From your home far in the countryside of your nation to the noble centre of the capital, it is all very different here.
The opulence, the eyes, the people, and the way the world moves around you. But a noble child fully grown must debut into society if they are to find a marriage candidate, especially if their family does not have an agreement in place for them, so here you are, coming to debut in the capital under the watch of your grandparents.
All it will take is a single, opening dance to set your life on a certain path, one that will make a lady of you yet.
A social debut is a big thing for noble families, a display of wealth, bounty, and standing all made in a single grand night.
Sure, daughters tend to get the more intense and anticipated events, but even sons still get a moment in the spotlight as a fresh marriage candidate on their debuts. So, as your own debut to noble society draws closer, your parents make a rather swift decision to ship you off, bundled into a carriage, routed to the capital, so that you can debut there under the watch of your extended family, namely your grandparents, who still hold a steady position of social power despite their climbing age.
Peering through the curtains of the carriage, you watch as the estates and manors that make up this part of the capital roll past, coats of arms, footmen, guards, maids, butlers, and all kinds of people, noble or not, pass by in colourful blurs. You haven't exactly been far from your parents' estate since you were a small child. Apparently, they used to bring you here often, but as you grew, they visited less, keeping to their lands and the small township they control rather than visiting the capital.
Once the carriage comes to a stop, the sounds of the city around you have grown softer, waiting anxiously as the door opens and your footman holds his hand out to you.
The older satyr looks at you passively, knowing how to act around the rest of your family, but you can feel the soft squeeze of reassurance he gives you as he helps you, closing the carriage behind you as other attendants take the trunks you brought with you. It's completely controlled chaos as you are guided into he house by another maid. There are so many people milling about, you're already overwhelmed and lost, trailing behind the head maid as she rattles off meal times, family hours, and when lights out happens, casting a look over her shoulder as she opens the double doors to the sitting room remarking that she doesn't want to see you out of your room after that last call lest it be an emergency.
The head maid is scarily sharp as she announces you to your grandparents, leaving the moment she's dismissed and not a moment sooner. It's easy to make a mental note that she is to be avoided unless you desperately need her.
It's at least two hours or so before you're shown to your rooms, sagging into the small lounge that faces the fireplace, even this room is overwhelmingly large compared to your own dwellings back home. There are gold details, pearl inlay, and silk draped in every direction; the clothes you wear feel common in comparison to the opulence of the room, if this is simply how the capital nobles live... How quaint will they think your debut outfit? How will they receive your manners?
The pressure of the expectations laid before you is immense, chewing your bottom lip as you let your thoughts spiral. There are so many things that could go wrong, and so many of them could be pinned on you or cause your family's name to be ruined. A maid snaps you out of this stupor as she comes knocking. There is daylight left to burn, and as such, your grandmother has called a tailor to fit you for the first of many social events to come.
The dress you wear feels tight, tighter than it should be, like the stay you have on is laced beyond the usual stopping point, and yet, as you push on, the feeling grows more intense. The weight of the jewels that lie around your waist feels heavy, like shackles and not adornments. The glint of the delicate metal catches the light perfectly, but makes you feel blindingly reflective. Touching the main chain earns you a clearing of your grandmother's throat; she'd picked everything you wear and wants it to stay just as she had it placed.
Standing at the top of the stairs, you look out at a sea of hungry faces. Your grandparents' home is filled with capital nobles, both human and monster alike.
You know their faces, their titles, and a rough idea of the standings of the houses that look up at you. A family of werewolves, linked heavily to the knights of the crown and the hunters guild founding members, a coven of vampires that lord themselves over the treasuries and banks of the noble families, two human families that had married into each other over the years and own the lands over from your father's holdings, and a flock of corvid harpies each watching from under the banner of your families crest.
Each step you take on your grandfather's arm is final, the click of the horrid shoes they put you in rings out over the band playing softly in the corner, you stand quietly by your grandmother as the announcements of the evening are made, and the event is brought to a proper beginning.
You're more prey than a hunter here, in your own family's home, every other mother and aunt has brought a name or offer to dance with their son or daughters, older men watch as the overspill of your chest is visible as you curtsey to them when they bring their greetings to you. Nothing more than meat circled and appraised, older women subtly pinch at your arms, waist, and sigh like the sight of your fuller figure is something they can fix before they offer to have you join their families, any of the younger children in attendance seem to disappear into the gardens after the announcements likely to be tended and ferried away in an hour to their home estates to leave the adults to socialise.
It's horrible.
Being the belle of the ball, the centre of attention, the newest socialite of the capital, for the night that is, and yet you find yourself slipping away to the edge of the hall, a small seated area for a moment of acceptable rest, waiting for anything or anyone to save you from the leering eyes watching how the dress of silk and fine linen cling to your body. The glass of sweet wine goes hardly sipped by the time another person comes to see you, holding your grandmother by the crook of her elbow and smiling politely as she introduces the two of you, the harpy in question a rook mix dressed in deep blue and silver finery, his talons click cleanly as he bows to you, not a single scrape or scratch against the polished stone of the hall floor.
Your grandmother whispers to behave and be good, before stepping aside to chatter with what must be the harpies own chaperone, the violet of his eyes never strays beyond your face and occasionally your neck as he speaks with you, voice soothing and calm, he's charming in a way the others you'd greeted hadn't quite reached, he's respectable you think as he offers to dance as the music begins.
The first dance of your social life is a delicate choice.
Looking towards your grandmother, you expect her to weigh in, waiting for that nod or sharp shake of the head before taking the harpy's offer. She nods slowly and short before flicking her wrist and watching with the other woman as you take to the dancefloor. The harpies' talons are capped with silver and glimmering opal, delicate as they take their positions against your arm and back. The whole of the gathering watches as you move with the man, criticisms whispered behind hands and fans as you move with him.
One song becomes two, each end brings a new young man or woman to dance with you as other couples take to the floor, none of the other partners treats you as the harpy had. One of the werewolves growls low at you, calls you prime meat and insists that she would love to cut the strings of your stay, a younger vampire lord curls his lip between steps and makes his dislike for humans clear as he wipes his hands as he bows at the dances end, the flurry of human youth you share steps with hiss at you and mutter commiseration in the same breath as they follow the motions of their dances, by the end of the list of partners chosen for you your feet hurt more than they did walking into your debut.
A quiet request to retire for the night is passed to your grandmother, earning you a sharp look and a reluctant nod. A servant makes the exit look effortless and clean as you hurry back to your rooms, already too eager to be out of your gown, jewels, and the too-tight stay.
Even days after you debut, your grandparents still snap at you for leaving your event early, but let slip that despite the bad behaviour, they have received a few calls for tea, garden parties and evening events for you.
Sitting in the drawing room as your grandmother clicks her tongue and adjusts the neckline of the day dress, which, even after being tailored for you, still isn't covering enough of your chest for her to be happy, settling in her own chair, she tells you the harpy gentleman from your debut is coming calling with his own mother and to behave appropriately. Apparently, this particular young harpy is in line to earn himself a royal title; the crown prince hand-picked him and two others to compete for the title of Marshall of the royal grounds when he took the throne.
Young lord Nabil, soon to be Lord Marshall Nebil.
The two of you would sit by the windows of the sitting room, your chaperones on the other side, indulging in tea and afternoon sweets as you chatter mindlessly with the harpy man.
Silence grows between you slowly, and before long, you feel nerves take over, watching as your grandmother frowns at you once the silence becomes too long between anyone in the room. Shifting slightly, you ask the harpy gentleman if the nobles of the capital are all so watchful of early meetings, just barely missing the way his eyes go sharp and keen at your new question, letting the teacup in his talons click softly against its saucer before he answers.
"The newer the socialite, the harder they watch, especially in the case of a... lovely one such as yourself. They simply need to know you aren't being treated in an untoward way, the capital is a harsh social world after all, my dear..." You miss the leer he gives as he looks over your day dress, the way it clings to your stomach, hips and chest, a hunger only a monster like him could have.
A pleased look passes across your grandmother's face as she sees the two of you engrossed in a fresh conversation. The young harpy lord is at the top of her list for your suitors, and his valour places his trustworthy nature in a tier for unchaperoned potential, but first she needs to see your interest and actions before she can match to the betterment of your family's interests.
After this little afternoon tea, there is a dinner and a luncheon with two of the others you danced with at your debut, the vampire lord and one of the humans. Neither of which instils any sense of advancement for your standing, the vampire does send with a bouquet of flowers, only grown on their estate, with a bracelet, but his demeanour at the dinner sours your grandmother and almost offends your grandfather, as such, the gifts are returned, and his name is marked from the mental list of your suitors.
The others hardly send more than a card, a pressed flower, a hunk of meat from the werewolves, much to your grandmother's displeasure, and perhaps a small bouquet or two. Slowly, the list dwindles down to a few select names.
Lord Nabil is firmly at the top, especially as he has sent gifts for both you and your grandmother after each meeting, lunch, or event that was organised over the past few months.
A new pair of opal earrings glints in the low light of the afternoon. Your grandmother lays out jewellery and picks a dress from the few the maids had set out, looking stern and serious as she tells you the noble family of harpies has invited you to their event for the evening, and lord Nabil will be here soon to collect you. Maids are pulling and twisting your hair, pins, pearls, and shiny things are placed just so as another works to set your face in powder and stain, it's a rush of opulence and display, you're pushed and pulled, shoved, tightened, and tied into the dress picked to both flatter and flaunt you to the lord accompanying you.
Your grandmother nods once when you're dressed, snapping at one of her maids to send word to the kitchen that on your return, there is not to be food waiting for you, her voice cold as she remarks that you should be well enough for the evening without needing more later.
You begin to understand why your parents chose to abandon visiting this place.
The carriage you ride in is from Nabil's family, the footman on the bench is unfamiliar, but still a harpy, and the black and white feathers you can see are well-groomed and hardly so much as flutter as he helps step you into the carriage.
Once again, the sight of the capital passing you by is breathtaking, even now as the sun begins to dip and the sky grows dark, the lanterns and street lamps all light up along the road, each house a glimmer and shining speckle on the horizon as the carriage moves deeper into the higher estate areas. The event of this evening is one with ties to the royal family, and as such, is held closer to the place grounds than your own debut was. The sheer scale of the building you find yourself in is audacious. Once the carriage stops, you wait expecting the footman to open your door, only to be greeted by lord Nabil, your guide and company for the evening.
Inside the event hall is just as grand.
The vaulted ceiling has perches and bars for harpies to rest on, between pillars of marble lie shallow pools with water flowers you'd never seen before, and if the pearl inlay of your grandparents' home was opulent for you, the detailing of the skirting boards would outdo your family's treasuries twice over.
This is the capital nobility, this is the high life the common people mutter about, this is nothing like what you know.
Swarming nobles and the clicking of talons, too much noise and not enough things spoken to you that you can understand, or contribute to, not that Nabil seems to mind. One of his hands rests against your lower back, talons capped in new silver and moonstone tips, gently moving back and forth, like soothing a frightened pet through touch, the tips just barely brushing against the bottom of your stay. On a rare occasion, you can see a slight click in the teeth you see in his smile.
Much like your first social event, eyes watch you from every corner, peering down and at you, tongues click, and lips whisper behind fans painted with scenes of animals in chase. An older harpy, dressed in deep red and silver, stares at you as he speaks to Lord Nabil. He complements his chosen companion as he leers openly at your tits, flicking his wings behind him as he offers to take you for a dance or two, and let the young lord enjoy a moment with another lady in attendance.
You'd barely opened your mouth as he responded, chiding the other harpy with sharp words on abandoning you to a stranger. The older harpy ruffles quickly, the verbal jab muttered and sharp 'a waste of good breeding on such a human'.
At this, Nabil excuses the two of you from the ball, using the moment to guide you out of the main hall and into the back halls to the viewing balconies of the gardens. Many more faces call for lord Nabil's attention, and many more coo or remark at your presence at his side as he smoothly weaves through the small crowds of attendees, pulling you onto a small terrace overlooking the gardens before turning his attention back to you. Smiling at him, you thank him for the swift departure, letting him lift your hand and kiss the back of it, feeling your face warm at the look he casts your way as he dips down to accept.
What should have been a simple offer to show gratitude turns slowly; he pulls back, but a few mere moments before his hand moves, one still holds yours tenderly, respectfully, like the virtuous man he had been at every meeting, and the other teases. Capped, jewelled talons slip to the edge of your arm, wrapping around the soft give of your upper arms, trilling softly before dragging down to slip under the edge of your glove, exposing more and more of your arm as he watches you, waiting for you to move to stop him, to pull away. Yet you don't move, you feel flush with an enticing mix of interest, shame, and something else a proper member of noble society shouldn't feel; instead, you turn your head, free hand covering your mouth as he does as he likes.
Your glove is tucked into his pocket as he guides you to rest your bare hand against the small, hidden fold of his jacket, the one that is tailored for his wings. Bare fingers brushing against his feathers as he coos at you, an arm wrapped around your waist as he buried his face against your neck, careful, cautious, restrained as he kisses against exposed skin, holding back from nipping or marking as you make such sweet sounds for him.
His voice is soft a rumbling coo in your ear, "they hunger for you and they leer like there was a chance you would look their way-" his lips drift perilously close to the edge of your collarbones, "-but you are mine, but an hour ago your grandfather signed me as your courting partner, as the one that will be spoken of as your suitor." Your bare hand against his wing feels the flutter and twitch as he says this, feels how he shudders and pulls closer, tilting your face towards his as he kisses across your cheeks but not your lips.
"How can someone so sweet, so soft, and perfect have been hidden away so far from me til this day? A shame that will be forever corrected-" his hands rest on your waist, a scowl passing across his face as he feels the shape of the stay under your dress, "- a shame all these pretty clothes and useless under things will be shredded scraps once our courting is done. Silks and nothing more than how you are will be how you're seen, sweet nest mate mine."
As the last call for the evening reaches your ears, does he kiss you, letting out a broken, warbling moan as your fingers dig into the base of his wing as he practically devours you.
It was no lie that your courtship had been signed and sealed on the morning after the event. You woke to your grandmother in your room, watching you in a way that makes you think she knows what happened on the terrace, that she knows you have been kissed and felt the bare brush of the harpy lord's wings well before a couple very much should. Yet, as you greet her good morning, she smiles, is pleased, content, and satisfied with the outcome of the evening, even going as far as remarking that lord Nabil's house is more than pleased with you, laying out the length and breadth of your now courtship to the harpy lord.
Over the coming weeks, gifts or flowers arrive for you from him, a brooch, a necklace, a bracelet or two, and flowers, small, beautiful arrangements that your grandmother adores and chides you for not knowing the language of the flowers sent.
One gift in particular is a pair of gloves, much like the ones you wore the night of the event, but these are shorter, more exposed in style, and your grandmother approved of the maker of them, so they are accepted and given to you. Clearly, no inspections beyond materials and maker were done, as the moment you pull one from the box, a small note flutters free.
'Dear nest mate mine,
I hope these serve you well in place of the ones I so hastily claimed from you that evening, but I hope you understand it is far easier to have sent you home without than missing one of your pair.
The scent of you lingers on them still, though I know I cannot return them to you, so sullied now as they are.
Wear these next we meet, I want to know if the maker told the truth about how thin they may be. They say it is like skin touch, and I so do crave to know more of your sweet embrace.
With longing dreams,
Nabil.'
The maid who comes to collect you giggles at the look of fluster on your face, chirping about young lovers and the sweet notes they send each other, likely thinking the one tucked into your hand is another of the sweet messages sent with his usual gifts. You let her keep that idea before tossing the note into your fireplace, hurrying to dinner not long after, you half wish you could have kept it, but you know better.
The next meeting can only come sooner, especially as your grandparents begin the process of putting together the contract between your two houses.
The next time you are together unchaperoned is a short ride to a teahouse owned by one of his family's branches. The glove he gave you fit perfectly, silk clinging and settling without compare on your hands.
Both your families awaited you at the teahouse, but for the next forty-five minutes, the two of you are alone in the carriage, watching the world swim past in blurs of greenery and small homes on the outskirts of the capital. He watches you, eager and excited, as you fluster, leaning across the carriage and taking your hand in his, trilling softly at the gloves fit before pushing closer, following the natural line of your arm as he finds a way to settle on the floor of the carriage.
He looks obscene the way he settles, looking up at you and cooing, chirping, soft noises of affection that bleed into trills and warbles that sound devoted.
His talons catch the hem of your dress, a deliberate thing that makes you look at him, all wide-eyed and cautious as he slowly lifts the layers of your skirts, feathers ruffling visibly as he sees the sheer stretch of your stockings begin to show. That slow reveal of silk taut around your calves, the way he watches, waits, edges his way up further, only taking what you seem willing to offer as shame-filled heat settles in your stomach, this is wrong, this is not what a girl from a noble family does alone with her newly named suitor and yet...
You let him push higher, flushed and flustered as he trills keenly at the sight of your thighs, talons digging into your skirts as he makes a noise so desperate you have to look. His eyes are dark, more purple than violet now, his lips tremble, and he leans forward, the sharp slope of his nose makes your legs twitch as he so gently sinks his teeth into the fat of your thigh, it's silk and heat under his tongue now, but still it's yours, and that makes him bolder, pushes him forward. Another of his gifts is worn by you, a more intimate one, tucked and hidden in the silks of the jewellery boxes sent to you, underthings that make you feel bare beyond belief in comparison to the usual frilled things you wore for modesty.
He is a monster, not for his nature and birth as a harpy but for how he flutters and coos at you, talons abandoning your skirts in favour of pressing your legs wide, a scandalous position that makes you squeak and squeal his name as he finally looks up at you.
"Such a fine nest mate I have, so dutiful in wearing my gifts, in sullying them with such a treat-" he's too close to your underwear now, nose dragging along the seam of wet silk, "-how sweet the day will be I get to have you as a man should have his mate, how perfect you will be for our clutch."
If not for his grip under your knees, you would have snapped your legs around his head, crushed pretty feathers and ruined his hair as he licked a ruinous stripe along the gusset of your underthings, hands scrambling for purchase on the carriage bench as he groans at the taste of you. Nosing the slick silk aside and letting out a low, debauched sound as he sees the effect of his attentions, trilling for a moment before pushing forward and pressing his lips to your folds, how unchaste you act as he finds nothing but pleasure in the taste of you on his lips.
His wings twitch and flutter as he works, tongue dipping just barely past the entrance of your folds, before flicking up to make you buck and jolt as he seeks out your clit. Chasing every twitch, shake, and half-muffled sound you make, he is devoted to learning this pleasure of yours, to know how to keep his nest mate happy after the courtship is done, pulling back to trill and pant, licking the remnants of you from his lips as he moans.
"I will hurry our families, I cannot think to be part from you or your sweet taste nest mate, this is-" whatever he was to say is lost for the moment, too eager to put his lips and tongue back against you, to leave small bitten marks on such a private place no other but him will see, "-a gift I cannot think to let slip away. Fuck, I must have you like this each morning we marry, always." His words are both sweet and vulgar as he almost has to tear himself away from truly ruining you, opting instead for combining lips and thumb, to bring you bucking and cumming against his mouth.
Sweet is the stroke of his hands and talons against your thighs as he winds you down, cooing softly as he lets you settle, despite the flush, the sweat of your exhaustion, you look nearly untouched. Yet, still he shifts, ignoring his own need as he repins and presses your hair, tucking the few stray pieces back into a respectable carriage-ridden state; he wants nothing to ruin your name, not even himself.
No, this vision of you, breathless and ruined, is from him alone.
'CAUSE YOU CAN BE THE BEAUTY & I COULD BE THE MONSTER ˎˊ˗ 2!
synopsis. aerion targaryen — a possible heir to the throne, the son of the crown prince and grandson of the king — had fallen ill with an unknown fever. maesters who had served for years could not handle it, none of them found a cure, and his uncle decided to turn to you, a young healer from distant lands. pt 1.
pairing. aerion x healer! reader
.✦ contains. kinda enemies to lovers but not really, misogyny, possessive!aerion, reader is from the house mullendore; p in v, man's just obsessed tbh
day 96. 208 AC.
“do not worry, branna. the child is well.” you gently touched her rounded belly and felt under your palm a faint movement of new life. “he is born in two moons, just in time for the first storms.”
the memory came back to you of that late night, when the silence broke with a desperate knock. branna stood at the door — pale like a ghost, in worn clothes. she had no gold to pay for your work, but she knew: you do not turn away one who begs for help. you always were a support for the smallfolk.
branna let out a long breath, and the tired look on her face eased a little.
"i thank you for everything, dear. if it were not for your hands, the gods would surely take both me and the child. i would not bear this alone," she said, closing her eyes.
you only smiled softly at her and handed her a cup with a raspberry and ginger solution.
"keep your belly warm, the night air is treacherous now."
the woman took a sip and suddenly grew more lively, clearly wanting to share new gossip.
“the whole village buzzes like a stirred hive these past few hours,” she said, clicking her tongue. “at the market they speak only of guests.”
“is it something important?”
"guests from the capital itself arrived," branna rounded her eyes, moving to a confidential whisper. "the merchants hurriedly display their best goods, hoping to fish more gold out of the lords. a rare event for our lands."
your quill stopped above the page of your notebook, where you wrote the signs of her pregnancy. “could it be someone from the royal family?” your voice came out quieter than you wanted.
branna frowned for a moment, trying to remember the rumors.
"hardly. they say prince baelor was not seen with them, nor his brother. probably just rich lords wandered into our backwoods for rare herbs or silks," she reasoned.
you nodded slowly, trying not to think about it. the woman spoke sense. prince baelor came to these lands a few moons ago, when word of you reached the court. there was no reason for them to return again, since the road from the castle to these places took a full two weeks of hard riding.
“so late?” you said, clearing the herbs. “they must hurry a lot, if they did not wait for dawn to enter the village.”
branna nodded, finishing the last of the drink.
"certainly. old ham says that their horses were all in lather, exhausted, as if they rode for several days straight without rest. it seems the lords were desperate to find their rarities as soon as possible," the woman chuckled, shaking her head.
you smiled at the tired woman and gave her apples and a piece of bread wrapped in linen cloth. “rest, branna.”
day 97. 208 AC.
the morning turned out quite cool, mists shrouded the entire sky, which meant that the cold was near.
you threw on your cloak tighter and hurried to the edge of the village, to where the closed market was located behind an old stone arch. this was not a place for noisy trade in vegetables or livestock — barkers did not shout here and it did not smell of manure. this market smelled of spices, old leather, and dry herbs. only those who knew exactly what they were looking for and who had gold clinking in their purses came here.
you needed valerian root. but not that limp weed that grew by the road, but a real, strong root from the dornish foothills — only it could ease the pains of branna and other women when their hour came.
you walked past the stalls, trying not to attract unnecessary attention, your deep blue dress with long sleeves fell to the very ground, and your hair - two thin braids that started at the very temples, framing your face, and then at the back of the head wove into one common, heavy braid fell onto your shoulder.
you were just finishing paying the old merchant, giving him a few more gold pieces than required. in your hands was gripped a small, polished stone — a fragment that was part of the jewelry of the valyrian nobility itself according to the old man. but as soon as you put the purchase away, voices rang out nearby, making you freeze.
"if she says this is a fake, i will personally make you drink all this shit right here."
you knew this voice.
it was too familiar, too deeply etched into your memory. this voice accompanied you for two long moons: it was caustic, endlessly commented on your every move, yelled at knights, and scared off servants. but you also remembered how this same voice inexplicably softened as soon as he addressed you personally.
his voice.
"i swear to you, my lord! the extract is purer than the sky over essos itself! i would never dare to lie to a man of your... position," the seller babbled, almost stammering from terror.
there was only one man who could sound so arrogant, so snide, and so irritated all at the same time. you slowly raised your eyes to confirm your guess, although in the depths of your soul you already knew the truth. among the rare passers-by stood a man with silver hair that shone brightly even without the bright sun.
you froze, simply staring at him. he looked much better than when you saw him last — the fever completely left his body, returning a healthy color and sharpness of lines to his face. he seemed the embodiment of irritation, but his pose was free and commanding, the kind that belongs only to a person who knows he can do anything.
he exhaled loudly, losing patience, and for a moment turned his head, wishing to survey the market. at that very moment, his eyes met yours.
it felt to you like the air was kicked out of you. for a whole minute, neither of you moved from the spot. aerion froze half-turned, completely ignoring the merchant who continued to hurriedly explain something under his arm.
you were a healer wise beyond your years, capable of bringing a man back from the doorstep of death, and you possessed knowledge equal to the experience of gray maesters.
and that was exactly why you acted just as any person of your rank would act.
you turned sharply and rushed away, not daring to look back.
your steps were hurried and confused, you picked up the heavy hem of your blue dress with both hands, only not to get tangled in the fabric and not to fall under the aim of that burning gaze. your heart pounded somewhere in your very throat, drowning out all the sounds of the market, while you dived into the labyrinths of narrow streets.
only when you finally realized that no one followed you, you allowed yourself to slow your step and catch your breath. the thought that he came not for you at all brought a strange, bitter relief — it meant it was only an accident, a cruel joke of the gods. calming your breathing, you adjusted your basket with an already habitual, calm movement and headed to the house, which was only one turn away.
you just lowered your gaze into the basket, checking the safety of the valerian, when at full speed you flew into someone's broad, hard chest.
crying out, you already prepared to collapse onto the stones, but someone's heavy, commanding hands instantly caught you by the waist and pressed you to them, not letting you fall.
"forgive my carelessness, i must have been in too much of a hur —" you started to make excuses, but tripped mid-word when you raised your eyes and met a piercing stare and the glow of silver hair.
aerion tilted his head slightly, looking down at you with a dangerous, almost cat-like smirk.
"done running?" he asked quietly.
you froze, blinking your eyelashes in confusion, while the bitter truth slowly reached you: he knew your path. he knew where you lived. all your feelings mixed into one as you lowered your gaze to his chest, dressed in a rich doublet of black leather with blood-red stitching.
"my prince," you exhaled barely audibly, vainly trying to free yourself from his hands. but the grip on your waist was iron.
his palms on your waist remained hot even through the thick fabric of the dress. he continued to hold you, looking down with an emotion unknown to you in his eyes, which you could not decipher.
"will you not offer your prince a cup of wine or at least a chair, so that i can catch my breath after this... exhausting chase?" he asked, and in his voice sounded that very snide note that you remembered so well.
you suppressed a sharp urge to roll your eyes: his breath remained perfectly even, and there was not a single drop of sweat on his face. this scoundrel did not even run — he knew where he needed to go.
you swallowed hard, feeling your heart still pounding against your ribs after the run, and raised your gaze to him again. "fine."
he held your gaze for a moment longer, as if checking the sincerity of your consent, and then his attention shifted to the heavy basket that you still frantically pressed to yourself.
his hands slid from your waist, and he took the burden from you in one smooth motion. stepping aside, aerion pointed with a careless gesture to the road to your house, opening the way for you.
you walked forward, your hands were now free, and you folded them in front of you, hiding the slight tremble in your fingers. your every step was accompanied by the feeling of his fixed, burning gaze, which did not tear away from you for a moment.
you walked to your house, but for not a single second did the feeling leave you that in truth it was you who walked straight into the beast's lair.
