a servant struggles with some kind of physical labour in the yard, and maekar goes "you imbecile, i will do it" and does it easily because he's STRONG. and reader is just standing there, drooling over her husband (and perhaps suggests that maekar show her that same strength in the bedroom later)
MY STRONG HUSBAND—Maekar Targaryen
Maekar Taragryen x wife!reader
content: You like watching your strong husband demonstrate his strength
words: 800
cw: MDNI 18+ sexual themes & references
A walk in the gardens with your lord husband took place daily like clockwork. It was routine. It was some of the only peace the pair of you had each day. A moment away from duties, from children, and you could bask in the other’s company.
But in typical fashion your small moments of blissful peace never did truly last. You both stood watching as one of the servants attempted to lift something from the ground, but it reminded you of Aegon.
He grunted trying to lift the wooden box that was much too big for himself. He looked like the young boy when he would play with his brother trying to carry around fake swords that were double his swords.
“Oh, for fucks sake,” your husband grunted from beside you.
“It is too large for him. It is not his fault,” you told him, patting his arm gently.
He grunted in reply, before finally his composure snapped, “Oh, I will fucking do it you imbecile!”
He unlaced himself from you, stomping forward, “And he wonders where Aerion gets it,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
You looked up watching him, as he pushed the young servant away, bending down to pick up the crate with ease. Your mouth practically watered at the sight.
Your husband was a warrior, a strong man. You had seen the scars and the muscles that laid beneath the clothes thousands of times, but watching him demonstrate this strength away did something to you.
You watched his biceps strain against his doublet, threatening to burst through the streams you almost wished they would just to bear witness to them. He stood to his full height as your eyes trailed down admiring his strong legs and ass with a grin
“Maekar, mayhaps you should move the one beside it too! For sage measure of course!” you called out, biting your cheek to prevent yourself from laughing.
He grunted in reply, taking your suggestion and doing the very same. You watched him with the same intent, now imaging your large arm wrapped around your throat as he fucked into you from beside.
He set the other out of the way, muttering something to the servant that you did not hear, but it did not matter as you stared only at him. He finally turned toward you, but paused, noticing the look on your face.
“Wife?” he questioned.
“Husband,” you replied, in a sultry tone, moving toward him. He stopped allowing you to meet him, your hand moving to rest against his chest as you looked up at him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
You shrugged, “Like what?: you asked innocently, smiling at him slightly.
“Like you are going to jump my bones,” he replied honestly, causing you to bark out a laugh.
Neither of you moved, staring at the other. You dragged your eyes across his form slowly, at an agonizing slowness causing goose bumps to fill his skin as if you were touching him. For a moment he swore he could feel you, pressed against him as he thrust into you, but you were still half a foot away from him.
‘What are you thinking of?” he asked, you moved forward your eyes acting as if you were undressing him from where you stood, before you finally were in arms reach.
You pressed your lips together as if you were truly in deep thought, but he knew you well enough to know exactly what you were thinking, but he wanted to hear you say it. He wanted to know exactly what you wanted.
He would give it to you.
He would give you anything and everything in his power he just needed to
You tilted your head back and forth, “Mayhaps you should handle me the same way you did those crates tonight,” you suggested, your eyes trailing up from his chest to meet his eyes.
He raised a brow, "Tonight?"
“Or now,” you said with a shrug, taking another step forward pressing yourself into him.
He nodded as if he was thinking about it, before he reached down, hauling you off your feet into his arm causing you to let out a loud laugh, “What will the staff say when they see their Prince throwing his wife around like a sack.”
“Just think of what they will say when they hear their Princess screaming out mid day in a moment,” he replied, a smile pulling at your lips.
You let out a laugh, “You talk big.”
“Oh, I plan to follow through,” he assured you.
You grinned, reaching forward to press your mouth to his, causing his fingers to dig into you as his grip tightened causing anticipation to fill you, “Take me to bed, husband.”
Summary: They met in the spring of 984 AC. Beneath the radiant blossoms of the Citadel, after an entire lifetime apart, they finally found their happily ever after.
Warnings: Lothston!Reader, fluff, modern AU, slice of life.
Note:
Reader has a distinctive mole on her face.
This is their present life, you can find their past life here.
MARCH SPRING PROMISE Masterlist
Something about Oldtown drew Baelor in with an inexplicable force.
He could not understand why. He had never cared much for the city of scholars and academia before, yet for some reason, he found himself wanting to go there more than anywhere else.
The Ninth National Neuroscience Conference was set to take place in mid-March of 984 AC at Citadel National University. When Baelor received an invitation to attend as the representative of the current Prime Minister, he found himself quietly relieved. After years buried beneath endless work, he finally had a reason to visit the city he had long wondered about.
Before flying to Oldtown, his father had told him: “You should take this opportunity to rest as well. Hand this week’s unfinished work over to Aerys, and bring Valarr and Matarys with you. I’m sure the boys would be thrilled to travel somewhere new.”
“What about the discussion with the Prime Minister?” Baelor asked hesitantly. Even though the Prime Minister’s office had become less demanding lately, he could never quite stop worrying, especially with how often his father had been complaining about headaches these days. “I don’t think Aerys can handle everything alone. Maybe Maekar should attend the conference instead, and I’ll stay here with you.”
“Oh, enough of that.” Daeron waved him off, clearly signaling for his son to obey him. “I’ll have Rhaegel help out as well. You’ve spent years working beside me without a proper break. Think of this as a vacation.”
“And besides.” Daeron added teasingly. “Don’t underestimate this old man’s health just yet. I still remember how badly you once wanted to visit Oldtown.”
“But…” Baelor looked genuinely surprised. He had mentioned it to his father many years ago, yet somehow Daeron still remembered. “I was only curious about what the blossoms at the Citadel looked like in spring.”
Daeron frowned, though there was no irritation on his face, only the helplessness of a father far too familiar with his eldest son’s stubbornness. “Wasn’t it supposed to be right in the middle of March, when the blossoms are in full bloom?” He said. “If you have the chance, then go. Why keep hesitating?”
Baelor still looked uneasy: “What about the work…”
“Oh Gods, for the love of the Seven, just go for me, would you?” Daeron let out a long sigh, rubbing his forehead as he waved him away. “With you around, I can’t even sneak a few sweets without being lectured.”
“Alright, alright.” Baelor finally relented with a nod. Just as he was about to leave the office, he suddenly paused. “Do you want me to bring anything back?”
“The blossom pastries.” Daeron answered immediately.
“No.”
Baelor rejected the request without hesitation before walking out of the office. His father was getting old, and there was no way he was letting him develop diabetes.
With Daeron’s approval, Baelor had thought the three of them, including Valarr and Matarys, would finally enjoy a peaceful vacation filled with laughter and relaxation. Yet less than a day after arriving in Oldtown, Matarys twisted his ankle while trying to balance himself along the edge of one of the fountains on Citadel University’s campus.
Baelor immediately scooped up his nine-year-old son and rushed him to the university hospital right next door. He had intended to send Valarr back to the hotel with the driver, but his eldest insisted on accompanying his younger brother, so Baelor eventually gave in. After all, it was only a sprained ankle. A minor dislocation at worst. Baelor assumed the doctors would simply set the joint back in place, and they would all be able to return to the hotel shortly afterward.
What he had not expected was the scene awaiting them the moment he stepped into the hospital’s orthopedic trauma center: the exact kind of frantic chaos he and his sons had only ever seen in medical dramas.
“There’s been an accident, and the injured are currently being transferred here.” The nurse explained after he approached the reception desk to describe Matarys’s condition. “At the moment, all of our trauma specialists have been called away to assist the emergency patients. Would you be willing to wait for a while?”
Under normal circumstances, Baelor might have understood and patiently agreed to wait. But right now, his son was in so much pain that his face had twisted up completely, tears streaming endlessly down his cheeks until his eyes were swollen and red. Matarys was only nine years old. There was no way his little son could endure pain like this for long.
“Isn’t there another doctor available?” Baelor frowned, though his voice remained as calm and courteous as ever. “Someone should at least examine his injury first.”
The nurse lowered her head and typed at the keyboard for a long moment before finally looking back up. “I’m truly sorry, sir. Every doctor capable of handling his injury has been called to the orthopedic trauma center.” She looked genuinely apologetic. “Perhaps if you could wait a little longer, I’ll let you know as soon as someone from orthopedics becomes available.”
Baelor was just about to say something else when a voice suddenly spoke up beside the reception desk.
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll handle it.”
It was a woman around his age. She had bright, clear eyes and her hair was neatly tied into a tidy bun, but what drew his attention most was the distinctive mole upon her face, so striking it could not possibly belong to anyone else. She wore neutral-toned scrubs that somehow made both her complexion and her gentle smile stand out even more vividly.
For a moment, time itself seemed to stop when Baelor looked at her. He could not understand why his heart had suddenly begun beating so strangely fast.
The nurse blinked in surprise: “Doctor Lothston? Didn’t you just finish surgery?”
“Yes, but it’s alright.” She replied, though her eyes remained warmly fixed on him. “May I take a look at the boy?”
It took Baelor a moment to realize she was speaking to him. He quickly nodded and stepped aside, revealing his younger son sitting on the waiting bench behind him, quietly sniffling through his tears.
“Did you twist your ankle?” She asked as she walked over and crouched down in front of Matarys. “Can I take a look?”
Still rubbing his eyes, Matarys nodded. The moment her hand touched his ankle, he flinched and let out a soft whimper.
“It looks dislocated.” She said as she rose to her feet and turned toward Baelor. “Would you mind bringing your sons up to my office?”
Baelor nodded: “Of course.”
He bent down to pick Matarys up before following after her. Valarr quickly hopped off his seat and hurried after them into the elevator. When he noticed someone else trying to get in, he even reached out to hold the door open for them.
“Your son is very thoughtful.” She remarked with visible surprise after Valarr unintentionally stole her job of holding the elevator door. “Hey, little one, can you tell me how your brother got hurt?”
Valarr glanced shyly up at Baelor, only speaking after receiving permission from his father: “He said he wanted to walk along the edge of the fountain. I was watching him, but when I turned away to call father over, he fell.”
She nodded knowingly: “Don’t worry, I’ll put his ankle back in place.”
When the elevator doors opened, Baelor finally noticed that they had arrived at the neurosurgery floor rather than orthopedics. He was just about to ask about it when she pushed open the office door and gestured for the three of them to come inside instead, so he let the question go.
Matarys was seated on a small stool. He was still too young to comfortably sit on something high like an examination bed or office chair, so she had deliberately found a low plastic chair for him instead.
She carefully rested his injured foot atop a small wooden box before examining the injury one more time. The moment she pressed her thumb lightly against the skin beneath Matarys’s ankle bone, the boy cried out loudly before bursting into tears.
Unlike Baelor, who looked deeply worried, she remained remarkably calm. “No fracture.” She said matter-of-factly. “Otherwise he’d need a cast.”
Baelor let out a relieved breath: “Can you help him?”
“Of course.” She smiled at him. “I wouldn’t have brought you all up here if I can’t.”
Once Matarys’s ankle had finally returned to normal, the heavy weight pressing upon Baelor’s chest disappeared as well.
While Valarr helped his younger brother try walking again, Baelor took the opportunity to thank her properly. After all, something as simple as setting a dislocated ankle should never have fallen to someone outside the trauma department in the first place.
“You’re a neurologist?” Baelor asked, glancing toward the walls covered in brain scans and anatomical diagrams. “I thought only orthopedic specialists and trauma physicians knew how to do that.”
She answered politely: “I know a little outside my specialty, that’s all.”
Realization dawned clearly across Baelor’s face: “Then I suppose my sons and I were fortunate enough to meet you today.”
As they continued talking, Baelor gradually realized that she seemed to know absolutely nothing about him, or more specifically, about his position as the Prime Minister’s spokesman.
Most of the people he met through political circles already knew who he was long before he ever introduced himself. And because they knew, they always treated him with a certain degree of caution or reverence. But she was different. The way she spoke to him felt far more relaxed than anyone he had ever encountered in politics.
Almost as though they were old friends reuniting after years apart.
“Matarys’s ankle shouldn’t be a problem anymore.” She said while walking him and his sons toward the hospital entrance. “But keep an eye on him tonight. Don’t let him run around too much. By tomorrow morning, he should be perfectly fine again.”
Baelor smiled warmly: “Thank you for helping my son.”
The truth was, he did not want to leave yet.
By now, he recognized exactly what this unfamiliar quickening of his heartbeat meant, and naturally, he did not want to simply say goodbye and walk away from her. So Baelor shifted the conversation elsewhere, this time toward the conference he was meant to attend.
“You’ll be attending the conference tomorrow, won’t you?” He asked. “If I remember correctly, it’s focused on neuroscience, which happens to be your field.”
She frowned slightly, looking almost regretful: “I’m not sure yet. If nothing comes up tomorrow, then perhaps I’ll consider going.”
Since she had answered like that, Baelor found himself unsure of what else he could possibly say. Then again, she did not seem particularly interested in him at all. And perhaps that was only natural. What appeal could a man in his thirties, already widowed with two children, possibly still have?
He did not see her anywhere during the conference either, which only deepened his disappointment.
It had been nearly ten years since Jena’s death. Since then, he had never once considered pursuing another relationship. Not because he feared dishonoring the memory of his late wife, but simply because he had been far too consumed by the responsibilities surrounding his father’s position. More importantly, no one had stirred his heart ever since.
By the time the conference came to an end, Baelor wandered toward the Citadel’s blossom grove, and to his surprise, he found her there.
“Doctor Lothston?” He called out her name. Only after confirming it truly was the doctor who had treated his son, Baelor approached her with a bright smile. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Targaryen.” She smiled back at him. “I never said I wouldn’t.”
The two of them sat upon a stone bench facing the blossoms in full bloom. As Baelor watched the petals drift gently alongside the spring wind, an inexplicable sense of peace and happiness settled quietly within him.
He drew in a slow breath. The faint sweetness of the blossoms lingered at the tip of his nose, only making his already unsteady heartbeat pound even harder. After a long silence, he finally turned toward her, only to find her already looking at him.
For some reason, she seemed very different from yesterday.
“Is this your first time here?” She asked softly.
“Yes.” He nodded. “I’ve wanted to come here for a very long time.”
She turned her gaze back toward the blossoms ahead before speaking softly. “Because you wanted to see the blossoms blooming in spring?” She asked. “Everyone from outside Oldtown wants to come here for the flowers.”
Baelor thought for a moment before shaking his head slightly: “No, not exactly. I don’t really know how to explain it. Ever since I first heard about Oldtown, I’ve wanted to come here.”
“And what about you?” He turned toward her again. “I thought the neuroscience conference would gather every neurologist from Citadel University.”
She smiled faintly. “I wasn’t presenting anything this year, and besides, I gave my seat to one of my interns.” Then her eyes curved playfully as she added. “If I came too, there wouldn’t be enough seats left.”
Baelor let out a quiet laugh: “Fair enough.”
Silence settled between them once more, so long that Baelor had begun to think the conversation would simply end there.
Then suddenly, she spoke again: “Would you mind if I said something strange?”
Baelor shook his head.
Her expression grew unexpectedly serious: “I dreamed about you yesterday.”
Baelor’s eyes widened immediately.
It was not the dream itself that surprised him most, but rather the fact that she had openly admitted it to him. They had only known each other for less than a day, and yet she had spoken with such startling honesty.
“It felt strange.” She frowned slightly. “Almost like… the very first moment I saw you.”
Something in Baelor’s chest tightened. “Hm?” He asked quietly. “What do you mean?”
“Well…” She hesitated. Perhaps it was merely the reflection of the blossoms around them, but he could have sworn her cheeks had turned faintly pink. “My heart was racing. I felt restless for no reason. Almost as though I’d met you somewhere before.”
Baelor finally let out a soft breath.
“Well.” He said gently. “We have met before.”
She tilted her head slightly as she studied the now-relaxed expression on his face. Her eyes were so intent, so analytical, that it almost felt as though she were examining every subtle movement he made.
At first, Baelor confidently returned her gaze, but the intensity of her scrutiny soon became too much even for him. Not long afterward, he finally surrendered and looked away first.
She said softly: “I mean before we met at the hospital.”
She paused for a moment before continuing: “It feels like it was long before that. A very, very long time ago.”
Baelor cleared his throat lightly: “Perhaps you’ve seen me on the news before…”
“No.” She denied it immediately. “I rarely watch television.”
She thought about it for a long while, but no answer came to her in the end, so she eventually gave up trying to understand it.
Turning back toward the blossom grove, she leaned against the bench once more. This time, however, Baelor could clearly feel her sneaking glances at him from the corner of her eye.
So that was it.
A quiet realization settled within him. She had feelings for him too, she simply had not realized it yet. The thought made Baelor suddenly laugh under his breath.
“You know.” He said softly. “I think I finally understand why I wanted to come here so badly.”
She raised a brow in silent question, and he continued: “Maybe it’s destiny.”
“There was once someone who told me that if a person couldn’t fulfill their wishes in a past life, then they would eventually fulfill them in the next.” His voice was calm and gentle, almost as though he were reading from the pages of an old book. Combined with the peaceful scenery of Citadel’s blossoms, the moment felt unreal, like a painting untouched by time. “Perhaps my past self once longed to come here.”
She fell silent, genuinely contemplating his explanation as though carefully dissecting it piece by piece.
Baelor turned fully toward her then, unable to deny how captivating she looked whenever she frowned slightly and sank so deeply into thought.
“I see.” She murmured at last, though he had no idea what conclusion she had reached. “Then according to your theory… perhaps we knew each other in a past life.”
Baelor blinked in surprise. “That’s not what I meant.” He hesitated before blurting out in confusion. “Aren’t you a doctor?”
She nodded slowly.
“And someone devoted to science actually believes in things like past lives and destiny?” Baelor could not help laughing aloud himself, as though his earlier explanation had only ever been a joke. “It was just a baseless guess.”
But she did not seem to think so.
“I once read a study about this.” She began seriously. “Dreams are usually created because people spend the day thinking about something intensely. For example, if a girl dreams about the man she secretly loves, then naturally it’s because she’s been thinking about him all day.”
She turned toward him fully then, her expression more earnest than ever: “I believe in your ‘baseless guess’.” The seriousness in her voice made the words strangely endearing. “Because I dreamed about you even though I knew nothing about you.”
Baelor suddenly found himself speechless.
He had no idea how he was supposed to respond to that.
And then her next sentence sent his heartbeat into complete disarray.
“But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about you.”
Ever since she was born, she had buried herself in books and devoted her life to medicine.
People often said it was because of her parents’ influence, both of them had been brilliant researchers in science, technology, and medicine. Others pitied her, believing she had been forced into the field by expectations placed upon her since childhood.
She had explained before that medicine was simply what she loved. She was fascinated by the human body, especially the brain and the intricate web of nerves that controlled every movement and thought. But no matter how many times she tried to explain it, people never seemed to understand.
So she stopped correcting them.
For more than thirty years, her life had passed in what others considered dull monotony, though she herself had never truly thought so. She went to class, attended lectures, spent hours hidden away in libraries, and returned home only to continue studying late into the night. After earning her doctorate and specialist qualifications, she devoted nearly all of her time to working at the hospital, sometimes even helping senior doctors supervise medical students.
She had no interest in parties or social gatherings, not even with her own friends.
Romance was no different.
“You’re boring.” One of her former boyfriends had once complained. “Other than going to the hospital, what else do you even do? Is your entire life just work?”
“And what about me?” Another had demanded bitterly. “Do you ever think about me at all? Why don’t you reply to my messages? Why don’t you answer my calls? Is your job really that much more important than I am? Every time I ask you out, you turn me down because you’re busy. Sometimes it feels like we’re not even dating.”
“Quit your job and stay home.” That one had not even been a boyfriend, merely a man introduced to her through matchmaking. “Once I sign this contract, I’ll be rich. By then, you won’t have to work so hard anymore.”
There had even been men who proposed to her.
She rejected every one of them.
Partly because she had not yet fulfilled the goal she had set for herself. Or perhaps because none of those proposals had arrived at the right time.
“Why?” That man had asked desperately. “I waited patiently for you to graduate. What else are you waiting for before getting married?”
She had looked at him in confusion: “You think graduating means I’m finished?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He had frowned. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to keep studying. What now then? PhD?”
She had calmly nodded. Because medicine was everything to her. If she could not become a doctor, then the dream she had carried since childhood would never come true.
She would not marry until she fulfilled that dream.
Love came to her quickly, and left just as quickly. Most of her relationships ended for the same reason: the people she dated eventually grew resentful of how consumed she was by her work.
And she, in turn, believed they simply did not understand her.
About a year after ending her last relationship, she slowly began considering the possibility that perhaps she simply was not meant for romance at all. After all, her work mattered more to her than anything else, not because of money or prestige, but because she genuinely loved what she did. If wealth had truly been her goal, she would have left the Citadel long ago and returned to the Riverlands to inherit Harrenhal Hospital instead.
“Perhaps I’ll remain alone forever.” She had once thought.
That was, until she met Baelor.
(01:06 19/4/984)
Baelor Targaryen: I just got home. Having a late-night meal now.
Baelor Targaryen: I’ll be going to the Riverlands this weekend. My father is meeting with Mayor Baelish to discuss the city’s security situation.
Baelor Targaryen: Do you happen to be off work that day?
(19:33 19/4/984)
You: You’ll gain weight if you keep eating this late.
You: I’m not taking any break.
You: But I am bringing a group of third-year students to Harrenhal Hospital for their internship rotation.
(04:59 20/4/984)
Baelor Targaryen: I’m not afraid of gaining weight.
Baelor Targaryen: Then I suppose we won’t be able to see each other after all.
Baelor Targaryen: :(
(13:30 20/4/984)
You: We can meet in the evening.
You: I’m not on call that night.
You: Though I can’t guarantee there won’t be an emergency case.
You: Just in case, I think you should bring Valarr or Matarys with you.
(22:18 20/4/984)
Baelor Targaryen has sent a photo.
Baelor Targaryen: I’m packing right now. We’ll be staying there for the weekend.
Baelor Targaryen: Valarr and Matarys can’t come, but my younger brother can.
(22:30 20/4/984)
Baelor Targaryen has sent a photo.
Baelor Targaryen: Valarr and Matarys wanted to say hello to you.
(02:24 21/4/984)
You: So adorable.
You: Say hello to the boys for me.
You have sent a photo.
You: I heard this restaurant is really good. We should try it this weekend.
You: Or, if I can’t make it, you can take your brother there instead.
You have sent a location.
You: This is my parents’ favorite place.
(00:17 22/4/984)
Baelor Targaryen: You’ve never been there before?
(08:38 22/4/984)
You: No.
You: They just opened when I was in my fifth year.
“You’ve been acting strange lately.” The woman in her fifties sitting inside the hospital director’s office suddenly spoke up. “I don’t remember you ever being the type to sit around texting on your phone.”
“Times change, mom. People change with them.” She laughed softly as she sent one final message before locking her screen. “I’m eating out tonight.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes, openly scrutinizing her daughter from head to toe. She knew her child far too well. Her daughter never went out to eat with anyone unless she and her husband practically dragged her there themselves. With a mother’s intuition, she already knew exactly what was going on.
“Mhmmm.” Her mother hummed thoughtfully. “Oh, I see.” A grin slowly spread across her face. “So you finally have a boyfriend.”
By then, she had already crossed from the sofa to the wardrobe. While slipping off her white coat, she replied casually: “It’s not like that’s anything unusual. I’ve dated before.”
Her mother pouted: “Never underestimate a mother’s intuition. This relationship feels very different from the others.”
She sighed helplessly, not even bothering to correct her mother this time.
“Well, this one sounds promising.” Her mother continued teasingly. “So when are you planning to let me meet this boyfriend of yours?”
“You’ve already seen him before.” The words slipped out before she froze for a second and quickly corrected herself. “I mean… indirectly.”
Her mother frowned in confusion: “‘Seen’?”
“I should get going.” She turned toward the door instead.
“Seven save me.” Her mother muttered under her breath. “You’re really not going to tell me anything?”
After changing clothes, she left the director’s office. Since she neither had a night shift nor any emergency cases tonight, she was finally able to sling her bag over her shoulder and leave the hospital without worry.
Unfortunately, the moment the elevator doors opened onto the lobby floor, she was greeted by the booming voice of an enraged man shouting somewhere within the emergency ward.
The next thing she saw was a crowd of men in black suits surrounding the reception desk. The nurse on duty tonight was Kiera, one of the final-year students currently interning under her. Though Kiera was close to graduation, this was clearly her first time dealing with a scene like this, because her face had already gone pale with panic.
The silver-haired man was the loudest among them: “Why the fuck is there no emergency physician on duty in this damned hospital?!”
“Sir… please calm down…” Kiera stammered shakily. “I’m contacting them right now, so please wait just a moment…”
“Why can’t he be admitted immediately? What exactly are you people waiting for?” The man barked loudly enough that nearly everyone in the lobby, including doctors, nurses, and patients alike, turned to stare.
She immediately stepped behind the counter to help Kiera. “Good evening, sir.” She said calmly. “How may we assist you?”
The moment the words left her mouth, her gaze collided with a pair of eyes she knew all too well, one blue, one brown.
Relief instantly bloomed in her chest at finally seeing him again after nearly a month of nothing but text messages. But that relief vanished just as quickly the moment she noticed the blood soaking through the hand pressed against the back of his head.
“W, What happened?” She asked, her voice faltering.
Baelor smiled awkwardly: “Just a minor accident.”
At first, Baelor had not even known whether she would be able to go on a date with him at all. But even if she could not, that would have been fine too. He had already decided that he would drag Maekar along to try the restaurant she had recommended anyway.
His original plan after arriving in the Riverlands had been simple enough: accompany his father to the mayor’s residence to discuss several urgent matters concerning the city, then later that evening drive to Harrenhal Hospital and pick her up for dinner if she was free. He would only be staying for two days before flying back to King’s Landing late Sunday night, so if everything went smoothly, he could at least spend two evenings with her.
The thought alone was enough to make Baelor strangely restless with anticipation.
Truthfully, even if she became too busy to leave the hospital, he would not have minded. He could always visit her there instead, perhaps bring food and eat with her between shifts.
Unfortunately, things did not go according to plan.
Especially not after Maekar insisted on sparring with him on Saturday afternoon.
“You need to stitch that injury up immediately!” His younger brother was still shouting at her even after she had already brought them into the treatment room.
Though Baelor knew she was someone who took both her patients and their families seriously, he could clearly see irritation beginning to gather in her eyes.
So he quickly tried to smooth things over.
“It’s really not that serious, Maekar.” Baelor said. “Just a small cut. A few stitches and it’ll be fine.”
Maekar clearly did not share his calmness. “What do you mean, ‘small’?!” He snapped. “The damn cut runs from the back of your neck all the way to the top of your head!” Then he shot another glare toward her. “What are you waiting for? Hurry up and help him!”
She frowned at Maekar for a long moment, seemingly baffled that the silver-haired man was so worked up he had failed to notice she had literally just administered local anesthetic to Baelor. Naturally, they had to wait for it to take effect before stitching the wound.
She turned toward the pink-haired girl from the reception desk earlier: “Kiera, go ask security to come in here. Then we’ll begin suturing the wound.”
Maekar rolled his eyes. Decades spent navigating politics had taught him exactly what was hidden beneath polite words like those. “You dare throw me out?” He scoffed. “You don’t have the authority to do that.”
“But I do.” Her voice lowered slightly. “Please step outside, sir. We cannot work properly with this much noise.”
“Watch your fucking mouth.” Maekar pointed a finger directly at her face. “I’m staying here with my brother, and you don’t get to order me around. Watch your tone.”
By then, Kiera had already returned with nearly a dozen security guards, each of them broad-shouldered and intimidating enough to rival Duncan, the newly recruited bodyguard working for the Prime Minister’s office.
Maekar stared in disbelief. He had not expected this private hospital to employ security like this. Especially not when the number of guards he himself had brought today could be counted on one hand.
Grinding his teeth, he glared at her as though he wanted to devour her alive. “You’ll regret threatening and throwing me out.” He barked while dodging the guards attempting to place hands on his shoulders.
“Perhaps.” She smiled, though there was not the slightest trace of humor in it. “But right now, I need to stitch your brother’s wound, so I’d appreciate your cooperation.”
Then her expression turned perfectly calm again. “If you continue causing trouble, you’ll have two choices.” She said smoothly. “You may wait outside like a visitor, or lie down in one of our hospital beds like a patient.”
Baelor let out a quiet laugh at that. Glancing toward Maekar, he lowered his voice: “Go outside and get some rest, brother. The doctor already said my injury isn’t that serious.”
Only after Maekar finally stormed out of the room did she step behind Baelor and gently press her fingers against the skin surrounding the wound. “Does it hurt here?” She asked softly.
“A little.” He admitted. “But not as much as before.”
She nodded before turning toward the tray of surgical instruments, carefully threading an absorbable suture through the needle.
“Kiera.” She called. “Do you want to try? Closing scalp wounds is one of the most basic tasks after neurosurgery.”
The pink-haired student stepped closer to inspect the injury. After staring at it for a while, she hesitantly asked: “Do you think I can really do it? The cut indeed isn’t small.”
Baelor could hear the uncertainty in the young girl’s voice, so he spoke up almost instinctively: “Could Doctor Lothston do it for me instead?”
And just like that, she told Kiera to return to the reception desk and continue her shift. Once the room was left with only the two of them, she finally spoke again: “I was actually getting ready to leave and call you.”
Through the mirror in front of him, Baelor watched her carefully stitching the wound together. He found himself smiling faintly to himself again. He truly liked the way she frowned whenever she concentrated on something.
“So technically, this is our first date.” He sighed with quiet amusement. “I spent so long preparing for it, and somehow things still ended up like this.”
The corners of her lips curved upward, warmth slowly surfacing within her eyes.
“You were right.” She murmured. “I never expected our first date would happen inside a hospital.”
Baelor raised a brow, immediately amused because that had indeed been exactly what he was thinking.
“I never said that.”
“But you thought about it.”
He answered with a low hum of agreement before deliberately steering the conversation elsewhere, almost like the distraction techniques doctors used to calm nervous patients.
“When are you returning to Oldtown?” He asked. “Not tomorrow, I hope?”
“The students will be interning here for about a month.” She explained while continuing her stitches. “I need to stay behind to supervise them and write evaluation reports for their professor.”
“You don’t teach at the university, do you?” Baelor asked curiously. “I thought the supervising professor was usually the one who accompanied interns.”
“That’s because their professor is currently involved in a research project on traditional eastern medicine.” She replied. “He flew to Yi Ti recently, so I’m taking his place for now.”
“So that means you’ll still be here for another month.” Baelor fell briefly into thought. “Perhaps I should rearrange my schedule and take this opportunity to spend more time with you.”
From a certain perspective, Harrenhal Hospital was far closer to King’s Landing than Oldtown ever had been.
The moment he said that, she failed to suppress the bright smile spreading across her face.
“I thought you were extremely busy.” She teased. “Considering you’re the Prime Minister’s secretary.”
“I am busy.” Baelor admitted. “But my father has rules. He doesn’t want his children working themselves to exhaustion while forgetting the people important to them.”
Her hands paused for only half a second: “So that means I’m someone important to you?”
“Of course.” Baelor answered without hesitation before smoothly changing the subject again. “Though I suppose dinner tonight is impossible now.”
She nodded: “You should rest after I finish stitching this. If you want, I can arrange a private room for you here.”
Then suddenly, something seemed to occur to her.
Her eyes visibly lit up.
She stopped mid-stitch and lifted her gaze toward the mirror. For the first time, Baelor saw an expression of excitement on her face that had nothing to do with medicine, research, or work.
“If you want.” She suggested. ”We could still eat here.” A smile slowly spread across her face. “If we’re already having our first date in a hospital, then we might as well commit to the experience.”
Baelor burst out laughing at that. Ridiculous as the idea sounded, he could not deny how strangely fond he was of it already.
“That sounds nice.” He agreed, looking at her warmly through the mirror. “Tomorrow night, we’ll order food from that restaurant you wanted to try and eat here instead.”
She nodded immediately: “Tomorrow night, then.”
In December of 986 AC, her contract with Citadel University Hospital finally came to an end.
Rather than returning to the Riverlands to inherit Harrenhal Hospital as her parents had once hoped, she chose instead to move to King’s Landing and join the Department of Neurosurgery at Westeros General Hospital.
Of everyone around them, Baelor’s father, Daeron, was undoubtedly the greatest supporter of their relationship.
It had been years since he had last seen his eldest son genuinely interested in something beyond endless paperwork and political duties, and so Daeron found himself deeply grateful toward the woman who had managed to pull Baelor away from the Senator’s office, even if only little by little. His support also came with relentless encouragement for them to finally marry already, despite how many times both of them insisted they simply did not have the time yet.
One afternoon in February of 986 AC, while Daeron was in the middle of campaigning for the position of Prime Minister, he abruptly brought up the subject again as the two of him and his son went toward the Red Keep for a meeting.
“Son.” Daeron sighed dramatically, patting the armrest of his seat. “When exactly will I finally get to attend your wedding with my dearest daughter?”
Baelor always found himself chuckling whenever his parents referred to her as “my dearest daughter”. It seemed they had truly come to see her as part of the Targaryen family already.
“I’m happy seeing the two of you like this.” Daeron continued with obvious dissatisfaction. “She’s already moved here to live and work. Surely you’re not planning to make her wait forever?”
Baelor understood her better than anyone else. He knew that marriage had never been her greatest concern. Her work was.
So he simply answered: “Father, it’s not the right time yet.”
Daeron clicked his tongue: “Then when will it be the right time?”
Baelor only laughed awkwardly, immediately reminded of the conversation they had shared the night before.
“Around the middle of February, I’ll need to return to Citadel University for a few days.” She had been lying beside him while studying a stack of materials on neurosurgical techniques. “The chancellor invited me back to give a lecture on experimental neuroscience.”
“And it happens to fall during my weekend break.” Baelor had replied.
“Break?” She had looked up in confusion. “But your father is still campaigning.”
“Campaigning is one thing. Taking a break is another.” Baelor had sounded entirely unconcerned. “He won’t object to me disappearing for two days over the weekend. Besides, nobody campaigns on weekends.”
“What about the rallies?” She worried.
“My brothers can handle those.” He laughed softly. “Trust me, father is probably looking for more excuses to drag them into crowded public events anyway.”
Now, sitting across from Daeron inside the moving car, Baelor absentmindedly rubbed the ring resting against his middle finger before answering once more. It was a habit of his whenever his emotions became difficult to steady, Baelor often found himself turning the ring around his finger as a way to quiet the chaos in his mind.
But he also tended to do it whenever he felt particularly satisfied with his own plans.
Daeron narrowed his eyes suspiciously: “Does this have something to do with those two days off you asked me?”
Baelor sighs: “Shouldn’t you be worrying about the meeting we’re heading to instead?”
“Worry about what?” Daeron waved his hand dismissively before leaning forward with obvious curiosity. “That can wait. This is far more important. Now tell me, have you already planned something?”
“I haven’t.” Baelor lifted a brow, smiling with helpless amusement. “I already told you.” His fingers turned the ring once more. “It’s simply not time yet.”
Because he did not want anyone besides her to know that in only a few days, he intended to propose beneath the blossom forest of the Citadel.
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXV: LINK
Chapter XXVII: SOON
Chapter XXV: The Summoning
A single day after the beach, and life had already begun slipping back into its familiar rhythms.
The Red Keep breathed once more with its usual order; servants hurried through corridors, bells echoed faintly in distant halls, and guards changed positions with mechanical precision.
Somewhere beyond the tall windows, King’s Landing continued its endless noise beneath the burning sun.
And yet, despite everything returning to normal, something within you had shifted.
A faint weight had lifted from your shoulders after your return from the shore, carried perhaps by the sea air still lingering in your mind or by the memory of laughter echoing freely across the waves.
Perhaps it had been the simple freedom of escaping the suffocating walls of the Keep for a few precious hours.
Or perhaps...
Your thoughts drifted briefly toward the dark coat still folded carefully upon the chair near your bed.
Baelor’s coat.
Your gaze found it more often than it should have throughout the day, lingering unconsciously whenever your mind wandered.
The heavy fabric remained untouched since the night before, waiting patiently for the moment you would decide to return it.
Part of you insisted you should do so by nightfall.
You were almost certain Baelor would once again request your presence for supper, and returning it then would be the sensible thing to do.
The proper thing.
And yet another part of you, quieter and far more difficult to silence, shyly wished to keep it for just one day longer.
The thought alone felt foolish.
Still… you had not moved it.
You had time until evening, so you chose to postpone the decision altogether, burying the matter beneath more immediate responsibilities.
And so, you poured your attention into the two needy princes you had somehow come to love as though they were your own flesh and blood.
The afternoon had settled heavily over the Red Keep by the time the summons arrived.
Outside your chambers, the castle remained alive with its endless rhythm: servants moving through stone corridors, distant conversations echoing faintly between the walls, and the metallic clash of steel drifting upward from the training yards below through the partially open windows.
Yet within your chambers, there had been peace for the first time since the beach.
Valarr had been dragged away earlier for his sword-fighting lessons despite his dramatic protests, though not before extracting another promise from you.
That you would return before supper to read him a story, and you would not disappear elsewhere within the Keep.
Matarys, however, had refused entirely to spend the afternoon trapped within the nursery.
And so, unwilling to deny him after the freedom of the previous day, you had taken a different approach.
A quiet walk through the gardens beneath the warmth of the afternoon sun.
A gentle game upon the soft grass.
