a low, very calm voice.
The youngest shrugged, attacked the apple tart in front of him again, and spoke with his mouth half full.
"Don’t ask me. Better ask yourself." He chewed loudly, swallowed, and went on: "You’re the one who can change your wife’s luck… and you don’t do it. You don’t do it because of your very selective values. You’re not doing her any favors by keeping her a virgin and miserable."
Baelor clenched his jaw.
"Are you suggesting that if I sleep with her I’ll change her luck?"
Rhaegel lifted his gaze, eyes bright from the fire and the wine.
"All women have a purpose, brother." He turned fully toward him. "Give her a child and you’ll keep her occupied. Her head will fill with baby cries, wet nurses, and sleepless nights. She’ll be happy… or at least she’ll stop crying into the pillow. Try convincing her it’s for the best. For the alliance. For you. For her."
Maekar, who until then had remained silent, slowly turned his head toward Baelor. He said nothing, but the look was enough.
Baelor searched inside himself for some argument to dismantle those cruel, practical words. He found none.
"You don’t want to make an innocent woman suffer. I understand. But she’s going to suffer anyway, brother." He lowered his voice. "They say she’s good with children. Having one would do her good… even if it’s not just for the realm."
That night Baelor barely slept.
Nor the nights that followed.
Sometimes, in the middle of the darkness, he turned toward your side of the bed. There you were: on your side, hair spilled across the pillow, your young face still beautiful despite the shadows settling beneath your eyes. You slept with your lips slightly parted and a small crease of worry between your brows, as though even in dreams you couldn’t fully rest.
At family dinners you became just another piece of furniture. You didn’t speak. You barely lifted your eyes from the plate. The children no longer even looked at you; their older siblings preferred to pretend you weren’t there. Even the servants seemed to walk faster when they passed near you, as though afraid of catching your sadness.
You weren’t like the other Lannisters. No golden pride, no sharp smiles or biting remarks. Just a young girl who had come to a strange city, a strange family, a strange marriage… and who was quietly withering.
Baelor began to realize—too late—that he had contributed to it.
He couldn’t simply walk up to you one morning and say: “I’m going to give you a child so you stop being sad.” Things didn’t work that way. Not with someone who barely met his eyes.
So he started to truly observe you.
He noticed how you bit the inside of your cheek when you were nervous. How your fingers played with the edges of your sleeves when you felt watched.
How you always left half the food on your plate, even when it was your favorite dish. How, some afternoons, you stared out the window for so long that the sun eventually drew a red line across your cheek.
And he began to wonder things he had never before allowed himself to wonder.
Where were you when you weren’t in the room? What did you do during the hours he spent locked in meetings? Who did you talk to… if you talked to anyone at all?
Guilt seeped into him like dampness into stone walls.
One morning, after a particularly long and tense session of the small council, he made a decision.
He was not going to keep avoiding you.
He opened the door to the chambers more carefully than usual, almost expecting to find you seated by the window with an open book you weren’t reading, or embroidering something you would never finish.
But you weren’t seated.
You were standing.
In your shift, barefoot, hair loose and falling down your back like a pale cascade. Leaning against the frame of the open window, looking down. Too close to the edge. Too still.
The cold wind from the bay came in and barely stirred the thin fabric against your legs.
Baelor felt the air catch in his throat.
He didn’t shout your name. He didn’t run toward you.
He only took one very slow step forward, heart hammering against his ribs, and spoke:
Synopsis ──.⟡ Starting college you had heard of the Targaryen family’s reputation, and you certainly had seen it first hand. Somewhere between the parties and stolen packs of cigarettes, you find yourself surrounded by far too many of them.
Part One: Tonight, Tonight
Tags / warnings: modern!au, college!au, 18+ content, slowburn, alcohol, use of nicotine/cigarettes, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt/no comfort, family trauma, dysfunctional family dynamics, yes there will be future kissing, aerion is rude, lyonel is a flirt, very long chapters
Characters: Aerion Targaryen x Reader || Daeron Targaryen x Reader || Valarr Targaryen x Reader
Word count: 7.7k
main masterlist || series masterlist || next part ➢
Most of the time you do try to pay attention in class, truly. In fact, you always make a point of it. Yet you couldn’t help but find it hard to listen to Professor Ashford’s drilling voice rambling on about public policy when the large Targaryen crescent hung proudly in the lecture hall.
The Targaryens. Everybody in the university knew the name, it was a name impossible to ignore. Whispered stories on campus only seemed to intrigue everyone about the family. It was said they were stiff, cruel── some even claiming that they’re mad. You try to not judge a book based on its cover, but that’s easier said than done when the chair you sat on had the dragon emblem embedded into it.
Sighing, you tilt your head back in complete exhaustion, wishing this lecture would end. Feeling a nudge at your side, you glance over to your best friend Kiera staring back at you, clearly just as bored.
“We should’ve skipped.” She hums softly, reaching for her iced-coffee. Trying to keep your attention on Professor Ashford, you immediately groan, casting a glance at your best friend, “Probably.” you agree, looking down at your barely touched notes.
“Want to go grab coffee after this?” Kiera suggests while sipping her coffee, the ice cubes clinking softly against the cup. “I need something way stronger than this.”
You let out a hum of agreement and turn back to your laptop, ready to close it when your phone loudly buzzes against the desk. Picking it up, you glance down at the screen, seeing a notification from your friend.
Tanselle: I’m waiting outside. Hurry up
Quietly letting out an amused huff, you tilt your phone towards Kiera who excitedly grins, immediately starting to gather her things. You both leave the lecture ten minutes early, blaming nothing but Professor Ashford's monotone. Before slipping out the room, your gaze lingers on the crimson red dragon emblem etched into the wall.
“You coming?” Kiera calls, which pulls you out of your daze and you shake your head freeing yourself from distraction.
Searching for your tall friend in the vast hallway, when your gaze lands on Tanselle you shoot her a small smile, to which she returns with an eye-roll feigning annoyance. “Missed me that much, huh? I’ve only been gone an hour.” You tease her, practically grinning.
In return, she wraps her arm around Kiera’s shoulders and playfully replies. “Nice try, but I missed Kiera way more.”
“Eager much?” Kiera shakes her head, delicately fixing her light pink sweater. Glancing between both of you, she catches the lingering grin on your lips and rolls her eyes in an affectionate yet annoyed manner.
“Wow. Replaced already? I see how it is, Tan.” You raise your eyebrow, crossing your arms as you take a step closer.
“Stop flirting and start walking, please. Now move!” Kiera untangles herself from Tanselle’s arms and grabs you, hooking her arms through yours, clearly attempting to flee the building.
Walking through the hall, you felt comforted in the presence of your friends, quietly listening to them chat about anything and everything. Kiera and Tanselle were your closest friends, having met them at the start of the semester you three had grown almost inseparable.
You had met Tanselle at a crowded and sweaty bar in freshers week, and you were immediately drawn to her effortless style, existing in her own orbit. Hitting it off, you found out she was studying Liberal Arts and Culture. You admired her courage to pursue things she loved, unlike you who decided to retreat into the stable field of law. Often, you envied her for being brave.
Kiera had been a whole different story, you had met her in your first week of classes and sat next to her a few times before actually talking to her. Completely polished and composed her pencil case and laptop comedically matched her light pink hair. After a few lessons and many stolen glances, you had worked up the courage to ask if she wanted to get lunch sometime. After that, you had come to the realization that the intimidatingly beautiful girl was dragging you by your sleeve to her new “favorite” spot.
Stepping into the crisp autumn air, the cold wind nipped at your face, yet you found warmth in the familiar rhythm of your friends. Soon enough, you found yourself at Kiera’s “new” favorite spot. Finding a quiet corner in the cafe, you sunk into your chair, as the cafe bustled around you.
Kiera’s perfectly manicured nails tapped the wooden surface of the table, the sound blending seamlessly into the low chatter and clicking of laptops. Catching the sly glint in her eyes, you knew this was a sign she was bursting with excitement to tell you both something.
“I know that look.” You groan, slumping in the chair you cross your arms, tilting your head towards her with a knowing look.
“What look?” She leans forward, trying to conceal the excitement in her tone.
“That one── That exact one, right now.” Your voice drops into a low and cautious grumble. Eyeing Tanselle in a questioning manner, silently interrogating her as if she's already an accomplice in whatever's happening.
“Hey, I have no part in this.” She denies, simply meeting your gaze and offering you a helpless shrug, suggesting she's just as unaware as you are.
Warily your gaze lands on Kiera again, whose grinning now, clearly delighted by your cautiousness. “Oh stop. I promise it’s not even bad,” she insists, laughing as she waves her hand dismissively.
“Mhm,” you hum, tone dripping with sarcasm. “That look usually results in me getting no sleep and awake until dawn. Oh my god, I'm gonna end up face-down in a ditch. I know it.” You reply, fighting the urge to bang your head against the table in protest to her.
“It’ll be fun!” Kiera adds, expression feigning offense.
“As long as it’s not me.” Tanselle mutters, finding your hopeless figure amusing.
Kiera’s laughter dies down as she gives Tanselle a sharp look, suggesting there was no way of escaping her plans, “You’re not getting out of it either.” Clamping her mouth shut, Tanselle’s shoulders go stiff, to which you muffle a quiet laugh. She didn’t dare speak another word, but her “help me” expression said everything.
You sigh, and furrow your eyebrows, “Okay…” you say, leaning back in the chair. “So what’s this fun you’re so excited about?”
Kiera’s expression brightens dramatically, as if she was waiting for you to ask her. Sitting up straight, her eyes move towards you, she lets out a giggle.
“So,” she starts, “Lyonel is hosting a house party tonight.”
“Nope.” Tanselle immediately replies, heavy with exasperation.
“Is it a rager?” You ask, though not completely sold on the idea. Tanselle snorts at your question.
“Well, yes!” Keira replies, showing no signs of shame at all. “And before you guys try and say anything── I got invited yesterday, and I thought we could all go together.”
“We?” You bark out, narrowing your eyes at her. Sure, you didn’t mind a house party once in a while, and often indulged in them. However, hearing it would be a rager hosted by Lyonel Baratheon did rattle you a little. His parties were known for being insane, and that meant that half the campus would show up── resulting in someone fighting for their life or the cops parked outside.
“Yes, we!” She says in a sweetly sick tone, to which Tanselle can only grunt at. Shaking your head at the idea you already feel overstimulated over thinking about it. “Kiera, you know those parties are like── insane.”
She completely dismisses your worries, waving her hand in front of your face. “Come on, relax. Besides, Lyonel will be absolutely delighted you’re coming.”
Tanselle casts a knowing glance at you, immediately letting out a laugh. “Uh-huh. He’ll be over the moon,” she sang, letting your name roll off her tongue, her gaze lingering a second too long to be anything other than blatant tease.
“Don’t.” You groan, dragging your hands over your face in pure embarrassment.
“You know,” Kiera leans forward on the table in an attempt to catch your attention despite your miserable slump. “Whenever he sees me, he keeps asking me if his ‘favorite girl’ is coming to the next big party.”
“She danced with him once.” Kiera snorts, clearly amused by Kiera’s teasing and your embarrassment. When she notices that you are ignoring her teasing, she continues, “Must’ve been a damn good dance, right?”
“Apparently the best.” Kiera adds on, far too amused for her own good.
You whine in annoyance and inhale, trying to ground yourself. “Please tell me he doesn’t actually call me that.”
The memory made you wince. You had been at one of Lyonel’s parties earlier in the semester and had gotten far more drunk than you had intended.
Despite not remembering much of that night, you vaguely remember Lyonel appearing in front of you on the dance floor. He had extended his hand towards you, wearing a stupidly charming grin. And somehow, without thinking twice, you had taken it. You call it foolish, Kiera liked to call it liquid courage.
Dancing without a care in the world, Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” had been thumping through the room. It was a complete blur of sweaty bodies pressing shoulder to shoulder and the bright flashing lights gleaming through the light. You vaguely remember laughing, spinning, and holding onto Lyonel’s shoulders as he pulled you closer. He leaned close to whisper into your ear loud enough to hear over the loud music.
“I think you’re my favorite dance partner tonight,” he grinned with a slightly crooked smile, “Trouble, aren't you?”
After that night you tried your absolute best to avoid Lyonel whenever you spotted him around campus.
Purely out of embarrassment.
Upon this embarrassing memory resurfacing you sit there for a moment, weighing the idea in your head.
Sure, partying like crazy wasn’t the usual for you, especially at parties Lyonel hosted. However, you hadn’t gone out to a house party in a while, and you couldn’t bring yourself to flake on your best friend. She would simply never forgive you. So, maybe letting loose for a night wouldn’t be a terrible idea, though the thought of seeing Lyonel again deeply shook you.
You nod with a small sigh, “Alright, one party.
Kiera’s face lights up in absolute joy, on the other hand Tanselle’s expression drops. You give her a knowing smile, which she can’t help but smile back at despite not wanting to go.
“Awhh, I knew you’d say yes── eventually!” She jokes, a satisfied smile tugging on her lips.
Soon after agreeing to go to the party, the three of you gather your things and make your way out of the cozy cafe. Once outside, the familiar autumn bite found you again, wrapping around your shoulders like a cold you had not invited.
Standing next to the door, you pause.
“Go on ahead without me,” you tell them, reaching into your warm jacket pocket, fumbling to find your lighter.
Kiera narrows her eyes at you bitterly. “Are you serious?”
You hum, “Mhm.” and pull out your pack of cigarettes, pulling one out of the pack you hold it between your fingers. “I’ll catch up in a bit.” You casually mention.
“It’s bad for your teeth.” Tanselle dryly replies, although you can tell she's just trying to make fun of your bad habit. You can only flash her an annoyingly innocent smile.
“Smoking kills, you know.” Kiera adds, crosses her arms in disapproval.
You only wink at her tauntingly as you slowly lift the cigarette to your lips.
“Is that so?”
She just shakes her head, turning around to walk off with Tanselle, muttering something under her breath about its health risks. However, she quickly turns around and calls out your name, “We’ll come to your apartment around 8 to get ready!” she yells, and turns back around before you can even manage to give her answer.
Leaving you lingering behind with a fond smile, you light the cigarette between your lips and take a long drag.
Just as you flick the growing ash of the cigarette, the low hum of an engine pulls your attention towards the street. A car pulls up too smoothly to belong to a student, yet you recognise it straight away. The sleek black shape of the Porsche 911 glides through your field of vision, and you already know who it is.
The door of the car opens, and Valarr Targaryen steps out, the cold air catching onto the edge of his navy blue Ralph Lauren sweater. Stepping out like he belongs everywhere he goes, you suddenly become very aware of the cigarette between your fingers.
Golden Boy, you had liked to call him in private.
He certainly had radiated that, always looking impossibly put together, and today was no different. His sweater had sat crisply against his shoulders over a button-up blouse── collar peeking out deliberately, tailored perfectly to his exact preferences. His black slacks fall over his Loro Piana loafers in precision, which makes you feel severely underdressed in comparison to him. To put it simply, he looked sumptuous.
Smoke curls lazily in the air around you, smelling faintly of nicotine. His eyes find you immediately, as if he had been looking for you, which makes you straighten up without noticing. Then, he smiles. Feeling slightly awkward under his charming smile, you lift your hand to wave at him.
Instead of waving back, he crosses over the street and strides over towards you, hands tucked in his pockets. When he approaches, his gaze lingers over you, his polite smile remaining in place, though it seems too warm just to be polite. You probably shouldn’t stare too much.
“Hey.” he says, his voice warm and smooth. It seems measured, though you suppose it is. He’s most likely been raised to measure every single word.
“Hi,” you reply, mentally trying to stop yourself from stammering in front of him. Swallowing, you tilt your head up at him, raising an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”
“Kiera said you’d be here.” He answered blatantly, almost too easily.
Right.
Of course, you had forgotten that they knew each other. Their families had been business partners for years, long before any of you had ended up at university. However, there's something about the next words he says that has you pausing completely.
“I thought I might run into you. I hoped I would.”
For a moment you just stare at him, not completely sure what to say. Your eyes remain on him longer than they should, yet he doesn’t look away either── mismatched eyes seemingly taking you in, entirely. Ash falls onto the pavement and you consider putting the cigarette out, you don't.
You hate how nervous you feel, standing next to him makes you feel unfinished. He looks like the kind of person who has everything figured out, he’s smart and composed, the type of person people naturally gravitate towards. You couldn’t feel any further from that. Your chest tightens a little. Though, you’re not sure whether it's the stark contrast between the two of you, or the way his gaze seems to linger on you.
Despite everything, you find it hard to look away.
Valarr was in your course, a law student just like you. In your seminars he had been nothing but kind, always giving you gentle smiles or walking you to your next lecture if your classes lined up. Often he had asked if you wanted to grab coffee in between seminars. You figured he was just being polite, it was in his nature. Yet, his smiles had lingered, your conversations had become more honest and you had found yourself wondering if── no. It seemed a bit too extreme, Valarr Targaryen liking you was unlikely at best. Too good to be true.
But here you are, still watching him.
“So you were looking for me?” You break the silence, a coy smile growing on your lips.
“I was actually.” He says, untucking his hands from his pockets he rolls up the sleeve of his sweater. Your stomach does something strange at that. “You weren’t in yesterday.”
“Mhm,” You nod at him, taking a final drag of your cigarette you threw it on the ground and stepped on it. “I skipped.” You both don’t say anything, and he simply looks at you, like really looks at you.
“I can give you the notes on the seminar if you want.” He offers kindly, to which you let out a soft laugh. The Golden Boy, you remembered, always prepared, ever so helpful.
“Wait── Professor Arlan? His class was actually good enough that you managed to take notes?”
Valarr laughs, quietly amused by you. His smile lingers a little longer, as if he doesn’t mind being the subject of your attention. “Well… I thought you might want them.” He looks down briefly, before running his hand through his hair, glancing at the cigarette your shoes crushed on the floor, but says nothing.
Your mind drifts to the house party tonight, so you bring it up casually── almost absentmindedly. “You’ve been to one of Lyonel’s ragers right?”
Valarr stills at the name, smile fading slightly. “Rager?” He asks, gaze drifting towards you feigning confusion, suddenly seeming more careful.
“You know like…I mean one of those massive house parties.” You answer like it's not important, looking down as you answer, trying to avoid his piercing gaze.
“No.” He answers, his jaw tightening slightly. “Not really. I’ve heard about them.” His tone sounds guarded, like he’s treading carefully around the topic, like he’s choosing his words. As if he knows exactly what types of people go to these parties, and who in particular shows up every single time.
You hum in response, “Well, I’m supposed to be going tonight.” As the words leave your mouth, you glance up, checking his reaction. Maybe you're looking for something, though you're not sure what exactly it is.
For a split second, his expression tightens. It’s hardly noticeable, subtle, but certainly there. There’s a faint pause of his breath, paired with a quiet and cautious look.
“Oh.”
He looks affected, as if the idea of you going matters. You try to not read into it too much, but you feel an unexpected flicker of satisfaction, a strange and warm feeling in your chest. His hands tighten as he carries on talking, “I have a gala with my parents tonight. Otherwise I would’ve offered to go with you.” He strangely mentions, which makes you assume he was concerned for you. He almost says something, but stops himself.
You brush off his concerns, “It’s just a party. I’ll survive.”
Just as he’s about to answer, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Giving you an apologetic smile he reaches for it and scans the screen, brows furrowing in slight annoyance. He sighs, “I should go, my father’s waiting for me.”
Standing opposite of him you nod understandingly, not pushing for any details. His troubled expression shifts as he turns his attention to you again, “Do you want me to drop you off home?” he offers, eyes fixed on you insistingly.
“It’s not far, I’ll walk. But thank you anyway.” You decline, and wave goodbye as you begin to walk, feeling the slight breeze brush against your face.
You come to a quick halt when you feel a much larger hand wrap around your wrist, the pad of a thumb brushing softly against your skin. Valarr holds your wrist, not tightly, but just enough to stop you. Swallowing in hopes to calm your nerves, you glance over your shoulder to look at him. And you notice the serious expression painting his face, concern obviously there.
“Be careful tonight, please.” He says quietly, almost too softly.
You don’t ask why or question him, instead you just nod. For a moment, his soft touch lingers, his hand remaining on your wrist. Letting go, he steps back without peeling his eyes off you. Then you watch him walk back to his car as you stand there, still feeling his lingering touch.
──
“Do you think this looks cute?”
“I liked the first dress more.” Tanselle hums at Kiera, applying foundation with great precision as she sits at your vanity, finishing her makeup. The afternoon glint was long gone, replaced with a dark blanket covering the sky. The three of you were getting ready, Fleetwood Mac playing softly on the speaker while you all chatted, drowning out the music.
“Wait, really?” Kiera says in surprise, quickly grabbing the other dress that was folded neatly on your chair near the desk.
“Yeah── is this too much?” Tanselle turned around, tilting her head as she questioned whether she went overboard with her makeup.
“Just perfect,” You replied as you walked out of your bathroom wearing a cute outfit you had put together, feeling a particular surge of confidence.