“you lied to me." those were his first words, thrown from the threshold. he did not even look at the tea you offered, but simply stood at the entrance, carelessly leaning against a column. it seemed he was either too disgusted to sit in your modest home, or too agitated to allow himself even a moment of rest.
you stood with your back to him, carefully taking the purchases out of the basket. “my people needed me,” you answered, only quietly, almost in a whisper.
there was a sharp sound of footsteps — aerion pushed himself off the column and began to move forward slowly, closing the distance to nothing. “you promised you would not leave,” he said, striking each word, “but by dawn you were already gone."
you slowly turned and found that he already stood almost right in front of you. his brows were drawn together in irritation, and his gaze moved over your face greedily and cruelly, as if he tried to make sure you were not a figment of his mind. “do you even understand that for betraying a prince i could have ordered your head to be cut off?”
you lifted your eyes to him, noting every change: the feverish shine in his eyes was gone, several fresh scratches showed on his cheekbone, and light stubble covered his face — a clear mark of a long and hurried road. “then do it,” you replied calmly.
for a moment he frowned even more, but then a sharp smirk bloomed on his lips. “you think i cannot? you suppose that because i let you touch me and once kissed you, you are now special? that you can do whatever you wish and remain unpunished?”
his presence filled the whole room, leaving no space for air.
“that is not what i said, my prince.”
and then, before you could react, he leaned down sharply, and his lips crashed against yours with a firm, undeniable hunger.
you gasped in surprise when his hands closed around your waist like iron, leaving no chance to pull away. it was a hungry, almost desperate kiss — as if he tried to claim every thought, every breath. his tongue slipped into your mouth at once, moving with possessive control, and a low sound left his chest. one of his hands moved to your chin, his fingers holding your jaw firmly, making you tilt your head so he could deepen the kiss and take more of you.
your hands rose on their own, your fingers tangled at his neck, sliding into the silk of his silver hair. you answered him in your own rhythm, and in that moment it did not matter anymore that you were the one who ran.
it turned out you missed this side of him — his control, his sharp but no longer cruel mockery, and the way his presence filled everything around. he pulled you closer, almost devouring your lips, as if trying to make up for all the lost time in those few seconds.
when the lack of air became too much, aerion pulled away for a moment, only to return to your lips again, unable to even think of letting you go now. you pulled back slightly when your breath finally broke, and you both stilled, breathing heavily against each other’s lips. he pressed his forehead to yours, closing his eyes, and whispered against your burning lips, “i thought something happened to you.”
you swallowed, not taking your eyes off him, seeing how tense his jaw was.
“i ordered all the knights in the capital to search for you,” he continued, catching his breath. then a short, heavy pause followed before his voice grew quieter. “i searched for you myself for three days.”
aerion remembered that morning in every detail. he woke and out of habit ran his hand over the bed beside him, expecting to find your warmth, but found only emptiness.
the bed was still warm — which meant you left only recently. his first thought was that something happened: perhaps you had gone for herbs and got hurt in the forest, or some rough knights, who did not know of your special place, had thrown you out.
he burst out of bed and ran out the door, where he collided with a guard. when the man said that you left of your own will, aerion nearly went mad with rage. he threatened to cut out the guard’s tongue for lying, because you promised to stay — and he believed you, not him.
that was his main mistake.
even when hundreds of knights turned every house and market upside down and still did not find you, he did not give up. he went himself along the trail that led to your home, only to discover that you deliberately confused the tracks and took another road. as if you knew how he would search for you, and intentionally did everything so he could not bring you back.
aerion smirked, and in that smirk there was bitter amusement that he did not even try to hide. “and it turned out you simply ran away,” his voice became quieter but heavier, “ran away yourself, only a few hours after you gave me your word that you would not do it.”
“you were fully healed,” you began, hoping your voice did not shake. “and that was my main goal. my prin—”
“i have a name.”
you hesitated, looking at his tightly pressed lips, and only shook your head in confusion. “i do not think i am allowed to say it out loud, my prin—”
“i said i have a fucking name.”
you froze, not taking your eyes off his face, and when the silence in the room became almost tangible, your voice softened. “aerion.”
he exhaled sharply, his shoulders relaxed, and he leaned forward, touching his nose to yours.
then his lips found yours again, but this time the kiss changed — rage gave way to slow, heavy tenderness. he kissed you for a long time, sucking your lower lip and drawing it into his mouth, as if he could not breathe enough of your scent, while your hands, still intertwined around his neck, slowly ran through the hair at the back of his head.
you both seemed unable to get enough of each other, not breaking this closeness even when the air in your lungs became dangerously scarce.
it was completely irrational: a dragon should not need anyone, and aerion never needed people. perhaps he convinced himself that it was only your skill — that you healed him and saved him from the humiliating death of an ordinary mortal, or those endless nights when you stayed by his side, not letting nightmares swallow him.
at least, that was what he kept telling himself, justifying the orders to his knights to search the entire capital and his long journey to this miserable shack.
a sudden knock on the door made you flinch and try to pull away, but the moment you moved your hands, aerion caught your wrists. halfway through, he forcefully returned your palms to his neck and leaned in again, trying to catch your lips and not let you go.
“aerion, it might be a patient,” you whispered, shaking your head.
“i am your patient.”
that made you smile despite yourself. “it might be something really important,” you gently objected.
“and what could possibly be more important than the prince standing in front of you?”
you tilted your head slightly, and amusement lit up in your eyes. “perhaps a woman whose child is about to be born.”
aerion clicked his tongue in displeasure, but still reluctantly loosened his hold. you walked to the door and opened it, feeling his heavy gaze on your back.
to your relief, it turned out to be no woman in labour at all.
a brunette of average height with permanently kind puppy eyes looked as if he had run several miles without stopping: he was breathing heavily, his chest rising in quick bursts, and his hands kept gesturing wildly, not letting him get a single word out.
“i was at the market today, thought i’d buy you new knives,” he finally blurted out, not noticing the shadow in the depth of the room, “and you will not believe what i heard! they say someone is asking about you and looking for you, the…” his gaze suddenly shifted to the person behind you. “…prince.”
you let out an involuntary yelp when a heavy palm, in a possessive motion, landed on your stomach and sharply pulled you back, pressing you into his hard chest. you tried to remove his hand, but he only caught your fingers, intertwining them with his so that your joined hands stayed resting at your waist.
william seemed to come to himself only now. he straightened abruptly, going pale in an instant. “my prince! what… what brings you to our lands?” he shifted his gaze from you to aerion, until realization finally hit him completely. pressing his lips together, he almost hit himself on the forehead. “so it was not rumours.”
you were the first to recover and, literally breaking free from the silver-haired man’s grip, walked up to your friend. “it’s complicated, william, i will explain everything later,” you quickly whispered.
“oh, you better.”
taking the basket from his hands and forcing a fake smile, you added, “i will see you in the evening.”
“no, she will not,” aerion’s cold voice cut through the air, making you both freeze.
“we are leaving for the capital immediately. if you have something to say, say it now or leave.”
you froze with your mouth slightly open, turning sharply to him, but there was not a trace of amusement in his eyes.
oh, he was completely serious.
“with all due respect, my prince, he will stay here, and he is not goi —”
“of course, my prince! who am i to disobey you?” your friend immediately blurted out, cutting you off mid-sentence.
you turned to william in shock, but he was only shaking his head frantically, begging you to stay quiet.
now you were completely certain: all men were traitors.
day 112. 209 AC.
“we left in a hurry and did not manage to thank you properly,” said a light-haired old man, studying you carefully with his heavy gaze.
you arrived at the castle, and you, without even being allowed to wash off the road dust, were immediately brought to the small hall, where prince maekar and prince baelor sat at a massive dark wooden table.
of course, you were grateful that they had valued your help and wished to see you immediately, but to be completely honest your attention was focused only on not collapsing from exhaustion after the exhausting journey.
you only slightly nodded in respect. “it is nothing, my prince, i was only glad to help.”
right behind your back, almost touching your shoulder, aerion stood — you could feel how he was practically glowing with a strange, triumphant pride, presenting you to his father.
prince baelor smiled slightly, and his voice sounded softer. “we would be very grateful if you agreed to treat our family. my son is quite sickly, he easily catches…”
“impossible.”
you frowned and turned to aerion, while the dark-haired man only raised a brow.
“i thought she was here for that reason.”
that made aerion let out a short scoff. “she is here to treat me, not anyone else.”
“i can perfectly do both, my prince,” you objected, sharply elbowing aerion in the side. he only tensed, looking utterly displeased.
the men in front of you exchanged meaningful glances before the elder one nodded. “go to your chambers, kids.” he paused briefly and added, looking directly into his nephew’s eyes. “separate chambers, aerion.”
he only clicked his tongue in irritation but did not argue — simply took your hand firmly and led you away. your rooms turned out to be quite close to his wing, since aerion had invented a ridiculous story about how he might become ill at any moment. your remarks that a whole moon had passed since his recovery he simply ignored.
“dragon blood can be… quite unpredictable,” he said.
when you finally stopped at your door, you nodded to the knights on guard and turned to the prince. he looked down at you, and in the dim corridor light you saw his tired eyes and tousled hair. “if you run away this time, i will truly have you beheaded.”
it was said so seriously and at the same time so absurdly that you could not hold back and softly laughed.
your thoughts drifted back to recent memories — those hours in the hut before your departure, when your fate had been decided. you clearly remembered your irritation: will, with whom you had grown up since infancy, had practically abandoned you to your fate, and aerion, that stubborn man, kept saying that your refusal was treason against the crown.
“aerion, i will not abandon my people,” you said firmly then.
he only let out a heavy breath, looking at you with a mix of exhaustion and irritation. “judging by how much you care for them, you are their damn mother.”
“they will not survive here alone,” you quietly objected. “my teacher is already old. you have maesters in your castle, and they have…”
“i do not need maesters, i need someone else.”
you. he would never say it out loud.
you returned to the valerian root, carefully separating the petals, and asked whether another healer had been sent to him.
“one came, but i threw her out. her shit was worse than yours,” he muttered, stepping closer. then he fell silent, his gaze drifting to the window, avoiding your face. “and she did not give me honey.”
you blinked. he sounded almost offended.
that softened you. “i thought you said you were not a child.”
“and you said sweets are not only for children.”
you touched his hair, carefully smoothing the silver strands with your fingers, and he immediately leaned into your touch with his whole body, growing quiet. when silence settled in the hut, he spoke again.
“i do not understand why you reject the comfort of soft beds, abundance of food, and all the treasures of the castle just to stay in this…” he swept his gaze over your poor dwelling with undisguised contempt. “i already offered to send two maesters here, but you are still stubborn.”
“it is not only duty,” you lowered your gaze, studying the intricate embroidery on his clothing and pressing your lips together. “of course i care for my people, but that is not the only reason.
someday i want to become a wife, to marry a worthy man, perhaps have children if the gods will it. but if i go to the castle… there are only high lords and princes there, are there not? i will not find someone who would want to spend his life with a commoner.”
you felt him freeze and swallowed, feeling your throat dry, but you still did not raise your eyes. “men are predictable. you would grow bored after some time, you would take the daughter of a great lord as your wife, and by then i would be left with nothing — neither my knowledge, nor my strength, nor my desires.”
he stayed silent for a long time, frowning, and then he forcefully lifted your chin with his fingers, making you meet his gaze.
“is that what you think will happen?” he asked, his tone becoming frighteningly serious. “do you wish to marry him? that boy?”
you frowned slightly, not immediately understanding who he meant, and when realization hit you, your face twisted in involuntary disgust.
“gods, no! besides, will already has a betrothed.”
suddenly, the tension that had bound his shoulders vanished without a trace, and his features softened. a self-satisfied, almost triumphant relief flared in his gaze. “then i see no problem.”
“you will truly send two maesters here? ones without arrogance, who will treat common folk with sincere dedication?” you said, nervously fiddling with the button on his chest.
his gaze softened in a way no one else would have believed he was capable of. “if that is what you want.”
“good.”
“good,” he repeated, and leaning down, pressed a quick, possessive kiss to your lips.
you looked up at him as he pulled away.
“there is a woman, branna. she is about to give birth. i want the maesters to show her the highest care.”
coming out of the hold of memories, you slowly rose onto your toes and pressed a weightless kiss to the corner of his lips. aerion closed his eyes for a moment, and then, opening them again, cast a short glance at the knight behind your back before returning his gaze to you. “we do not have to take my uncle’s words so literally.”
you only lightly tapped his chest with your palm, cutting those thoughts off at the root. “good night, my prince,” you said at last and, turning away, disappeared behind the door, leaving him standing alone in the silent corridor.
when deep night settled over the castle, you, after finishing washing your face with rose water and chamomile petals, lay half-reclined on the bed. in the dim candlelight you reread your notes, firmly crossing out old healing methods which, as you now knew for certain, had long become obsolete and brought no cure.
suddenly the silence was broken by a sharp sound — the door swung open, and aerion walked into the room with quick steps. he wore only light night clothing: a thin shirt of snow-white linen with a deep, barely laced neckline and loose dark trousers.
he crossed the room quickly and, without asking permission, lay down on your bed, immediately moving closer. you did not even have time to blink when he pulled you to him, burying his face in the curve of your neck and greedily inhaling your scent.
for a moment you froze, yielding to an instinctive reaction, but almost immediately relaxed, gently running your hand through his scattered silver hair.
“does something hurt?” you whispered barely audibly into the dimness.
aerion only gave a low sound against your skin. “not anymore.”
setting your notes aside on the bedside table, you simply stayed still in each other’s arms. you slowly stroked his soft strands, sometimes moving your hand to his broad back or shoulders, feeling the tension gradually leaving his body under your touch.
aerion leaned forward and began to cover your neck with dominant, greedy kisses. he trailed his lips along your jawline, going lower and lower to your very collarbone, and left wet marks on your skin.
"aerion..." you breathed out, feeling the first wave of shivers run through your body. but he did not stop: his teeth bit sharply into the sensitive flesh on your collarbone, and he immediately licked the mark, making you arch convulsively under him.
his palms, hot and impatient, slid to the edge of your nightgown and reached under the thin fabric, squeezing your bare thigh. aerion let out a low, guttural groan, and this sound vibrated in his chest, echoing in your body.
"fuck, it feels so good," he whispered hoarsely before he threw his head back and covered your lips with his. there was no shadow of tenderness in this kiss — only a primal desire held back for too long. you groaned into his mouth, your fingers dug into his shoulders, and this gesture made him make a throaty sound.
"every fucking day when you came and made my cock hard," he said, pulling off his shirt with a jerk and throwing it somewhere into the darkness of the room before his hands returned to your nightgown. "every day when you came too close, and i barely found the strength to hold back."
he pressed against your chest, dominantly squeezing one breast with his palm and caressing the other with his tongue. when he sucked your sensitive nipple into his mouth and bit it slightly, you groaned involuntarily. with a wet, smacking sound, he let go of one breast to go lower, covering your stomach with kisses and leaving marks of his teeth on your soft skin.
suddenly he rose on his knees, looming over you, his eyes dark, with almost no color visible in them.
"have you ever been with a man?" he asked, and his breath hitched.
you shook your head shyly, and a predatory, triumphant smirk immediately bloomed on his face.
"good. i will be your first. and your last."
aerion entered you slowly at first, giving you time to get used to his size and unbearable fullness, but his self-control quickly failed him: unable to endure it, he thrust sharply to the very base. he threw his head back with a low, long moan. "gods...". you froze, closing your eyes tight and clutching his elbows, trying to adjust to this new, sharp reality.
he caught your right hand, intertwining his fingers with yours and pressing it to the pillow. leaning down, he drew you into a deep, intoxicating kiss, starting to move steadily inside. noticing how the tension finally left your face and your sounds became louder, he put his free hand to use. his fingers went lower, starting to tease your clit with circular motions, pushing you to the very edge.
"aerion... i need..." a plea escaped your lips.
he gave a gentle, almost sly chuckle against your lips:
"this is for all those days when you tested my restraint with your fucking massages."
"you were sick... i had to..." you rasped, trying to object, but he only laughed quietly and silenced you with a kiss, penetrating deep with his tongue while his hips began to drive into you in a wild, ragged rhythm.
pleasure hit you like a blinding flash, making your muscles squeeze convulsively around him. at that same moment, aerion let out a loud, crushing groan. his body tensed like a stretched string, and after several final thrusts, he froze, spilling into you in a hot wave that seemed to burn everything inside.
he collapsed heavily onto you, burying his face in the hollow between your neck and shoulder. his breath burned your skin, and residual shocks still ran through your body. then he raised his head for a moment, searching your face. you breathed hard, some strands of your hair stuck to your temples, your eyes watered, and your cheeks were red.
"just like that..." he whispered, exhausted and endlessly satisfied. "this is exactly the face i wanted to see since the very first day."
and then he slowly turned onto his side, not even bothering to wipe the wet traces from your bodies, and in a commanding but surprisingly gentle motion pulled you to his chest. this time there was no sharpness in his movements — he carefully brushed away the strands stuck to your face and kissed your forehead for a long, lingering moment.
for a while you lay in a thick, velvet silence, broken only by your shared breathing, until aerion broke it.
“i bought blue rose oil. i do not know how useful that shit actually is, but i thought you might need it.”
sleepiness left you at once. you sharply lifted your head and looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“aerion, it is almost impossible to get! it is absurdly expensive, it is too —” you began, but he only lazily rolled his eyes, still steadily stroking your hair.
“dragon blood runs in me, and for people like me nothing is out of reach.”
but you knew too well the true cost of that gift. blue rose oil cost a fortune even for the royal treasury, it was the rarest ingredient of all, something the maesters of the citadel could only dream about.
and he had found it only because he decided that you needed it.
your heart filled with unexpected warmth, and you, pressing yourself even closer to him, placed a soft kiss just above his heart. “thank you,” you whispered barely audibly, nestled against his chest.
exhaustion finally took over, and when you were already slipping into fragile oblivion, on the very edge of sleep you heard his quiet, certain voice.
“i decided that i will marry you.”
a/n. masterlists yall tempted me to write a second part and now im in love with him too. who’s paying for this
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep, / But I have promises to keep,” — “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,” Robert Frost
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen/Reader
General Content Warnings: Smut (18+ Only). Female Stark Reader. Arranged Marriage. ASOIAF Book Canon. Dance of the Dragons References. Possible “A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms” spoilers, and general spoilers for the universe at large. Please read the content section of each part before reading!
I: Sharp Teeth — [ 8.87 k ]
After a tumultuous winter, the newly minted Lord of Winterfell takes a risky gamble and evokes a long-forgotten pact to form a union between a Stark and a Targaryen.
II: Northern Spring — [ 4.86 k ]
A Stark bride journeys south and confronts the political weight of her new role, the watchful eyes of the royal court, and the work of forging a place among her husband’s children.
Wrote this ages ago just never finished/published it, and I am working on my requests I just have the attention span of a plant so I forget what I was working on.
It had been decided. You were to find a husband. You had tried to talk your mother and step father into waiting longer, but given you were almost a spinster you were lucky to have been allowed to wait that long.
The king had decided to hold a ball in hopes of finding a wife for his eldest son who was left widowed 4 years ago when his wife died in childbirth with the babe. You knew you had no chance with the prince but it was a good opportunity to meet other lords and hopefully find one tolerable enough to marry.
After dancing with multiple lords all of whom were insufferable you decided to escape to the balcony for some fresh air when you see a young boy curled up in the corner of a bench clearing hoping not to be seen.
“Are you hiding?” You ask the brunette boy who has a tuft of white hair pocking out the side. At his nod you continue. “I am as well.” You say the to boy making sure he knew he wasn’t in trouble. “May I sit? I’m lady y/n.”
At his nod you sit near him hoping to find out why a young boy was hiding on the balcony at a ball and what was wrong as he looked sad. “I know why I’m hiding, why are you?”
“My father is trying to find a wife.” The young boy confesses curling into himself more.
“And you don’t want him to?” You ask softly.
“It’s not that.” He say quickly. “It’s that lady’s keep pretending to like me but I know they don’t.” He says looking at you with his two coloured eyes, tears staring to show.
“Why wouldn’t they like you? You seem like a brilliant young boy to me.” You tell him. Not understanding how anyone could not like a child so adorable. Let alone make it obvious enough that the boy would notice.
“They want their own kids with him to be heir not me.” He says sadly playing with his fingers.
“Well they’re not very smart are they? You’re the eldest if they want their own child to be heir they should pick a lord with no children.” You say like it’s the obvious answer. “And I’m sure your father won’t marry someone who didn’t at the very least like you.”
“Do you want a lord with no children?” He asks starting to uncurling himself getting more comfortable with you.
“I don’t mind, I will probably end up marrying one who has children given that my son will be lord of my house once he’s born. So it makes it easier that way.” You tell the child thinking there was no harm in speaking plainly.
“Why would your son be lord of your house?” He asks intrigued. “I thought it went through men?”
“I’m my father’s only child, he had no male relatives so when he passed everything went to me on the stipulation that when I have a son it will be his.” You explain liking how inquisitive the boy is. “So if I married a lord without children I would have to have at least two sons and we would have to decide which son got what title.”
“But if you married my father I would still be heir and your son would be the lord?” He asks trying to make sense of it.
“In simpler terms yes.” You confirm not thinking of why he could be asking that. “If I married your father you would still inherit his titles as his eldest son and the son we’d have together would get my family’s titles.”
“That’s great.” He says lightening up like you just gave him the best news ever.
“Whats great?” A voice say coming through the doors to the balcony. When you look to see who it is you see the handsome prince Baelor. How could you be so stupid. Seeing them together it was easy to see you had just been talking to the young prince and heir to the seven kingdoms.
“I’ve found you a wife!” The prince announces like it had already been decided. It had. By him.
“What?” You choke before remembering yourself. “I mean I beg your pardon?”
“It’s brilliant.” The young prince says smiling. “You like me, you’re nice and when you have your own son he gets your family titles so I’ll still be king!”
“Hold on a second.” You say talking to the young prince not even addressing his father. “No matter who your father marry’s you will still be heir to the throne. You do realise that right? No one apart from the king can take that from you, no matter who your father marry’s.”
“Why do you think you wouldn’t be my heir if I married Valarr?” Prince Baelor asks his son. As he sits next you on the bench knowing it would be a long conversation, worried about where he got that idea.
“I heard lady’s lysanna and Alysa taking about how if they married you you’d change your mind about me and make your child with them the future king.” He explains and in his mind it made full sense as he’d just been learning about the dance of the dragons.
“That would never happen.” His father reassured feeling horrible for not seeing what was going on with his only child. “You are my eldest son and heir to the seven kingdoms I could have 4 other children and you would still be my heir.”
“Promise?” Valarr says crossing him arms over his chest. “I don’t want us all to die.”
“Why would you die sweetheart?” You ask not even realising you are parenting a prince with his father to focused on just making sure the boy is alright.
“Rhaenyra was named heir but then her father had children with another woman and every one died because they didn’t want her on the throne! What if that happens to me?”
“That’s not going to happen. The dance happened because they didn’t want a woman on the thrown and you my son, are a man so you have nothing to worry about.” Baelor responds as you move over so Valarr can sit in between you both. “If you are this worried I won’t marry. You are my priority Valarr. I hope you know that. I would trade the world for you.”
“You can marry. It just has to be to lady y/n.” He says stubbornly. Definitely a prince.
“It doesn’t work like that sweetheart.” You say to the prince not wanting to upset him but wanting him to understand that you couldn’t marry his father just because he wanted you to. “Your father is the future king he has to think very carefully about who will become queen and I don’t think that person is me.”
“Why not?” He demands really wanting you to marry his father. “You’re nice and grandmother said that’s important.”
“It’s getting late.” Prince Baelor says to his son. “We can talk more on the morow. Ser Ronald will escort you to bed, I will check on you later.” At his word the kings guard appears in the doorway. “Say goodnight to lady y/n.”
“No.” Valarr says climbing into your lap wrapping his little arms around you refusing to let go when his father tells him to. “Marry y/n then I’ll go to bed.”
“We can’t get married that quickly, my little prince.” You lightly giggle into his ear standing with the boy still holding onto you, his legs now resting on your hips his arms on your shoulders. “I refuse to marry a man I don’t know, so I want at least a few moons of courting. So how about we made a deal?”
“A deal?” He ask confused.
“Yes a deal.” You confirm adjusting your grip on the boy. “If you go to bed now with no fighting, I will speak to your father.”
“And marry him?” The hopeful prince asks clearly not letting go of the idea.
“We’ll see.” Baelor says interrupting your back and forth with his son. “But if you wish for us to get to know each other, you need to go to bed my little dragon.”
“Fine.” He agrees letting you place him back on the floor after giving you another squeeze before doing the same to his father and following the guard out. Leaving just you and prince Baelor alone on the balcon. “Night night.”
“I apologise for my son, my lady.” The prince say to you, before greeting you as he should off when you first saw each other, you doing the same in return.“He can be stubborn.”
“Don’t apologise my prince, he’s a sweet boy, I’m sure he’ll make a brilliant king someday.” You say not noticing the miss speak of calling him yours. Too busy looking into his mismatched eyes to realise the mistake. He noticed but didn’t care, to focused on trying to work out the exact colour of your eyes.
“A king is only as good as the queen he has beside him, or that’s what my father says anyway.” Baelor answers with a small smile on his face lifting your hand to kiss the back of it.
“Then I hope you find a good queen, my prince.” You say breathlessly, knowing that if your septa found out the thought you were having about the prince she’d hit you round the head.
Summary: Reciting an old Valyrian spell in the candlelight works and you end up summoning a dragon prince, getting more than you bargained for.
a/n: Modern AU but with magic, let's gooo! I know this is the third series I've started but the idea came to me suddenly and I had to share. Ok but older Aerion though, trained and matured from fighting in the Second Sons and Blackfyre rebellion, you could even say a dilf, still kinda insane though. You can imagine him younger too, ig, doesn't really matter.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, manipulation, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, attempted breeding, I don't think it's necrophilia...Ghostfucking, maybe?
The rain had not stopped all day in King’s Landing.
In a modern city it meant traffic snarled along black glass towers, water streaking down the windows of office blocks, umbrellas bumping shoulders on crowded sidewalks. It meant the smell of damp asphalt drifting in through the revolving doors of corporate buildings.
It meant another evening where you left the firm after dark.
You worked on the thirty-second floor of a sleek, cold tower belonging to one of the most prestigious legal and financial firms in the capital. The sort of place people envied when they heard about it at dinner parties.
You had the position people wanted. You had the salary people wanted. You had the life that, on paper, looked enviable. And yet every day you woke with the same weight in your chest.
The work itself was endless. Emails stacked upon emails, deadlines that crawled over one another like ants, clients who demanded urgency over problems that did not matter. The office lighting was too bright. The air conditioning was too cold. Every meeting felt like you were performing competence instead of living.
By the time you left in the evenings, your mind felt wrung dry.
You rarely had the energy to see friends anymore. Invitations gathered unanswered on your phone. Messages from old university acquaintances remained politely acknowledged but never expanded upon.
It wasn't that you disliked people. You were simply too tired. Too tired to dress up. Too tired to talk. Too tired to pretend enthusiasm.
Instead, you went home to the small apartment you rented not far from the city center, small but clean, with tall bookshelves and a desk permanently cluttered with notebooks.
And on those shelves sat the only thing in your life that made the exhaustion worth enduring.
Valyria.