Encouraging little steps as the barefoot child stubbornly attempted to master the difficult art of walking.
The memory instantly softened something within you.
His tiny hands grasping yours.
The determined furrow between his brows.
The proud little sounds he made each time he managed more than a few unstable steps before collapsing into your arms, laughing.
You had yet to tell Baelor.
A part of you selfishly wished to keep the secret a little longer, knowing how the boy’s progress would delight him once Matarys could proudly prove it himself.
Thankfully, given the pace at which he improved, the truth would reveal itself naturally.
Afterwards, you returned to your chambers to escape the lingering heat of the day, your cheeks warmed pink beneath the sun after hours spent outside.
Ellyn had immediately busied herself opening the windows wider to cool the room, allowing fresh air to drift through the curtains while bringing cold water for all of you to drink greedily.
Spur included.
Now, Matarys slept soundly upon your bed, one small fist curled near his cheek while soft breaths escaped parted lips.
An open book rested forgotten upon your lap, left halfway through after the child had fallen asleep against you, exhaustion claiming him faster than expected.
Spur had collapsed nearby not long after, sprawled carelessly across the floor upon his side, chest rising and falling deeply, one paw twitching occasionally within dreams only he understood.
The room felt warm. Peaceful. Safe.
You looked down at the sleeping child beside you, your expression softening almost instantly.
Even in sleep, Matarys remained close, stubbornly curled toward your side as though fearful you might disappear if too much distance separated you.
With gentle care, you brushed aside a loose strand of bright red hair resting across his forehead, watching his peaceful little face without realising the fondness visible within your own.
“The young prince has taken a favour in you,” Ellyn observed quietly, unwilling to disturb the calm filling the room.
She sat nearby upon one of the chairs only after enduring several minutes of your stubborn insistence that she stop standing around like a guard posted beside the wall.
Her hands rested folded neatly upon her lap now, though her attention remained fixed upon the sight before her.
You. Reading softly while the young prince slept peacefully beside you. Trusting you enough to drift into sleep within moments of hearing your voice.
A small smile lingered on Ellyn’s lips as she watched. Not many possessed such ease with children; she knew that well.
And once again, you had proven yourself far removed from the common noble ladies that wandered the halls of the Red Keep, all polished smiles and distant courtesy while servants raised their children in their place.
You lifted your gaze from Matarys slowly, your body loose with a rare kind of calmness that seemed to exist only around the princes.
Being with the boys always made that invisible weight resting upon your shoulders disappear, if only for a little while.
Around them, warmth came more easily. Peace came easier.
Sometimes you wondered if that feeling had always existed within you once, long before war tore through your life and stripped simpler things away.
“I have taken him in as well, I am afraid,” you confessed softly, your attention drifting back toward the sleeping child curled beside you.
And then...
Suddenly, a knock came at your door.
Not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Measured.
The kind that carried purpose.
Spur’s head lifted immediately at the sound, one ear twitching sharply before the rest of his body followed.
Fur remained flattened awkwardly along one side from where he had slept against the floor, yet the lazy appearance vanished quickly as instinct replaced comfort.
His large frame shifted onto his front legs, muscles tightening beneath golden fur while his gaze fixed firmly upon the door.
Ready.
Waiting.
Prepared to react should the situation turn unfriendly.
You exchanged a brief glance with Ellyn, both of you equally unexpecting of visitors at such an hour.
It was far too early for Valarr’s lessons to have concluded, and you doubted Baelor would dare appear at your chambers openly during the middle of the afternoon.
Especially not while the Small Council remained gathered.
That alone narrowed the possibilities considerably.
Ellyn stood quickly, smoothing the front of her skirts almost out of habit before moving toward the entrance, sparing one final glance toward the sleeping prince before carefully opening the heavy wooden door.
The moment her eyes fell on the men standing beyond it, something subtle shifted in her posture.
Not fear exactly. But caution.
Two royal guards waited outside your chambers. Not Baelor’s men.
The King’s.
You recognised the distinction instantly, now, after weeks within the Keep. Ellyn’s quiet lessons and observations had taught you more than expected about the different sworn households serving beneath the Red Keep’s endless hierarchy.
The dragon sewn upon their surcoats bore the darker colours reserved for the King’s direct household, while their armour itself appeared finer, heavier, more ceremonial despite the hour.
The sight alone was enough to sharpen your attention immediately.
Slowly, you moved away from Matarys with careful precision, ensuring the movement did not disturb the sleeping child.
The book remained open upon the mattress where you had been sitting moments before, abandoned without thought as your focus shifted fully toward the unexpected visitors.
“Stay,” you instructed Spur quietly as the dog rose further onto his paws.
He obeyed instantly despite visible reluctance, though his sharp eyes followed your every movement as you walked around the bed toward the doorway.
You halted beside Ellyn.
“Is there something of matter?” you asked calmly, though suspicion had already begun rising quietly within you.
The guard nearest the door stepped forward slightly, his posture rigid and perfectly measured. “His Grace requests your presence.”
The words settled heavily within the room.
Not asks. Requests.
The careful politeness did little to soften what the statement truly was beneath noble wording.
A summons.
Your stomach tightened faintly at once. Not from fear, not entirely. But from awareness.
“For what purpose?” you questioned evenly.
The guard remained unmoved, trained too well for curiosity or sympathy to show upon his face. “His Grace did not specify.”
Of course, he had not.
Kings rarely explained themselves.
Beside you, Ellyn had grown noticeably quieter. You caught the subtle shift from the corner of your eye: the way her fingers folded tighter together, the tension settling faintly through her shoulders as understanding slowly reached her as well.
Meanwhile, your own mind had already begun working rapidly through possibilities.
You had spent over a full moon within the Red Keep now, one-and-thirty days beneath royal walls.
And not once during that time had the King shown interest in summoning you. Not for introduction, not for questioning, not even for simple acknowledgement.
The only member of the royal family you had truly come to know was Baelor.
So why now? The answer arrived quickly enough. The beach. The abandoned lessons. The panic it must have caused once the princes failed to appear where expected.
Suddenly, the freedom of that day no longer felt quite so untouchable.
Deep within you, older instincts sharpened instinctively.
You had seen men summoned before during wartime.
Some returned smiling with relief painted across tired faces. Others vanished entirely, swallowed by power far greater than themselves.
Though this was no battlefield, authority still existed here in its own dangerous form.
Momentarily, your thoughts flickered toward Baelor. Toward sending word.
The idea disappeared almost as quickly as it formed.
It had been your decision to take the boys away from their duties. Your choice. Your responsibility.
If the King or anyone else disapproved of your actions, then you would answer for them yourself.
There was no need to hide behind others.
No need to drag Baelor into a matter you had willingly created.
And truthfully...
You feared no man, let alone one wearing a crown dipped in the blood of innocents.
“I will come,” you answered at last before turning toward Ellyn. “I will return before the young prince wakes. Stay with him and Spur.”
Whether you intended to reassure her or yourself, you could not fully tell.
Ellyn nodded quickly, though the nervous twisting of her thumbs betrayed her unease. Fear lingered openly now beneath her careful composure.
And perhaps she had reason for it.
You may have held Baelor’s favour. You may have earned a respected place within the Keep. But at the end of the day, you remained common-born.
And the King…
The King stood as the highest authority within all Seven Kingdoms.
As though sensing where her worry threatened to lead her, you stepped closer and briefly took her hand within your own, grounding her before panic could fully settle.
“Do not tell the Hand of this,” you said quietly but firmly. “I can handle it.”
Ellyn looked at you with widened eyes, lips parting as though she wished to protest immediately.
You could almost see the argument forming behind her expression, the instinctive urge to seek Baelor out regardless of your request.
But you had already turned away before she could speak.
You still remained uncertain how much of Ellyn’s loyalty ultimately belonged to Baelor.
The incident at the beach had eased some of your suspicions, yet not enough to fully silence the caution shaped by the past year of your life.
The King had summoned you without warning.
Even if Ellyn possessed no direct obligation toward Baelor, simple fear for your safety would easily push her toward him regardless, hoping he could intervene should matters turn dangerous.
And because of that...
You had to make certain she stayed behind.
The walk through the Red Keep felt different this time.
You had wandered these halls for over a moon now, long enough to recognise familiar corridors and remember which staircases led where without guidance.
Certain servants had begun greeting you with shy smiles; guards no longer stared with the same open curiosity; and the endless maze of crimson stone had slowly begun to lose the suffocating unfamiliarity it once carried.
But now, as you followed the King’s guards deeper into the castle, the walls seemed taller again.
Colder.
As though the brief comfort you had managed to carve for yourself within the Keep had suddenly been peeled back, exposing once more the reality buried beneath polished floors and noble banners.
The guards escorted you not toward the Tower of the Hand, whose path your feet had almost begun expecting instinctively by now, but deeper.
Into the older sections of the fortress, where the royal apartments and private solars rested behind heavier security and quieter corridors.
The atmosphere itself felt different there. Less alive.
The sounds of the castle faded gradually the farther you travelled inward, swallowed by thicker stone and older architecture.
Torches burned lower within iron brackets along the walls, their light flickering softly across carved dragons and faded tapestries depicting victories long turned into history.
Your footsteps echoed more sharply here. So did the guards’.
As you walked, you noticed them again.
The eyes.
Servants lowered their heads too quickly the moment they spotted the royal escort surrounding you.
Passing guards watching a breath longer than necessary before pretending otherwise. Whispers abruptly silenced whenever you drew near.
And slowly, pieces began settling together within your mind.
The additional escorts stationed near the princes far too often.
The servants who always seemed nearby, no matter where you wandered.
The strange speed with which information travelled whenever the routine shifted even slightly.
Someone had been watching you from the beginning.
Not openly. Never enough to insult you.
But quietly.
The realisation did not surprise you nearly as much as it should have.
If anything, it merely confirmed what your instincts had been whispering for weeks now beneath every moment of comfort.
You were not trusted. Not fully. Not yet.
And perhaps that should have offended you more than it did.
Yet after the war, after witnessing how quickly desperation turned men against one another, you found it difficult to blame them entirely.
You were a stranger, suddenly brought into the royal household, entrusted unusually quickly with grieving princes, and granted visible favour by the Hand himself.
Of course, they watched you.
You would have done the same.
Still, awareness of it left an unpleasant feeling crawling beneath your skin.
Your thoughts drifted briefly toward Baelor again despite yourself.
Toward the coat folded carefully within your chambers.
Toward the quiet trust he had begun placing in you without hesitation.
Toward the way he had looked at you upon the beach once he realised the princes were safe.
And suddenly, you found yourself wondering whether he knew.
Whether he had always known eyes followed you throughout the Keep, whether the extra guards surrounding the boys had been his request… or his father’s.
The question lingered unanswered as you continued walking.
At last, the guards slowed before a set of large carved doors watched over by another pair of royal guards clad in darker colours than the rest.
Their posture remained perfectly rigid as you approached, hands resting near sword hilts, though no immediate threat existed.
One stepped forward immediately.
“The girl has arrived,” he announced through the doors.
Not lady.
Not caretaker.
The girl.
The reminder settled unpleasantly within you, though your expression revealed none of it.
A few seconds passed in silence before movement stirred beyond the heavy wood.
Then... The doors opened.
Warmth greeted you first.
Not the comforting warmth of sunlight spilling through an open field or the gentle heat of a hearth after winter labour, but something heavier. Richer.
The kind of warmth born from wealth and permanence, from braziers that never went cold and rooms built to keep discomfort far from royal skin.
The King’s solar was far grander than Baelor’s tower study, though somehow far less personal.
Large windows allowed the afternoon light to pour freely across polished floors and carved furnishings, illuminating shelves lined with books, rolled maps, banners bearing the three-headed dragon, and heavy braziers burning steadily despite the season.
Gold and crimson flickered together across the chamber walls, while somewhere faintly beneath it all lingered the smell of parchment, candlewax, and old smoke trapped deep within ancient stone.
And there... Near the centre of the room...
Sat the King. The Queen was beside him.
You slowed instinctively upon entering.
Not enough to appear hesitant.
Not enough to insult them with visible fear.
But enough to fully absorb the sight before you and remind yourself exactly where you stood.
King Daeron Targaryen looked older up close than he ever had from afar during crowded court gatherings, though age had not weakened him.
If anything, it had sharpened him into something quieter and far more dangerous than younger men often became.
Silver threaded through his white valyrian hair and beard. Yet, his gaze remained steady and piercing, carrying the exhausting weight of someone who had spent an entire lifetime observing people before deciding whether they deserved trust.
There was intelligence there. Experience.
The kind that stripped men apart silently without ever needing to raise a voice.
Beside him sat the Queen, elegant and composed beneath the pouring afternoon light.
Her hands rested neatly upon her lap while dark eyes studied you with a quieter curiosity than her husband’s.
Her Dornish features made her stand apart immediately, even within royal silks and jewels.
There remained something strikingly untouched about her beauty despite time’s passing, her darker skin glowing warmly in the sunlight. At the same time, silver threaded subtly through her dark hair, gathered carefully behind her shoulders.
An outsider within a court of pale vipers. The thought came suddenly.
A woman who had spent years surrounded by those unlike herself. And somehow, unexpectedly, you understood that feeling.
For you belonged nowhere within these walls either.
You were not noble-born enough to stand beside highborn ladies discussing marriage, alliances, and courtly games over embroidered handkerchiefs.
Yet neither were you low enough now to simply vanish amongst servants carrying trays through hallways unnoticed.
You occupied some strange place in between.
Too close to royalty to belong below.
Too common-born to truly belong above.
And everyone within the Keep seemed aware of it.
Silence settled across the chamber as the doors closed heavily behind you, leaving only the royal couple, two silent white cloaks stationed nearby, and yourself beneath the heavy warmth of the solar.
Neither spoke immediately.
The silence stretched deliberately, long enough for power itself to settle fully upon your shoulders.
A reminder.
You bowed properly despite the tension slowly tightening beneath your ribs. “Your Grace. Your Majesty.”
“Rise.” The King’s voice was not harsh, somehow, which made it worse.
You obeyed slowly, lifting your head once more while forcing yourself not to fidget beneath the weight of their attention.
For a long moment, the King simply looked at you.
Not rudely.
Not cruelly.
But thoroughly.
As though comparing the woman standing before him against every whispered report and observation collected over the past moon.
“You have settled into the Red Keep rather quickly,” he observed at last.
It was not praise.
You chose your response carefully. “The princes have made the transition easier, Your Grace.” And Baelor.
The name almost followed instinctively afterwards, lingering at the very edge of your tongue before you swallowed it back down.
Something inside you warned against speaking of him too casually here. Besides, the truth itself remained more complicated than simple gratitude.
The boys had eased your transition naturally through affection and need, through laughter and dependency, and the strange comfort children brought even amidst grief.
Baelor…
Baelor had helped and not helped all at once.
He had offered safety, kindness, warmth and attention. Yet intertwined with those things had been pity, guilt, and the suffocating need to mend wounds you had never asked him to fix.
Though peace had begun returning slowly between you after the beach, caution still lingered quietly beneath the surface.
You were not foolish enough to trust sudden change entirely. Not after the world you had survived.
A faint hum left the King, neither agreement nor disagreement.
“Yesterday,” he continued calmly, “You decided to remove both royal princes from their scheduled lessons without informing the Hand, the Kingsguard, or the Grand Maester.”
There it was, straight to the point.
No more need for pleasantries.
“Did you think that was wise?” he asked.
The reason for your summons could no longer be mistaken.
It lingered plainly beneath every carefully chosen word, hanging heavily within the warmth of the chamber. At the same time, the King watched you with the same measured patience one might reserve for testing unstable ice before stepping upon it.
Tension settled slowly across the room with each passing moment.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
Something quieter than anger.
Controlled.
You straightened faintly where you stood, refusing to lower your gaze or allow uncertainty to show despite the pressure pressing steadily against your ribs.
Deep within your mind, the memory of the beach remained far too vivid to regret.
Valarr’s laughter echoed over the waves.
Matarys clapped excitedly as Spur buried himself beneath the sand.
The open sky above you all after weeks trapped within stone walls and endless schedules.
No king alive could make you believe those moments had been wrong.
“Do you understand the consequences if something had happened?” Daeron asked next, his tone remaining level and controlled. “If harm had come to the royal line beneath your care?”
“They needed rest,” you answered at last, your voice calm despite the tightening atmosphere around you.
“They needed discipline,” the King corrected evenly. “Routine. Structure. Protection.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Not because they frightened you. But because of the way he spoke of the boys, as though they were duties first and children second.
“Do you understand what those boys are?” he asked.
Something within you tightened then.
Not fear. Resistance.
“They are children,” you replied before caution could silence you.
The chamber quieted immediately afterwards.
The Queen’s gaze sharpened faintly, though the slightest curve touched the edges of her painted lips before disappearing almost as quickly as it appeared.
So subtle that another person may have missed it entirely.
You did not.
A mother recognised certain truths instinctively.
And somehow, those three simple words had told her more about you than an hour of careful explanations ever could.
Across from you, the King leaned back slightly within his chair, studying you anew. “Children,” he repeated slowly, thoughtfully. “They are heirs.” His fingers tapped once against the carved armrest beside him before he continued. “One stands second in line to the Iron Throne itself.”
You held his gaze despite yourself. “And yet,” you answered carefully, “They still laugh, tire, cry and grieve like children.”
Something flickered behind the King’s eyes then.
Interest. Real interest.
“You made a decision that endangered the royal line,” he said after a measured pause. “One could question your integrity. Your… motives.”
The accusation hid itself well beneath polished wording and calm delivery.
It still struck like a slap.
Slowly, you inhaled through your nose, forcing your temper to remain chained where it belonged. Being questioned was one thing.
Being quietly accused beneath the disguise of civility was another entirely.
“If I wanted to harm the royal family,” you began carefully, though steel had already entered your tone, “I would not have chosen innocent boys who have done nothing wrong.”
Beside the King, the Queen shifted almost imperceptibly within her chair, dark eyes studying you more intently now.
Briefly, her gaze flickered toward her husband before returning to you once more.
You continued before hesitation could stop you.
“If I wished harm upon you, Your Grace, I would not have left my village and people behind to come to this forsaken place merely to care for boys I did not know.”
Boys.
Not princes.
Not heirs.
Boys.
The distinction did not go unnoticed.
Silence settled heavily across the chamber once more. Real silence this time.
Even you felt the weight of your own words after they finished echoing softly against stone walls and polished floors.
A wiser woman may have stopped sooner.
A wiser woman would have apologised immediately, bowed her head, softened her tone and allowed the conversation to end safely.
You had never been particularly wise when cornered. Or angered.
And in that moment, you were both.
The King’s gaze remained fixed upon you long enough that your pulse finally began rising despite your efforts to remain calm.
The room itself suddenly felt warmer than before, the air heavier within your lungs beneath his unbroken attention.
Then... Unexpectedly... The Queen smiled.
And beside her, something shifted within the King’s expression.
Not softened. Never that.
Adjusted.
As though he had finally discovered the answer to a question he had been quietly asking himself ever since your arrival within the Red Keep.
“You speak boldly,” he observed at last.
“I speak honestly,” you corrected before thinking better of it. “Something wise men tend to value.”
Dangerous words.
You realised it immediately after speaking them aloud.
Trimming baelor’s beard and ending it with a light tap on his jaw, saying “handsome”. he gets all flustered but smiles anyway he still doesn’t get the fascination but hey, as long as you’re happy he’s more than happy
He watches you intently as you work, brows furrowed as you focus of cleaning up the edge of his greying beard. He sits there diligently allowing you to do whatever you think needs to be done to tame the overgrown hairs.
“There,” You say with one final snip of the scissors. “All done.” You take a moment to cup his face and look at him- admittedly also admiring your handiwork -before pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. “Handsome.”
Baelor has seen war, killed men with his bare hands, and yet here under your love sick gaze he feels his cheeks redden slightly at something as simple as being called handsome. After a moment he clears his throat and turns to kiss your palm. “This is high praise coming from you, my love.”
You stay where you are for a moment scratching your fingers through his beard and pressing soft kisses over his face causing his eyes to flutter shut and in that moment he thinks hed quite like to stay here forever.
Prime Minister's Official Spokesperson!Baelor x Neurosurgeon!Reader
Trope: Past life & Present life
Word count: 7.323
Summary: In their youth, they once believed they would one day have everything they had ever longed for: love, freedom, and the dreams they held closest to their hearts. Sadly, their lives were nothing more than pawns upon history’s board. They could not choose their destinies, it chose them.
If they could not belong to each other in their youth, then they would hold each other’s hands in old age. If they could not reunite in spring, then they would meet again at the place of their promise after the tides of history had turned for more than a hundred years.
Warnings: Lothston!Reader, no use of Y/N, angst, bittersweet, childhood friends, sad past life ending, modern AU ending, fluff ending, they always find their way back to each other
Note:
Reader has a distinctive mole on her face.
Past life: Baelor and Reader loved each other but never ended up together.
Present life: Baelor and Reader finally find their way back to each other.
MARCH SPRING PROMISE Masterlist
They met again in the autumn of 221 AC.
As Maekar and his retinue rode from the main road of King’s Landing toward the Keep, he spotted, in the distance, a woman in a flower-embroidered cloak speaking with one of the gate guards, or rather, arguing with him.
The moment the guard caught sight of Maekar, he immediately bowed his head in respect, welcoming the Crown Prince back to the Red Keep.
“This woman claims she wishes to enter and seek an audience with the King, my Prince.” The guard said. “I tried to stop her and told her she was not permitted inside, yet she remains stubborn and refuses to listen.”
Already weary from the long journey from Summerhall, Maekar clicked his tongue in irritation, displeased with both the woman before him and the guard.
“Who are you?” He demanded.
He had every intention of telling her to get the fuck out of his sight, yet the moment she turned to face him, Maekar nearly felt his heart stop, especially when he caught sight of that unmistakable mole upon her face.
“My Prince.” She smiled and dipped into a graceful curtsey before him.
Maekar furrowed his brow: “You’ve returned?”
She replied softly: “I wish to see and examine the King.”
At the mention of his brother, the tension within him gradually eased. Maekar fell silent for a moment, as though weighing something in his mind, before jerking his chin forward.
“What are you waiting for? Open the gates.”
The guard had not expected Maekar’s attention to suddenly turn toward him. He had assumed the Prince would teach this strange woman, who seemed to have fallen from out of nowhere, a lesson before throwing her out. Yet the way the youngest Prince treated her was entirely unlike his usual manner.
Still, he did not dare concern himself with the affairs of the royal family. “Yes, my Prince.” He answered at once before opening the gates, allowing Maekar’s procession to enter the courtyard.
As Maekar and the woman passed through the gates leading into the inner yard of the Red Keep, the guard turned curiously to his companion: “Who is she?”
His companion was one of the royal stableboys, the young man tasked with tending the horses of the royal household. He asked: “Did you not see what she was wearing around her neck?”
When the guard shook his head, the stableboy continued at once: “That necklace was forged from Valyrian steel, and shaped like a spearhead besides. So think again, who do you believe she is?”
The gate guard’s eyes widened. He hurriedly glanced toward the spot where she had stood moments before, then turned back to his companion with unconcealed astonishment.
“She finally returned?”
In all his decades standing watch over this castle, he had heard countless stories praising the friendship between their King and Lady Lothston. He had thought she had vanished long ago, perhaps even died as the rumors in the streets often claimed, yet now she had returned to see the King once more.
Thinking of the King lying ill in his chambers, the guard let out a sorrowful sigh: “I see now.”
He understood at last. Her purpose in coming here was the same as Prince Maekar’s.
Baelor still remembered the first time he truly understood pain that felt no different from torture. He had only just turned ten then. During the hunting expedition arranged for his nameday celebration, he had wandered too far from the others and ended up injured.
“Do not move.” Said a girl around his age, her voice quiet. “I need to stitch this wound closed, or you will bleed to death.”
“Could we perhaps return to the camp and summon the maesters instead?” Baelor asked anxiously, staring at the needle and spool of thread in her hands. “There is no milk of the poppy here.”
She looked at him as though she could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “Are you truly a man? You are afraid of pain?” She scoffed. “If you fear pain this much, how are you meant to protect your future wife?” She muttered beneath her breath. “A Prince indeed. Raised in silk and luxury for so long that it bred cowardice into him.”
At the time, he had still been nothing more than a little boy untouched by the hardships of the world, and the moment she said that, his pride immediately flared up. Was it not merely a few stitches? What was there to fear?
“Fine then.” Baelor held his breath as he tried to hide his fear. “But be gentle. This is the first time I have fallen badly enough to tear my skin open like this.”
Back then, he had no idea that the wound would have healed perfectly well with nothing more than medicinal herbs, nor did he notice the satisfied smile upon her face after successfully tricking him. It was only years later, when they had reached the age of marriage, that he discovered her greatest passion and dream had always been medicine. At that time, she had merely wished to test a new “healing method” she had thought up herself.
Everyone believed little Lady Lothston to be gentle and well-mannered, yet only Baelor, her childhood friend, knew just how bold she truly was. When he sprained his ankle, she would search through every book in the royal library to concoct powders and salves to ease his pain. When he suffered from allergic reactions, she would venture into Kingswood without hesitation in search of herbs, helping the Grand Maester treat him.
She grew up alongside him within the towering halls of the Keep, and with each passing year, her knowledge of medicine deepened and broadened further. The maesters there were all delighted by her eagerness to learn and her remarkable talent, especially after she helped them develop a remedy that relieved pollen allergies, the very affliction his mother suffered from more than anything else.
She had been born to become a maester.
But she was a woman. And women could never become maesters.
Yet even if she could never become a maester, it did not matter. Fifteen-year-old Baelor had already sworn to himself that he would protect her.
He did not know when he had fallen in love with her. Perhaps it had begun when he saw the young girl running frantically through the halls to summon a maester for him, or perhaps when he awoke from a fevered haze only to find her asleep at his bedside. But whenever it had started, he had already made up his mind. He was of an age to marry now, and since the King had yet to speak of arranging a match, he could first speak to his father of his wish.
“I shall marry you.” He told her solemnly as the two of them walked through the gardens together. “Tomorrow, I will speak with my father. If he agrees, I shall ride to House Lothston at once and ask for your parents’ blessing.”
She let out a soft laugh: “And if the King agrees, when do you intend to hold the wedding?”
“Within a moon’s turn, of course.” Baelor answered. “It is the perfect amount of time, not so long as to be tiresome, yet not so rushed as to seem improper.”
“You are in quite a hurry.” She said with a smile. “But I am not. I wish to sit for the maesters’ examinations first, and after that, travel to the very cradle of medical knowledge within the Seven Kingdoms. Only once I have fulfilled that dream can I marry you.”
“But the Citadel does not accept women. There has never once been a female-maester in all of Westeros.” He explained with a frown, secretly hoping she would reconsider for his sake. Marriage was a matter of a lifetime, how could one simply ask another to wait?
She merely smiled brightly at him. “Then I shall become the first female-maester of the Seven Kingdoms. Do you not find it unfair that men are granted knowledge freely while women are denied it?”
As she spoke, she turned to look at him, the late afternoon sunlight illuminating her radiant smile.
“You will wait for me, will you not?”
He did not believe she would pass the maesters’ examinations, nor did he believe she would remain so stubbornly devoted to medicine forever. In the end, everyone was forced to abandon something from their past in order to continue growing, that was what he had been taught within the Keep. Upon his shoulders rested his parents, his siblings, and his house. Upon hers rested the future and honor of her own family. Eventually, she too would learn to let go of that impossible dream.
So he said: “ Of course.”
Baelor could not bring himself to tell her the truth. Though the royal family encouraged noble daughters to study literature and letters, everyone silently acknowledged that women had no need for profound learning, especially not in a field like medicine, which demanded concentration, precision, and talent alike. He knew she was gifted. He simply did not believe she could truly become a maester.
He sought out his father the following morning, though before he could even voice his wishes, his father happily informed him of the betrothal ceremony set to take place in two weeks’ time between him and Lady Dondarrion.
It was the first time in all his years of living wrapped in silk and luxury, Baelor had truly felt despair.
For the first time, he resolved to challenge both fate and himself. He wrote her a letter filled with his confession and his plea.
“If you agree, I will ask my father to dissolve this betrothal.”
Truthfully, he scarcely even needed her consent. Before sending the letter, Baelor had already gone to seek out Daeron II himself, begging his father to reconsider. Contrary to what he had expected, the King neither grew angry nor rebuked him. Instead, he merely sighed.
“I know you hold affection for Lady Lothston. I watched the two of you grow up together with my own eyes. In my heart, I have long regarded her as one of my own children.”
“Then why?” Baelor demanded. “Why did you propose an alliance with the Stormlands?”
“One day, you will understand the weight of this crown and throne.” The King said softly. “There are times when we must sacrifice what we cherish most so that the realm we rule may continue to stand firm against the tides of history. My dear, we are not like ordinary families. We are not free common folk, nor nobles who may do as they please without consequence. We are royalty, and royalty must always place the realm above all else.”
The King’s heart ached at the sight of the son he loved most looking so utterly hopeless. Quietly, he added: “We do not choose our destinies, Baelor. They choose us.”
Baelor sent the letter that very night.
He never received a reply.
Only afterward did he learn that the letter had never reached her hands. And by then, there was but a single week left before he was to become another lady’s husband.
He had been raised and molded from birth to become a true heir. All his life, he had followed the guidance and arrangements of his parents, for he understood well that a Prince still in his youth, one without true power of his own, could not simply live according to his own desires. He was a Crown Prince of House Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, and Prince of Dragonstone. His duty was to restore and glorify his house, not defy it in pursuit of his own wishes.
“I came to offer my congratulations, my Prince.” Her voice sounded from beyond the folding screen. In only a few hours, he would step into the sept for his wedding ceremony.
Baelor turned at once, startled by the sight of her straight, unmoving figure behind the hazy veil of the screen. Ever since his betrothal to Jena, he had not dared face her. Part of it was because of the promise he had failed to keep, and part of it was because of the responsibility he now bore toward his future wife.
The silence within his dressing chamber that day was the longest he had ever endured. Yet what exactly was he waiting for? Was he waiting for her to come and say she regretted everything, that she would marry him after all? Or perhaps he was waiting to hear her plead “please, call off this wedding”?
But she was not that sort of person. Baelor knew that better than anyone.
The woman she had become treasured knowledge and medicine above all else, and no matter how deeply she loved him, that love alone would never be enough for her to abandon everything she had spent years devoting herself to.
Her dream was to become a maester. And if she could not marry him, perhaps she truly would become one.
At that thought, the heaviness within Baelor slowly began to ease. If they could not remain by each other’s side, then he would support her dream instead. Let it serve as his apology for failing to keep his promise to marry her.
“Will you sit for the maesters’ examinations?” He suddenly changed the subject. “There is a flower in the Citadel called ‘the blossom’. They say that when it blooms, the skies themselves turn as red as a sunset over the sea. The maesters’ examinations will be held during the third moon of the year. If you pass, let us go see the blossoms together.”
“Of course.” She replied with the brightest smile he had ever seen upon her face. “I shall look forward to the day we meet again.”
That promise never came for either of them.
The following year, after her father and mother perished during a journey, her uncle became the new Lord of House Lothston. And the very first thing he did was attempt to marry her off to House Peake, one of the most fervent supporters behind Daemon Blackfyre and among those chiefly responsible for raising him as King.
By some miracle, she managed to secretly send a letter to the Keep, warning the King of a rebellion soon to come. And by some even greater miracle, she convinced Lord Lothston himself to turn back from treason and kneel in loyalty to King Daeron II during the uprising. When the forces of House Targaryen finally emerged victorious and returned in triumph, it was she who personally prepared medicines and tended to Baelor’s wounds.
He had thought she would smile at him again with that same radiant expression from years ago. Yet all he received was the faintest curve of her lips, distant and absent-minded.
“Will you still sit for the maesters’ examinations?” Baelor asked while she applied medicine to the wound across his back. “Though the war has ended, the realm still bears the scars of the rebellion. I do not think the Citadel will hold the examinations next year.”
“If not next year, then the year after.” She answered firmly. “I will become a maester no matter what.”
Though he could not see her face, Baelor knew exactly what she was feeling. She had truly resolved to step into the ranks of the maesters of the Seven Kingdoms. Of course, the twenty-six-year-old Baelor no longer tried to subtly persuade her to abandon that dream. He no longer had any right to ask her to remain in this castle, and she no longer had any wish to stay.
The Citadel’s examinations were postponed to the eighth moon of the following year, long after the blossoms had already withered. Once again, their promise to meet in the spring could not come true.
Yet that same year, the list of those who passed the examinations left all Seven Kingdoms in astonishment.
Lady Lothston stood at the very top of the list. She became the first woman in history to achieve perfect scores in every examination held by the Citadel.
And yet, in the end, she still could not become a maester.
Because she had killed a man.
In 197 AC, Lady Lothston was accused of poisoning Lord Lothston to death.
After the first trial, King Daeron II struggled for a long while before finally deciding to exile her to the Free Cities rather than execute.
“Have you heard? They say the reason Lady Lothston killed Lord Lothston was because he hired assassins from the Faceless Men of Braavos to murder his own brother and good-sister so he could seize the lordship for himself.”
“If I remember correctly, when the bodies of the former Lord and Lady Lothston were discovered that year, they were covered in wounds from blades. I heard the former Lady had even been violated…” The speaker lowered his voice in disgust. “To think a man could be so cruel to his own blood, that bastard deserved to die.”
“Lady Lothston is truly pitiful. Her parents were murdered, she herself was nearly sold off to an old traitor to the realm, while her cousins and kin continued living comfortably wrapped in luxury.”
“Swearing loyalty my cunt. Without her, House Lothston would already have been forced to surrender half its wealth to the royal treasury by now. Ever since her father died, I knew that house was done.”
“But she was exiled. A lone young woman with no one to rely on, how could she possibly survive in the Free Cities?”
From the moment she resolved to take her revenge, she had never once imagined a future in which she would continue living after seeing it through. That was why she had gone to King’s Landing and confessed before the King and Queen themselves.
“You were right.” She rested her head against the wall of the carriage as she gazed at the sunset over the sea. “In the end, we are all forced to abandon our dreams.”
Baelor frowned slightly: “I never said that.”
She gave a small smile: “But you thought about it.”
The Lady Lothston before him was no longer the lively young woman he remembered from years ago.
“… I was wrong.” He admitted hesitantly. “I should never have doubted you.” He fell silent for a long while before speaking again. “If I had spoken to my father sooner that day, perhaps we would have become the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone.”
Quietly, she turned her gaze toward his troubled expression: “Sometimes, we must sacrifice what we desire most in order to safely continue walking the harshest roads before us. My Prince, even if you had spoken to the King sooner, he would still have advised you the same way.”
Baelor did not understand, so she explained: “I received your letter.”
Baelor’s eyes widened at once. He knew exactly which letter she meant.
“But I burned it.” She continued. “Because I had already heard of your betrothal to Lady Jena before your letter ever reached me.”
Though he already knew the answer, he still found himself asking: “Why would you do that?”
She answered calmly, as though the girl who had once cried herself to pieces in the corner of her room over him had been someone else: “Because I knew you would listen to your father’s counsel and agree to that marriage.”
He looked at her with such sorrow that the corners of his eyes had begun to glisten with unshed tears. She was right. His marriage to Jena had been arranged to soothe the fury of the Stormlands after many of his father’s reforms favoring Dorne. Even had Daeron II wished to allow Baelor to marry her, the King would still have been forced to pretend that the love between his heir and Lady Lothston had never existed at all, because at the time, it had been the best choice for the realm.
Baelor turned his gaze toward the carriage window. Beyond it, the ship that would soon set sail for the Free Cities slowly came into view. Helplessly, he shook his head and let out a bitter half-laugh.
“History is a game of cyvasse. We were never the players, merely pawns upon the board.”
Even after the carriage came to a halt at the harbor, neither of them moved to step outside. It was Baelor who spoke first: “What will you do now?”
“I will travel the world and study medicine.” She answered. “There are still far too many things in this world that I do not know. I want to learn what they are.”
Then she turned to meet the hopeful look in his eyes. Perhaps in some foolish corner of his heart, he had believed she would ask him to let her stay.
But she was no longer the little girl she had once been.
“I believe the knowledge of this world is so vast that even if I spent my entire life studying, I would still never learn it all.” And in the moment he saw her smiling beneath the autumn sunset, Baelor saw once more the ten-year-old girl who had tricked him simply so she could learn how to stitch flesh together.
“This is my destiny.” She lit up. “And I intend to follow it.”
The waves rolled gently against the golden shore beneath the sunset of autumn in 197 AC. Upon the shores of Blackwater Bay, the Crown Prince stood watching the woman he knew he would never possess in this lifetime slowly walk away.
“Then I wish you the fulfillment of your heart’s desire.” He said softly. “And I shall do the same here.” For the first time in twenty long years, he finally let go of his attachment to the love of his childhood.
“You spared the realm from bloodshed.” His voice gentled further, he smiled at her, the warmest and most honest he had ever given. “Allow me to see you off on the last stretch of your journey.”
She smiled back at him, then turned and boarded the ship, vanishing entirely from the history of Westeros.
In 209 AC, the Great Spring Sickness swept across the Seven Kingdoms. King’s Landing suffered more heavily than anywhere else in the realm.
The entire royal family within the Keep had taken to their sickbeds, though King Daeron II was by far the worst afflicted. When even the Grand Maesters of the Citadel had nearly surrendered before the plague sent by the Seven themselves, a woman arrived at the Keep one night near the end of the first moon. She did not go to Baelor’s bedside, nor did she visit the Queen, who had once loved her as though she were her own daughter.