Your best friends gaped, showering you with compliments, which made you shy away. Tanselle attempted to whistle, chiding as she wriggled her eyebrows. “I’m kinda jealous of Lyonel now.”
Kiera chuckled as you groaned, casting a glance at your best friend you raised your eyebrow. “Kiera, don’t encourage her.”
“I’m sorry,” she stifles her laughter, but you could tell she was enjoying it. “But what are you going to do if he spots you this time?”
“Which he will!” Tanselle teases, and you can’t even bring yourself to think about it, growing anxious from imagining it.
“I’m gonna have to be black-out drunk before I dance with him again.” You reply, retrieving your lip gloss from your bedside, applying it as Tanselle moves to sit on the bed beside you.
“I think… You actually enjoyed it!” She suggests, laughing when you shoot a look at her.
“Tan, stop with the teasing. She might run away before we get there.” Kiera said calmly, deciding on which heels she’s gonna wear.
Despite the relentless teasing, you were actually looking forward to the party tonight. Getting ready with your two favorite people in the world was something you hadn’t done in a while, and you quickly came to realize you missed this── a lot.
However, you had kept rethinking Valarr’s words pleading you to be careful tonight. You still couldn’t tell what his concern was exactly for, it seemed like he was thinking of something in particular, or perhaps someone. You shook the thoughts away as you turned to your girl friends, who seemed ready to leave.
“Ready?” Tanselle asked with a smile, striding towards you as she adjusted her necklace in the mirror one last time. Grabbing your small leather shoulder bag you slung it around your arm, nodding as you all headed out your apartment.
──
You make it outside the party as the cold air brushes against your face, but you hardly take notice of it anymore. All you can think of is how large Lyonel’s place is, colossal in comparison to your small apartment. Flashing lights gleam through the windows and the music pulses so loudly that you can feel the bass vibrating through the floor beneath you.
The front lawn is crowded with people, making you question how many people will actually be inside. Groups of friends linger, laughing with drinks in their hands, some overly drunk leaning on their friends for support.
It all feels so chaotic, and it all feels so alive.
You grow excited, despite the cold air you feel the anticipation growing in your chest. Leading your friends inside, you come to the realization that here, it’s even louder than expected. The music hits you in full force and the shimmering lights flash across your eyes. Kiera takes it upon herself to grab your hand tightly, unwilling to let go so she doesn’t lose you in the busy crowd. Tanselle moves through the crowd in front of you, tall enough that you won’t be able to lose her in the sea of people.
People dance on each other, pressed together beneath the dark, some kissing and some grinding on each other with no shame whatsoever.
Weaving through the crowd, you make it to the kitchen where it seems a lot calmer, the loud music and chattering dying out. Tanselle searches through the cupboards and reaches for three shot glasses while you grab a bottle from the counter, filling the glasses generously. She tilts her head excitedly, motioning for you and Kiera to pick up your shot glasses.
“Well, welcome to Lyonel’s party!” She says in an almost sarcastic tone, clutching her drink as you all tilt your heads and knock your shots back.
“Eugh── Oh my god! That’s disgusting…” Kiera grumbles, clutching her chest as she makes a dramatic gagging sound.
“Sorry, would you prefer a champagne cosmopolitan?” You tease her, which she rolls her eyes to.
Tanselle pours another round as you giggle at Kiera’s dramatic gags, making sure the shot glasses are filled to the brim. You and her knock back another round as Kiera silently judges you, eyes widening in disgust and mild horror. Before she can voice words of protest you giggle and grab both of your friends hands and drag them out of the kitchen, leading them to the crowd of people dancing.
Already feeling a light buzz, you tell them both, “Come on!” as you make your way through the crowd. You clumsily begin to twirl Kiera beneath the flashing lights, making her gasp in surprise as you almost collide with someone nearby. The air smelt like sweat, perfume, alcohol, but strangely enough it's comforting to you. Nobody cares, nobody's thinking too hard about anything, they're all just having fun.
The music thumps loudly as the bass drops loudly, and a sudden shout cuts through the chaos, catching everyone's attention.
“Lyonel!”
You freeze in terror, blinking in shock as he emerges through the crowd upstairs, grinning while holding an expensive bottle of whiskey in his right hand. He waves and yells back at people, greeting some girls with playful hugs and nudging his friends. He continues to move through the crowd like he owns every single inch of this room── which he does.
Staring at faces in the crowd, and then, almost like fate, you catch his sparkling eyes. His grin widens absurdly, excitement taking over his features.
“There’s my girl!” He shouts, his voice somehow booming over the ridiculously loud music.
You glance back at your friends slowly, with wide eyes. They only laugh at your horror-struck expression and gently shove you towards him. Stumbling towards him, you can’t help but laugh, the horror washing away as he approaches in long and prideful strides.
His large hands reach for your shoulders and he pulls you closer to him. “You have absolutely no idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you!” His voice booms, the whiskey making him more exaggerated than usual.
You laugh at his charming words and wrap your hands around his arms, “Me too──! I’m so glad to see you!” You lied to him, which made his grin widen nonsensically.
Instead of responding, Lyonel twirls you around, pulling you towards him. Laughing like a storm, he wraps his hands around your back as flashing lights sweep over your bodies. Dancing along with him within the chaos of sweaty bodies you both move together on the dance floor. Perhaps he was your favorite dance partner as well, you were enjoying this immensely.
“Whats your favorite party song?” He turns towards you, leaning close to your ear so that he wouldn’t need to shout over the music.
“Um… I don’t know, maybe um── Sexyback!” You reply enthusiastically, giggling as his grin splits wider, if that was even possible. Throwing his arms in the air he laughs.
“Someone! Fucking play Justin Timberlake!” He yells out, winking at you as his body flails theatrically. You burst out in a fit of giggles, nearly stumbling into a drunk boy as Sexyback begins playing and Lyonel resumes dancing.
The heat of the room creeps up on you, suddenly feeling very tipsy and hot. You pause, gesturing to Lyonel that you were going to go outside, awkwardly mimicking sliding a cigarette up to your lips using your index fingers. He understands instantly, without missing a beat of the music he gestures back, pulling a thumbs-up while still moving his body to the rhythm of the music. He yells out “Come find me later!” which you nod to, shaking your head as you stumble away, crowd slightly parting as you try to escape. Your heart thumps as you smile at the ridiculousness of the night so far.
Pushing through the doors, you head towards the outdoors patio. Stepping outside, the cold air hits you like a shock to your system. You stand there for a brief second, breathing in the fresh air in the dark. It feels good to escape the harsh and suffocating heat of the house, the music thumping inside relentlessly.
Moving towards the stone ledge that separates the grass from the patio you dig into your small leather bag which smells of perfume and sweat. Your hand searches blindly for your lighter, coming across lip balm, a receipt you had lost ages ago, and gum. But no cigarettes. You curse in frustration, shoes digging into the floor as you dig again, this time slowly in hopes of retrieving even one stray cigarette.
Nothing.
“Fucking seriously?” You groan, back slumping in utter torment as you had magically hoped one would appear. Of all nights you could’ve forgotten them, it had to be tonight.
Your eyes scan the groups of people outside in hopes to find someone smoking who would kindly give you a cigarette. Hell, you’d even be willing to give them a kiss on the cheek as a thank you. Groups of people linger, couples talking, friends laughing, a pair of men arguing about music, but nobody’s smoking. You find yourself wondering if smoking had been banned or everybody universally decided to give it up just for tonight.
Sighing again, you push away from the ledge and squeeze through the crowd of people, scanning the patio in determination. You weren’t gonna give up just yet, you’re sure someone had to be smoking, or at least carrying a pack with them. Fuck, even iqos would do in this situation.
That's when you spot him, standing slightly afar from everybody else, but close enough that the dim porch light barely hits him. His short silver hair is disheveled yet looks more intentional than accidental, framing his face perfectly.
Your gaze lingers on him and then slowly drifts downwards, taking in his figure entirely. His crimson red leather jacket hangs loosely off one shoulder, the kind that looks worn out in an expensive way, fastened with metallic pyramid-shaped studs that glimmer whenever they catch the light. Underneath, a light grey mesh top clings to his lean torso, revealing his toned chest slyly. Clunky silver chains rest against his collarbone, tangled with other thinner necklaces which are connected to a distinctive orb charm, Vivienne Westwood. But what completely catches your attention is his belt, hung dangerously low against his waist. It’s impossible to miss.
A massive silver dragon head.
Custom, without a doubt. You narrow your eyes, you’ve heard of him, everyone has. Aerion Targaryen. Mad, bad and dangerous to know. He was nothing like his cousin Valarr, who you had a hard time believing he was somehow related to. There was a rumour that had once told someone, completely seriously, that he believed he was a dragon trapped in human form.
A voice drifts in the air behind you, “A Targaryen’s here tonight.” A scoff follows. “Yeah. He’s a total asshole, spilt a drink on me then stared at me like it was my fault.”
Everyone laughs at the absurdity of it. “The pretty ones are always temperamental.”
Glancing back at him again, you feel like fate is playing a funny joke on you once again tonight. Of fucking course. He’s the only person outside holding a pack of cigarettes. He opens the pack and rests one against his fingers, bringing it to his lips and lights it, the burning tip faintly glows in the dark.
You’re not completely sure if it’s the alcohol buzzing through your veins, or it's the curiosity, or it’s the simple fact you want a cigarette but you start walking toward him before you can change your mind.
The close you get, the more details become clear, such as the numerous piercings on his face that faintly glow in the low light. There’s a small piercing that punctures his right eyebrow, a bridge piercing between his eyes and a pair of snakebite studs resting against his lower lip. All silver, cold and sharp against his pale skin.
Stopping beside him in the cool air you can feel the faint smell of smoke drifting through the air. He doesn’t look at you, simply staring into the distance, fully ignoring your presence. He doesn’t acknowledge you, not even slightly, as though he's above everyone, above being at this party entirely.
You consider leaving, instead you glance down briefly and say,
“Nice belt.”
His fixed gaze breaks as he slowly turns his head towards you── almost lazily, the distant focus in his eyes disappearing. His eyes drag over you, not politely, not kindly, but slowly. He deliberately stares at your shoes and rakes his eyes up your figure, from your waist to your face. Then, he lifts the cigarettes to his lips and takes a deep drag, still watching you with an unreadable expression. Then he exhales, and turns his head away from you as smoke spills into the air, the smell of nicotine curling around you.
Asshole.
You wait a moment, but he doesn’t respond and instead lifts the cigarette to his lips again, the ember glowing briefly in the dark. You glance at the tattoo that spreads across his skin, a dragon in ink on his collarbone curling upwards across his neck, disappearing just beneath his ear.
“The tattoo’s interesting too.” You try again, not as determined as before. You tilt your head, eyes lingering on his neck, studying it more openly now. “I’ve always wanted one,” You admit casually, “Never been brave enough though. ‘Feel like it would hurt too much.”
“Yeah. You look the type.” That does it, glancing back at you slowly his expression doesn’t change as he exhales the cold air, idly shifting his foot in front of the other. He seems unimpressed.
Instead of giving him the reaction he wants, you laugh softly as you shuffle on your feet absentmindedly. This seemingly irritates him more than if you had taken offense, his nose scrunches as he clenches his jaw, looking away again.
“So it hurt then?” You ask lightly, subtly jabbing him while gesturing towards the dragon tattoo. You might as well entertain yourself.
“No.” He scoffs in disbelief, perhaps even confused on why you hadn’t left him alone yet. He pauses, and his eyes flicker in slight amusement which catches you off-guard. “You’d probably pass out.”
You laugh again, his insult more amusing to you than anything in this particular moment. His eyes flicker over to you again, as if reassessing his earlier judgements about you.
You toy idly with the ring on your finger as you glance at the cigarette between his lips, once again.
“You wouldn’t happen to be feeling generous tonight, would you?”
His eyes roll, almost as if he had been predicting this since the moment you had walked over. You think he might refuse, he seems like the type that would. Instead he sighs and slips his hand into his inner pockets, retrieving a pack of Marlboro Red’s. Tapping his fingers against the box as he slides you a cigarette, holding it out to you.
Your lips lift upwards in a slight smile as you raise your eyebrows, shocked at his sudden kindness. You didn’t really expect he’d give you one, he was rude and egotistical, not exactly the delightful type.
You reach for it as you glance at his large hands, several rings covering his fingers, chunky pieces that look heavy enough to leave impressions on his skin. When you take the cigarette from him your hand brushes against his slender fingers donning cold rings── his cold skin against your warm fingers.
He pulls out a lighter from his dark jeans and then steps closer, closing the distance between the two of you. Your shoulders shift tensely, you suddenly feel very cold in the darkness. You smell a mix of nicotine, violet, and leather, his cologne becoming a large presence between you both. You bring the cigarette to your lips as the soft pad of his thumb flicks the lighter. His large hand rises instinctively, cupping around the tip of the cigarette to shield it from the light wind. The flame flickers weakly. The cold breeze cuts between you and Aerion.
Clicking his tongue in annoyance he puts the lighter back in his pocket and glances back up at you and gestures to the cigarette dangling lazily between his lips. Your face knits in confusion and you exhale slowly when you understand what he means. You lean in closer, tilting your head upwards as he moves his face closer, and you feel heat rise to your face. He connects the ends of your cigarettes, the ember faintly glowing in a shared dance of flickering flames.
The cold is long forgotten as his violet eyes briefly glance down at your lips, inhaling before he looks back up again. Tilting his head slightly the ember burns brighter and he pulls away first removing the cigarette from his mouth as he exhales into the chilly night air.
Smoke curls upwards as you also exhale and he studies you from a distance, as if he’s trying to figure something out.
“Don’t say I ever did anything for you.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
Despite everything, you come to the conclusion he's still a complete asshole. Tapping the ash away from your cigarette you break eye contact, you suppose you should introduce yourself. You don’t want to be known as a cig stealing stranger after all.
“I’m──”
“I know who you are.”
That was strange, you pause and look back up at him in confusion. You don’t answer him yet, trying to think of when you may have met him before or bumped into him. You draw a blank.
“Do you?” You’re sure you’ve misheard him, the words sit heavy in the air between you. Heavier than it should be.
He exhales slowly, like your question bores him. “I’ve seen you.” He vaguely says, but you’re not sure whether it’s intentional or not.
“You say it like it means something.” Narrowing your eyes, your boldness is shocking, even to you.
“It doesn’t.” He says flatly, like he doesn’t care. You realize he’s enjoying this, which only irritates you further.
Watching him for a moment longer, you consider whether you should tread lightly or not. You decide on the latter.
“People weren’t exaggerating.”
To that, he raises an eyebrow, flicking ash on the floor. “About what?”
“About your attitude.”
Taking a final drag of your cigarette you savour it before throwing it on the floor and stepping on it, crushing it with your shoe. Before he can make a snarky response you brush past him, shoulders touching slightly. As you pass, your hand dips into his outer pocket, casually pulling out the pack of Marlboro Reds.
He watches in silence as you walk away from him. With an annoying smile you hold up the pack of cigarettes and turn around and you see his expression change from confusion to irritation. Before he can reply you laugh,
“Consider it payment.”
Then you walk away.
──
After staying for a bit longer and making the most out of the night with your friends the three of you eventually decided it was time to get going. Being the most sober out of your trio you had walked Tanselle and Kiera back to their homes, lingering outside before leaving to make sure they got in safely.
Eventually, the cold began to seep in as you made your way home. Your footsteps echoed in the quiet street as you walked through the familiar road that brought you to your apartment building. Streetlights stretched down the long road in golden pools of light as you pulled out your phone to text your friends you had made it home. The branches of trees rustle overhead, but other than that it’s silent.
Pausing outside your apartment building, you pull out the stolen pack of cigarettes, deciding to have one final smoke before you go back in. The cardboard of the box is slightly crumpled as you shoved it in your jacket pocket earlier. You flick the lighter and the flame catches, and just as you bring your cigarette up to it, movement further down the street catches your eye.
Squinting slightly you move the lighter away, inhaling as you notice someone walking towards you── more like stumbling and swaying towards you, they’re not entirely steady on their feet. You hesitate for a moment before considering whether you should help or not, but decide not to. However, you continue watching.
The streetlights flicker as the figure moves closer, and you notice that it’s a young man, probably around your age. He’s tall, very tall actually. Stumbling over a crack in the street he catches himself and lifts his head. His gaze meets yours.
Noticing you standing there across the street, he changes directions slightly, now walking towards you. You glance around in confusion, wondering if there's anyone else around, and it seems you’re all alone. Pulling the cigarette out of your mouth you hold it in between your fingers, ready to stub him with it if necessary.
Stopping a few feet away from you he moves his hands up defensively, as if he’s surrendering. “Easy,” he stumbles out, “Didn’t mean to scare you,.” He adds, almost apologetically. There's a faint sense of sarcasm in his tone, but it’s dulled by whatever alcohol or exhaustion has settled over him.
“You alright?” You ask him, relaxing slightly.
“Yeah. Yep. I’m fine.” His words come out unevenly, his voice straining slightly. It takes him a moment to recollect his thoughts, but you can see he means no harm and doesn’t want to stir up any trouble.
Now that he’s closer, you can see he’s dressed quite simply. A worn oversized Led Zeppelin t-shirt stretches over his broad form with a grey zip-up hoodie that hangs loosely over him, as if he’d thrown it on without thinking. His jeans are slightly wrinkled and fabric creased along his ankles. His shoes are old converses that look like they’ve been through hell and were begging to be put to rest.
Even with the distance between you two he reeked of wine. Odd choice for a guy like him you figured. He shifts his weight as his gaze falls on the cigarette between your fingers.
“Not to be rude but…” He begins, voice a little quieter than before. “Could I have one of those?” He gestured faintly toward. There's almost something sheepish in the manner he asks.
“Yeah, sure.”
Shrugging, you pull one from the pack. You figure it’s the least you can do after stealing them from Aerion earlier.
He steps closer and takes the cigarette from you, his actions way too gentle in comparison to his tawdry stumbling mere minutes ago. Blinking up at him, you come to the realization── he's attractive. Like really attractive.
Up close you can see the messy strands of dirty blonde carelessly falling onto his forehead, making him look strangely delicate. His features were soft, almost regal. But what caught your attention was his violet eyes. They were captivating, yet they had a certain sadness to them, carried by sleepless nights and exhaustion.
Something about him seems familiar, but you can’t exactly pin it down. Your lips part to say something but noticing his violet eyes glancing at you the words die in your throat. His gaze moves across your face slowly, studying you with a quiet intensity that you can’t place.
For a brief second, his tired eyes warm up and he smiles at you. It’s not forced or polite, but genuine. The kind where you assumed he was a kind person. Instead of asking you for a lighter he clumsily pulls one out of his zip-up’s pocket and almost drops it, muttering something under his breath as he finally manages to flick the flame. Once the cigarette catches, he inhales and his eyes linger on you a little longer. There’s something in his eyes again, something sad. Then he turns around and walks away.
Shooting a look at him, you watch him go. Your mind is preoccupied with questions, or rather one main question; who is this guy? There's a strange feeling in your chest that settles, and you can’t quite explain it.
“Hey,” You call for him suddenly.
He stops and turns back around slightly at the sound of your voice. He eyes you through his peripheral, taking note of your confused expression.
“Who are you?”
He looks like he’s deep in thought, almost caught off guard by the question. He blinks, slowly turning to face you. You can’t exactly read his expression as it remains neutral, but the way he pauses is the only thing that gives you a hint of any of his thoughts. Then he speaks,
“Nobody worth knowing.”
You hesitate, blinking in confusion. There's no bitterness to his words you note, only acceptance. You’re not really sure how to react, you didn’t want to seem like you pity this stranger nor feel bad for him so you tilt your head to the side with a slight smile,
“I meant your name.”
For a moment, he only continues to stare at you. The sound of the quiet night surrounds you, filling the silence. He then lets out a small breath, almost a laugh, but you can tell it’s tired. He brings his arm down, gaze falling onto the cigarette that's burning between his fingers, and then he looks back up at you.
“Thank you. For the cigarette.”
He shifts on his feet, fidgeting a little before he offers you a smile. With slight hesitation he turns back around and begins to walk away, steadier this time. Leaving you alone in the darkness beneath the glowing streetlights.
a/n: wheww this was a long one, took me so long to write but i'm very proud of it!! i miss my wife daeron so much
if u guys liked this and would like a part 2 do comment, i haven't got many plans for part 2 yet but would love to hear some ideas
i love akotsk sm </33
Baelor had been worried about you ever since you'd given birth.
You didn't enjoy holding the babe. You'd smile when needed, but the act would quickly drop. Your eyes were dull and glassy as if the sparkle in them had faded. You didn't even visit the nursery, leaving the wet-nurse to attend to the baby— even though you had previously insisted before your labor on feeding her yourself
There was something so different about you. But he couldn't put his finger on the cause of it.
And until he could, he'd keep a close eye on you.
…
You looked in the small mirror of your vanity, as you had been for almost an hour now. When did your hair get so thin? There were bags under your eyes that you don't remember having only three weeks ago.