Old Valyria had fascinated you since childhood. The lost civilization of dragonlords. The empire that had dominated the known world before its sudden destruction in the cataclysm known as the Doom.
Ten centuries ago the dragons had died out. Magic had faded.
What remained were fragments. Scrolls. Cracked tablets. Half-translated inscriptions.
You spent nearly all your extra income chasing them.
Museum memberships. Academic conferences. Antiquarian auctions. Collections of obscure journals and reproductions of damaged manuscripts.
The lost language of High Valyrian had become your obsession.
Not the simplified modern dialects still used in ceremonial contexts, but the ancient version scholars reconstructed from ruins and surviving texts.
A dead language. You loved it anyway.
The sounds were beautiful, sharp and liquid at once, like a blade moving through water.
Tonight, as you stepped into your apartment and closed the door behind you, rain still whispering against the glass, exhaustion pressed down on your shoulders the way it always did.
You dropped your bag onto the table. Kicked off your shoes. Stared for a moment at the stack of papers waiting on your desk. Then your gaze drifted to the newest addition.
The scroll lay carefully unrolled beneath a protective sheet of glass.
You had acquired it only two days earlier.
A rare thing, expensive, but not impossibly so because most scholars believed it to be little more than ritual poetry. The text itself was fragmentary and poorly preserved.
But the script was unmistakably High Valyrian.
You crossed the room slowly, fatigue temporarily forgotten.
Lifting the glass cover, you traced a finger just above the brittle parchment without touching it.
You had spent most of last night translating.
What you found had made you laugh quietly to yourself.
Because it appeared to be a spell.
Not metaphorical religious language. An actual ritual. A calling of ancestors.
The Valyrians had practiced blood magic, that much historians broadly agreed upon.
But that had been long ago. Magic had died with the dragons. Everyone knew that.
The only faith still claiming supernatural power in the modern world was the cult of the Lord of Light, and even they produced little more than parlor tricks and theatrical sermons.
Your scroll, by contrast, was charmingly archaic.
It described lighting candles. Reciting a prayer in High Valyrian. Calling upon the blood of the dragon to answer.
A poetic gesture, surely. Perhaps once performed as part of funerary rites.
Still, you had spent years studying the language. The translation had come surprisingly easily. Which was why, as you changed into comfortable clothes, the idea occurred to you. Not because you believed it would work but because you loved the language, and speaking it aloud felt like breathing life into something that had slept for a thousand years.
You placed three candles on the small table in the center of the room.
The rain outside softened to a steady whisper.
You dimmed the lights.
Then you struck a match. The first candle flickered to life. Then the second. Then the third. The small flames cast warm gold across the apartment walls.
For a moment you felt faintly ridiculous.
You glanced at the scroll again.
“It's not like anything will happen,” you murmured.
The words of the spell were delicate and complex. You had practiced them silently all day. Now you spoke them.
Your High Valyrian was careful but imperfect, the pronunciation shaped by years of academic reconstruction.
The invocation called to blood. To lineage. To the forgotten empire. To the ancestors who had once ruled from the smoking towers of Valyria before the Doom swallowed them.
The language built in rhythm, phrase upon phrase.
You read to the end. Then you lowered the scroll and waited. Nothing happened.
You huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back against the couch.
“Well,” you said to the empty room, “that would have been too easy.”
For a moment everything remained perfectly normal.
Then the flames changed. The candles did not flicker the way small flames usually did.
Instead they stretched upward, longer, brighter. A sudden wind swept through the apartment though every window was closed. The flames surged high, impossibly high, spinning together in a spiral of gold and orange.
Your heart slammed violently against your ribs.
“What the...”
The fire twisted. It gathered. The shape forming within it was wrong. Too large. Too alive. The flames roared upward like a storm. Something moved inside them.
At first it resembled a dragon. Not a full beast but the outline of one. Wings half-formed in fire, a long neck arched.
You stumbled backward.
The heat did not burn you, but it filled the room with a crackling pressure that made your ears ring.
The dragon shape collapsed inward. Then the fire became something else.
A tall figure. Humanoid. Its body was made entirely of flame.
You couldn't breathe.
The figure shifted again.
The fire dimmed.
The heat receded.
And where the inferno had stood a moment before, a man now stood on your living room floor.
He was beautiful in the way statues were beautiful. Alabaster skin. Sharp, prominent cheekbones. Eyes the color of deep violet glass. His hair fell in pale silver waves down his shoulders. He wore clothing that looked like something pulled from historical paintings, dark black and crimson, richly embroidered, cut in the severe elegance associated with the old Targaryen dynasty.
The air still shimmered faintly with heat.
His gaze fixed on you.
And there was something in it that made your stomach drop.
Hunger.
You pressed yourself against the back of the couch, heart racing so fast it felt painful.
“What...what are you?”
The man tilted his head slightly.
Then he smiled.
It was a slow, pleased expression.
“Ah,” he said softly, voice smooth as velvet. “You speak.”
The accent was strange: archaic, precise.
His eyes moved across your apartment curiously before returning to your face.
“I wondered,” he murmured.
You forced your voice to work. “Who are you?”
The man drew himself up with easy, almost theatrical grace.
“I,” he said, “am prince Aerion Targaryen.”
The name meant nothing to you.
Your silence seemed to amuse him.
He stepped closer.
You felt the temperature rise slightly again.
“Prince Aerion Brightflame of the blood of the dragon,” he continued. “Son of a royal line of house Targaryen. Once heir to the Iron Throne.”
Your mind struggled to process the words.
“A Targaryen prince,” you repeated faintly.
He inclined his head. “Yes.”
You swallowed. “That’s impossible.”
His smile widened. “Is it?”
You glanced wildly toward the candles.
They still burned on the table but the flames had grown thinner now, flickering uncertainly.
“You…you were in the fire.”
“A convenient doorway.”
Your mind raced.
“This…this can’t be real. Magic died centuries ago. When the dragons...”
“When the last dragons died,” Aerion finished calmly.
“Yes.”
He considered you for a moment. “Magic fades,” he said. “But it does not disappear entirely.”
Your pulse still thundered in your ears. “What did I do?”
“You called.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the scroll on the table.
“You used an ancestral summoning. Crude by old standards but effective.”
You stared at him.
“But I don’t have Valyrian blood.”
Aerion’s eyes lifted again. They glowed faintly in the candlelight.
“Child,” he said softly, “you would not have reached me otherwise.”
Your stomach tightened. “I…I don’t look Valyrian.”
“Time erodes many things.”
He stepped closer again. Too close. You could smell smoke and something sharp, like heated metal.
“There were many branches of the dragon’s blood,” he continued thoughtfully. “Not all remained within the royal line. Over centuries the blood thins…spreads…hides.”
He looked around your small apartment again.
His expression turned faintly disdainful. “And yet here you are.”
You bristled despite the fear. “What’s wrong with it?”
Aerion gestured lightly at the room. “You live in a cramped stone box. You labor for coin like a merchant’s daughter.”
He looked back at you. “You are blood of the dragon. Your ancestors ruled empires.”
Your laugh came out sharp. “Well my ancestors aren’t paying my rent.”
He regarded you curiously. “You are unhappy.”
You hesitated. Then sighed. “Yes.”
He studied you for a long moment. Then something like interest flickered across his face. “Fortunate.”
You frowned. “Why fortunate?”
Aerion stepped behind you suddenly.
You stiffened as he circled you. His chest brushed your back. The contact was startlingly solid, warm and real.
A low sound escaped him. A groan. As if the simple sensation of proximity pleased him far more than it should have.
“You feel alive,” he murmured.
His hands hovered near your waist.
You went very still. “Aerion...”
“Do you know what death is like for a Valyrian?”
Your throat tightened. “No.”
“We are not sent to darkness,” he said softly. “Nor to the heavens of other faiths.”
His breath ghosted faintly against your neck. “Our dead awaken in something…else.”
Your pulse raced faster.
“An ancestral plane,” he continued. “A reflection of Valyria as it existed before the Doom. Towers. Rivers of fire. Endless skies.”
You swallowed. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It is not life.”
His voice dropped. “We exist. We remember. We wait. Our gods don't show themselves. We do not posses a defined form as we did in life.”
His fingers finally settled on your waist. The touch was firm.
“I have not felt another body since my death,” he murmured.
A shiver ran down your spine.
“That was…centuries ago.”
“Yes.”
You forced yourself to think. “You said I called you.”
“I did.”
“And you can do magic.”
“To a degree. Death has its benefits in that regard.”
His thumb traced slowly along your side. “Blood binds power.”
Your voice came out slightly breathless. “What does that mean?”
“It means I can influence your life,” he said. “Your fortune. Your path.”
Your mind snapped back to attention. “Luck?”
“Yes.”
“You could just…make things better?”
“I could.”
You turned your head slightly. “And what would you want in return?”
Aerion’s smile returned. Sharp. Pleased. He leaned closer until his lips hovered near your ear.
“Three wishes,” he said softly.
Your breath caught.
“Within the limits of my power. Wealth. Opportunity. Freedom from the drudgery you despise.”
“And the price?”
His hands tightened faintly at your waist. “Three moons.”
Your brow furrowed. “Aerion, that’s not very specific.”
He chuckled quietly. “Servitude.”
Your stomach flipped. “What kind of servitude?”
His mouth brushed lightly against the curve of your neck, not quite a kiss.
“Each night,” he said, voice low with anticipation, “you summon me.”
Your pulse pounded. “And?”
“And you offer me your body.”
Silence filled the room. Your thoughts spun wildly.
He continued calmly. “I cannot kill, unfortunately. I cannot resurrect the dead. Life and death is not within my grasp. My power also cannot reshape the world beyond your life. I am bound to you, my blood.”
His fingers slid slowly along your side again. “But within your life…I can grant much.”
You closed your eyes briefly.
Three wishes.
A way out of the exhausting life you hated.
Money. Freedom. Security.
You opened your eyes again. “And if I refuse?”
Aerion withdrew his hands. His tone remained mild. “Then the candles burn out…and I return to my limbo.”
He paused. “And you return to your miserable life in the morn.”
You stared at the floor. Your job. The endless exhaustion. The quiet loneliness.
Three months.
You exhaled slowly. “Three wishes,” you said.
“Yes.”
“And I can summon you again.”
“With the spell. Add my name so only I will answer. Otherwise, next time you might end up with a man like Bloodraven.”
You hesitated. Then nodded. “Fine.”
The word left your mouth before you could reconsider.
Aerion’s eyes lit with unmistakable delight. “Excellent.”
He moved so quickly you barely saw it. His mouth crashed against yours. The kiss was fierce. Ravenous. Centuries of hunger poured into the contact. You gasped against his lips as he pulled you closer, the heat of him seeping through your clothes.
“You cannot imagine,” he murmured roughly, “how long I have waited to feel this again.”
He lifted you effortlessly into his arms. Your heart hammered wildly as he carried you towards the bedroom.
“The candles,” you said faintly.
He glanced toward the living room.
“They burn still.”
You barely had time to react before he laid you down.
Aerion’s silver hair fell forward as he leaned over you, violet eyes bright with something fierce and ancient.
“I can only remain while the fire lives,” he said softly.
Your breath came uneven. “And after?”
“You summon me again tomorrow night.” His fingers brushed your cheek with surprising gentleness. “Three moons.”
He smiled. “Let us begin.”
He did not remain gentle for long. He sank into you without much preamble.
Time had become difficult to measure.
The world had narrowed to warmth, the shifting weight of a body that had not belonged to the living world for centuries and yet felt startlingly real.
Aerion moved with a kind of restless intensity, as though he feared the candles might die at any moment and drag him back into whatever strange half-existence waited beyond the veil. There was eagerness in the way he touched you, curiosity as well, a prince rediscovering something he had once taken for granted and lost for far too long.
And, embarrassingly for him, impatience.
He finished quickly. You were startled to feel his seed spill into you. For some reason, you hadn't considered that he'd be capable of producing bodily fluids, even though he felt plenty alive and warm-bloodied. After the first time, he leaned back on his hands with a sharp exhale, silver hair falling across his face as he looked down at you with narrowed violet eyes.
“That,” he said slowly, “was…shorter than I would prefer.”
Despite everything, despite the impossible circumstances, despite the lingering shock, you found yourself laughing breathlessly.
“I’m sorry,” you said, still trying to steady your breathing. “Is there a proper schedule for ghost princes?”
“I am not a ghost.”
He sounded mildly offended by the word, though his mouth twitched faintly.
“A spirit,” he amended after a moment. “A soul. A remnant of royal blood. But not a ghost.”
“Right.”
He considered the situation for another moment, clearly displeased with his own lack of endurance. Then he leaned down again, one hand sliding along your waist, his expression sharpening with determination.
“My body,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, “has not known warmth of a woman in centuries.”
His gaze lifted to yours again. “It appears it must reacquaint itself.”
The second time lasted longer. So did the third.
Aerion’s confidence returned steadily with each attempt, the impatience melting into something more controlled. The frantic hunger softened into fascination. Every touch seemed to delight him anew, as though the simple reality of another person beneath his hands was still miraculous. He even deigned to learn how to make you cum, tutting when you writhed beneath him. You suspected that he only helped you finish because he enjoyed the feeling of your wetness gushing as he was still rocking his hips into you, groaning as your walls tightened around his cock.
Several times he paused only long enough to study you with open curiosity, brushing his fingers over your arms, your shoulders, your throat as though memorizing the shapes.
“Remarkable,” he murmured once.
“You’re staring,” you pointed out.
“I am appreciating.”
You rolled your eyes, though the heat in your face betrayed you.
By the time the candles had burned noticeably lower, both of you were lying tangled in the sheets, the room warm with lingering heat. Aerion stretched beside you, one arm behind his head, looking far more pleased with himself now than he had earlier.
“That,” he declared with satisfaction, “is much better.”
“You’re very proud of yourself.”
“I have reason to be.”
He turned his head toward you, violet eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light.
“And now,” he continued lazily, “a promise must be honored.”
You shifted slightly, propping yourself on one elbow. “The wishes.”
“Yes.”
Aerion reached out, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your stomach as he spoke, the motion absentminded and strangely intimate.
“Your first request was fortune,” he said. “Riches obtained through luck rather than labour.”
“That’s the idea.”
His expression turned thoughtful.
“Luck is easily bent,” he said. “Coins fall the right way. Opportunities appear at the correct moment. Men with wealth become suddenly generous.”
He glanced up at you.
“And I assure you, there will be no consequences. I will not entangle you in misfortune disguised as gifts. Your fortune will come cleanly.”
You searched his face for a moment. “You can really do that?”
“I can.”
His hand moved slowly across your abdomen, warm and heavy.
“It is a pity,” he added almost idly, “that my power does not extend further.”
You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
Aerion’s fingers stilled.
“If I possessed the full strength of my blood as I did in life…I could shape flesh. Bind life.”
Your stomach tightened faintly when his hand pressed more firmly there.
“It is a shame,” he continued thoughtfully, “that I cannot create life now.”
You blinked. “That’s…a very strange thing to say so casually.”
Aerion tilted his head. “Is it?”
His eyes swept over you again with the same measuring look he had given earlier.
“You would bear strong children,” he said. “And with my blood, their Valyrian heritage would be far purer than yours has remained through the centuries.”
You let out a startled laugh. “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
“Perhaps.” He did not sound particularly convinced.
Instead, he shifted onto his side, propping his head on his hand as he looked at you more closely. “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Are you courted?”
You stared at him. “Courted?”
“Yes.”
You laughed again, louder this time. “No.”
Aerion’s brow creased. “No?”
“I work forty-five hours a week,” you reminded him. “I barely see my friends. Dating isn’t exactly a priority.”
He studied your expression carefully, as if confirming that you were telling the truth.
Then his demeanor shifted. The lazy amusement disappeared, replaced by something more severe. “You will not take lovers while you are bound to me.”
The firmness of his voice caught you off guard.
“Excuse me?”
His gaze held yours steadily. “You have given three moons of service,” he said. “Your body belongs to me during that time.”
“That seems a little dramatic.”
“It is appropriate.”
“You’re not even alive.”
Aerion’s expression hardened slightly. “You will not whore yourself out while you serve me.”
The blunt phrasing made you snort despite yourself. “I wasn’t planning on ‘whoring myself out,’ thanks.”
“Good.” He relaxed again almost instantly, the tension draining from his posture, satisfied.
After a moment of quiet, you stretched and glanced toward the doorway where the candlelight had grown noticeably dimmer.
“They’re burning down,” you said.
Aerion followed your gaze. “Yes.”
“You’ll disappear when they go out?”
“That is the nature of the spell.”
You pushed yourself upright slightly. “Do you…want something to eat before that happens?”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “Food?”
“There’s leftovers in the fridge.”
Aerion considered the suggestion for a moment before shaking his head.
“I do not feel hunger,” he said. “Nor cold. Nor fatigue.”
His lips curved faintly. “I would feel taste, I could gain little pleasure from eating but not so much that I want to eat for the sake of it.”
“But you do get pleasure from…” You gestured vaguely toward the bed.
His smile sharpened. “Yes.”
He reached out and pulled you gently back down beside him, brushing your hair away from your face with surprising care.
“That,” he said softly, “is something I remember well.”
The room had grown darker now, the candle flames reduced to small trembling points of light.
Aerion leaned closer, studying you as though committing your face to memory.
“For centuries,” he murmured, “there has been nothing but stillness.”
His fingers slid lightly along your cheek. “And then you called.”
You weren’t sure what to say to that. So you said nothing.
Aerion leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time, less ravenous than before but no less intense.
When he finally pulled away, the candlelight was flickering sharply.
One flame sputtered. Then another.
Aerion glanced toward the doorway, already fading slightly at the edges.
“Tomorrow night,” he reminded you.
“Tomorrow night,” you echoed.
He brushed his thumb across your lip once. “Do not forget my name when you summon me.”
“I won’t.”
The final candle guttered.
For a brief moment his figure shimmered like heat above a fire.
Then prince Aerion Targaryen vanished with the dying flame.
And you were alone again in your apartment, the rain still whispering against the glass as if nothing extraordinary had happened at all.
Part 2
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Character Blurb
Maekar Targaryen x Reader | Modern AU | Single Dad | Slow Burn
Word Count: 475
A/N: I love this man so much! Let me know what you guys think 🫶
✦ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ✦
He doesn’t flirt.
He doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t soften.
What he does instead is watch.
✦ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ✦
There’s something about him you notice immediately.
The way people move when he enters a room.
The way his voice drops when he’s irritated low, controlled, dangerous.
He doesn’t ask for control.
He already has it.
✦ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ✦
He has six children.
A house that still feels like it belongs to someone else.
And a ring he has never taken off.
Not even once.
(…almost.)
✦ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ✦
He does not touch you.
Not at first.
Not for a long time.
But he notices everything.
The way you talk back.
The way you don’t flinch when he looks at you like that.
The way you step just a little too close, like you’re testing something.
Like you want him to react.
✦ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ✦
And he does.
Just not in ways anyone else can see.
A shift in his breathing.
A pause too long.
A glance that lingers
just a second past what’s appropriate.
✦ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ✦
He thinks about you when he shouldn’t.
At work.
In the quiet.
Late at night, when the house finally settles and there’s nothing left to distract him.
You slip into his thoughts like something unwelcome.
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x Reader
AU: Modern | Single Dad | Grumpy x Sunshine | Neighbor AU
Warnings: Language, mild chaos (children), Maekar being… Maekar Word Count: 560 A/N: Based off of a blurb I saw on tiktok! I cannot get the AKOTSK men out of my head... let me know what you guys think!
✦ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ✦
You notice it before you even open your eyes.
Engines.
Doors slamming.
Voices, too many voices.
Your brow furrows as you roll over, squinting toward the window, sunlight already too bright for this early in the morning.
“…what the hell…”
You drag yourself out of bed and shuffle over, pulling the curtain just enough to peek out.
And then
Oh.
Moving trucks.
Plural.
The house across the street, the one that’s been empty for months, quiet and dark and just slightly eerie at night, is suddenly alive.
Men hauling furniture.
Boxes stacked everywhere.
And
Children.
So many children.
You blink, counting instinctively.
One—no, two—three—
Six.
Six kids, ranging from a tiny thing clutching a stuffed animal to one who looks like he’s already halfway to adulthood, standing off to the side like he’s been through this too many times already.
“Jesus Christ,” you mumble.
And then you see him.
He stands a little apart from the chaos, like he refuses to be swallowed by it.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dark coat despite the warming morning.
One hand shoved into his pocket, the other dragging through his hair in a slow, frustrated motion.
He says something to one of the movers low, sharp, and even from across the street you can tell it’s not particularly polite.
“…no, that goes in the fucking no, the other room. The other, are you deaf or just determined to piss me off?”
Yeah.
Definitely not polite.
You shouldn’t stare.
You do anyway.
There’s something about him, something heavy. Controlled. Like all of this
The kids.
The move.
The noise.
is sitting on his shoulders and he’s just… enduring it.
Not enjoying it.
Not complaining.
Just carrying it.
Your eyes flick back to the children.
The youngest, maybe four or five, has wandered dangerously close to the sidewalk, wide-eyed and curious.
Before you can even fully register it, the man moves.
Quick.
Efficient.
Two long strides and he’s there, hand closing around the back of the kid’s shirt and hauling him back without even looking down.
“Stay where I can see you,” he mutters, voice rough but not unkind.
The kid just nods, like he’s used to it.
Like all of them are.
Your chest tightens, just a little.
And then
The smallest one spots you.
A tiny hand lifts.
Waving.
Bright, excited, like this is all some grand adventure.
You freeze.
Then, automatically, you wave back.
And that’s when he looks up.
Right at you.
There’s no softness in it.
No smile.
Just a sharp, assessing glance
and then a short nod.
Brief.
Acknowledging.
Like he’s clocked you, filed you away, and decided you’re not an immediate problem.
But
He doesn’t look away right away.
Just a second too long.
Enough for something strange to settle low in your stomach.
Then he turns, already barking another order.
“Gods, if that gets scratched I’m taking it out of your pay—careful with it, I mean it”
WARNINGS: dark themes, arranged marriage, fluff, aerion is a warning himself, gentle!reader, aerion's only soft with her, obsessive behaviour, ooc aerion.
⸺ disclaimer : english isn't my first language :/ upd : omg ??? thank you so much for your love !! gifs cr : @ lady-arryn; @ s_attayee
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he never leaves your side at the wedding.
You still remember your mother’s one wish before the mysterious fever had claimed her life – the same words she had been telling you since you were a child.
"Let love always be your choice, darling. Do not repeat my fate."
She never spoke in long speeches, yet you knew. Your mother was too wise a woman – she never put things plainly. There was no need for it; you've always been a clever girl.
Never marry a lord out of duty. It will eat you alive, until nothing of you remains.
And here you were, from head to toe in your wedding attire, dressed entirely in red – the colour of his house.
At least you didn't break the promise you had given to your mother, did you? He is everything but a lord.
Your husband. The one you were meant for.
A cruel prince who has gone mad – that's what people say about him. A monster who takes pleasure in hurting others.
Aerion Targaryen.
A dragon in human form – his heart is too cold to be tamed, too hot to be approached.
Yet your father didn't care enough to do something about it.
After all, you were truly your mother's daughter.
Turning your head slightly, you studied his profile: pale silver hair that he had run his fingers through countless times, a tense jawline and eyes filled with nothing but irritation.
You couldn't blame him, honestly. The air was thick with the smell of wine, meat, and sweat. Men, treating your wedding feast as just another excuse to get drunk, glance at you with an interest that bordered on the obscene.
"Dragons don't need love," he had said when you first came here. "Don't bother trying. It will make you look pathetic."
But he was there, sitting beside you, even though most of the wedding has already passed, leaving only the drunkards behind. You had expected him to leave as soon as his father had returned to his chambers, but he hadn't.
Instead, Aerion's eyes stayed fixed on someone else.
"I'm going to rip that scum's eyes out right here."
Frowning at his sudden threat, you followed his gaze and noticed an older man with a shaggy beard staring at your cleavage.
Oh.
You let out a soft laugh. "He's not the first."
"He will be the last."
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he was mindful of your pleasure on your wedding night.
Aerion's footsteps were loud in your quiet chambers as he slowly entered, still wearing his finery. It seemed you were the only one who needed such preparation.
The wedding night. To consummate the marriage, to fulfill the very reason you had been sent here: into the dragon’s grasp.
You recalled all your aunt’s stories about such nights of pain and impassive husbands. Your heart skipped a beat at the realization that your fate was no different from your mother's – perhaps even worse.
Your father was an honest man. He never loved your mother, nor did he seek to pretend – not for you, and certainly not for his wife.
He wasn't cruel. He never laid a hand on you, never spoke harshly, never punished you for the kind of whims children are prone to. Not once did he force your mother to bear one child after another to secure an heir.
And maybe that was the problem: he felt nothing at all.
Aerion noticed your mood shift – of course he did. He notices everything, you thought. He had taken you to the garden when you could no longer endure your family’s expectations, and after a silent walk, you parted ways to prepare for what was to come that night.
The longer the servants prepared you, the more you felt their sticky, pity-laden gazes. Words never left their lips, but there was no need: you knew exactly what they meant.
“A cruel fate for one so young.”
“You’ve done nothing to deserve this, my princess.”
"May the Gods have mercy upon you."
You smiled softly in response. There were fates far worse than yours.
Lost in thought, you didn't even notice when Aerion came close enough for you to feel his presence. He ran his hand through your hair, slowly combing it with his fingers.
Gently, almost tenderly.
"They're softer than I imagined," he murmured, as if mesmerised.
You froze, his touch somehow soothing you, then slightly leaned towards him, unsure of what to expect.
You slowly turned around to look at him and felt your breath hitch in your throat. His gaze was already roaming over your face, as if he wanted to remember every detail.
He wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you closer until you shared one breath. "You are the dragon's wife now," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm not interested in hurting what's mine."
Then his lips crashed onto yours with such force you’d have fallen if he weren’t holding you so tightly.
There was nothing gentle about it, nothing subtle. He made no attempt to play the part of a good husband. Aerion kissed you like a man certain of what was his. Hungrily, he pulled you in, while you responded at your own pace. You kissed him slowly, as though you had all the time in the world.
He broke the kiss and let his lips wander along the line of your jaw to your neck, lightly grazing your skin with his teeth.
"Aerion," you whispered his name, and he let out a sound that was almost a growl. His teeth sank above your collarbone, his tongue leaving a mark that would remain as proof of your night.
A part of you wondered if he’d allow you to do the same.
You kept your thoughts to yourself. One day, maybe.
A little moan slipped from your lips, making him lift you so effortlessly – as if you had always belonged in his arms – as he guided you towards the bed. You gasped, wrapping your legs around him as he claimed your mouth once more.
"Perhaps this time," you thought, "your aunt was wrong."
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he won't let you sleep apart from him.
"Egg isn't feeling well, and I need to be there for him." You were supposed to return to Aegon’s chambers to read him a bedtime story about knights. Yet here you were – Gods knew for how long – in your chambers, arguing with your husband about... about what, actually?
"If he is not feeling well, he can call a fucking maid who'll read him those stupid stories. And you certainly don't need to waste your night on him."
"I can’t bear the thought of him waking up in the middle of the night, Aerion," you stepped closer to him. "Terrified that no one is there."