Instead, she came for the King.
The Grand Maesters had already concluded that he likely would not survive the night. Though they had never spoken the words aloud, Daeron could see it clearly within their eyes.
At that moment, Daeron could do little more than lie helplessly upon his bed, every part of his body refusing to obey him. He felt powerless. Furious. But above all else, he felt regret for not accepting the invitation his youngest son had once extended to him, to visit Summerhall. Only now did he realize how cold and distant he had been toward Maekar all these years.
He had poured all his love and attention into his heir, while overlooking the younger who had quietly endured wound after wound beneath his gaze.
Just as death seemed ready to claim him, the doors to his chamber suddenly opened. Two figures stepped inside and approached his bedside.
He recognized Omon at once, the diligent old Grand Maester who had remained beside him since the sickness first began spreading through the capital.
The other figure wore a flower-embroidered cloak.
It was her.
“My King.” She said solemnly. “Forgive me for returning without your permission. But Grand Maester Omon sent ravens to me and told me of the current state of the Red Keep. I could find no reason not to take the risk, so I returned.”
Daeron could vaguely guess what she and the Grand Maester intended. Omon likely believed she might help the maesters discover some way to push back the sickness. Though he knew she was talented in the healing arts, he still could not help but find the notion faintly absurd.
She was only a woman, how could she possibly study medicine, let alone practice it?
Yet the words that followed forced him to reconsider.
“My King, I came here tonight to explain the plague known as ‘the Great Spring Sickness’.”
“It originates from a form of bacteria dating back to the days of the Valyria Freehold. I believe it lay dormant within objects that survived the Doom of Valyria, and for some reason, it has now awakened and spread across Westeros. Since we now understand the source of the sickness, creating a cure is possible. However, the medicine of our age has not yet advanced far enough to develop a remedy capable of eradicating the disease at its root.”
“Fortunately, I have been studying another strain of bacteria in Volantis. Though its origins and characteristics differ from the Great Spring Sickness, I believe the method of creating an antibiotic may be the same for both. But in order to develop such a treatment, we require a ‘human test subject’, someone through whom we may study how the body resists the disease itself. My King, would you permit Grand Maester Omon and me to attempt it?”
The old maester could not hide the alarm upon his face. He had not expected her to speak with such honesty and bluntness.
As a King who understood the hearts of his people, Daeron naturally understood what she truly meant. She wished to use his body as the “carrier” through which they might discover a method capable of ending this monstrous plague, the very plague before which even the Grand Maesters had surrendered in defeat.
“Tell me.” Daeron rasped, his voice hoarse after so many days without speech. “Why do… you believe… this… will succeed?”
“This method is called fighting poison with poison.” She explained. “There are plants so venomous that, when viewed alone, they appear to possess nothing but deadly properties. Most believe such things can only ever be used to harm others. Yet when combined with opposing medicines, even the deadliest poison may become a miraculous cure.”
“The Great Spring Sickness is no different. If we can weaken the bacteria, or use only a small trace of it to awaken a human’s own resistance, then the sickness itself will no longer possess the strength to cause harm.”
Daeron’s breathing grew visibly heavier. His time was running short, yet he still remembered that fateful day so many years ago, when his eldest son, only fifteen at the time, had come rushing to him with bright eyes, intending to ask for permission to marry her.
What if, back then, he had chosen his heart instead of wisdom?
What if he had placed the wishes of his son, perhaps even his own wishes, above power and duty?
Would this bleak future have changed?
“I agree.” He whispered faintly. “Lady Lothston, promise me… you will save my son.”
In 209 AC, Daeron II Targaryen passed away. His grandsons, Valarr and Martyn, perished soon after him. Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne, ascended the throne as King Baelor II.
Not long after the aftermath of the Great Spring Sickness had finally been settled, Baelor revoked her sentence of exile.
But she never returned.
The cool breeze slipped through the ancient stone corridors of the Keep, yet it could not drive away the darkness slowly swallowing it whole.
By the eighth moon of that year, a new King had ascended the throne, and the blossoms of the Citadel had long since withered away.
After surviving the Great Spring Sickness and ascending the throne, Baelor named Aerys his heir, for both of his sons had perished. When Aerys and Rhaegel later died as well, the title of Prince of Dragonstone passed to Maekar.
Baelor never remarried.
The remainder of his life was buried beneath petitions, council meetings, tourneys fought across the Seven Kingdoms and royal progresses to distant lands. He became the wise and brilliant King his parents and the realm had always hoped he would become. So much so that on his final day, Baelor did not lie upon a sickbed, but was instead wheeled into the throne room itself to settle the last matters of his reign.
“You have returned.” When he saw her standing alone within the gardens, Baelor merely smiled, as though greeting an old friend.
She dismissed the servants and pushed his chair herself toward the center of the garden. Neither the servants nor his brother spoke a word, merely remaining behind to watch the two figures in the distance.
She lowered herself onto the stone bench beside the King’s chair and answered calmly: “You once saw me through the final stretch of my journey. Now I shall do the same for you.”
Autumn leaves blanketed the courtyards of the Red Keep in gold. Before the servants could finish sweeping away one wave of fallen leaves, another would scatter across the stones once more, and so Baelor eventually told them to leave them be.
Amidst the golden garden filled with dying leaves and pale autumn sunlight, he suddenly found himself remembering the countless moments of years long past. He could no longer recall every detail, yet neither could he truly forget a single one of them.
“My Lady.” He asked softly. “Have you fulfilled your desire all these years?”
She smiled, her eyes curving: “Just as you have.”
A quiet, satisfied smile touched Baelor’s lips. Then, peacefully, he closed his eyes.
In the autumn of 221 AC, King Baelor II Targaryen passed away.
“Where do you intend to go?” Maekar asked suddenly as they sat within the carriage.
Her mind drifted, unbidden to the farewell at Blackwater Bay. That is the same question Baelor had once asked her, and her answer had never changed.
To travel the world. To pursue the knowledge of medicine.
She had never considered herself a heartless or indifferent person. And Baelor had never believed so either. Perhaps their story had simply been meant to remain in childhood, a time before they understood the weight of duty, the burdens placed upon them by parents, siblings, and their houses.
Baelor would always choose what was best for the realm. And she, in turn, would always follow the calling of her own desire.
“The sun is too harsh today, my King.” She said suddenly. “It will rain in a few days.”
Maekar frowned and glanced up. The sky above was clear, without a single cloud, not even a whisper of wind: “Are you drunk? I recall you prefer your potions over wine.”
She let out a soft laugh: “I merely wished to inform you.”
“That isn’t necessary.” Maekar replied irritably. “My Small Council already wastes enough time debating the weather.”
That night, it was Maekar who escorted her to the harbor. He watched as she boarded the great ship bound for the Free Cities, then turned back toward the Red Keep, thinking that perhaps she would never make it to the spring promise no one would be waiting for anymore.
Even after the ship had sailed far beyond the Blackwater Bay, even after the shores of King’s Landing had vanished from sight, there remained a figure in a flower-embroidered cloak standing alone at the prow. She stood there for a long time, beneath a vast sea scented with salt and night wind, while the stars slowly began to pierce the darkness above.
Just like on that autumn sunset in 197 AC, when someone else had once watched the person they loved disappear into the distance.
In the spring of 987 AC, Daeron Targaryen defeated his half-brother, Daemon Blackfyre, and became the thirty-fourth Prime Minister of Westeros.
His eldest son, Baelor Targaryen, rose soon after to become his father’s most trusted right hand, serving as the spokesperson for the Prime Minister’s office while still in his early thirties. Widowed for nearly a decade and a father of two, Baelor position within the political establishment, combined with his striking appearance, made him the subject of admiration at nearly every formal gathering he attended. It was not uncommon for young women at court receptions to quietly imagine themselves as the next Mrs. Targaryen.
And so, many were still indulging in those fantasies when Monday morning’s front page delivered a headline that shattered them all: “Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen’s Girlfriend”.
The iPad screen was flooded with speculative comments, people shamelessly dissecting the appearance of Baelor’s new girlfriend despite the fact that no one had even seen her face yet.
“WHAT? My husband has a girlfriend? NO. Impossible. I refuse to believe this!”
“Someone please tell me this is just a nightmare.”
“You can already tell from the back view that she’s one of those gold-digging students who sits around waiting for our Prince to throw money at her. Shameless.”
“Just look at how sloppy she dresses. How could he possibly date someone like that?”
“Where did they even meet?”
“Who knows? She probably approached our spokesperson on purpose.”
“Do you guys never keep up with the news? The Prime Minister’s latest interview mentioned her. He said they met at the blossom viewing party hosted by the Citadel while she was attending the annual neuroscience conference there. Wait, she’s a scientist?”
“Well, if she’s a scientist, then I guess the way she dresses makes sense. I can tell.”
“Have you all heard the latest gossip yet? The tabloid from the Vale claims someone already uncovered her identity! Apparently she’s a doctor, a neurospecialist at Westeros General Hospital. Oh, Seven fucking Hells, I need to transfer to that hospital immediately.”
“There’s also a rumor that she’s the daughter of the vice director of the Academy of Science and Technology, though that’s probably just gossip, right?”
“What? The papers over Essos are saying she’s the daughter of the director of Harrenhal Private Hospital instead.”
Her thumb repeatedly pressed the dislike button beneath comments mocking her appearance and fashion sense. Pouting, she stared at the blurry photograph taken with what had to be the lowest-quality phone camera imaginable, silently thinking: “Wasn’t this from the date where Baelor and I played the game ‘whoever dresses the most normally doesn’t have to pay’?”
Then her gaze drifted once more toward the word “girlfriend” plastered across the front page, and her expression darkened further. She was still a little annoyed that Baelor had never denied having a “girlfriend” in the first place.
The melody of the apartment door unlocking suddenly echoed through the room.
He was home from work.
Normally, she would have walked over immediately and asked how his day had gone. But today, she ignored the way he raised a brow while slipping off his shoes, and pretended not to notice the puzzled expression crossing his face when he deliberately walked past her.
“Darling.” Baelor removed his coat, loosened his tie, then sat down beside her on the sofa. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes flicked toward the arm he had casually draped along the back of the couch behind her before replied in a tone of obvious displeasure: “Do you know how useless the ‘what’s wrong’ is right now?”
She knew perfectly well that he already knew what was wrong, yet he still asked anyway. Men truly could not be trusted. She really should have listened to her mother’s advice: Never believe the sweet words of any man who isn’t her father.
While she continued sulking, she felt him shake his head with quiet amusement. Then he shifted closer, pulled her into his arms, and kissed all over her face, especially her signature small mole.
“We just recently took in a new group of interns, I was showing them around when reporters came to film a segment about the Prime Minister’s office. They interviewed me on the spot. Things have been rather hectic lately, so I answered a bit carelessly.” Baelor murmured against the hollow of her neck. “I didn’t expect them to ask about you.” He buried his face deeper against her skin before adding softly. “You’re not upset because I didn’t correct the reporter from ‘my girlfriend’ to ‘my soon-to-be wife’, are you?”
She let out an offended huff: “I’m not that petty.”
Baelor chuckled: “Then stop frowning. Didn’t you once tell me frowning gives you wrinkles?”
She frowned even harder and looked down at the man currently clinging to her like a koala, only for her thoughts to suddenly drift back to a winter night three years ago, when Senator Daeron Targaryen’s secretary had been rushed into the hospital by his youngest brother after an accident during one of their fencing matches.
“How does someone manage to split their head open while fencing?” She had asked back then.
Maekar had shouted furiously: “You are going to fucking save him. Now!”
The patient, of course, had to be saved. As for Maekar, he had immediately been kicked out of the hospital by her afterward.
“I really shouldn’t have stitched your wound up myself back then.” She said coldly and folded her arms. “I should’ve let Kiera do it instead. The girl needed practice learning how to close a wound without leaving a raised scar.”
Baelor clutched dramatically at the left side of his chest as though even his heart had been wounded: “Darling, do you realize how much it pains me to hear you say that? If it weren’t for you, the scar on the back of my head would never have healed this cleanly.”
“Then perhaps you should stop implying I’m getting wrinkles on my forehead.” She narrowed her eyes.
He laughed softly: “I never said that.”
She argued: “You thought about it.”
“Alright, alright.” He lifted both hands in surrender. “I knew you’d be upset about this, so I prepared something in advance.”
With that, he picked up the television remote and switched on the evening news channel. The station was still airing a commercial for a new wine fermentation method developed by Daeron Targaryen, Maekar’s eldest son. Once the advertisement ended, the screen shifted to the office of the Prime Minister’s spokesperson.
She saw Baelor seated before the cameras, his fingers loosely intertwined while absentmindedly twisting the ring on his hand, a habit of his that had never changed. The interview itself concerned diplomatic relations with several central states within the Free Cities. Somehow, though, by the very end of it all, she suddenly heard Baelor say: “My wife and I will be getting married in the middle of March at the Citadel.”
“…” Slowly, she turned to stare at the smug smile spread across his face. Wonderful. He had been making plans behind her back. Again. “Baelor Targaryen!” She rose to her feet, calling him by his full name. “You’re the spokesperson for the Prime Minister’s office, not some announcer reading the daily bulletin. And besides, why would you lie and say we’re getting married this month?”
Baelor blinked up at her in confusion: “I wasn’t lying.”
This time, she was the one who froze.
“I already plan everything.” He continued. “Mid-March is when the blossoms at the Citadel bloom the most beautifully. And this year happens to be the peak season for them. If we don’t get married now, then when?”
“Besides.” He grinned broadly, revealing bright teeth and those two terribly sly-looking canines of his. “You’re busy enough already. Just leave all the planning to me. When the day comes, all you need to do is look beautiful, choose the prettiest wedding dress you can find, and walk down the aisle.”
She found herself speechless after that. Because honestly, if someone had already carefully planned everything for her, then what reason did she have not to follow along?
“Fine then.” She sat back down on the sofa. “What kind of dress should I choose?”
Baelor immediately moved closer and wrapped his arms tightly around her: “You’d look beautiful in anything.”
She rolled her eyes in exasperation: “If that’s your answer, I’d rather ask someone else.”
Baelor shook his head at once and replied in the same solemn tone he used whenever he stood behind a press podium: “Open the wedding catalog. This time, I’ll give it my full professional attention.”
In the spring of mid-March, 987 AC, Baelor Targaryen married Doctor Lothston beneath the blossoms forest of the Citadel.
At long last, the two of them had fulfilled their march spring promise they had made so, so many years ago.
Thinking about meeting Aerion at some trashy bar. He uses some shitty line on you, and you're about to tell him to leave you alone until you actually get a good look at him and realise he's hot.
He can tell you don't know who he is, and he likes that, makes a point to avoid telling you his last name. He invites you back to his, and you go, because you've had a shitty day and it's made you just careless enough.
He avoids calling his driver, hailing a taxi instead, bringing you back to his least expensive property in the city (still unaffordable for 90% of the population). He shoves a handful of cash into the driver's hand when you're not looking, and in return, the man ignores you both as Aerion eats you out in the backseat.
He fucks you three times that night, and you come every time, and then in the morning, you seem eager to leave, and he's not used to that, hates it actually, and so he asks for your number, which he never does, and you give it, which you never do.
You don't think he'll call, but he does, and before you know it, you're going over three times a week, and you still don't know his last name.
He likes that, and he likes you, just not enough to actually tell you that, lets the whole thing turn into a situationship because he's too scared, too Aerion, to give you a relationship, even when you begin hinting that that's what you're after.
Instead, you start to pull away. Half of the time, his texts go unanswered and the last time he saw you, you had a bite mark on your shoulder that he knows he didn't give you, and it drives him insane, and he still doesn't tell you.
He isn't surprised when he gets the text.
Met someone. It's getting serious.
He doesn't respond, and it's petty, but he is petty, so he doesn't care. He drinks and he sleeps with other people, and they all know who he is, what he is, and he tries to forget about you.
It doesn't work, and then he's at a family dinner and you walk through the door, and he thinks he's hallucinating. You look amazing and he tries to ignore the fact that his breath catches a little. He stares at you confused, and you stare back horrified, which only makes Aerion more confused.
And then Valarr walks in beside you and puts his hand on your waist like it belongs there, and it all clicks.
Aerion is furious.
He has no right to be, and that makes it even worse.
He never told his family he was seeing anyone, and he never told you his last name.
Still, the sight of his cousin's casual grip on you, the way he introduces you as his girlfriend, the ease with which he touches you, it riles him up and he realises he's fucked, and so he does what he always does, and he smirks when he shakes your hand like he's never seen you before in his life, like those fingers curling around yours haven't been inside you.
"It's so lovely to meet you," he grins, and for the second time in your life, you realise this man is trouble.
VALARR TARGARYEN X BASTARD!READER
SUMMARY: In which home can be everywhere
TW:NONE
WC: 15K
PART FOUR
You had no idea how long you had been flying. Time had become a strange, slippery thing, measured only in the beat of Moonfyre's wings and the burning ache in your thighs and the way the stars wheeled overhead like they were dancing just for you. The terror had not faded, not really. It had settled into something you could carry, a low hum of fear that lived in your chest alongside the wonder, because how could anyone be truly calm when they were clinging to the back of a dragon with nothing but their own trembling fingers to keep them from falling into the endless dark sea below?
The wind was pushing against you, pulling at your hair, stealing your breath every time you tried to take a full one. Your eyes were streaming from the cold and the speed and the salt spray that occasionally kicked up from the waves far beneath you, and you had long since given up trying to wipe them clear. You just squinted, your cheek pressed against Moonfyre's warm scales, and watched the world blur past in shades of silver and black and the deep, impossible blue of the night sea. Every now and then you caught a glimpse of something below, a whitecap on a wave, the dark shape of a rocky outcropping, once the distant glow of what might have been a ship's lantern far to the south. But mostly there was nothing. Just water and sky and the steady, powerful rhythm of the dragon carrying you away from everything you had ever known.
Your hands hurt. That was the thing you kept coming back to, the mundane, ridiculous detail that anchored you to reality when the wonder of it all threatened to sweep you away entirely. Your fingers were cramping from gripping Moonfyre's scales so tightly, the ridges of her spine digging into your palms, your knuckles white and aching. You had tried shifting your grip a few times, loosening one hand at a time to shake out the stiffness, but every time you did, a gust of wind would catch you or Moonfyre would adjust her course with a subtle tilt of her wings, and you would grab on again with renewed desperation, your heart leaping into your throat. You were not going to fall. You were not going to fall. You repeated it like a prayer, like a spell, like if you said it enough times it would become true.
Moonfyre did not seem concerned about the possibility of you falling. She flew with a steady, purposeful grace, her wings beating in a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing, her body warm and solid beneath you. Every now and then she would turn her head, just slightly, and you would catch a glimpse of one golden eye looking back at you, checking, perhaps, to make sure you were still there. You always were. You always would be. Where else would you go, clinging to the back of a dragon a thousand feet above the sea?
Moonfyre banked slightly to the left, and you grabbed her scales with renewed panic, your knuckles screaming in protest. The sea tilted beneath you, a vast expanse of darkness that suddenly felt much closer than it had a moment before, and you squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your face into her spine and waited for the world to right itself again.
The stars began to fade. You noticed it slowly, the way the black of the sky softened to a deep, bruised purple, then to grey, then to something that was almost blue. The horizon ahead of you began to glow, a thin line of gold and pink that spread like a promise across the edge of the world, and you watched it with aching eyes and a heart that was too full to speak. You had seen sunrises before, of course. You had seen them from the cliffs of Dragonstone, from the window of Marta's cottage, from the deck of a fishing boat on the rare mornings when old Tom let you come along. But you had never seen a sunrise like this. You had never seen the sun rise from above the clouds, from the back of a dragon, with the whole world spread out beneath you like a gift you had never asked for and never deserved.
The light grew stronger, painting the sea in shades of rose and gold, and you could see the water clearly now, endless and empty and beautiful. There was nothing out here. No ships, no islands, no signs of land at all. Just the sea and the sky and the dragon carrying you toward a horizon that never seemed to get any closer.
And then, just as the sun crested the edge of the world and the sky exploded into color, you saw it.
A speck of green in all that blue. Small at first, so small you thought you might be imagining it, a trick of the light or a wishful thought given shape by exhaustion. But it grew as you flew toward it, resolving from a blur into a shape, from a shape into an island. A small island, perhaps no larger than Dragonstone itself, but greener than anything you had ever seen. The cliffs of your home were grey and jagged, bare rock and sparse grass and the constant, unforgiving wind. This island was different. This island was lush and verdant, its slopes covered in trees that looked almost tropical from this distance, its beaches pale and soft and utterly untouched.
Moonfyre began to descend.
Your stomach dropped along with her, a sickening lurch that made you grab her scales so hard your fingers went numb. The island rushed up to meet you, the green slopes and pale beaches growing larger and larger, and you could see now that there was a waterfall on the far side of the island, a thin ribbon of silver that cascaded down the rocks and disappeared into the trees. You could see birds wheeling in the sky below you, startled by the dragon's approach, their cries lost in the rush of wind. You could see flowers, actual flowers, splashes of color against all that green, red and yellow and purple and white.
Moonfyre landed hard on the beach, her claws digging into the pale sand, her wings folding against her body with a final, decisive snap. The impact jarred through your entire body, rattling your teeth and nearly dislodging you from her back, but you held on, your legs shaking, your arms trembling, your whole body one long ache from your shoulders to your ankles.
For a long moment, you didn't move. You couldn't move. You just sat there, slumped against Moonfyre's neck, your face pressed into her warm scales, breathing. Just breathing. The air was different here, warmer than Dragonstone, sweeter, carrying the scent of flowers and earth and something else, something green and alive that you had no name for. The sun was warm on your back, truly warm, not the pale, grudging warmth of the Dragonstone sun but a real, honest heat that seeped through your worn cloak and into your cold bones.
You were alive. You were on an island somewhere in the middle of the sea. You had flown here on the back of a dragon.
You started to laugh. It was a weak, breathless sound, more of a wheeze really, but it was laughter all the same. You laughed until your sides ached, until tears were streaming down your cheeks, until you couldn't tell if you were laughing or crying or both. Moonfyre rumbled beneath you, a questioning sound, and you patted her scales with a hand that was still shaking.
"I'm fine," you managed, your voice hoarse. "I'm fine. I just flew. On a dragon. Across the sea. And now I'm on an island. A beautiful island. A completely unknown island. And I have no idea where we are or how to get back or what we're going to eat or—"
Moonfyre shifted beneath you, her body lowering, and you took the hint. You slid off her back with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, your legs buckling the moment they hit the sand. You fell to your knees, then to your hands, then flat on your face, and you lay there for a moment, just feeling the warmth of the sand beneath you, the solid, unmoving ground, the blessed stillness of a world that was no longer tilting and swaying and threatening to drop you into the sea.
You heard Moonfyre move behind you, the soft crunch of her claws in the sand, the rustle of her wings as she stretched them wide. You turned your head just enough to look at her, and she was magnificent, her pale scales catching the morning light and shimmering with that faint purple undertone you loved so much. Her golden eyes were fixed on you, patient and warm, and she made a sound that was almost a purr.
"Where are we?" you asked her, pushing yourself up to sit. Your legs were still shaking, your hands still aching, but the world had stopped spinning and you could think again, more or less. "Why did you bring me here?"
Moonfyre blinked at you slowly, and then, without any warning at all, she launched herself into the air.
You stared, your mouth hanging open, as she rose above the beach, her wings beating hard, her body climbing higher and higher. She circled once, twice, and then she turned and flew back out over the sea, the same direction you had come from, her pale form growing smaller and smaller until she was nothing but a speck against the endless blue, she was gone.
You sat in the sand, staring at the empty sky, and waited for her to come back. She didn't.
The silence was overwhelming. On Dragonstone, there was always noise, the crash of the sea against the rocks, the cry of gulls, the distant shouts of fishermen, the bleating of Marta's goats. Here, there was nothing but the gentle whisper of the waves on the shore and the rustle of wind through the trees. It should have been peaceful. It was peaceful. It was also deeply, profoundly unsettling.
You pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, your eyes still fixed on the horizon. She would come back. She had to come back. She had brought you here for a reason, and that reason was not to abandon you on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere. She was your dragon. You had saved her life. You had named her. You had kissed her on the snout. You had a bond. A connection. A thing that dragons and riders were supposed to have.
She would come back.
Any minute now.
You waited. The sun climbed higher, warm and golden, and you shrugged off your cloak and laid it on the sand beside you. The beach was beautiful, really beautiful, the sand pale and soft, the water clear and blue and nothing like the churning grey sea around Dragonstone. If you were going to be abandoned on a deserted island, you thought, this was probably the best possible deserted island to be abandoned on. That was something. That was almost comforting.
She would come back.
You waited some more. Your stomach growled, a loud, insistent sound that reminded you that you had not eaten since the bread and cheese you had shared with Marta what felt like a lifetime ago. You had been so focused on the cave, on the empty chamber, on the cold stone and the ashes and the bone deep grief of believing you had imagined the only thing that had ever been truly yours. You had not thought to bring food. You had not thought to bring anything. You had just walked into the darkness and curled up on the cold stone and waited to disappear.
And then she had come back. And she had taken you here. And now she was gone again.
"I'm not crazy," you said aloud, and your voice sounded strange in the silence, too loud and too small at the same time. "I didn't imagine her. She's real. She carried me here. I'm sitting on a beach on an island I've never seen before, and I got here on the back of a dragon. That happened. That's real. I'm not imagining this."
You paused, considering.
"Unless I'm imagining all of this. Unless I'm still in the cave, lying on the cold stone, dreaming that I'm on a beautiful island with warm sand and clear water and a dragon who might or might not come back. That would be very like me, wouldn't it? To dream something wonderful and then wake up alone in the dark."
You pinched yourself, hard, on the soft skin of your inner arm. It hurt. It throbbed for several seconds after you let go. You were not dreaming. Probably. You had heard that people who were dreaming could pinch themselves and feel it, if they believed hard enough that they would feel it. But you didn't feel like you were dreaming. You felt awake. Tired and hungry and sore and a little bit scared, but awake.
"I'm not on Dragonstone anymore," you said, continuing your argument with yourself because there was no one else to argue with. "I've never seen this place before. I didn't know it existed. I couldn't have imagined it, because I didn't know what to imagine. I didn't know there were islands like this, with trees like that and sand like this and water that color. So I must be here. Really here. Which means Moonfyre is real. Which means I'm not crazy. Which means Valarr was wrong and I was right and everyone who ever looked at me with pity in their eyes can go jump in the sea."
You felt better after saying that. Not a lot better, but a little. Enough to uncurl from your tight ball and stretch your legs out in front of you and actually look at the island instead of just staring at the horizon waiting for a dragon who might or might not return.
It really was beautiful. The beach curved in a gentle crescent, bordered by trees that looked like nothing you had ever seen on Dragonstone. They were tall and slender, with smooth grey bark and broad green leaves that rustled softly in the warm breeze. Beyond them, the island rose into low hills covered in more trees and what looked like flowering bushes, splashes of color that stood out against all that green. The waterfall you had seen from the air was visible now, a thin white ribbon against the dark rock of a small cliff face, and you could hear it if you listened carefully, a distant, musical sound beneath the whisper of the waves.
You should explore. You knew you should explore. You should find fresh water, and shelter, and something to eat. You should figure out if the island had any dangers, wild animals or poisonous plants or anything else that might kill a girl who had survived a dragon only to be taken out by a berry. You should be practical and resourceful and brave, the way Marta had raised you to be.
Instead, you sat in the sand and watched the waves and waited for your dragon to come back.
A crow landed on the sand about ten feet away from you.
You blinked at it. It was a large crow, larger than the one you had rescued from the cliffs, with glossy black feathers and bright, intelligent eyes. It tilted its head at you, regarding you with an expression that was almost curious, and you tilted your head back at it, because it seemed like the polite thing to do.
"Hello," you said.
The crow cawed. It was not a friendly sound. It was more of a statement, a declaration of presence, a this is my island and who are you kind of sound. You had heard crows make that sound before, on Dragonstone, when they were defending their territory from other crows.
"I'm Y/N," you said, because you had already established that you were talking to yourself and talking to a crow was only slightly stranger. "I came here on a dragon. She left, but I think she's coming back. I hope she's coming back. If she doesn't come back, I suppose I live here now. Is that alright with you?"
The crow stared at you. Its black eyes were unreadable, but there was something in its posture that suggested it was thinking, weighing, considering. You had never been looked at like that by a bird before. It was unsettling. It was also, in a strange way, comforting. At least something on this island acknowledged your existence.
"I saved a crow once," you offered. "On Dragonstone. Its wing was broken. I found it on the cliffs and I took it home and I fixed it. Marta helped. She knows a lot about healing. We fed it scraps and kept it warm and when its wing was healed, I let it go. It flew away, just like that, without looking back. I was sad, but I understood. It had bigger things waiting for it. A sky. A flock. A life that was bigger than my cottage."
The crow took a hop closer. Then another. You held very still, barely breathing, as it approached. It stopped about three feet away, its head tilted, its black eyes fixed on your face.
"I don't have any food," you said apologetically. "I didn't exactly plan for this trip. I was just going to the cave to be sad, and then there was a dragon, and now I'm here. It's been a very strange day. Night. Whatever. I've lost track of time."
The crow made a softer sound, almost a chuckle, and you could have sworn it was laughing at you. It hopped a little closer, then stopped, its head turning toward the sea. You followed its gaze, and your heart leaped into your throat.
There was a shape on the horizon. A familiar shape, growing larger by the second. Wings, pale and shimmering, catching the sunlight and scattering it like jewels.
Moonfyre.
You scrambled to your feet, your legs shaking, your heart pounding, your eyes fixed on the dragon as she grew closer and closer. The crow took off with an indignant caw, wheeling into the sky and disappearing into the trees, but you barely noticed. All your attention was on Moonfyre, on the graceful sweep of her wings, on the way the sun caught her scales and made them glow, on the dark shape she was carrying in her claws.
She landed on the beach with a heavy thud, sand spraying out from beneath her feet, and dropped her burden onto the pale shore in front of you. It landed with a wet, heavy sound, and you stared at it, trying to make sense of what you were seeing.
It was a goat. Or what had once been a goat. It was charred and smoking, its fur burned away in patches, its flesh cooked through in some places and blackened in others. The smell hit you a moment later, rich and savory and so delicious that your mouth watered despite the strangeness of the situation. It was the smell of roasted meat, real meat, the kind of meat you had only ever tasted in tiny portions, scraps from the butcher's stall or the occasional gift from a grateful patient of Marta's.
Moonfyre nudged the goat toward you with her snout, her golden eyes bright and expectant. She made a sound, a soft, encouraging rumble, and nudged it again, pushing it closer to your feet.
You stared at her. You stared at the goat. You stared back at her.
"You brought me food," you said slowly. "You flew all the way back to Dragonstone, or wherever you found a goat, and you caught it, and you cooked it, and you brought it here. For me."
Moonfyre rumbled again, and this time there was no mistaking the pride in the sound. She sat back on her haunches, her chest puffed out slightly, her golden eyes watching you with an expression that could only be described as smug satisfaction. She looked like a cat who had just deposited a mouse on its owner's pillow and was waiting to be praised for its hunting prowess.
You laughed. It started small, a surprised huff of air, and then it grew, bubbling up from your chest until you were doubled over, your hands on your knees, tears streaming down your face. You laughed until your sides ached, until you couldn't breathe, until Moonfyre started to look concerned and nudged you gently with her snout.
"You ridiculous creature," you gasped, straightening up and wiping your eyes. "You ridiculous, wonderful, absurd creature. You brought me a goat. You roasted it with your fire and you carried it across the sea and you dropped it at my feet like a cat bringing home a bird."
Moonfyre made a sound that was definitely pleased, and nudged the goat again, pushing it even closer to you. The message was clear. Eat. You're hungry. I brought you food.
You knelt in the sand beside the charred goat, and up close it was both more and less appetizing than it had seemed from a distance. The fire had done its work unevenly, some parts were perfectly cooked, the meat tender and falling off the bone, while others were blackened to ash or still pink and raw in the center. But it was food. It was real, fresh meat, and your stomach was growling so loudly now that you were pretty sure Moonfyre could hear it.
You reached out and tore off a piece from what looked like the most cooked section. It was hot, almost too hot to hold, and you juggled it between your fingers for a moment before bringing it to your mouth. The first bite was so good you almost cried. It was rich and savory and slightly smoky, with a depth of flavor you had never experienced before. The meat was tender, falling apart on your tongue, and there was fat that had crisped up from the fire and added a crunch that made your eyes roll back in your head.
"This is the best thing I've ever eaten," you said around a mouthful of goat. "This is better than anything I've ever had. This is better than Marta's cooking. Don't tell her I said that."
Moonfyre rumbled contentedly and settled onto the sand beside you, her great body curling around you in a familiar crescent, her tail sweeping out to encircle your little eating area. Her warmth seeped into your back, and you leaned against her, eating your roasted goat on a beautiful beach with your dragon wrapped around you, and you thought that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be alright.
You ate until you couldn't eat anymore, until your stomach was full and round and slightly aching in the best possible way. There was still so much goat left, more than you could eat in days, and you looked at it with a kind of wondering gratitude. Moonfyre had brought you food. She had flown across the sea, hunted, cooked, and delivered a meal to you because you were hungry and she knew it. She had taken care of you the way you had taken care of her, all those weeks in the cave, bringing her rabbits and fish and the occasional sheep.
"Is this what it's going to be like?" you asked her, wiping your greasy hands on your already stained cloak. "You bring me food, I eat it, we sit on a beautiful beach and watch the waves? Because I could get used to this. I could very easily get used to this."
Moonfyre blinked at you slowly, and her tail curled tighter around you, pulling you closer against her warm side. The sun was high now, warm and golden, and the beach was peaceful and quiet, and you were full of good food and safe in the curve of your dragon's body. Your eyes began to droop. The exhaustion of the night, the flight, the terror and the wonder and the waiting, all of it crashed over you at once, a wave of tiredness so profound you couldn't fight it even if you wanted to.
You leaned your head back against Moonfyre's scales and closed your eyes.
"Thank you," you murmured, already half asleep. "For coming back. For the goat. For everything."
Moonfyre's only response was a deep, rumbling purr that vibrated through your bones and followed you down into sleep.
—
The sun had been up for hours, but Valarr hadn't noticed. Time had become something that happened to other people, people who weren't tearing apart the eastern cliffs with their bare hands, people who weren't running through the village shouting a name that no one answered, people who weren't slowly coming apart at the seams with every passing moment that she remained gone.
He had barely slept, his dreams full of her hair and eyes and the sound of her voice saying you already lost me over and over until he woke with her name on his lips and tears on his face. He had laid there in the grey dawn light, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what to do. How to fix this. How to make her understand that he would give up everything, everything, if she would just let him.
He had gone to the village first thing, before anyone could stop him. He had walked the familiar path with his heart in his throat, rehearsing what he would say. That he had told his father. That he had chosen her. That the betrothal didn't matter, the throne didn't matter, none of it mattered except her. That he was sorry, so sorry, for not telling her sooner, for letting her find out from his father instead of from him, for every moment he had let her believe she was alone in this.
The cottage had been quiet when he arrived. Too quiet. Marta was in the yard, her gnarled hands wrapped around a cup of tea, her old face pale and drawn in a way that made his stomach drop before she even spoke.
"She's gone," Marta had said, and her voice was rough, scraped raw by worry. "She didn't come home last night. I thought she was with you. I thought—" She had stopped, her mouth trembling, and Valarr had felt the world tilt beneath his feet.
"She's not with me," he had said, and the words had come out strange, distant, like someone else was speaking them. "She's not—when did you last see her?"
Marta had told him. Evening, after she had returned from the castle. She had been quiet, Marta said, too quiet, the kind of quiet that meant she was hurting and didn't want anyone to see. She had eaten a little supper, helped with the evening chores, and then she had said she was going for a walk.
He had run. He had run from the cottage to the village, shouting her name, asking everyone he passed if they had seen her. The fishermen shaking their heads, the baker's wife clutching her apron and looking frightened, the children staring at him with wide eyes as he tore past them. No one had seen her. No one had seen her since yesterday afternoon, when the guards had come to take her to the castle.
The caves. She had gone to the caves. He had known it with a certainty that settled into his bones like ice. She had gone back to the empty chamber, back to the cold stone and the ashes and the darkness, because she had nowhere else to go. Because he had failed her. Because his father had offered her silver to disappear, and she had refused it, and then she had disappeared anyway.
He had run to the eastern tunnels, his lungs burning, his legs screaming, the path that had become so familiar over the past weeks blurring beneath his feet. He had plunged into the darkness without a torch, his hands outstretched, his voice echoing off the walls as he called her name again and again and again. The chamber had been empty. Of course it had been empty. There was nothing there but cold stone and old ashes and the ghost of a girl who had loved a dragon that wasn't real.
He had searched anyway. He had searched every corner, every crevice, every shadowed hollow where she might have curled up to sleep. He had run his hands over the stone, looking for any sign that she had been there, a scrap of fabric, a strand of hair, anything. There was nothing. She had been there, he was sure of it, he could feel her presence lingering in the cold air like a memory, but she was gone now. She was gone, and he didn't know where.
That was when the panic had truly set in.
He had returned to the castle in a state of barely controlled desperation and had done something he had never done before. He had pulled rank. He had gathered every guard who wasn't on essential duty, every knight who owed his family fealty, every able-bodied servant who could be spared, and he had ordered them to search. His voice had been sharp and commanding, the voice of a prince who expected to be obeyed, and they had obeyed, scattering across the island in search parties, combing the cliffs and the beaches and the village and the caves.