Baelor had stood there in the doorway, just out of your sight for a few minutes. He first thought that you would brush your hair or apply powder to your face. But when you'd done nothing but stare and point out the flaws in yourself, his heart dropped.
Finally, he stepped in. He leaned over you calmly, running his hands down your arms. "My love, why don't we take a walk in the gardens? Fresh air would be good for you."
You were still ordered by the maester to take things easy, but a walk in the garden you could do. You used to love it. Baelor would often come find you during his only break in the day between meetings to take you. And the thought of him doing so now made your heart do a small jump.
You catch his eye in the mirror. "It might be nice…"
He kisses your shoulder. "Excellent. I'll help you dress."
None of your dresses fit the way they used to. Baelor had commissioned a few new dresses for you but they were still being made. Thus, you were stuck in a rather plain dress that pushed against your swollen breasts uncomfortably.
Baelor had noticed, the ever observant man that he was. "Perhaps you'd like to take Rhaenys on our walk?"
"I'd rather not," came your curt reply. He took paused, confused by your sudden tone of voice.
But rather than push it, he only nodded his head, helping you brush your hair enough to look presentable.
Through the garden, your mood had only soured. And why, you couldn't understand.
The flowers were beautiful. Baelor was by your side. You should love this, as you always had. But there was nothing to raise your spirits.
He'd try to ask engaging questions, but you'd only give him curt replies. It was killing him. What happened to his darling wife that made even rainy days seem filled with sunshine?
…
At supper that night, you sat at Baelor's side. Maekar and his family were visiting the Keep at the news of your labors. And what you normally would have enjoyed became a chore.
You sat at Baelor's side, pretending to listen to Valarr, though your eyes seemed distant. You hadn't laughed in time with the others, only realizing it a bit too late. You looked to Baelor to see if he'd noticed, but his eyes were already set on you.
"Are you feeling alright, my rose?" He finally asked quietly. He took your hand in his, running a soothing pattern over the skin. "We don't expect you to sit through—"
"I feel fine," you interrupt. "I'm just a bit lost in thought is all."
His brows furrow. "You haven't touched your plate," he points out, though not unkindly. "You seem so lost in your mind. Tell me what is plaguing you."
You look deep into his mismatched eyes. "It is nothing. Please, stop asking."
His lips press into a firm line. He saw right through the lie, but he refused to make you uncomfortable. "Alright," he accepted. Though, his hand didn't stray for the rest of the evening.
When Egg had asked where the babe was, Baelor had softly explained that bringing her to dinner would only disturb your chances of eating. Instead, this was one of the few times you had away from the child. You pretended not to notice Egg's face falling.
Little Rhae sat in Maekar's lap. She was old enough now to nibble on real foods and he was more than happy to oblige her. He'd given her a small chunk of chicken to keep her occupied while he spoke with his family. "Eat your supper," he quipped to Egg to keep the boy on task rather than asking more about Rhaenys.
Rhae dropped the food when Maekar leaned forward to speak to Egg. Her face welled up and she began to cry.
Then entire table stopped, all eyes looking to the poor girl. Maekar was far from embarrassed. After six children, he was used to such attention.
You were glad the attention of your husband was finally off of you.
He snipped at a servant when they offered to take her, instead pacing the room with her in his arms. He offered soft reassurances to her. Fatherhood came so naturally to him at this point.
You'd caught Valarr's eye across the table. But his eyes had widened and he quickly looked away with pink cheeks.
Aerion chuckled under his breath, catching your attention. His eyes were on you. Well, on your breasts.
Maekar had paused as well. "Sister," he called softly. His eyes stayed on your own, but his chin jutted down.
You followed everyone's gaze. Where you were now leaking. The fabric of your dress was darker where your breastmilk now stained the fabric. Your cheeks immediately darkened.
"Easy," Baelor whispered, squeezing your hand. He gave you a small smile to try to ease your worries. "Let's get you cleaned up."
"No," you rush, holding your arm over the stains. "No, I… I'll go. I'm sorry."
"Alone?" He asked, confused. "Love—"
But you had already stood up and hightailed it out of there. Even Maekar had called out an apology in your direction.
You ignored the guards or servants you passed. You ran to your chambers and slammed the door, hoping you could die of embarrassment in peace.
…
Minutes later, Baelor was knocking on your door. Not demanding, but a soft knock and an equally soft voice following it. "My love. May I come in?"
"I'd don't want you to," you answered in a broken voice.
"I would certainly like to," he called back through the door. "I brought Rhaenys. She misses her mother."
You sighed. And when there was no answer for a while, he decided to gently push open the door.
You sat in a heap on the bed. Your cheeks were red and puffy with a new wave of tears.
"Gods, my love," he cooed, rushing to your side. With Rhaenys steady in one arm, the other wrapped around you and held you to his chest. He let you cry there. Your hands gripped his vest so tightly it hurt.
"I should've seen this sooner," he coos. "You've been suffering, and I've been watching from the side." He kissed the crown of your head. "I'm so sorry."
In all truth, you'd missed his touch like this. With the birth of Rhaenys, your dynamic had changed. But still, he was your Baelor.
Rhaenys began to squirm and whine at the sound of her mother's cries. He adjusted his grip on her. "My sweet girls. What would I ever do without you?"
He held you until you began to calm and your breathing evened out. "I understand now, darling. I knew you were struggling. But it's gotten out of hand. Hasn't it?" You pulled away enough to look into his pretty eyes and give him a small nod.
"You're still beautiful. More so, I think," he offered without another kiss to your head. "You've blessed my life in multiples." He brushes off the last of your tears. "Look at me, love. Really look at me."
You do as he says, keeping your gaze on the older man. And you see nothing but pure adoration in the candlelight. He pushes hair from your face and pinches your chin.
"I see you, darling. I didn't before. But I do now." He pulls your face to his, leaving a soft kiss against your lips.
Rhaenys lets out an ill-timed cry. Your breasts grow uncomfortable and you're sure you're to leak again. "Baelor," you whisper his lips.
He pulls away, rocking the baby. "Want her?"
And for the first time in a long time, you truly did. You stretched out your arms, taking the poor girl. She squirmed as she adjusted. "Must be hungry," you deduce. "It's been a few hours."
"I'll get the wet-nurse." He begins to shuffle across the bed.
"No," you answer softly, "I wish to try."
His heart warms at the sincerity in your tone. He sees the empty look in your eyes from the last few weeks have begun to grow warm instead. "You do?" He questions. He didn't want to push one way or the other.
You brush a hand over the baby's head. "I think so. Is that okay?"
"Of course, darling. Let me untie your dress. Alright?"
He plucks at each string, careful to not cause you distress. The loosening of the dress on your breasts made you sigh in relief.
The dress was soon pulled down enough to pool at your waist, along with your shift. Your breasts were exposed, nipples hardening at the cold air.
You held Rhaenys in the crook of your arm, supporting her head. Baelor noticed the sudden hesitation in your face as you weren't sure what to do next. "Would you like me to fetch some help?" He offered.
"I can do it, Baelor," you snapped.
He softened. "I know you can, my love. But it's alright to ask for help sometimes."
"No. I just want us. I… I want you to help me."
He's immediately nodding. "I can help you, darling."
It had been a long time since he'd helped with such a task. But he remembered Jena being frustrated in her time, and he had helped with Valarr.
He moved behind her, creating a firm place for her to lean back on. "That's it," he praised. "Are you comfortable? That's most important."
After adjusting a bit until you were satisfied, Baelor then reached around to rest his hands on yours. "Easy does it, alright? The babe will know what to do. We only have to guide her." He gently moves the babe higher. "Bring her up to…" Rhaenys' mouth opens on instinct. "See? Good. Just guide her to you, darling. Just like that."
She latches, but it feels odd. There's a bit of pain and her suckling grows more persistent, as if she isn't getting anything. "It… something is wrong. This isn't right," you begin to panic.
"It's alright. We'll just try again." He gently unlatches the babe with his finger. "Try to guide your breast up this time. And she'll- There, darling. Good girl."
This time felt right. She latched deeply and her suckling was less painful. You let out a sigh of relief and leaned back against him.
"Relax, my sweet love. I have you. I have you both. Here, let me hold her so you may relax here. There."
Your head lulled against his shoulder, eyes closed in content. He held her up to your breast with ease and all the happiness in the world.
And from there, you refused to be without the two. You would carry her into small council meetings, happy to merely sit at your husband's side. You walked through the gardens with gusto. You even had the crib moved into your shared chambers.
Baelor loved every second of getting to listen to you rattle about something you'd read, followed by the babe's babbles as if she was contributing to the conversation. It warmed something deep within him that he thought was long gone.
summary: in which your son makes it an effort to wake you and your husband, after he made a promise intended to keep.
pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader, valarr targaryen / mother!reader
warning(s): pregnancy, just sweetness
a/n: this was heavily inspired from this beautiful artwork I came across on tiktok, so all credits go to them! and ofc the scene from the lion king 💗
You had never known peace like it.
Not truly, not since the lilting summers and sweetness of adventure had taken over you when you were once a girl. Duty and sacrifice they had called it, through every moon that passed around you, the realm brought new dangers, new battle and wagers, and those of your own.
Though your husband stood tall beside you through all of it. He did not stray, not recluse, even in the times distance became more than either of you could take, as heir it had been known. But as your husband, as a father, he prevailed. And without having to say it, put none else above you, even though he reclaimed it to you nightly.
It was an unfamiliar feeling to have time to yourself, to bask in the morning and take in its splendours. With no maids, nor fancy dress or fussing, just the welcoming warmth of your shared bed. Baelor pressed up behind you, his chest was heated with the light hairs tickling at your back as his hand splayed around the growing curve of your stomach soothingly.
Three more moons left of your pregnancy and the babe inside of you felt as if it was already trying to claw its way out. Eager, valiant, much like someone else you knew. And it had left you in many a restless night, yet by some of the Gods’ graces, and your husbands touch, you were able to sleep well into the late morning, with the sun beginning to sun fight its way through the darkened curtains.
The rise and fall of Baelor’s chest against your back grounded you as you stirred, falling back into a lighter sleep, your face tucked delicately just beneath the sheets. He had taken it in as well, with new alliances formed in The Reach and trades made with Dornishmen, it had given his father, the King, a newfound distraction, settling the kingdom, and giving too, your husband some respite. And though duty remained, it allowed him little more time with you than usual, and he was not going to let it pass.
The scratch of his beard prickled the inside of your neck, warm breath dragging you deeper as neither of you dared to move, relishing in what was soon to be afternoon. You had stayed there for no one knows how long, until such peace was disrupted with an unexpected presence.
A bundle of small hands and feet had made their way onto your bed, fighting their way up the height of it and crawling rather disgracefully over the plume of sheets. You had felt the dip in the mattress before you could raise your head, lidded eyes peeking a mess of brown hair that shot past your vision. You shut your eyes tightly after that, still consumed by a sleepy blur as a small devious smile crept its way onto your face. There could only be one.
The limbs moving carefully over your legs and hopped onto the other side of the bed, directly headed for your husband.
Mere seconds had passed until noise came, a huff eliciting from Baelor’s mouth as he was struck by a small fist pressing into his back.
“Papa.. papa.” Valarr’s small voice called from over his father’s back. Baelor hummed in response, his arm that rested over your stomach wrapping tighter around you, pulling you in. As if to pretend he did not hear the very insistent voice of your son. You all but rocked your head onto the plush pillow, snuggling back into the strength of his hand, but that was not all.
“Papa.. wake up.” The boy moved over to his head, calling endlessly, directly into his ear.
“Father, father, father, papa..”
“Your son is awake..” You mumbled lightly, hair mussed as it blew out of your face from where it fell, and Baelor’s nose twitched.
“Before sunrise, he is your son..” He replied, voice deep and ragged from sleep, not even tempting to open an eye as he whispered, Valarr starting to hammer at his back.
“And it seems dawn has already broken..” You called back, smirking lightly, taking in the light even through closed eyelids.
Baelor opened an eye then, a darkened brown hue looking at the room now, lo and behold, lightened by the sun’s morning glow. He rolled his head back onto the pillow beside you, reaching his other arm around the boy at his back, tucking him in between you both.
“Valarr.. you have been told not to be up at such hours.” He scolded lightly, closing his eyes once more in attempt to get him to settle.
The boy huffed, rolling to lay between you in a tangle, his little face moving to look at his father.
“But you promised..” He reasoned with his arms crossed, that familiar silver streak a contrast to the rest of his head, meeting your gaze as you turned up onto your side.
Sleep was to be no more, you had come to terms with that, though your husband did not. Yet.
“Mhm..”. Baelor curled around him, nodding absentmindedly where rest threatened to consume him. And your son, all but five and with the same temper and impatience that his father would tease, reminded him much of his youngest brother. He had rubbed tiny hands over his face in attempt to wake him up, the greying strands meeting his small fingers as he tugged.
You giggled as he groaned, stroking your hand through the boys hair, “Come valarr, your father needs rest.”
“But he..” He argued, pleading eyes flicking back to you, though softening with tour touch.
“No buts, my love. He is..”
“He is right.. I did make promise.” Baelor told you, speaking on behalf of them both tenderly.
“And what would that promise be..?” You raised an eyebrow, resting on your elbow, as both mismatched eyes followed you. A curiosity taking hold of you as you smiled softly at them, the very imagine of the other.
“‘Tis a secret.” Valarr grinned, sitting up onto his knees between you both, moving to tug at Baelor’s arm, watching over you both, his palm still braced over you delicately.
“Oh is it now.” You inquired, laughing lightly as the bed dipped again. This time with Baelor’s weight, as rose up with your son still curled tightly around his arm. His hand moved to cup your face as he met you in the middle, giving a silent nod.
“Then I suppose you better had going, the day grows late,” You nodded back, matching him through your smile as you rested your hand into his warm, calloused palm, stroking Valarr’s cheek as you leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead, “Your boots are beside the steps.” You urged him on, and he tumbled out in an instant, small feet pattering onto the cool floor.
“Thank you mama..” He made a short stop, turning back as he began to cross the space of your chambers, reaching over the edge of the bed to press a light kiss to your belly through the sheets. Running off again as he mumbled something for his little sibling..
Your gaze watched on from across the room as he ducked beside the dressing table, a trail of shoes kept at your sides for such moments. Baelor moved his arm back around you, the bed curling around his middle as he rose over you from behind, “Such peace..” He remarked with playful sarcasm as his lips pressed to yours with a smile.
“Such peace indeed..” You echoed back, taking in the warmth of his mouth, kissing him back as he rubbed his nose against yours, thumb stroking over your belly lovingly.
“Papa..” Valarr called once more, the pair of you looking up to see him stood, haphazardly dressed in the black of his small doublet, boots laces undone but proudly standing and waiting.
“It seems you are being called upon..” You chuckled as he huffed, nuzzling into the side of his face.
“So it seems..” Baelor pressed one last kiss to your lips, cradling your head and taking you in for a moment, even in that sleepiness that only fatherhood could bring, that ever passionate glint shone in his gaze, observing. He slid from the bed in loose breeches throwing over his cotton undershirt, and hushing your son as his impatience grew.
As he laced and buttoned the threads of his doublet, picking up the black and crimson colours from the armchair, he leaned down over you, pressing a last kiss to your stomach, to your babe.
“I shall be back..” He assured you with a pure affectionate expression, offering a small smile through weary eyes.
He wasn’t as perfectly proportioned as always, the collar slightly askew with the laces of his trousers wrinkled, shorter hairs slightly mussed still, but it was enough. Not that the boy pawing at his legs cared, Baelor’s arms moving down to pick him up gently, rocking him into his chest.
“Are you ready my boy..?” He perched Valarr onto his middle, a smile etching his features as his ringed fingers ruffled through his streaked hair.
“Let’s go..” He called back excitedly, kicking his boots in his father’s arms, and they made it all but few strides toward the door.
A maid, red faced and flushed ran to the doorway, standing before them as she stopped herself, nearly colliding with them both.. “I’am sorry, my prince, I tried to..” The woman called, gesturing at your son, and you stifled a laugh, watching the scene from the bed.
He merely waved a hand, already at an understanding with his antics. Seemingly one that had led your son to slip from his maids hands and sneak into your chambers before it was time to, such a surprise. He gave her a gentle smile, a courteous one.
“It is alright.. if anything, I do apologise. Me and my son have matters to attend to, together.” Valarr laid a head to his father’s shoulder, as if butter wouldn’t melt in that innocent face, and they walked together, the maid curtsying before dismissing herself out of the door. She closed it behind them, continuing her duties as you fell back into the bed, the distant echo of giggles filling the halls.
——
The day was brighter from the courtyard, red stone balconies looming over the city below, dots of faces passing down every street. And as it had showed much promise, Baelor had stuck to his own.
Days before he had sworn he and Valarr would have time to take the day together, look out over the city, and take to the courtyard as a young knight should. As he claimed his father before him had done, and ever the admirer of his father, Valarr did not let him let it go.
Baelor had stood at the very edge of the balustrade, hands braced onto the carved stone as he tapped his fingers, Valarr only meeting his knees through the small gaps in the pillars. His head raised over it by an inch, smaller hands mirroring his father as he watched on, taking in the view.
Albeit be looked out beyond it, past the distance of the Old Gate, and the deeper darkness of Flea Bottom to the far reaches of the countryside on the city’s outskirts. It was a steady reminder, one that Baelor had taught him in even in his young age. That he rules it, as he would after his father, and as Valarr would after him. But the crown’s weight was not to befall a man’s goodness, his humanity, and that as ruler, all subjects and all that he could see should be taken care of.
“So this is all ours..” Sweet and curious was Valarr’s voice as he called out, eyes filled with wonder as he looked beyond all negativity. He saw no dirtiness, no violence, no duty, only the an endless expanse. And he took in the great shape of it all, Baelor’s gaze flicking down to him as he huffed a laugh.
“In a sense, though we do not own it.. we simply take care of it as a matter of fact.” Baelor’s voice trailed off as he watched his sons’s eyes wander, looking back up at him with wide eyes, ones that did not yet entirely understand. And he retracted, scooting closer to him in a single step, leaning down just enough.
“For now it is my father’s, your grandsire’s, and once his time has come, this place shall be passed to me..” He reasoned more simply.
“Then who shall be next?” He spoke before he could finish, lips curving intently as he rocked on his little heel.
“Well, it will be handed to you, for you to protect and watch over..” He replied proudly, resting a hand onto his shoulder, covering it entirely with only half of his palm.
“I will be King..?” Valarr questioned, mouth agape in surprise.
“Yes, one day..” Baelor nodded.
“But I do not want it to be so yet, I don’t want your time to end.” Valarr’s face fell, taking in the words before him, though time was still a mere thought to him.
“Well that shall not happen for a long time..“ He noticed the change from a sharp wonder turned to worry, ducking at the boy’s side, knees bending to his height.
“I will not let it be so, nor so much as I can help it. But when it is your time, I know you shall make one to be proud of. Just and honourable..” He reasoned, proclaiming every truth he had meant.
“Like you?” Valarr raised his head at that, the smile creeping onto his face with an excitement.
“I can only hope to be.” He curled the boy back into his side, picking him up as he did before, taking one last look together over the expanse of the time to come. “And even when my time is done, now I shall be within right here. Always, with you.”
Two future kings took in their kingdom, from the thatched houses and steeples to the greenery beyond, and a father and son embraced against all the odds against them.
“Perhaps we shall go back to your mother. I believe she needs some distracting from the weight of the babe.” Baelor turned with his son in his grip, nudging him softly as they walked back through the courtyard and up the steps to the castle. He had changed the subject, letting his final words linger in the air, the boy blissfully unaware though they settled all the same, as they would for always.
“My sibling is a terror.” Valarr shook his head, placing his hand into his father’s shoulders, toying with the fabric.
“Much like you.” He poked a finger into his little chest, the boy giggling in response.
And they set out to find you, no doubt still where they had left you, curled into your side taking in the rest of the day as it greeted you. And as they strode through the halls of the keep, through the same corridors he had grown up in, Baelor took in the sights, not just as heir, or as a Prince, but through his sons eyes.
And with every painting, every tapestry, and every passing face of squire and guard, every step closer toward you with his legacy and love in his arms, he saw a flicker of the ages to come, and with it,
summary. you attempt to resume a normal life in dorne as the aftermath of your departure takes it’s toll on the targaryen household.
word count. 8.5k
warnings. none!
note. out of the entire series this was my favorite part to create so far, it was highly inspired by laufey’s “promise” and I recommend listening to it while you read! as always hope you enjoy🤍
previous part.
The blinds in Maekar Targaryen's office were half closed, casting shadows over the polished wooden furniture. The little light that seeped in illuminated the large bookshelf which stood to the right of his working desk.
He was slouched over a pile of papers he had to sign, his fingers tense and weary from holding a fountain pen for so long. His hand repeatedly scribbled his name. His eyebrows were pinched in that familiar, ever-present frown on his face.
He had come into the office early this morning, hoping to keep his mind occupied and busy. If he was overloaded with meetings, strategies, and supervision, he wouldn't have to think about the conversation he had with you in the foyer of his house.