You stopped in front of him and tried to meet his eyes, but he stared somewhere far off, his jaw tight. You did what you’d learned over the last month, what you knew would soothe him. You leaned against him, laying your head on his chest; his heartbeat is quick under your ear. His hands almost automatically – instinctively – wrapped around your waist and squeezed you lightly.
"He's our brother, our little treasure," your voice is soft – as always – you never raised your voice.
That made him snort. "And I'm your husband."
You blinked.
Then pulled back enough to face him and finally understood what the problem was.
How could you have missed that?
Since that night of the wedding, you’d always slept together. He never let you go to your own chambers.
Your hips burn with a sweet pain; you feel every mark he left on your body, every grip that will surely turn into bruises. You are exhausted; your husband is lying on top of you, his nose tracing your neck. The skin-to-skin contact feels so intimate, it’s almost laughable considering what just happened.
You know, however, that comfort like this is only temporary and you can’t let yourself get used to it. You try to get up, the pain in your hips makes it impossible to think clearly, but that’s a worry for another day.
"Where are you going?" his voice is hoarse, heavy with pleasure and something else you can’t quite recognize yet.
You tilt your head slightly. "To my own bed."
He fixes you with a look that leaves no room for argument. The decision has already been made, and all you can do is accept it.
“You will sleep here.” He pulls you back against him, his arm wrapping around your waist in a possessive hold, your back resting against his chest.
You can't help but smile. He wants you to sleep beside him. Together.
He buries his nose in your hair, deeply breathing in the scent of lavender – the soap used by the servants to wash the princess's hair. His hand rests on your stomach in possessive grip, as if protecting what has yet to exist.
"I thought dragons knew nothing of love," you lean towards him, speaking tenderly, causing him to murmur something under his breath. A sense of calm and something you can't name yet blooms in your chest.
"They don't." His voice is rough, but his grip hasn’t loosened at all. "You are my wife, it’s my duty to sleep with you. Do not be fooled."
But when you wake up, sunlight pours over the bed, and he is still holding you as if you could vanish at any moment – you knew better.
And now, waking beside him – even though you clearly remembered falling asleep by Egg’s bedside – you saw that he was not the monster everyone else believed him to be.
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he spoils you.
Taking off another bracelet engraved with his initials, you found your gaze was drawn to the jewelry box, filled with pieces he has given you - dragon pendants, countless bracelets in black and scarlet. Your eyes then move to the armoire, filled with dresses of the purest silk, tailored just for you by the best.
The books you've only ever mentioned once in your morning talks rested on the shelves, which seemed to appear by some unseen hand whenever you spoke of a new one.
"It is likely the servants," he said, avoiding your gaze. "Or one of my stupid brothers who wants to impress you."
A gentle laugh escaped you as you move towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands clung to you immediately, almost without him realizing.
You swayed lightly. "Maybe."
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he comes to you when things get difficult.
It was late at night when you had decided to walk through the garden, enjoying the quiet and breathtaking view that had become so familiar.
You had spent the day guiding Aegon through the history of his ancestors – he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to outdo Aerion – before finally deciding to rest because you had started feeling dizzy.
There had been no time to see your husband; you had simply assumed he was busy with his training.
How wrong you were.
When you entered the chambers, he was already there, standing with his back to you, staring off into the distance.
He didn't acknowledge you when you entered, yet you noticed the signs of recognition. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, as though he was finally letting himself be at ease beside you.
"Husband."
He kept silent.
Instead, he turned and walked toward you slowly. There was none of that teasing sparkle or even a hint of mockery in his eyes—only fatigue and acceptance, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Then, to your surprise, he leaned in and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent that reminded him of home.
"My mother would've loved you," he whispered, a quiet, wry smile in his tone.
No pretense, no show. Sincere.
It was only then that you realized: Egg's sudden urge to learn something new, why it had been so quiet – no servants bustling about, no Daeron pestering you with his philosophical debates.
Their mother. They all needed something to distract them.
You lifted your hands to the back of his head, caressing his hair gently, making him pull you closer. A quiet hum escaped him, followed by a small kiss on your neck. It felt as if you’d melted into him - he held you so tightly as though the slightest distance could carry you away forever.
“I’m sure she was a wonderful woman,” you said, kissing him beneath his ear. “She gave me you, and a few more sisters and brothers besides.”
He smirked but didn't let go for a moment. "Could’ve just stopped at me, my precious wife."
You smiled, not falling for his little act. He tried to play it off as a joke, to hide his weakness - but you wouldn't let him. Not here. Not with you.
“I’m here,” you whispered, leaving small kisses to soothe the tremble he desperately tried to suppress.
His hands roamed across your back, fingers spread wide, his breathing deep and rapid. He clung to you like his life depended on it, and you didn't complain.
You could feel it. He didn't say much, but you knew. He needed you just as much as you needed him.
“You’ll always be here,” he said in a voice so low you’d hardly have heard it unless you were right there. “You’ll never leave me.”
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he cannot stand your tears.
In all the time you’ve spent here, you had never shed a tear. There was no reason to - everything you needed was already yours. People starved, gave their lives for the land; a princess's tears would have seemed ridiculous.
But this time you couldn't keep it in.
It was supposed to be an ordinary day like any other - jousts, a feast honouring the noble guests. Yet everything went wrong when word reached you that Aerion had lost his mind and broken the fingers of an innocent girl.
Your heart ached for the girl who had only been playing and having fun, unaware of how it would all turn out.
He would never hurt you, but that didn’t make it any easier seeing him harm another so calmly.
The door opened and you sensed his heavy steps before you heard them. You didn't give him your usual gentle smile - the one he's used to seeing from you.
"She mocked our family, our very blood," he said. There was a note of irritation in his voice at having to justify his actions so openly to you.
Dragons owed nothing to anyone. They acted, and they took pleasure in the results. Yet here he stood behind you, covered in blood and still proud, unable to bear even the thought that you might be hurting.
You didn't respond.
"This is treason," he continued, unused to your silence.
You were barely holding back your tears - you didn't want him to see them. Not from shame, never. But because crying wouldn't change anything. But what he said next shattered you completely and your gentle heart couldn't take it anymore.
"She's lucky it was just her fingers. I’d have taken her head if I’d told the King."
A quiet sob escaped you, one you couldn't hold back.
It was foolish. You knew the man he was. Even softened by you, dragon blood still ran through him. And you knew why he was frustrated, why that play had offended him so deeply - after all, his bloodline had been insulted, ridiculed.
And yet the image of a young girl of your age appeared before your eyes; her gaze swimming with tears, her hands powerless.
At first, Aerion froze at the sound. You’ve never cried, he thought. You’ve never looked away from him.
Then, as if the realization struck him, he strode across the room and turned you to face him, gently taking you by the elbow.
His eyes wandered across your face, as if he physically needed to ensure you were unharmed. You knew he would behead anyone who even dared think of hurting you.
And for the first time that didn't bring you any comfort.
It didn't scare you either - he had never scared you. He was your husband, the other part of your soul and you would always choose him. You would always stand by his side.
Still, a tiny piece of sorrow remained inside you – a quiet awareness that no one else would ever know just how loving and caring he could be.
He would always be a monster to them.
His eyes didn't leave yours, which were now red and swollen from tears that wouldn't stop falling. You noticed the frown that crossed his face as he realized why you were like this.
He leaned in and kissed your damp, flushed cheeks, letting his lips linger a moment longer than expected.
“Dragons do not pardon traitors, my love,” he said softly, confused as to why you were so concerned about a mere commoner, unworthy of any of your attention. Your normally bright face was covered with such a deep sorrow that his heart ached.
I’ll let her go,” Aerion murmured. “Would that make you feel better?”
You nodded slowly, still unsure whether he would keep his promise, unsure whether your wish alone could tame his temper. “Yes, my love.”
His eyes remained on you, studying your face for the smallest sign of doubt that might hurt you further. When he found none, he nodded and pulled you into his arms.
Summary: Taken as spoil of war, you are forced into betrothal with Oyvind , a Viking who calls you his with terrifying certainty. A story of captivity, possessive devotion, and a love that grows in the shadows.
A/N: Quick update on our favorite Viking
Masterlist
༄ ────────────── ༄
You wake before him.
His arms are wrapped tightly around you, heavy and warm, caging you against his chest.
But this time, it doesn’t feel like a prison.
It feels like shelter.
His heartbeat thuds steady beneath your ear. His breathing is slow, deep, the breath of something powerful at rest.
Carefully, you trace the scars along his arms.
Old ones pale and smooth.
Newer ones raised, rough.
Each one a story.
Each one proof that he survives.
You shift to face him.
In sleep, Oyvind looks different.
Softer.
The hard line of his mouth relaxed. His brows no longer furrowed in warning. Morning light turns the gold in his eyes warm, almost gentle.
You lift your hand and trace his face.
Feather-light.
Memorizing him.
He stirs.
His arm tightens instinctively around you.
Even asleep, he does not let you go.
You freeze but he does not wake.
The warmth pulls you under again.
You burrow into him.
And sleep.
༄ ────────────── ༄
When you wake the second time, he is already watching you.
Drowsy gold eyes.
Soft.
“Yes, little snowdrop?” he murmurs when you croak his name.
Snowdrop.
You don’t know when that became yours.
“Is it time to get up?” you whisper.
“Not yet.”
His hand slides slowly up and down your back.
Unhurried.
Possessive.
Comforting.
You melt against him.
“Just a little longer,” he murmurs.
You nod into his neck.
He chuckles low in his chest.
“You’re so warm and soft.”
“Mmm. Thanks.”
“You cannot get enough of my warmth, hm?”
You shake your head against him.
“No.”
His grip tightens slightly.
“Good. You are mine to keep warm.”
And you don’t argue.
You just drift.
“Thank you,” you mumble, half asleep.
His voice turns almost reverent.
“You do not thank me. Just rest.”
༄ ────────────── ༄
When you wake again, the bed is empty.
But breakfast waits.
He returns with two plates, broad shoulders filling the doorway, sunlight behind him.
You smile sleepily.
“Thank you.”
He grunts but his eyes warm.
You eat beside him, asking about the unfamiliar sweetness on your plate.
“It is karelsk most,” he says, almost proud. “Thought you needed something sweet this morning.”
Your cheeks warm.
It is good.
Very good.
“What should I do today?” you ask. “While you do your warrior things?”
He grows thoughtful.
He does not like leaving you alone.
That much is obvious.
“There is a market,” he says slowly. “Near the center of the village. A fabric stall you may enjoy.”
Then his tone shifts.
“If anyone gives you trouble, you find me immediately.”
“I will.”
“You better.”
You smile at him in the mirror while dressing.
“If I am to stay here… I need to know the village.”
He exhales heavily.
“I do not like you out there without me.”
You squeeze his hand.
“I will be fine.”
He searches your face.
Finally nods.
“I will meet you for lunch.”
༄ ────────────── ༄
The market is alive.
Spices. Bread. Cured meats.
Bright fabrics.
Voices layered over one another.
You feel eyes on you, your lighter hair makes you stand out.
But today, it does not suffocate you.
You wander.
You observe.
You breathe.
At the center of the village, children play.
They pause when they see you.
Watching.
Curious.
“Hello,” you offer gently.
A brave little girl steps forward.
“Who are you?”
“I am Y/N,” you reply. “Oyvind brought me here.”
Their eyes widen.
“I’m Thorfinn!” a little boy announces proudly, holding up three fingers. “I’m this many!”
You giggle.
“So close to being a mighty warrior.”
The children relax around you.
One girl asks, “Do you fight?”
“Not much,” you admit. “But I admire those who do.”
“I want to be like Oyvind!” she declares.
They all nod eagerly.
You lean closer.
“Do not tell him I said this… but deep down, he is a softy.”
Gasps.
“Oyvind is a softy?” Thorfinn whispers.
“Only for those he loves.”
You do not see him approaching.
But the children do.
They light up.
You turn
and squeal when you nearly collide with him.
He is watching you.
Not suspicious.
Not sharp.
Just… proud.
“Looks like you’ve made friends,” he says.
“More like they’ve won me over,” you laugh, gently squeezing Thorfinn’s cheek.
synopsys: In which your husbands dragon knows something you don't
au where the dragons are alive
tw; ooc dragon ig
wordcount: 3.3k
requested by @ntcc2605
The morning light filtered through the gauze curtains of your chambers, painting the room in shades of gold and rose. You stretched languidly beneath the silk sheets, a smile already forming on your lips before you even opened your eyes. The other side of the bed was empty, but the indent in the pillow beside you was still warm, and you could hear the soft sounds of someone moving about the adjoining sitting room.
"Valarr?" you called out, your voice still thick with sleep.
A moment later, your husband appeared in the doorway, already dressed in a loose tunic and riding leathers. His brown hair, with that bright streak of silver-gold running through it was slightly disheveled, as though he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. His mismatched eyes lit up the moment they found you, and the smile that spread across his face made your heart flutter in a way that three moons of marriage had done nothing to diminish.
"You're awake," he said, crossing the room in three long strides and sitting on the edge of the bed. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. "I was trying to let you sleep."
"Mmm." You looped your arms around his neck, keeping him close. "And where were you going, all dressed up like that?"
The slight shift in his expression told you everything you needed to know. You'd been married long enough now to recognize that particular look, the one that meant he wanted something, something he suspected you wouldn't like, and was trying to figure out the best way to ask for it.
"Aerrix needs exercise," he said carefully. "I thought I'd take her out for a flight before breakfast."
You stiffened almost imperceptibly, but Valarr caught it. Of course he caught it. He caught everything where you were concerned, had done since the very beginning.
You remembered those stolen nights before your marriage with perfect clarity, the way he'd find you in dark corridors during feasts, pulling you into alcoves and empty chambers just to have a moment alone with you. The way he'd climb down from his dragon and run to you the moment he landed, unable to bear even the few minutes it took to stable the beast properly. The way he'd whisper promises of forever against your skin in the moonlight.
Valarr Targaryen, the Young Prince, and absolutely, completely, hopelessly in love with you. And you with him.
But there was one part of him you couldn't quite love, no matter how hard you tried.
Aerrix.
You'd never met the dragon, thank the Seven. You'd seen her from a distance, of course a massive creature of black and white, scales seeming to shift between the two colors depending on how the light hit her. She was larger than most of the other dragons, and louder, and from what you'd heard, meaner. The dragon keepers gave her a wide berth. The other dragon riders kept their own mounts carefully separated from her during flights. And everyone, everyone, knew that Aerrix tolerated exactly one person in the entire world, Valarr.
"Don't make that face," Valarr said now, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. "It's too early for that face."
"I don't know what face you're talking about."
"You're making your 'my husband is going to suggest something dreadful' face." He grinned, that boyish grin that had probably convinced you to do approximately seventeen thousand things you never would have done otherwise. "I haven't even suggested anything yet."
"You were about to."
"I was considering suggesting something." He kissed your nose again. "There's a difference."
You sighed, but you were still smiling despite yourself. "What is it, Valarr?"
He was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before. "I want you to meet her."
Your heart stopped. Actually stopped, right there in your chest, for what felt like several very long seconds.
"Valarr—"
"I know." He held up a hand, cutting off the protest he could see building in your expression. "I know you're frightened of her. I know you've avoided the dragonpit entirely since we married. I know you flinch every time someone mentions her name." His eyes were earnest, pleading. "But she's part of me, my love. The largest part of me, some would say. And I want—" He paused, searching for the right words. "I want you to see that part of me. I want to share it with you. I want..." He trailed off, looking almost shy for a moment. "I want to take you flying someday. Both of you. My two favorite beings in all the world."
You stared at him.
"Flying," you repeated flatly.
"On Aerrix."
"On your volatile, aggressive, people-eating dragon."
"She doesn't eat people."
"She ate a whole sheep in one bite last night . I heard the keepers talking about it."
"She's a dragon. Dragons eat sheep. That's not the same as eating people."
You sat up in bed, pulling the sheets with you, and fixed him with your most formidable look. "Valarr Targaryen. I love you. I have loved you since before I knew what love was. I climbed out of windows to meet you in the dark. I lied to my own mother for you. I married you knowing that being your wife would mean a lifetime of people staring at me and whispering." You took a breath. "But I will not go anywhere near your dragon."
Valarr's face fell, and something in your chest twisted painfully. He looked so disappointed—not angry, never angry with you, just sad in that quiet way that made you want to give him absolutely anything he asked for.
"I understand," he said quietly, and he meant it. That was the worst part. He always understood. "I won't push you."
He kissed your forehead again and stood, and you watched him walk toward the door with his shoulders just slightly slumped, and you felt like the worst wife in the entire Seven Kingdoms.
"Valarr."
He turned.
You took a deep breath. "I'll... think about it."
The thinking about it lasted approximately three days, during which Valarr was so pathetically hopeful and so carefully restrained in his hopefulness that you wanted to both kiss him and strangle him in equal measure.
He didn't bring it up again, not once. But he'd look at you across the dinner table with those eyes, and you could see the question hovering there, unasked. He'd come back from flying Aerrix and describe the clouds to you, the way the world looked from above, the feeling of freedom, and you could hear the longing in his voice, not for you to share the experience, necessarily, but for you to understand it. To understand him.
On the fourth day, you gave in.
"Take me to her," you said, the words tumbling out before you could lose your nerve.
Valarr had been in the middle of drinking his morning tea. He choked.
"Take you—now? You mean it?"
"I mean it. Before I change my mind."
He was on his feet in an instant, pulling you up with him, his excitement so palpable it was almost contagious. "You won't regret this. I promise you won't regret this. She's going to love you. I know she will."
"That's what I'm afraid of," you muttered, but you let him lead you out of the chambers and toward the dragonpit.
The dragonpit loomed before you, a massive structure of stone and iron that seemed to swallow the light. You could hear them before you could see them, the rumbling, the occasional shriek, the heavy sounds of massive bodies shifting against stone. Your steps slowed.
Valarr's hand tightened around yours. "I'm right here. Nothing is going to hurt you."
"You can't promise that."
"I can. Aerrix won't hurt you. I won't let her." He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. "Do you trust me?"
You looked at him, at this man who had married you in front of the Seven and all the realm, who looked at you like you were the most precious thing in his world.
"Yes," you said. "I trust you."
He kissed you once, quick and fierce, and then he was leading you forward again, into the dragonpit.
The interior was dim and hot, lit by torches and the faint glow of dragon fire from deeper within. Valarr led you past several dens, each containing a dragon of varying size and color. They watched you pass with those unblinking eyes, and you pressed closer to your husband, your heart pounding.
And then you reached Aerrix's den.
She was magnificent.
That was the first thought that crossed your mind as you stood at the entrance, staring at the massive creature sprawled across the rocky ground. She was easily three times the size of the other dragons you'd passed, her black and white scales gleaming in the torchlight like polished gems. Her horns curved back from her head in elegant spirals, and even in sleep, her sides rose and fell with a rhythm that seemed to shake the very ground beneath your feet.
She was also absolutely terrifying.
"Seven help me," you whispered.
Valarr squeezed your hand. "Stay here. Let me approach her first."
He walked forward, his footsteps echoing in the cavern, and you watched as Aerrix stirred. Her head lifted, those massive golden eyes opening and fixing on her rider with unmistakable affection. She made a sound, a rumbling, crooning noise, and Valarr laughed, pressing his forehead against her snout.
"Good morning to you too," he said softly. "I've brought someone to meet you. Someone very important to me."
He glanced back at you, gesturing you forward.
Your feet wouldn't move.
"It's all right," he called. "Come slowly. Let her see you."
You forced yourself to take a step. Then another. Aerrix's head swung toward you, those golden eyes fixing on your small figure with an intensity that made your blood run cold. You could feel her breath now, warm and smelling faintly of smoke, ruffling your hair and your skirts.
This is it, you thought hysterically. This is how I die. Eaten by my husband's dragon. Mother will be so disappointed.
You were close enough now to see the texture of her scales, the way they overlapped like armor. Her nostrils flared, and you felt her inhale a great rush of air that pulled at your clothes and hair. She was smelling you. Learning you.
And then, impossibly, she made a sound.
It was low and rumbling, like thunder in the distance, but softer somehow. Warmer. It vibrated through the stone beneath your feet and up through your body, settling somewhere in your chest.
"What..." you breathed.
Valarr's jaw had dropped. "She's... purring. She's actually purring." His voice was full of wonder. "She's never—no one—she doesn't even let the keepers near her. And she's purring."
Aerrix's massive head shifted closer, her golden eyes soft now, warm. She made the sound again, louder this time, and then she did something that made Valarr choke on air.
She nudged your hand with her snout.
Very slowly, hardly daring to breathe, you lifted your hand and placed it on her warm scales. The purring grew louder, vibrating through your palm and up your arm, and Aerrix's eyes half-closed in what could only be described as contentment.
"She likes me," you said, stunned. "Your terrifying, volatile, people eating dragon likes me."
"She loves you," Valarr corrected, his voice thick with emotion. "Look at her. She's absolutely besotted."
And indeed, Aerrix was now trying to maneuver her massive head into your space, clearly seeking more attention. You laughed and scratched behind her horn, and she made a sound of pure dragon bliss.
"Well," you said, looking at your husband's dumbfounded expression. "I suppose I have to fly with you now."
Valarr's face split into a grin so wide it was almost silly. "Tomorrow? First thing in the morning?"
"First thing," you agreed.
The next morning dawned clear and bright, and you made your way to the dragonpit with Valarr's hand firmly clasped in yours.
Aerrix was waiting.
She lifted her head the moment you appeared, that familiar purring sound rumbling through the air. Her golden eyes fixed on you, and she made a noise that was almost like a greeting.
"See?" Valarr said, squeezing your hand. "She's happy to see you."
"She's happy to see me because she wants me to pet her."
"That too." Valarr grinned and led you forward, toward the dragon's side. "Now, the trick is to mount quickly and smoothly. I'll go first, then help you up behind me. Just hold onto my waist and don't look down."
You nodded, your heart pounding. Aerrix watched you with those golden eyes, and for a moment you could have sworn she looked... pleased.
Valarr climbed up onto the dragon's wing with practiced ease and reaching down for you. "Come on, love. Up you go."
You took his hand, put your foot in the stirrup he indicated, and—
Aerrix moved.
It was a small movement, barely a shift of her weight, but it was enough to make you lose your balance and stumble back. Valarr caught you before you could fall, but when you tried again, the same thing happened. Aerrix shifted just enough to make mounting impossible.
"What in the seven hells?" Valarr muttered, leaning down to look at his dragon. "Aerrix. Stop that."
The dragon looked up at him with an expression that was almost apologetic, but when you reached for the saddle again, she moved once more, not aggressively, not dangerously, but with clear intent to prevent you from getting on her back.
"I don't understand," Valarr said, genuinely confused now. "She loves you. She purrs for you. Why won't she let you mount?"
You tried again. And again. And again. Each time, Aerrix would shift or sway or simply lower herself to the ground, making it impossible for you to climb into the saddle. She wasn't angry about it—she kept purring that same rumbling purr, kept looking at you with those warm golden eyes—but she was absolutely, completely, and totally refusing to let you ride her.
"This has never happened," Valarr said, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "Dragons don't—they don't do this. They don't disobey their riders, even less refuse to take flight."
"Maybe she's changed her mind," you suggested, trying not to feel hurt.
"No." Valarr shook his head firmly. "That's not it. Look at her—she's still purring. She's still happy. She just... doesn't want you on her back."
Aerrix rumbled in what sounded like agreement, and you could have sworn there was something knowing in her golden gaze.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Every attempt to mount Aerrix ended the same way, gentle but firm refusal. The dragon would purr and nuzzle and follow you everywhere, but the moment you tried to get on her back, she would shift away. It was baffling. It was unprecedented. Dragon keepers were consulted. Other riders offered theories. Nothing explained it.
Valarr grew increasingly frustrated. You grew increasingly tired.
Because you were tired. Constantly tired. You'd fall asleep in the middle of conversations, nod off during meals, barely have the energy to get out of bed in the mornings. You were also vaguely nauseous at odd times of day, and certain smells that had never bothered you before now made your stomach turn.
You didn't think much of it, at first. But when you nearly fell asleep standing up during a formal dinner with Valarr's parents, your husband took one look at you and carried you bodily to the maester's chambers.
"Something's wrong," he said firmly. "I want the maester to look at you."
The maester asked you questions—about your appetite, your sleep, your monthly cycles—and you answered them, increasingly confused by the direction of his inquiries. He felt your belly, checked your pulse, and asked a few more questions.
Then he smiled.
"Well, my lady," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "I believe I have an explanation for your symptoms."
"What is it?" Valarr asked, his arm tightening protectively around your shoulders.
The maester's smile widened. "Congratulations, my prince. You're going to be a father."
The room went absolutely silent.
You felt the words wash over you, not quite making sense at first. Father. Going to be a father. That meant—
You looked down at your belly, still flat beneath your gown, and felt something shift inside you.
"A baby," you whispered.
"A baby." Valarr's voice was strange, thick with emotion. You looked up at him and found his eyes bright, his face working through about seventeen different expressions before settling on one. He was smiling. He was absolutely, radiantly, incandescently smiling. "We're having a baby."
And then he was kissing you, laughing against your mouth, lifting you off the ground and spinning you in a circle while the maester watched with tolerant amusement.
The explanation for Aerrix's behavior came later that evening, when you and Valarr went to the dragonpit to share your news.
Aerrix was waiting, as she always was, her massive head lifting the moment you appeared. She made her usual purring sound, rumbling and warm, and you walked toward her without fear. You placed your hand on her snout, feeling the warmth of her scales.
"She knew," you said, looking at her golden eyes. "Didn't you? You knew before any of us."
Aerrix blinked slowly. Then, very deliberately, she lifted her head and looked directly at Valarr with an expression that could only be described as smug. If dragons could smirk, she would be smirking. She let out a little rumble that sounded suspiciously like dragon laughter.
Valarr gaped. "Are you laughing at me?"
Aerrix made the sound again, louder this time, and you could have sworn she was absolutely delighted with herself.
"She's been laughing at me for weeks," Valarr realized, his mouth hanging open. "Every time I tried to figure out why she wouldn't let you mount, every time I asked the keepers, every time I pulled out those books, she was sitting there, knowing exactly why, and just watching me struggle."
You burst out laughing. "Oh, that's perfect."
"I've been losing my mind for weeks!" Valarr threw his hands up. "I consulted the dragonkeepers! I read three books on dragon behavior! I asked my father! I asked my grandfather!"
Aerrix made a sound like a dragon snort, and you could have sworn she rolled her eyes.
"She's been protecting the baby," you said, still giggling. "That's all. She felt the new life and decided we needed guarding."
Valarr crossed his arms, staring at his dragon. "You could have told me."
Aerrix blinked at him.
"Somehow," you said, "I don't think she feels bad about it."
"She doesn't." Valarr sighed, but he was fighting a smile. "She absolutely does not. Look at her. She's preening."
Aerrix was indeed preening, her head held high, her scales practically gleaming with self-satisfaction. She nudged your belly gently with her snout and made a soft cooing sound.
"She's talking to the baby now," Valarr said flatly.
"She's bonding."
"She's showing off."
You scratched behind Aerrix's horn, and she purred loudly. "You have to admit, she was pretty clever about it."
Valarr came to stand beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. "Oh, she's clever. She's also never going to let me forget that she knew before I did."
"Probably not," you agreed.
"Never," Aerrix seemed to rumble.