That had been hours ago. Hours of waiting, of pacing, of sending runners back and forth with increasingly frantic messages. Hours of watching the sun climb higher and higher while his heart sank lower and lower. Hours of his father standing in the corner of the great hall, silent and grim, watching his son unravel with an expression that Valarr couldn't read and didn't care to.
The first reports came back negative. No sign of her in the village. No sign of her in the western caves. No sign of her on the northern cliffs. Each report was a blow, a stone dropped into the pit of his stomach, and he absorbed them all with a calm that felt like the eye of a storm, still and quiet on the surface while everything inside him was screaming.
And then Ser Raymund returned. Valarr saw him coming across the yard, his scarred face set in an expression that made Valarr's blood run cold before the man even opened his mouth. He was carrying something. A bundle of wool, stained and torn, clutched in his gauntleted hands like it was something precious and terrible all at once.
"We found this, my prince." Ser Raymund's voice was rough, carefully controlled. "On the rocks below the eastern cliffs. Near the entrance to the caves."
Valarr took the bundle. His hands were shaking, though he didn't remember them starting. The fabric was familiar, painfully familiar, the worn wool of her cloak, the one she always wore, the one she had been embroidering with flowers. The one with the bluebell she had stitched while he watched, her tongue poking out in concentration, her eyes escaping him when he told her she was cute. The fabric was torn, caught on something sharp, and there were dark stains on it that might have been mud or might have been something he couldn't let himself think about.
"The tide was coming in," Ser Raymund continued, and his voice was gentler now, the voice of a man who had delivered bad news before and hated it every time. "The rocks there are treacherous, my prince. If she fell in the dark..."
"No." Valarr's voice was flat. Empty. "No."
"We found no other sign of her, but the sea—"
"No." Louder this time, sharper. He clutched the cloak to his chest, his fingers digging into the worn wool. "She's not dead. She's not. She wouldn't—she promised me. She promised she wouldn't go back to the caves alone. She promised."
Ser Raymund said nothing. There was nothing to say. The evidence was in Valarr's hands, torn and stained, and the sea was vast and hungry and had never cared about promises.
"Search again." Valarr's voice was rising now, cracking at the edges. "Search the water. Search the cliffs. Search everywhere. She's out there somewhere, she has to be, she wouldn't just—she wouldn't leave me. She wouldn't."
"My prince—"
"That's an order!" He was shouting now, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the yard, and he didn't care. He didn't care that servants were stopping to stare, that guards were exchanging uncomfortable glances, that his father was watching from the doorway with an expression that was slowly hardening into something Valarr recognized. "Search the shoreline. Search the caves again. Search the—"
"That's enough."
His father's voice cut through his like a blade, sharp and cold and final. Baelor stepped out of the doorway, his face set in lines of grim authority, and behind him came four guards, their expressions carefully blank, their hands on their swords.
"Valarr." Baelor's voice was quieter now, but no less firm. "You need to come inside."
"No." Valarr backed away, still clutching the cloak. "No, I'm not leaving. I'm not stopping. She's out there, Father. She's out there somewhere, and I have to find her. I have to—"
"Ser Raymund." Baelor didn't look at the knight. His eyes were fixed on his son. "Take him inside."
The guards moved forward. Valarr saw them coming and something inside him snapped.
"Don't touch me!" He stumbled backward, his hand going to his sword, though he had no intention of drawing it, though he didn't even know what he was doing anymore. "Don't—I'm your prince, I order you to keep searching, I order you—"
The guards hesitated, looking to Baelor for guidance. Baelor's jaw tightened.
"Restrain him."
They moved as one, trained and efficient, and Valarr fought them. He fought them like a wild thing, kicking and twisting and shouting, the cloak still clutched in one hand, his sword still sheathed because even in his madness he couldn't bring himself to draw steel on his father's men. But there were four of them and one of him, and he was exhausted and grief-stricken and not thinking clearly, and they had him pinned and disarmed before he could do more than bruise his own pride.
"Let me go!" His voice cracked, raw and desperate. "Let me go, I have to find her, I have to—"
"Inside." Baelor's voice was iron. "Now."
They dragged him into the great hall, still struggling, still shouting, and the heavy doors slammed shut behind them with a sound like a tomb closing. The guards released him only when Baelor gave the signal, and Valarr stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of the long table, his chest heaving, his eyes wild.
The hall was empty except for the two of them. Baelor had dismissed everyone else, the guards, the servants, the knights who had been hovering in the corners waiting for orders. It was just father and son, standing in the cold grey light, with the torn cloak on the floor between them like an accusation.
"She's dead." Baelor's voice was quiet, but it carried in the empty hall. "You know she's dead. The cliffs, the tide, the dark—you know what happened. You just can't accept it."
"She's not dead." Valarr's voice was raw, scraped clean of everything but denial. "She's not. I would know. I would feel it. She's out there somewhere, and you're wasting time, you're keeping me here while she's—"
"While she's what?" Baelor's voice sharpened. "While she's drowned? While her body is washing out to sea? While there's nothing left to find but a torn cloak and a few strands of hair on the rocks?"
Valarr flinched like his father had struck him. "Don't. Don't say that."
"It's the truth." Baelor stepped closer, his face hard, his eyes blazing with a fire that Valarr had rarely seen. "It's the truth, and you need to hear it. She's gone, Valarr. She's gone, and you are still here, and you have duties and responsibilities and a future that doesn't disappear just because you're in pain."
"A future?" Valarr laughed, and it was an ugly sound, broken and bitter. "What future? The one where I marry a woman I don't love and sit on a throne I don't want and spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been? That future?"
"The future you were born to." Baelor's voice was rising now, matching his son's. "The future I have spent your entire life preparing you for. The future you would throw away for a girl you met in a fishing village, a girl who—"
"Don't." Valarr's voice was dangerous now, low and shaking. "Don't you dare speak of her like that. Don't you dare reduce her to nothing, to some village girl who didn't matter. She mattered. She mattered more than anything. More than the throne, more than the betrothal, more than you."
"You think I don't understand?" He stepped forward, his hands clenched at his sides. "You think I've never loved someone I couldn't have? You think I don't know what it is to want something so badly you can't breathe, and to know that you can never, ever have it?"
Valarr stared at him. "What are you talking about?"
Baelor's jaw tightened, and for a moment, just a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Something old and buried and painful. Then it was gone, smoothed away by years of discipline and duty.
"I'm talking about you," he said, and his voice was hard again. "I'm talking about my son, who is standing in the great hall of his ancestors, weeping over a dead girl and throwing away everything his family has built for two hundred years. I'm talking about the heir's heir, who would let a dynasty crumble because he can't control his own heart."
"You don't get to do that." Valarr's voice shook. "You don't get to make this about duty and dynasty and all the things you care about more than people. You did this. You sent her away. You offered her silver to disappear, and when she wouldn't take it, you let her walk out of this castle alone and heartbroken, and now she's gone. She's gone because of you."
Baelor recoiled. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Valarr stepped forward, his grief transmuting into something hotter, something that burned. "You told her about Kiera. You made her feel like she was nothing, like she was a problem to be solved with a pouch of silver. You took the one good thing I had, the one person who made me feel like I wasn't just a title and a duty and a future I never asked for, and you crushed her. You crushed her, and she ran, and now she's dead. So don't tell me about duty. Don't tell me about responsibility. You killed her. You killed her, and I will never forgive you."
Baelor's face went grey. For a long moment, he said nothing, just stood there with his son's words hanging between them like a blade. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, rough.
"You think I don't know what I did?" He looked away, toward the window, toward the grey sea and the grey sky. "You think I don't lie awake at night, wondering if I could have done something different? If I should have let you have her, let you be happy, let the dynasty and the alliances and everything else burn?"
He turned back to Valarr, and his eyes were bright, too bright.
"But I couldn't. I couldn't, because I am the heir to the Iron Throne, and you are my heir, and we do not have the luxury of following our hearts. We have duties. We have responsibilities. We have millions of people who depend on us to make the hard choices, the choices that keep the realm stable and the peace intact. That is what it means to be a prince. That is what it means to be a king. And if you can't accept that, if you can't put the realm before your own heart, then you are not fit to wear the crown."
"Good." Valarr's voice was flat. Empty. "Because I don't want it. I abdicate. I renounce my claim. Let Matarys have it. Let someone else carry the weight. I'm done."
Baelor stared at him. "You don't mean that."
"I mean every word." Valarr's hands were shaking, but his voice was steady. "I told you before, and I'll tell you again. I choose her. I choose her over the throne, over the betrothal, over everything. And if she's dead—" His voice cracked, but he forced himself to continue. "If she's dead, then none of it matters anyway. I won't be king. I won't marry Kiera. I won't do any of it. I'll go back to the village and I'll help Marta with her goats and I'll spend the rest of my life mourning the only person who ever made me feel alive."
The silence that followed was absolute. Baelor stood motionless, his face a mask of conflicting emotions, grief and anger and something that might have been despair. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.
"You would really do that. You would really throw away everything, for a dead girl."
"She's not dead." The words came out fierce, defiant, even though Valarr could feel the doubt creeping in at the edges. "She's not. I would know. I would feel it. She's out there somewhere, and I'm going to find her."
"Valarr—"
"I'm going to find her," he repeated, and his voice broke on her name. "I'm going to find her, and I'm going to marry her, and I don't care what I have to give up to do it. I don't care about the throne or the betrothal or anything else. I only care about her. I only ever cared about her."
Baelor was quiet for a long, long moment. His face was pale, his shoulders slumped, and he looked older than Valarr had ever seen him. Older and tireder and utterly, completely defeated.
"If she's alive," Baelor said slowly, each word dragged out of him like a confession, "and if you find her... then you can marry her."
Valarr's breath caught. "What?"
"I said you can marry her." Baelor's voice was heavy, exhausted. "If she's alive. If you find her. If she'll still have you after everything that's happened. Then I will break the betrothal to Kiera. I will accept the political consequences. I will let you marry your village girl, and I will figure out the succession later." He met his son's eyes, and there was something in them that might have been grief or might have been love or might have been both. "Is that what you want? Is that enough? Will you revoke your abdication if I give you this?"
Valarr stared at his father. His heart was pounding, hope and fear and disbelief warring in his chest. "You mean it. You actually mean it."
"I mean it." Baelor's voice was bitter, but sincere. "I have lost enough today. I will not lose my son as well. If this is what it takes to keep you, to bring you back from whatever edge you're standing on, then yes. I mean it. Find her. Marry her. And come home."
Valarr's knees buckled. He caught himself on the table, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his eyes burning with tears he refused to shed. She was out there. She had to be out there. And now, if he found her, he could have her. Really have her. Not in secret, not in shame, but openly, legally, with his father's blessing.
"I'll find her," he said, and his voice was raw but determined. "I'll find her, Father. I swear it. I'll find her and I'll bring her home and I'll marry her, and I'll never let anyone hurt her again."
Baelor nodded slowly, his face old and tired and full of something that might have been regret."If she's gone... if she's really gone... you have to accept it. You have to come back. You have to live. Do you understand me?"
Valarr looked at his father, at the fear and love and exhaustion in his eyes, and he nodded slowly.
"I understand," he said. "But she's not gone. I would know. I would feel it. She's out there somewhere. And I'm going to find her."
—
You woke to the sound of waves. A hushed, rhythmic conversation between water and sand, each retreat leaving behind a brief, shimmering silence before the next whisper rolled in. The sun pressed warm against your closed eyelids, filtering gold and green through the broad, unfamiliar leaves of the trees that fringed your little beach, and for one long, suspended moment, you drifted in the space between sleeping and waking, untethered from place and time and identity.
Then you felt the warmth against your back. The vast, slow rise and fall of something enormous breathing behind you. The particular weight of a tail draped possessively across your hip. And it all came rushing back, you were still here. You were still on the island. You were still with your dragon.
The relief that moved through you was so profound it was almost indistinguishable from grief. You turned your head slowly, careful not to disturb her, and found Moonfyre's great golden eye already open, already watching you. The pupil contracted slightly in the morning light, a vertical slit of darkness in a sea of molten gold, and the expression in that eye—a creature who could bite a horse in half, who could reduce a village to ash and ember with a single exhalation—was impossibly, devastatingly fond.
Her scales shimmered where the sun caught them, pale white shot through with that amethyst undertone you had adored since the moment she first pushed her way into your world. Her wing remained curved over you like a canopy, sheltering you from the salt breeze that rustled through the strange broad-leafed trees, and beneath you, the sand had molded itself to the shape of your bodies, warm and yielding.
"Good morning," you whispered, your voice scraping out of you like something unused to being heard.
Moonfyre made a sound in response, her snout descended, massive and lethal and capable of incinerating anything it pointed at, and nudged against your cheek with a gentleness so precise it stole the breath from your lungs. It was the gesture of a creature who had learned, somehow, that you were breakable. That you required a different kind of care than her own armored, fireproof self.
Your eyes stung. You blinked hard, once, twice, and reached up to scratch behind the ridge of her eye, the spot you had discovered she loved. Her purr deepened immediately into something that was almost a groan of pleasure, her eye sliding half-closed, her wing tightening around you to draw you more firmly against the great warm wall of her side. The sheer domesticity of it made something in your chest crack open and bloom.
"You're ridiculous," you told her, though there was no edge to it, no sting. "You're a terror of the skies. A legend made flesh. Entire armies would flee at the sight of you." Your voice caught, just slightly. "And all you want is cuddles."
Moonfyre opened her eye again, fixed you with a look that communicated with perfect, crystalline clarity: And what of it? Then she closed it once more and settled more heavily against the sand, radiating the unmistakable intention of a creature who had no plans to move anytime soon. You found that you didn't either. The sand was soft and warm beneath you, the dragon was soft and warm beside you, and the world was very far away.
But your stomach had no patience for transcendent moments.
It growled, loud and insistent and deeply unromantic, dragging you back into your body with all its inconvenient, mortal needs. The goat. You sat up, dislodging Moonfyre's wing with an apologetic pat to her scales, and scanned the beach until you spotted the remains of your meal from the night before. It lay a little distance down the shore, looking considerably less miraculous in the unforgiving light of morning. The meat was cold now, the fat congealed into waxy white rivulets, and a constellation of flies had gathered around the blackened edges, their droning a thin, irritable counterpoint to the whisper of the waves.
You approached it with the particular reluctance of someone who had been spoiled by a dragon's freshly fire-roasted offering. Moonfyre made a soft, interrogative sound as you crouched beside the carcass, and you looked back at her with a grimace that you could feel all the way to your eyebrows.
"I don't suppose," you said, hating how plaintive your voice sounded, "you could warm it up? Just a little? A very small, very contained breath of fire?"
She blinked at you with the slow, deliberate patience of a creature who had already gone significantly out of her way to provide you with cooked food and was now being asked to reheat leftovers. There was judgment in those golden eyes. You were certain of it. You want me, the winged death, the scourge of the skies, to breathe fire on your breakfast because you're too refined for cold goat?
"I'm not too refined," you protested, though you absolutely, undeniably were. "I've eaten cold meat before. Plenty of times. In various circumstances. It's simply a matter of preference."
Moonfyre snorted, a delicate plume of smoke escaping her nostrils and dissipating on the morning breeze, and you interpreted that as a definitive no.
Fine. Cold goat it was. You tore off a piece that looked the least compromised by its overnight exposure to the elements and ate it quickly, mechanically, trying not to dwell on the texture. The meat was still good beneath the chill but it was a shadow of last night's feast. Nothing could replicate that meal, eaten in a state of such profound exhaustion and wonder that it had transcended mere sustenance. You had been starving and overwhelmed and trembling with the sheer impossibility of a dragon bringing you a cooked offering, and hunger, you were learning, was the most powerful spice in the world.
When you had eaten enough to quiet your stomach's complaints, you walked down to the water's edge to wash your hands and face. The sea here was breathtakingly clear, the color of pale turquoise glass, and you could see straight down through the water to the sandy bottom, where small silver fish wove between the rocks in darting, synchronized patterns. You knelt at the edge of the surf, cupping the water in your hands and splashing it onto your face. The salt stung your sunburned cheeks, sharp and bracing, startling you fully into wakefulness.
When you looked down at your reflection in the still surface of a tidal pool, you barely recognized the face that stared back.
Your hair was a wild with salt and sand, knotted into shapes that would take hours of patient work to untangle. Your lips were chapped. There was a smear of ash across your forehead.
But your eyes were different. Brighter than they had been in weeks, in months, in maybe your whole life. There was a light in them that you had almost forgotten existed, a wild and blazing thing that had been buried under months of whispers and pitying looks and the slow, grinding erosion of being told, over and over, that the thing you knew to be true was nothing but a delusion. You were not crazy, and you had never been more certain of anything in your existence.
When you turned back toward the beach, Moonfyre was standing. She had risen while you were at the water's edge, her great body unfurling from the sand with the liquid grace of something that belonged equally to earth and sky. Her wings were stretched wide, the pale membrane catching the morning light and glowing faintly at the edges, and her golden eyes were fixed on the vast blue expanse above. She looked at you, then at the ridge of her back, then at you again.
The message required no translation. Get on. We're flying.
"Okay," you said, and you were proud of how steady your voice emerged. "Okay. Let's fly."
Climbing onto her back was easier this time, still not graceful, but easier. Your body had begun to learn the geography of her: where to place your hands, how to find purchase on the ridges of her spine, the precise angle at which to settle your weight between her shoulders so that you wouldn't slide. Moonfyre held herself perfectly still while you arranged yourself, a mountain of patience and warm scales, and when you finally gripped the ridge before you and pressed your knees against her sides, she made a low, questioning sound.
Ready?
"Ready," you said, and the world fell away.
The first seconds were still terrifying. There was no circumventing that particular truth. The ground dropped out from beneath you with a violence that defied the smoothness of Moonfyre's motion, and your stomach stayed behind on the sand for a long, lurching moment before catching up. The wind hit your face like a physical blow, flattening your hair back, tearing tears from the corners of your eyes. Your hands clenched white-knuckled on her scales, your thighs clamped against her back, and for a heartbeat you were nothing but a collection of desperate, clinging instincts.
Then Moonfyre leveled out, her wings catching the currents, her body found its rhythm and you discovered that you could lift your head from where you had pressed it against her spine. You could open your eyes, which you hadn't realized you'd squeezed shut. You could look.
Oh.
You could see the waterfall you had spotted from the air during your desperate flight, a silver ribbon that cascaded down the black volcanic face of the island's central peak and disappeared into a mist of rainbows before emerging again as a river that wound its way to the sea. Beyond it, a hidden valley cupped between two ridges, filled with flowering trees that looked from this height like clouds of pink and white drifting just above the ground. The northern shore gave way to cliffs, black and sheer, against which the sea threw itself in explosions of white foam that you could hear even from this distance, a distant, rhythmic thunder.
The sky was so vast it seemed to have no edges. You felt, suddenly and vertiginously, that you could tip forward and fall into it and never, ever stop falling.
You laughed. The sound was torn from your mouth and flung away by the wind before you could hear it, but you felt it in your chest, bright and wild and ferocious, a joy so sharp it was almost indistinguishable from pain. You were flying. You were actually, truly flying. On a dragon. Over the sea. And the world, which had been so small and cruel and suffocating for so long, had opened up into this, this infinity of light and wind and motion, this impossible gift.
Hours passed. Or perhaps minutes. Time behaved strangely in the sky, stretching and compressing in ways that had nothing to do with the movement of the sun and everything to do with the rhythm of wings. You flew until your thighs ached from gripping, until your hands cramped from holding, until your face was windburned raw and your hair was a disaster beyond all hope of redemption. And you loved every single second of it. You loved the wildness of it, the impossibility, the way the world looked from above—small and beautiful and full of mysteries waiting to be uncovered.
When Moonfyre finally began her descent back toward the beach, spiraling down in wide, lazy circles that made your stomach swoop with each rotation, you felt a pang of genuine loss. You didn't want to land. You wanted to stay up here forever, suspended between sea and sky, a creature of the air with no past and no future and nothing but the endless blue.
But your body had other ideas. Just like last time when you slid off her back onto the familiar pale sand, your legs buckled immediately. They felt like water, like seaweed, like something that had forgotten entirely how to perform the basic function of holding you upright. You stumbled forward, caught yourself on your hands, and then before you could think better of it, you pushed yourself back up and threw your arms around her neck, pressing your windburned face into her warm scales.
"That," you breathed, "was the most incredible thing I have ever experienced. You are the most incredible dragon in the history of dragons. You are magnificent. You are perfect. You are—"
Moonfyre rumbled, a deep and deeply satisfied sound, and her tail came around to curl against your back in that familiar, grounding embrace. She was warm and solid beneath your cheek, her scales smooth as polished stone, and you held onto her as if you might never let go. As if you could, through sheer force of grip, anchor yourself permanently to this moment, this improbable, impossible life.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of discovery, each hour revealing some new wonder of your strange, uncharted home.
You found the fruit trees you had seen from the air, following a narrow deer trail through the forest until you emerged into a grove so beautiful it stopped you in your tracks. The trees were tall and silver-barked, their broad leaves forming a canopy that dappled the sunlight into coins of gold, and from their branches hung hundreds of the luminous fruit you had spotted from above. You plucked one carefully, turning it in your hands—it was roughly the size of your fist, its skin smooth and slightly warm to the touch, glowing from within like a paper lantern—and when you bit into it, the taste was so extraordinary that you actually laughed out loud. Sweet and bright and complicated, honey and sunshine and something floral you couldn't name, the flesh yielding and juicy against your tongue.
Moonfyre, who had followed you into the grove with the patient, slightly exasperated air of an adult humoring a child's treasure hunt, sniffed at the fruit when you offered it. Her nostrils flared. She drew her head back and fixed you with a look of polite but absolute disgust.
You're eating that? Voluntarily?
"It's delicious," you told her, taking another bite to prove your point. Juice ran down your chin. "You don't know what you're missing."
She snorted, a dismissive puff of smoke, and turned away to investigate something more interesting at the edge of the grove. Probably a goat.
You found a stream, the same water that fed the waterfall, running clear and cold over a bed of smooth black stones. You knelt beside it and drank straight from the source, the water so pure and cold it made your teeth ache in the best possible way. You washed the salt and sand from your hair as best you could, working your fingers through the worst of the tangles, and the sensation of being clean, even just marginally cleaner than before, was so exquisite that you almost cried.
You found a cave set into the base of the cliffs on the eastern shore, not deep and dark like the ones on Dragonstone but shallow and warm, its sandy floor soft beneath your bare feet and its walls glittering with veins of something that might have been gold. It would make a good shelter if the weather turned, you thought. A good place to store things, to build something like a home. The thought startled you—home, you were thinking about home, about staying here, about building something permanent on this island that had appeared in your path like a miracle—but it didn't frighten you the way it should have. It felt, instead, like the most natural thing in the world.
As the sun began its slow descent toward the western horizon, painting the sky in watercolor washes of coral and amber and bruised violet, you made your way back to the beach. Moonfyre had disappeared a while earlier, launching herself toward the sea with a purposeful drive of her wings, and you knew without question that she would return with another offering. She was your hunter now, your provider, your fierce and improbable caretaker.
You settled onto the sand, your back against a smooth piece of driftwood, and watched the sun sink toward the edge of the world. The sky was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at, every shade of fire and rose and deepening indigo bleeding into the endless blue of the sea. And for the first time since you had arrived on this island, for the first time since you had fled Dragonstone in the darkness with tears streaming down your face and your heart shattering in your chest, you let yourself think about what you had left behind.
About Marta.
The guilt came immediately, heavy and cold, settling into your stomach like a stone swallowed by accident. Marta would be worried by now. No, more than worried. She would be frantic, pacing the cramped confines of your little cottage with her knotted hands twisting in her apron, her sharp old eyes scanning the path that wound down from the hills. She had raised you from infancy. She had fed you and clothed you and held you through nightmares and defended you against the whispers of the village children. She had loved you with a fierce, uncomplicated love that asked for nothing in return, and you had repaid her by vanishing into the night without a word of explanation.
You should go back. You knew you should go back. Not forever but at least for long enough to tell Marta you were alive. To explain, as best you could, what had happened. To say a proper goodbye, if that was what needed to happen. She deserved better than that life, you would take her with you if she agreed.
And Valarr. Your hand moved to the pendant at your throat without your conscious permission, your fingers finding the familiar shape of it. You hadn't taken it off. You had thought about it, in the dark hours before sleep, but you hadn't been able to bring yourself to unclasp it. Even now, even after everything, it still felt like a piece of you. Like a promise you hadn't quite broken yet.
Valarr, who had kissed you in the meadow with the sunset gilding his dark hair and a tenderness in his hands that had made you feel, for the first time in your life, like something precious. Valarr, who had held you in the suffocating dark and whispered that you weren't alone, that you weren't crazy, that he believed you. Valarr, who had kept the truth of his betrothal from you—the castle, the duty, the woman who was not you—because he was afraid of losing you, and in doing so had lost you anyway.
Valarr, who had looked at you at the end with pity in his eyes.
That was the part that stayed with you, sharp as a splinter that had worked its way too deep to remove. Not the betrothal. Not even the lie. But that loo, the same look everyone else had ever given you. Poor girl. Poor sad, mad girl, inventing dragons because she has nothing else.
You weren't ready to think about Valarr. You weren't ready to untangle that knot of love and fury and hurt and longing. The wound was still too fresh, still weeping beneath the careful bandage of distance and distraction.
So you pushed the thoughts away and focused on the sunset instead. The sky had deepened to violet, the first stars beginning to emerge in the east, and on the horizon, a dark shape was growing larger by the moment. Moonfyre, returning.
She landed beside you with her usual heavy grace, the sand shivering beneath the impact, and deposited her offering at your feet. Another goat or something goat-adjacent, some local variant with slightly longer ears and a sleeker coat, already cooked. And this time, you noticed, the cooking was more even. The meat was tender rather than charred, the skin crisped to a perfect golden brown rather than blackened to ash. She was learning, refining her technique, figuring out exactly how much fire was required to produce a meal that wouldn't make you grimace. A dragon, perfecting her culinary abilities for your sake.
The thought did something complicated to your heart. You ate until you were full and curled up against Moonfyre's warm side. Her wing came down around you like a canopy, blocking the cool night breeze, and her tail curled around your waist with that particular, possessive tenderness you had come to recognize as affection.
"Goodnight," you whispered, your cheek pressed to the smooth warmth of her scales. "Thank you. For today. For everything."
She rumbled, the sound resonating through her body and into yours, deep and content and full of something that might have been love. And you closed your eyes and let the steady rhythm of her breathing carry you down into sleep, into dreams that were not dark and not empty but filled with the wild, impossible joy of flight.
—
The dream started gently, the way the best dreams do, the ones that feel like memories because they are.
You were a child again, small and skinny and perpetually scraped-kneed, with that wild tangle of hair that Marta was always threatening to cut if you didn't sit still long enough for her to braid it properly. You could feel the sun on your face, warm and golden, the kind of sun that only existed in childhood memories, before you learned that the world was mostly grey and cold and full of things that could hurt you. The grass beneath your bare feet was soft and cool, tickling your toes, and the air smelled of wild onions and sea salt and the faint, familiar scent of Marta's herb garden drifting up from the cottage below.
You were in the meadow beneath the Dragon's Tooth, the one where the ghost-flowers grew thickest in the shadows of the rocks, their pale petals glowing faintly even in the daylight. You had spent so many hours here as a child, chasing butterflies and collecting flowers for Marta's tinctures and lying on your back in the grass, staring up at the grey sky and dreaming of places you would never see. It was your secret kingdom, this meadow, the one place in the world that felt like it belonged to you and you alone.
And Marta was there. Of course she was. She was always there, in your memories, a constant presence like the sea or the sky or the beating of your own heart. She sat on a flat rock near the edge of the meadow, her gnarled hands busy with a basket of herbs, her sharp old eyes watching you with that familiar mixture of fondness and exasperation that you had seen a thousand times. She was younger in this memory, her hair more brown than grey, the lines on her face less deeply carved, but she was still Marta, still your Marta, the only mother you had ever known.
"Don't go too far," she called, and her voice carried across the meadow, rough and warm and full of a love she had never quite learned to put into words. "And don't touch the ghost-flowers. They'll give you a rash that'll itch for a week, and I'm not wasting my good salve on foolishness."
"I know, Marta," you called back, and your voice was high and bright, a child's voice, untouched by grief or doubt or the weight of knowing that the world was not as kind as you wanted it to be. You were chasing butterflies, their wings flashing blue and gold in the sunlight, and you were happy. So completely, uncomplicatedly happy. The kind of happy that only exists when you're young enough to believe that happiness is something that can last.
The butterflies led you in dizzying circles around the meadow, their wings catching the light and scattering it like jewels. You ran after them with your arms outstretched, your laughter ringing out across the hillside, and every time you got close enough to touch one, it would flutter just out of reach, leading you farther and farther from where Marta sat with her basket of herbs. You didn't notice how far you had wandered. You didn't notice how the light had begun to change, the warm gold fading to something cooler, greyer.
And then the crow attacked. It came from nowhere and everywhere at once, a blur of black feathers and sharp claws and furious, cawing rage. One moment you were reaching for a butterfly, your fingers outstretched, your face bright with wonder, and the next moment the world was nothing but darkness and pain. The crow's claws raked across your cheek, sharp and hot, and you screamed a high, thin sound that was more surprise than pain, at first. You stumbled backward, your hands flying up to protect your face, but the crow was relentless, diving at you again and again, its beak jabbing at your fingers, its wings beating against your head.
"Stop!" you cried, your voice breaking. "Stop it, please, stop—"
Your foot caught on something, a stone or a root or just the uneven ground, and you felt yourself falling. The world tilted, the grey sky and the green grass and the black crow all blurring together into a smear of color and motion. You reached out, trying to catch yourself, but there was nothing to grab onto, nothing but empty air and the sickening sensation of the ground disappearing beneath you.
You fell.
And fell.
And kept falling.
The meadow was gone. Marta was gone. The crow was gone. There was only darkness, cold and absolute, pressing in on you from all sides. You couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything but the rush of wind past your ears and the pounding of your own heart. You tried to scream, but the darkness swallowed the sound, swallowed everything, left you alone and terrified and falling through nothing.
Time stretched and warped. You didn't know how long you fell. It could have been seconds or hours or years. There was only the darkness and the wind and the terrible, gut-wrenching certainty that you would never stop falling, that this was all there was now, an endless descent into nothing.
And then you hit the ground.
The impact drove the breath from your lungs, sent shockwaves of pain through your entire body. But it wasn't ground, not really. It was stone, cold and smooth and unforgiving, the kind of stone that had been worn down by centuries of footsteps. You lay there for what felt like a very long time, gasping, trying to remember how to breathe, your cheek pressed against the cold floor, your fingers splayed out against the smooth surface. The stone was real. Solid. You could feel it beneath you, grounding you, anchoring you to something after the endless, terrifying fall.
Slowly, painfully, you pushed yourself up. You were in a corridor. A long, narrow corridor lined with doors on either side, all of them closed, all of them identical. The walls were grey stone, ancient and imposing, and the only light came from torches set in iron brackets along the walls, their flames flickering and casting dancing shadows that seemed to move and shift when you weren't looking directly at them. The air was heavy, stifling, thick with the smell of smoke and something else, something sharp and medicinal that caught in the back of your throat and made your eyes water.
You didn't recognize this place. But you were here. And you couldn't leave. You stood slowly, your legs shaking, your arms wrapped around yourself. The corridor stretched out before you in both directions, identical and endless, and you had no idea which way to go. The doors on either side were all the same, dark wood banded with iron, their handles gleaming dully in the torchlight. You could try one, you thought. You could open one of the doors and see what was behind it. But the thought filled you with a cold, creeping dread that you couldn't explain. You didn't want to know what was behind those doors. You didn't want to be here at all. And then you heard it.
Coughing.
It was faint at first, so faint you thought you might be imagining it. Just a sound at the very edge of hearing, a wet, hacking sound that made your stomach clench. You held your breath, listening, and the sound came again, louder this time, closer. It was coming from somewhere down the corridor, from behind one of the closed doors, and it was a terrible sound, the kind of cough that came from deep in the chest, from lungs that were drowning in something they couldn't clear.
You started walking toward it. You didn't want to. Every instinct you had was screaming at you to turn around, to run in the opposite direction, to get away from that sound and whatever was making it. But your feet moved anyway, carrying you down the corridor, past door after door after door. The coughing grew louder with every step, more desperate, more agonizing. Between the coughing fits, you could hear someone gasping for breath, could hear a thin, high sound that might have been a whimper of pain or might have been a word you couldn't quite make out.
The sound was familiar. That was the worst part. You had never heard this person before, you were sure of it, and yet the cough, the gasp, the whimper, they all felt like something you knew. Like a name that was sitting on the tip of your tongue, refusing to be spoken.
The corridor seemed to stretch on forever, the doors blurring past you, the coughing growing louder and more desperate with every step. The smoke was thicker here, stinging your eyes, making it hard to breathe. You could feel the heat now, radiating from somewhere ahead, and the smell of burning wood and cloth and something else, something that smelled like meat left too long over a fire. Your eyes were streaming, your throat was raw, but you kept walking. You couldn't stop and you reached the door.
It was larger than the others, made of dark wood that gleamed with age and polish, banded with iron that had been worked into intricate patterns, dragons, you realized, their bodies coiling and twisting around each other in an endless dance. The door loomed over you, imposing and important, the coughing was coming from inside. Loud and wet and agonizing, each spasm followed by a desperate, gasping breath. You could hear the person choking on something they couldn't get out, could hear the way their breath rattled in their chest, wet and wrong. They were dying. You didn't know how you knew, but you knew. Whoever was behind this door was dying, and they were dying alone.
You reached for the handle. The iron was hot against your palm, almost burning, but you gripped it anyway, your fingers wrapping around the metal, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. The coughing continued, worse now, mixed with a sound that was almost a scream, a high, thin wail of pain that made your blood run cold. You pulled.
The door swung open and you fell.
The corridor disappeared. The coughing disappeared. The smoke and the heat and the door and the dragons carved into the iron—all of it vanished, swallowed by the same endless darkness that had claimed you before. You were falling again and you hit the ground hard.
But this time, when you looked up, you were somewhere else entirely. Somewhere you recognized, even though you had never been there before.
The throne room. It was vast, cavernous, so huge that the ceiling was lost in shadows, so huge that your footsteps would echo for seconds after you took them. The walls were stone, grey and ancient, and the light came from high windows, tall and arched, their glass stained in shades of red and gold and deep, royal purple.
And in the center of the room, rising like a mountain of blades, was the Iron Throne. You had heard stories about it all your life. Everyone had. The thousand swords of Aegon's enemies, melted and forged into a seat of power, a monument to conquest and fire and blood. But the stories hadn't prepared you for the reality of it. It was huge, impossibly huge, a jagged, twisted mass of metal that seemed to reach toward the ceiling like a grasping hand. The swords caught the light from the windows and glittered like frozen fire, their edges still sharp after three hundred years, their points aimed outward like a warning. It was beautiful. It was terrible. It was the most frightening thing you had ever seen.
And there was someone sitting on it, a woman.
You couldn't see her face. The light from the windows was behind her, casting her in silhouette, turning her into a shape of shadow and light. She sat tall and straight, her hands resting on the arms of the throne, her posture radiating a quiet, absolute authority. She wore a crown, you thought, or maybe it was just the way the light caught her hair, turning it into a halo of silver and gold. She was looking at you. You couldn't see her eyes, but you could feel her gaze, heavy and assessing, pressing down on you like a physical weight.
You wanted to speak. You wanted to ask who she was, what this place was, why you were here. You opened your mouth, but before you could form the words, a sound filled the throne room that drove every thought from your head.
You got to your feet slowly, your eyes fixed on the woman, and you started walking toward the throne. You had to get closer. You had to see her properly. The throne room seemed to stretch on forever, the windows always just out of reach, and then you looked down, and there were dragons at your feet.
You stopped so suddenly you nearly fell. They were everywhere, swarming around your ankles, tiny and perfect and impossibly alive. Five of them, no bigger than kittens, their scales every color you could imagine, red like rubies, gold like sunlight, green like the forest in spring, blue like the deep sea, silver like your the moon. They chirped and squeaked, their little wings fluttering, their tiny claws scratching at your legs as they tried to climb up. They wanted your attention. All of them, at once, demanding to be seen, to be held, to be loved.
You didn't know what to do. You stood frozen, staring down at them, your heart pounding, your mind blank. They were so small. So fragile. So utterly dependent on you, even though you had no idea who they were or where they had come from or why they were here. One of them, the silver one, managed to scramble up your leg and into the palm of your hand, its tiny claws pricking your skin, its warm little body curling against your fingers. It looked up at you with eyes that were gold and green and ancient and new all at once, and your heart cracked open.
"Where did you come from?" you whispered, but the words came out strange, echoing, like you were speaking from very far away.
The baby dragon chirped and nuzzled against your thumb, and you felt tears prick at your eyes. You didn't understand. You didn't understand any of this. The throne room, the woman on the Iron Throne, the dragons in the sky, these tiny creatures at your feet, none of it made sense. But it felt important. It felt like a message you were supposed to understand, a glimpse of something that was waiting for you, somewhere in the future, if you could only find your way to it.
You tried to step around the baby dragons, tried to keep walking toward the throne, toward the woman, but they were everywhere, underfoot, demanding, and you stumbled, your foot catching on one of them—the red one, its scales bright as blood—and you fell.