The way the twinkle in your eyes slowly faded when he refused to let Aegon stay at home. How his chest ached at the defeated look on your face.
But most of all he wouldn't have to think about how you made him feel, how when you were around color seeped into his life again, how the house felt less haunted and hollow with your presence. How it tugged at his chest when he saw you take care of children, play with them, teach them, be gentle with them, love them.
Love themm in a way he didn't know how, in a way he never would know how to. For the longest time he thought it impossible to let someone in, least of all a complete stranger. He never thought a foreigner could learn to love and understand his children in a way only so few did. After Dyanna's death he couldn't bring himself to deal with the void she had left.
I don't know how to be a mother and a father. His own voice echoed in his head. You don't have to be. You had replied with such earnest honesty that for a brief moment hope had flickered in his chest and a dangerously optimistic thought bloomed in his mind.
But just as quickly it had died. The realization that you could never be a replacement for Dyanna, that you could never love his sons and daughters in a way that only the mother who birthed them could, quickly settled in.
And in that cold moment of letdown he had dismissed you, refused to listen to yours pleas of letting Aegon stay at home.
But now, with his posture tense and back rigid, he wondered if he had been wrong to disregard you so quickly. He sighed, releasing the pen from his grasp and letting it topple and roll over somewhere on the mahogany desktop.
His entire hand ached; enough of signing, he decided.
Instead his hand found the mouse of the computer in front of him and he opened the digital mail app. There were always things to be checked here. Reports to be read and complaints answered. Yet as he scanned through the list, scrolling down nothing caught his eye, nothing piqued his interest. All of the emails seemed like dull, lifeless, utterly boring affairs. He'd rather claw his own eyes out than read any of these messages.
His brain was pulsing against his skull and he felt the familiar headache setting in. He was about to exit the site when something caught his eye. Your name — more precisely your email. He didn't scan the topic of your message, just immediately clicked on 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.
He read the text twice before going back to check if he had indeed clicked on your email and not that of some random employee. He felt the quiet disbelief settle in his chest as he desperately scrolled to make sure this was some kind of mistake.
He stood from his desk, pacing over the office and striding outside to his assistant who worked in the front. She was a middle-aged, curvy woman with a short blonde bob.
The entire office practically stilled when he walked outside and it felt like everyone was walking on eggshells all of a sudden. He did not pay them any mind.
"Clarice, did you fire my son's babysitter?" His question was more accusation than inquiry. The poor woman shrunk in her seat at his fiery gaze.
"No sir... I would never do such a thing without your consultation..." The woman replied evenly.
He knew the entire office was gawking at them but he couldn't bring himself to care.
"Then tell me why the fuck there is a resignation email sitting in my inbox that I have not been notified of?" He demanded, raising his hands in agitation.
"I... I'm very sorry sir but I do not know..." She replied, clutching her floral shirt nervously.
"Why do I always have to handle everything, oh fuck me…" He muttered under his breath, turning on his heel to return to his workspace. Except this time he did not sit back down, he didn't look at emails or sign papers. He grabbed his black wool coat off the hanger, wrapped it around his shoulders and strided out of the office like he was preparing for battle.
As he exited the Targaryen Corp. building, his mind was fixed on one singular objective. Finding you.
—
The late afternoon air was sharp against his face, the city loud and indifferent around him, yet he heard none of it.
His driver stood waiting beside the blacked-out SUV, posture straight, hands folded neatly in front of him. The moment he registered Maekar’s long, purposeful strides, he stepped forward and opened the rear door without a word.
Maekar slid into the backseat, the leather cool beneath him, and waited as the door shut with a muted thud. The engine hummed to life.
“Where to, sir?” The driver’s eyes met his through the rearview mirror.
Maekar opened his mouth. And nothing came out. His brain short-circuited entirely.
Where did you live? He had no idea.
“Hold on a moment.” He lifted a hand, palm out, signaling the driver to wait. The man gave a single nod and kept the car idling at the curb.
Maekar reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, staring down at the screen as if it might provide him with answers on its own. How, exactly, was he supposed to know where you lived?
Personal addresses weren’t required on casual job arrangements, and the truth was—there hadn’t been much of a formal arrangement at all. You hadn’t forged a traditional contract because he had been entirely convinced you wouldn’t last longer than a day.
He almost scoffed at himself.
A mental note formed instantly: change that. The moment he found you.
His thoughts began shifting rapidly, gears turning, rearranging, calculating. How could he possibly locate you? He could call. He could send a message. Demand an explanation.
But that felt wrong. Too distant. Too impersonal.
You would refuse him outright over the phone. You would be polite, composed, stubborn. No, he needed to see you. Needed to stand in front of you, face to face, so you couldn’t slip away so easily.
His brow furrowed in concentration.
Then it clicked.
He leaned forward abruptly, the leather creasing beneath him. “Have you ever taken the lady who takes care of Aegon home?”
The driver blinked, visibly surprised at the sudden question, but professionalism smoothed over his features within seconds. “Yes, sir. Once. She stayed until late one evening. Your son Aerion commanded me to take her home.”
A flicker of surprise flashed in his violet yes but he quickly concealed it. Instead he hummed low in his throat. “Very well. Drive there.”
He leaned back into his seat as the small privacy window between the driver and the back compartment slid up automatically, sealing him into silence.
His mind immediately began constructing scenarios.
Would you even be home? Were you at university? Out with friends?
The thoughts lodged unpleasantly in his chest.
It didn’t matter. He would find you wherever you were.
His thoughts ran ahead of him, rehearsing conversations, arguments, apologies he wasn’t certain he knew how to voice. By the time the SUV slowed to a stop, he hadn’t even registered the passing of time.
“We’re here, sir."
He looked up.
The neighborhood was modest. Slightly grimy. Ordinary. Not dangerous, not dilapidated—but far from luxurious. No marble façades. No polished glass towers. Just aging brick, narrow balconies, laundry lines strung between windows.
It did not suit him. But it suited you.
He stepped out of the car, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat.
“Shall I wait for you here, sir?” the driver asked.
“Yes.” Nothing more.
He strode toward the building entrance, jaw set.
By sheer luck, an older man was entering at the same time. Maekar caught the door before it shut, offering a tight, practiced smile as he gestured the man inside first. He followed after him, silent and composed.
He did not belong here, it was plain for all to see.
The pale silver of his hair, the immaculate cut of his coat, the overly polished shoes—everything about him screamed money, power and distance. He felt the old man's eyes linger, curious, assessing.
He ignored him.
He located your name on the row of mailboxes, committing the apartment number to memory, then took the stairs two at a time.
When he reached your door, he stopped.
For a split second, uncertainty crept in. Was he supposed to knock? Ring the bell?
He lifted his hand and knocked. Firm and controlled. Then he waited. Seconds stretched thin. His jaw tightened. Still no answer.
He shifted, about to press the doorbell when— he heard footsteps on the other side.
His heartbeat picked up sharply, pulse thundering in his ears. He straightened unconsciously, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and something dangerously close to relief.
The door opened. And it was not you.
A girl stood there, unfamiliar. Long chestnut hair pulled into a low ponytail, an oversized band T-shirt hanging loosely over shorts. She held the door with one hand, studying him with open skepticism.
“Hello?” One fine eyebrow lifted. “Can I help you?”
Maekar composed himself instantly, though the brief flicker of something—hope, perhaps—had already died behind his eyes.
“Excuse my… interruption,” he said, forcing civility into his tone. “But doesn't Miss Y/N Y/L/N live here?”
She was scowling before recognition dawned on her face at the mention of your name. “Oh—yeah, she does. Well. She’s renting the apartment for now. She’s away in Sunspear. For some exchange program or something.”
The words struck like a physical blow. Sunspear? Exchange program?
The air seemed to thin around him.
You hadn’t said a word. Not a hint. Not a mention of such a thing.
He had seen you only days ago.
“Sir?” the girl prompted, visibly uncomfortable. “Are you her dad or something because—”
“Thank you.” He cut her off cleanly, voice clipped, already turning away.
He did not offer another glance. He did not bother to offer apologies or explanations.
“Creep,” he heard her mutter under her breath as he disappeared down the corridor.
He did not care.
He reached the car in long, sharp strides and slid back inside, slamming the door harder than necessary. His hand dragged through his hair, fingers catching briefly in the silver strands before moving to scratch at his beard. His mind was racing now—truly racing.
Sunspear, the capital of Dorne.
If he left now, he could be on a flight within three hours. He could get there. To you. He could find you.
And then what?
“Sir, where should I—” the driver began cautiously.
“King’s Landing Airport,” Maekar barked without a second thought.
The driver hesitated only a fraction of a second before pulling away from the curb.
As the city blurred past the tinted windows, Maekar’s thoughts spiraled.
He would arrive in Sunspear and do what exactly? Hunt you down across a foreign city? Stand in front of you and beg you to come back? To resume caring for his son? For his broken household?
Would he ask you to abandon your future because he was incapable of being a competent father on his own?
The image formed vividly—your face, resolute and disappointed.
He had already ruined enough lives with his grief, his coldness, his inability to move forward. Dyanna. Aegon. And now was it your turn?
Yours did not have to become another casualty. The car slowed at a red traffic light.
“Stop,” he breathed suddenly, the word almost lost beneath the hum of the engine.
The driver glanced back. “Sir?”
“Turn back.”
Silence filled the vehicle for half a heartbeat before the indicator clicked on.
He leaned back into the seat, closing his eyes briefly. He would not be the one to ruin this. Not this time.
—
Life in Dorne moved differently.
It was in the languid warmth of the sun that never seemed in a hurry to set, in the salt that lingered in the air and clung to your hair and skin long after you had left the sea. It was in the people who roamed the streets with unhurried steps, in the way laughter drifted lazily from shaded balconies, in the music that seemed to exist without performance — simply because it wished to.
The air was thick with the scent of exotic spices, sweet and sharp all at once. Markets spilled over with the finest silks in sunset hues and deep ocean blues, glittering jewelry catching the light as vendors called out softly to passing strangers.
Fresh fruit was piled high in woven baskets — oranges split open to reveal jeweled flesh, figs glistening with nectar, citrus elixirs poured into delicate glasses that sweated under the heat.
Everything about Sunspear was royal and grand. But not in the rigid, towering way King’s Landing was — not in marble columns and suffocating expectations — but in something slower. Something steadier and older. The kind of magic that did not need to announce itself to be known.
The people here did not rush. They did not shout. They did not live with anxiety curled tight in their ribs.
They lived for pleasure, not for survival.
They argued with fervor, and kisssed with passion.
The city was cradled by three seas, waves pressing against its shores like a constant lullaby, and by the Shadow City on the fourth side — narrow streets twisting through sun-baked stone and vibrant fabric awnings.
It felt insulated from the rest of the world. From politics. From grief. From dragons.
Your arrival had been entirely abrupt, messy and unplanned. You had not packed with excitement, rather with necessity.
Yet somehow, your days in Dorne offered something dangerously close to peace. A silent escape. A retreat from everything that had unraveled in the last few weeks — from the heavy halls of that house, from silver hair and violet eyes.
You were stretched out on the sand now, midday sun pressing warm kisses to your damp skin. A soft towel lay beneath you, grains of sand clinging stubbornly to the edges. You wore a simple bikini top and short linen trousers you had purchased from a local market — cream-colored and airy, tied loosely at the waist.
The fabrics here breathed with every movement, light and unrestrictive in a way your life in King’s Landing never had been.
Clarisse, bright-eyed, sun-drenched Clarisse — had insisted on bringing you to her favorite beach. She had claimed it was the perfect spot for swimming and tanning and forgetting.
You had agreed without hesitation. You would have agreed to anything that promised distraction from King's Landing.
Anything that might pull your mind away from the dragon family thousands of miles from you.
Clarisse was Dornish in every sense of the word. She studied at the University of Sunspear, the same exchange program that had given you an excuse to disappear.
Long brown curls framed her face in wild spirals, freckles scattered like constellations across her rich chocolate skin. She was beautiful in the effortless way all Dornish girls seemed to be.
Untouched by urgency, utterly carefree and languid.
They looked like they had stepped from oil paintings — springy locks, sun-kissed skin, gold and silver jewelry clattering musically against their wrists and ankles as they moved.
Their laughter was loud, unashamed. Their eyes bright with something playful and curious.
You often found yourself wondering if Dyanna had looked like them. Your thoughts drifted to her more often than you cared to admit.
Had she spoken with the same lilting accent? Had her voice carried that soft warmth beneath its strength? Had she possessed that playful glint all Dornish girls seemed to be born with? Had she dressed in flowing silks the color of ripe pomegranates or in the deep royal purple of House Dayne?
Would she have liked you here?
Would she have thanked you for loving her son? Her family?
The questions came uninvited and lingered far too long.
You sighed softly, leaning back on your elbows and squinting against the brightness overhead. The sky was impossibly blue, stretching endless and indifferent.
Clarisse was still somewhere in the sea, her laughter occasionally carried by the wind as she floated on her back. You could just make out her figure in the distance, arms spread wide as though embracing the horizon.
Beside you lay a discarded book — half-read and forgotten.
And Theodan, one of Clarisse’s friends. Apparently he was her neighbor incapable of missing an opportunity.
When he had heard Clarisse befriended the new foreign student, he had begged to tag along. He worked in his father’s shop in the city, she had told you.
"He's sweet, very persisten." She had warned you. "But harmless."
He had jet-black hair that curled slightly at the ends and warm chocolate-brown eyes that lingered a second too long. You had noticed the way he watched you throughout the day — offering to carry your beach bag, to fetch you drinks, to help you apply sunscreen.
You had politely refused the last offer.
Dornish people were very straightforward. You had learned that quickly. They said what they meant. Wanted what they wanted.
It was refreshing, sometimes intrusive.
You should have been flattered.
You should have been overjoyed to be here — in the sun, by the sea, admired by a sweet boy with kind eyes.
And yet something inside you felt hollow. As though a small, vital piece of your soul had been left behind in a house of cold stone and silver hair.
No amount of Dornish sunlight could warm that missing part. No lingering gazes could fill it.
You felt his eyes on you now but pretended not to notice, fingers sifting slowly through the warm sand.
“So…” he cleared his throat, his Common Tongue broken and thickly accented. “You like Sunspear?”
You turned your gaze to him slowly. He was propped on one elbow, absently drawing lines in the sand as he admired you with open sincerity.
You hummed. “Yes… it’s nice.”
Nice. Such an empty word for a place so alive.
“Westeros is different?” he asked, more question than statement.
A small chuckle escaped you. Technically, Dorne was part of Westeros. But you understood the pride here — the fierce independence threaded into their bones.
“Yes, it’s… much less…” You paused, searching for the word that would not offend. “Unhurried.
He frowned slightly, clearly unfamiliar with the term. Embarrassment flickered across his face before he shifted topics.
“Do you have boyfriend in Westeros?”
The bluntness almost made you laugh. You looked down at your hands, sand slipping between your fingers like time.
“No… No, I don’t.”
He huffed softly. “I don’t believe.”
Your lips twitched. “You don’t?”
He shook his head. “Someone… you… love? Care?”
The question struck deeper than he intended. And no matter how much you tried to stop it, faces rose unbidden in your mind.
Aegon with his mischievous eyes. Daeron’s awkward smile. Maekar's rare smile. Rhae and Daella tangled in laughter. Valarr’s quiet observance. Kiera’s bright laugh.
And even— Aerion.
You swallowed. Your throat tightened painfully.
But you shook your head. “No one.”
The lie tasted like saltwater.
He opened his mouth to press further, but before he could, Clarisse came sprinting from the sea toward you both, water dripping from her limbs, laughter spilling from her mouth. Her curls were plastered to her back, droplets catching in the sunlight.
“What are you two up to?” she demanded, grabbing her towel and scrubbing at her hair. Her Common Tongue was far smoother than Theodan’s.
“I hope he hasn’t annoyed the living hell out of you. He flirts with everyone.”
She plopped down beside you, bumping your shoulder playfully as Theodan smacked her arm in mock offense, clearly understanding far more than he could articulate. She shrieked in laughter.
You forced a smile.
“No… it’s fine. I appreciate the company.”
In all truth you appreciated the noise. The distraction. The way they did not know you well enough to see through you.
“There’s this new bar some girls from my class want to try tonight,” Clarisse said, eyes sparkling with excitement. “You should come with us. It’ll be fun.”
Fun she said. You searched her face — so open, so bright, so contagious — and found yourself unable to deny her.
“Sure,” you replied softly, lifting a hand to shield your eyes from the sun.
“Great!” She beamed, genuinely exhilarated.
“Can I come?” Theodan asked innocently.
“No!” you and Clarisse said in unison.
And for a moment — just a brief, fleeting moment — you burst into laughter with them. Real laughter, which was light and unguarded.
And yet even as you laughed, a quiet ache lingered beneath it.
Because no matter how beautiful Dorne was, no matter how warm the sun or how kind the people, deep down you knew some part of you remained elsewhere. Across the sea. With dragons.
—
Daeron was nursing a glass of whiskey in his hand.
It was late at night — the kind of late where the house had long since fallen silent, where even the restless creaks of the old halls seemed to grow tired. Likely around one or two in the morning.
The darkness outside the tall windows was thick and endless, swallowing the gardens and the distant city lights whole.
His dreams had woken him again. As they always did.
It was such a casual occurrence now that part of him no longer even questioned it.
Since childhood the dreams had come and gone like unwanted guests — violent flashes of fire and wings, of heat so intense it felt as though his lungs might collapse beneath it. Yet no matter how many times they came, no matter how many mornings he woke with them fading from memory, it never became easier.
He always woke the same way. Cold sweat clinging to his skin. His heart hammering violently against his ribs.
And that invisible tension coiled deep in his muscles, as if some ancient instinct inside him believed he had truly been there — among fire and ruin.
So he had done what he always did.
He slipped quietly from his bed and padded down the dark hallway toward the study, bare feet soundless against the polished floor. The house was quiet enough that even the faintest movement echoed.
He pushed open the large oak doors.
The study was empty. Of course it was.
He reached for the small table lamp at the center of the room and flicked it on. Warm golden light spilled outward, illuminating the polished desk, the towering shelves of books, the heavy curtains drawn against the night.
For a moment he simply stood there, letting the quiet settle around him.
Then he walked to his father’s alcohol cabinet.
It was usually locked. But Daeron had a spare key. Because of course he did.
He slid it into the lock with practiced ease and opened the cabinet doors. The smell of aged liquor drifted out immediately — expensive, heavy, almost ceremonial.
His hand hovered briefly before selecting one of the stronger whiskeys.
He poured it slowly into a crystal glass, dropping in a few cubes of ice. They clinked softly as they settled, floating there as though daring him.
It always began like this. Just one glass. He would tell himself that every single time.
Just one to calm his nerves. Just one to quiet the racing thoughts that clawed at his skull after the dreams.
One became two. Two quickly turned into three. And somewhere along the way he stopped counting altogether.
Now the bottle of that ridiculously expensive whiskey sat in front of him on the desk — half empty.
He stared at it with dull, unfocused eyes.
The burn of the alcohol lingered in his throat, spreading warmth through his chest in that familiar way he had come to depend on. It stung going down, sharp and punishing.
How familiar it had become.
For years he had used it like this — to dull the fear, to smother the memories of dreams that felt far too real, to quiet the grief that never seemed to leave this wretched house.
And then you had come along. The thought rose unbidden, unwelcome.
You with your kind eyes and your careful words.
The way you moved through the halls as though you belonged there, as though the cold weight of the Targaryen household had never intimidated you in the first place.
You weren’t afraid to reprimand Aegon when he was being impossible, yet you loved him just as fiercely — fiercely enough that the boy had followed you around like a shadow.
Something in Daeron’s throat tightened painfully.
Hope. That was what you had been.
A small, fragile flicker of it in a house that had long since forgotten what it felt like.
And he — with his stupid dragon dreams and his quiet misery — had driven you away. He thought miserably.
He had asked Aegon where you were earlier that day.
The boy had nearly burst into tears right there in the hallway before stubbornly wiping them away with the heel of his hand.
“Gone,” he had said.
Just thst one word. Gone. He could see how much it pained his youngest brother.
Daeron hadn’t known what to say to that.
Now he couldn’t sleep. And when he did manage to drift off, the dreams came worse than ever — monstrous shapes tearing at each other in cavernous darkness, wings blotting out the sky, fire roaring so loud it drowned out every other sound.
He always ruined everything.
His dirty blonde hair fell into his face as he lowered his head, pale violet eyes shimmering with a sheen of unshed tears.
What use would crying do now? None. What’s done is done.
He swallowed hard and reached for his phone, some half-formed drunken thought bubbling up in his mind — maybe he could call you, maybe he could—
The study door creaked open and he froze instantly.
For a brief second he braced himself for his father’s voice, sharp and disappointed. A lecture. A reprimand. Another reminder of everything he had failed to be.
But it never came. Instead there were quiet footsteps.
They crossed the room behind him and stopped.
A sigh followed. Daeron would recognize that sound anywhere
Aerion.
He waited for the inevitable insult — something cutting and cruel, something designed to twist the knife deeper.