Valarr looked at his dragon, then at you, then at your belly. A smile finally broke through. "So. After the baby comes. Flying together?"
You looked at Aerrix, who was now gently resting her massive head against your side, still purring like a contented cat.
"Yes," you said. "After the baby comes. We'll fly together."
✣ summary | after six weeks of collecting your ever-elusive neighbor’s post, what starts as a polite hallway exchange turns into something hard to ignore. cue: a shared wall, unlocked doors, a broken sink, and whiskey kisses.
✣ wc | 13.4k
✣ cw | mdni, older!price x fem!reader, age gap (20s/40s), divorcée!price, john is fatherly toward reader, fluff, smut, fingering, alcohol, regrettably i have a sick, unyielding need for john to call me ‘duck’ and it has bled through this fic.
masterlist
The rain never falls straight this time of year. It slants, needling sideways through the cramped street your apartment stands, puddles collecting in the dips of uneven pavement. It’s the kind of rain that forces its way into coat collars and boots, into the mortar between old brick.
Your building absorbs it, wears it like a second skin – three stories of weathered red brick darkened to a rust, old windows fogged with condensation, black iron railings shining beneath a sheen of wet. The front steps slope down the middle from decades of traffic, water pooling slick there before trickling down to the gutters.
Inside, the air carries a musty dampness with it that’s seems to linger even in the summer, smelling like wet wool and old carpet. The stairwell curves upward in narrow turns, paint layered thick on the banister from too many years and too many hands. Every footfall echoes off the walls, some nights you count the steps on your way up. Nineteen.
By the time you reach the second floor, the cold has settled into your bones.
The landing on your floor sits directly outside your neighbor’s flat, the brass 2A tacked there a stark contrast against the black door. The hallway runs narrow and straight to your own door, the dim fluorescents overhead cast a flickering pale glow that never quite reaches the corners. An earth-toned floral runner threads throughout the entire length of the building, its pattern long faded, fibers worn thin and frayed down the center where tenants have passed in and out for years. The white walls that contain it all are scuffed dirty and nicked, marked up by furniture and careless feet.
Your neighbor’s flat is always giving the impression that it might be back on the market.
Most front doors offer some indication of life – a welcome mat, a potted plant, a pair of muddy trainers set to the side.
Not his door, though. Right now, his door offers post.
It began modestly enough, a single envelope resting against the door. Then more joined it as the days passed – thick envelopes, junk, rolled up circulars and magazines that curl at the edges after a few days of being stepped over. The stack grows and grows, leaning against the wood as though it expects, at any moment, to be scooped up by the man whose name is printed on the address line.
You notice his absence before the absurd amount of post clues you in, though. Once you’ve learned his rhythms, his comings and goings are impossible to miss. When he leaves it’s the hurried weight of heavy boots stomping, doors and drawers slamming shut in the early hours. It’s always followed by a melancholy sort of silence, not the daily hush of an empty home, but a stretched quiet that haunts behind your shared wall for weeks on end.
Then when he returns, you’re greeted with the rush of water through the pipes, the pungent curl of cigar smoke creeping through the vents, and the sounds of his TV carrying through the wall until nearly four in the morning.
He’s never introduced himself, never offered you more than a polite passing nod. You don’t know what he does, not really, and until now, you never really gave him much thought.
And only now because you nearly break your wrist because of him.
Your fingers are aching from grocery bags, your thoughts are already drifting toward dinner, and just as you hit the landing your shoe catches the slick edge of a magazine on the floor. The loss of balance is immediate, and unfortunately, graceless. The hallway tilts, the floor rushes up, and oranges spill across the hall and down the stairs. The carton of eggs bursts open against the carpet with a tragic crack. One of the bags split entirely, spilling its contents in every direction.
For a long moment you just kneel there, the traitorous copy of ‘Guns & Ammo’ that caused your fall lies beside you, addressed to one: Jonathan Price. An incredulous breath of a laugh escapes you before you bat the cover out of sight.
You flex your wrist carefully — achey, but it moves. So, you get yourself to your feet and collect your groceries piece by annoying piece, salvaging what you can, muttering to yourself about why you should stick to takeaway as you coral oranges back into the torn plastic bag.
Before heading inside, you bend to straighten the stack of mail beside his door, patting it neatly into the frame so it no longer sprawls across the carpet.
However, the post continues to arrive.
And Jonathan Price continues not to.
As the days pass, the stack inevitably builds thicker. Something about weeks of untouched post just feels wrong. So, when pass his door on your way back from work, on an unconscious whim, you gather his post up and take it inside with you. And you continue to do so, piling it on the table in your entryway, every single day.
Except Sundays. There’s no post on Sundays.
Six weeks pass in total before, one evening, the pipes in your shared wall suddenly gurgle to life.
You’re standing at your sink, hands submerged in sudsy dishwater when the rush of plumbing vibrates through the plaster with the unmistakable sound of his shower warming up.
You wait until the pipes quiet again before gathering the stack of envelopes and ads. It’s heavier than you expect when you lift it. Thick enough now that it takes both arms to hold it all securely against your chest.
Down the short corridor, you make your way to his door and knock once. The rap lands quieter than you meant it to, swallowed by the heavy wood almost instantly. You hesitate, second-guessing yourself until you lift your hand to try again when there’s a metallic click and the door opens just enough to shroud your neighbor in shadow. For a second, he’s only an imposing shape, but then the light catches him properly as he leans forward a bit.
He fills the frame without even trying. You have to tip your chin just to meet his eyes, this close he’s far broader than any glimpses you’ve caught in passing allowed you to register. He’s thick through the shoulders, forearms corded beneath the long sleeves of a worn grey tee that looks softened from years of washing. It clings where it stretches across his chest, molded to him in dampened patches like he pulled it on too soon after stepping out of the shower.
His jeans are loose everywhere except around his thighs, slung low enough that a strip of black elastic and milky skin catches your attention. Your gaze unintentionally trips over the trail of dark hair that whispers up and beneath his shirt.
You can feel your ears starting to warm before you flick back up to his face, meeting a set of ocean-deep irises ornamented by crinkling lines at the corners, tired purple crescents stamped underneath. His beard is grown out past neat — thick and slightly unruly along his jaw, salt and peppered throughout.
Steam drifts out lazily from behind him, carrying the clean scent of soap into the corridor — it's mild, fresh, a little spice beneath it all.
His eyes settle on you with a subtle recognition, view slightly narrowed before, almost immediately, dropping to the stack of paper you’re gripping.
“Evenin’,” he says almost cautiously, voice roughened, like it hasn’t been used in a while. Or used too much, maybe.
You clear your throat.
“Hi,” you manage, “I’m next door.” You tilt your head toward your flat, never under the assumption that anyone remembers who you are.
His gaze lifts again, meeting yours. There’s a vague hint of amusement glinting in his eyes, it reaches the corner of his mouth, pulling up.
“I know,” he nods gently, almost encouragingly, like he’s urging you to continue with your spiel.
You shift the weight of the envelopes and extend them toward him before you can overthink it.
“Right, erm… your post,” you swallow thickly, then proceed to ramble, “It kept piling up. For, like, a long time. And, anyway, I ended up slipping on a magazine a few weeks ago, and then I thought it might be better if someone kept it from takin’ over the hall until you were back.” You inhale through your nose, catching a breath before continuing despite yourself. “And now you’re back, so…”
His eyes widen before he reaches his arms out to takes the heap from you, the simple transfer of weight draws you a half-step closer to him. His fingers brush yours in the exchange — callouses scratching softly, warm. The contact is brief, but it’s also entirely impossible to unfeel.
“You slipped,” he repeats lowly, not accusatory, more like confirming he heard you properly.
“I’m fine,” you assure him quickly. “I just meant… like, it was a lot of post, is all,” your voice tapers off as your mouth starts to feel dry.
“You’re not hurt?”
You shake your head, “No.”
“You’ve been takin’ it in,” his eyes scan the envelopes before lifting back to you, like he’s quietly calculating something. “All of it?”
“Yeah.” You hesitate, then add quickly, “I knocked once. But no one answered.”
“Yeah, I, uh, had t’work.”
“I didn’t open anything,” you continue, suddenly aware of how that all might’ve sounded. “Obviously.”
He smirks at that, his voice becoming something far smoother than it was when the door first opened. “I didn’t think you had.”
There’s a subtle warmth in his tone now. It does something curious to your pulse. You can feel it tap-tap-tapping just below your jaw.
He balances the pile in one large hand and steps back, widening the door.
Your gaze drifts past him inadvertently and into his flat. It’s uncluttered and tidy – not unlived-in exactly, but lacking the charm that makes a place feel claimed. The furniture is purely functional and dated, the walls bare, the floor impossibly clean, the hardwood shines like it was just buffed.
“M’grateful for that,” he adds after a beat, head bowing enough to move into your line of vision and catch your eye, smirk still prevalent.
“It was startin’ to look abandoned,” you babble before you can stop yourself.
“Abandoned,” he echoes, gaze sharpened.
“I just meant— it didn’t look like anyone was coming back.”
Something in his expression settles, one of his shoulders roll.
“Oh, I always come back, love,” he croons just over a whisper and unhurried, like he knows something you don’t.
Your cheeks warm and your head can’t decide between shaking and nodding, fingers twirling into the soft threads of your jumper.
“No, yeah, of course. I didn’t mean—”
“I’m John, by the way.”
He adjusts his weight again, shifting back under the shadow behind him. This interaction feels like it should be over already, you’re almost wishing it was, but you give him your name in return. He repeats it back slowly, like he’s testing the shape of it on his tongue. There’s something deliberate in the way he says it, like it’s being filed away somewhere permanent.
“Would y’like to come in?” he nods his head. “Least I can do is make you a cup’a tea.”
You hesitate, a pause small enough to miss if he wasn’t watching for it. He notices your hesitation without pushing it. There’s no persuasion from him, no charm turned up for effect. Just patience, like he already figures you will.
Your eyes flick from his, past him, and back again. You step inside before you even understand why, just, caution to the wind. Survival instincts at an all time low. But there’s something about him that draws you there.
His flat smells clean – shower steam still clinging to the air, layered over something warmer. Smoke, maybe. Something musky and grounded that feels likely distinctly his. The door clicks shut behind you.
The place is spare. A brown leather sofa floats in the center of the room, the cushions perfectly aligned as though they’re reset after every use. A low coffee table in front of it holds nothing but a neatly stacked set of coasters and a remote placed dead center.
To the side of the TV, a tall wooden bookcase stands in the corner, books neatly arranged, spines perfectly even, each shelf organized by size. There are no pictures on the walls, no decorative clutter on the tables or mantel. It’s as if you’ve stepped into a hotel, but even they put artwork up.
John moves toward the kitchen with an ease that wasn’t there in the hallway, shoulders a little looser. You follow, watching him push the rescued post neatly into the corner of the counter — probably the messiest part of his flat now.
The kitchen is very similar to yours, appliances a little more dated, but just as compact. A short galley space with a small honey oak table at the end beneath the window.
“I meant to put a hold on it,” he says, glancing down at the envelopes. “But I left on such short notice...”
“You travel a lot?” you ask, leaning against the doorway, hands coming together in front of you, fingernails scratching at your palm anxiously.
He’s already filling the kettle at the sink, water rushing loud for a moment before he shuts it off.
“More than I’d like,” he admits.
“For work?”
“Yeah.”
The burner on the stove blooms blue beneath the kettle with a soft tick-tick.
“You don’t exactly look like someone who works from a laptop.”
That earns you the faintest chuckle before he fully turns around, resting his hip against the pristine white countertop.
“No?”
“No.” You shake your head. “You’re gone for long stretches.”
His eyes travel your form, a single brow perking with an interest.
“You keepin’ tabs on me, then?” he asks curiously.
You shrug at that, allowing a small smile to spread.
“Hard not to when you’re the only other person on this floor.”
He offers a short hum then reaches into the cupboard, his shirt riding up with him, you get a peek of his toned tummy as he pulls two mugs down. The ceramic clinks.
“And what d’you do when you’re not monitorin’ me?” He looks at you again just as the kettle begins a low, building thrum.
Your head tilts involuntarily. “I work normal hours and take it home with me. Watch shit TV and order too much takeaway.”
He tsks before he asks, “Don’t cook?” An edge to his tone that’s not quite judgmental and not quite disappointment, but somewhere in the middle.
“I can,” you defend. “I just don’t always see the point.”
The kettle clicks off and he pours the water slowly over the tea bags, steam rising in soft spirals. “There’s always a point,” he says.
“Do you cook?” you ask after a beat.
“When I’m home.”
“Which isn’t often,” you add.
He sets the kettle aside and finally meets your eyes again. “Not often enough,” he agrees, his features softening.
“And when you are?”
He leans back against the counter again. “When I get home? First few nights are rough. Might get pizza,” he admits casually.
“Jet lag?”
The corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “Somethin’ like that.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“Not well,” he shrugs. “Cup’a strong tea helps.”
“Tea?” you quirk a brow.
“Yeah, it’s almost the only thing that settles me.”
You step further into the kitchen without thinking, drawn in more by his incredibly vague answers. “Settles you from what?”
He bites the corner of his cheek, like he’s assessing how much you’re actually asking for, or maybe how much he’s willing to divulge — which doesn’t seem like much at the moment.
“Lack of noise,” he answers at last, nudging one of his chairs out with his foot, wood stuttering over tile. He gestures to it and you move to sit without question.
He brings your mug, leaning over your shoulder with a large hand placing it right in front of you, you notice a few partially healed scrapes across his knuckles.
“Sorry, don’t have any milk yet. Just got back.”
“S’alright,” you reply quietly, wrapping your fingers around the ceramic. It’s nearly too hot to hold, but you welcome the burn; the tingle that blooms its way into the soft of your palm.
John doesn’t sit. Instead, he stays leant against the counter across from you, mug resting in hand, watching you take your first cautious sip.
There’s something steady in the way he looks at you. You only came over to deliver his post. You’re still not sure how it turned into this.
“You live alone?” he asks suddenly.
You pause mid-sip and peer at him over the rim of your mug, lips pursing. “And what exactly do you plan on doin’ with that information, John?”
His eyes widen just slightly before the tips of his ears grow pink
He exhales through his nose amusedly. “Poor choice’a words,” he concedes, scratching at his beard. “Mind’s still in work-mode.”
“You interrogate people for a living?” you tease, unknowingly.
That has him choking around his tea, forcing down a cough that has him hiding behind the mug as he gathers himself.
An unbridled laugh slips free before you can stop it, and something in his posture relaxes at the sound.
“Sorry, you okay?”
“Mm,” he nods far more than he needs to.
“Well,” you turn back to your tea, “I do live alone. But I know how to use a knife, so don't be weird about it.”
He absorbs that quietly, tongue pressing briefly to his cheek, a thoughtful hum low in his throat.
“Right.”
You narrow your eyes and huff. “That’s all I get? Just ‘right’?”
He sets his mug down, gaze lingering on you longer than necessary. “Place next door’s quiet,” he says slowly. “Jus’ wasn’t sure if you had someone in there I hadn’t clocked.”
“But you’ve clocked my noise levels?” you press, unable to help it.
“Shared wall,” he reminds you.
“And?”
“And,” he says, eyes steady on yours now, “it’s good to know who’s on the other side.”
And after that, the conversation slips into something easier. You learn small, unremarkable things about each other, the kind that don’t really feel important at the time. Like how he prefers mornings to nights. That you can’t even make toast without burning it. That neither of you necessarily trust the boiler in the winter time. It’s nothing intimate, not really. But the way he listens makes it feel like everything you tell him is a secret he’s learning, like each answer matters.
Time warps in his kitchen without either of you noticing. The tea cools in both of your mugs before it’s finished, warmth from the kettle fizzles out, and the distance between question and answer shortens. The conversation stretches easily until you glance toward the door and you’re reminded that this isn’t your flat.
“Well,” you say softly, “I should really let you finish settling in.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just watches you stand and carry your mug to his sink.
“I’ve interrupted long enough,” you add with a polite smile.
“Hardly,” he breathes, pushing off the edge, leaving his own mug on the counter in his wake.
He moves to the door with you, pulling it open and leaning against the frame, hand resting loosely on the knob.
You stop halfway into the corridor and turn back toward him.
“Try to get some sleep,” you tell him gently.
Something shifts behind his eyes, like he wasn’t expecting you to remember anything he’d said to you. But his silence after that makes you feel like you’ve misremembered things.
“You said it’s harder when you first get back, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he admits, before averting his gaze to the floor.
“Well, good night.”
“G’night.”
You don’t look back as you step into your flat, but you don’t hear his door close until yours opens. And even then, it takes a second longer than it should.
—————
John can’t sleep.
He didn’t sleep the night before either, despite how heavy his lids were. He laid there on his back, staring up at the slow rotation of his ceiling fan, listening to the quiet eerily settle around him. He thought of you more than he likely should have — the way your skin seemed to glow under his gaze, how your smile pulled the apple of your cheeks up and round, how soft your fingers felt when they brushed his.
Your perfume, too. Fruity, light. How traces of it lingered in his kitchen for so long after you left he couldn’t tell if he was imagining it, if it was something his brain cooked up to fill the silence in your wake.
John really wants to sleep tonight.
But on the other side of that godforsaken wall comes a sharp clatter followed by muffled swearing. Then something else hits the floor with enough force that he sits up before he’s even aware he’s moving. If he closed his eyes he might even believe he’s back on base at this point – and that certainly does nothing to calm his mind.
Another thud. Louder this time.
It’s enough to make him swing his legs over and push himself out of bed. Hurriedly, he steps into the jeans he left folded neatly on an armchair in his bedroom. Boots on but untied, he heads out and down the hall. The sounds grow louder the closer he gets to your door, and though two decades of training have taught him to assess chaos with haste, he can’t quite decipher what he’s hearing.
He knocks once, and the door creeps open a fraction on its own. He frowns instantly, jaw tightening – you’ve left it, not only unlocked, but completely unlatched.
You appear seconds later, rushing forward to pull it open the rest of the way. Your hair is wet, plastered to your temples, chest rising and falling too fast. There’s panic humming under your skin, but John barely registers your appearance at all. His eyes are still on the door a moment longer before they meet yours, and even then, he’s really just thinking about how it was unlocked.
“You’ve a habit of leavin’ that unsecured?” he asks, voice edged in a tone that’s harsher than he really means.
You blink at him, dazed. “Huh?”
“That latch isn’t decorative, duck.” He nods toward the deadbolt. “I could’ve walked straight in.”
A beat passes where you just stare at him, wheels turning and trying to catch up.
Then, he blinks a few times himself, and he finally sees you. Taking in your appearance, remembering why he’s here in the first place, his spine stiffens.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
“I—uh, the— the sink—” you stammer, eyes squeezing shut briefly before you step back and sweep an arm vaguely toward the disaster behind you.
He shifts his gaze past you and to the kitchen faucet spraying in erratic bursts. Water ricochets off the basin and across the counter, a pot teeters on the sink’s edge, your cabinets are streaked dark where it’s soaked into the wood. The floor has its own shallow tide.
John steps forward without a word, you move aside instinctively. The space narrows as he passes, his arm brushing your chest.
He reaches the counter in, what seems like, two strides, boots squelching across the tile. One large hand clamps around the base of the faucet while the other tests the handle. It jerks violently in response, spraying harder, drenching the front of his white tee shirt.
“Christ,” he mutters.
He bends, reaching beneath the sink cabinet, keeping one hand steady on the fixture to redirect the spray. Water splashes down his forearm, soaks into his denim and leaks into his boots. His cheek presses briefly against the counter edge as he feels blindly for the valve underneath.
Behind him, you start to hover — unsure, a little guilty. He can feel you there. Aware of the way you shift your weight, the tension in your breath. Of the way you’re watching him. Of the fact that your door was unlocked when you were alone. How anyone could have walked in. That thought lodges somewhere unpleasant in his chest.
But there are more immediate and pressing matters at hand, so he files it away for later.
“Did this just start?” he asks, voice echoing faintly in the cupboard.
“Yes. It just— it wouldn’t turn off properly and then it—”
His fingers find the valve and he twists harder, effectively closing off the flow. The spray sputters, the pipes groan and then it all just… stops.
The silence that follows is almost disorienting, going from overstimulation to nothing but a slow drip of water and some breathing.
“Oh my god,” you huff, letting out a shaky exhale. “Thank you— seriously— I… I don't know what I would've done.”
John straightens slowly, bracing his hands against the edge of the sink to center himself. He looks down at his saturated clothes, the faint ripple in the water around his boot as he shifts.
“Drown,” he replies evenly, “by the looks of it.”
You grin, a soft laugh slipping out despite yourself. If you weren’t so exhausted, you probably would’ve snorted. “I was handling it just fine before you showed up, actually.”
His shoulders rise as he slowly inhales. “I’m sure you were,” he answers mildly.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
He glances down at the shallow tide circling his boot, then at the cabinet door hanging slightly crooked from where you must’ve wrenched it open in a panic.
“I’m reservin’ judgement.”
“On account of what?”
He tips his chin toward the floor, shifts his boot as if to prove his point. “On account’ve the evidence.”
You follow his line of vision and heat creeps into your cheeks.
“Okay, so it escalated,” you concede.
A short laugh slips from him before he reins it in.
“So I see,” he replies, this time there’s no hiding the amusement.
You move behind him, water splashing underfoot. “You didn’t have to come over, you know,” you say – saccharine sweetly, John thinks.
“I don’t know. The noise suggested otherwise.”
You cringe. “Was it that loud?”
“I only knocked because it sounded urgent,” tone less teasing now.
“You could’ve ignored it,” you nearly sing-song, the corner of your mouth twitching with the threat of a grin. He could have stayed in his flat, but he didn’t.
He looks half over his shoulder again.
“Is that what you would’ve preferred?”
“No.”
“Right then,” he murmurs, nodding once.
You go to take a step forward at the same time he pushes off the counter, reaching for a towel just as he turns toward you, and there isn’t enough space in the kitchen for both of you to correct in time. Your palms land flat against his chest with a wet slap before you can stop yourself.
His shirt is soaked through, the cotton warm and heavy beneath your hands, bonded to the breadth of him in a way that makes it impossible not to feel the shape of what’s underneath; muscle that doesn’t need to flex to be felt. Your palms flatten, pressing, fingers splaying unabashedly as if to test the reality of him. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your touch, the heat of him, his solidness, close enough that if either of you leaned even slightly forward there would be no space left between you at all. The thought is tempting.
And John doesn’t mean to look at you the way he is. It isn’t deliberate. But your black tee is no better off than his, soaked through, cotton clinging to the soft curves of your body, outlining you in a way that requires very little of his imagination. The lights catch the damp fabric and he’s tracing swells and valleys he has no business tracing.
He has to force his eyes upward only for it to snag on a single droplet of water slowly rolling down the column of your neck, it travels over your clavicle and disappears beneath the stretched edge of your collar.
You pull your hands away from his chest once you notice the moment tipping.
“Sorry,” you exhale, and it breaks the spell.
He steps to the side a full step, creating space deliberately, dragging his gaze upward successfully this time.
“You, erm… you keep a mop?” he asks, voice cracking and a little rough, heel of his hand rubbing his bearded jaw. “Towels, maybe?”
You blink at him once, twice, like your brain needs a second to rejoin your body.
“Yeah,” you manage. “I do.”
You step around him this time with more caution than before, suddenly aware of how narrow your kitchen truly is, how little room there is for any more miscalculations.
“In the hall closet,” you mutter, disappearing around the corner, leaving him alone in the quiet of the kitchen.
The room somehow feels smaller than it did before – not because of the water or the mess, but because something in the air has shifted and neither of you have decided what to do with it yet. John exhales slowly, dragging a hand down over his face as if he can physically wipe the moment away.
From the hallway comes the muted thud of a closet door, followed by something scraping against drywall and the soft rustle of movement.
“You alright back there?” he calls, voice steadier now, back in control of itself.
“Fine,” you answer, slightly breathless. “Found it.”
When you reappear, you’re clutching a mop in one hand with an armful of towels gathered haphazardly against your chest. You look determined in an endearing sort of way that makes something in his chest yawn. He clears his throat quickly before the feeling can settle into something more dangerous.
“Alright,” he says, stepping toward you and relieving you of the mop before you can protest. “Let’s get this sorted before your floor decides to buckle.”
You look up at him, face scrunching, reaching back out for the handle. “Oh, you don’t have–”
He pulls it out of your reach and sighs. “Humor me.”
He works methodically, soaking up what he can while you kneel beside him and press towels into the worst of the puddles, the fibers darkening beneath your hands. The air smells faintly metallic now, musty from dirty water.
The only sounds for a while are the soft scrape of the mop, the quiet rustle of fabric, the steady rhythm of shared movement in a space that feels too small.
John wrings the mop out over the sink, forearms flexing as he twists the handle and squeezes out the excess water. You have to remind yourself not to gawk at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back, shoulder blades rolling as he moves.
When most of the water has been cleaned up, he crouches to inspect the pipes beneath the sink again. One knee rests against the tile, sleeves pushed higher now, brow drawn together in concentration as he checks the valve with deft hands.
“Cartridge in the tap’s gone,” he mutters, tightening the valve again. “Handle can’t shut the water properly anymore. Maintenance’ll replace it in five minutes.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to tell them,” you sigh, wiping your temple with the back of your wrist and leaving a faint streak of wet there.
He turns to you, blue eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “Just tell ‘em it won’t shut off fully. They’ll know what that means.”
You nod, committing the issue to memory as if it’s more complicated than it is.
He rises and reaches past you to push the window open a few inches, letting a swirl of cool night air slip into the room. It curls around your ankles and lifts the damp edges of your shirt, carrying the scent of wet pavement and the distant hum of traffic.
“Keep it open till it’s dry in here,” he says, brushing his hands together lightly as if to rid them of the last of the mess.
He heads toward the door, and you follow. On the other side of the threshold, he pauses. He peers over your shoulder – to the sink, the cabinet, the open window, the floor – checking each detail like he’s committing it to some internal list. Only after that does he land on you, but he quickly skips to your door, to the deadbolt you hadn’t turned earlier.
He tips his chin toward it. “Lock it properly behind me.”
You follow his gaze, fingers already reaching for the lock. “I will,” you say, trying and failing to keep the smile from pulling at the edges of your lips. “Thanks again. I don’t even know what to say,” you breathe a nervous laugh.
“Don’t have to say anything,” he shakes his head. “Just… don’t touch it until maintenance comes, yeah?”
“I promise you that I won’t,” you giggle quietly.
“Good,” he takes a small step backward, eyes lingering for a beat.
“Night, John,” you murmur.
“Night.”
You close the door, sliding your latch into place as promised. And on the other side, he waits just long enough to hear it catch.
————————
Two days after the flood, you’re stepping out of your flat, tote bag sliding off your shoulder, phone unlocked in your hand, half-reading an email you should have responded to last night, when your hear the creek of John’s door opening at the same time, stealing your attention.
He’s standing there with his keys still in the lock, coat on but open. There’s a faint flush in his cheeks likely from being outside, a takeaway coffee balanced loosely in his free hand.
There’s a split second where you both recalibrate. He blinks a few times as you walk in his direction, taking his keys out and slipping them into his coat pocket, foot planted to hold his door from shutting.
“You alright?” he asks, tone casual, like nothing unusual has ever happened between you.