You were drowning. The water closed over your head, cold and dark and absolute. It filled your mouth, your nose, your lungs, choking you, stealing the breath from your body before you could even think to hold it. You thrashed, your arms flailing, your legs kicking, but there was nothing to grab onto, nothing but water and darkness and the terrible, crushing weight of the deep pressing down on you from all sides. You couldn't see. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. There was only the water and the cold and the slow, creeping certainty that this was it, this was how you died, alone and afraid and so very far from everything you had ever loved.
And then a hand closed around your arm and pulled.
You broke the surface gasping, choking, water streaming from your mouth and nose, your lungs burning as they filled with air. The hand was still there, gripping your arm, strong and sure and unyielding, pulling you toward the shore. You were too weak to fight, too weak to do anything but let yourself be dragged through the water, your body limp and shivering and utterly spent.
When you reached the shallows, you collapsed onto the muddy bank, your cheek pressed against the wet earth, your chest heaving as you tried to remember how to breathe. The hand released your arm, and you heard a voice, rough and familiar, cutting through the roaring in your ears.
You were small again. A child. Your arms were thin and your legs were short and you were shivering so hard your teeth chattered. You remembered this. You remembered the cold of the river, the terror of the current pulling you under, the way Marta's voice had cut through the roaring in your ears and given you something to hold onto. You had been ten years old, chasing butterflies along the riverbank, not watching where you were going. The bank had given way beneath your feet, and you had fallen in, and the current had grabbed you and pulled you under before you could even scream.
Marta had saved you. She had waded into the water without hesitation, her old body moving faster than you had ever seen it move, and she had grabbed you and pulled you out and carried you home. She had wrapped you in every blanket she owned and made you drink hot tea with honey and sat beside you all night, her hand on your forehead, her voice a constant, soothing murmur in the darkness.
"I'm sorry," you tried to say, but the words came out wrong, garbled and weak, lost in the chattering of your teeth. "I'm sorry, Marta. I'm sorry."
She couldn't hear you. This was a memory, just a memory, and you were watching it from outside yourself, standing on the riverbank as Marta gathered your small, shivering body into her arms and carried you up the path toward the cottage. You followed behind her, your feet making no sound on the muddy ground, your voice echoing in the dream-space.
"I'm sorry I left," you whispered, and the words felt heavy, important, like something you had been needing to say for a very long time. "I'm sorry I disappeared without telling you. I'm sorry I made you worry. I didn't mean to. I never meant to hurt you. You're the only mother I've ever known, and I left you without a word, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Marta reached the cottage and pushed open the door with her shoulder, carrying your small, dripping body inside. You followed her across the threshold, and then you weren't in the cottage anymore.
You were in a different room. It was darker than Marta's cottage, colder, the walls made of grey stone instead of worn wood. There was a single window, high up, letting in a thin, grey light that did little to illuminate the space. The air smelled of dust and old stone and something else, something faint and familiar that you couldn't quite name. You were standing behind a door, not the door to Marta's cottage but a different door, heavy and wooden and slightly ajar. Through the gap, you could see a man.
He was taller then you, with long pale hair that fell straight and smooth past his shoulders. It was beautiful hair. He was facing away from you, his features hidden in shadow, and no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you strained your eyes, you couldn't make out his face. It was like trying to see through fog, like trying to remember a dream that was already fading upon waking.
He was holding something in his arms. A bundle of cloth, pale and soft, that he cradled against his chest with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his imposing presence. He held it like it was preciou. A blanket. And in the blanket, a child.
A baby. Small and new, with a wisp of hair on its tiny head, so fine it was almost invisible. The man was looking down at it, and even though you couldn't see his face, you could feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of it, the way he was drinking in every detail of that tiny face like he was trying to memorize it forever.
"I did not expect this," he said, and his voice was low and rough, rougher than you had expected, touched with something that might have been wonder or might have been grief or might have been both. He spoke slowly, carefully, like each word cost him something. "Three moons. I have only had her for three moons. And already..."
He stopped. His hand came up, large and strong, and touched the baby's cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. The baby stirred, made a small sound, and he went very still, waiting until she settled again before he continued.
"Already she has carved herself into my heart," he said quietly. "I did not think... I did not know it was possible to love something so quickly. So completely. She is nothing. She is a scrap of a thing, barely larger than my two hands together, and yet she has undone me. She has remade me. She has become the center of everything, and I do not know how to let her go."
A woman's voice answered him, soft and warm, coming from somewhere you couldn't see. "Then keep her. Your plans will still work. She doesn't have to change anything. You can find another way."
He shook his head slowly, his hair swaying with the motion. "I cannot. You know I cannot. The life I lead, the things I must do... she would not be safe with me. She would be a target, a weakness, a thing that could be used against me. And I cannot afford weakness. Not now. Not with what is coming."
"She deserves to be loved," the woman said, and there was something in her voice, a gentle reproach, a sadness that spoke of long familiarity with this argument. "And you love her. I can see it. Anyone can see it. You hold her like she is the most precious thing in the world."
"Because she is." His voice cracked on the words. "and that is precisely why I cannot keep her. If I let myself love her, if I let myself become the father she deserves... I will become weak. I will change. I will hesitate when I should act, falter when I should be strong. I will put her before everything else, before duty and honor and the fate of the realm itself. And I cannot afford to do that. Not now. Not with everything that hangs in the balance."
He was quiet for a moment, still looking down at the baby, his thumb tracing slow circles on her tiny cheek. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.
"She has a greater destiny than I can give her. I have dreamed it. She will be something I cannot be, something I was never meant to be. And I... I am not meant to be part of it. I am meant to set her on the path and then step aside. That is my role. That is all I am meant to be. The one who lets her go so she can become what she was born to become."
The woman was silent for a long moment. Then she said, very softly, "You will regret this. For the rest of your life, you will regret this."
"I know." His voice was heavy with grief, with a sorrow so deep it seemed to fill the whole room.
You wanted to push the door open. You wanted to see his face, to understand who he was, why he felt so familiar, why the sight of him holding that baby made your chest ache with a longing you couldn't name. You reached for the door, your hand outstretched, your fingers brushing against the rough wood. If you could just open it, just a little more, just enough to see—
A hand closed around your arm and pulled you back and then you woke.
The beach was quiet. The stars were still overhead, scattered across the sky like seeds of light, and the moon hung low and silver over the water, casting a pale glow across the sand. Moonfyre was still curled around you, her wing sheltering you, her warmth seeping into your bones, her breathing slow and steady and deep. The pendant was warm against your chest, the two dragons and their ruby heart, and your cheeks were wet. You had been crying in your sleep.
You lay there for a long moment, staring up at the stars, your heart pounding, the fragments of the dream still clinging to you like cobwebs. The corridor, the coughing, the woman on the Iron Throne. The dragons in the sky, Moonfyre and the blue one and the five tiny ones at your feet. The river, Marta's hands pulling you out, her voice cutting through the water. The man with the silver hair and the baby in his arms, the baby he loved but couldn't keep.
She has a greater destiny. I am meant to set her on the path and then step aside.
You pressed your hand to your chest, over your heart, and felt the pendant warm against your palm. You didn't know if the dream was real. You didn't know if it was a vision, a memory, or just the random firing of a sleeping mind. But it felt real. It felt true. It felt like a piece of a puzzle you had been trying to solve your whole life, clicking into place.
And Marta. Marta, who had pulled you from the river and carried you home and raised you with nothing but her own two hands and her endless, stubborn love. Marta, who was probably worried sick right now, pacing the cottage, wondering if you were dead or alive. Marta, who had given you everything when she had nothing to give.
You had to go back.
The thought crystallized in your mind, clear and certain. You had to go back to Dragonstone. Not forever, maybe. Not to stay. But to see Marta. To let her know you were alive. To thank her for everything she had given you, and to tell her that you loved her, that you would always love her, that she was the only mother you had ever known. And maybe, just maybe, to find out if there was anything left of the life you had left behind.
You looked up at Moonfyre. She blinked at you slowly, and you could see the stars reflected in her eyes, tiny points of light in all that gold.
"We have to go back," you whispered. "Just for a little while. Just to say goodbye. And then... then we can come back here. Or go somewhere else. Anywhere. Everywhere. Just you and me."
Moonfyre made a sound, a low, rumbling purr that vibrated through your bones. Her wing tightened around you, pulling you closer, and you knew that she understood. She would take you wherever you needed to go. She would follow you to the ends of the earth.
Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Lady Tyrell
Word Count: 16.7K broken out in 3 parts
Synopsis: A rose of Highgarden comes to court with thorns sharp enough to make princes bleed. Prince Valarr Targaryen falls at once, not for her beauty but for the wit that wounds him, the pride that refuses him, and the softness that she hides from every eye but his.
Part 3
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
The event that had brought you to King’s Landing ended with a tourney.
Men adored proving themselves with horses and sticks while women pretended the blood was romantic. The lists were hung with banners. Merchants sold pies, ribbons, roasted nuts, and little painted dragons on strings. The stands overflowed with courtiers dressed brighter than sense. The king attended for an hour, declared the sun too strong, and left. Everyone relaxed visibly once he was gone.
Valarr rode.
You had told him not to expect a favor.
He had said he would never presume.
Then he had looked at you with those hopeful mismatched eyes until you threw a green ribbon at his head and told him to strangle himself with it if he lost.
He tied it around his arm.
“You encouraged him,” your brother said as Valarr rode into the lists wearing black armor chased with red gold.
“I threatened him.”
“He looks encouraged.”
“He is defective.”
Valarr won his first tilt.
Then his second.
On the third, he broke his lance against Ser Olyvar’s shield and took a hard strike to the chest that nearly unseated him. The crowd gasped. Your hand clenched so tightly around the rail that your rings bit skin.
He kept his seat.
Barely.
Your brother murmured, “Still not worried?”
“I am concerned for the horse.”
“Of course.”
Valarr won.
By the final tilt, the crowd was roaring his name.
His opponent was Ser Damon, the same knight he had unhorsed days before. Damon rode well and viciously, anger lending him force. Their first pass shattered both lances. The second sent splinters spinning like straw. On the third, Damon’s lance struck Valarr’s helm hard enough to snap his head back.
You rose before you knew you had moved.
Valarr swayed.
The crowd held its breath.
Then he righted himself, wheeled his horse, and on the next pass struck Damon clean in the breastplate.
Damon fell.
The stands erupted.
You sat slowly, heart hammering with fury.
When Valarr removed his helm, his hair was damp, his face flushed, his mouth smiling.
He looked up at you.
You glared.
He smiled wider.
Idiot.
Beloved idiot.
No.
Not beloved.
Not yet.
But when he crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty, placing a wreath of pale roses and wicked thorns in your lap, the crowd screamed itself hoarse.
Valarr bowed from the saddle.
“My queen,” he said.
The words were for the tourney.
They did not sound like it.
You looked at the wreath.
Then at him.
“I suppose,” you said loudly enough for the nearest stands to hear, “one must reward effort, even when accompanied by recklessness.”
Laughter rolled through the crowd.
Valarr placed a hand over his heart. “Your praise sustains me.”
“It was not praise.”
“It will sustain me anyway.”
//
Later, after the feasting began, you found him in a quiet corridor outside the hall, stripped of armor and dressed in black velvet. A bruise was blooming along his jaw where the helm had struck. Another shadow darkened his collarbone beneath the open throat of his tunic.
You closed the door behind you.
He turned.
“My lady.”
“You reckless, preening, dark-haired fool.”
His brows lifted. “You were worried.”
“I was irritated.”
“You stood.”
“To see whether the horse was harmed.”
“The horse is well.”
“More deserving of concern.”
He smiled.
You crossed the corridor and seized his chin carefully, turning his face toward the light.
His smile faded.
Your fingers were gentle on his bruised jaw.
“Does it hurt?” you asked.
“A little.”
“Good.”
He laughed softly, then winced.
“Do not laugh if it hurts.”
“Then stop being funny.”
“I am not being funny. I am angry.”
“I know.”
“At you.”
“I know.”
“You could have fallen.”
“I did not.”
“You could have.”
“Yes.”
Your grip tightened slightly. “Do not answer me calmly when I am trying to scold you.”
“What should I do?”
“Look repentant.”
He tried.
Poorly.
“You are smiling,” you said.
“I am being touched tenderly by a furious woman. It is confusing.”
You released his chin. “Then suffer without aid.”
He caught your hand before you could withdraw fully.
Not hard.
Never hard.
Just enough to ask.
You let him keep it.
His thumb rested against your pulse.
“I am sorry I frightened you,” he said.
The anger faltered.
“You did not frighten me.”
He looked at you.
You sighed. “Fine. You frightened me. A little.”
His gaze softened.
“Do not look so pleased.”
“I am not pleased you were frightened.”
“You are pleased I cared.”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“At least lie politely.”
“I promised not to.”
“Another foolish promise.”
“One of my favorites.”
You should have pulled away.
Instead, you reached up and touched the bruise on his jaw again, lighter this time.
His eyes closed briefly.
That small surrender undid you more than any declaration.
“You will be careful,” you said.
“I will try.”
“No. You will be careful.”
His eyes opened.
There must have been something in your face, because his expression gentled into seriousness.
“I will be careful,” he said.
“For yourself.”
“For myself.”
You looked at him.
“And?” you prompted.
A slow smile touched his mouth. “For you.”
“Better.”
You began to step back.
He did not release your hand.
“My lady,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I have been very obedient.”
“That is debatable.”
“I have followed your rules.”
“Most of them.”
“I have sent no singers.”
“A mercy the realm should commemorate.”
“No jewelry.”
“True.”
“No midnight visits.”
“A loss you bear bravely.”
His thumb moved over your wrist.
“I would like another rule amended.”
Your pulse shifted.
“Which?”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
Ah.
You should say no.
Not because you wanted to, but because wanting had become far too visible. Because kisses changed things. Because the court already watched you both as though waiting for a wedding or a war, and you were not yet sure which one love resembled most.
“Valarr,” you said.
“One kiss,” he said. “Only if you wish it.”
“You are very fond of asking for single things.”
“I am fond of receiving them from you.”
“You become poetic when denied.”
“Then stop denying me.”
“Presumptuous.”
“Hopeful.”
“Greedy.”
“With you?” He smiled faintly. “Always.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you said, “One.”
His breath caught.
“And if you look triumphant—”
“I know. You will tread on my foot.”
“I will do worse.”
“I believe you.”
You lifted your chin.
He bent slowly.
Slowly enough that you could stop him.
Slowly enough that your heart had time to betray you completely.
His lips touched yours.
Soft.
Careful.
A question, not a conquest.
Your hand rose to his chest, fingers curling in the velvet of his tunic. He made a sound low in his throat, and the kiss deepened—not by force, but by mutual ruin. Warmth spread through you, sweet and terrifying. The world narrowed to his mouth, his hand at your waist, the faint tremble in him as though restraint cost him something.
You drew back first.
Barely.
His forehead rested against yours.
Neither of you spoke.
Then you whispered, “You may consider the rule amended.”
His laugh was breathless. “How generously?”
“Do not push your luck.”
“I would not dare.”
“You always dare.”
“Only when invited.”
“You were not invited.”
“No?” His nose brushed yours. “My mistake.”
You stepped back, though your hand remained against his chest.
His heart was racing.
Good.
“You will return to the feast first,” you said.
“Will I?”
“Yes. I require time to look less kissed.”
His eyes darkened with delight.
You pointed at him. “Do not.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face is shouting.”
He bit back a smile. “Forgive me.”
“No.”
He bowed, still smiling, and left you in the corridor.
You waited until his footsteps faded.
Then you pressed both hands to your burning cheeks and muttered, “Idiot.”
It was unclear which of you that you meant.
//
By the final night of the royal celebration, the court had accepted that Prince Valarr Targaryen was lost.
Some mourned him. Some envied him. Some calculated whether your future children might have silver hair and Tyrell influence. Some still waited for him to come to his senses, which was foolish because Valarr had never looked more delighted to be senseless.
The feast was held in the great hall. Every pillar was wound with flowers. Musicians played beneath a canopy of green and red silk. Wine flowed. Candles blazed. The air smelled of roast boar, spiced plums, wax, perfume, and impending scandal.
Valarr asked you for the first dance.
You gave it.
Then the second.
Then refused the third because, as you informed him, “The court requires time to recover from your smugness.”
He went to dance with Queen Myriah, who laughed at something he said and glanced at you with knowing eyes.
You escaped to the gallery above the hall, where the music softened and the crowd became a tapestry of color below. You stood alone for perhaps three minutes before Baelor found you.
“Lady Tyrell,” he said.
“Your Grace.”
He came to stand beside you at the rail. Below, Valarr spun his grandmother through a turn with such elegance that half the hall sighed.
“You have made my son very happy,” Baelor said.
You kept your eyes on the dancers. “How alarming for him.”
Baelor smiled. “He survives it well enough.”
“For now.”
“He is young.”
“So am I. People keep reminding me, usually when they wish me easier to command.”
Baelor looked at you.
You met his gaze.
It would have been easier to flatter him. Safer too. He was not merely Valarr’s father. He was Prince Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne, beloved of the realm, respected in Dorne and the Reach and nearly everywhere men had sense. But you had never known what to do with easy when a sharper tool sat close to hand.
After a moment, Baelor said, “Do you wish to be commanded?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Your brows lifted.
He looked down at his son. “Valarr would not know what to do with an obedient woman.”
“Most men figure it out quickly.”
“My son is not most men.”
“No,” you said. “He is far more troublesome.”
Baelor laughed quietly.
The sound surprised you. It was lower than Valarr’s. Warmer.
“He loves you,” Baelor said.
Your fingers tightened on the rail.
“That is a serious word.”
“Yes.”
“Careless, from some mouths.”
“Not mine.”
You believed him.
That was inconvenient.
Below, Valarr looked up toward the gallery as though sensing your attention. When he saw you with his father, a flicker of concern crossed his face.
You almost smiled.
Baelor noticed.
“He worries I am frightening you.”
“Are you trying to?”
“No.”
“A pity. You might have succeeded.”
“I doubt that.”
“Then you are wiser than you look.”
His mouth twitched. “I see why he adores you.”
You looked sharply at him.
Baelor’s expression was gentle, but not soft. There was iron in him, well hidden beneath courtesy. You respected that. Flowers needed earth, but kingdoms needed iron.
“I will not tell you that loving a prince is easy,” he said. “It is not. I will not tell you the court will be kind. It will not. I will not promise that duty will never take from you. Duty takes from everyone, though it feeds kings first.”
You said nothing.
“But I will tell you this,” Baelor continued. “My son is better when you are near him. Not weaker. Better. You challenge his pride without wounding his heart. That is rare.”
Your throat tightened.
“I wound many things,” you said.
“Yes,” Baelor said. “But not carelessly.”
That silenced you.
Below, Valarr had finished the dance and was already moving toward the stairs.
Baelor watched him with a look you recognized from your own father. Love mixed with worry. Pride with fear. The expression of a parent who knew children grew beyond reach and still wanted to place a hand between them and every blade.
“He is very dear to you,” you said.
“He is my son.”
“That is not always the same thing.”
Baelor turned back to you.
Something like sadness crossed his face.
“No,” he said. “It is not.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he said, “And are you dear to him?”
You laughed once under your breath.
“Ask him.”
“I am asking you.”
You looked down at Valarr, now at the foot of the stairs, speaking briefly to Matarys, impatient to come up and pretending poorly not to be.
Your expression betrayed you.
You knew because Baelor’s did not change, but his eyes softened.
“Yes,” you said quietly. “I believe I am.”
Baelor nodded.
“And he?” he asked.
You swallowed.
A dozen answers rose, all sharp enough to protect you.
He is tolerable.
He is useful.
He dances adequately.
He is less dull than most princes.
Instead, perhaps because Baelor had been honest with you, or perhaps because Valarr had ruined you beyond repair, you said:
“Yes.”
Only that.
But it was enough.
Baelor looked stunned.
Not because of the word.
Because of how you said it.
Softly.
Without armor.
Valarr reached the gallery then.
He looked between you and his father. “Should I be concerned?”
“Always,” you said at once, grateful for the return of yourself.
Baelor looked from you to Valarr.
His son’s face changed when he looked at you. Not like singers claimed men looked at maidens in songs. It was quieter than that. Truer. His attention settled. His shoulders eased. Some part of him, always braced beneath the weight of crown and court and expectation, seemed to come home.
And you—you, who had cut half the realm bloody by supper.
You smiled at him.
Not the sweet poisonous smile of court. Not the sharp smile before a killing remark.
A real smile.
Small. Private. Warm.
Valarr saw it and went utterly still.
“My lady,” he said softly.
“My prince,” you replied.
Baelor stared.
Not a different woman. Not a mask removed.
The hidden heart of the thornbush.
Valarr offered his hand. “Will you walk with me?”
You looked down at the feast. “The court will notice.”
“The court has eyes. A tragedy we cannot mend.”
You turned to Baelor. “Your son grows impertinent.”
“He was not so before you.”
“Then I have improved him.”
“Debatable,” Baelor said.
Your eyes lit with amusement. “Careful, Your Grace. I am beginning to like you.”
Baelor bowed his head. “I shall try not to disappoint.”
You took Valarr’s hand.
As the two of you moved away down the gallery, Baelor remained at the rail, watching. Valarr bent his head toward you. You said something that made him laugh. Then, when you thought no one saw, your thumb brushed gently over the bruise still faint along his jaw.
Valarr turned his face into the touch for the smallest moment.
Baelor’s heart clenched.
Matarys appeared beside him, following his gaze.
“Oh,” Matarys said.
Baelor nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“She looks as though she might murder anyone else for seeing that.”
“She might.”
“Are you frightened?”
“Of her?”
“Of both.”
Baelor watched his son smile down at you like a man who had found his fate and approved of it entirely.
“Yes,” Baelor said. “A little.”
Matarys grinned. “Good. Keeps the blood moving.”
Baelor sighed, but there was no displeasure in it.
Across the gallery, Valarr stopped beside an open archway where moonlight spilled over the stone. The feast noise dimmed behind you. Outside, the night was cool and blue, the city glittering below like a field of fallen stars.
You leaned your shoulder lightly against the wall. “Your father was kind to me.”
“He is kind.”
“He warned me.”
“He is wise.”
“He said you love me.”
Valarr went still.
You watched him.
For once, he had no clever answer prepared.
Good.
“Did he?” Valarr asked.
“Yes.”
“He oversteps.”
“Does he?”
Valarr looked at you.
Moonlight silvered his hair, softened the bruised line of his jaw. He looked too beautiful, which should have made him unbearable. Instead, it made him seem strangely vulnerable, as though beauty was only another expectation placed upon him.
“No,” he said at last. “He does not.”
Your pulse quickened.
Valarr stepped closer.
“I love you,” he said.
The world did not end.
No dragon screamed above the city. No sword appeared. No courtier burst from behind a pillar to write it down.
Only the night. The music. His hand in yours.
“I did not mean to,” he continued, voice low. “I thought at first you were a challenge. Then a delight. Then a danger. Then—” He smiled faintly. “Then I found I was looking for you in every room before I remembered entering it. I found I wanted your opinion before my own. I found that when something pleased me, it pleased me less if I could not tell you. When something wounded me, I thought of how you would name it honestly and make it smaller. I found that your cruelty is often mercy sharpened enough to be useful. I found that your softness, when given, feels like being trusted with a kingdom.”
Your eyes burned.
“Valarr.”
“I love you,” he said again. “Not because you are easy. Not because you are sharp. Not because you resist me or amuse me or humble me, though you do all three with alarming frequency. I love you because you are yourself, entirely, even when the world would prefer pieces. And I want—”
He stopped.
You knew what he wanted.
So did he.
A future. A promise. A life where your thorns and his fire learned how not to destroy one another.
Your throat ached with all the things you feared saying.
You could wound him. Easily. A jest would do. Something about poetry. Something about princes. Something that would let you retreat laughing while your heart stayed barricaded behind its thorns.
Instead, you stepped closer.
Valarr went silent.
You reached up and touched his cheek, carefully avoiding the bruise.
His eyes closed for half a breath.
“You are,” you said softly, “the most inconvenient man I have ever met.”
His eyes opened.
Your hand remained on his face.
“You send terrible flowers.”
“I improved.”
“You interrupt my reading.”
“I bring better books.”
“You make me worry during tourneys.”
“I promised caution.”
“You say things no sensible woman should believe.”
“I mean them.”
“I know,” you whispered.
His face changed.
You took a breath.
“I do not know yet how to love without armor,” you said. “I do not know how to be looked at as you look at me and not reach for a knife to cut the gaze apart. I do not know how to be soft without fearing someone will call it weakness.”
Valarr’s hand covered yours against his cheek.
“You do not have to know tonight.”
“I am not finished.”
He smiled faintly. “Forgive me.”
“I do love you,” you said.
The words came out quiet.
Valarr stopped breathing.
You felt it beneath your hand.
“Unfortunately,” you added, because you were still yourself.
A laugh broke from him, unsteady and radiant. “Unfortunately?”
“Deeply inconvenient.”
“Tragic.”
“Ruining my reputation.”
“Beyond repair.”
“I shall be forced to blame you.”
“I accept full responsibility.”
“You should.”
“I do.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes bright.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
“No.”
“My lady.”
“Do not beg. It is undignified.”
“I have no dignity left.”
“You misplaced it in the library.”
“Then there is no harm.”
You sighed, as though burdened beyond bearing, but your hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck.
“I love you,” you said again.
Valarr kissed you.
Not like the first time.
There was still care in it, still restraint, but joy burned through both. He kissed you as though laughter had become touch, as though every sharp word and almost-smile and battle of ink had been leading him here. You kissed him back with less gentleness than feeling, your fingers tightening in his hair, your body leaning into his.
When you parted, he looked utterly lost.
You were very pleased.
“Your face is shouting again,” you said.
“It is saying very respectful things.”
“It is not.”
“It is mostly gratitude.”
“Mostly?”
“And devotion.”
“Valarr.”
“And a little triumph.”
You stepped on his foot.
He laughed and kissed your forehead.
The gesture was so tender, so casual in its affection, that you froze.
He felt it at once.
“What?” he asked.
You shook your head.
But he waited.
You could have lied.
You almost did.
Then you said, “No one has ever kissed my forehead before.”
His expression softened in a way that made you want to hide and stay at once.
“May I do it again?”
Your heart twisted.
“You ask ridiculous questions.”
“May I?”
You looked down. “Yes.”
He kissed your forehead again.
This time, you closed your eyes.
From the far end of the gallery, Baelor saw.
He had come to retrieve Valarr for the final toast, but he stopped before crossing into the moonlight. He saw your sharp face tipped down, your eyes closed, Valarr’s lips pressed reverently to your brow. He saw your hand clutching the front of his son’s doublet, not to command or defend, but simply to hold.
The Queen of Thorns, court called you.
Yet there, in his son’s arms, you looked not tamed, not conquered, not diminished.
You looked cherished.
And, more astonishing still, you allowed it.
Baelor turned away before either of you noticed, his chest tight with a father’s strange grief and stranger joy.
Matarys, appearing as if summoned by gossip itself, peered around him.
“What are we looking at?”
“Nothing,” Baelor said.
Matarys looked anyway.
His grin spread.
“Oh, nothing looks very interesting.”
“Leave them.”
“Will there be a betrothal?”
“Not tonight.”
“Soon?”
Baelor looked once more toward the archway, where you had lifted your chin and said something that made Valarr laugh against your hair.
“Perhaps,” he said.
Matarys leaned against the wall. “She is terrifying.”
“Yes.”
“She will make court unbearable.”
“Yes.”
“She will make Valarr happy.”
Baelor smiled faintly.
“Yes,” he said. “I believe she already has.”
Behind them, the feast roared on.
But in the moonlit gallery, the prince and the thorned girl stood apart from all of it.
Valarr held your hand as though it were both vow and miracle.
You looked up at him, eyes bright, mouth sharp even now.
“If you ever tell anyone I am soft,” you said, “I will deny it and make you look mad.”
He smiled. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I have a reputation.”
“A fearsome one.”
“Carefully cultivated.”
“With great artistry.”
“You are mocking me.”
“I am adoring you.”
“That is worse.”
“Yes,” he said. “I expect it will be.”
You tried not to smile.
Failed.
Valarr saw.
Of course he did.
He bent and kissed the corner of your mouth, where the smile had betrayed you.
“My queen,” he whispered.
You rolled your eyes. “Do not become dramatic.”
“With you?” His arms circled you carefully. “I fear I am doomed.”
You rested your cheek against his chest for one quiet moment.
Only one.
A queen could allow herself one.
His heart beat beneath your ear, fast and alive and yours enough to frighten you.
“Valarr,” you murmured.
“Yes?”
“If you hurt me, I shall ruin you.”
His hand moved gently over your back.
“I know.”
“And if anyone else hurts you,” you said, softer, “I shall ruin them too.”
His breath caught.
Then his arms tightened.
Not a cage.
An answer.
“I know,” he whispered.
Below, King’s Landing glittered with lies.
But above it, in the Red Keep’s moonlit bones, there was one honest thing:
A dragon prince, smiling like a fool.
A rose with all her thorns.
And the beginning of a love the court would spend years trying, and
Summary: Years ago, Maekar chose another woman and you both went your separate ways, your brief love story ending before it ever really had the chance to begin. You hadn’t seen him in years and hadn’t thought much about him since, but when he sees you again, he starts to wonder if he made the right choice after all.
Pairing: Regretful! Maekar x Unavailable! Stark! reader
WC: 6.5k
Warnings: 18+, non-canon, dragons are still alive (maekar rides vermithor and baelor rides meleys), reader has a direwolf and so do her siblings, council drama, smut, betrayal, maekar is questionable, dyanna is still alive and so is jena, arguments, mentions of violence, talks of depression, hurt, angsty, unresolved feelings, manipulation, fade to black at the end, mentions of white walkers, mentions of a blackfyre rebellion, slightly proofread.
Part3/?| part one part two
You should’ve said leave, that would’ve been the right thing to do— the sensible thing to do. You didn’t want him to leave or to stop, because even all these years later— you still wanted him. It was like he had his roots in you and the thought or want for him would never fade, not truly.
He kissed you during your hesitation and you welcomed it, kissing him back.
A groan escaped his mouth, feeling your lips on his again for the first time in years. He brought his hands to your face, kissing you fiercely.
“Maekar.” You whined.
His hands wrapped around your waist as he pulled you closer to him. The heat from both of your bodies intensifying.
“I’ll stop, if you want me to.” Maekar.
You shook your head, “don’t stop.”
He pushed his tongue past your teeth, his mouth claiming yours. The kiss was deep, hungry, and full of need.
He turned you around, his hands tugging against your laces. He gently pulls the fabric of your dress, revealing your skin.
His lips press wet, open mouthed kisses against your back— a gasp leaving your mouth.
“Have you been with anyone else?” He questioned with some arrogance in his tone.
You shook your head.
“Only.. I’ve only been with you.”
It was true, you hadn’t taken any lovers or even kissed another man since Maekar. It was an embarrassing truth to admit, something that further showed him that you never moved on. You were always stuck on the day that he told you he would wed Dyanna.
His hand came around the front of you, wrapping around your neck as his lips brushed your ear.
“Good girl.”
Your heart fluttered at his words, a heat pooling between your legs.
He led you to the bed and pushed you back down on it as he took off his boots and his doublet.
“I have missed you and dreamt of you in more ways than I can imagine. I’d do anything to be with you.”
You pulled your dress off, tossing it on the floor and only being in your shift.
Maekar sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, pulling your hips closer to him.
He kisses your thighs like he’s asking for forgiveness, like a place of worship.
“I’m sorry.. so very sorry. I ruined everything for us and I’ll never get over it, over you.”
He weathered hands, raised your shift— your slick coating your upper thighs. His eyes flicked to yours, a groan escaping his lips as he inched closer to your cunt.
Your hands gripped the sheets and your eyes rolled back into your head as you felt the warmth of Maekar’s tongue gliding through your folds.
“Fuck.” You whined.
His tongue flicked up and down your sensitive clit with precision, your thighs trembling around him.
It was so so wrong, he was not yours to fuck— but it felt so right.
“You taste marvelous.” He murmured.
He sucked on your clit, pressing one of his fingers into you — taking your breath.
“You are doing so good for me, my love.”
His finger curled into you, bringing you closer and closer to orgasm.
“God’s.”
“You’re so close for me, don’t hold back my love.” He coached.
Your fingers gripped the sheets as you reached your peak, your thighs trembling uncontrollably.
Maekar stood up from between your thighs, his silver beard glistening with your slick. He kissed your lips again, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips.
“I want you.” You spoke.
Maekar pulled the rest of his clothes off, leaving you in awe at the size of his reddened and hardened cock as if it were the first time that you had seen it— but also at the scars that now covered his body.
You pulled your shift off, leaving yourself bare to him.
In a moment where you should have felt unbearable guilt or shame, you felt weakness— you felt neither.
He came between your legs, his arms on both sides of you— propping him up.
“You are.. so beautiful.” He muttered.
He dipped his head down, kissing along your chest— his mouth eventually finding its way to your hardened nipple. You ran your fingers through his hair as you squirmed underneath him.
When his eyes met yours again, you felt back in that moment with him years ago. The moment where you two had sex for the first time, where you realized you were in love with him.
He kissed you slow and deep, lining himself up with your entrance.
“Let me know if it hurts too much.” He added.
You nodded.
He pushed his cock into you, taking your breath as he sank in deeper inch by inch.
“You are so fucking tight.” He groaned.
He took his time with you as he fucked you, he was gentle and attentive— savoring the moment while giving you intense pleasure.
Your cunt squeezed him like it never wanted to let go as he thrusted in and out of you.
“I love you.. I love you so much.” Maekar admitted.
You kissed him, moaning into his mouth. “I love you too.”
The sounds of your pleasure filled the room without shame or embarrassment, a sound that any of the servants could have heard.
Maekar pulled out of you and had you adjust, so the two of you could change positions. You turn onto your stomach, laying flat against the silk sheets as Maekar comes behind you— his hand slapping your ass.
He slid back into with such precision, his cock filling you and a groan leaving his mouth.
His name spilled from your lips as he fucked you, the sheets doing little to muffle the moans that escaped your throat.
“You’re doing so good for me, taking me so well.” He coached.
His cock snapped into you, the tip dragging along your g-spot.
“Fuck, Maekar—“
“I’m so close.” You whined.
He grunted, the sound of your whines and moans are music to his ears.
“That’s it, my love. Take what you need from me.”
He was so deep inside you, completely claiming your body and mind as his again.
Your cunt gripped him like never before as you cried out, reaching your peak. His cock twitched inside of you as his own orgasm came upon him quickly, his seed filling you and leaving you warm.
After a moment of both of you catching your breath, Maekar slowly pulled out and crashed onto the bed beside you.
The two of you laid together on the bed, entangled in the sheets and lost in each other— a moment that could never truly last. It did not take long for you to fall asleep afterwards, but Maekar stayed awake— his eyes watching you. His heart ached in his chest as he knew that the moment would end.
Hours had passed by, the low sunlight peaking through the window.
Maekar gently climbed out of the bed in hopes of not waking you and put his clothes on, he stood by the door for a lingering moment— taking in the view of you.
As Maekar stepped out of your chambers and gently shut the door, he ran into Baelor.
Baelor stared blankly at the sight of him, taking note of the hour and Maekar’s disheveled appearance.
Baelor walked with Maekar back to his chambers, holding his tongue until the door was shut.
“Have you no shame, brother?” Baelor spoke.
Maekar pushed open the shutters to the window, allowing the light in.
“I do not understand what you mean.” Maekar replied with a grumble.
Baelor's blood boiled beneath his skin, it was rare that he was ever truly mad— but Maekar’s actions were driving him there.
“We are guests in their home! The royal family!—“
“This is not your second chance for you to fix your failures.” Baelor reminded him.
“I do not need your judgment.” Maekar mentioned as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“My judgment, my judg—“
“Your wife and children are present and yet you still act so selfishly. How do you think Dyanna would feel?” Baelor questioned.
Maekar scoffed.
“I do not care, truly.”
Baelor’s eyes widened, his lips pursed— anger brewing in his veins.
“You do not care?—“
“What has gotten into you, brother? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Maekar pulled his boots off. “I’ve gained them.”
Baelor twisted his rings, his mind racing as he couldn’t understand his brother’s behavior or recklessness. It was as if he didn’t recognize him.
“She can never be yours and you know that. You know what you are doing is wrong, to her and to your family. All you can do is give her late night rendezvous, when she deserves so much more.”
Maekar sat there and listened to Baelor, his words stinging with a truth that he did not want to hear.
“Must you lecture me on my family? and everything that I do?” Maekar questioned.
Baelor walked towards the center of the room.
“When you mean to embarrass said family, then yes. I would’ve never let you come, if I had known that you would show as much restraint as Rhae when wanting candy.”
Maekar’s eyes flicked to Baelor, “careful.”
“Or what, brother? I only speak the truth, you just do not wish to hear it.” Baelor pointed out.
Baelor walked towards the door, his patience thinning by the moment.
“I demand that you stay away from her.. or so help me—“
“We have a council meeting in a bit and I expect that you will be there. I hope that your tryst was not heard by others.” Baelor added.
Maekar sat in the room in silence, his mind filled with thoughts— most of them about you, very few about his own wife.
He wanted nothing more than to take you and his children to a place far from here, a place where he wasn’t confined to duty. The duty that got him here in the first place, the duty that made him lose you. If only he’d never listened to his father about marrying Dyanna, let his suggestion die in the wind. If only he’d been strong enough to disobey, then his life would’ve been different— brighter with you in it.