Or perhaps Aerion would snatch the bottle away with that cold sneer of his, saying the whiskey shouldn’t be wasted on drunkards like Daeron.
Instead there was only the soft sound of the cabinet door opening again. Daeron blinked slowly, confusion dulling his intoxicated thoughts as Aerion retrieved a second glass.
The chair across from him scraped softly against the floor as his brother sat down. Aerion’s movements were slower than usual, lacking their usual sharp aggression.
He looked… different. His eyes were sunken, shadows dark beneath them. Without a word he poured himself a small measure of whiskey. Then he downed it in a single swallow.
He did not meet Daeron’s eyes.
For the first time in what felt like years, Aerion did not look like the cruel, angry boy the world knew him to be.
He looked defeated. Hollowed out.
The sight reminded Daeron painfully of another day — years ago now — standing beside him at their mother’s funeral, both of them too young to understand the kind of grief that had swallowed their family.
The silence between them stretched long and fragile.
Neither spoke. Neither dared to.
But Daeron would never forget the way Aerion’s lip trembled, barely noticeable in the dim light of the lamp.
Nor the single, silent tear that slipped from his violet eye and fell onto the polished wood of the desk.
—
The kitchen was quiet — quiet only in the strange way it could be when half the members of its household were sitting inside it, yet no one was speaking to each other.
The large room was flooded with pale morning light filtering through the tall windows that overlooked the gardens. The marble counters gleamed softly, and the long dining table in the center of the room was set with the usual precision: porcelain plates, silver cutlery, linen napkins folded neatly beside them.
Breakfast had been laid out lavishly, as it always was.
Aegon sat opposite his sister Rhae, poking and prodding at the omelette on his plate but not actually putting a single bite of it into his mouth. The fork scraped idly against the porcelain as he moved the food around in absent circles.
In the past few days he had been too defeated to eat. Too defeated to study. Too defeated to play or do anything at all really.
The girls sat opposite him on the other side of the table, neatly dressed in their school uniforms. Their silver hair had been braided to match — two careful plaits resting over their shoulders the way the servants always styled it before school.
Rhae was staring down at her bowl of oatmeal with quiet dreariness, stirring it slowly though she wasn’t eating either. Beside her, Daella was scrolling lazily on her phone beneath the table. The slice of toast in front of her had grown cold and untouched.
At the head of the table sat Maekar.
He held a cup of black coffee between his hands, occasionally lifting it to take slow, thoughtful sips while he scrolled through emails on his phone. The faint glow of the screen reflected against his sharp features.
For once his brows weren’t furrowed in that constant scowl everyone in the house had grown accustomed to. But his lips were set in a straight, unmoving line.
One of the servants approached quietly, setting down a silver jug of freshly brewed tea beside the plates. The faint steam curled upward into the air, carrying the soft scent of bergamot and honey.
The table was filled with warm bread, fresh fruit, delicate pastries, perfectly cooked eggs — every possible luxury that could be expected in a household like this.
None of it seemed to matter. To Aegon this had always been normal. The luxury, the servants, the silence.
Still, he could tell something was gnawing at Rhae.
She kept opening and closing her mouth, as though debating whether to speak. Her spoon clinked faintly against the bowl before she finally lifted her gaze toward their father.
“Is YN going to come back?”
The question sliced cleanly through the quiet and lodged itself in the air like a knife.
Maekar slowly lifted his eyes from his phone.
For a brief moment — the briefest flicker — he looked unsure how to answer. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly.
“No.”
The reply came cold and straightforward. Just like the rest of him.
Aegon’s mood soured instantly, pausing the scraping of his fork.
“Why?” Rhae pressed, her voice small but stubborn. “I liked her, she was nice and—”
“Enough of this now.” Maekar’s voice cut her off sharply, before she could press any further.
“Eat your breakfast, all three of you. And you too, Daella — leave that phone.”
His gaze moved over his children in quiet reprimand.
Daella slowly lifted her eyes from the screen to look at him. Then she scoffed.
This makeshift family breakfast was a strange occurrence none of them had wanted. Normally they ate at different times, drifting in and out of the kitchen like strangers passing through a hotel lobby.
But that morning their father had insisted on it. Why, none of them could decipher.
Rhae pushed her chair back suddenly. The legs scraped loudly across the floorboards as she stood. Without another word she walked out of the kitchen.
A servant stepped forward almost immediately to collect her untouched plate.
Maekar watched his daughter leave, his mouth parting slightly as if he meant to say something. But the protest never came.
Daella stood soon after.
“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, shoving her phone into her pocket. “And we need to go to school.” She disappeared after her sister without waiting for permission.
Which left only Aegon and Maekar sitting at the table.
The silence that settled between them felt thicker than before.
Maekar glanced down at Aegon’s plate, jaw tense. “I suppose you’re not going to eat that.”
Aegon shook his head.
The older man sighed, rubbing slowly at his temple.
“Go to your room. Maellon should be arriving any minute. Did you do your High Valyrian homework?”
“Yes, father.” The reply came automatically.
“Very well.” Maekar nodded once.
“May I go now?” Aegon asked, staring at the two empty chairs where his sisters had been sitting only moments ago.
“You may.” His father dismissed him with a small wave of his hand.
Aegon stood and left the kitchen without another word.
As he walked through the long corridors of the house toward his bedroom, the quiet followed him like a shadow.
His thoughts drifted back to the first day you hadn’t come.
The day after the charity gala. At first he thought you must have fallen ill. Maybe you had simply forgotten to text him. It happened sometimes.
So he waited.
He waited all morning, wandering restlessly through the house, glancing toward the door every time he heard footsteps in the hallway.
But you never came.
By afternoon he had begun to feel uneasy, and by evening the feeling had turned into something sharper.
Finally, at around six o’clock, he decided to message you himself.
Egg
hey, where are you? are you sick? you forgot to mention you weren't coming?
The message sat there. Delivered. But unanswered.
Something about it bothered him deeply, though he refused to admit it even to himself. He told himself he wasn’t a little child anymore.
He didn’t need someone hovering over him all the time. He didn’t need to be reassured and coddled.
Still, that night he slept uneasily.
The second day he asked his father about it.
Maekar had barely looked up from his paperwork when he answered. “She resigned.”
Resigned? The word hadn’t made sense. Why?
Aegon had stared at him in disbelief, waiting for the punchline — waiting for the moment his father would admit he was joking. But there had been no humor in his voice.
Aegon almost shouted at him then. He almost accused him outright of driving you away. Yet something stopped him.
A quiet, traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind.
Of course she left. They always leave, don’t they? It’s all your fault.
The incessant voices kept repeating.
The thought had burrowed deep inside his chest.
He remembered every moment he had been difficult. Every sarcastic remark. Every time he had rolled his eyes or refused to listen.
The charity gala. Running away from it like a stupid child because he couldn’t stand being there. Because he wanted to escape.
Maybe that had been the final straw. Maybe you had simply grown tired of him. Fed up.
And so you had left. Just like that.
Aegon rubbed angrily at his eyes as he reached his bedroom door and slammed it shut behind him.
Maellon would be arriving any moment. He had to compose himself.
Still, the absence lingered everywhere.
In the quiet halls. In the empty afternoons. In the way the house seemed colder somehow.
He missed your laughter. Your honest words. The way you cared for him like no one had in a very long time.
Stop. He scolded himself. She’s just a memory now. Forget about it.
He repeated the thought stubbornly as Maellon entered the room moments later, greeting him warmly before setting down his satchel and preparing for the day’s lesson.
Maellon had been speaking for nearly ten minutes.
Something about the origins of the Free Cities. Yet Aegon had not absorbed a single word.
His mind drifted constantly back to you. Where were you, what were you doing, with who were you—
“And that is how the merchants who went to Braavos—” The old man stopped mid-sentence.
“You are not listening, young sir.”
Aegon sighed. “I am.” But even he knew that wasn’t true.
“Then tell me,” Maellon said calmly, adjusting his spectacles, “why did the merchants sail and set out for the Free Cities?”
Aegon had no answer.
He leaned his head against his hand, elbow resting on the desk, and rolled his eyes. “This is stupid anyway,” he muttered under his breath.
Maellon leaned forward slightly in his chair.
“I see the young lad is in a foul mood today.”
Aegon said nothing.
“What irks you so?” the old man asked gently.
Still Aegon refused to look at him.
“Nothing.” The answer came quietly.
Maellon studied him for a moment.
“Is it the young lady who looks after you?”
His voice had softened now.
Aegon refused to respond.
But the tightening in his throat returned instantly. His eyes stung.
Maellon slowly removed his glasses, setting them carefully on the desk.
“I speak to you now not as a professor,” he said quietly. “But as the man who pulled you from your mother’s wailing body and into this world.”
Aegon blinked, startled by the words.
“And I was the one who placed you upon her chest when you were born.”
The old man’s gaze softened.
“So listen to me very well, boy, when I say this: your mother will love you until the very end of your days. In life and in death.”
Aegon frowned. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
“My mother is dead.”
The words came out sharper than he intended. Venom and sorrow tangled together.
“Aye,” Maellon said quietly.
“But that does not mean she is not here with you. She lives inside your heart.”
He leaned forward slightly, pointing at his own chest.
“And I know this much — if she had wanted anyone to look after you… to care for you… it would have been someone like her.”
Something cracked inside Aegon then. He turned his watery gaze toward the old man, pleading.
Maellon reached into his satchel and offered him a tissue.
“Come now, lad,” he said gently. “Wipe your tears.”
Aegon took it reluctantly, rubbing at his eyes.
He wasn’t sure what he felt. Only that the hollow ache inside his chest had grown heavier.
Maellon picked up his glasses again and placed them back on his nose.
“Now,” he said calmly, opening the book again, “shall we return to the Free Cities?”
Aegon leaned back in his chair. And this time… he tried to listen.
—
The air in the bar was filled with smoke.
Everything around you felt hazy and foreign. The unfamiliar music thumping through the speakers, people yelling over the noise in languages you did not speak, even the drinks they served here were different.
The way people danced and moved their bodies was more languid, more natural than you had ever seen before. Their arms curved through the air like waves, hips swaying without embarrassment, laughter spilling easily between them as if life itself moved to the same rhythm as the music.
You were in a pale white linen dress — the fabric thin and light against your skin, the kind of dress that belonged in warm weather and seaside afternoons. It clung faintly to your legs whenever someone brushed past you.
The bar Clarisse had dragged you to was full of people, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, the smell of citrus and alcohol and smoke swirling into one heavy haze.
The group of girls you were with sat beside you at the bar, laughing and dancing, their bracelets clinking against the marble counter whenever they raised their drinks.
One of them had climbed halfway off her stool already, swaying along to the music with a grin so wide it made the bartender laugh.
You were nursing a cold unfamiliar cocktail, taking a sip every now and then. It was bright blue — some kind of fruit you had never heard of floating inside the glass. The taste was sharp and sweet at the same time, and every time it touched your tongue you winced slightly, not quite able to place what it was supposed to be.
You scanned the crowd, not quite certain what you were searching for, though deep down you knew you were anticipating that flash of pale white hair that never appeared.
The thought was ridiculous. Impossible.
And yet your eyes kept drifting to the door anyway.
Every time it opened you felt your heart give a tiny stutter before logic returned and reminded you how far away King’s Landing was. How far away everything was.
Clarisse clearly noted your discomfort and she leaned on her elbow beside you.
“Hey, is everything okay… you seem kind of, far away?” She asked gently. Her voice cut through the noise somehow, softer than the music around you.
You gave her a weary smile — you hated being the buzzkill but no matter how much you tried to, your life in Dorne was simply not going as you had anticipated.
“I.. no—” you began, pinching at your fingers beneath the counter, but she shot an arm out and put it on your shoulder.
“Hey, no need to lie. I can see it on your face.” She tilted her head, studying you in that quiet observant way of hers.
“Your body cannot lie, and by the way northerners are always so see through.”
She was not judging you. She was merely observing.
You huffed out a nervous cough taking a sip of your colorful drink and wincing at the taste.
“I have known you for a very short time…” she continued calmly, “but I can see it on your face… your heart, your mind it does not belong here. It cannot appreciate Dorne while it yearns for someplace else.”
The truth in her words froze you and for a moment you stilled, unsure how to respond.
Your fingers tightened around the glass. You bit your lip.
And what if you went back to King’s Landing? What then?
Would life just resume? Normally?
No. You knew it would not.
People would gawk at you and ask why you hadn't stayed in Dorne and you'd awkwardly have to explain. There would be whispers in hallways, curious glances across tables. Lyonel Baratheon would never forgive you and you'd have to live with that uncomfortable reality for the rest of the year.
You hadn’t texted Kiera since you left. Would this be it? The end of your relationship?
And Gods — the Targaryens.
They would certainly never take you back in after just disappearing off the face of the earth.
The thought made your chest tighten. Aegon’s face flashed in your mind.
You swallowed hard.
You were trying to calculate, to do the math in your head, but there was no solution. There was no equation where everyone came out unharmed.
You could feel the tears prickle at your eyes.
“I’m sorry I need a breath of fresh air..” you barely choked out as you stood up from the bar and pushed through the crowd of people.
Clarisse called after you and stood to follow but after a while she got lost in the sea of bodies. You didn’t look back.
The outside air was warm but at least not so stuffy.
The street outside the bar stretched out in uneven cobblestones illuminated by golden streetlamps. Somewhere nearby someone was playing a guitar, the music drifting lazily through the night like it had nowhere urgent to be.
An old man was selling some kind of fruit on the other side of the street, even at this late hour, his stall lit by a dim lantern. The fruit were bright red and cut open to reveal deep orange flesh.
A few children ran shrieking through the street, chasing each other between the buildings while a woman shouted after them in a language you did not understand.
The lights and moonlight illuminated it, and for the first time you let the tears fall freely.
You thought coming to Dorne would solve your problems.
You had made a promise to distance yourself, for the better.
Yet it only left a worse ache in your chest.
You hugged your arms around yourself as the warm wind moved through the street, carrying the smell of salt from the sea.
For a moment you imagined the Red Keep rising above the cliffs instead of the sandy stone buildings of Sunspear.
You imagined the sound of Aegon’s laughter echoing through the halls.
You imagined—
Just as you wiped furiously at your tears, your breath caught and your heartbeat stuttered.
A boy with an almost completely shaved head was standing on the corner of the street. Thin and small. Almost exactly Aegon’s height.
“Egg?” you called out without thinking.
The word left your mouth before logic could stop it.
The boy turned sharply. But he did not have purple eyes and the lines of his face were completely different.
He scowled, clearly insulted by the nickname he did not understand.
“I.. I’m sorry..” you let out, though you knew the boy probably didn't understand much.
He stared at you another moment before turning away and walking down the street.
You gaped at him as he disappeared into the night. Your hands tightened in the fabric of your skirt. The ache in your chest deepened.
You clutched at your skirt and decided to go back inside.
The music hit you like a wall the moment you stepped back through the door. There you found Clarisse. A less carefree expression on her face this time.
Clearly she had given up on comforting you. When you appeared she did not acknowledge you. She merely turned her head and ignored you.
Clearly she was cross because of what you had done. Which she had every right to be in some sense.
“I'm going to the bathroom.” you shouted over the noise but none of them paid you any attention.
You pushed through the crowd and made it to thebathroom which was just as old and dingy like the rest of the place.
The tiles were cracked and the fluorescent light flickered faintly above the mirror.
You found a free stall where you sat down. It was dirty and frankly disgusting but you could not bring yourself to care. Not right now.
You pulled out your phone.
Your fingers hovered over the screen before searching for a familiar contact.
Kiera.
You doubted she would pick up.
It was what — maybe around 6am in King’s Landing?
The phone rang. And rang.
You stared at the stall door as your heartbeat pounded in your ears.
And then— “Hello?”
A groggy voice called out.
“Kiera.”
Your breath caught.
“Wh.. shit it's you.” Her voice suddenly sobered up, recognising your tone.
“Oh Kiera..”
You felt the tears come the second time. And right now you were full on sobbing.
“Oh shit.. yeah Valarr it’s—” you could hear her speak to her boyfriend over the phone.
“Hey listen to me everything is going to be okay, are you fine, are you hurt? Where are you?”
She bombarded you with questions as you heard her rise from the bed.
“I’m fine Kie… I just… I want to go home..”
It physically hurt you to say it. But once it tore from your chest you felt more free than ever.
“I can’t do this..” you whispered.
“Oh honey..” she sighed, voice more calm now knowing you were fine.
“Are you drunk?” she asked.
“No.. I pinky promise..” you laughed weakly. You had only one cocktail, which did not even count for being tipsy.
“Shit. Why did you fucking leave? I told you not to go!”
Her tone was not angry. It was more of a I told you so. And you couldn't help but laugh, feeling like yourself for the first time in a long while.
“Look we’re going to get you on a plane from Sunspear to King’s Landing just.. hang on.. it’s 6 am here, reckon you could wait one more day?”
“Yeah… but not longer..” you breathed.
She laughed. A disbelieving but free laugh.
“Seven hells… I'd love to stay and talk to you but Valarr is giving me a death glare, I have to go now, it’s like 6 am and I am severely decaffinated.”
You could practically hear her rubbing her eyes through the phone.
“Love you Kie.” You breathed before she would disappear.
“Love you too, and see you soon I guess." You could hear the smile in her voice.
The line clicked.
And suddenly the bathroom was quiet again. But the grin on your face was larger than it had ever been.
—
You were laying in your bed in your apartment in Sunspear.
It must have been around four or five in the morning.
The smoke still clung to your skin, tangled in your hair and the linen dress you had not bothered to change out of. It was a little bit dusty and stained after your night out.
You thought back to the girls you had met. Clarisse’s bitter rejection felt stale in your chest.
But none of it mattered as you lay on the cold sheets looking out at the sea. Your window was open and the curtains moved softly in the breeze.
Beyond the balcony the water stretched endlessly into the darkness, the moon painting silver lines across the waves. And somewhere beyond that sea was King's Landing.
You were going home.
The thought settled into your chest like something fragile and glowing. Like the soft quiet promise at the end of a long song.
Tomorrow you would pack your things. Tomorrow you would get on a plane.
Tomorrow—
And then as if a thing out of a dream or trance your phone dinged.
You glanced at it lazily and your heart skipped.
Daeron Targaryen. The notification clearly read.
Something wonderful perked in your chest. Your fingers moved before you could think.
But when you opened the message it was like everything had ceased to exist. Like the world had been plunged into darkness.
The screen glowed in the dim room.
Daeron Targaryen
hi, i know i have absolutely no right to be texting you but… we need you to come home, baelor has been in an accident.
akotsk x wife reader who acts like Posy Li (Bridgerton) part 2
For those who haven’t seen the show; Posy Li is described as warm, kind-hearted, bubbly, talkative, optimistic emotionally open and affectionate character, she is naïve but sincere 🩵
characters: Aerion, Daeron, Valarr Targaryen ( x Aegon v platonic) and Raymun Fossoway
Part 1 (w/ Duncan the tall, Baelor and Maekar Targaryen, Lyonel Baratheon)
Aerion
The hall is loud with music and courtly laughter, but Aerion hears only one thing…..your voice. He swears to himself it sounds brighter and more bubbly as you converse with some footman as if he were the honored guest of the feast.
From across the room he watches, idly twirling a dagger between his fingers. At first he appears cool, almost detached.
Until you laugh.
Not the awkward one you give when you don’t understand something. Nor the polite one you offer because you hate making people uncomfortable.
The real one.
The one with the snort that makes you bend forward and sends your jewelry jingling.
His grip tightens around the dagger.
Surely nothing that boy has said warrants that precious sound.
When he hears it for a second time, something sharp snaps inside him. The dagger sinks into the wooden table with a dull thud.
He starts to move towards you in long slow, strides. He doesn’t rush, he need to for the predator does not rush to it’s prey. As he stalks towards you,the crowd parts immediately without him having to say a word.
The footman notices him first his smile falters immediately.
You don’t notice at all, still mid-sentence.
“I do think it would be most lovely if each house had a unique flower. I introduced the idea to my father by law he only said ‘interesting,’ but I’m getting through to him.”
You gasp softly when you feel your husband’s chest press against your back, but immediately beam up at him.
“Oh! My love,” you say excitedly. “This is Jason. He’s a footman to Lord Br—”
“Why are you harassing my wife?”
Aerion’s voice cuts cleanly through yours. His tone is accusing, his eyes locked on the footman like a blade poised at a throat.
The poor male’s face goes pale.
“My prince, I mean no disrespect—”
You blissfuly unaware of the tension blurt out,
“Oh! You must see, my love, look at the hilt of his dagger!” you say eagerly. “Instead of a sigil, he placed his late mama’s garnet diadem, isn’t that precious?”
Aerion hums, his gaze never once shifting to where you point.
“I suppose,” he says coolly. “Though I do not think something so precious belongs in the hands of someone so… low.”
His eyes never leave the footman. The silence stretches heavy, suffocating and uncomfortable.
The male swallows understanding what Aerion wants without him having to speak it.