“Yeah,” you reply, equally steady. “Are you?”
He nods once. “You get your sink sorted?” he asks as you drift toward the staircase.
“Oh, yeah. Landlord sent someone ‘round yesterday.”
“Any good?”
You huff a faint laugh. “Very enthusiastic about pipes. Less enthusiastic about fixing them.”
He scowls slightly. “They fix it?”
“Yes,” you say. “Apparently I ‘over-rotated the cartridge.’ Which sounds a lot like something you say to avoid admitting it was old.”
“It means you forced it.”
“I did not force it,” your jaw falls open slightly in offence.
“You forced it,” he repeats dryly.
“It was an old tap!” you insist.
He studies you for a second, eyes glinting with an admiration for the way you stand your ground over something so inconsequential.
You reach the the stairwell landing, passing by him closely as you take the first step down, hand on the banister, turning sideways to keep him in your sights.
“You call straight away?” he asks casually enough that it should feel that way, but there’s something in his tone that’s almost challenging. “Or did you try fixin’ it again yourself?”
“I called straight away.”
“Good girl,” he replies absently, the words folded so naturally into the rhythm of the conversation that they almost disappear. Almost.
Your breath hitches quietly, every nerve inside of your body coming alight with a current that zips up your spine, tingling the base of your neck before spreading through your jaw until every bit of flesh above your neck begins to glow. Your belly tightens with a molten fever that begins to reach places far lower than it should.
He’s not even looking at you, he just adjusts the lid on his coffee like he hasn’t altered the chemical composition of the air between you.
“Off to work?” he continues mildly, eyes flicking to yours.
You clear your throat, steadying your voice before you answer.
“Y-yeah.”
“Right,” he says, as if concluding the world’s most ordinary exchange. “Have a good one.”
You nod once, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, mouth running dry.
“Yeah, you too,” you manage as he pushes his door open and steps inside.
He glances once more from the doorway, offering a tight line of a smile before the door closes and separates you.
——————
The sun’s an orange yolk dropped into the cradle of a purpling sky. You’re halfway home from the office when you notice the liquor store’s neon sign buzzing red against the early dark. You slow on the sidewalk, hands tucked into your coat pockets, breath fogging in front of you.
There’s no obligation, of course. He saved you from your untamed sink because that’s just the kinda guy he is. But the memory of it, of him, has lingered with you for days now, slipping in uninvitedly while on calls with clients, during meetings with your boss, fingers flexing unconsciously against your thighs as you remember the solidness of his chest beneath them that night.
The distraction was at its worst today, with John’s ‘good girl’ chanting like a feverish prayer that only the devil themself could’ve conjured and stitched into the back of your skull – his voice, the bass of it, reverberated between your ears for so long you found yourself wishing the vibration would travel lower.
He looks like a whiskey man, you decide.
Inside the store, the air smells like cut cardboard and oak, a little dusty. You wander longer than you should, reading labels you can’t pronounce, lifting one bottle after another, circling the aisle with the indecision of someone pretending to know what she’s doing. Your shoes stick faintly against the hardwood as you pace.
The clerk notices your hesitation eventually.
“Need a hand?” he asks.
“I’m just looking for something… smooth,” you decide, though it comes out more like a question than an answer.
He nods as if he’s heard that a thousand times before and points you toward three options just in front of you. You choose the one priced in the middle, not too expensive, but enough to be considered a gift, you think. You carry it to the counter with an anxious flutter beneath your ribs.
The building’s stairs feel longer tonight. Each step echoes louder than the last, paper bag crinkling in your grip with every movement. By the time you reach your floor, your pulse has climbed into your throat. You pass his, going to your own door first, stepping inside just long enough to set your purse down on the table and search deep into the pit of your gut to find some bravery.
You could leave it at his door with a note, you consider.
But you won’t, because that’s not really what you want to do, is it?
The hallway between your flats feels like it begins to narrow with you in it, the overhead light flickering ominously as it always does. His door is only a few steps away, and yet the walk toward it feels more like a trek.
John hears your door before he hears the knock.
The old building carries sound in that way old buildings do. Your door opening and closing is a sound he’s come to recognize now. The soft chime of your keys too, because everyone’s keyring sounds different, the jingle is unique, yours are no exception.
So when the knocks come a few seconds later, he already knows it’s you.
He stands at his kitchen counter, rag still in hand, his heartbeat behaving in a way it hasn’t outside of work in a number of years. He doesn’t know how, in less than a week, he’s gone from not knowing your name to timing his morning coffee run with when you leave for work just to get a glimpse of you, to catch the scent of your perfume in the stairwell.
By the time he reaches the door, he’s aware of the way his shoulders square on their own, the way his hand smooths over his beard, the way his fingers rake through his hair before he turns the handle.
And when he finally opens the door, you’re right there. It takes him half a second too long to draw in a full breath.
Your work coat is still on and hanging open at the collar, the fleece folding over just enough to reveal that hollow at the base of your throat that he just can’t keep himself from finding every time you’re in front of him. Your cheeks are glowing from the stairwell, clothes still carrying the cold, hair slightly mussed from the wind, perhaps.
“Hey,” he breathes, voice getting caught in the folds of his chords enough to crack on its way up.
You lift the brown bag in response, that crooked little smile he’s starting to recognize appears like you can’t quite decide whether to commit to it or not.
“A thank you,” you present it to him, the base of it resting in your hand precariously.
His eyes land on the bag and then return to your face.
“Should I be concerned?” he asks with a teasing lilt.
You step closer to the door, holding it out for him to take.
“It’s just whiskey, John,” you giggle and instantly wish you could take back the hyenic sound that leaves you.
He takes it from you and peers into its depths, letting out a low appreciative whistle.
“That’s… very generous.”
“I didn’t know what you liked,” you admit, aware of how exposed this feels, almost embarrassing now with how slick your neck is beginning to feel. “The man at the store said this one was smooth. I figured that was safe.”
He studies you for a moment in a way that warms your skin even more beneath your coat. Like he’s weighing your intention behind the gesture.
“Be a shame,” he starts, moving to the side of the doorway, “to let it sit unopened.”
“You invitin’ me in?” you ask, aiming for lightness and landing somewhere breathless instead.
This was the idea, wasn’t it? That he would invite you in? So why do you want to run back down the hall now?
“I am,” he nods. “If you’d like.”
He opens the door wider, and when you step past him the air changes in that way it always does when you cross into someone else’s space. Not just in temperature, but in atmosphere and energy – the smells change, the lights change, the sounds change.
He puts the whiskey down on his entry table, holding his hand out while he asks for your coat. You shrug out of it so he can hang it on the hook beside the door.
You quickly notice, however, it doesn’t smell like soap tonight.
It smells like food.
Butter and garlic and something a little smoky, like an iron pan that got a little too hot on the burner. There’s rosemary in there somewhere, you think. It makes your stomach rumble a little, suddenly aware that you left work on a granola bar and a few cups of lukewarm coffee.
“Oh…” you murmur before you can stop yourself, gaze drifting into the kitchen. “Were you eating?”
“Was about to. Just finished cookin’.”
You look closer this time, there’s a plate on the counter with a steak resting in its own juices, some mash beside it still holding the groove of the spoon, green beans piled neatly on the side.
It looks good, but you instantly feel guilty.
“I’m sorry,” you apologize, taking a small step backward toward the door. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can come back.”
He exhales a faint huff of amusement from behind as he slips around you, his hand brushing along the small of your back as he passes toward the kitchen. “You didn’t interrupt anything.”
“I did,” you insist, following behind him now like you're being pulled. “You were literally about to eat.”
“And you were ‘literally’ about to go home and order takeaway,” he counters mockingly without even looking.
You stop short in the threshold, a hand finding rest on your hip. “Excuse me?” you scoff.
At the counter, he looks over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “Let’s not pretend.”
He’s still faintly smiling as he reaches for a knife.
“I wasn’t,” you lie, though even to your own ears it sounds a bit defensive. You were definitely planning on ordering palak paneer for the third night in a row.
“S’that why I see Indian outside your door every night? I thought it might be becomin’ part of the decor…”
Your mouth falls open despite the grin yanking at your edges. “First of all, that’s, like, borderline stalking.”
“Shared hallway,” he replies entirely unapologetic.
“Second of all,” you continue, undeterred, “sometimes it’s Italian.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Right. A woman of culture then.”
He slices into the steak with an adept sort of ease, cutting it into even strips before he reaches into the cupboard to bring down a second plate. It takes a moment before what he’s doing dawns on you.
“John,” you step further into the kitchen, hand reaching out before pulling it back. “You don’t have to feed me.”
“I know,” he says, back still turned. “But I reckon you’re hungry…. So, have a seat.”
He transfers a few pieces of steak to the second plate, adds another spoonful of mash without asking whether you want it, then nudges a few green beans alongside it.
“I didn’t come to eat your dinner,” you continue your weak protest.
He doesn’t wait for you to say anything else, he just slides the plate along the laminate countertop towards you and then tips his head to the small table by the window.
“Sit,” he says, not too firmly, just with an expectation that you will.
And you do, which is something you’ll have to dissect later.
You hesitate half a second before taking the plate and floating toward the chair. You lower yourself into it, perched on edge stiffly, feeling a little unsure of yourself despite having sat here before.
You can feel John notice your tentativeness, a quick sideglance from him as he finishes up pricks at the hairs on your arms.
“Sit comfortably,” he corrects pointedly, as though amending the first instruction. His voice is low and even, commanding even when he isn’t trying to be.
Heat creeps up your spine, but you reposition anyway, scooting back until your shoulders touch the wooden stiles, tucking one leg beneath the other. Only then does he set a fork and knife beside your plate, fingers brushing yours in the exchange. He places a glass of water in front of you too, condensation pooling around the base of it almost instantly, leaving a ring that distorts the grains in the honeyed wood.
He grabs his own plate and sits across from you.
The table isn’t very large, you become acutely aware of that very quickly. Beneath it, his knees hover close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from them. If you extended your leg any further, it would press against his without any effort.
“There,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, eyes lifting to yours across the small space. “Eat somethin’ proper for the first time this week, will ya.”
You take a bite mostly to busy your hands. The mash is still warm, butter melted into salty pockets. The steak all but melts between your teeth, tender in a way you’ve never managed to get it yourself, seasoned simply and perfectly and with the confidence of someone who has never once second-guessed himself over a pan.
“This is so good, John,” you say, before you’ve even fully swallowed. “Like — really good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You nod, watching one brow lift. “And not ‘I’m being polite’ good. Actually good.”
“Mm. High praise from such a cultured young duck,” he replies, dry as anything.
“I don’t just hand it out willy-nilly,” you say primly, the tips of your ears tingling.
That draws a soft breath of laughter from him. “No, of course not,” he agrees. “You don’t strike me as the type.”
“And what type is that?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
“Stubborn,” he answers, a little too easily, eyes steady on yours.
You tilt your head. “Think you’ve got me all figured out then?”
“It’s kind of my specialty,” he says. “Believe it or not.”
“Is it?” you press. The fork turns between your fingers in thought, like you might actually learn something deeper about him right now. “And what else have you figured out?”
He considers you for a moment. “That you ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m curious,” you say. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” You lean forward slightly, elbows finding the table. “Asking questions means I’m interested. Asking a lot of questions means I’m very interested.”
Something shifts in his expression at that, a subtle recalibration, like he hadn’t expected you to say it so plainly. His eyes hold yours for a beat before he glances down at his plate, the corner of his mouth doing something restrained and infuriating.
“Careful,” he says, low and easy.
“Maybe I don’t see what there is to be careful about.”
He looks at you again then, and there’s something in his eyes that is slightly too warm to be neutral.
“No,” he says, almost to himself. “I don’t suppose you do.”
You hold his gaze, refusing to be the first one to look away, even as the back of your neck starts to prickle pleasantly. Eventually, he picks up his fork again, and you take it as a small victory.
“So,” you say, after a moment, tilting your head like the thought has only just occurred to you. “How long have you been holding out on me like this?”
He glances up. “Holdin’ out? On you?”
“Yeah.” You gesture lightly at your plate. “I’ve been living next door to this for how long, exactly?”
“Fourteen months,” he answers, immediately and without blinking, like the number was already sitting on the tip of his tongue.
Taken aback, your hand goes slightly clammy around your cutlery. Less than a week ago you were fairly certain he barely registered your existence.
A faint exhale of amusement leaves him at your silence, eyes dropping briefly to his plate. “Didn’t realize I was under an obligation to feed you.”
“I think, legally, you are now,” you counter, recovering.
He studies you over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip of water, eyes narrowing slowly. “Are you always this demanding?”
“When properly motivated.”
He nods once, like he’s filing that away somewhere.
“You like to cook?” you ask then, watching him.
“I do.”
Frustrated, you drop your fork and knife down with a little more force than intended, the sound of it clattering, ringing out in the small kitchen. His head snaps up at you.
“That’s so vague,” you whine almost indignantly. “Why are you always so vague?”
John sits back slowly now, arms crossing over his chest, fingers tucking beneath his beefy biceps, pushing them out to strain against the sleeves of his shirt. His head tilts, forehead creasing with many lines. “I’ve answered every question you’ve asked me,” he says, tongue licking over his canine behind closed lips.
“You’ve responded to every question,” you correct. “It’s not the same thing.”
Something twitches at the corner of his mouth.
“Men and their refusal to elaborate,” you mutter, rolling your eyes before landing back on your dinner.
“I’d argue it’s more like ‘women and their refusal to be satisfied’,” he returns mildly.
“How can I possibly be satisfied, you give me nothing to work with!” You can feel yourself getting animated now, leaning forward again, and beneath the table your knee presses into his without you even noticing.
He notices, though. And he makes no move to change it.
“Every time I ask you something real you just— you do this thing where you answer juuust enough to qualify and then you stop. And I can see you stopping, John, I can physically see it!”
That gets you a real laugh, fuller than you’ve heard from hin before, it’s gravel-deep and a little raspy, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening as his teeth show just long enough to catch. It dissolves the tension so suddenly you almost feel cheated out of it.
“Alright, alright,” he placates, reining himself back in, still smiling faintly. “What d’you want to know?”
You blink at him, recalibrating your attitude. “Oh, now you want to cooperate.”
“Ask your question before I change my mind.”
You study him for a second, aware that this is a small window of opportunity that may not open again given his track record.
“Okay,” you say carefully. “What do you actually do? Not ‘I work,’ not ‘I travel’. What do you do?”
He exhales slowly through his nose, his smile fading into something more straight lined. His thumb traces an idle line across the back of his knuckle, back and forth across those healing scrapes.
“Special forces,” he admits. “That’s— that’s about as much as I can give you.”
The answer gives your pause. You’re not particularly surprised by it, somewhere in your gut you already knew. So you absorb the information quietly. It reframes him in a way, things you’ve already half-noticed about him like his posture and his stillness, the way he speaks, the way he gives these subtle orders that you never know how to read.
“Okay,” you settle on simply, his answer still swimming around in your head like disconnected puzzle pieces slowly attaching to one another.
He looks at you like he expected more. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat, shoulders shrugging smally. “Thank you for telling me.”
Something in him settles before he picks up his fork again, and for a moment you eat in a comfortable quiet, only the soft scrape of cutlery filling the room.
“Does that bother you?” he asks eventually, without looking up.
“No,” you answer honestly. “Should it?”
“Some people find it… complicated.”
“I imagine the right people don’t.”
He looks at you then, eyes shifting from his plate cautiously, something unreadable flickering across his face before he glances away again.
Outside the window beside you, the sky has gone fully dark, the glass reflecting an image of the kitchen, the two of you small and warm inside of it.
“How old are you?” he asks suddenly, like he’s been holding the question back for a while. Your eyes snap over to him again.
“Twenty-six,” you tell him. “How old are you?”
A puff of air exhales slowly from between his lips. “Old enough to know better,” he murmurs to himself, which, again, is not an answer.
“Know better than what?”
He doesn’t reply to that either, just looks at you with that steady expression he has, the one that makes the back of your throat go dry and the tops of your thighs squeeze.
And it’s now, in the quiet of his kitchen, under the gaze of blue eyes, that you realize he is perfectly aware of what he’s doing to you. And probably has been for longer than he’d even admit.
“You’re insufferable,” you inform him pleasantly.
“You’re not the first to think so,” he agrees, unbothered.
Afterwards, you insist on helping with the dishes despite his objections.
“You’re stubborn,” he says.
“You like it,” you push.
John sighs like it pains him as he hands you a dish towel.
There’s something about the domesticity of it that feels intimate. Standing hip to hip in the narrow galley, light above the sink draping you both in a golden curtain, him washing and you drying, neither of you talking very much but not minding the quiet either.
He passes you a glass and his shoulder brushes yours as he reaches past you to set a fork in the drying rack, neither of you move away afterward. The inch that used to be between your arms stays closed now, pressed to each other.
“D’you do this often?” he asks.
“Dry dishes in strange men’s kitchens?”
His mouth twitches. “Yes.”
“No,” you hum through a smile. “You’re the first.”
“First strange man or first time drying his dishes?” He reaches past you again.
“First time drying his dishes,” you chuckle. “Jury’s still out on the other one.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh, low, suppressed, eyes crinkling as he keeps his gaze on the sink.
When the last dish is done and the towel is damp in your fingers and the tap has gone off, the kitchen settles into a silence that buzzes with something unspent. John dries his hands and leans back against the counter, looking at you in an unhurried sort of way.
“C’mon,” he says, tilting his head toward the living room.
——————
He moves to the sideboard where the whiskey is waiting and you drift naturally toward his bookcase, drawn there by the same restless energy that’s been humming under your skin all evening. It’s something to do with your racing thoughts while he’s occupied with the bottle.
“Am I allowed to snoop,” you ask, fingers already trailing over the spines of his books, “or are there rules?” squinting at a title, tipping the text out of line to have a brief look at the cover. You look back at him.
“There are always rules,” he replies, glancing up from the glasses in front of him.
“Naturally,” you murmur, and return to it.
It’s mostly as you remember from that first night in his flat — books arranged by size, spines perfectly even — but you look more carefully this time, now that you know more about the hands that arranged them. History, mostly. A few novels with cracked spines that suggest they’ve actually been read rather than kept for show. A dog-eared paperback in a language you don’t recognize, the cover worn soft at the corners.
There’s a small brass compass that sits at the end of one shelf. A scattering of foreign coins too, silver and copper that don’t match anything in your wallet, currencies from places you probably couldn’t even find on a map.
You lift one, turning it over in your palm. It’s smooth from handling, warm from the ambient heat of the room.
“You’ve got coins from everywhere,” you observe.
“Habit,” he says from behind you. You can hear the quiet glug of whiskey meeting glass.
“Of picking them up?”
“Of keeping them.”
You set it back carefully, exactly where it was. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, and then he pauses, thinks about it. “Reminds you where you’ve been,” he says. “When everywhere starts to look the same.”
You turn that over for a moment, looking at the small scattered collection with different eyes now.
“That’s either very philosophical or very sad,” you decide.
“I think it’s a bit of both, no?”
You glance over your shoulder at him. He’s watching you with an almost smile. He holds out a glass toward you and you cross the room to take it, your fingers closing around the cool curve of it, pressing over his fingers in the exchange.
“The books,” you say, nodding back toward the shelf. “Have you read all of them?”
“Most of them.”
“Which ones haven’t you?”
“The ones that were gifts,” he says, after a thoughtful pause.
You don’t push that one. Just let it sit between you as you both settle onto the sofa — you first, then him, and the distance he leaves is careful and deliberate and already smaller than it probably should be, honestly.
“You’re very minimal,” you say, cradling the glass in both hands.
“You’ve mentioned,” he says before taking a tight-lipped sip.
“I’m saying it again.” You tilt your head. “Does it ever feel lonely?”
Something moves across his face — not offense. More like the question landed somewhere real and he wasn’t quite expecting it to. “Sometimes,” he says, which is more than you expected him to give you.
“But you keep it this way anyway.”
“Easier when you’re never sure how long you’ll be back for.”
You look at him for a moment, this big, careful, frustratingly guarded man, and you feel the particular ache of understanding someone just enough to know how much you don’t.
“That’s a very lonely way to live, John,” you say not unkindly, just honestly.
His jaw shifts. “Maybe,” he concedes, and the word is low and a little rough at the edges.
You take your first cautious sip of whiskey. The burn blooms along your tongue and spreads slow and deep into your chest, and your eyes sting just slightly at the corners. A small cough escapes despite your best efforts to hold it back.
He watches you over the edge of his own glass, amusement soft in the lines around his eyes. “It’ll settle,” he assures you gently.
“That’s what everyone says right before it doesn’t,” you answer, though you take another sip anyway, slower this time, letting the heat spread rather than fighting it.
A low chuckle leaves him at that, and something about the sound in the dim room makes the space feel smaller, the careful distance between you on the sofa somehow already less than it was a moment ago. You’re not entirely sure which of you is responsible for that.
Outside the window the city carries on in its distant, indifferent way — the low hum of traffic, the occasional sweep of headlights across the ceiling — and in here the lamp burns warm and the whiskey is settling into your chest exactly like he said it would and the space between your knee and his thigh has quietly, incrementally ceased to exist without either of you making a conscious decision about it.
You look at him to find he’s already looking at you. His eyes are very blue even in the dim light of the room. Ocean deep and sparkling with amber flecks from the lamp, carrying something unguarded for the first time, simmering on the surface.
“You’re staring,” you say softly.
“Am I.”
It isn’t a question though, not the way he says it. His glass rests loose in his hand, and he makes no effort whatsoever to look away.
“You are,” you nod, the edge of your mouth quirking as you look back into your glass.
His thigh is solid and warm against your knee. And you can smell him this close. Dish soap and whiskey, something musky and spicey, something you’ve decided must belong distinctly to him.
Your pulse is conducting itself with an embarrassing lack of composure that you hope, without much conviction, isn’t visible.
He reaches up toward your face and, regrettably, you flinch gently. Certainly not because you want him to stop, you just weren’t expecting it. And John seems to register that, he pauses instantly when you do. His hand flexes slowly in the air beside you, palm opening unhurried and safe, like an apology before he continues his gingerly movement forward and tucks a strand of hair back from your face. His knuckles just barely graze the line of your jaw as his hand drops.
It was such a small thing, barely anything at all, and yet your whole body responds to it like a held breath finally releasing, like something that has been wound tight behind your ribs all evening just gave way.
“Still think I’ve got nothin’ to say for myself?” he murmurs.
All you can manage in a small shake of your head, your fingers twisting into the wrinkled fabric of your skirt.
The corner of his mouth lifts. And then his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there. He doesn’t pretend otherwise, and you feel the intention of it like a change in pressure, like what the air does in those calm minutes before a storm.
John moves slow enough that you see it coming and still aren’t ready. He leans inward just a fraction, almost imperceptible. It’s the kind of movement that could mean nothing, that could be dismissed totally if you were inclined to do so.
But there is nothing incidental about the way he’s looking at you, and nothing accidental about the way the distance between you continues to melt. He stops short, just close enough that all either of you would need is the smallest shift and there would be nothing left between you at all.
There he waits, close enough you can feel his breath, close enough to admire the freckle on his nose. He’s infuriatingly patient and unbearably still, like a man who has made his intentions very clear and is now perfectly content to let you decide what happens next. In the span of a single held breath, you learn he isn’t going to close the gap.
So you do.
Your mouth meets his and he kisses you carefully. Like he’s learning the shape of you. One large hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb resting at the curve of your jaw, and the touch is so steady that something in your chest just — gives. It comes loose like a knot that’s been tied tight all evening finally being pulled free, its tension unraveling all at once, its ribbon fluttering to floor with an exhale that he swallows.
The whiskey is warm on his lips, a faint sweetness beneath the heat of him, and it mingles with the warmth already blossoming in your chest.
You feel him reach, it’s followed by a soft clunk of his glass setting on the table. Then you feel his hand on yours, prying your cemented fingers from your own cup so that he can place it beside his. All the while his lips continue to capture yours, his beard scratching at your chin when he tilts to deepen it.
Your newly freed hand finds the front of his shirt. Fingers curling into the soft of it like you need something solid to hold onto while the world around you tilts ever so slightly off its axis.
He pulls back, and for one terrifying second you think it’s over, your eyes open, but he’s only paused, his thumb tracing a slow arc along your jaw. His eyes open to find yours and they are blown dark, grey and navy, pupils fighting for space with his irises.
“Alright?” he murmurs lowly, the word barely more than a vibration between you.
“Yes,” you breathe embarrassingly quick, which makes the corner of his mouth curve, and then he comes back to you and this time he’s a little less careful.
His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your heated neck, the kiss deepens by degrees, his tongue pushing through to sweep along yours like a tide coming in high.
Your fingers tighten more in his shirt, closing into a fist that twists the cotton tight across him. You can feel the heat of him through it, and it’s so much better than the memory from that night in your kitchen, so much realer, and something akin to lava in your belly responds to the realness of it in a way you feel all the way down to your thighs.
When his other hand finds your neck, the pad of his thumb traces the line of your jaw until he finds your pulse just below it, pressing into it until a soft squeak escapes your throat and he’s grinning against you.
You push into him without thinking about it, closing whatever distance is left between your bodies, your free hand finding his jaw, scratching through the short coarse hair of his beard. He makes a low sound against your mouth that you feel at the back of your teeth, in the base of your throat, in places further south than either of those.
The hand at your neck slides slowly, tracing down over your collarbone, your shoulder, coming to rest at your waist, fingers pressing in through the fabric of your blouse with a firmness that makes your thighs press together. He pulls at you just enough to
communicate something without saying it, and you follow.
Swinging one leg over him, your pencil skirt rides up over your thighs as you stretch across his wide lap, it bunches just under your hips, leaving a salacious bit of fabric between his zipper and the thin lace covering your center.
You pull back just far enough to look at him, to catch your breath, lips swollen, chin chapped. His hair is slightly displaced, your doing. His mouth is bitten-red, also your doing.
His hands are warm and heavy on your hips, fingers pressing into the fat of them.
“Hi,” you say softly, which is an absurd thing to say and you know it the moment it leaves your mouth.
Something like amusement crosses his features and he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair back from your face for the second time tonight.
“Hi,” he says back, voice rough with restraint.
But not too much because then his hands are sliding from your hips to the backs of your thighs, calloused palms grazing across your skin.
“Okay?” he asks, thumb tracing that slow arc against the inside of your knee.
“Very,” you manage.
The corner of his mouth pulls up and his hands begin, with absolutely no hurry whatsoever, to move.
He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, no longer learning. His hands move from your thighs to your waist, sliding under your blouse, palms meeting hot skin.
You press into him greedily, hips shifting forward, chasing something instinctive, a feeling so insistent it makes you rock again, and then again, and you feel him — solid and unmistakable — beneath you, the heat of him coming through the denim. The breath that attempts to leave you hitches in your chest and sticks there.
His hands tighten at your waist and you roll into it again, his jaw tightens and he exhales a groan into your mouth.
The kissing gets away from both of you quicker than you can even keep up with it. His hand climbs your back, fingers spreading wide between your shoulder blades, pressing, pulling you closer until your chest is firmly to his and your back is arched like a bow.
Your fingers fist his hair and then his beard and the warm column of his neck, touching everything you can reach.
You pull back from his mouth, breathing unsteadily, your forehead tipping toward his.