You were the bane of his existence, the biggest what if?
He had not known true happiness since the end of your relationship, not in the way that he wanted. He did not regret his children, he never could — they were the best part of him. His mind often wondered if Aerion would be softer if you were his mother, would Daeron be so closed off about his dreams if he could talk to you? if Aemon would prefer being a Maester over being with his family? Would his family actually feel whole if you were his wife?
When you awoke, the faint sunlight stretched across your face. There was a deep ache between your legs, your upper thighs sticky and dried from Maekar’s seed. You remembered what happened, how you allowed him to crawl into your bed.
How could you be so stupid? So blind? You knew better.
You laid there in the bed longer than you should have, deep down inside— hoping that your mind had played a trick on you. The servants came into your room and prepared a bath for you, you also asked them to bring your breakfast to your chambers— you wanted to break your fast alone.
You sat in the warm water in the tub, the steam curling around you as you scrubbed your skin— on the verge of scrubbing it raw.
You wanted to be clean, be rid of the sin that you had participated in— the sin that you allowed yourself to cave to.
The smell of the fruit and biscuits lingered in the air on the tray beside the tub.
All you could do was sob, sob as you sat in the tub and realized what had become of you and your life. You were a disgrace to your family, your house, and your mother would’ve been so disappointed. She raised you to be better than that, better than a whore who’d bed a married man.
You didn’t know how you were supposed to continue being around him or his family, considering the royal family was still supposed to be in your family’s home for a few more moons. There was only so much avoiding that you could do without seeming suspicious, but you would not let him into your bed again.
Not after that.
You were dreading the council meeting that would take place, dreading seeing his face. A face that you once took pleasure in seeing.
By the time that you had decided to get out of the tub, the water had run cold. Your mind was so deep in thought that the time had passed you by.
You took your time getting dressed, your fingers running through your hair as you braided it— staring into a mirror at a person that you didn’t recognize.
Greywind sat by your door, his head titled watching your every move.
After a bit longer, you walked out of your chambers with Greywind right beside you— late to the council meeting.
When you entered the room, everyone was already present. Greywind went and laid in his spot underneath the window.
“I’m glad you’re here, daughter. I didn’t think that you’d grace us with your presence at first.” Your father spoke.
You nodded, your hands sweaty as you walked to your seat.
“My apologies for my lateness, father. The time had slipped my mind.”
You took the empty seat by Baelor instead of your usual one, the one that was beside Maekar. Everyone, including Dyanna, took note of that. You were always intentional with the things that you did, so predictable in some ways— almost like reading a book. If you weren’t willing to sit near Maekar anymore, then that meant that something had happened. It felt like a dagger to her stomach, one that was occasionally being twisted to remind her that it was there.
“Shall we begin?” Baelor spoke.
Your father leaned back in his chair, a smile gracing his lips.
“We shall.”
The meeting dragged on, discussing certain matters— but your mind was elsewhere. It was like you weren’t even in the room anymore, you were farther away. Maekar stared at you from across the table, watching as you barely participated— as you stared off into the distance.
Greywind came up to your chair, bringing you back to the conversation and the room.
You rubbed his head.
“What is it boy? The meeting is almost over.” You softly whispered.
Baelor glanced at him.
“The wolves are a beautiful thing, I almost wished we had them.” He mentioned with a soft smile.
Grey wind walked over to Baelor, sniffing him and distracting him from the conversation.
“What do you say, daughter?” Your father questioned.
You looked up with confusion as you hadn’t paid much attention.
“About what?”
Your father drank a sip of wine from his goblet.
“How would you suggest the issues with the nightswatch are handled?”
You adjusted in your seat, Greywind walking back over towards the window— but being called by Maekar in high valyrian. Maekar offered him some food that he absolutely shouldn’t have been eating.
“I think that—“
“I think that when the royal family returns from squashing the Blackfyre rebellion, we should host the Lord Commander and a few of his men to find out what has been happening.” You noted.
Dyanna scoffed, setting down her goblet.
“Host thieves, rapists, liars— for what exactly?”
You gritted your teeth, your gaze averted to Maekar.
“Not all men in the nights watch are dishonorable, just as not all noblemen are honorable.”
Lady Tyrell glanced at your father.
“How will we ensure our safety while they are here?”
Baelor sat in his seat, twisting his rings— his mind deep in thought.
“The men that he would decide to bring would not dare try anything, especially in the presence of the royal family. They are part of the nights watch, not idiots.”
Dyanna nudged Maekar with a frown on her face as he played with Greywind.
“When will your family be departing, my grace?” Lord Arryn asked.
“Tonight, as the king has requested. Once that matter has been handled with care, we will be back to properly handle this.” Baelor added.
“Let’s hope there’s still a north left for you to return to.” You responded.
Your snarky response was noticed by everyone in the room, but ultimately dismissed by Baelor as he knew that you didn’t mean it. He knew what had managed to distract you and get it’s way under your skin.
“I hope that squashing the rebellion is easy.” Lord Tyrell spoke with a smile.
“War is never easy. People get hurt, they die, they leave behind people they care about.. they don’t get second chances.” Maekar muttered, his violet eyes staring into yours.
Your fingers dug into the wooden armrests in your chair, trying to keep yourself from getting overwhelmed.
“We know that you will come back to us, husband— you and Baelor. The hammer and the anvil will keep the realm safe from the bastards that threaten it.” Dyanna smiled, rubbing Maekar’s arm.
“Yes, let’s pray to the Gods that they are returned whole.” Lady Tyrell implored.
Maekar scoffed, rolling his eyes at the notion.
“Well, I think everything that needed to be discussed has been. Let’s end the meeting here.” Baelor concluded, placing his green ball back into its holder.
Everyone began to stand up, preparing to walk out— having small conversations amongst themselves. You and Greywind walked out into the hall, leaving no time for anyone to involve you in a conversation. Maekar was hoping he’d get to speak with you, considering they’d depart tonight— he needed to. He didn’t want to leave it on this note between the two of you, he couldn’t.
The hours had passed by, the servants working to make sure the royal family was ready for departure. You walked out towards the Godswood, humming a song that your mother used to sing to you. Greywind ran around you, chasing the squirrel that ran up the tree.
The snow and ice crunched underneath your boots, small flakes of snow falling into your hair.
Greywind turned his head towards the sound of footsteps, footsteps that you recognized all too well.
“Maeakar, what do you want?” You spoke, your back turned.
“Why are you avoiding me, avoiding me like what happened didn’t happen?” He questioned.
You chuckled at his question, the ridiculousness of the situation as a whole.
“I’m avoiding you because it happened.”
He walked closer to you, closing the large distance between the two of you.
“I don’t want you to avoid me.. to regret it.” He admitted.
You sighed, your patience already thin.
“You are married.. you are not mine, not in any capacity. What happened was wrong.. disgusting.”
“It was love.” He mumbled.
Your head turned as if it were on a swivel.
“It was lust! Maekar call it what it is—“
“Lust from a man who can’t let go of what was! A man who wants to escape his duties to believe in a minuscule relationship from years ago!” You snapped.
He frowned, his hand reaching out for you.
“Is that what you think what we had was? Minuscule?”
You folded your arms in front of you, tears pooling in your eyes even when you didn’t want them to.
“When you get married and go on to have a family, it is.” You mumbled.
His expression softened, the guilt filling his stomach.
“I never wanted to marry her.. you knew that.”
You wiped your tears, a laugh escaping your throat.
“When did you decide that? Hmm? After you had bedded her like me?—“
He shook his head, his mind becoming overwhelmed by your words.
“Stop that.”
“You were going to marry her regardless of what I wanted.” You spat.
“That’s not fucking true!—“
“I’ve allowed you to believe that I was a weak man, a liar who ruined you. I had every intention of marrying you, you were my heart.. my father forced my hand with Dyanna.” He finally confessed, his words feeling like a weight off of his chest.
Your eyes flickered over to him, your chest heavy with grief.
“What?” You mumbled.
“Dyanna spread rumors that forced my hand, my fathers—“
“She’s not some innocent victim. She got close to me to ruin what we had.. what we could have had.” He admitted.
Your mouth was agape in shock as tears streamed your face. Everything that you had once believed or understood was a lie, a horrible lie.
“You allowed her to do that?” You questioned.
“What other options did I have? Huh?—“
“You know that she could’ve ruined you far worse than what she had, if I had gone against her.” He pointed out, his face red like a poinsettia.
“You were weak!—“ you yelled, shocking him.
“The two of you deserve each other. The weak man and the miserable princess, a love match made by the Gods.” You mocked.
“I love you, more than I could ever put into words. I do not know if I’ll see you again and I don’t want this to end on a sour note.” He mentioned, his eyes glassy— his words filled with defeat.
Your anger cooled, your heart stilling in your chest.
“Maekar.”
“Let’s not fight, not when so much about this rebellion is unknown.” He pleaded.
He closed the gap in between the two of you, in two strides his fingers held your face as he pressed a kiss to your lips.
“I do not want our last moment to be like this.. “
You kissed him back, not because it was right— but you felt it. You felt the spark that had once disappeared between the two of you, you didn’t feel guilty.
“Please do not die on me.” You mumbled.
He let out a low chuckle, his lips not wanting to leave yours.
“I will try my hardest not to—“
“I will come back to you and we will get our chance. We will.” He promised.
The moment between you and him didn’t last much longer as he was needed by Baelor, but even then— you had never been this confused in your life.
There was so much that you needed to think about.
You stood with your father and family as you wished the royal family safe travels, hoping that everything would go well. Egg rubbed Greywind, a giggle leaving his mouth as Greywind sneezed.
“Father will miss you.” Egg mentioned absentmindedly.
Your eyes darted down to him— his silver locks hanging in front of his eyes.
“Is that so?” You responded.
Egg nodded and gave you a hug. “I guess I will see you again soon.”
You rubbed his back.
“You will, sweet boy.”
You stood there and watched as the family departed, Vermithor and Meleys taking off in the sky— their roars heard down below. Greywind began to howl at the sound of their roars.
So much had happened in so little time, that you didn’t know what to think of anything— much less yourself and the thoughts that you had. Before they visited you were firm in your thoughts and your heart, what you wanted and now that was gone. In a matter of days he had shattered the bridge that you had spent years building.
You didn’t know what to do with yourself, you were truly lost for the first time in your life. It was just by the grace of the Gods that your tryst with the prince was not knowledge amongst anyone but the two of you, that you could hold on to. It was the only thing that you had control over in this situation.
6 moons later..
A raven came for you, a raven from Maekar. You went to your chambers and read the letter, your fingers trembled as you feared that it would be bad news.
My sweet wolf,
This war has been dreadful. I have not known peace since I left winterfell, since I left you. Maybe peace is not what I deserve after how I handled everything. I did want to leave you, it pained me to— but this rebellion forced my hand. While out here, I dream of you. I dream of the days we had together years ago. How you smiled when I’d correct you in High Valyrian, how you always said that if you could ride any dragon it would be Meleys, how you sometimes snored in your sleep.
The dreams of you and thoughts of my children are the only two things that are keeping me sane, keeping me from getting on Vermithor and coming to you. I know that you probably do not wish to hear from me right now or ever again depending on how you view the truth that I confessed.
It was not my right to withhold the truth from you, I should have told you. I should have let you have the proper feelings and facts about what happened. I was weak and I allowed you to believe what I thought was necessary, what I thought was easiest and for that I’m truly sorry.
The truth was not inherently better than what you had believed, but it was the truth.
I miss you terribly. Things with this war are growing increasingly unsteady as Meleys was wounded in battle recently, she is fine and will recover— but this is no easy feat.
I hope to come back home safely and see you again some day soon. I send my love and my warm regards to you, my sweet wolf.
Yours truly, Maekar.
A year and a half later..
The raven from Maekar did not provide you peace or comfort, not really. You were happy that him and Baelor were okay, that they were not injured— but that was as far as your feelings went.
At least you had convinced yourself so. You had convinced yourself that you didn’t feel the heat that your body radiated at his words, that your mind didn’t also dream of him, that your body didn’t crave him.
You kept yourself busy, trying not to think of Maekar often. Your home needed you, your father and your family needed you. Maekar had his own family to worry about and you were not them.
In the time since the royal family had left the north, the nightswatch had continued to dwindle — the support that was sent never made it. No one could determine if it was white walkers, raiders, or just rogue wildlings.
The Blackfyre rebellion and all its glory was crushed, leaving nothing but a few whispers of it in the air. That war had put some strain on the realm, not a big enough one that your family felt the pressure— but smaller houses weren’t as lucky.
Your life had changed in many ways since Maekar left, ways that you’d still struggled to understand and accept some days. Winterfell was once again being prepped for the arrival of the royal family within a few hours. House Baratheon had joined in on the conversations, alongside House Tyrell and House Arryn.
Greywind walked in the courtyard with your brother's direwolf, Summer. Both of them watched as people walked around and made space for incoming visitors.
The Maids came into your chambers and cleaned them, while you tidied up the council room. You dusted the windowsill and wiped off the table. You felt anxious this time around, your hands shook and your palms were sweaty.
You could not focus.
The smell of meat being cooked swirled in the air as you got closer to the dining room. The chairs, plates, and tables being organized.
In an effort to calm your nerves, you made yourself scarce and went to your chambers. You had the servants prepare you a warm bath, something to ease your mind and prepare for the night.
This stay with the royal family would be more difficult for you than the last one. You could only hope and pray that they would not be present for long.
The hours passed by and you could hear the sounds of the dragons landing, this time there were more than three. Baelor brought Meleys, Maekar brought Vermithor, Valarr brought Silverwing, and Aerion brought Caraxes.
Their stay was already costly and they’d only arrived a minute prior. Outsourcing that much meat was a task that your father had bestowed upon you, the task made you lose sleep and patience.
Your father stood outside in the courtyard, greeting the King and Queen— along with the princes.
“I’m glad to have the opportunity for the royal family to visit us again.” Your father smiled.
King Daeron shook his hand.
“Coming to Winterfell is something that I’ve looked forward to since we left!”
Your father and the king shared a laugh.
Maekar stood next to Dyanna, his eyes wandering to see where you were, how it was unusual to not have you present.
“Thank you for opening up your home to us again, along with the other noble families.” Baelor spoke.
Your father waved him off.
“The pleasure is all mine! I will have the staff show everyone to their chambers, you’ll have the same room as last time.”
Aerion scoffed.
“I know where to go, make sure they feed Caraxes.”
Dyanna glanced at him as if her eyes could pierce through him.
“You will be respectful in their home, Aerion!”
Aerion rolled his eyes.
“Apologies.”
“Is Lady Stark going to join us for the feast tonight?” King Daeron questioned.
Your father nodded, an awkward smile on his face.
“Yes—“
“Yes, she is. I’m unsure of where she is at this moment, but I will send the servants to find her. I’m sorry for her lack of appearance.”
Queen Myriah smiled, rubbing your fathers arm.
“She is fine, there is no harm done with her not being present.”
The royal family followed your father and the servants as they led them away from the courtyard.
Maekar walked away from the rest of the family, hoping to find you— somewhere nearby. He saw Greywind laying near the rest of the Kennels with Summer, both of them taking a nap.
Maekar walked the halls and there was still no sign of you, so he decided to go to your chambers. The end of the hall near your chambers was quiet, besides the few faint sounds echoing in the air.
Maekar could see you through the cracked door. You sat in the chair at your desk, your damp hair framing your face— your boot propped up against the desk.
Moans left your mouth, cries of pleasure that shocked Maeakar. He could not see anyone else present but you, he figured that you did not shut your door well for your alone time.
You gripped the desk, your head thrown back in bliss as Maekar walked into the room— startling you.
“Gods, Maekar!” You jumped, adjusting your dress.
His smirk left his face when he saw it.
Lyonel Baratheon crawling from underneath your dress and standing up.
“What the fuck.” Maekar mumbled.
Lyonel helped you up from the chair, a smirk on his face. “I did not think that we were expecting company, darling.”
You pushed your hair out of your face.
“Leave us, Lyonel.”
He nodded, his tongue swiping the bottom of his lip.
“I will see you at supper.”
Lyonel watched as the tension in the room rose, as the two of you stood on opposite sides of each other. Lovers who once would’ve ran away together, staring at each other with hurt in their veins and confusion in their minds.
Lyonel shut the door, hesitating to walk away and not listen in on what would be said.
“Maekar, I was not expecting you to just barge into my chambers.” You spoke softly, fidgeting with your sleeves.
“You and Lyonel?” He scoffed, his shoulders pulled back.
“What I do is none of your concern. He loves me.” You replied.
His brow raised.
“I love you.”
His words stayed in the air like a whisper moving in the wind.
“Do you love him?” He gritted.
“Does it matter, Maekar? Does it truly?—“
“This was never going to be a good ending for us.. that fairytale does not exist in this world for us.” You reminded him, tears painting your cheeks.
“My love.” He muttered.
You shook your head, wiping your tears.
“You should’ve never come back here. You and your family should have stayed at Summerhall, left me to pick up my life here.”
“I see you’ve picked it up quite fine.. fucking Lyonel.” He snarked.
“Pardon?—“
“Do you not fuck Dyanna? I am not your wife!” You yelled, slamming your hand against the desk.
“You have no idea what it's like, living this life of torment! Being married to someone that you cannot truly love, someone you cannot get close to.” Maekar mumbled.
You walked closer to him, your shoulder rubbing against his.
“I am glad that you were spared in the rebellion, that you could come home to your children— but I will not do this with you. I am tired and I will not allow you to tear me apart.” You cried, walking out of your chambers.
This fight between the two of you had happened one too many times, old wounds reopened just as they had begun to heal. This was not what you needed, not now— not ever. His words lived in you, made a home in you, and you had never been the same since.
Maekar couldn’t help but feel at a loss as he made his way to the dining hall. He hoped that his letter would have provided you hope, would have provided him a chance to prove his words— but that was not the case.
You were moving on from him, moving on to a man that the realm would deem more suitable. A man that had no family, no baggage, and no wife— nothing that would stop him from marrying you.
If you married Lyonel, Maekar might just die at that moment— it is not something that his heart could handle.
You are the love of his life and he wants to rectify his mistake. Maybe he could not end his marriage to Dyanna, but he could admit the truth to her— utter the words that he hadn’t allowed himself to say. His confession would taint you and that wasn’t an option either, he would not allow your dignity to be stripped from you.
His mind raced with ideas, yet none of them also carried a simple solution or a solution at all. He might very well be doomed to the shadows to watch another man love you out loud, while he can only dream of you or reminisce of your memories.
You wiped your tears and took a few deep breaths before entering the lively dining hall. The royal family stood in the middle of the room, greeting other nobles and talking amongst each other.
Lyonel approached you, stopping you in your tracks.
“Are you alright?”
You nodded, a sigh leaving your lips.
“I am fine. It was nothing.”
He chuckled, his fingers reaching for yours. “That did not seem like nothing, he was upset.”
You shook your head, trying to rid your mind of the thoughts.
“He will be fine, his feelings do not matter as mine don’t.”
He brought his hand to your face, rubbing your cheek.
“What has gotten into you?—“
“Do not let him being here throw you off.. or come between us.”
“I’m not. It has just been a long day.” You replied.
The candlelight in the dining hall was bright—illuminating the wolf sewn into your dress, the grey curls that framed Lyonel’s face.
You left Lyonel’s side, walking towards the royal family and your father.
“I’m sorry for my absence earlier, father.” You spoke, walking beside him.
He smiled. “I was worried that you had taken ill.”
Queen Myriah smiled, bringing you into a warm hug.
“It has been so long! You look so marvelous.”
You smiled.
“Aye, it has. You look stunning as well!”
King Daeron brought you into a quick hug.
“I’m glad to see you doing well, daughter. There is much to catch up on, much for me to speak with you about.”
Dyanna’s lips twitched at the way that her in-laws greeted you, welcoming you into their family. They treated you like you were meant to be part of it, like she wasn’t standing there.
“It is lovely to see you again, Lady Stark.” Dyanna smiled, her fingers intertwined in front of her.
Baelor smiled, standing beside Jena.
“It is lovely to see you as well. I’m also glad that things with the rebellion went well, that both of you came back home whole.”
Baelor’s eyes scanned yours, he could sense the sadness in you— that you and Maekar had already spoken.
“It was by the grace of the God’s.” Baelor replied.
As you stood there, Maekar stared at you— his eyes lingering on your face as if he wanted to speak to you.
“I have found several suitors that would be a fine match for you, Lady Stark. If you’d be willing to consider them.” Dyanna spoke.
Her words caught you off guard, but your attention was drawn elsewhere before getting to respond.
“Rhaenyra!—“
“Rhaenyra!” The maid shouted chasing behind the child.
The small girl clung to your gown, her silver locks and violet eyes unmistakable.
“Mama.. mama.” She spoke.
It was as if the room had gone completely silent. Baelor’s eyes wide with shock, Queen Myriah gasped with her hand over her chest, Maekar’s blood had run cold.
Lyonel walked beside you picking up Rhaenyra, adjusting her small dress.
“Where is it that you think you’re going?” He chuckled.
You closed your eyes, almost fearful of opening them again.
The maid ran over to you.
“I’m so sorry, Lady Stark. She’s been energetic this afternoon.”
He stared at you in confusion, his eyes darting between you and the small girl— his words failing him in a moment where he needed them most.
You grabbed Rhaenyra from Lyonel’s arms and quickly began to walk out of the dining room as everyone stood there in shock.
Maekar stood there, the king urging him to the hall for a word.
pairing: pre akotsk baelor targaryon x f!valeryon!reader (reader is silver haired but no further descriptors, anyone can read!)
an: pls interact this story if you like them :)
summary: baelor returns from his honeymoon with a surprise from you. the blackfyre rebellion begins
wc: 7k+
warnings: 18+, lots of pregnancy talk, emotional cheating, physical cheating, lots of angst lol, massive canon divergence, death of character
part 1 | part 2
These sleepless nights had become a bit of a recurring theme for Baelor. The two long months at Summerhall for his honeymoon had dragged at a snail's pace. You had not written, not once, and the letters from his mother had pointedly been devoid of any mention of you. It was agony, and Jena, his wife, had been constantly buzzing around him, speaking to him, touching him. He tried to hide the way it made his skin crawl.
He had done his duty, only once. Laying with her had been fine. Uneventful, really. But he owed it to you to not do it again. Only once legitimized the marriage, and made the Dondarrion’s linked to his family, which was the entire sordid point of their union. She could not go to her father or uncles and claim that the marriage was unconsummated. After several nights of Jena attempting to lay with him again and being gently turned away to sleep in her own quarters, she finally took the hint and left Baelor to his own devices after their shared nightly meal.
And now, being back at the Red Keep for just a few nights had made him more anxious than ever before. He was hoping you would still be here; your father and mother were amongst those who greeted him upon his arrival back, and it was not hard to see his disappointment when he could not locate you in the crowd. Lord Laenys had given him a solemn nod of his head and told him they could speak later, if he wished.
It confused him, and he hated feeling like he was the only person in the room without a certain knowledge, but once he was back in his chambers, the avoidant eye contact and tentative greetings from his family all made sense.
He could hardly finish the letter. Words like betrothed to Lord Royce and to be wed before you return made hot tears sting in his eyes. He had gripped the parchment so tightly on one side before the image of the crinkled paper made his heart hurt even more. This was your letter, with your dainty script. A last piece of you that he needed to hold on to. He did not finish reading what you had wrote, he could figure it out from those first few words he read, but he smoothed out the crinkled part of the paper, folded it back as neatly as you had left, and put it in one of his drawers, next to the stack of other letters from you he had saved.
He had not been able to take a full nights sleep since.
You, on the other hand, had never slept better. You had married Lord Royce Baratheon not even a full moon ago, and becoming Lady of the Storm’s End felt like the role you were always meant to take.
Being Royce’s wife, well, you were also very pleased.
“Royce,” you moaned, your hands gripping onto his shoulders tightly, “I-I can’t.”
Your husband smirked as he gripped your thigh and pushed deeper inside of you, practically folding you in half. You swore you went blind for a moment.
“You can,” he grunted into your ear. “One more time, my love.”
He was insatiable. All you had ever done before was kiss Baelor, and even while Royce was courting you in King’s Landing, you had been the picture of piety and only allowed him to gently clasp your hand with his. He was patient, a true chivalrous knight, he never took what was not his and it made you love him all the more. But, since you consummated your marriage not even three full weeks ago, Royce had shown you pleasure you did not know could exist. He was masterful with his hands, the same calloused and rough hands that had seen battles were gentle whenever they touched you. And his mouth, which dictated the rules of the Stormlands and were often so serious, pressed against your own like it was all he was put on this land to do. He had been slow those first few times, taking his time, checking in, ensuring you felt pleasure before he did, and he was still that way, but now that you had a bit more experience, he was rougher, grabbing you firmly and flipping your body around like you were a ragdoll from your youth. It was absolutely delightful.
His brown eyes seared into your own as he continued his pounding. Your back was arching off of the bed, your nails undoubtedly breaking the skin on his shoulders to ensure you didn’t float away, and the sheets, well they were absolutely soiled, not for the first time today. You reached your peak again, and moaned softly when you felt your husband release inside of you. He practically collapsed atop of you, his much larger, warm body coating you like the most comforting blanket as you ran your fingers through the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck, both of you attempting to even out your breathing.
After several minutes, you began to feel like your ribcage might crack in half.
“Royce,” you groaned, gently pressing against his firm chest. He had already fallen asleep. “Husband, you must let me breathe.”
He made an unintelligible grunting sound as he rolled off of you, keeping one large hand on your hip so that you would both be facing each other with no space between your bodies as you fell asleep.
“Better?” he asked, voice gruff and cracked from his moaning and grunting earlier.
You smiled at his sleepy face. “Mhm,” you sounded out in agreement, shifting even closer to him, your chests pressing against each other.
Royce’s breathing evened out again and you gently ran your thumb against his brow, admiring the strong features of his face. Dark eyes, dark hair, strong cheekbones and jaw. He was a vision, truly.
“Husband,” you whispered to him, a half-hearted attempt to wake him up. You thought he was surely lost to his dreams until he blearily opened his eyes and looked at you. You swore you saw them soften slightly.
He grabbed the hand that was still tracing idle shapes on his face and brought it to his lips, kissing your palm absentmindedly. You sighed in contentment.
“Do you think it will take long for us to be with child?” your soft voice questioned, feeling yourself turn to mush at the delicate way he held your hand.
“No,” he answered immediately. “I can hardly keep my hands off of you,” he added with a small smile. “I am certain that if you are not already with child, you will be soon.”
He spoke with such authority, you could not do much but believe him. “And what do you want? A son or daughter?”
“One of each,” he answered again quickly. “A son with my hair and your temperament and a daughter who is your twin.” He pressed his forehead against yours, closing his eyes again. “I already have names for them, but I will wait to tell you until we are certain you are carrying my heirs.”
Everything about this man bewildered you. You were exhausted finally, your sleep catching up to you with a yawn. “I cannot wait to hear what you have in mind.”
It has been over a year since you stepped foot in King’s Landing. A year of marriage to Royce, a year of mourning what could have been with Baelor. You tried not to think much of it, of him, but occasionally, his brown hair and mismatched eyes and bronzed skin would sneak into your dreams. You would feel incredibly guilty the next morning, looking at your Lord husband, knowing that you dreamt of another man, but if he suspected you still held any affection for Baelor, he did not say anything.
Outside of the odd dream, being Lady of Storm’s End was nice. You ran your house the way you witnessed your mother run hers as a girl. You loved the responsibility, the way people looked to you for answers, and how Royce would ask for your opinion on matters, both in public and in private. But you had been unable to produce an heir.
Despite the fact that you and Royce had a boisterous married life, you were still not with child, not even a scare, a full year into your marriage. It was hard not to be worried about the future of your house.
“Please put me out of my misery,” Lyonel Baratheon groaned across from you in your coach. “I beg of you, dear cousin, put a babe in your lovely wife so I may know I am not the heir to this seat.”
Royce scoffed at his cousin, a quick look at you proved you were not truly offended by Lyonel’s words, despite how careless they were. He knew it was a sensitive topic for you though. It was clear that both of you were anxious to start your little family. You laid together often, too often to have not become with child yet. You had voiced your concerns that something was clearly wrong to Royce, but it was the one time he ever brushed off your worries.
“It’ll happen when the Mother deems us ready, my love,” he had told you, just days ago when you got your blood yet again. You could not help the tears that ran down your face when you realized you were still not pregnant. “I pray to her,” he had added, hands gently clasping your face, voice smooth as silk, “every week when I visit the Sept. She will honor us soon. I am certain.”
It was hard not to believe him when he sounded so sure of himself.
“And until then, we will continue to try. Every day. Twice a day, at least,” he added with a smirk.
You had playfully slapped his bicep, the muscles like stone under your hand had you easily distracted, your tears slowing down at his jest. “You are truly insatiable, husband.”
He had looked you up and down at that. “You cannot truly blame me, wife.”
It sent a shiver down your spine.
But now, knowing that it was a topic of discussion that Lyonel of all people was thinking of made you worry. If you failed to provide Royce with an heir, Lyonel as his first cousin would be the next Lord of the Stormlands. And while you adored Lyonel, you were not certain he was meant to be the Lord of any great seat.
“I promise you Lyonel,” you spoke up from across the coach, rolling your eyes. “We will do everything within our power to make sure you are not the heir.”
His brown eyes glittered at that. “Ah, my good cousin. Thank you.” He looked you up and down just once, licking his lips as he held his gaze at your bodice for a moment too long. “Perhaps I can watch you two try again? The first time was over much too quickly—”
Royce shoved him hard at that. “You disgusting little pervert. I should lock you in the cells for sneaking around my chambers at night.”
You looked at your hands in your lap, willing away the heat that was creeping upon your cheeks at that.
Your parents were already at the Red Keep, and seeing Eleonyra’s typically stoic face light up at you stepping out of the coach made you grin wide.
“Mother,” you greeted, wrapping her in your arms. “I’ve missed you.”
“My girl,” she smiled back at you, violet eyes shimmering in the late afternoon sun. “Storm’s End is treating you well?”
You looked back to Royce. “Very well, indeed.”
She hummed, the faint lines next to her violet eyes deepening at your small smile. “We have much to discuss,” she added, mirth lacing her voice. “We shall take our meal together this evening,” she announced to the men behind you. “Your aunt and uncle will be so pleased to see you here again.”
Behind you, Lyonel leaned in to his cousin. “Aunt and uncle?” he questioned.
“King Daeron and Queen Myriah,” Royce supplied quietly with a small shrug. Your closeness to the royal family was not something he ever grew comfortable with, and if he was being honest with himself, there was a small piece of him that was growing mildly insecure at the notion you would be back in such close vicinity to Prince Baelor.
Other than the night you had met, Baelor came up between you two only once.
Through a letter from your mother, you had learned that Jena was with child.
“She is large,” your mother had written. “And her face is slowly resembling the moon—ghostly white and round,” she finished in what you suspected was meant to make you feel better about yourself. But it had not. For days, you wallowed in a sadness your husband was unfamiliar with. You would smile, but it would not reach your eyes. You would laugh, but the sound would ring hollow.
If you were doing your math correctly, the babe would have been conceived right after their wedding. The timing made bile rise in your throat.
After a week, he finally confronted you. “What vexes you?” he asked, voice teetering on the edge of rage but eyes still soft as he looked at you. “Is it jealousy that she is pregnant and you are not, or is it that she is pregnant with his child?”
Your eyes snapped to his, wet with unshed tears. “It’s not—I—” you groaned and pressed your head into your hands to muffle the sound. “I did not expect to feel this way,” you supplied finally.
Royce sat down next to you, a warm hand to your shoulder. “Do you still love him?”
It was the only time his voice ever sounded uncertain and it broke your heart.
You immediately turned to face him, hands grasping his strong jaw to look at you. “I love you,” you told him, digging deep to sound as sure as possible.
“But do you love him?”
You searched his eyes, finding only heartbreak and sadness where you usually found adoration and joy. It hurt you to be the cause of such pain. So you lied, because you did love Royce, more with every passing day if it were possible. And the love you still held for Baelor, the love that wouldn’t shake loose from deep inside you no matter what you did, clearly only led to pain. For all of you.
“I only love you,” you reassured him, climbing onto his lap to straddle him. “I only want to carry a child if it's yours.” You trailed kisses up and down his jaw, small promises you hoped he would believe. “Can I show you?” you asked, hands toying with the curls at the nape of his neck you loved so much, “how much I love you?”
You had both been gentle that night when you made love, selling him a lie you only hoped he would believe.
And while Royce knew that you did truly love him, he figured a big reason your marriage was so successful in its first year was because you had pointedly stayed away from King’s Landing. He attempted to press down his nerves as he watched you ready yourself for dinner.
“We should return to the garden after we feast,” you told him, shooing away your maid as she attempted to adorn your neck with a piece of jewelry he was certain he had never seen before. Fiery rubies the color of House Targaryen. “Like the night we met,” you supplied after he did not answer you.
He hummed as he walked behind you, warm hands grounding themselves to your exposed shoulders. He looked at the black and gold dress you were wearing. It was fine, expert stitching from the best handmaidens in all of the Stormlands had made it for you when you first wed. He loved seeing you in his colors. They were yours now anyway. But the ruby necklace made you glow, and suddenly, he realized yellow was not quite your color.
“This is lovely,” he told you, kissing your collarbone right above the necklace. “I’ve never seen it.”
Your fingers gently traced the jewels before reaching behind you to interlace themselves with Royce’s own. “A gift from Aunt Myriah,” you told him. “I must have left it here last year.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “They truly love you.” It wasn’t a question.
“They do.”
“Perhaps you should change your gown.”
That made you turn to face him. “Why? Do you not think I look good?”
“No, no,” he quickly corrected. “You look as wonderful as always. I just am not sure if Baratheon yellow bodes well with Targaryen red.”
You glanced down to your gown. It was mostly black, with yellow-gold stitching across the skirts. “My love,” you called his attention back to your face. “I hope that by wearing these colors I honor our house and the King’s. I think they work well together,” you stated, matter of factly.
He cleared his throat and nodded. “If you say so, my love.”
You held his hand extra tightly as you walked to the Targayen’s private dining room. You could feel the nerves wafting off of him and it made you feel nervous just the same. But as soon as you entered the room, your attention was grabbed by someone else. A small someone else.
“Oh gods,” you sighed, making a beeline to Jena. “Is this him?”
Your eyes were totally focused on the small babe in her hands, his plush rosy cheeks seemingly taking over his entire face, the small content smile as he slept in his mother’s arms made your heart ache in the best way. You barely noticed Baelor next to them.
“Yes,” Jena giggled quietly at your adoration. “Valarr,” she supplied simply when your attention shifted from him to her. “It is so good to see you,” she offered you, shyly.
“I—yes,” you cleared your throat, forcing a small grin to your face. “You as well.”
“I agree, my Lady. It is wonderful to see you.”
Hearing his voice, after a full year, was like a washbucket filled with ice cold water being poured on you in the middle of the summer solstice. It was stunning and it shook you to your core. Goosebumps made their way across your forearms as you met his eyes. One blue, one brown. Just like in your dreams.
“My Prince,” you whispered, voice aching with something indescribable. “Congratulations.” You brought your attention back to little Valarr, where it was safe.
“Would you like to hold him?” Jena asked, voice tinged with what you considered hope for future relief.
“I would love that,” you muttered, arms opening for the child to be held by you.
Baelor felt himself tense at the sight before him. You. After a year of your absence and several unanswered letters, you were here, in his home, where you have always belonged. Holding his babe. His son, who he loved dearly in a way that he had never expected. Who was perfect in every way, except he had the wrong mother.
It was a horrid thought, one he chastised himself for thinking nearly everyday, but he could not help that the happiest day of his life, his son's birth, would have been made better if he shared it with you.
You felt the comforting heat of Royce behind you and faintly heard him greet Baelor and Jena. You didn’t care, you were too busy cooing at Valarr to notice anyone around you.
Royce’s hand made its way back to your shoulder, squeezing gently.
“Well you two look like a portrait,” Jena lamented, a tad bitter, a chalice of wine in her hand now that she was child free. “When should we expect to meet the newest little Lord of Storm’s End?”
It was an innocent enough question, but you felt yourself tense at hearing it, yet again, while holding Baelor’s child, no less.
You were grateful when Royce answered for you. “We hope the Seven will bless us soon,” he said simply.
You chose to keep your focus on Valarr, humming to him gently as he dozed. It was an ancient lullaby, something from Old Valyria you had heard as a child. Baelor tried to steady his heart, but it was nearly impossible at seeing you singing to his child, wearing that ruby necklace from his family jewels, speaking his mother tongue.
You gasped when Valarr’s eyes popped open and looked at you. “Oh, my little prince,” you grinned at him. “His eyes,” you breathed out a soft exhale, finally letting your gaze leave him to look at his father. You held his gaze for a moment past appropriate with a look so soft, that nearly made Baelor’s knees buckle.
Royce peered over your shoulder. “Wow, just like yours.”
Valarr, like his father, took a strong liking to you. Throughout your meal, every time you attempted to pass the young prince to another family member, he quickly got fussy. You would laugh, warmth blooming through your belly as he calmed when he was settled safely in your arms. Baelor could never truly be jealous of his son, but seeing the satisfied look on his little face as he nuzzled closer to your breast was trying his sanity; he supposed he couldn’t truly blame him.
“I hope that we can count on House Baratheon when the time comes,” you heard Baelor speak to your husband.