“My prince. My lady. I believe my master will be looking for me soon.”
He bows and quickly flees.
“Aww, well if you must! Bye-bye, Jason!” you call, waving enthusiastically.
Aerion yanks your hand down, pulling you flush against him. His hands grip your hips, the hold not soft enough to be mistaken for tenderness, but not rough enough to be called cruelty.
“What is your obsession with collecting strays, my precious ruby?”
You blink up at him. “Strays?”
“Knights. Stable boys. Maids. Squires. Bakers. The elderly. Actual mongrels.” He scoffs. “You have a remarkable habit of favoring… lesser beings.” His grip tightens slightly at your hip. “You are the wife of a prince, not some tavern girl scattering smiles to every man who looks your way in hopes of earning more copper.”
“Ah, tavern girls are so lovely,” you beam. “It’s impressive how they balance all those drinks. I once tried to—”
“That was not a compliment.”
Your mouth forms a small “o.”
“You waste your compliments,” he murmurs, voice low and edged. His hand comes up to your chin, forcing you to look at him. “It makes me wonder if the ones you give me are even meaningful… if you offer the same warmth to some lowly squire.
You hum thoughtfully, not taking the accusation to heart.
“Well,” you say sweetly, hands resting against his chest, “I like your sword best compared to any other.”
For a moment he stills, his back straightening, chin lifting.
“Mhm, what else.”
It is more command than question but you happily oblige with a grin.
“I think you have the best sword skills in all the Seven Kingdoms and across the Narrow Sea and I think you’re the most beautiful of them all anndddd” you pause for emphasis “I think there’s no dragon temper quite like yours.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes sharp, possessive, almost feral.
He pulls you impossibly closer, like a dragon curled tightly around his hoard, daring anyone foolish enough to reach.
“Good,” he murmurs. “See that you remember it.”
Daeron
It was one of those rare moments where Daeron was not drunk.
He was still drinking, of course, but in moderation.
The reason was certainly not that he had a meeting with his father (if anything, that would encourage more wine). Rather it was because he was with you. He did it, not because you scolded him ( you never would) but because he preferred to be clear headed in the moments he spent at your side. Even the foolish ones…..especially the foolish ones. He rather remember the sound of your laughter exactly as it was rather than through the pleasant haze of wine.
He lounges beneath a tree, one knee bent, a wineskin dangling loosely from his fingers as if he hasn’t a care in the world but ever so often gently swatting any bees away that came buzzing too close around you. You on the other hand are attempting to braid a crown of wildflowers.
Keyword attempting, there are far more snapped stems than intact ones scattered in your lap. He found it adorable how anytime one breaks, you gasp softly as if personally offended instead of cursing as most would.
“You know,” Daeron drawls, lazily turning his head toward you, “the flowers were thriving before you declared war on them.”
You gasp. “I did not kill them! They are still alive!”
He hums. “In spirit, perhaps.”
You huff and return to your work, tongue peeking out in concentration as you try again. The wreath collapses immediately, and you toss it onto the growing pile.
Daeron sighs loudly. “This is painful to witness.”
“Then don’t watch!” Your voice cracks slightly.
“I can’t,” he says solemnly. “It’s like watching Aegon attempt swordplay, concerned for everyone involved, but very entertained.”
Despite the insult, you let out a soft laugh.
He finally shifts, setting the wineskin aside and pushing himself upright. “Move over before you render this meadow extinct.”
He kneels closer to you, long fingers brushing yours as he gently takes the flowers from your hands. His touch is warm and soft mayhaps due to the lack of swordplay the young prince so adamantly avoids.
“Like this,” he says, softer now. “Twist the stems together first don’t strangle them.”
Your eyes widen in awe at how quickly and easily he works.
“Wow. You’re amazing!”
He falters, visibly flustered. He is not accustomed to praise, especially not for something so small.
“Well,” he clears his throat lightly, “you’d best inform the maesters at once. Daeron the Fierce Master of Floral Arts.”
You snort, the sound bright in the quiet field, and it pulls a laugh from him as well.
He finishes the wreath with easy grace and lifts it slightly, examining it with exaggerated scrutiny. “Passable,” he decides. “For something created under my supervision.”
He places the wreath in your lap.
“See? They respond better to patience and gentleness. Much like princes,” he quips.
Carefully you lift the crown and place it upon his head as if he were Aegon the Conqueror himself.
“There,” you say softly, eyes gleaming. “Much better.”
“Because of the flowers?” he asks, breath catching with a quiet laugh.
“Because of the prince wearing them,” you correct.
He blinks at you, momentarily stunned, his usual snarky remark dying on his tongue.
He stands quickly, hoping you don’t notice the faint pink tint rising to his cheeks.
“They’re my squire, I’ve taught you all that I know. Do try not to massacre any more flowers, or the Reach may take offense,” he says, brushing himself off to return to his shaded spot for a nap.
You laugh again and shove him back down.
Daeron lets himself fall dramatically into the grass, one arm thrown over his eyes. “Abused,” he declares. “After all I’ve done.”
But he’s smiling.
And when you settle beside him, still giggling, he tilts his head just enough so he can hear it better.
Raymun
Raymun had imagined meeting you at least a hundred times.
In most of those imaginings, he was taller, broader, silver-tongued and effortlessly charming. In some versions, Steffon had been shipped off to Essos on urgent business and never mentioned again.
In reality, Raymun nearly knocked his forehead against yours when he bowed, tripped over his own boot and stammered through every word as if he had only just learned the Common Tongue.
You had smiled at him anyway.
Which, frankly, was worse.
Because no one that warm and bright could possibly be meant for him.
So when he sees you again days later in the orchard, skirts gathered in your hands as you hurry toward him, pink and blue silk fluttering stark against the browns and greens of the trees he almost looks over his shoulder to check if you are running toward someone else.
“Good morrow, my lord!” you call breathlessly. “I was told you prefer the orchard to the training yard, which I think is rather wise, because apples smell far better than sweat.”
Raymun blinks.
He opens his mouth.
Nothing.
He had rehearsed clever greetings for the next time he saw you, but suddenly they vanish. All he manages, in a low, cracking voice, is:
“Yes.”
You beam at him anyway.
You clasp your hands behind your back and rock gently on your heels. “I’ve been wondering,” you begin earnestly, “do you think apple trees grow better if you speak kindly to them? I told that one over there that its branches are very elegant just in case it needed encouragement. I also informed another that its apples were the reddest in the orchard I thought mayhaps it might be proud and next season producers even more ones like it-“
You pause, glancing at him.
Raymun only stares and you mistake it for discomfort, in reality he’d been awestruck.
“Oh my,” you say quickly, smile faltering. “Am I speaking nonsense? My septa used to slap my wrist with her stick and tell me I needed to ‘get back on the ground with the others.’”
“N-no,” he says at once. “I think it’s great… you should continue encouraging the trees.”
Your smile returns instantly. “Good good- I should hate for them to feel discouraged.”
You wander farther into the orchard and stop before a tree whose basket at its base sits completely empty, while the others are nearly full.
“I think this one is shy,” you declare. “It hasn’t dropped a single apple yet, perhaps it requires praise from someone… familiar?” Your eyes lift to his hopeful and Inviting.
Raymun’s mouth falls open. He points at himself as if you’ve just requested he recite a poem in High Valyrian.
You nod eagerly.
Not wanting to disappoint you, he obeys.
Raymun, who has faced men twice his size in the training yard without flinching, who has taken a sound beating from his cousin and remained standing approaches the tree as though it might strike him down.
He clears his throat.
“Umm… hello tree ,” he says stiffly to the branches above, he opens his mouth then closes it again nothing comes to mind. “I am sorry my lady but I am not very good with words.”
“It is easy,” you insist, eyes shining. “Simply tell the truth as it is, and it will come out naturally.”
He looks at you for a heartbeat longer than necessary before turning back to the tree.
“Well umn the other trees have firm branches,” he begins slowly. “All the same shape, all dropping at the same time, all predictable….. then there’s you” he chuckles lightly “your branches bend in every direction, reaching wherever they please, dropping apples at random moments. Some might think that strange… but I think it means you are unique. You may not seem like the other pe— trees , but I think you are… better for it….perfect even.”
His voice softens near the end.
As if summoned by his confession, an apple loosens from a higher branch and drops thudding into the grass near his boot.
You laugh clapping delighted. “You see? It responds to you!”
He bends to retrieve it, brushing the grass from its skin hands it to you. Your fingers brush his as you accept it.
“I think it ought not be pressed,” he says quietly, cheeks slightly pink, eyes steady and certain. “Some things are better kept whole.” This time he does not hesitate nor stutter.
You cradle the apple to your chest as though he has handed you something far more precious.
“I shall treasure it,” you promise solemnly.
Valarr
The first alarm bell in his head rings when your maidservant informs him you are in the library after he inquired where you had disappeared to all the morrow.
You did not read, not often or for long periods of time.
He did not mean it as an insult, you enjoyed literature well enough, but you preferred stories spoken, acted, performed… or read aloud by him. That was his favorite, you sprawled across his lap while he read, your fingers tracing the embroidery of his doublet as his voice soft voice reads through the passage.
The second alarm is before he steps into the library through the large oak doors he hears whispering and shuffling and giggles where there should be silence. Once he enters the tips of his ears turn red when he finds you half beneath the great wooden table that is covered by blankets and tapestries, your skirts hiked up, ares high in the air.
Despite having had you in far more intimate positions, he still turns his head sharply aside, clearing his throat to get your attention.
“Valarr!” you say excitedly and move far too quickly.
Thunk
Your head collides with the underside of the table.
He is at your side in an instant
“Gods—” His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing your temples as he inspects you with frantic concentration. “Are you hurt?”
“I am fine,” you assure him sheepishly.
Only then does he properly take in the room.
The great table has been dragged from its place and is smothered in blankets and pillows. Chairs are draped in heavy cloth to widen the structure. Honorable books shipped from across Westeros and the Free Cities are now stacked as makeshift castle walls.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
“You will make my father scold you again.”
And by ‘scold’ he means Baelor will give you the gentlest tap upon the wrist. The heir adores you even though it has only been one moon since your marriage to his son, he treats you like the daughter he always wished for.
“Little egg was sad he could not go riding because of the rain,” you explain softly. “I thought this would make him feel better.”
As if summoned by name, a small head pops out from the opposite side of the blanket wall.
“I am her sworn knight!” declares Aegon brandishing a wooden sword. “You may not enter the queen’s fortress without the proper password! Hiyah!”
He smacks Valaar squarely on the thigh.
Valaar blinks down at him.
“Aegon,” he says carefully, “should you not be using this time for more scholarly pursuits? If I am not mistaken, you have yet to translate an entire passage in High Valyrian—“
Something catches his eye above.
A page ripped from one of the books, bearing a drawing of a bunny sleeping peacefully in a bright, colorful meadow has been pinned to the top of the fortress like a banner.
He knows exactly which book it came from.
He had read it to you only last night. He remembers the way you had risen onto your knees, pointing excitedly at the illustration and declaring that if you ever had your own house, your sigil would be a very cute animal.
He stares at it.
“My love…. You did not mutilate a perfectly good manuscript for this—”
Aegon frowns.
So do you.
And suddenly Valaar feels very much like the villain in this tale.
His shoulders soften immediately.
“But,” he amends gently, “I suppose it is not a crime for a prince and lady to have one day of rest….please ensure you place everything where you found it.
He turns to leave you two to your game, but you tug at his sleeve.
“We are missing a monster,” you say brightly. “Every brave knight needs one to save the fair maiden.”
His brows crease immediately knowing where this was going. “I am not playing a monster.”
“Pleaseeeee.”
“My sweet—”
“Please please pleaseeee” you beg as you shake him.
He should refuse.
He must refuse.
There are letters awaiting him before supper, matters of coin and other duties befitting an heir, none of which involve crawling beneath tables in a blanket fortress.
But you are looking at him like that.
The look you give when you want him to stay a little longer in bed , the look you give when you ask him to sneak you more biscuits because your mama forbid you from having more and that look always breaks him.
He sighs softly.
“Very well,” he relents. “But only if the queen grants the beast a true love’s kiss to turn him back human.”
“That is not how monsters work—” Aegon protests, only to be gently shoved aside by his eldest cousin, landing safely among the cushions.
“It is now,” he declare.
He reaches out brushing his thumb tenderly across your cheek before pressing a soft kiss.
For a man who faces the Small Council and tourneys with ferocity and stubborn resolve the same can not be said when it came to you.
Tag list: @dailythotdotcom @baddiesgetsaddies97 @foggyturtleknightangel (thank you guys for the request had sm fun making these!)
synopsis: valarr 'golden boy' targaryen got 'notice me 🥺' eyes
a/n: this is crack
modern! valarr who was born into generational wealth since his family was one of the ruling class families of Westeros since its founding
modern! valarr who’s entire lifestyle screams 'quiet luxury,' except it's not quiet at all — the disparity and elegance of it all so blinding it’s damn near blinding
modern! valarr who was born with all eyes on him as the prime minister's eldest son, and who wore the attention like a second skin because he understood the importance of representing his family name and refused to be compared to his less favorable cousins
modern! valarr who unironically planned the first twenty-five years of his life when he was four
Blackwater School for primary years 1-6 (Age: 5-11)
Crownlands Preparatory for secondary years 7-11 (Age: 12-16) and stay for sixth form (Age: 16-18)
Kings Landing College entering with joint Honors in Political Science and Economics (Ages: 18-22)
Enter the political landscape by working his way up in politics under his father as a parliamentary assistant
modern! valarr who is now entering his third year- life going well because he set up the perfect balance in creating a solid academic profile with an equally proactive social life filled with fundraisers he planned as head of the Small Council
modern! valarr who is adored and admired by teachers, students, and even the custodial staff - not because of his name, but because he genuinely works hard to earn his achievements
modern! valarr who never thought he'd live through life, surprised by anything, because whatever life threw at him, he knew he would have a plan
-
-
-
But then, you came into his life when you sat next to him at that 8 am lecture, head down, phone out with the Shop application open before closing it when the professor came in
modern! valarr who politely said 'hello,' and you turned your head with a bored -
how are you bored? was there something in his teeth? did his cologne smell off? it was Tom Ford
- and only nodded your head with a tight, polite grin before promptly turning back and never turned to look at him again as you began to take notes on the syllabus
modern! valarr who, by all means of reason, had no business to be as bothered by this act as he was
-
-
And before he knew it, his very carefully drawn, meticulously laid out twenty-five-year life plan went to shit
modern! valarr who, for whatever reason, needed you to notice him, and proceeded to drive himself and everyone around him mad
modern! valarr who was convinced that he was coming under some rare neurological disease, a disease that made him lose reason and become obsessed with the pretty girl
did he say 'pretty?' no, he didn't mean that sort of 'pretty,' kiera, don't be ridiculous - he obviously was speaking objectively, because her being pretty was a completely unbiased fact, and nothing at all to do with how giddy she got looking at stickers from one of those japanese stationary sites. or that her perfume reminded him of his mother's garden after a gentle summer shower. or that looking at her made him think of his favorite quiet corner of his family's estate 'summerhall' where he and his family went during holiday. say, you don't suppose she'd like to come, right? they have horses, do you think she likes horses, kiera? he could invite her to watch the summer polo match - wait, no, kiera, why are you walking away? this is important - we're strategizing!
modern! valarr who tried everything he could think of to get to know you - study sessions? party invites? quick cup of coffee to discuss today's lecture? all met with the same tight, polite smile and quick decline before you headed off to your next class
modern! valarr who's next hour is ruined with each decline because why won't you just freaking talk to him???
modern! valarr who, before he even realized, already finished his last final before the start of the summer holiday, and he wasn't any closer to getting to know you!
"yea, i don't think she's into you, bro," kiera flatly stated before taking a long sip of her usual coffee order. iced matcha latte with 2 pumps of vanilla syrup, strawberry puree at the bottom, and strawberry cold foam on top. the light pink matched the same pastel shade of her hair. "or maybe she thinks you're gay."
it was definitely not because you thought he was gay. no way. he refused to entertain that tought.
"did you think adding that last part would make me feel better?" valarr glared at his friend, who snickered into her latte. "or because you find my pain amusing?"
"why not both?"
valarr grumbled into his cup. black coffee. medium roast. "you're no help."
kiera's eyes softened, "oh, cheer up, mate," she patted his hand. her bespoke Tiffany's bracelet softly clicking like tiny wind chimes. "you've been obsessing over this girl all term - just focus on spending time with your family over the holiday, okay? your cousin daeron's bringing over a girl, right?"
when valarr nodded, kiera squealed at the news. the upbeat arts and humanities girl absolutely beamed when given any new gossip.
and anything regarding the ancient noble Targaryen name was like catnip.
"is it a girlfriend? a fling? is she staying the whole summer?"
"just for a few days," valarr corrected, a bit of the tension slowly leaving. "and she's not his girlfriend - at least, i don't think so. daeron calls her his 'sober sponsor.' either way whoever they are, uncle likes them enough."
"so just focus on that! or get a fling while you're home! it's not like any of this," she gestured to all of him, "can get much sadder."
"fuck off."
"oh, there's daeron! daeron!" kiera called his cousin over, who glanced up from his sketchbook before walking over. valarr was very pleased to see his older cousin looking clean and not smelling of cheap ale and weed.
"miss tyroshi, baby cousin," daeron nodded to the both of them. "what can i do you for?"
"we-"
"just her," valarr interrupted, promptly taking a sip of his coffee while ignoring the indignant glare of his friend across him.
"fine, i want to see your girlfriend's instagram."
daeron sighed and shot a glare at his younger cousin, one containing no real heat and more of amusement. "you and your fat mouth, eh vallie?"
"do not call me that."
"and she's not my girlfriend, just a friend," daeron clarified as he scrolled down his instagram page. "although, whether she still decides to keep me after spending a few days around aerion's company will be another matter entirely - ah! here we go."
when he showed the pair his friend's page, valarr made the mistake of taking another sip of his drink - because as soon as he saw daeron's sponsor's face, he spat it out. effectively spraying both kiera and his cousin with the dark liquid before he made a desperate grab at the device before daeron could pull back the screen.
he took in each detail. the shape of her brow. the curve of her smile. the gleam in her eyes. valarr didn't know if he wanted to scream or cry.
Pairing: Prince Valarr (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her)
Prince Aerion (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her)
Duncan x Reader (PLATONIC)
Word Count: ~10k+
POV: Reader-Insert (Third Person, She/Her)
Setting: Modern AU | University Campus | Corporate Heiress/Heir World
Summary:
Part 2 of You Were Never the Problem.
Valarr chose what made sense.
Duncan refuses to let her fall apart.
And somehow, Aerion Targaryen quietly steps into the space no one expected him to fill.
Rating: Mature (18+)
Warnings:
Reader addressed as “she” | Pregnancy Angst | Class Difference | Filthy Rich Heir Energy | Poor Scholarship Student Reader | Secret Relationship | Emotional Breakup | Swearing | Legacy / Family Pressure | Unplanned Pregnancy | Hurt / Comfort | Aerion getting his life together | Ride-or-die best friend Duncan | Protective Aerion | Reader has mother and younger brother | Valarr making choices that made sense | Not Polyamory | Not a Threesome | Open-ended ending | Angst and complicated feelings | Duncan being the best friend everyone deserves
In the quiet corner of the campus library, a young man sat cross-legged on the floor. Finals season was creeping closer, and every proper seat in the building had long since been claimed. Tables were crowded with study groups whispering over laptops and textbooks, people talking about how much they needed to study while doing very little actual studying. The air buzzed with low conversation, the rustle of notebook pages, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
For him, the noise only made his mind feel more chaotic.
The only place that ever gave him some relief was the third-floor corner where the classical studies reference books were kept. Hardly anyone came up here this time of year. Engineering students had no reason to wander through shelves of dusty philosophy volumes and ancient language dictionaries. The section was quiet, the traffic nearly nonexistent.
So, he had claimed the space.
He had saved one of the nearby study desks, too. A backpack sat in the chair, waiting for someone.
Spread around him on the floor were open textbooks, loose papers, and a notepad balanced against one knee. He leaned forward, studying a page filled with instructions while sketching carefully onto the paper in his lap. Even from a distance, it was clear the drawing was technical. Tight geometric patterns filled the page, lines intersecting in exact angles. Some sections were shaded; others were completely blocked out. The lines were so consistent and deliberate that the pressure of the ballpoint pen had pressed through the paper and into the pad beneath it, leaving faint channels that curled the edges of the page.
Someone who did not know him might have assumed he was simply focused. But she knew him better than that. And she knew that meant he was frustrated.
It had been a week since she and Valarr broke up, and the world had not paused for it.
She still had thermodynamics at nine in the morning.
She still had a lab report due.
She still had to walk across the same campus where she used to wait outside buildings for Valarr to pick her up.
Nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
But one thing remained constant.
The first friend she had made in her first year.
Duncan.
He was surrounded by textbooks and papers scattered across the floor near the desk he had saved for her. His long legs were folded awkwardly beneath him, and he was hunched over the notebook when she approached.