“John,” you breathe, and it comes out lower than you intend.
“Mm,” he answers, his lips finding the hinge of your jaw, the soft patch just beneath your ear, and your eyes close.
“I want—” you start.
“I know what you want,” he whispers against your neck, and you can feel the curve of his mouth against your flesh as he says it.
Your fingers tighten in his hair. Your hips shift again, more pointed this time, and his breath comes out slow and controlled through his nose in a way that tells you it’s costing him his currency of composure.
“John.” More insistent now, your hand fitting between your bodies, fingers crawling to his belt, making yourself clear.
He pulls back to look at you, eyes steady, his hand catching your wrist gently before you get any further.
“Easy,” he says, low. His thumb strokes across your pulse point once before he pulls your hand aside.
“I want—”
“I know what you want,” he says again. “But, not tonight,” he finishes, tone on the edge of pleading.
You make a sound of frustration that dissolves as his hands slip to the backs of your thighs and up, kneading the flesh of your exposed backside.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he starts, very quietly, like he’s telling you a secret, his eyes holding yours with a steadiness that makes your stomach drop toward the floor. “You’re gonna stay right where you are.” His fingers trace the hemline of your underwear, just enough to make you very aware of where they are and where they are not. “And I’m gonna take care of you.” He takes a pause, eyes searching around your face. “Properly.”
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth and you nod.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes softly. “Lean back, duck.”
He helps shift you back to give himself enough space to get a look at you, to soon fit his hand between your already spread thighs.
He doesn’t look anywhere else, only your face, as he gingerly slides his big hands the length of your thighs, his thumbs pressing into the meat inside on their way up until they hit the hot crease that meets your core.
You look down at his hands, your own finding purchase on his wrists — he doesn’t seem to mind. He moves one to your hip, the other descends, the heel of his palm pressing against your lace. He takes his time, moving in excruciating circles, like he’s learning the shape of you through fabric first. You try very hard not to come apart immediately but it's a losing battle from the start given how long it’s been since anyone has touched you like this.
Your head falls back with a soft, helpless sound and your hips push into the pressure, chasing it, making your own friction.
“There she is,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in it.
“John,” you whimper, hips rocking, asking for more without words.
He answers by hooking a finger into the hem of your underwear and pulling them aside. He traces through your folds at a pace that makes your thighs tremble. You can hear your slick separating around his digits, you try not to think about how embarrassing it is to be this wet.
“Look at me.”
And it’s hard. It’s hard to lift your head back up, to meet his wrecked gaze, but you do. You can feel the blood rushing around your cheeks, the whiskey bubbling under your skin.
When he finally — finally — plunges one thick finger into the well of you, your whole body folds, your forehead dropping to his. Your hands move to his shoulders, finger nails digging half-moons through his shirt and into his skin.
“Good?” he asks, low.
“Yes,” you manage, “yes, please—”
He works you open slowly, one finger and then, after he’s made you wait, two. And the stretch of it, the fullness of it slipping in beside his index, pulls a moan from you that bounces off every surface in the room.
He finds a rhythm that unravels you. He pushes deep, until each knuckle is nestled into your heat. He moves them, curls them, pumps them achingly slow until you are completely and utterly lost, rocking into his hand, face buried in his neck, panting.
The tension builds inside of you like a spring, coiling tight and hot. Your breathing goes ragged and your grip tightens.
And then, when you’re already spinning, when there’s nothing left in you capable of forming a coherent thought about anything, he turns his head, his lips at your temple.
“This is why you came ’round, yeah?” The words drop like molten silver into the shell of your ear. “This is what you wanted?”
You can’t answer him, and he knows that, so you just press closer, and let the last of it break over you in a long, consuming wave that starts somewhere deep and radiates outward until you feel it in your fingertips, your jaw, the backs of your knees, and up the length of your spine. Your walls pulse around him, and you can feel how damp it’s all left you in his hand.
You stay where you are, forehead against his shoulder, your breathing coming back to you. His free hand moves in a slow idle path up and down your back.
You lift your head eventually and look at him.
There’s a warmth in his expression that’s more unguarded than anything you’ve seen from him all night, his careful composure worn down, and it does something to your chest that has nothing to do with what just happened and everything to do with who he is.
“That was—” you start.
“Yeah,” he agrees, before you’ve finished.
You laugh softly at that, and he almost does too, that almost-smile making an appearance.
Outside a car passes, headlights sweeping briefly across the ceiling before disappearing.
“I should go,” you say, which is true, but it’s also a little bit of a shame.
He doesn’t argue with you. He nods once, and the arm around your back loosens.
You clamber off of his lap with less grace than you’d like, your skirt fighting with you before it sits correctly again. You feel him watching you fix yourself with a composure that you find deeply unfair given that he’s largely responsible for the state you’re in.
“Not a word,” you warn, without looking at him
“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he croons in a tone that suggests he absolutely was. He reaches for his long forgotten whiskey and takes the last of it down in one gulp.
You smooth yourself out, retrieve your shoes from where they’ve ended up beside the coffee table, and carry them with you to the door. He stands, straightening his shirt, and you notice with some indignation that he looks entirely unruffled. Like the last hour happened to you very specifically and left him more or less untouched.
“Ready?” he asks.
You huff a small laugh, and find you’re unable to look him in the eye, your face turning to your bare feet on his rug.
“You don’t have to walk me,” you say. “It’s literally a hallway.”
“But I’m going to,” he says, and moves to the door anyway.
The corridor is dim, the floral runner threadbare underfoot. You count the paces between your doors. It’s nine.
At your door you turn back to face him.
He’s standing just behind you, hands tucked into his front pockets.
“Thanks for dinner,” you say.
“Thanks for the whiskey,” he returns.
“Yeah, that— It was good.”
“It was,” he agrees, and you both know neither of you are talking solely about the whiskey.
“Night, John,” you say softly.
“Night, duck.”
You turn and let yourself in, the door swings shut behind you, and you stand in the dim of your own flat for a moment just… breathing. Just letting this electric air calm around you.
Your coat is still on his hook. You’ll get it tomorrow.
On the other side of your door, John doesn’t move immediately. He stands where he is and waits. Waiting for the click of your deadbolt to slide home.
But it doesn’t come.
He even waits another moment, just in case, gives you the benefit of the doubt, which he notes is more than past events warrant.
He exhales slowly through his nose, tips his head back briefly toward the ceiling, and turns back around.
Three steps, his hand finds your door handle, turns it, and the door swings open without resistance, which is exactly what he was afraid of.
You’re in the entryway still, back against the wall in thought. You turn your head to the side when the door opens, eyes going wide, lips parting with confusion.
He leans against the door frame, arms crossing slowly over his chest, looking at you with the hard expression of a man who is being very patient. His chin is tucked and his forehead creased three times over.
“I—”
“Second time,” he says over you. “Second time I’ve found that door unlocked.”
“I was literally ten seconds behind you—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Nothing was going to—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says again, the same way.
You look at him for a moment, shoes still in your hand, and he looks back, and you let out a breath through your nose that is not quite a sigh and not quite a laugh and is mostly a concession.
“Fine,” you say.
“Lock it,” he says. “Tonight and every night. Are we clear?”
“We’re clear,” you mutter.
He holds your gaze a beat longer like he’s making sure the message has actually taken root this time, and then he nods once and pushes off the door frame.
“Good night,” he says, pulling your door closed from the outside.
You stand there in your entryway listening. You can hear him waiting, the impatient shift of his weight against old floorboards.
You reach out and turn the deadbolt.
Then all that’s left to hear are his retreating footfalls heading back down the hall to his own door.
You stand there, fingers still on the lock, a smile pulling at the corners of your mouth.
For one confused moment, staring up through the branches of the oak, you almost expect to see your bedroom ceiling.
Instead there is morning light filtering through green leaves and the distant clang of metal from Ashford Meadow already coming alive.
The grass is damp with dew.
Somewhere nearby, someone is laughing. Somewhere else, horses are snorting and stamping and being cursed at by sleepy squires.
You push yourself up on one elbow.
Dunk is still asleep on one side of the tree, long legs half-kicked out from under the blanket, one arm flung over his face. On your other side, Egg is curled up with his hands tucked under his cheek, breathing slow and even, looking younger asleep than he ever does awake.
For a moment, you just look at them.
The future king of Westeros and the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms.
Both asleep under a tree.
You almost laugh.
Instead, you reach over and nudge Egg’s shoulder.
“Wake up.”
He makes a face without opening his eyes.
“No.”
You nudge him again.
“I have bread.”
That gets one eye open.
“You’re lying.”
You lift the heel of yesterday’s loaf.
Egg sits up immediately.
“You’re a miracle worker,” he mutters.
“Try dream girl.”
“That’s worse.”
You tear the bread in half and hand it to him, then pass over a bit of cheese. He eats with single-minded seriousness, still rumpled from sleep, and for a moment he is just a boy. Not a prince. Not Aegon Targaryen. Just a child under a tree at a tourney, squinting at the morning sun with cheese in his mouth.
Dunk wakes to the sound of Egg chewing.
His arm drops from his face.
“You two are loud.”
“You were snoring,” Egg says.
“I do not snore.”
“You do.”
Dunk sits up with a groan and rubs a hand over his face. You pass him what’s left of the loaf.
He blinks at it.
“You keep feeding us, I’ll start thinking these dreams of yours are useful.”
“They are useful.”
Egg snorts. “That remains to be seen.”
Dunk tears off a piece of bread and looks toward the waking meadow beyond the tree line.
“I’ve got to try the lists again,” he says. “If I’m to ride, I need it done before the jousts begin.”
Your stomach tightens, though you know how this goes.
Or mostly know.
“Games master again?”
“Aye.”
He says it like he already expects disappointment and is trying not to. He stands, stretches, then looks down at Egg. “You’re coming with me. If you’re to squire, you can start earning it.”
Egg straightens a little at that.
Then Dunk looks at you.
“You’ll be alright?”
You nod.
“I’ll walk the market.”
“Watch your purse.”
“Yes, Ser Duncan.”
He gives you a look at the title, half suspicious and half resigned, then turns away. Egg lingers long enough to stuff the last of the bread into his mouth before hurrying after him.
You watch them go.
Then you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Baelor will remember Ser Arlan.
Baelor will get him into the lists.
He lives long enough to do that.
For now, that has to be enough.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
Ashford Meadow is louder in the morning.
The market lanes are thick with people now ladies in bright gowns, hedge knights in worn mail, merchants shouting over one another, boys darting through the crowd with ribbons and cheap flowers in their arms. Somewhere a fiddler is playing too fast, and somewhere else a blacksmith is hammering a breastplate back into shape.
You make your way straight for the betting tables.
No hesitation today.
You know enough now to wager more boldly.
The man with the ink-stained fingers looks up as you approach.
“You again.”
You smile.
“Me again.”
He squints at you while you point to the names on the board.
A larger bet this time.
Then another at a different table farther down so no one notices too much.
By the time you step back into the crowd, your purse has a satisfying weight to it.
Enough to matter.
Enough to change things, carefully.
As you pass between two merchant stalls, you hear a pair of men talking just ahead of you.
“…don’t matter how big he is,” one says. “That hedge knight won’t get into the lists. Steward turned him away yesterday, and he’ll do it again.”
The other laughs.
“Aye. No one remembers the old knight. What was the name?”
You don’t slow.
You don’t turn.
But relief slips through you all the same, quiet and private.
They’re wrong.
They just don’t know it yet.
You do.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You cross the little bridge back toward the lists just as the crowd shifts.
Not loudly at first.
Just enough for people to start turning their heads.
Then the murmuring begins.
And then you see why.
The banners come first.
Black silk snapping in the wind, each emblazoned with a red three-headed dragon that seems almost to move in the morning light.
Your heart stutters.
The riders come next.
You stop dead in the middle of the bridge.
They ride like they belong to another world than the one around them calm, controlled, utterly certain of their place in it. Armor gleams. Horses toss their heads under rich caparisons. The crowd parts without being told to.
And at the center of them
There.
Your breath catches painfully in your chest.
Baelor.
You know him before your mind can even supply the name.
Broad-shouldered and composed, sitting his horse like he was born in the saddle which he was. Dark hair touched with silver at the temples. A face stronger than pretty, sharper than kind, though not unkind. The kind of presence people make room for without knowing they’re doing it.
He does not look tragic.
He does not look doomed.
He just looks alive.
Your pulse pounds so hard it makes your hands shake.
You know why.
No one else here does.
The riders pass beneath the banners and toward the pavilions, swallowed slowly by the meadow and its noise.
But for one suspended moment you can do nothing except stare after them, your entire body wound tight with something you cannot name without sounding mad.
Relief.
Dread.
Wonder.
Want.
He’s here.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You find Dunk and Egg near a row of stalls, just in time to see Dunk grab Egg by the back of his tunic.
Egg twists immediately.
“I wasn’t stealing.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I was not.”
Dunk leans down a little, trying for stern and only managing tired.
“If you steal something, I’ll hunt you down with dogs.”
Egg blinks up at him.
“What dogs?”
Dunk just stares and then barks.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
Egg spots you first.
sssq
“She’s smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Dunk glances at you, then at Egg, then sighs like he has been saddled with two separate problems and does not know how either of them happened.
“Well,” he says to no one in particular, “that’s my day worsened.”
“How did it go?” you ask.
He scratches the back of his neck.
“Still no place in the lists.”
Your stomach dips, though you know it is only temporary.
“But there was a knight in the Baratheon pavilion,” he adds. “Lyonel. He seemed friendly enough.”
“Friendly?” Egg repeats.
Dunk frowns. “Odd, then.”
Egg nods. “That sounds more right.”
You smile faintly.
Across the meadow the drums begin to sound, calling men and horses toward the stables and the lists, and the whole place seems to tighten with anticipation.
Dunk exhales.
“Come on, then.”
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
The stables are chaos.
Horses stamp and toss their heads. Stablehands dart in and out beneath swinging tack. Knights bark orders at squires already overburdened with shields and lances and helms.
You keep to the edges of it, close enough to see and far enough not to be in the way.
The princes are being announced.
First Baelor.
Then Valarr.
Then Prince Maekar and his sons.
The names move through the stable yard in a wave of lowered heads and hushed voices, but you barely hear any of it over the ringing in your own ears.
Baelor steps down from his horse and turns, speaking quietly to a man at his side.
And then he looks up.
Straight at you.
It lasts no more than a second.
Two, maybe.
But it is long enough for you to see his eyes clearly.
One dark blue.
One so deep a violet it almost looks black in the shade.
Heterochromia.
The detail hits you with startling force, absurdly intimate, as if noticing it means something.
His expression does not change much. Maybe not at all.
But his gaze lingers a fraction longer than courtesy demands.
Curious.
Assessing.
Then someone speaks to him and he looks away.
You exhale slowly.
Not realizing until then that you had stopped breathing.
A few yards off, Aerion is being cruel to Dunk, as expected, sharp-mouthed and bright with that casual kind of meanness only princes seem to perfect. Dunk stands there trying not to look as angry as he clearly is.
You remain where you are, half-hidden by the stable door, feeling stupidly aware of the fact that Baelor is somewhere just beyond the stable yard walls now, while the entire story continues moving exactly where you know it will.
Too fast.
Always too fast.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You should not follow him.
You know that.
The moment Dunk slips away toward Lord Ashford’s castle, moving with the determined awkwardness of a man about to do something he knows is ill-advised, you tell yourself very firmly that you should let him go.
You do not let him go.
Instead you wait three breaths, then follow at a distance.
“What am I doing,” you mutter under your breath as you duck behind a stone wall and then hurry after him again.
The castle is busy enough that one tall hedge knight and one strange girl can move farther than they ought to before being noticed. You trail Dunk through a side passage, your heart pounding harder with every step, until voices stop both of you cold.
Men arguing.
Royal voices.
Sharp and dangerous and too familiar from the page.
Dunk edges closer.
You edge closer behind him.
Inside the chamber beyond, Maekar and his sons are in the midst of some bitter exchange. Aerion is bright with offense; Valarr looks displeased in a quieter way; Maekar’s temper sits just under the surface like banked coals.
And Baelor
Baelor stands apart from the worst of it, calm but not detached, like a man accustomed to stepping into storms and asking them to behave.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You see Gwen before Dunk does.
She is all ribbons and purpose, stalking across the yard with the expression of someone preparing for righteous violence.
You open your mouth to warn him.
Then think better of it.
Dunk turns at the exact wrong moment.
Gwen smacks him smart across the arm.
“You’re just stupid and tall,” she declares.
Then she turns and runs.
Dunk stares after her in complete confusion.
You press your lips together, shoulders shaking.
He turns and catches you watching.
“You knew she was coming.”
“Maybe.”
“You could’ve said something.”
“I wanted to see it happen.”
“That’s cruel.”
“A little.”
You should leave.
You do not leave.
A hand closes around Dunk’s shoulder.
Another catches your wrist.
You nearly yelp.
Prince Maekar himself glares down at the both of you.
“Well,” he says flatly, “what have we here?”
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
Standing before them is worse than you imagined.
Somehow the chamber feels smaller with all of them in it.
Baelor. Maekar. Valarr. Aerion.
And you.
Your fingers knot together in front of you before you can stop them. You try to hold still, to keep your face neutral, to not look like someone who has loved these people in books and borrowed worlds and late-night grief for far too long.
Dunk, to his credit, recovers first.
He squares his shoulders and speaks plainly.
He tells them about Ser Arlan of Pennytree. About how he was knighted. About how no one seems to remember the man who taught him everything he knows.
There is something earnest and unguarded in the way he says it that makes the room shift.
Maekar still looks irritated.
Aerion looks bored.
Valarr watches with narrow attention.
But Baelor
Baelor listens.
Truly listens.
Then he says, “I remember Ser Arlan.”
The words strike through you like a bell.
Dunk looks almost startled by the mercy of it.
Baelor continues, voice even.
“He unhorsed me once at Maidenpool, years ago. Cleanly, if I recall.” A faint curve touches his mouth. “I did not enjoy it.”
Something in the room eases.
Not much.
But enough.
Dunk swallows. “Then… you will vouch for me, my prince?”
“I will.”
Relief crashes through you so sharply your knees nearly give.
Still alive, you think wildly.
Still here.
Still capable of changing the course of one man’s day with a few words.
Then Baelor turns his head.
And looks directly at you.
You go very still.
“And you?” he asks.
His voice is not harsh.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“Why are you here?”
Every answer in your head sounds ridiculous.
Because I died and woke up in your world.
Because I know how you die.
Because I have spent days trying not to change the story too soon and failing anyway.
Instead you hear yourself say, “I travel with Ser Duncan.”
Aerion snorts.
Baelor does not look away.
“That does not answer the question.”
Your fingers tighten together.
“I have dreams,” you say, hating how thin it sounds.
Maekar’s expression shifts into immediate annoyance.
“Oh, for the love of—”
But Baelor lifts a hand without looking at him.
“What sort of dreams?”
You hesitate.
“Prophetic ones.”
That earns silence.
Not believing silence. Worse. Measuring silence.
Maekar gives his brother a look that could curdle milk.
“You cannot be entertaining this.”
“I am asking a question,” Baelor says.
“To a girl who followed a hedge knight into a private chamber.”
You force yourself not to flinch.
Baelor’s gaze never leaves your face.
“And what do these dreams show you?”
You choose your next words like stepping stones over deep water.
“Small things, mostly.”
“Only small things?”
“No,” you say softly.
That seems to interest him more than anything else yet.
Dunk shifts beside you.
“My prince, she’s strange, but harmless.”
You nearly laugh despite yourself.
Baelor’s mouth twitches, just slightly.
“Yes,” he says. “I had gathered as much.”
Then, to Dunk: “You have your answer, Ser Duncan. I will speak to the steward.”
Dunk bows awkwardly.
Relief and gratitude are written all over him. Then he glances at you, clearly reluctant to leave you standing there among princes.
Baelor notices that too.
“If she is willing,” he says, “I would ask to speak with her a moment longer.”
Dunk looks at you at once.
“You’ll be alright?”
You nod.
“Yes.”
He still hesitates.
Then, with visible effort, he bows again and backs away toward the door.
Maekar looks as if the entire world has personally offended him.
Aerion looks amused now.
Valarr merely watches.
When the door closes behind Dunk, the chamber seems to sharpen.
Baelor steps a little nearer not close enough to crowd, only enough to speak more quietly.
“You said your dreams are prophetic.”
“Yes.”
“Do they often concern tournaments?”
“Sometimes.”
“And princes?”
Your throat tightens.
“Sometimes.”
Maekar makes an incredulous sound from somewhere behind him. “Brother.”
Baelor ignores him.
“Do you put much faith in them?”
You meet his gaze because it feels more dangerous not to.
“I think,” you say carefully, “that warnings matter whether people believe them or not.”
That stills him.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The sort of stillness that means he has heard more than the words themselves.
“A warning, then,” he says.
“Is that why you are here?”
You could tell him.
You could tell him everything and watch the world split open around it.
Instead you say, “I think some men matter more than they know.”
Maekar says, flatly, “This is nonsense.”
Baelor remains maddeningly calm.
“Perhaps.”
Then, to you: “And do your dreams tell you which men those are?”
You lower your eyes for the briefest moment, not out of submission but because if you keep looking at him you might say too much.
“Sometimes.”
When you look back up, his expression has changed only slightly.
But the curiosity in it is no longer casual.
It is personal now.
Deliberate.
“I should like to hear more of these dreams another time,” he says.
The words are simple.
The effect is not.
Maekar’s stare could cut stone.
Valarr looks thoughtful.
Aerion looks entertained in the worst possible way.
You incline your head because your voice feels suddenly unreliable.
“As you wish, my prince.”
Baelor studies you one heartbeat longer.
Then he steps back.
“You may go.”
You bow too fast, too awkwardly, and nearly trip over the threshold on your way out.
Only once the door shuts behind you do you realize your hands are shaking.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You collect your bets in something of a daze.
The winnings are better than you expected—hefty enough that even the men at the tables look at you differently now, with the first edge of reluctant respect and a touch of suspicion.
You don’t linger.
The market feels brighter now, stranger somehow, as if the whole day has tilted a fraction off its axis.
You pass the puppet show just as the little stage erupts in laughter. A foolish knight is declaring himself in love, his painted wooden face fixed in tragic devotion while the crowd hoots with delight.
Dunk stands at the edge of it, watching.
Tanselle moves behind the puppets with graceful, clever hands, and for a moment you let yourself slow.
Then you keep walking.
Not yet.
At the dress merchant’s stall, the green gown is still there.
Dark as pine needles in shade, with fine stitching at the sleeves and neckline.
You buy it before you can think too hard about what you are doing.
Then you find a bathhouse, scrub the dust from your skin, wash your hair, and dress slowly in fabric that feels far too fine to belong to you.
When you step out again, the world has changed shape.
Or maybe just you have.
You buy fruit. More bread. A little meat wrapped in paper. Enough food to carry back later.
Enough to pretend you are practical.
Enough not to admit—even to yourself—that part of you dressed well because Baelor Targaryen looked at you like he wanted answers.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You hear the shouting before you see the crowd.
By the time you push through the outer ring of people, the whole square is roaring with laughter and encouragement.
At the center of it, Lyonel Baratheon has roped half the camp into a tug-of-war.
Dunk is on one side, boots dug into the dirt, grinning despite himself. Egg is beside him with both hands on the rope and a look of murderous concentration far too fierce for his size.
You laugh before you mean to.
Lyonel bellows something triumphant from the other end.
The line jerks.
Slides.
Jerks again.
Then, all at once, Dunk’s side hauls hard enough to send three men sprawling into the mud.
The crowd erupts.
Egg is shouting victoriously.
Dunk is laughing outright now, flushed and breathless, and for one bright moment he looks younger too.
Egg spots you and tears free of the crowd at once.
“We won,” he announces, as if this might have escaped your notice.
“I saw.”
“We destroyed them.”
“That feels like an exaggeration.”
“It is not.”
He throws his arms around your waist before either of you can think better of it, and you blink in surprise before laughing and patting his head.
“There’s my terrifying champion.”
Egg immediately scowls and lets go, embarrassed by his own enthusiasm.
Dunk comes up a moment later, still catching his breath.
“You missed Lyonel fall face-first in the mud.”
“I saw enough.”
He grins.
And because everything in you feels overfull and strange and dangerously soft today, you step forward and hug him too.
Only briefly.
Only enough to make him go still in surprise before awkwardly patting your shoulder.
Egg looks between the two of you with narrowed suspicion, as if physical affection is a mystery he intends to solve and then outlaw.
You press extra food into Dunk’s hands before he can protest.
He looks down at the parcel, then at you.
“You keep turning up with coin.”
“I keep getting lucky.”
Egg mutters, “Convenient.”
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
Night falls warm and loud.
Music spills from the pavilions. Torches paint the air gold. Somewhere men are singing badly and proudly, which is to say exactly as men always do.
Dunk goes off to see to Chestnut, muttering something about tack and feed.
Egg disappears after a roasted apple vendor with all the focus of a hound on a scent.
And you
You drift.
That is what you tell yourself anyway.
You are only wandering.
Only following the lights.
Only ending up, by complete accident, near the royal pavilions where the Targaryen tent stands broad and bright among the others.
The guards do not stop you.
There are too many people moving in and out servants, lesser knights, ladies, merchants with trays, musicians. Celebration makes everything a little more porous than it ought to be.
Inside, it is all rich lamplight and low conversation and banners rippling faintly whenever the night breeze finds the tent flaps.
You take a cup of wine you do not really want and a plate of food you are too nervous to eat.
Then you sit near the edge of the gathering and try to look like someone who belongs there.
It works for almost a full minute.
Then you look up.
Baelor is already looking at you.
He is across the tent speaking to an older lord, but his attention shifts, fixes, holds.
You set your cup down too quickly.
He says something to the man beside him, rises, and crosses the space between you with the easy authority of someone who has never once doubted he may go where he pleases.
He stops at your table.
“May I?”
You nod before remembering you are supposed to speak.
“Yes, my prince.”
He sits.
Up close, he is even more composed than he was earlier. Not colder. Simply steadier. Like a blade kept in perfect condition.
“You clean up well,” he says.
It is not flirtatious.
If anything, it sounds mildly amused.
You glance down at the green dress.
“So do you.”
That earns the faintest hint of a smile.
For a moment neither of you speaks. Around you, the feast continues laughter, music, the scrape of cups on wood—but the silence at your little table is not uncomfortable.
Baelor breaks it first.
“You do not look like the sort of woman who belongs at tourneys.”
“That sounds almost insulting.”
“It was meant as observation.”
You tilt your head.
“And what sort of woman belongs at tourneys?”
“One who enjoys spectacle more than strategy.”
You think about that.
Then say, “I think the spectacle is only interesting because of what it costs.”
His eyes sharpen.
“That is not an answer most would give.”
“I doubt most people think about it.”
“No,” he says. “Most do not.”
You look down at your untouched food.
“Someone should.”
Baelor leans back slightly, studying you.
“Is that what your dreams show you? Costs?”
That could mean too many things.
You choose honesty, but only the portion of it that won’t destroy you both.
“Sometimes they show me what happens when good men are left to chance.”
He is quiet for a moment after that.
Not offended.
Not alarmed.
Considering.
Then, “And do you think chance can be beaten?”