The rumors of Daemon Blackfyre and his claim for the throne were plaguing all of Westeros, and while you did not truly believe your uncle Daeron and his half-brother would truly come to blows, thoughts of what could happen to you and your family if he were somehow successful worried you. Your uncle would be the first to die, something gruesome you supposed, with Baelor and his brothers following shortly with equal fervor. Your father would be next; he was the King’s best friend and closest confidant, aside from his Hand. And then your husband, if he was dragged into their petty fight. The Stormlands were the largest parcel of land in all of Westeros, and Royce commanded every other house with a quiet, but respectable authority. They would all fight under the true Targaryen banner, if it came to that, and the lives on the line could not be taken lightly.
Royce nodded to Baelor, a silent agreement. “I would be honored to defend the crown, your Grace,” he assured. “And to fight for my wife’s family would be an even greater honor.”
Baelor’s eyes snapped up to yours. You were sitting right next to your husband, with his babe’s round cheek pressing against your chest.
“I am glad to hear it. The rebellion is coming sooner than we think.”
Baelor’s words rang in your head as you strolled in the garden. Valarr had finally allowed a nurse to remove him from your arms, Jena drunkenly following the two of them back to her chambers as everyone scattered for the evening. Lyonel, your lovely troublemaker of a cousin, had been drinking nearly as much as the princess consort, and Royce chose to escort him to his chambers himself, lest he find his way to the Iron Throne and cause an incident. You refused to let another moment pass before you ventured to your gardens.
You would have to come back in the daylight to get a better look, but it appeared that things were relatively thriving in your absence. The dragon’s breath was blooming, the winter rose’s pale blue reflected in the moonlight, and the small red and orange Kingsflame’s were growing in abundance. You groaned; the garden in Storm’s End left much to be desired.
“I knew you’d be here.”
You sighed at the involuntary shiver that trailed down your spine at the sound of his voice. You wondered if you would always react that way to him.
“You do know me well.”
Baelor stepped closer to you, in your space until you could feel the fiery heat wafting off of him. “I do. Or, at least I did.”
You met his eyes as his voice trailed off. “Do you find me different since we’ve last seen each other?”
He hesitated for a moment before nodding. “I’ve written, and you have not answered. It’s been a year,” he added, words quickening as he continued. “And you look so different, but wonderful,” he cut himself off, a faint blush creeping up his neck.
You laughed, a light airy sound that drew him further into your space. “I don’t believe I’ve changed much. But I can say that, perhaps being the lady of my own house has matured me.”
He hummed in agreement. “And being a wife has certainly had its effect.”
You nodded. “Yes, I suppose it has.”
A beat of silence passed between you two as you made your way to the Great Oak.
“Fatherhood looks well on you.”
He sighed out your name before you continued speaking. “You don’t owe me an explanation,” you told him, mindlessly toying with the sleeves of your dress. “It was expected of you to produce an heir.”
Baelor worked his jaw, something less than pleased passing over his face. “Would you believe me if I told you we only… did our duty,” he sighed, not finding a better phrasing for it, “once?”
Your eyes snapped to his. “You jest.”
He barked out a laugh, though he clearly did not find it amusing. “I do not. The night we wed. Our bedding ceremony was the only time.” He walked closer to you. “That may have been the worst day of my life. I was devastated after you left my chambers,” he told you, voice quiet. “I felt like ripping my heart out of my chest. It would have hurt less than standing there, in front of you and everyone else, saying those words. I did not mean them.”
“I’m not quite certain how I even..” his voice trailed off and his blush crept higher at the memory. “Jena hates me. I will not lay with her. I am simultaneously the luckiest and most unlucky man in all of Westeros considering she became with child after our first and only time together.”
You shook your head at that, thoughts jumbling all together at his words. “You do not owe me anything,” you told him, eyebrows furrowing. “If you wish to lay with your wife for the sake of your marriage, you must.”
He frowned back at you. “I owe you everything. And I told you, I would do my duty, but that was it. I do not wish to be with her. I never have.”
His hand reached to your face, thumb running down your jaw as he took in the small changes from the past year.
“Baelor,” you whispered. “We can’t.”
“I know,” he sighed. “Though I may be miserable in my marriage, I am glad you are happy in yours.” You both knew it was a lie, but he offered you a smile anyway. “But I wish to be selfish, just for a moment. The woman I love is standing in front of me for the first time in so long and I’ve missed her. Have you missed me?”
You couldn’t trust your voice, so you nodded instead, leaning into his touch more than you should.
There was a magnet between you two, pulling you together unwittingly, though you refused to fight it. His eyes found yours, as they always did, his stare offering your comfort and what you could only describe as pure, unconditional love. His hand made its way to the base of your skull, while his other hand found your waist to press your bodies together until there was no space left between you. You watched as he slowly lowered his head down, eyes closing as your lips touched for the first time since last year.
Baelor’s soft lips pressed against yours, an explosion of warmth and desire making itself known as you rediscovered each other’s mouths. You hummed in satisfaction as his tongue made its way into your mouth, causing you to grasp helplessly at the lapel of his tunic. It was wrong, so wrong, you truly did love your husband, but Baelor’s electric kisses kept you in a daze. You couldn’t fight the soft whimpers and moans that you were making at his hungry touch. Now that you were no longer a maiden, things felt different.
You knew what to expect, how good things could feel. You wondered, if things with Royce felt as amazing as they did, how it could feel with Baelor.
You blinked yourself out of your daze, gently pressing Baelor’s chest away from you. He looked as out of it as you felt.
“We cannot,” you softly scolded, though your face and voice were lacking any real admonishment.
He kept his grip on your body, taking a few staggering breaths in an effort to calm himself. “I know, I know.” He gave you a look then, something you weren’t quite familiar with.
“What is it?”
You watched as he ticked his jaw. “This rebellion business with Daemon,” he started, thumbs drawing mindless shapes on your arms. “When we go to fight, I want you to stay here, at the Keep. Stay in your chambers, where I know you’ll be safe.”
You swallowed. “Will it be soon?”
He nodded. “Brynden said before the first frost.”
“Baelor, there is probably no safer place for me than at Storm’s End. It's a fortress.”
“It’s not about—” he scoffed at himself. “If you are here, I will know you’re safe. I will have my guards, my men watching you, protecting you. I cannot do that when you’re in the Stormlands.”
You pressed your hands against the scruff at his jaw and nodded. “I understand,” you practically cooed at him, willing him to relax. “But I’ll be safe there. And when it’s over and you’re successful, I will come back,” you told him. “And you will see for yourself.”
Baelor huffed out a breath of air. “You take great pleasure in disagreeing with me.”
It was your turn to scoff, letting your hands land down to his broadening chest. “I do not.”
“You do,” he disagreed, smirking down at you.
You matched his grin. “I wouldn’t say great pleasure…”
He laughed, truly this time. “You are lucky I love you so.”
You nodded back to him, pressing a final peck against his lips. “I am.”
Sneaking around for the past month with Baelor had been hell. You easily fell into that old habit you had before he wed Jena—creeping into dark hidden corners for stolen kisses and lying to everyone that mattered to you about what you were doing. You loved him, truly, but you also loved your husband. And you respected him, as he did you. Lying to him made you feel horribly guilty. But being back at Storm’s End eased the weight off of your shoulders. You weren’t sure how much longer you would have been able to go on without losing your mind.
It made you feel guilty now, those stolen moments you spent with Baelor, when at present, your Lord husband was speaking to a hall of Stormland Lords and knights, advising them of the King’s orders to ride back north to an area just outside of King’s Landing.
“My Lord,” one of the Marcher Lords spoke from the crowd. You vaguely recognized him from your wedding. “When do you expect us to return home?”
Royce looked at the man with his hand on the hilt of his sword. He was the very portrait of chivalry, with his bronzed breastplate polished, a stag embossed right in the center. “Good King Daeron expects the true battle to last but a day. We have knowledge that the pretender, Blackfyre, is attacking soon. But we do not know the exact hour. We must be there to block his company when they try.”
Royce looked to you, your solemn face next to the center of the table. “We will pray to the gods that it is over quickly, so that we may return home to our families.”
You looked to your lap at that. The knights had more questions and concerns that Royce answered with great patience. Being Lord Paramount, he had the final say and his men would do whatever he commanded, but he did not take pleasure in sending any men, despite their age or experience, into battle.
He sighed when he entered your shared chambers, fussing with the leather latches that kept his armour in place. His strong arms were not flexible enough to reach behind him, and if you weren’t feeling so sad about the imminent departure of your husband, you would have laughed.
“Should I send for your valet?” you asked him, making your way to the foot of your bed where he was struggling.
“No,” he grunted. “Can you just help me?”
“Of course,” you nodded, gently grabbing one of his strong hands and pressing a kiss to his knuckles before dropping it by his side. You made quick work of his armour, placing it gently on the bench at the end of your bed until he was left solely in his gambeson. You went to unbutton that, pausing only when his strong hands came to clasp at yours.
“My love, why are you crying?” Royce asked you, concern taking over his tone.
You hadn’t truly noticed you were. He held onto you with one hand and took his other to brush away your tears.
Your voice was small when you finally answered him. “What if something happens to you?”
He looked at you with understanding. “I worry about that, of course. I worry that I’ll come back with a gruesome injury and you will no longer love me,” he attempted to jest.
You shoved at the quilted material on his chest half-heartedly. “Stop,” you groaned, looking into the molten earth of his eyes. “If you returned home to me short a limb and badly beaten I would be happy, because you returned. Just promise me you will come back to me.”
Royce kissed you then, plush lips coming to their rightful place against your own. His strong hands, the ones that would wield his father’s sword in the coming days, rested firmly against your hips. He was insistent in his kisses, walking you to your bed until you both collapsed on the plush throws. You sighed out his name as he gathered your skirts and you both moaned when he felt the sodden wetness of your underclothes.
“Please,” you sighed out, barely a millimeter away from his lips. “I need you.”
He was dutiful when he made love to you, easing you onto his girthy length, trailing kisses on every piece of exposed skin he could find, making sure you reached your pleasure first before he chased his. He told you he loved you and that he would come back to you. He promised.
One month spent alone in your relatively empty castle with Lyonel Baratheon was… horrible. You did enjoy Lyonel at feasts or when he and your husband played card games and you heard the absolutely unrefined words that came from his mouth. He would typically make you laugh. But being practically alone with him with no one but your cooks and maids was pure torture. He was still funny, at times, but you realized after Royce was gone that first day, that Lyonel needed a lot of attention. And your mind had been elsewhere.
“Please, dear cousin,” he whined from one of the oversized seats in your library. “I am so bored.”
You snapped close the book you were reading before he followed you here. “Lyonel,” you groaned his name as you shot him a disapproving look. He was drunk and it was hardly midday. “The only reason you are here and not there,” you gestured vaguely to the direction of King’s Landing, “is because you are meant to protect me. To guard me,” you scoffed, as if the idea was ludicrous. Which it very well was. “You have been drunk for a fortnight!”
Lyonel stood up at that, wine sloshing from his chalice as if to prove your point. “I am hardly drunk, cousin. And if you would go on a hunt with me like I’ve been begging—”
“There will be no hunt,” you snapped.
“—I would not feel the need to fill my day with my cups,” he concluded, a smug smile on his face.
You shook your head. “I promised Royce I would not leave the grounds until he returned,” you stated, the same reminder you had been repeating for nearly a full moon leaving your lips before you could even think about what you were saying.
“Gods, I hope that is soon,” he replied with a drunken sneer, singing some folk song as he made his way out of the library to no doubt bother someone in the kitchens or stables.
You couldn’t agree more.
When you woke up the next morning, you felt wrong. It was still dark outside, the sound of cicadas chirping in the air and wolves howling in the distance were the only sounds to greet you. You strained your ears to hear someone working around the grounds, but you were met with only silence. You couldn’t go back to sleep though, so you opened your bedroom window and sat on your balcony, covering yourself with one of Royce’s plush throws, a bearskin he had caught himself.
There was an ache in your chest, the same feeling you had when you left Baelor’s chambers that day. It was empty and hollow, and you kept rubbing your fist against your breastbone as if to shake it loose. You stayed out on your balcony all morning, watching the sunrise across the Stormlands, ignoring your maids as they urged you to dress, and struggling down a few spoonfuls of oats at their insistence. You had no idea what was wrong.
By midday, you had finally dressed yourself, a woollen grey dress that was comforting amidst the unease you were feeling as you sat down with Lyonel in the vast dining room. He had been blabbering about something you could not find yourself to pay attention to.
“Something is wrong,” you told him, voice echoing through the room. It could easily seat fifty, a place you had hosted other Lords and Ladies in your yearlong marriage to much pleasure, but with only you two in it, it felt cold and lonely.
Lyonel took an assessing look at you. “Nothing is wrong,” he replied simply.
“How do you know?”
“How do you know that there is?” he snapped at you, annoyance lacing his features. He looked so much like Royce—that same dark hair and dark eyes, but Lyonel was much more boyish where Royce was stoic and manly. Where Royce was hard lines and sculpted muscles, Lyonel was all soft edges and a slight physique.
“I just feel like something bad happened,” you whispered to him across the table. Your ears were burning and you felt pressure building in your chest. “Something is wrong,” you repeated.
Lyonel’s face fell at that. “We shouldn’t think of the worst,” he advised, voice quiet with concern for you. “We must keep praying he will return home safe.” It was one of the only times you had ever seen Lyonel turn serious.
You couldn’t voice anything else, so you nodded instead.
Baelor just watched your husband die.
There had been several small battles being fought all across Westeros for the past several months. Many allies of his family had suffered loss of life as a result of his grandfather’s hatred for his father. But it would end today. His half uncle, Brynden, had his plan, Baelor and Maekor had theirs. It would be bloody and gruesome, but if they were successful, this would be the end of Daemon Blackfyre.
It was a clash of steel. He rode next to Lord Royce and in front of at least a thousand Dornish and Stormland knights. It was because of you, for you, that they were all here. He was not sure if Royce loved you any less that he would have commanded all of his people to follow him into battle.
The past month had led him to appreciate Royce in a way he was not certain he ever would. He was clever, in a way he didn’t expect, and held a wisdom from his age that Baelor was sure he could learn from. If it wouldn’t kill him to do so, he would plan to spend more time in Storm’s End, learning from whatever Royce could teach him. But you would be there, and as much as he missed you, seeing you next to your husband, watching you look at him with love in your eyes and at Baelor with something close to pity, well that would just about kill him.
So he would decidedly not spend time at your home. And whatever wisdom Royce could invoke during this short time they spent together, well he would take it.
Like his idea to have Maekor’s convoy set up their shields at one side of the field, and have Baelor’s corner the rebel army. They would have nowhere to run, and it would make quick, yet bloody work of the rebellion.
Which is how he found himself in a field, grass turning rust with all the blood, bodies from both sides lying helpless on the ground, the stench of death around him. He dropped to his knees when he spotted Royce’s stag embossed armour.
“Gods, no, no, no,” Baelor sobbed, reaching for his heavy helm to assess his injuries.
Royce’s face was covered in dirt and blood, and he coughed up bloody spittle when he focused his eyes on Baelor.
“What is it?” Baelor asked, frantically checking over body for wounds. He harshly undid his armour, wincing at the sound Royce made from his touch.
“My side,” Royce choked out, limply gesturing to a bloody gash on his right side.
A weak spot, evidently, in his otherwise impenetrable armour.
It was large and gaping and Baelor knew, though it broke his heart to think it, that there would be no way to patch it up.
“Can you walk?” he whispered, eyes burning from the stench of the field or the blood surrounding him or possibly from thoughts of you.
Royce barked out a pained laugh. “I cannot feel my legs.”
“Gods,” Baelor murmured.
He watched as Royce reached to the side of him weakly, to gesture to his father’s sword.
“Please make sure Lyonel has this. He is the Lord of Storm’s End now. He deserves this sword.”
Baelor nodded at him, brows meeting in the center of his head as he watched Royce collect his final thoughts.
“Tell her… I love her. And that I tried to make it back,” his voice cracked as he looked up at Baelor. He reached for his hand and pulled it into his chest, the faint beating of his heart felt between the two men. “I know you love her, too,” Royce told him, no secrets left between the men.
“I do.”
“Promise me you’ll take care of her for me,” he pleaded. “Make sure she’s okay. Try to make her happy,” he trailed off, breaths weakening.
Baelor squeezed his hand, willing him to snap back to life. “I will, Royce. I promise you.”
Royce’s eyes made it back to Baelor’s. “Good,” he sighed out. “You will make a good king one day,” he rasped.
Baelor watched as his eyes fell closed and his head lulled to the side. The grip he held on his hand loosened completely and Baelor shut his eyes tightly to will the burning tears not to escape.
He would take care of you, make sure you’re okay, and do his best to make you happy. He promised.
a/n: thank you for reading. as always, comments and reblogs are appreciated! I promise things are going to start looking up for these two 🥲
taglist (lmk if you want to be added or removed): @heavengirls111 @starkhead @blue-aconite @thenafilms @numberonerwitch @emneedshelp @white-olive @qardasngan @person-005 @earthlydiva @draco-in-the-sky @dracaria-dracarys
pairing: f1 driver! daeron targaryen x fem!reader
summary: it was supposed to be just another interview. but the way he looks at her even when the cameras stop rolling says otherwise.
warnings: formula one setting, the targaryens have a racing team, no use of Y/N, third person narration. english is not my first language, i apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
word count: 10.4k
a/n: so… i think it's obvious who one of my favorite targaryens is. i swear i try to think of ideas for everyone equally, but daeron's just flow much more easily, and i'm not going to deny that, i'm just a girl in love with a blondie. could i have used this idea with a real driver? yes, but it was more fun to do it this way. i hope you enjoy it and like it as much as i did!
The Targaryen name had been in Formula One longer than many of the circuits on the current calendar. It wasn't just another team, but a legacy, a dynasty, a fire rooted in carbon fiber.
From the outside, Targaryen Racing inspired the same reverence as Ferrari or Williams, a historic and dramatic team, impossible to ignore. Inside, it was a family business transformed into something dangerously efficient. Everyone participated in one way or another, to a greater or lesser degree, knowing that the family's image could not be tarnished and that they had to proudly wear the dragon crest that had represented them for decades.
Baelor Targaryen, the CEO, was currently responsible for the team's image, marketing, sponsorship and commercial performance. A retired driver for the dragon team, he had several victories to his name years ago, including two championships. Until he decided to focus on the business side. He was the public face, measured, charismatic, always composed. He seemed born to be in charge.
While Aerys and Rhaegel worked as engineers in the factory, ensuring that the design and production of the car parts went well, Maekar worked inside the paddock, being the team director. He was everything you look for in a team director, coolness, strategy, calmness, knowing that his hand wouldn't tremble when making a decision in the middle of a race that would make anyone else's hair stand on end.
And then there were the drivers, family members who were old enough to participate actively.
Valarr Targaryen, the kind of driver everyone adored, with his sweet smile, his elegant and well-thought-out answers, the driver you'd want if you had the chance, the PR team's lifeline whenever there was an issue to address. He was calm and confident personified, a driver with both cunning and decorum. The complete opposite of Aerion Targaryen, brilliant but volatile, unpredictable, never knowing what he might do next, what his next move might be both on and off the track. He split his time between being a reserve driver for the Formula One team and the team's lead driver in the IndyCar series.
And then there was Daeron Targaryen.
Considered by many to be one of the best drivers of the moment, endowed with a natural talent that couldn't be taught, fast, intelligent, always focused on achieving the best result. But that wasn't what people focused on when they talked about him, nor his incredible results, his podium finishes, or his performance. Rather, it was the fact that he was one of the most distant and reserved drivers in the paddock, with his curt answers, his polite disinterest and the way media days seemed to drain the life out of him.
He hated attending press conferences, avoiding them whenever possible. He hated the journalists' questions, which always focused on the same two or three topics. He hated the expectant stares directed at him, as if what he did on the track wasn't enough and he had to prove himself off it as well. He was a headache for the PR team every time he ignored, intentionally or unintentionally, the journalists' questions, leaving awkward silences and accusatory looks upon him, looks he no longer cared about.
He hated being asked questions there, having to think about the answer people would like to hear, the one the team would approve of, the one his father and uncles would expect, instead of what he would like to say. He couldn't even be like his brother, Aerion, who already had a reputation for answering with the first thing that came to mind. Because it seemed that people were only entertained when Aerion was the one doing it, but if he said something they didn't like, something that didn't fit with the image they'd created of him, then he was wrong. And that's why he disliked questions, journalists, and interviews so much, and he ran away from them whenever he could.
And that was the main reason why she didn't expect to receive a response from his team accepting the invitation to her podcast.
She had sent it without much hope, trying her luck, even though she knew the chances of Daeron Targaryen agreeing to appear on an episode were minuscule, almost nonexistent. She knew of other Formula One podcasters, much more well-known than her, who had tried to invite him and had been rejected every time, so she thought she was just going to be another one of the bunch. She was greatly surprised when she received that email accepting the invitation, several days later than expected, when the hope of even receiving a simple email saying 'no, he'll pass' had already vanished. Instead, she received an email asking for details of the meeting so they could coordinate everything.
She had read the email three times before fully understanding it. Not because it was too long, but because she still didn't believe it was real, she even had to double-check that the email address was correct and that she wasn't falling for some kind of scam.
Daeron Targaryen had agreed to be on her podcast, he really had, and she was about to start jumping and dancing with excitement.
She had to do well, she couldn't fail. She couldn't let this opportunity slip away.
The days leading up to the recording passed in a strange mix of excitement and quiet, contained panic. The kind of panic that made her check the cables at midnight, rewatch her own episodes with a critical eye, looking for something she could tweak for this occasion or improve, and adjust the light boxes until the light settled on the chairs like warm honey instead of a clinical white.
Her studio was small and intimate. A spare room converted in the apartment she shared with only her notes and her collection of miniature helmets. Walls in a soft and welcoming color, a low shelf filled with signed gloves and faded racing posters, a couple of miniature cars among technical manuals, alongside more casual books of fantasy, science fiction and romance, plus a few photographs of her with friends and her pet. Nothing ostentatious, and everything with a purpose, to make it a warm, welcoming place that offered a sense of tranquility, a place you wanted to be.
The main camera was on a sturdy tripod, its lens perfectly framed for the two-person setup, next to a second camera slightly tilted for close-up shots and reactions. The microphones were already attached and tested, their levels perfectly adjusted. She had learned everything through trial and error: late-night lighting design classes, hours of experimenting with white balance, framing tutorials that made her cross-eyed, dozens of video tutorials and courses to see how she could improve audio, image, lighting, even the way she addressed interviewees. It was a mix of many different things fitted together, like a collage, but it worked. The room felt like a space for conversation, not a stage, a place to chat as if she were having coffee with a friend.
And yet, she was nervous. Because this was Daeron Targaryen.
It wasn't just his presence that made her nervous, but rather the possibility that he wouldn't like anything she'd prepared.
That he would come in, sit down, answer politely, and leave.
That it would just be another interview, another box checked.
He arrived exactly on time.
No entourage. No PR handler hovering at his shoulder with a clipboard and a forced smile. He stood alone in the doorway, wearing a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans, a worn cap perched on his head, his hands loosely in his pockets. Nothing about him screamed that he was a famous person, one of the top 20 drivers in one of the most important categories of motorsport, instead he looked casual, like any other boy his age.
When she opened the door, he looked up, and for a moment the world shrank to the calm gaze of his blue eyes, which contrasted sharply with everything around him. Up close, in person, they were so much more beautiful than in the interviews and photos she had seen.
“Hi,” she said introducing herself by name, a smile breaking through before nerves could swallow it, her eyes sparkled warmly, which was refreshing to him.
“Hi.” his voice was lower in person, softer around the edges than the clipped press-conference clips she’d studied. “You’re… her.”
She laughed under her breath. “Yeah. It's a pleasure to meet you, come in.”
He stepped inside slowly, gaze sweeping over the setup, the cameras, the diffused lights, the small table with two glasses of water and a notebook she’d barely touched. He paused in front of the main camera, tilting his head like he was reading the specs on the lens.
“This is all you?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
“Every cable, every light, every course I failed and retook,” she answered, closing the door behind him. The click sounded louder than it should have in the quiet room. “I wanted control over how it looked and sounded. No one else editing my questions or cutting the best parts.”
Daeron nodded once, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Smart.”
She led him to the chair that was his, approaching to adjust the microphone in front of him to his height, able to smell the scent of the perfume he was wearing, one so delicious that it made her want to inhale deeply just to capture more of the aroma, but she wasn't going to do it, she couldn't do it, it was too strange at that moment and with that closeness. As she adjusted the microphone, his gaze fell upon her profile, appreciating more closely what he had already seen before, perhaps looking at her for longer than was prudent.
"Would you like anything in particular to drink?" she asked, taking a step back and observing him with a small, gentle smile. "I brought water just in case, because I wasn't sure if you'd prefer anything specific. I can offer you tea, coffee, or even a cold drink like juice or soda, it's up to you."
Daeron watched her for a few seconds considering her options, until he finally nodded. "A soda would be fine, any you have."
She nodded, walking over to a small refrigerator in the corner of the room and taking out two cans of different flavored soda, placing them in front of him. "Whichever you want, it's on the house," she said, making him smile. Making him smile was a complete victory in her book. He took the one on the right while she sat down opposite him, then she took the one he had left untouched.
“Okay, I don't know exactly what your agent told you about our email conversation regarding this," she began. "But it's just a conversation, not a script. If you hate a question or topic, we move on. If you want to stop, we stop.”
He watched her carefully. “You don’t script it?”
“Not even the order of the topics,” she tapped gently on the cover of her notebook. “I have some ideas jotted down, but I don’t really stick to them. I much prefer the conversation to flow in the moment, I prefer that the guest feels comfortable and not interrogated as if they had committed a heinous crime.”
There was a brief silence as he watched her with a small smile on his lips, until he finally spoke. "That's why I said yes,” she looked up, surprised by his words. "I watched some of your previous episodes," he added calmly, as if those words were no big deal. "The episode with the Alpine mechanic who'd been working there for several years, the episode with Bortoleto when he was still in F2, the episode with the first female race engineer, Laura Müller, and even the episode with Hannah Schmitz, which was really good, to be honest I enjoyed them all,” he gave her a soft smile. “You let people talk, you're not chasing headlines or things that will get you easy views.”
Her cheeks flushed at his words and the way he was looking at her, his blue eyes studying her intently. "I try."
"Good, I like it," he murmured, giving her one last look before opening the can of soda and taking a small sip. "Whenever you want, I'm more than ready."
"Okay, let's do it."
The red light on the main camera blinked on with a soft click and for the first few seconds the studio felt smaller than it had during all her setup checks. The diffused lights cast a warm, even glow across the two chairs, catching the faint sheen on the miniature helmets behind her. He sat straight-backed at first, the way he did in every press conference, polite, composed and his blue eyes flicked once to the lens, then settled on her face, waiting.
She didn’t launch into the usual opener. No ‘How’s the season going’ or ‘Tell us about the car’. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her notebook balanced on her knee more for comfort than reference, and smiled.
“Most people think being a Formula One driver is all about the speed,” she began, voice calm and curious. “But what’s one thing about the day-to-day of it that still surprises even you, something that has nothing to do with lap times or podiums?”
Daeron blinked, the question clearly not what he had braced for. He took a moment, he actually took it, his gaze drifting down to the table as he turned the words over. His fingers rested lightly on the arm of the chair, no longer gripping. When he answered, his voice was measured, but there was already a thread of honesty in it.
“I think… I think it’s the quiet,” he said after a long second. “Between sessions. Everyone assumes the garage is nonstop chaos, but there are these pockets of… nothing. You’re just sitting there in the car, helmet off, listening to the team talk about tire wear like it’s the most important conversation in the world. And you realize the car is breathing with you. It’s weirdly intimate.” He paused again, as if testing whether that sounded ridiculous out loud, then gave a small, almost surprised huff. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that before.”
She didn’t jump in to fill the silence, she simply nodded letting it breathe, and the corner of his mouth lift at the space she gave him.
Encouraged by the way he was already leaning forward a fraction, she continued. “What about the moment the lights go out on the grid? Every driver talks about the pressure, the strategy, the lap times. But… What does it actually feel like?”
His brows drew together slightly, thoughtful. “To drive?”
She shook her head gently. “No. To get in the car.”
Silence settled between them, not empty but alive with consideration. “For a race?” he asked.
“For anything,” she said
This time he didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he thought, really thought, the way someone does when they’re not performing an answer. The studio lights caught the faint tension easing from his shoulders.
“It’s different every time,” he began. “But there’s always this moment,” he continued, eyes drifting somewhere just past the cameras now, as if he were seeing the garage in his mind, “Right before you put the helmet on.” His thumb traced slow, absent patterns along the edge of the table. “Everything’s loud, people shouting, engineers calling out numbers, mechanics moving, radios crackling, footsteps everywhere. And then it just… narrows.”
She leaned in a fraction more, drawn by the shift in his tone. “Narrows how?”
He met her eyes again, briefly, like he was deciding whether to let her all the way in. “Like none of that matters anymore, it’s just you and the car. It’s like the world compresses. Your heartbeat is louder than the engines for half a second, then everything snaps into focus and it’s just… the car and the track and this weird, calm certainty that you’ve done this a thousand times in your head already.” Daeron paused briefly before continuing. “And when you sit down,” he added, voice almost reverent, “when they strap you in… it’s almost calm.”
Her expression softened, seeing how his gaze seemed to shine. “Calm?”
He nodded once, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest, most private smile she had seen from him yet. “Yeah. It’s the only place where everything makes sense.”
There was something almost confessional in the way he said it, like the words had slipped out before he could weigh them. She held the moment carefully, letting it linger.
They moved through a few more like that, questions about the strange camaraderie between rival drivers in the cool-down room, about the way the car’s balance changes lap by lap and how he reads it like a conversation instead of data and more things. With each one Daeron’s answers grew longer, less clipped. He took his time, pausing to find the right words, his posture loosening until he was no longer sitting like a man under scrutiny but like someone actually enjoying the exchange. His hands gestured more freely and a real smile, small, but warm, appeared when he described the way the steering wheel vibrates differently in the wet versus the dry, like the car was whispering secrets only he could hear.
And then, gently, the conversation deepened.
“You’ve talked about growing up in this world,” she said, voice still soft but carrying a new weight. “The Targaryen name has been part of Formula One longer than most of the circuits on the calendar. Your family has always been involved in this world, everyone has some kind of participation, that sounds... intense.”
That earned a small huff of laughter. “That’s one word for it.”
She tilted your head, watching him carefully now. “Was it always easy?”
The question lingered, he didn’t answer right away. This time, the silence stretched a little longer, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, it was a pleasant, understanding silence.
“No,” he said finally in a soft voice.
“You don't have to answer if you don't want to, we can talk about something else,” she said, observing him with a gentle expression, her gaze showing genuine concern.
“No, it's fine, really there's no problem,” he assured her with a small smile. “It’s complicated,” he admitted.
She nodded. “I imagine.”
“When you grow up in it,” he continued, “it stops being just… racing,” his gaze flickered briefly toward the floor. “It’s expectations, legacy and roles you don’t really choose.” The room felt smaller, more intimate. “And everyone thinks,” he added, a faint edge slipping into his tone, “that because it’s this…” he gestured vaguely, meaning the team, the fame, the privilege, “That it’s easy.” Daeron paused again, finally looking back at her. “But it’s not, not always. There were… points where I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep doing it.”
Those words made her still. “Because of the pressure?” she asked softly.
Daeron hesitated, then shook his head just one. “Because of them,” that words landed heavier. “My father,” he clarified. “And my brother… We clashed,” he said, choosing the words carefully. “A lot.” His jaw tightened slightly, not with anger, but with the bitterness of memory. “It gets… exhausting,” he admitted. “When the thing you love is also the thing that keeps breaking things apart.”
Her chest tightened at that. “And did you ever come close to walking away?” she asked.
His eyes flicked to hers, for a second something unguarded passed through them. “Yeah,” he said. “But in the end, I didn’t.”
She held his gaze. “Why?”
Now his voice was softer, almost as if he were confessing it to himself and not just to her.
“Because we fixed it,” he began to explain. “It took time, quite a bit, actually,” he said, unable to suppress a smile. “And it’s not perfect… I don’t think it ever will be, but it’s much better.” He watched her for a few seconds, noticing the way she was looking at him, truly listening, no agenda behind her eyes. “I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before without expecting a specific answer… The right answer.”
She shrugged lightly, the motion easy and sincere. “I don’t think there’s a right or wrong answer. Just the answer you feel you need to give. It’s never wrong if it’s what you truly want to say.”
The words settled between them like a shared secret, the studio lights softening the edges of everything. Daeron’s shoulders had eased further into the chair, the rigid posture from the beginning of the recording now almost entirely gone. He studied her for a long moment, something warm flickering in the blue of his eyes, before she decided to nudge the conversation forward again, gentle but curious.
“So, when you’re not in the car,” she asked, tilting her head slightly, “what do you do to keep Formula One from swallowing you whole? Everyone talks about training and simulators and recovery, but… what actually keeps you from burning out?”
Daeron didn’t answer right away. He took his time, the way he had with every question she’d asked, his thumb brushing once along the edge of the microphone stand as he thought. Then a small, private smile curved his lips, the kind that made the sharp lines of his face look suddenly younger. “Reading,” he said simply. “A lot of reading.”
Her eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. She hadn’t expected that, she imagined him responding with something much more physical, some kind of sport to burn off energy or something similar. She didn't expect that hobby at all, but at the same time she felt it made sense, given the way he spoke and how he expressed himself.
“Reading?” she echoed, unable to hide the delighted note in her voice.
He nodded, the smile deepening. “Yeah. Every time we land in a new city for a race weekend, I slip out incognito, hood up, cap low and no team gear. I hunt down the little independent bookstores, the ones tucked down side streets or hidden behind cafés. The kind that smells like old paper and coffee and feel like they’ve been waiting just for you. I’ll spend an hour in there, no schedule, just pulling books off the shelves until something catches me. It’s the only time the noise in my head actually goes quiet.”
She stared at him for a beat, warmth blooming across her face. “I didn’t expect that at all,” she admitted with a soft laugh. “But… I love it. I read too or at least I used to. Right now I’m stuck in this awful reader’s block, I pick up a book, read three pages and then put it down again. It’s been months.”
Daeron's eyes lit up once again, just as they had several times before during their conversation, bright and unguarded in a way the cameras had never caught before. “Really?” he asked, voice warm with genuine interest. “What kind of books do you like?”
She shrugged, smiling back at him, the conversation feeling less like an interview and more like two people who had somehow forgotten the microphones were still rolling. “I’m not picky at all. I’ll read pretty much anything if it grabs me, but fantasy and science fiction are my favorites. The ones that pull you into another world so completely you forget what time it is.”
His grin widened, slow and real, the kind that made the blue of his eyes look almost luminous under the studio lights. He looked… happy. More than happy, he was engaged in a way she had never seen in any press conference clip, any podium interview, any team radio footage. This was Daeron without the weight of the legacy pressing down on him, just a man talking about something he loved to someone who actually wanted to hear it.
“I can recommend some,” he said immediately, enthusiasm threading through every word. “There are a couple of fantasy series that are perfect for breaking a reader’s block, short enough to finish fast but rich enough to make you want to keep going. And a sci-fi novella that’s basically impossible to put down once you start. If you want, I can put together a quick list. Nothing overwhelming. Just… things that might help pull you back in.”
She felt her own smile bloom, bright and unguarded. “I’d love that. Seriously. I’ll take any help I can get right now.”
Daeron held her gaze across the small space between them, the air in the studio feeling warmer, closer. He looked more alive in that moment than he ever had in front of a camera, animated, relaxed, the usual guarded tension nowhere to be found. The blue of his eyes caught the light with a quiet spark, and for a second neither of them spoke, the moment stretching comfortably between them like an unspoken understanding.
Then she leaned forward a fraction, a playful glint returning to her expression as she tilted her head. “Okay,” she said, voice light but laced with mischief. “Since we’re already way off the usual script… I’m going to ask you something completely unfair now.”
Daeron’s eyebrows rose, but the corner of his mouth curved into a slow, intrigued smile, the kind that made the sharp lines of his face soften instantly. “I’m starting to expect that from you. Go on, let's see what you have for me.”
She grinned. “If your car had a personality, like if it could actually talk back to you mid-race, what do you think it would sound like? Sarcastic? Dramatic? Would it roast you for missing an apex?”
He let out a low, surprised laugh, the sound rich and genuine in the quiet room, and leaned back in his chair with one arm draped casually over the backrest. His eyes lit up even brighter, the enthusiasm from their book talk carrying straight into that.
“God, that’s actually a good question,” he said, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe she’d gone there. “No one’s ever asked me that. Most people want to know about tire strategy or DRS zones.” He paused, thinking for a beat, then grinned wider. “Alright. My car… it’d be a grumpy old bastard. The kind that mutters under its breath the whole session. ‘You’re late on the throttle again, Daeron. I’m not your therapist.’ But then, right when I nail a perfect corner, it’d go dead silent for half a second and just… approve. Like it’s proud but too stubborn to admit it.”
She laughed, delighted, and he watched her with open interest, his gaze lingering on the way her eyes crinkled at the corners.
“See?” he added, voice dropping just a touch, teasing. “You’re dangerous. You make me actually think about this stuff instead of giving the same three answers I’ve rehearsed a thousand times.”
Encouraged, she didn’t let the energy dip. “Alright, next unfair one. What’s the most ridiculous superstition or ritual you’ve ever seen in the paddock? Not the cute ones everyone knows about. Something properly weird that no one talks about.”