He looked up the moment he heard her greeting.
He was halfway through a mouthful of trail mix.
Bless his soul, and bless their friendship, because the first thing out of his mouth probably would have earned him a glare and a very creative string of curses from anyone else.
She dropped her backpack onto the desk with a soft thud.
Duncan chewed, swallowed, then said bluntly, "You look like shit."
She let out a weak snort.
"Good morning to you, too."
He squinted at her, tilting his head slightly as he studied her face.
"…Did you get a mark back and it wasn't what you thought it would be?"
She did not answer.
Duncan exhaled slowly through his nose.
He pushed himself up from the floor, brushing his hands off as he gathered the scattered papers and stacked them onto the desk. The motion was absentminded, automatic, but his attention stayed fixed on her.
"So…?" he asked, blue eyes dropping to meet hers. "He really dumped you?"
For a moment, tears threatened to spill over.
She forced them back.
She had already made a promise to herself.
She could not cry right now.
Because when she cried, she got tension headaches. When she got those headaches, she got absolutely nothing done. And she had already spent the last few days doing a whole lot of nothing because of that little fuck.
She rubbed her nose and looked down at the table.
"Yeah."
Her voice came out quieter than she expected.
"I meant to call you the day it happened, but I really couldn't. I just… somehow my dumbass ended up sending that text instead. I didn't even know how to process that fuck up."
Duncan's mouth opened.
Then closed.
He clearly did not know what to say.
He remembered the text.
It had come out of nowhere.
So I'm single.
At first, he had thought it was a joke.
was the kind of thing she joked about with Valarr all the time.
She would lean over dramatically and say something ridiculous like, "Babe, can we break up quick? I need to listen to some sad music and feel the vibes." And Valarr, who had always played along with her nonsense, would grin and reply, "Sure. But when we get back together, I get to pick the next TV series we watch, and we're going to that café I like."
It had always been harmless. Stupid. Funny.
Duncan had never once thought it was real. Because as far as anyone knew, she and Valarr were solid. Or at least… that was what everyone thought. But screw that "water under the bridge" nonsense. Not when Duncan could see exactly how much she was hurting.
He watched her for a moment longer, jaw tightening slightly. Then he shrugged and said simply, "Alright." A beat passed.
Then he added, "Fuck that guy."
She laughed once.
The sound was hollow.
"It's not that simple."
"It actually is," Duncan said immediately. "You don't dump someone because they're not 'convenient.' That's corporate-speak for coward. Or what do they call it now… waste man?"
She winced.
The reaction was instant, and Duncan softened just as quickly.
"Okay. Too harsh? Too childish?" he said with a slight shrug, like he was honestly trying to figure out the right word for it. He reached over to the desk, grabbed his apple, and took another bite.
She shook her head faintly.
"No," she whispered. "Not harsh… childish, yeah. But appropriate."
Duncan studied her again.
Now that she was closer, the exhaustion was obvious. The faint shadows under her eyes. The way her shoulders seemed to sink inward, like she was carrying something heavy that no one else could see.
"You're pale," he said.
She hesitated.
Her fingers curled loosely against the edge of the desk.
And then, because this was Duncan, because he had been there for every 3 a.m. breakdown and every midterm panic and every phone call she had taken pacing the hallway outside their dorm rooms, she told him.
"I'm pregnant."
The words left her mouth quietly, but they landed between them with a weight that settled over the small study corner like something physical.
Duncan blinked.
Once.
Then again.
For a moment, he simply looked at her, the information clearly moving through his mind as he tried to process it. There was no immediate reaction, no sudden burst of panic or judgment. Just the slow, careful way his brain worked through something unexpected.
He reached out and pulled the chair he had saved for her slightly away from the desk, then lowered himself into it slowly, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward.
"…Okay."
The word came out calm and steady. His tone held none of the shock she had been bracing herself for. He was thinking, processing.
"Is it his?"
She nodded.
Silence settled over the little corner of the library they had claimed for themselves. Somewhere farther down the hall, a group of students laughed quietly at something whispered between them. A chair scraped softly across the floor. The faint rustle of turning pages and low conversation drifted through the air, but the space around the two of them felt strangely still.
Duncan leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly as he gathered his thoughts.
"Alright," he said after a moment. "Alright. So."
She stared at him.
"So?"
"So what are we doing?"
Her throat tightened at the word he used.
"We?" she asked softly.
Despite everything pressing down on her chest, a weak smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The simple way he had said it made something warm flicker faintly through the tangled mess of fear and exhaustion she had been carrying all week.
Duncan lifted one hand and gestured casually between the two of them.
"Yeah. We."
She let out a small breath she had not realized she had been holding. The fragile smile stayed on her face, faint but discernible.
"I don't know yet," she admitted. Her voice still sounded thin, but there was a small thread of strength in it now.
"Okay," Duncan said immediately. "That's fine. We don't know yet."
He reached across the desk and pointed at the open textbook sitting beside her.
"But we do know you've got circuits in an hour."
A broken laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
"You're unbelievable."
"I'm serious." Duncan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk as he spoke. "We're not letting you spiral and fail a semester because some rich legacy idiot decided you didn't 'fit.' Whatever the hell that means."
She pressed her lips together, the sting in her eyes growing stronger as the reality of everything pressed against her chest again.
Duncan noticed immediately.
His voice softened when he spoke next.
"Are you keeping it?"
She hesitated for only a moment before answering.
"I think so."
"Okay."
Duncan nodded once, the response simple and certain, as if the answer did not change anything about the way he had already decided to handle the situation. He leaned back slightly in his chair, studying her for a moment, his expression tightening in quiet frustration as the reality of what Valarr had walked away from seemed to fully register.
"…You did a lot for him, you know."
She frowned faintly, unsure where he was going with that.
"You cooked for him," Duncan continued, counting off on his fingers. "You stayed up till three in the morning helping him rewrite those stupid emails he kept stressing about. You sat through all those boring networking dinners and learned which fork to use and what glass was for what because apparently rich people care about that shit."
She almost smiled at that.
"That's not the point."
"It absolutely is the point," Duncan said firmly. "You bent over backwards for that guy. You supported him through everything. School stress, family crap, all of it."
He shook his head slowly, clearly unimpressed.
"If a man's got a good woman and he walks away from her, that's not strategy," he said. "That's stupidity."
His jaw tightened slightly as the thought settled in.
"And the fact that he left you like this?" Duncan added, gesturing vaguely toward her stomach before catching himself. "That's not just stupid. That's unforgivable."
She spoke quietly.
"He doesn't know."
Duncan blinked.
The anger in his face paused mid-stride, like a train suddenly hitting the brakes.
"Oh."
The single word came out softer than anything he had said so far.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, and his expression shifted into something almost sheepish, the kind of look someone makes when they realize they may have been running a few steps ahead of the situation.
"Oh," he repeated, this time with a small breath of realization, his mouth tilting in a faint oh damn sort of expression as the pieces rearranged themselves in his head.
"…Well."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"That does… slightly change the order of operations."
Duncan, ever himself, didn't let that deter him. He simply nodded. There was no interrogation, no immediate rush of questions, no sharp inhale of panic that might have made her regret saying the words out loud. He accepted it the same way he accepted most difficult things: by meeting it head-on and treating the problem as something that could be worked through step by step.
"Then we figure it out."
He cracked his knuckles as he spoke, the familiar sound sharp in the quiet corner of the library. It was the same gesture he made when he was about to start building something in the engineering lab or when he had finally figured out how to solve a particularly stubborn problem set. The motion carried the same quiet determination now.
"You need rides? I've got you. Just cover gas if you can. You need someone to sit in appointments? I'll sit. You need someone to punch him in the throat?" He tilted his head slightly as if considering the logistics. "I can probably manage two punches, but I don't know if I can circumvent the lawsuit that'll follow for assault and the criminal record. But for you, it would be a good cause. I'm lucky my old man isn't here anymore to give me a good clout in the ear."
Despite the tightness in her chest, she let out a shaky laugh. The sound broke through the heaviness sitting on her shoulders and came out tangled with the tears threatening to spill over.
"Duncan."
"I'm kidding," he said, lifting a hand in mock surrender.
A brief pause passed between them before he added, with a faint shrug,
"Mostly."
He leaned forward across the table now, resting his forearms against the worn wood surface. The joking edge faded from his expression as his voice lowered, steady and confident in a way that made the chaos in her head quiet for a moment.
"You are not alone in this. I don't care who he is. I don't care what his last name is. You're not doing this alone."
The words settled somewhere deep in her chest. For the first time since everything had fallen apart, she felt the fragile outline of something that almost resembled stability.
Her voice still trembled when she answered him.
"He said he wanted more than what we had."
Duncan's reaction was immediate and dramatic. He leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes so hard it bordered on theatrical, clearly unimpressed by the explanation.
"Translation," he said dryly, "he wanted something easier."
She blinked at him, her brows pulling together slightly as she processed what he meant.
"He wanted a version of you that didn't come with reality."
The statement struck deeper than she expected. It settled somewhere painful but honest, forcing her to confront something she had been trying not to think about all week. The quiet certainty in Duncan's voice made it harder to dismiss.
When he saw the shift in her expression, the tightness around her eyes and the way she looked down at the desk, his demeanour softened again.
"Hey."
She looked up.
"You're still you," he said gently. "Smartest person I know. Stubborn as hell. Absolutely terrifying when you're sleep deprived."
A faint smile tugged at her lips despite everything. It was small, fragile, but real enough to break through the heaviness that had been weighing on her all morning.
"If he couldn't handle that," Duncan continued with a shrug, "then that's his loss."
She swallowed, her fingers curling lightly around the edge of her textbook as the doubt she had been trying to ignore slipped out before she could stop it.
"And if I can't handle it?"
Duncan did not hesitate. His response came immediately, without even the slightest flicker of uncertainty.
"Then I'll handle it with you."
The quiet certainty in his voice left no room for doubt. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, as if the possibility of her facing this alone had never even crossed his mind. That was simply not how things worked between them. Not after four years of shared deadlines, sleepless study sessions, and the kind of friendship built from surviving first-year engineering together.
Before she could say anything else, Duncan stood up from his chair and stepped around the corner of the desk. He pulled her into a hug without hesitation, one large arm wrapping around her shoulders while the other hand moved slowly up and down her back in a steady, grounding motion. The embrace was warm, firm, and completely unselfconscious, the kind of hug that said more than any speech could.
For a moment, she let herself lean into it. The tension that had been sitting between her shoulder blades for days loosened just slightly as he continued to rub her back in slow circles.
After a few seconds, Duncan spoke again, his voice muffled slightly by her hair.
"Your mum is gonna freak the fuck out."
She pulled back just enough to punch him in the arm.
"Duncan."
He winced dramatically, clutching the spot she had hit as if she had actually done serious damage.
"Hey, I'm just saying," he said defensively, rubbing his arm. "That's a realistic concern."
Her phone is still in her hand, the message thread open on the screen. Earlier that morning, she had sent him her address after he offered to pick her up. The rain outside had been coming down steadily for hours, the kind that made sidewalks slick and slowed the whole city. The buses were already delayed, and the walk to campus would have meant arriving completely soaked.
He had offered to pick her up without hesitation.
She had accepted before she could overthink it.
Now she was very much overthinking it.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
I don't think I can make it.
She stared at the sentence for a moment.
Then deleted it.
Rain check?
Delete.
Her chest felt tight, nerves twisting somewhere between her stomach and her throat. This whole situation suddenly felt strange and fragile, like one wrong message might somehow break whatever tentative thing had started between them.
Before she could type anything else, there was a knock at the door.
She froze.
Another knock followed, steady and patient.
Slowly, she walked over and opened it.
And there he was.
Aerion stood in the hallway as if he had simply stepped out for a short walk instead of driving across the city through the rain. His hands rested casually in the pockets of a dark wool coat that fit him perfectly, the clean lines giving him an effortless, composed look. Beneath it, he wore a fitted charcoal sweater and dark trousers, simple but put together in a way that somehow made it look expensive without trying.
His pale hair was slightly damp from the rain outside, white-blond strands falling loosely across his forehead. It framed a face that was almost unfairly handsome, sharp features softened by the relaxed expression he wore. When he looked up, his eyes caught the light immediately. Piercing blue, bright and steady, the kind of gaze that made it difficult to look away once it settled on you.
For a moment, she simply stared.
Aerion tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"Sorry," he said easily. "Took a bit of time. Couldn't find proper parking."
She nodded, already knowing exactly what he meant. The small side street outside her building was technically meant for short-term parking, but that rule rarely stopped her neighbours or their visitors. Cars were often squeezed along the curb overnight anyway, leaving just enough space for people willing to risk a ticket.
Aerion did not comment on the faint exhaustion beneath her eyes. He did not mention the fact that she had barely worn any makeup at all.
That alone set him apart from most of the women he had dated in the past. They usually arrived impeccably dressed, polished and glamorous, as if the evening were a performance meant to impress. There had never been anything wrong with that, but this was different.
She looked comfortable.
And honestly, he preferred it.
He had told her it would be casual anyway.
She wore a tiered navy linen maxi skirt that brushed her ankles as she moved. The dark fabric was simple but elegant, paired with a scoop-neck tank that fit loosely against her frame. Over it, she wore a soft white crewneck cardigan, the sleeves pushed slightly up her forearms. On her feet were a pair of New Balance sneakers that looked new, practical rather than fashionable.
It was effortless.
Real.
And somehow it suited her more than anything overly styled ever could.
At dinner, he ordered a beer.
She ordered water.
He noticed.
He noticed a lot of things.
He noticed that she barely touched her food. He noticed that the dish she ordered was the cheapest thing on the menu that would still fill someone up without completely emptying their wallet. He noticed the way her gaze drifted toward the window every few minutes, like she was bracing herself for something she could not quite name.
But he said nothing.
The conversation continued easily between them, and it quickly became one of the most decent conversations he had had with a woman his age in a long time.
She was not overly flirty. She was not trying to rush the evening toward some obvious destination. There was no subtle push to leave early and find somewhere private.
Instead, she asked about him.
About his job.
His interests.
What shows had he watched recently?
At one point, she mentioned a book she was currently reading, her voice warming with enthusiasm as she explained how invested she was in the story.
"Everyone in it is technically a good person," she said, leaning slightly forward as she spoke. "But they're all just… incredibly messy for some reason."
That made him laugh.
She went on, describing the characters as people she understood on some level, but also the kind of people she would absolutely sit down in real life and tell to get their shit together.
Aerion smiled despite himself.
Quietly, he made a mental note of the book and the shows she mentioned. Something to look into later. Something he could bring up the next time they spoke.
In return, he asked about her studies.
How were her classes going.
What she did when she was not buried in coursework.
She told him about the students she tutored and the challenges they faced, explaining the small strategies she used to help them understand difficult material. She spoke about them with patience and care, the kind that came naturally to someone who genuinely wanted to see other people succeed.
He mentioned, almost casually, that he had three brothers and two sisters. When the subject briefly drifted toward his parents, she noticed the hesitation in his voice and had the quiet kindness not to push.
The conversation never turned toward the usual things he had grown used to hearing.
There were no questions about how much money he made.
No speculation about future vacations or investments or the kind of life he could provide.
It was simply a conversation.
Real conversation.
The kind meant for the soul rather than the ego.
At least, that was how it felt to Aerion.
No one had cared to know him like that in a long time.
When the evening ended, he walked her back toward the car, the rain outside now reduced to a soft drizzle that reflected faintly off the streetlights. They lingered for a moment beside the vehicle, still talking easily as if neither of them was quite ready for the evening to end. A camera flash flickers from across the street.
Quick. Subtle.
Most people would have missed it.
Aerion doesn't look directly toward it. Years of experience have trained him not to. Instead, he shifts his position almost instinctively, his hand settling lightly at the small of her back as he guides her a step forward, so she is slightly ahead of him.
If someone manages to get a photo, his face will be in the frame.
Not hers.
He has learned.
They continue down the sidewalk, passing the mouth of a narrow alley tucked between two buildings. The air smells faintly of damp pavement and restaurant kitchens cooling for the night.
She stops suddenly.
Her breath catches.
For a split second, Aerion thinks she might say something.
Instead, she turns sharply toward the alley and throws up.
It is messy. Sudden. Completely mortifying.
The sound echoes faintly off the brick walls as she braces a hand against the rough surface, shoulders shaking with the force of it.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers hoarsely, barely able to get the words out. "I'm so—"
He is already behind her.
One of his hands gently gathers her hair, pulling it away from her face without hesitation. The other settles against the center of her back, rubbing slow, steady circles along her spine in a calm, grounding rhythm.
"Alright," he murmurs lightly, his voice low and easy. "Either I'm that overwhelming, or we're blaming the seafood."
A weak laugh slips out of her despite everything.
Embarrassment burns hot in her chest, but his tone never changes.
They sit in his car with the engine off, the quiet hum of the city pressing softly against the windows. Streetlights spill faint streaks of gold and red across the windshield, bleeding together whenever a car passes through the intersection nearby. The air inside the car feels strangely still, as if the night outside has slowed just enough for the moment to hang there between them.
She does not mean to say it.
The words slip out before she can stop them.
"I'm pregnant."
The silence that follows is not explosive. There is no sharp inhale, no immediate reaction that shatters the quiet.
There is only stillness.
Aerion's jaw tightens once, the movement subtle but noticeable in the dim light. He draws in a slow breath through his nose, steadying himself before he responds.
"Okay."
She turns her head toward him, confusion flickering across her face at how calm he sounds.
That's it?
But then he turns toward her fully, shifting in his seat so his attention settles entirely on her.
"Are you okay?"
That question cracks something open inside her.
It is so simple it almost hurts.
She shrugs, though the motion feels small and unconvincing even to herself.
"He wanted more than what we had," she says quietly.
The words sound distant, as if she is repeating something she has already said too many times in her own head.
"He said I didn't fit."
Her hands twist together loosely in her lap, fingers curling and uncurling against each other.
"He chose what made sense."
She stares forward through the windshield again, her gaze unfocused as the blurred glow of traffic lights washes across the glass in soft streaks of red and amber.
"What was I supposed to do? Hold him back?"
Aerion leans back slightly in his seat, his gaze drifting toward the windshield as the question settles between them. The glow of the city lights reflects faintly across the glass, casting shifting bands of red and gold across his face. For a moment, he seems thoughtful, weighing his words carefully before he speaks.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I guess I know what it feels like. Pressure like that. Family expectations. Staying in line."
He exhales slowly, the sound barely audible in the stillness of the car.
"I wouldn't blame the guy for feeling trapped by it," he continues after a moment. "But choosing what makes sense doesn't make it hurt less. And it's still shitty."
He does not realize that, in some ways, he is speaking about his own blood.
And she does not realize it either.
Aerion shifts slightly in his seat before continuing, his voice steady but careful now.
"I took my mother's name after she died. I cut ties with most of them. I used to be… a headline. The embarrassment. The one riding coattails without earning anything."
The words come out matter-of-factly, but there is something heavier beneath them, the quiet weight of old history he rarely shares with anyone.
"But I got my shit together," he says simply.
He had built something different for himself. Something that did not rely on politics, succession, or inheritance. Something that belonged to him alone.
Aerion turns toward her again, his attention settling fully on her face.
"I really like you."
The words are steady. There is no dramatic flourish behind them, no grand speech meant to impress.
"I like that you don't care what I have to offer in terms of money or legacy or what fork I'm supposed to use. I like that you argue with me. I like that you don't flinch when I get quiet."
He swallows once before finishing the thought.
"And I want to try."
There is no promise that he will fix everything. No suggestion that he intends to rescue her from the situation she finds herself in. He does not frame it as a sacrifice or a heroic gesture.
He simply asks, gently and honestly, "Can we try?"
She studies his face, searching it carefully as if trying to understand something deeper than the words themselves.
"Why?" she asks.
Aerion answers without hesitation.
"Because you look at me like I'm a person," he says. "Not a dynasty."
At a fundraiser a few weeks later, the room is full of the usual crowd. Polished marble floors, soft classical music drifting somewhere near the stage, and clusters of well-dressed people speaking in careful, practiced voices about investments, foundations, and future influence. It is the kind of room Aerion has spent most of his life walking through, though he rarely enjoys it.
A man who clearly believes himself important edges closer during one of the quieter moments of the evening. The sort who thinks proximity to a Targaryen means something might rub off on him. His smile is a little too eager, his tone overly familiar.
He mentions a photograph that had circulated quietly online earlier that week. Nothing dramatic. Just a grainy shot taken from across the street. Her shadow beside Aerion's car, his arm loosely around her waist while they stood talking.
The man lifts his glass slightly as he speaks.
"So," he says casually, "who is she?"
Aerion takes a slow sip of his drink before answering. He does not rush the response, nor does he offer the man the satisfaction of visible irritation.
When he finally sets the glass down, his voice remains calm.
Late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of the campus building, painting pale rectangles across the polished floor. The Automotive Research, Development, and Innovation building, known to most students simply as the ACE building, was quieter than the rest of campus at that hour. It was one of the newer engineering facilities, with all-glass walls, steel railings, and wide-open lab spaces filled with equipment that most students never even saw. Access was restricted to upper-level engineering students, which meant every entrance required a scan card and the hallways were usually populated by the same small group of overworked people who practically lived there.