“I think people call it chance when they would rather not admit something was preventable.”
That makes him still.
Around you the feast goes on, oblivious.
Baelor’s thumb taps once against the edge of the table.
“You speak as though you have lost arguments with fate before.”
You almost laugh at that, but there is nothing funny in it.
“Maybe I have.”
Something in his expression shifts then.
Not softness, exactly.
Recognition, maybe.
The kind that passes between people who do not know one another and yet understand, all at once, that the other carries more than they say.
“You are very strange,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And yet I find I do not mind it.”
This time the smile that touches your mouth is helpless.
“Careful, my prince. People will talk.”
“People always talk.”
“Fair.”
As the horns sound for the opening ceremony, the crowd begins moving toward the lists in a slow tide of color and noise.
Baelor pauses beside you.
“Come,” he says simply.
You hesitate only a moment before taking the arm he offers.
His escort is polite, nothing more than courtesy to guide you through the thickening crowd, but the contact is steady and warm beneath the fabric of his sleeve.
The two of you move together through the lantern-lit pathways toward the field.
Around you men shout wagers and vendors cry out the last of their food. The air smells of wine and horse sweat and trampled grass.
Baelor says nothing for a while.
Neither do you.
The silence is not uncomfortable.
It feels… observant.
Like both of you are studying the other in small, careful ways.
As the entrance to the lists comes into view, you slow slightly.
Then you lean closer.
Closer than propriety demands.
Your hand tightens just enough on his arm to bring your mouth near his ear.
Your voice drops to a whisper.
“Place a wager tomorrow,” you murmur. “House Baratheon.”
Your lips brush the edge of his ear as the words leave your mouth.
Just barely.
Then you straighten as if nothing happened.
Before he can say anything, you slip free of his arm.
The crowd swallows you almost immediately as you move down toward the field where Dunk and Egg are already standing.
Egg waves you over impatiently.
Dunk looks relieved to see you.
You slide in beside them, eyes fixed dutifully on the lists.
Only once do you glance back.
Baelor still stands where you left him.
Not moving.
Watching you.
The torchlight catches his mismatched eyes as he studies your retreating figure, expression thoughtful—
and something sharper beneath it.
Like a man who has just been handed a riddle he very much intends to solve.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
The ceremony is everything it ought to be.
Loud. Violent. Splendid.
Standards wave over the field. Horses rear and plunge. Five champions on five champions ride beneath the roar of the crowd while heralds proclaim names and honors and ancient glories no one in the stands truly understands but everyone cheers for anyway.
You stand below with Dunk and Egg, shoulder to shoulder in the crush of bodies.
Dunk is watching the field with the focused, anxious stare of a man trying not to imagine himself unhorsed in front of half the realm.
Egg is practically vibrating with excitement.
You glance up.
Baelor is seated on the raised platform among the royals, lit gold by torchlight and impossible to miss.
As if feeling it, he turns his head.
Finds you instantly.
And keeps looking.
Your face warms.
You look away.
Then back again, because apparently self-preservation has left you entirely.
He has not moved.
Below, the jousts thunder on.
The crowd roars at a broken lance.
Dunk mutters something under his breath about seat and balance and the angle of impact.
Egg is shouting for blood in a way that suggests he may, in fact, be exactly as Targaryen as advertised.
But every time you dare look up, Baelor’s gaze returns to you.
Not constant.
Not crude.
Simply present.
Intentional.
Enough to make your pulse go wild all over again.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
The walk back is slower.
The meadow is thinning now, most people drifting toward drink or sleep or one last round of dice before dawn.
Dunk carries the parcel of food you bought as if he still expects it to vanish if he loosens his grip.
Egg is half-talking, half-yawning, recounting the best moments of the ceremony as though neither of you were there to witness them.
You let him.
At the edge of the tree line, you stop.
Dunk notices immediately.
“What is it?”
You adjust the bundle at your hip.
“I’m staying at an inn tonight.”
Egg blinks. “What?”
“I won enough at betting,” you say. “Enough for a bed.”
Dunk frowns at once.
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
He looks unhappy with the entire idea.
“It’s not safe.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know I’d very much like a bath and a door that closes.”
That earns a reluctant huff of laughter from him, but he still doesn’t look pleased.
You step closer and take the food parcel from his hands, splitting it so they keep most of it.
“For the morning,” you say.
Egg looks down at it, then back up at you.
“You’re coming back?”
“Of course I’m coming back.”
He tries very hard to look like that answer does not matter to him.
Fails.
Dunk studies your face for a moment longer, then nods once.
“Find us in the morning, then.”
“I was about to say the same thing to you.”
Egg shifts the parcel under his arm.
“You’ll probably be late.”
“I won’t.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
Dunk rolls his eyes toward the heavens as though asking the gods why he has been burdened with either of you.
You smile.
Then, because tonight has made you reckless in a dozen smaller ways already, you bend and kiss Egg on the top of his bald head.
He recoils in outrage.
“What was that for?”
“For being tolerable.”
“I’m never speaking to you again.”
“That’ll last ten minutes.”
“Five,” Dunk says.
Egg glares at both of you.
You step backward toward the lantern-lit path leading to the inns.
“Goodnight, Ser Duncan.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Egg.”
He scowls.
Then, softer, “Goodnight.”
You turn away before either of them can see your expression.
Tomorrow will bring more lists, more princes, more chances to get this wrong.
But tonight you have coin in your purse, a bed waiting somewhere ahead, and the memory of Baelor Targaryen saying he would like to hear more of your dreams.
The road to the inn glows pale beneath the moon.
Behind you, beneath the tree, Dunk and Egg settle back into the story you know.
Ahead of you, somewhere in silk and torchlight and royal shadow, waits the prince you intend to save.
Maekar never expected to marry again, never expected to love again. he tried to be a distant husband, a husband in name only. and yet you with your sweet smiles, kind eyes made it so hard for him to forget to be the stern man Westros knew him as, made it hard for him to forget that he didn't want to fall in love.
Maekar Targayren x Florent!reader
Word count: 3,661
CW: MDI 18 +, Arranged marriage, angst, bedding ceremony, smut. innocent and sweet reader, grump x sunshine. age gap. slow burn. by angst i mean a lot of angst like i cried writting some of this.
Masterlist | part one | part two | part three | part four
You had always been kind, had always been taught to find kindness in everything. To see the good in everyone. You were a sweet flower, as your mother would say, with none of the cunning of a fox, despite your house sigil. You were the perfect lady, kind, caring, beautiful and always doing what was expected of you. Even when it meant marrying the king's youngest son, becoming his second wife and mother to a large brood of children, the oldest of which was closer in age to you than your future husband.
You had looked on the brightside, as you always did, you thought of a man who might grow to love you, a man who perhaps would be like the fairy tales you read as a child, a man willing to go to war for you. You thought of his younger children; perhaps they would grow to love you as a motherly figure, not as a mother. You knew you could never replace her, but you hoped perhaps there would be great happiness in your life. Even if you were to be the notoriously hard and tough man they call “the anvil”.
You grew hopefully as you journeyed to the crownlands, thinking of the life you would live as a princess.
You had never met the man that would be your husband, nor any royal to be exact, you would meet him for the first time on your wedding day. But your parents hadn't met till their wedding, and now they were the picture of adoration. You were the youngest child of five, though the only girl, and you had spent your whole life watching your brothers fall in love, allowed to marry ladies of their choosing.
And yes, you were idealistic, but why wouldn’t you be? You have never had to worry about anything, never had to know a single second of sadness.
You were filled with a sense of nervous joy as you journeyed to the sept, dressed in a pure white gown, with pink accents throughout your gown, small pink flowers laced throughout your dress, and your veil a soft blush. On your shoulders sat your maiden cloak, the blue a tricking contrast against your dress, the fox of your house sat proud on your back as your father escorted you into the sept.
Prince Maekar stood tall as you walked through the sept, his gaze unmoving as you stood in the door, waiting for the orchestra to start the procession.
He was far more handsome than you had expected. Though his face was stern, his cheeks were marred with scars, but they did not take away from his looks. He was thickly built, his silver hair was cut shorter than you had expected, but his eyes were what drew you in. As you walked closer, your father's grip on your arm grew tighter. The closer he got to having to let you go, you noticed the lightness of his eyes, you couldn’t tell if they were blue or purple. Your gaze locked with his as you finally approached the altar, your father hesitantly letting go of your arm, placing a soft kiss on your brow.
Maekar's jaw ticked as you stood before him, his gaze assessing you as you greeted him with a soft smile. Your hands were joined with his as the septon began the ceremony, the roughness of his hands against the softness of your own.
The septon droned on as you memorised every inch of your new husband, taking in the sternness of his face, how he seemed permanently annoyed by everything around him, how his hands were holding on to yours but seemed to play with your fingers as the septon spoke, he was doing it mindlessly it seemed as he stopped the second you drew attention to it.
He spoke the vows quickly, his voice sharp and eager to get it over with. Your smile faltered.
He kissed you quickly, barely touching your lips before moving back, and the smile faded from your face.
The carriage ride to the red keep was silent, with him letting go of your arm as soon as you stepped inside. He sat opposite you, his eyes not once looking at you. You had tried to talk to him, but every response was a simple grunt. Your smile didn’t return to your face. You, a woman who had never stopped smiling her whole life, who had knights and lords falling at your feet to speak to you, and now your own lord husband didn’t even dare to look in your direction.
The rest of the night was much of the same, your husband didn’t once ask you to dance, didn’t utter a single word, at least to you. He spoke with his brother Baelor and his children. But not with you.
You loved to dance, never had you had a feast, let alone a wedding, where you didn’t dance the whole night. Instead, you sat and watched, drinking your wine glass until it was emptied and refilled over and over again. The only people you spoke to the whole night were Maekar's sons, Daeron and Aerion. Daeron, who seemed to delight in your drinking, had made you laugh a few times but had easily moved on to some of his drunkard friends. And Aerion, who leered at you and spoke something about being pumped full of dragons in no time, as he stared at the neckline of your dress. Your brothers and sister in laws circled the room and spoke kindly to you, but stayed no longer than a few minutes, as was appropriate, it seems.
The hours droned on slowly, and before you knew it, the bedding ceremony was called.
Maekar had merely grunted and stood up, his hand flexing slightly before he offered it to you, leading you out to the floor before the rabble of lords who had been eyeing you all night could get their hands on you.
You had participated in your fair share of bedding ceremonies, you knew what to expect, and yet as they pulled your clothes off you, leaving you entirely bare as you pushed your way into your marital chambers. Maekar sat on the bed waiting for you, wearing far more clothes than you.
You blushed, reaching to cover yourself as you felt Maeker’s gaze on you. He cleared his throat, standing from the bed, and pulling at the laces of the breeches he still wore.
“Husband,” you greeted, your smile returning, though feeling far more awkward than ever before.
“Wife,” he nodded, the first words he had said to you outside of your vows.
“What do we, um, what do we do now?” you asked, awkwardly, your hands covering you up.
“We consummate,” he grunted, pulling back the covers of the bed and getting in. He stared at you, waiting for you to move. You didn’t. “You do know what is to happen?” he asked, his voice a little awkward but not lacking any of its coldness.
“Of course I do, I just…” You trailed off, slowly moving towards the bed.
“What?” he asked harshly. You flinched back, halting your steps slightly.
“Nothing,” you mumbled as you finally approached the bed, settling in under the covers, grateful for the sheet to hide your body. You played with the covers, following the pattern with your fingers, waiting for Maekar to move.
He sighed as he looked at you, his hand reaching out to stop your movements. “Stop that,” he ordered. You nodded, stopping instantly. You felt the weight of reality settle into your shoulders, realising for the first time in your life that optimism didn't always lead to happiness.
Makear sighed before he crawled over to your side of the bed.
He didn’t kiss you, didn't hold you to him, nor did he whisper sweet nothings in your ears. The consummation was over before you knew it, and Maekar, as quickly as he arrived, left.
He didn’t look at you when he left, said no words, bid no farewells. He just left. Leaving you alone in a room that wasn’t your own, in a keep that wasn't your own. And a marital bed that you felt would never live up to the dreams you held in your heart.
You cried yourself to sleep that night.
It was such an oddity for you to cry or feel sadness. The last time you felt sad was when your cat died when you were ten. Never once had you felt sadness this great. Never once did you cry yourself to sleep, praying no one could hear your cries echoing across the hall.
You knew love and warmth grew with him, but you hadn’t expected there to be such coldness. You hadn’t expected there to be a wall of ice between you, a wall so thick it rivalled the wall in the north.
You began to question everything your parents had told you. Everything they had told you about your marriage night was a lie. What else would be?
You got little sleep that night before the maids came in at dawn and awoke you softly. Though strangers, they treated you softly, bathing you in a lavender-scented bath. They wash away the small trickles of blood between your thighs. Wash the tear stain marks off your face. And spoke in hushed tones as they prepared you for breakfast.
You were the first to arrive, settling at the end of the table, your gaze flickering across the room, noting all the tapestries and art that adorned the walls. The table was filled with fruits and berries, and pastries of all sorts filled the table.
You contemplated filling your plate before everyone else joined, you were hungry, having eaten little at the wedding feast.
But before you could reach for even a single grape, the door opened and in walked your husband. His step faltered when he saw you. His gaze took note of your pink gown and the soft smile that graced your features as he appeared.
Prepah's last night was a blip, maybe he was drunk or nervous. You may as well start today anew. Perhaps your sadness from last night was a one-time occurrence and would quickly be forgotten. “Husband,” you greeted, standing up as he walked towards you, taking a seat at the head of the table.
“Wife,” he greeted in turn. Grunting as he sat down, reaching to fill his plate.
“How did you sleep?” you asked, following his lead and filling your own.
“Fine,” he grunted, not looking at you. The door opened as you went to speak, his younger children running in with their Septa. They called for their father as they ran in, stopping short as they saw you. Aegon bowed, and Daella and Rhae both curtseyed. “My lady,” they greeted, before rushing to fit for a seat next to Maekar. Daella won, sitting closest to him and Rhae next to her. Aegon moved to sit next to you, sighing in defeat. And Aemon, who wandered in with a book in hand, moved to sit beside Aegon.
The children rambled on over breakfast, asking you all sorts of questions and answering each one you had for them. You smiled softly at their rambles, though your gaze turned to Maekar, hoping to see some softness, hoping to see that he wished to talk to you as much as his children did. Instead, he scowled the second your gaze met his.
He left the second he was done, not waiting for his elder children to walk in. He ruffled his daughter's hair as he walked by, bidding each of his children farewell. Only side-eyeing you as he left.
Perhaps last night wasn’t a blip after all.
He was fucked, totally and completely fucked. He was the second, he saw you walk into the sept in your pretty white gown covered in pink. The second he saw your smile, the second he touched you.
He didn't need another wife, he had six children, had loved before and had absolutely no need for a wife. And yet you appeared. His parents had wed him off and introduced you, a perfect flower from the reach. Eager to be plucked. So perfect and so entirely unlike him.
He didn’t want a wife and had hoped you would be easy to ignore. And yet as you spoke your pretty words to him, he realised you wouldn't be, he realised that you were as sweet and kind as his father had said. And yet you were stuck with him. He was cold, colder since Dyanna had died. You couldnt possible be happy with the arrangement. Happy with him as your husband. Perhaps you would be happy if you were a wife in name only. Then you would be happy, and not chained to him for the rest of his life, and miserable for it.
And yet you, with your smiles that could outshine the sun, seemed to make him melt.
You were too soft, too sweet, too happy. He had noticed it easily, you would hate him, resent him, and he wouldn’t blame you. Not when he never wanted to marry.
He would do his duty and nothing more, and yet last night, when he had done that, guilt ate at him. It was clear you wanted a sweet, loving husband, but he couldn't be that, wouldn't be that. And yet when you greeted him this morning, with gentle eyes and a nervous smile, he almost took back his desire to be a husband in name only. When he noticed his younger children adoring you, how easily you spoke with them, eager to know them. To know him.
Gods, it would have been easier had you been cold, had you been mean or ugly. But you were anything but. Beautiful, as happy as the sun, kind and caring, and always dressed in pink. And he hated all of it. Or atleast thats what he told himself.
He tried to be as distant and cold as he could be, and yet time and time again, he was drawn back to you. As time went by and you had all travelled to Summerhall, he had made sure you had your own chambers. Not once did he visit you. Not once did he seek you out.
And yet you were always there. In his library, his dining hall, and even with his children. You often found yourself in the garden at the same time as him, or standing there at the exact moment he decided to look out of it. Always there, always kind and soft. And he hated it. Hated how you drew him in, no matter what you did. Hated how he fucked his fist to you every night, your name and face on his lips.
You were kind and never had a bad word to say about anything or anyone. Everyone you had ever met would say you were the nicest person they had ever met. They would say that hate was something you were incapable of. And yet as time went by and the coldness between you and your husband seemed to grow, you began to feel the fires of hate breaking into your heart. Your husband was ever distant and running from you the second your paths crossed, offering only grunts in response to your kind words. Never once attending the endless lists of activities you invited him to, you were beginning to hate him.
You had lost hope of a happy marriage when the third month of it came with no touches, no words, no caresses or even acknowledgement. He did not try to welcome you, did not try to make you feel at home, or try to fill the loneliness that filled your heart.
You felt so alone and isolated. Sure, his children were kind, and as the months went by, they were happy to see you whenever you’d help with their lessons or entertain their day. But you had no one to speak to, you had no maids or ladies in waiting to chat to.
You had no one, and whereas before it was rare for you to cry or feel sadness. Now it was rare to feel joy. Every night, tears wet your pillow as the ache of loneliness filled your very soul.
Maekar didn’t notice, seeming to be annoyed with your presence in his home, to even think about your feelings. He avoided every room you frequented, left every meal before all his children left, as if the thought of being alone with you physically pained him.
The only time you smiled or laughed was with his younger children. And though you had learned to love them dearly, you were entirely unhappy in your marriage, if you could even call it a marriage. You were more of a reluctant occupant than a wife.
And yet a part of you still waited. A part of you hoped to wake up one day, with Maekar beside you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear and declaring his love for you. It’s why you had continued to be kind, soft and always perking up when his gaze fell on you. You invited him to tea, tea that he never joined. Dinners alone, which he either avoided or conveniently brought at least one of his children along to.
You had formed a mindless routine. Every day, you said good morning and asked him how he slept. Whenever you got to breakfast before him, you would prepare his tea and pile the food onto his plate. Hoping that one day he would take notice and thank you instead of just grunting in acknowledgement. Every day you’d bring him his lunch in his solar, loitering to see if he needed anything. He never did. You would walk around the gardens, always stopping in front of the window to his solar, a book or paints in hand, as you spent hours either reading or painting. Spending at least a few hours every day with his children. Helping with their lessons and bringing them to see him every night before they went to bed. And when it was time for him to go to bed, you would dress in your night gown, prepare him a nightcap and see if he wanted you. He never did. Though you felt his gaze on you when he dismissed you, you saw the flexing of his hand as you walked out of his reach.
But he never acted on his gaze, his desire to touch. He never did anything. Other than grunt.
You did a million little things for him every day, replacing the flowers in his solar, placing a bookmark between the pages of the book he had placed upside down. And so many other things that he would never notice.
You wondered if he’d notice if you stopped. Stopped showing up to meals, stopped trailing after him, stopped waiting for his attention.
You doubted it, and knew deep down you couldn’t.
That's until it hit six months of marriage, six months of coldness. Of you talking to a wall of ice.
Six months of growing closer and closer to his children, with little Rhae, a girl who never knew her mother, a girl of only five, a girl who had called you mama in private and then made the mistake of calling you mama in front of Maekar.
He didn’t say anything at the time, he waited for them to go to bed and waited to escort you to your rooms. And waited until the doors closed behind him.
He leant against the door, his body shivering with rage. “How long has she been calling you that?” He asked, his tone dripping with anger. No fear? Mayhaps, you couldn’t place his tone, his feelings, “You want to replace my children’s mother? Is that it?”
You flinched back from the harshness of his tone, “what no, I-“
“Shut up and let me speak, woman!” He interrupted, turning to face you, “You are not their mother, you should have corrected Rhae the second she started calling you that!”
“I did, I promise, but she wanted to call me it anyway-“
“Well, you should have tried harder!” His voice bellowed, “You are not there, mother,” he slammed his hand against the wall.
Making your whole body flinch, backing away from him slowly as tears began to spill from your eyes.
“I know, but that doesn't stop them from wanting one,” you spoke softly. Daella slipped and called you mama once, and Eggs' hand was rarely not in yours. All three of them insist on you tucking them in every night, and little Aemon wrote to you every week.
He sighed deeply, his eyes finally turning to yours, noting how you had flinched from him, how you stood against your bed, your gaze not on him for the first time. “You're not their mother, you're just my wife!” he stopped breathing deeply, speaking just loud enough for you to hear, “not more, you can’t be more, you can't be here, you'll never be her,” you weretn sure he had intended on you hearing it, but you had anyway. And he noticed you had too late.
You turned your back to him, refusing to let him see you crumble, to see how badly his words had affected you. You waited for him to leave, but instead, you felt him walk closer. His hand hovering over your shoulder, “I didn't mean that-“ he said, reaching for you, only for you to flinch from his touch.
“Get out,” was all you said, your body wrapping into itself as you waited for him to leave. He hovered, waiting for something. Perhaps for the sweet, obedient wife you had been to show up. To accept his apology and his words. But you felt all of that slip away the second he said those words.
Now you’ve woken up in Westeros, days before the Ashford tourney.
Baelor Breakspear is supposed to die.
History says it has to happen.
You disagree.
Word Count: 1.5k
A/N: I just love him so much I can't let him die! Let me know what you guys think 🫶
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You finish the last episode at 3:47 a.m.
You know the exact time because you stare at the glowing numbers on your microwave while the end credits of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms roll across your laptop screen.
You were supposed to stop hours ago.
Just one episode, you’d told yourself.
Then another.
And another.
Now the sky outside your apartment window is turning gray with morning.
Your eyes burn.
Your brain feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.
But you can’t stop thinking about one thing.
One person.
Baelor Targaryen.
You rub your face with both hands.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter to the empty kitchen.
Baelor Breakspear is everything Westeros never deserved.
Kind.
Honorable.
Patient.
And he dies saving a hedge knight in a trial that never should have happened.
A hammer strike from his own brother.
You’ve read The Hedge Knight before.
You knew it was coming.
But the show somehow made it worse.
You stare at the dark screen.
“If someone had just warned him,” you whisper.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
The next morning
You don’t sleep.
Coffee helps for about ten minutes.
Then the exhaustion crashes back down like a wave.
Your body feels heavy.
Your brain foggy.
You’re halfway across the street outside your office when it happens.
Your mind is replaying the Ashford tourney.
The trial of seven.
Maekar’s mace swinging.
Baelor collapsing in the dirt.
You think again
If someone had just warned him.
A horn blares.
Your head jerks up.
Headlights.
A bus.
And then
nothing.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
When you wake up
The smell hits you first.
Ale.
Smoke.
Roasted meat.
You open your eyes slowly.
Wooden beams stretch across the ceiling.
Not drywall.
Actual beams.
Your heart begins to pound.
You sit up.
The bed beneath you is rough and narrow.
The room small.
A single shuttered window lets in dusty sunlight.
This is not your apartment.
You stand.
Your legs wobble slightly as you step onto creaking floorboards.
You’re wearing a linen shift.
Your pulse spikes.
The door opens before you can panic further.
A broad woman with a tray of mugs stops when she sees you awake.
“Well,” she says. “Look who’s finally alive again.”
Your throat feels dry.
“…where am I?”
She snorts.
“A tavern.”
Your stomach sinks.
“Where?”
“A day’s ride from Ashford.”
Your blood runs cold.
Ashford.
Your mind starts racing.
You swallow.
“Do you… need help here?”
She squints at you.
“With work?”
You nod quickly.
“I can clean. Serve ale. Whatever you need.”
A pause.
Then she shrugs.
“Well, if you’re offering…”
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
Three days later
You’ve learned how taverns run.
Carry ale.
Clear plates.
Stay out of brawls.
And listen.
You listen to every traveler.
Every knight.
Every rumor about the coming tourney at Ashford Meadow.
Your mind hums constantly with the same thought.
This is real.
You died.
You remember the horn.
The headlights.
And now you’re here.
Inside the world of A Song of Ice and Fire.
And soon
Soon Baelor Breakspear dies.
Unless you stop it.
The tavern door opens with a gust of warm afternoon air.
A tall knight steps inside.
Very tall.
Your stomach flips instantly.
Broad shoulders.
A weathered shield strapped to his pack.
You nearly drop the tankard in your hand.
Your brain screams.
Oh my god.
It’s him.
Ser Duncan the Tall.
He looks younger than you imagined.
More uncertain.
His armor is worn but well cared for.
He moves with the slightly awkward politeness of someone who never quite believes he belongs in the room.
He sits at a table near the wall.
Orders stew.
Eats quietly.
You pretend to wipe down tables while staring at him like he’s a museum exhibit.
Because technically
He is.
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice another man watching him.
Silver hair.
Sharp eyes.
A faint dragon embroidered on his cloak.
The man perks up slightly when Dunk sits down.
Just a subtle shift.
A moment of attention.
You recognize him immediately.
Daeron Targaryen.
Your stomach twists.
The timeline is moving.
Everything is moving.
Too fast.
You wipe your hands on your apron.
Then walk toward Dunk’s table.
Your heart pounds harder with every step.
This is it.
Your first butterfly effect.
Dunk glances up when you approach.
Suspicion flickers across his face instantly.
Knights in Westeros don’t trust strangers easily.
Especially ones who walk up like they know you.
You set a mug of ale down in front of him.
“On the house,” you say.
His brow furrows.
“That so?”
You nod.
Then lower your voice slightly.
“You knew Ser Arlan of Pennytree, didn’t you?”
Dunk freezes.
Completely.
His hand stops halfway to the mug.
Slowly, he looks up at you again.
“…how do you know that name?”
Your pulse pounds in your ears.
You lean closer.
“I dream things sometimes.”
Dunk studies you carefully now.
Not friendly.
Not hostile.
Just cautious.
“What sort of dreams?”
You swallow.
“About knights.”
A pause.
“About the Ashford tourney.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You been talkin’ to someone?”
“No.”
You shake your head.
“It’s just dreams.”
He leans back in his chair.
Still watching you.
“And Ser Arlan showed up in these dreams?”
You nod.
“He said you’d go to Ashford.”
Dunk scratches the back of his neck.
“Well… I was planning to.”
You take a slow breath.
“I’m going too.”
That makes him blink.
“You are?”
“I don’t have a horse,” you say honestly.
“And… I was hoping I could travel with you.”
Silence stretches between you.
Dunk looks at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“You don’t know me,” he says carefully.
You smile faintly.
“Yes I do.”
That makes him frown.
“How?”
You hesitate.
Then quietly say
“Ser Arlan told me you were a good man.”
For a long moment, Dunk says nothing.
Then he exhales.
Slow.
“…I suppose one more traveler wouldn’t hurt.”
Relief floods through you.
Step one.
Complete.
Across the room, Daeron shifts in his chair again.
Still watching.
Outside, the road to Ashford stretches toward the horizon.
And somewhere beyond those fields—
Prince Baelor Breakspear is walking toward the day he dies.