They had just finished a lab.
Instead of heading home immediately, she and Duncan had claimed one of the tables in the open study area near the lab corridor so they could finish a few last-minute calculations before leaving. The space was scattered with the usual evidence of an engineering work session. Textbooks lay open across the table, pages folded and marked with sticky notes. Circuit diagrams covered several sheets of paper, some neatly labelled and others filled with messy corrections where they had recalculated something halfway through.
It was the kind of half-organized chaos that made perfect sense to the two of them.
They had migrated to a table this time instead of their usual arrangement in the library, where Duncan ended up on the floor, and she claimed the desk. Now they sat across from each other, surrounded by notebooks, cables, and the remains of whatever snacks Duncan had pulled from his backpack.
Duncan was currently in the middle of explaining something with intense focus, using three pens and a crumpled granola bar wrapper as makeshift visual aids.
"No, see, the problem isn't the resistor," he said, sliding one pen across the table like it was a moving component in a system. "It's the current distribution here. If this branch pulls more than expected, everything downstream—"
He stopped mid-sentence when a shadow fell across the table.
A familiar voice spoke from just beside them.
"Hey."
She looked up.
Aerion stood there, his hands casually resting in the pockets of his coat, his posture relaxed as if he had simply wandered into the building without a second thought. He looked completely at ease in the middle of a restricted engineering facility he clearly did not belong to, calm in a way that suggested he was used to walking into unfamiliar spaces and not being questioned about it.
Duncan blinked up at him.
"…Who the hell are you?"
Aerion glanced down at him, his expression mild.
"Aerion."
Duncan stared.
"…Just Aerion?"
"Yep."
Duncan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he looked him up and down with open suspicion.
"You sound like a Bond villain."
Aerion let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.
"Not the worst comparison I've heard."
Across the table, she rubbed her temples, already feeling the beginnings of a headache.
"Duncan."
"What?" he said immediately, lifting his hands defensively. "I'm doing my job."
Aerion tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering across his face.
That alone earned him a small point in Duncan's book.
Aerion's attention shifted back to her, his expression softening slightly as he took in the faint shadows beneath her eyes and the way her shoulders had begun to slump with exhaustion.
"You look tired."
She sighed and leaned back in her chair, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Circuits."
Aerion glanced down at the notebook spread open across the table. The page was filled with equations, nodes sketched in careful pencil lines, and several frustrated corrections where something clearly wasn't working the way it should.
He pulled out the empty chair across from her and sat down without hesitation.
Duncan watched him carefully.
There was something about the ease with which this guy had walked into their workspace that made Duncan immediately suspicious. Most people who wandered into the ACE building either looked lost or intimidated by the equipment and diagrams scattered everywhere.
Aerion looked neither.
He studied the page for a moment, his gaze moving across the circuit diagram as if he were mentally stepping through the system one connection at a time.
"…Your grounding is wrong."
She blinked.
"What?"
Aerion reached over and turned the notebook slightly so the diagram faced him more clearly.
"If this node is floating," he said calmly, tapping the page with the tip of the pen, "your entire equation collapses."
He picked up her pen and made one small adjustment to the diagram, drawing a short line that connected the node to ground.
Suddenly, everything clicked.
The mistake that had been hiding in the equation all afternoon revealed itself immediately.
Her eyes widened.
"…Oh."
Duncan leaned forward across the table to look at the page.
He stared at the correction for a second.
Then another.
"…Well, shit."
Aerion handed the pen back as if nothing particularly significant had happened.
Duncan did not look convinced.
He narrowed his eyes slightly and studied the man sitting across from them, leaning forward a bit in his chair as if he were trying to solve a completely different kind of problem now.
"Alright," he said slowly, dragging the word out as he continued to stare. "You're suspiciously competent."
Aerion gave a small shrug, the movement relaxed.
"Electrical engineering."
Duncan froze.
"…Wait."
His head turned toward her.
Then back toward Aerion.
Then back to her again.
"…You met another engineer?"
Aerion leaned back slightly in the chair, looking entirely comfortable surrounded by textbooks, circuit diagrams, and the quiet chaos of the engineering study table.
"I don't study here," he said.
Duncan squinted harder.
"Then how the hell do you know this stuff?"
Aerion tapped the notebook lightly with the end of the pen before sliding it back toward her.
"I build things for a living."
Duncan stared at him for a moment, clearly unconvinced.
"What does that mean?"
"I run a hardware investment firm," Aerion said simply. "Mostly embedded systems and control hardware. We fund a few research labs here and recruit interns out of the engineering program."
Duncan blinked slowly as the information settled in.
"…So you're like… the guy who shows up and steals all the smart students?"
A faint smirk pulled at the corner of Aerion's mouth.
"Something like that."
Across the table, she frowned slightly, trying to piece together something that did not quite add up.
"I thought you said you never studied electrical engineering."
Aerion nodded easily.
"I didn't. Not here."
"Why?"
He gave a slight shrug, as if the answer were obvious.
"My family bankrolls half the buildings on this campus. Felt weird enrolling."
Duncan leaned back slowly in his chair, the realization dawning across his face.
"…Oh."
A brief pause stretched between them while he processed that.
Then his eyes widened slightly.
"…Oh, you're rich, rich."
Aerion winced faintly, clearly not thrilled with the description.
"Unfortunately."
Duncan lifted a finger and pointed directly at him across the table.
"I'm watching you."
Aerion nodded once in acknowledgment.
"Fair."
Aerion's gaze drifted back to her as they talked, and after a moment, he noticed the same thing he had seen before. She was quiet in a way that was not just tired. There was a faint hollowness there, the kind that usually meant someone had skipped more than one meal while buried in coursework.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Have you eaten today?"
She hesitated.
Duncan answered immediately.
"No."
Aerion let out a quiet sigh as he pushed his chair back from the table. Without making a big deal of it, he reached for her bag and slung it over his shoulder before picking up her coat from the back of the chair. He held it open for her, helping her slip it on, then extended his hand toward her in a simple, wordless offer.
"Come on."
Duncan squinted at him suspiciously.
"…Where?"
"Food."
Duncan paused, clearly considering the offer very carefully.
It was not a formal introduction. It happened the way most real introductions did, by accident.
They were sitting together in her small apartment one evening while she was on a video call with her family. The laptop rested on the kitchen table, angled toward her while she spoke. The warm glow of the screen lit the room softly while rain tapped quietly against the window behind them.
Aerion sat nearby with a mug of coffee in his hands, half listening while he answered a few emails on his phone. He tried to stay out of frame out of habit. Family calls felt personal, and he did not want to intrude unless she asked him to.
Her mother's voice drifted through the speakers, warm and curious as they talked about school and everyday life.
At one point, someone moved behind her on the screen.
A young man quickly passed through the background, clearly not intending to join the conversation. He glanced briefly toward the camera before continuing toward the hallway.
Aerion noticed the resemblance immediately.
He lifted a hand in a small wave.
The boy froze mid-step.
For a second, the two of them simply looked at each other through the screen. The younger man clearly realized he had been caught on camera and looked deeply unimpressed by the situation.
Aerion gave him a polite nod.
"Hey."
The response he got was little more than a shrug and a muttered greeting before the boy continued walking out of view as quickly as possible.
Aerion could not miss the message.
The kid was not particularly interested in talking to him.
Her mother, on the other hand, leaned a little closer toward the screen when she noticed him sitting beside her daughter.
"Oh," she said, her tone shifting with sudden curiosity. "Hello there."
Aerion straightened slightly and offered a small, respectful smile.
"Hi."
Her mother studied him for a moment with the careful attention of someone trying to understand exactly who they were dealing with. She had been told enough about her daughter's last relationship to approach this one cautiously.
"How are you?" she asked. "Are you eating alright?"
Aerion blinked once, caught slightly off guard by the question, before he answered politely.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm doing alright."
She nodded slowly, still watching him in that quiet, measuring way mothers had.
"And how are you two doing?" she asked.
Aerion glanced toward her for a moment before answering, his tone steady and sincere.
"We're doing well."
Her mother did not look entirely convinced yet, but she softened slightly at the answer. The caution remained, though it was no longer sharp.
That was fair.
She knew how the last relationship had ended. Her daughter had been honest with them about the breakup and the way things had fallen apart.
From a parent's perspective, a little caution made sense.
Aerion understood that.
He also understood why, more often than not, he ended up at her apartment instead of bringing her back to his own place.
His penthouse was large, polished, and, most nights, painfully quiet. It was the kind of space designed to impress guests and host events, but when he was alone in it, the rooms felt hollow.
Being here was different.
Her apartment was small and lived in. Books stacked on the coffee table, notes and textbooks scattered across the desk, the faint smell of coffee and whatever she had cooked earlier still lingering in the air.
It felt like a place someone actually lived.
And lately he found himself preferring it.
Somehow, the enormous penthouse he owned across the city had started to feel lonelier than it ever had before, almost wasteful in its empty space when he could instead be sitting here beside her.
Six months in, Aerion was sitting on the floor of her apartment assembling a crib.
The living room had slowly transformed over the past few weeks. What had once been a small student apartment filled with textbooks, loose papers, and half-finished engineering projects now held neatly stacked boxes of baby supplies along one wall. A folded blanket rested on the couch, and a small bag of tools lay open beside him on the carpet.
Aerion sat cross-legged on the floor with the instruction manual spread out in front of him. His sleeves were pushed up to his forearms, revealing strong hands that held a screwdriver with steady precision. He worked carefully, tightening one of the final screws into the wooden frame, making sure each piece aligned exactly the way it was supposed to.
From the kitchen, her voice carried through the apartment.
"Aerion, do you want garlic fried rice or just plain basmati with dinner?"
The sound drifted easily through the small space, warm and unguarded. She was also on the phone with someone, most likely Duncan, judging by the way her voice shifted between amused exasperation and quiet laughter while she waited for his answer.
Aerion smiled faintly to himself as he adjusted another bolt.
"Garlic fried rice," he called back toward the kitchen.
His phone rang.
The screen lit up on the floor beside him.
Maekar.
Aerion paused for a moment before answering.
"Yes?"
On the other end of the line, Maekar heard something that made him hesitate. Her voice carried faintly through the background of the call, just loud enough to register. It made him momentarily forget the reason he had called in the first place, which had been to ask whether Aerion could attend an upcoming board meeting. As a shareholder now, his presence would typically be expected, especially since Baelor's son, Valarr, was scheduled to lead it.
Maekar spoke again, slower this time.
"…Are you with someone?"
Aerion exhaled quietly and leaned back slightly on his hands.
"Yeah."
"For fuck's sake, Aerion. It's seven in the evening. Who the hell could you possibly be with at this hour?"
"My partner," Aerion replied simply. "I'm at her place."
Silence settled across the line.
Aerion could practically picture what was happening on the other end. Maekar cleared his throat, probably closing his eyes for a moment while forcing himself to breathe evenly before saying something he might regret.
Aerion also knew, with quiet certainty, that the questions his father would ask would never be the ones normal parents asked. Maekar was not going to ask who she was or how long they had been together. He was not going to ask whether she was kind or whether Aerion was happy. He would not ask what she liked, whether she laughed easily, or if she might visit one day.
They had never had that kind of relationship.
Maekar was not that kind of parent.
When he spoke again, his voice carried the familiar tone Aerion knew too well. Calm, controlled, and carefully rehearsed, as if every word had already been placed into position long before the conversation even began.
"What does she do?"
Aerion reached for the screwdriver again and tightened another screw into the crib frame.
"Electrical engineering. Top of her class."
A short pause followed.
"Her family?"
"You don't know them," Aerion said evenly. "And you don't need to."
Another silence stretched between them.
Aerion did not wait for the next question.
"I'm good, father."
Then he ended the call before the interrogation could deepen.
She walked inside the clinic while he remained in the parking lot. The glass doors slid shut behind her, cutting off the quiet hum of the street outside. Aerion stayed where he was, beside the car, the late-afternoon air warm against the pavement.
He did not text her. He did not hover near the entrance. He simply waited.
A few people came and went through the doors while the minutes passed. A nurse stepped outside for a cigarette break. Somewhere across the lot, a car alarm chirped as someone unlocked their vehicle. Aerion leaned lightly against the side of the car, arms folded, calm and patient. He had said he would not make a fuss, so he didn't.
When the clinic doors opened again, and she stepped back outside, he straightened slightly. Her eyes landed on him immediately. He was leaning against the car like he had been there the whole time.
"I figured I'd drive," he said, as if that had always been the obvious plan.
She smiled and handed him the keys without arguing.
They pulled out of the parking lot a few minutes later, the city moving slowly around them as traffic filtered through the afternoon streets. For a moment, she just watched the road ahead, like she was holding onto something she had not said yet.
Then the words came spilling out.
"It's a boy."
The excitement in her voice filled the car. "Aerion, his heartbeat is strong. The doctor said Everything looks really good." She turned toward him, her face bright with the kind of happiness that had been slowly growing over the past months. "He's doing great."
Aerion kept his eyes on the road, one hand steady on the wheel while the other tightened slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough that the leather creaked faintly beneath his grip.
She kept talking, still caught up in the moment. "I told the doctor about the crib and the room we're setting up. I'm sure he's going to love it. I mean, you've basically built half of it already." She laughed softly to herself. "I'm sure he's going to be excited to see the room you set up for him."
Aerion did not say anything right away, but something quiet settled in his chest when she said that. It was neither an obligation nor a responsibility. It was something else.
Pride.
For once, the word father did not feel like a title waiting to crush him under expectations or legacy. It felt real.
He glanced at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road.
"A boy," he said quietly.
His voice stayed calm, but the faintest smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as he drove them home.
Maekar sat across from Baelor in the older man's office, the tall windows overlooking the manicured lawn of Baelor's estate. Late afternoon light filtered through the glass, reflecting faintly across the polished wood desk between them. A stack of financial reports sat open, numbers highlighted in red and blue across several pages.
Baelor leaned back in his chair, reading over the latest projections with a faint crease between his brows.
"The Ashford group barely broke even this quarter," he said, tapping the page lightly. "Revenue from their hospitality branch dropped nearly fifteen percent."
Maekar glanced at the document.
"They overspent."
Baelor gave a dry half-smile.
"Massively."
Lord Ashford had thrown an extravagant birthday celebration for his daughter that month. The event had been meant to reinforce old alliances and impress investors, but the scale of it had spiralled out of control. Imported entertainment, temporary installations, private flights for guests, and luxury catering brought in from three different countries. What should have been a strategic networking event turned into an expensive spectacle that produced almost no return.
"At the same time," Baelor continued, flipping the page, "their shipping subsidiary lost two government infrastructure contracts. The new competitors underbid them by nearly twenty percent."
"And Ashford still approved the expansion project," Maekar said.
Baelor nodded.
"He leveraged future revenue to build that new distribution facility. Now the valuation is sliding because the investors think he can't control spending."
In simple terms, the company looked unstable. Overspending at the top, combined with shrinking contracts, led analysts to quietly downgrade their growth projections. That alone was enough to push their share price down.
Baelor closed the folder.
"He needs restructuring before the market decides he's incompetent."
Maekar folded his arms.
"You're thinking of bringing someone in."
Baelor looked at him.
"I'm thinking of Aerion."
The name sat in the room for a moment.
Aerion had built a reputation over the past few years for stepping into failing technical divisions and turning them profitable again. His firm specialized in hardware investments and embedded systems development, but his real value was strategic restructuring. He could look at a struggling branch, cut inefficiencies, redirect capital, and rebuild the operational model from the inside out.
It was exactly the kind of intervention the Ashford branch needed.
Baelor spoke again.
"Have him do a consultation on the logistics side. If he stabilizes that division, the entire company valuation rebounds."
Maekar said nothing at first.
Baelor studied him.
"Is he willing to do things for the family again?"
Maekar exhaled slowly.
"He's seeing someone."
Baelor frowned slightly.
"Then why haven't we met her?"
Maekar's expression did not change.
"He says she values her privacy."
A quiet beat passed between them.
"He told me if even one gossip rag prints her name," Maekar continued calmly, "he'll burn every contract he has with them. And if we push, we can kiss goodbye to ever seeing him again."
Baelor absorbed that in silence.
Outside the window, guests were beginning to gather across the lawn for the evening's formal reception. Staff moved quietly between tables while a minor string quartet prepared near the terrace.
Among the guests standing near the far edge of the lawn was Aerion.
He stood alone.
No woman at his side.
But something about him had changed.
He looked different from the way he had a few years ago. Less volatile. Less reckless. There was a steadiness to the way he held himself now, a quiet sense of control that had not existed before.
Grounded.
Protective.
Baelor watched him through the glass.
"He won't introduce her," he murmured.
"No," Maekar replied.
Baelor glanced back toward him.
"Because?"
Maekar's voice lowered slightly.
"Because he knows exactly what this family does to women who aren't born into it."
It was late. The apartment was quiet except for the steady sound of the shower running down the hall. Steam had already begun to fog the bathroom mirror, and the soft rush of water carried faintly into the living room where Aerion sat stretched out on the couch.
Her phone buzzed against the coffee table, the screen lighting up with an unknown number. Aerion glanced at it absentmindedly. He did not recognize the number, and there was no name attached to it. He knew she had deleted a few contacts over the past months, but she had never been the type to block people completely. She had once mentioned keeping the door open for closure, or at least the possibility of it.
The phone buzzed again.
Aerion leaned forward and picked it up before it could ring out.
"…Hello?"
There was silence on the other end.
Then a breath.
Familiar to the man speaking, though Aerion did not realize it yet.
Valarr.
His voice came through the line a moment later, low and slightly rough. Not sloppy drunk, just tired in the way someone sounded after a long night of meetings, expectations, and decisions that never seemed to stop.
"I…"
He stopped.
Across the city, Valarr leaned back against the railing of a quiet balcony outside the corporate building he had just left. The night air was cool against his face, and the lights of the city stretched out below him. It had been a long evening. Keira had been there earlier. The board had been relentless. His grandfather's expectations sat on his shoulders like a weight he could never thoroughly shake.
He had chosen this life.
But sometimes the quiet moments afterward made the choice feel heavier than he expected. In those moments, he missed her.
Then he heard the voice on the line.
Aerion.
His fucking cousin.
Valarr went silent immediately.
Recognition settled in his chest before he fully understood why. Aerion had never been particularly close to the rest of the family after the incident. He rarely attended the same events and seldom stayed long enough for a real conversation. Most of the time, he appeared only briefly, staying just long enough to avoid raising suspicion or creating another public relations problem for the family before disappearing again.
He did the bare minimum.
But the voice was unmistakable.
Valarr stared out over the city, something uneasy settling in his chest. A thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it.
Is this where he's been?
For months, people had tried to reach Aerion. Staff had mentioned his penthouse sitting empty for days at a time. Invitations to family gatherings were usually declined unless his presence was absolutely required, and even then, he only appeared long enough to placate the family before slipping away again.
Now the answer felt uncomfortably close.
Aerion said nothing at first. He simply listened.
On the other end, Valarr exhaled slowly.
"…Right."
The single word carried quiet realization.
Aerion finally spoke.
"You good?"
The question was calm, almost casual.
Valarr let out a breath that nearly turned into a laugh.
"…Yeah."
There was a short pause before he added, "Sorry. Wrong number. Uh… is this [her name]?"
Aerion leaned back slightly against the couch.
"Aight, well yeah," he said evenly. "But she's not available right now. I can pass a message along if you want."
Another slight pause followed before Aerion added lightly, "But you sound drunk, buddy. Might wanna call back later when your head's on right."
He exhaled quietly, holding back a faint laugh. There was no anger in it and no taunting, just the matter-of-fact tone someone might use when answering a late-night drunk dial.
The line went dead.
Across the city, Valarr lowered the phone slowly and stared at the screen for a long moment.
Something in his expression shifted.
His eyes darkened, the quiet exhaustion from earlier replaced by something sharper. His jaw tightened as his fingers curled around the phone.
Then his thumb moved.
The screen lit up again as his fingers began moving quickly across it, sending messages, opening contacts, pulling up things he had not looked at in months.
Planning.
Aerion.
Of all the people who could have answered that phone, it had to be Aerion.
Brightflame.
His fucking cousin.
Back in the apartment, Aerion set her phone down on the counter like nothing unusual had happened.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened, and she stepped out with a towel draped around her shoulders, damp hair falling loosely down her back.
Aerion looked up from the couch.
"Wrong number," he said casually.
Then he reached for her, pulling her gently toward him and leaning in to kiss her.
A/N: I caved and left it open-ended because committing to a proper ending is apparently not in my skill set. There might be a Part 3 someday since I do have a few ideas floating around, but my brain is currently distracted by another project. So no promises. Just vibes for now.
Also, not gonna lie… angry Valarr plotting in the background speaks to my soul. I was absolutely sitting there like yes, bish, plot and be petty.
ALSO, Duncan will always be a good guy coded. He is Ride or Die.