Daeron’s grin widened, boyish and unrestrained, the kind the cameras at the paddock had never captured. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, messing it slightly, and leaned forward, elbows on the table like they were swapping secrets at the back of a garage instead of recording a podcast.
“You’re killing me with these,” he said, laughter still coloring his tone, clearly loving every second. “Okay, there’s this one mechanic, he had been with us for years, who swears the car runs better if he tells it a dad joke right before the formation lap. Every single time, dead serious. Last race he hit me with: ‘What’s a car’s favorite movie genre?... Auto-biography.’ I almost missed my grid spot because I was laughing so hard.” he said, watching her laugh at the stupid joke. “The worst part? We set a personal best that weekend and now half the garage does it. It’s ridiculous and somehow… it works. Or at least we all pretend it does.”
He was smiling the entire time he spoke, animated in a way that made the whole studio feel brighter. When he finished, he tilted his head, eyes locked on hers, a shared spark between them.
“You’ve got a gift for this,” he murmured, low enough that it felt intimate, just for her. “Pulling out questions that actually make me want to answer instead of just survive the next ten minutes. Most interviews feel like pulling teeth. This… this is fun.” The compliment hung in the warm glow of the studio lights, and for a second the only sound was the faint hum of the recording equipment. Daeron didn’t look away, instead he leaned forward a little more.
“So tell me,” he said, voice still carrying that quiet warmth, “how did you start all this? The podcast, the setup, learning the lighting and the mics… why Formula One in the first place?”
She blinked, caught off guard, a small laugh escaping her. “Wait, hold on. You’re the one being interviewed here.”
Daeron’s grin widened, slow and teasing, the kind that made the corners of his blue eyes crinkle. He let out a low chuckle, the sound easy and unrestrained. “Before we started you told me this was more of a conversation.” He raised an eyebrow, playful challenge clear in his tone. “So… conversation goes both ways, right? Come on, I want to know.”
She hesitated for half a second, cheeks still faintly warm, but the sincerity in his gaze made it impossible to dodge. She tucked one leg beneath her in the chair, mirroring his relaxed posture without realizing it and shrugged lightly. “It started with my grandfather, my mother’s father,” she said, voice softening at the memory. “He was obsessed with Formula One. Used to record every race on VHS tapes when I was little, and we’d watch them together on weekends. He’d point out the lines through the corners, explain why a certain driver braked so late, and I just… fell in love with it. The noise, the strategy, the way the cars looked like they were barely holding on to the track. When he passed away, I wanted something that kept that feeling alive, something that would help me keep it present in my life. The podcast started as a way to talk about it with other people who got it, just like I did with my grandfather. Then it turned into this whole thing, learning the tech, building the studio, making it feel like a real conversation between people who share the same passion instead of another press conference.” She gave a small, self-conscious smile. “Guess I’m still chasing that feeling from the couch with him.”
Daeron listened without interrupting, his eyes never leaving her face. The way he watched her, head slightly tilted, expression open and attentive, and a small, gentle smile adorning his lips, made her feel a little tingling inside, a warmth that spread through her chest and to the rest of her body. When she finished, he was quiet for a beat and then asked, softer now, “Have you ever been to a race in person? Not just on TV?”
She nodded, a wistful little smile tugging at her lips. “Once. When I was a kid, it was Monza with my grandfather. I still remember the sound of the engines hitting the straight, the way the ground shook under my feet. It was magic.” Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Never managed to make it back as an adult, though.”
She let out a quiet laugh, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Because the universe apparently has a personal vendetta against my race weekend plans. I’m studying mechanical engineering at university so between lectures, assignments, and keeping the podcast running, my schedule is chaos and I don't have enough free time that lines up for a whole race weekend somewhere else. Every time I finally clear a weekend and buy tickets, something happens. I was supposed to go to Imola two years ago… then the floods hit and the whole GP got canceled. Booked Brazil last season and woke up the week before with emergency appendicitis, I ended up selling my pass from a hospital bed. There was Spa the year before that, but my flight got canceled due to a strike and I couldn’t get another one in time. It’s become a running joke with my friends at this point. The paddock curse, they call it.”
Daeron didn’t answer right away. He simply looked at her, blue eyes steady and thoughtful, letting the silence stretch for several long seconds as he registered every word. The story, the quiet resignation wrapped in humor, the way her fingers fidgeted lightly with the edge of her notebook. Something in his gaze shifted, a spark igniting behind those sharp eyes like an idea had just landed fully formed in his mind. But he didn’t voice it. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifted into a slow, soft smile, warm and almost private.
“That’s… a truly impressive amount of bad luck,” he said, voice low and gentle, the amusement in it soft rather than mocking. “The paddock curse, huh?”
She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “Yeah, I’m used to it at this point. I’ve always been the kind of person who’s a little unlucky. Some people just have that energy, I guess.”
"You remind me a lot of Charles... Leclerc, with his famous bad luck," he said, making her laugh. Daeron tilted his head slightly, watching her with that same quiet intensity. His smile deepened, something warmer threading through it now. “But there is a thing about luck,” he murmured, the words low and smooth, almost like a promise. “It can change at any moment. Usually when you least expect it.”
The statement lingered between them, heavier than the casual tone suggested, the studio lights casting gentle shadows across his face as he held her gaze a beat longer than necessary. She felt a flutter low in her chest, but before she could respond, he leaned back in his chair with an easy shift of posture, the playful spark returning to his eyes like he was inviting her to keep the conversation rolling.
“I have one more question for you,” he said after a beat, voice low and playful, the corner of his mouth twitching with mischief. “And I want an honest answer.”
She raised an eyebrow, already sensing the trap. “I’m listening.”
“Who’s your favorite driver on the grid right now?”
The question landed between them with a spark. She let out a soft, surprised laugh and shook her head quickly, cheeks warming all over again.
“Oh no. Absolutely not,” she said, biting her lip to hold back a grin. “I’m not answering that.”
Daeron’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise, but his smile only grew wider, charming and relentless. “Why not?”
“Because it would look incredibly unprofessional,” she replied, fighting the laugh bubbling up in her chest. “Especially now, with you sitting right here. People have asked me that exact question on other episodes and I’ve always dodged it. I can’t suddenly have a favorite when one of you is across the table from me. It would be… biased. Obvious.”
He tilted his head, violet eyes sparkling with amusement and something more insistent. He leaned forward slightly, appreciating how she tried to avoid his gaze. “Come on,” he coaxed, voice smooth and teasing, warm enough to make the air between them feel closer. “It’s just us. The camera’s still rolling but I promise I won’t tell a soul. You made me answer all kinds of personal stuff tonight about family, pressure, the whole legacy thing. It’s only fair.” His grin turned boyish, devastatingly effective. “You can trust me, I assure you that I’m very good at keeping secrets.”
She laughed softly, flustered, covering her face with one hand for half a second before peeking at him between her fingers. “You’re terrible. You’re really going to push until I say something, aren’t you?”
“I am,” he admitted without shame, leaning in a fraction more, eyes locked on hers. “I’m curious now. You can’t build all this tension and then leave me hanging. Just one name. Or… a hint. I’ll take anything.”
The silence stretched for a long moment, charged and easy all at once. She studied him, the way the soft lights softened the sharp lines of his jaw, the genuine spark of interest in his expression, and finally exhaled a small sigh, the corners of her mouth curving into a faint, almost secretive smile.
"Alright," she said softly, her tone light and carefree, as if her words carried little weight. "Let's just say... he's someone who used to seem very distant, as if you could only admire him from afar and that was enough. But lately... he's revealed much more than just his on-track persona, and he's even more interesting than I already thought, I already admired him before, but after all that, even more so,” she said, emphasizing ‘lately’.
She didn't say a name, team, or color that could give a concrete clue, but Daeron didn't need to in order to understand her words, he had caught it. He went very still, the playful expression on his face shifting into something deeper, warmer, a slow smile spreading across his lips that reached all the way to his eyes. Recognition flickered there, bright and unmistakable, followed by a quiet satisfaction that made the violet of his gaze glow under the lights.
“Interesting,” he murmured, low and smooth, never breaking eye contact. “Very interesting.”
He didn’t push further. He simply held her gaze across the small space between them, the air suddenly thicker, the chemistry that had been simmering all evening crackling into something sharper, more intentional.
The podcast continued for a while longer after that, the minutes slipping by unnoticed. They drifted through lighter topics, his favorite tracks in the wet, the strangest fan signs he’d ever seen, a ridiculous story about a team radio mix-up that had half the garage in stitches, but the rhythm between them had changed. Daeron answered with more ease than before, throwing questions back at her again and again, the reserved driver from the press conferences nowhere to be found. The red light on the camera stayed on far longer than either of them had planned, the conversation feeling less like content and more like two people who had simply forgotten it was being recorded.
When she finally reached over and killed the recording with a soft click, the sudden quiet felt almost intimate. The red light blinked off, and the studio exhaled.
She exhaled too, a bright, genuine smile breaking across her face as she looked at him. “Daeron… thank you. Seriously. Thank you for accepting the invitation and for being so open. This was incredible, believe it or not, this is the longest episode I've done since I started this, it was... really fun talking to you.”
He watched her for a moment, the soft studio lights catching the faint silver threads in his hair that escaped from under his cap and the subtle curve of his shoulders as he relaxed fully into the chair. Then he smiled, slow, sincere and undeniably pleased. “Thank you for inviting me,” he replied, voice warm and unfiltered. “This was one of the best interviews I’ve ever done. Actually, it might be the best one. I had a really good time.” He paused, then added with a small grin that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, “If anyone is lucky enough to get an invitation from you, I’d definitely tell them to say yes. Without hesitation.”
Her cheeks flushed a deep, immediate red at his words, the color spreading fast and unmistakable across her face. She tried to hide it by glancing down at her notebook, fiddling with the corner of a page, but there was no hiding the way her ears burned or the pleased little smile she couldn’t quite suppress.
Daeron couldn’t help the satisfied grin that tugged at his lips as he watched her blush. There was something deeply pleasing about the way she reacted, genuine, unguarded, and so clearly affected by him. His gaze lingered on her flushed cheeks a second longer than necessary, the subtle spark of interest from earlier now openly warm, almost triumphant. He looked like a man who had just decided something important… and was very much enjoying the decision.
The studio lights still hummed softly overhead but neither of them moved to stand. Daeron stayed seated for another moment, fingers drumming once against the arm of his chair as if weighing his next words. Then he rose slowly and glanced around the small, carefully built space one last time, the cameras, the diffused lights, the miniature helmets on the shelf, before his eyes returned to her.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he told her, voice low and steady. “This was genuinely one of the best interviews I’ve had in a long time. And I don’t say that lightly.” He paused, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “So… let me do something for you in return.”
She blinked, already shaking her head before he could finish. “Daeron, you don’t have to…”
“I can get you a pass,” he continued anyway, cutting gently through her protest. “For any race still left on the calendar, you pick. VIP, paddock access, garage, whatever you want. As my guest. The whole experience.”
The words hung in the quiet room. Her eyes widened, and she let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t have to do that,” she said quickly, cheeks still pink. “Really. That’s… that’s a lot. You should save those passes for sponsors, or important people, or…”
“No,” he interrupted, calm but firm, stepping a half-pace closer. “I don’t reserve them for sponsors. I reserve them for people I actually want there.” His blue eyes held hers, steady and certain. “And I want you there. You’ve never had a proper race weekend in person as an adult. I’d like to fix that.”
She stared at him, caught completely off guard. “Are you sure? I mean… you don’t have to feel obligated or anything. The fact that you even came here tonight was already more than enough.”
“I’m sure,” he said simply, the words carrying the same quiet conviction he used when talking about the car. “I’ll tell my agent tonight. She’ll reach out and coordinate whichever weekend works for you, just let us know which one you choose.”
For a second she didn’t know what to say. Her mouth opened, closed again and finally she managed a soft, stunned “Thank you,” the words came out a little breathless. “I… I don’t even know what to say. That’s incredibly kind.”
Daeron’s smile softened, something almost boyish flashing across his face. “I’m looking forward to hearing from you. And to seeing you in the garage.”
He reached for his phone, which was still on the table, but instead of simply turning toward the door, he moved a little closer, close enough for the scent of his perfume to envelop her again. Then, almost without thinking, he leaned down and placed a soft, light kiss on her cheek.
The gesture surprised them both.
She froze, warmth flooding her face all over again, the spot where his lips had brushed her skin tingling. Daeron pulled back just as quickly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his own features, his eyes widening a fraction, as if the impulse had caught him off guard too. He wasn’t the type to do that. He didn’t invite people into his garage; he liked the quiet there, the focus, the absence of extra noise or eyes. He certainly didn’t kiss near-strangers on the cheek after a single conversation. But something about her energy, the way she listened, the way she made the whole room feel easy, had slipped past every usual defense he kept up.
He cleared his throat, the faintest hint of color touching his own cheeks now. "Have a good day," he murmured in a lower, almost apologetic voice. And then he was gone, the door clicking shut softly behind him, leaving the studio suddenly much quieter than it had been all evening.
That same night, long after the city lights had softened and the apartment had settled into its usual late-hour hush, she sat cross-legged on her couch with her laptop open. The edited episode was finally uploaded, teaser clip posted to Instagram, the video on youtube, full audio live on every platform and a short behind-the-scenes story showing the warm studio lighting and two empty chairs side by side. She captioned the main post simply: Longest episode we’ve ever recorded… and easily one of the best. Thank you to Daeron Targaryen for trusting me with the conversation. Go listen/watch if you want the real version of him.
She hit publish, closed the laptop and didn’t think much more of it. Until her phone lit up twenty minutes later.
@/daerontargaryen started following you.
Then the likes began, on the teaser clip, on the studio photo, on an older post of her at a sim-racing event. Even a comment appeared under the main post: Best conversation I’ve had in ages. Thanks for having me.
And a few minutes later, his story went live: a still frame from the recording, the warm lighting catching both of them mid-laugh, the caption simple and unfiltered: Had a really good time today. Go watch/listen if you want the longest episode yet. Thanks again.
She stared at the notification for a long moment, heart doing something complicated in her chest, before she smiled down at her screen in the dark. God, it didn't feel real for her, it felt like she was in a dream or living in one of her fantasies. But it was real, and there was still more to come.
The Baku City Circuit stretched along the Caspian Sea like a concrete ribbon edged in golden afternoon light, the high walls of the old city looming in the distance and the roar of engines already echoing off the barriers even before the weekend officially began. She had chosen that one, the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, partly because it was the next race after their interview and partly because the idea of seeing Daeron on one of his self-proclaimed “cursed” tracks felt like tempting fate in the best possible way.
When she stepped into the Targaryen garage that afternoon, lanyard heavy against her chest and nerves fluttering low in her stomach, he was already waiting for her. Daeron spotted her instantly. The focused set of his shoulders eased the moment their eyes met, and that slow, private smile she was starting to recognize crossed his face. He crossed the garage floor in a few easy strides, race suit half-zipped, hair slightly messy from the simulation session he’d just left.
“You made it,” he said, voice warm over the low hum of tools and radio chatter. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
He gave her the full tour, unhurried, almost boyish in his enthusiasm. He pointed out the telemetry screens flickering with live data, explained how the tight, bumpy streets of Baku punished every mistake in ways most circuits didn’t, gestured toward the tire blankets and the precise angles of the front wing they’d been tweaking all morning. His hand brushed the small of her back once or twice as he guided her around busy mechanics, the touch light but deliberate. Everything he said was casual, technical but never condescending, like he genuinely wanted her to see the garage the way he did, not just a workplace, but as a living, breathing machine.
Halfway through, Valarr Targaryen wandered over from the other side of the garage, helmet tucked under one arm, his easy smile the polar opposite of Daeron’s usual reserve. The older driver’s eyes lit up with open amusement when he saw her.
“So… this is the famous podcaster,” Valarr said, extending a hand with a smile on his face. “Pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Too much, actually. Daeron hasn’t shut up about that episode since he got back.”
Daeron went bright red, actually red, his blue eyes narrowing in immediate embarrassment. “Valarr, shut the hell up,” he muttered, elbowing his cousin hard enough to make Valarr laugh outright. “Ignore him. He’s just jealous no one invites him on decent podcasts.”
Valarr winked at her, utterly unbothered. “He’s not wrong. Welcome to the dragon’s den. Try not to let him bore you with tire talk.”
The weekend unfolded in a blur of noise and color. Free practice was chaotic, Baku’s narrow walls unforgiving, cars brushing barriers and sparks flying, but Daeron was fast, consistent, already looking more at home than the data suggested he usually felt here. Qualifying on Saturday was electric; he fought his way to P4 on the grid, a strong starting position for a track that had never been kind to him. She watched it all from the back of the garage, heart in her throat every time his car screamed past the pit wall, the sheer speed and precision of it hitting differently when you were standing ten meters away instead of behind a screen.
After qualifying, when the garage had quieted and the sun was dipping low over the harbor, Daeron found her again. He was still in his race suit half-zipped, hair damp with sweat, but his eyes were bright.
“Hungry?” he asked, tilting his head toward the team hospitality suite tucked above the pits. “Come eat with me. I need to sit down before I fall over.”
The hospitality area was quiet at that hour, just a few engineers scattered at tables and the low clink of cutlery. They claimed a corner table overlooking the circuit, plates of fresh food between them. Daeron leaned back in his chair, studying her across the small space, something playful yet serious flickering in his expression.
“I have a proposition for you,” he said, voice dropping a little. “This track has been my personal nightmare for years. Never won here, barely even podiumed. But tomorrow… if I win from P4, you owe me a date. A real one. Just us, no cameras, no microphones, no pre-planned questions or safe topics. Just dinner, or whatever you want. No Targaryen legacy, no podcast. Just… us,” he said, his gaze meeting hers.
She stared at him, fork paused halfway to her mouth, a surprised laugh escaping. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” his gaze was steady, his blue eyes warm but utterly serious. “I’m very serious.”
She set the fork down, heart picking up speed. “And if you don’t win? What do I get?”
Daeron’s smile turned slow and confident, the kind that made her stomach flip. “You can choose anything you want, just name your prize… But don’t think about it too hard,” he leaned in slightly, voice low, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Because I’m going to win the race… and the bet.”
She raised an eyebrow, observing him silently for a few seconds before speaking again. "Aren't you being a little too confident?"
He shook his head, clicking his tongue. "No, because I know how well I perform when I'm really motivated," he paused briefly, his intense gaze fixed on her, sending a shiver down her spine. "And you, you're an incredible motivation."
She let out a soft breath through her nose, shaking her head slightly as if trying to steady herself, though the faint smile tugging at her lips gave her away. “I didn’t think you were this bold,” she admitted, a hint of amusement threading through her voice. “Or this… persuasive.”
That earned a quiet, almost thoughtful look from him. She was right, it wasn't common to see him that way, it wasn't like him at all, but those were the reactions she stirred in him. Her mere presence there encouraged him to want to try new things, to take risks, to step outside his comfort zone. “Maybe you don’t know all of my sides yet,” Daeron said, tone calmer now, but no less intentional. “There are a few you haven’t seen.”
Her brows lifted just a fraction, intrigued despite herself. “And you plan on showing them all in one weekend?” she teased lightly.
He shook his head, a small exhale of something like a laugh escaping him. “No,” he said. “I’d rather take my time.” There was something in the way he said it, unhurried, certain, that made the air between them feel warmer, heavier. “I’d like to know yours too,” he added after a beat, his gaze steady on hers. “The ones that don’t come with a microphone or a camera.”
Her fingers curled slightly against the table, the weight of his words settling somewhere just beneath her ribs. For a moment, she didn’t answer, didn’t trust herself to. Instead, she studied him, really looked at him, as if trying to figure out whether this was just another layer of charm, another carefully placed move. But there was nothing rehearsed about him now, no PR-approved smile, no measured distance. Just him, waiting for her.
“So,” he prompted gently, tilting his head just a little. “Do you accept the bet?”
Her lips parted, then pressed together again as she let out a small, breathy laugh, more to herself than to him. “You realize,” she said slowly, “that if you lose, I could ask for something very inconvenient.”
His smile returned, slow and unbothered. “I’m counting on it.”
That made her shake her head again, though this time there was no real resistance left in it.
“Alright,” she said finally, a quiet resolve settling into her tone. “You have a deal.” Something flickered in his expression at that, subtle, but unmistakably satisfied.
She extended her hand across the table, a playful formality to the gesture. He looked at it for a fraction of a second before taking it, his grip warm, firm, but lingering just a second longer than necessary.
“Careful,” he murmured, eyes holding hers. “You might regret that.”
“I doubt it.”
He huffed a quiet breath, something like amusement slipping through, and then, just before letting go, he gave her the smallest wink. Something quick, deliberate, gone almost as soon as it appeared. But not fast enough for her to miss it and definitely not fast enough for her heart to ignore it.
Sunday morning arrived wrapped in tension and sea breeze. The garage was alive with final preparations, tires stacked, engineers huddled over screens, the car gleaming under the lights. Daeron stood beside it in full race kit, helmet still off, focused but relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen before. She hovered nearby with the small group of guests and team staff allowed in the inner sanctum, trying not to look as nervous as she felt.
Before he climbed in, he turned to her, eyes locking on hers amid the controlled chaos. “Kiss for good luck?” he asked, voice just loud enough for her to hear over the radio chatter.
She glanced at the cameras mounted around the garage, the lenses that never stopped rolling. “Daeron… there are cameras everywhere.”
He shrugged, unconcerned, stepping closer until the heat of his body cut through the cool garage air. “I don’t care.”
She hesitated half a second, then rose on her toes and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, right where the edge of his balaclava would sit. He pulled back, eyebrows raised in mock disappointment.
“Not there,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Well, you didn’t specify,” she teased, cheeks warm. “You just asked for a kiss.”
Daeron’s grin turned predatory, delighted. “If I win, you’re going to owe me the one I was actually expecting, a new addition to our bet,” he shrugged, smiling. "Terms can always be changed."
“Cheater,” she accused, but there was no heat in it, only laughter and something warmer blooming in her chest.
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned in once more, voice low against her ear. “See you from the top step of the podium, then.”
The race itself was pure Baku chaos. From the moment the lights went out, the street circuit lived up to its reputation: early contact between midfield cars, a safety car on lap twelve after a spectacular spin into the wall, another virtual safety car when debris littered the main straight. Strategy calls flew back and forth over the radio, aggressive tire choices, a last-minute switch to softs under the second safety car that most of the field missed. Daeron drove like a man possessed, calm and precise on the radio but ruthless on track, picking off positions one by one through the narrow twisty sections where others faltered.
When he crossed the line first, P4 to P1 in the most unlikely of places, the garage erupted. Cheers, hugs, mechanics slamming each other on the back. She stood among them, hands over her mouth, heart hammering so hard she could barely hear the radio celebration.
The podium ceremony dragged on in the best way, champagne spraying in golden arcs under the setting sun, the silver trophy gleaming in Daeron’s hands, the national anthem echoing off the grandstands. When it finally ended, he disappeared briefly with the team before reappearing in the garage still damp with champagne, race suit half-unzipped, hair wild.
She was chatting with one of the senior mechanics near the back, laughing about a particularly dramatic radio call, when Daeron appeared at her elbow.
“Mind if I steal her for a few minutes?” he asked the mechanic, polite but already reaching for her hand. The older man grinned knowingly and waved them off.
Daeron didn’t speak as he led her through a side door and around the back of the garages, away from the lingering cameras and the post-race bustle. The narrow alley between the temporary structures was quiet, shadowed by the high walls of the circuit, the distant roar of the crowd and engines fading to a low hum. He stopped, turned to face her, and for the first time all weekend the confident driver looked almost boyish, triumphant, breathless, blue eyes bright with euphoria, with the emotion of victory in more ways than one.
“I won,” he said simply, the words carrying the weight of everything that had led there.
Before she could answer, he cupped the side of her face with one hand, gentle, calloused from years of steering wheels, and paused. His thumb brushed once along her cheekbone, slow and deliberate, his blue eyes searching hers in the shadowed quiet of the alley. The question was there without words, Are you sure? He held himself perfectly still, giving her the space to step back, to change her mind, to keep whatever line still existed between them intact.
She didn’t step back. Instead, she gave the smallest, almost imperceptible nod, barely a tilt of her chin, more felt than seen, and that was all he needed. It was then that Daeron closed the distance.
The kiss was slow at first, almost careful, like he was still half-convinced she might vanish if he moved too fast. His lips brushed hers softly, warm and tentative, tasting faintly of champagne and the faint salt of the sea air that still clung to his skin. For a heartbeat the world held still, the distant roar of the paddock fading into nothing. Then she leaned into it, a soft, involuntary sigh escaping her as her hands rose to rest against his chest, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his race suit.
Everything shifted.
The kiss deepened, slow and sweet and certain, like something they had both been circling since the night he’d left her studio. His other hand slid to her waist, drawing her closer until the dragon crest on his suit pressed against her, warm from the heat of his body and the afternoon sun. She felt the steady thud of his heart beneath her palm, matching the quick rhythm of her own. Without thinking, she slid one hand up into the strands at the nape of his neck, threading her fingers through his slightly damp hair and tugging gently, enough to draw a low, surprised sound from the back of his throat, something between a sigh and a quiet groan that made her smile against his mouth.
Daeron answered by tilting his head, kissing her a little deeper, a little slower, like he wanted to savor every second. His thumb brushed tenderly along her cheekbone again, the calluses there rough and grounding against her skin. Another soft sigh slipped from her lips as she melted further into him, the taste of victory and champagne and something that was simply him filling her senses. The narrow alley behind the garages disappeared, the noise of mechanics and cameras and the entire chaotic weekend narrowed down to just that, the warmth of his body, the gentle tug of her fingers in his hair, the way he held her like she was something precious he’d been waiting to claim.
When they finally broke apart, it was only by a breath. Their foreheads rested together, noses brushing, both of them breathing a little harder than before. Daeron’s eyes stayed closed for another second, a small, utterly content smile curving his lips as he let out a quiet, happy sigh against her mouth.
“Worth the wait,” he murmured, voice low and rough with feeling, thumb still tracing lazy circles on her cheek.
She laughed, a little dazed, fingers still curled in the fabric of his race suit. “You really are a cheater.”
“Only when the prize is this good,” he replied, stealing one quicker kiss before the noise of the paddock started to creep back in around them.
Daeron kept his forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. The distant cheers and engine roars felt miles away. For once, there were no microphones, no cameras, no carefully chosen words. Everything between them had happened off the record and somehow, that made it feel more honest than anything either of them had ever said on camera.
She smiled against his lips, fingers still lightly tangled in his hair.
They had started with an interview.
They had ended with something neither of them had planned to find.
And neither of them planned on letting it end here.
pairing: f1 driver! daeron targaryen x fem!reader
summary: it was supposed to be just another interview. but the way he looks at her even when the cameras stop rolling says otherwise.
warnings: formula one setting, the targaryens have a racing team, no use of Y/N, third person narration. english is not my first language, i apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
word count: 10.4k
a/n: so… i think it's obvious who one of my favorite targaryens is. i swear i try to think of ideas for everyone equally, but daeron's just flow much more easily, and i'm not going to deny that, i'm just a girl in love with a blondie. could i have used this idea with a real driver? yes, but it was more fun to do it this way. i hope you enjoy it and like it as much as i did!
The Targaryen name had been in Formula One longer than many of the circuits on the current calendar. It wasn't just another team, but a legacy, a dynasty, a fire rooted in carbon fiber.
From the outside, Targaryen Racing inspired the same reverence as Ferrari or Williams, a historic and dramatic team, impossible to ignore. Inside, it was a family business transformed into something dangerously efficient. Everyone participated in one way or another, to a greater or lesser degree, knowing that the family's image could not be tarnished and that they had to proudly wear the dragon crest that had represented them for decades.
Baelor Targaryen, the CEO, was currently responsible for the team's image, marketing, sponsorship and commercial performance. A retired driver for the dragon team, he had several victories to his name years ago, including two championships. Until he decided to focus on the business side. He was the public face, measured, charismatic, always composed. He seemed born to be in charge.
While Aerys and Rhaegel worked as engineers in the factory, ensuring that the design and production of the car parts went well, Maekar worked inside the paddock, being the team director. He was everything you look for in a team director, coolness, strategy, calmness, knowing that his hand wouldn't tremble when making a decision in the middle of a race that would make anyone else's hair stand on end.
And then there were the drivers, family members who were old enough to participate actively.
Valarr Targaryen, the kind of driver everyone adored, with his sweet smile, his elegant and well-thought-out answers, the driver you'd want if you had the chance, the PR team's lifeline whenever there was an issue to address. He was calm and confident personified, a driver with both cunning and decorum. The complete opposite of Aerion Targaryen, brilliant but volatile, unpredictable, never knowing what he might do next, what his next move might be both on and off the track. He split his time between being a reserve driver for the Formula One team and the team's lead driver in the IndyCar series.
And then there was Daeron Targaryen.
Considered by many to be one of the best drivers of the moment, endowed with a natural talent that couldn't be taught, fast, intelligent, always focused on achieving the best result. But that wasn't what people focused on when they talked about him, nor his incredible results, his podium finishes, or his performance. Rather, it was the fact that he was one of the most distant and reserved drivers in the paddock, with his curt answers, his polite disinterest and the way media days seemed to drain the life out of him.
He hated attending press conferences, avoiding them whenever possible. He hated the journalists' questions, which always focused on the same two or three topics. He hated the expectant stares directed at him, as if what he did on the track wasn't enough and he had to prove himself off it as well. He was a headache for the PR team every time he ignored, intentionally or unintentionally, the journalists' questions, leaving awkward silences and accusatory looks upon him, looks he no longer cared about.
He hated being asked questions there, having to think about the answer people would like to hear, the one the team would approve of, the one his father and uncles would expect, instead of what he would like to say. He couldn't even be like his brother, Aerion, who already had a reputation for answering with the first thing that came to mind. Because it seemed that people were only entertained when Aerion was the one doing it, but if he said something they didn't like, something that didn't fit with the image they'd created of him, then he was wrong. And that's why he disliked questions, journalists, and interviews so much, and he ran away from them whenever he could.
And that was the main reason why she didn't expect to receive a response from his team accepting the invitation to her podcast.
She had sent it without much hope, trying her luck, even though she knew the chances of Daeron Targaryen agreeing to appear on an episode were minuscule, almost nonexistent. She knew of other Formula One podcasters, much more well-known than her, who had tried to invite him and had been rejected every time, so she thought she was just going to be another one of the bunch. She was greatly surprised when she received that email accepting the invitation, several days later than expected, when the hope of even receiving a simple email saying 'no, he'll pass' had already vanished. Instead, she received an email asking for details of the meeting so they could coordinate everything.
She had read the email three times before fully understanding it. Not because it was too long, but because she still didn't believe it was real, she even had to double-check that the email address was correct and that she wasn't falling for some kind of scam.
Daeron Targaryen had agreed to be on her podcast, he really had, and she was about to start jumping and dancing with excitement.
She had to do well, she couldn't fail. She couldn't let this opportunity slip away.
The days leading up to the recording passed in a strange mix of excitement and quiet, contained panic. The kind of panic that made her check the cables at midnight, rewatch her own episodes with a critical eye, looking for something she could tweak for this occasion or improve, and adjust the light boxes until the light settled on the chairs like warm honey instead of a clinical white.
Her studio was small and intimate. A spare room converted in the apartment she shared with only her notes and her collection of miniature helmets. Walls in a soft and welcoming color, a low shelf filled with signed gloves and faded racing posters, a couple of miniature cars among technical manuals, alongside more casual books of fantasy, science fiction and romance, plus a few photographs of her with friends and her pet. Nothing ostentatious, and everything with a purpose, to make it a warm, welcoming place that offered a sense of tranquility, a place you wanted to be.
The main camera was on a sturdy tripod, its lens perfectly framed for the two-person setup, next to a second camera slightly tilted for close-up shots and reactions. The microphones were already attached and tested, their levels perfectly adjusted. She had learned everything through trial and error: late-night lighting design classes, hours of experimenting with white balance, framing tutorials that made her cross-eyed, dozens of video tutorials and courses to see how she could improve audio, image, lighting, even the way she addressed interviewees. It was a mix of many different things fitted together, like a collage, but it worked. The room felt like a space for conversation, not a stage, a place to chat as if she were having coffee with a friend.
And yet, she was nervous. Because this was Daeron Targaryen.
It wasn't just his presence that made her nervous, but rather the possibility that he wouldn't like anything she'd prepared.
That he would come in, sit down, answer politely, and leave.
That it would just be another interview, another box checked.
He arrived exactly on time.
No entourage. No PR handler hovering at his shoulder with a clipboard and a forced smile. He stood alone in the doorway, wearing a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans, a worn cap perched on his head, his hands loosely in his pockets. Nothing about him screamed that he was a famous person, one of the top 20 drivers in one of the most important categories of motorsport, instead he looked casual, like any other boy his age.
When she opened the door, he looked up, and for a moment the world shrank to the calm gaze of his blue eyes, which contrasted sharply with everything around him. Up close, in person, they were so much more beautiful than in the interviews and photos she had seen.
“Hi,” she said introducing herself by name, a smile breaking through before nerves could swallow it, her eyes sparkled warmly, which was refreshing to him.
“Hi.” his voice was lower in person, softer around the edges than the clipped press-conference clips she’d studied. “You’re… her.”
She laughed under her breath. “Yeah. It's a pleasure to meet you, come in.”
He stepped inside slowly, gaze sweeping over the setup, the cameras, the diffused lights, the small table with two glasses of water and a notebook she’d barely touched. He paused in front of the main camera, tilting his head like he was reading the specs on the lens.
“This is all you?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
“Every cable, every light, every course I failed and retook,” she answered, closing the door behind him. The click sounded louder than it should have in the quiet room. “I wanted control over how it looked and sounded. No one else editing my questions or cutting the best parts.”
Daeron nodded once, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Smart.”
She led him to the chair that was his, approaching to adjust the microphone in front of him to his height, able to smell the scent of the perfume he was wearing, one so delicious that it made her want to inhale deeply just to capture more of the aroma, but she wasn't going to do it, she couldn't do it, it was too strange at that moment and with that closeness. As she adjusted the microphone, his gaze fell upon her profile, appreciating more closely what he had already seen before, perhaps looking at her for longer than was prudent.
"Would you like anything in particular to drink?" she asked, taking a step back and observing him with a small, gentle smile. "I brought water just in case, because I wasn't sure if you'd prefer anything specific. I can offer you tea, coffee, or even a cold drink like juice or soda, it's up to you."
Daeron watched her for a few seconds considering her options, until he finally nodded. "A soda would be fine, any you have."
She nodded, walking over to a small refrigerator in the corner of the room and taking out two cans of different flavored soda, placing them in front of him. "Whichever you want, it's on the house," she said, making him smile. Making him smile was a complete victory in her book. He took the one on the right while she sat down opposite him, then she took the one he had left untouched.
“Okay, I don't know exactly what your agent told you about our email conversation regarding this," she began. "But it's just a conversation, not a script. If you hate a question or topic, we move on. If you want to stop, we stop.”
He watched her carefully. “You don’t script it?”
“Not even the order of the topics,” she tapped gently on the cover of her notebook. “I have some ideas jotted down, but I don’t really stick to them. I much prefer the conversation to flow in the moment, I prefer that the guest feels comfortable and not interrogated as if they had committed a heinous crime.”
There was a brief silence as he watched her with a small smile on his lips, until he finally spoke. "That's why I said yes,” she looked up, surprised by his words. "I watched some of your previous episodes," he added calmly, as if those words were no big deal. "The episode with the Alpine mechanic who'd been working there for several years, the episode with Bortoleto when he was still in F2, the episode with the first female race engineer, Laura Müller, and even the episode with Hannah Schmitz, which was really good, to be honest I enjoyed them all,” he gave her a soft smile. “You let people talk, you're not chasing headlines or things that will get you easy views.”
Her cheeks flushed at his words and the way he was looking at her, his blue eyes studying her intently. "I try."
"Good, I like it," he murmured, giving her one last look before opening the can of soda and taking a small sip. "Whenever you want, I'm more than ready."
"Okay, let's do it."
The red light on the main camera blinked on with a soft click and for the first few seconds the studio felt smaller than it had during all her setup checks. The diffused lights cast a warm, even glow across the two chairs, catching the faint sheen on the miniature helmets behind her. He sat straight-backed at first, the way he did in every press conference, polite, composed and his blue eyes flicked once to the lens, then settled on her face, waiting.
She didn’t launch into the usual opener. No ‘How’s the season going’ or ‘Tell us about the car’. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her notebook balanced on her knee more for comfort than reference, and smiled.
“Most people think being a Formula One driver is all about the speed,” she began, voice calm and curious. “But what’s one thing about the day-to-day of it that still surprises even you, something that has nothing to do with lap times or podiums?”
Daeron blinked, the question clearly not what he had braced for. He took a moment, he actually took it, his gaze drifting down to the table as he turned the words over. His fingers rested lightly on the arm of the chair, no longer gripping. When he answered, his voice was measured, but there was already a thread of honesty in it.
“I think… I think it’s the quiet,” he said after a long second. “Between sessions. Everyone assumes the garage is nonstop chaos, but there are these pockets of… nothing. You’re just sitting there in the car, helmet off, listening to the team talk about tire wear like it’s the most important conversation in the world. And you realize the car is breathing with you. It’s weirdly intimate.” He paused again, as if testing whether that sounded ridiculous out loud, then gave a small, almost surprised huff. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that before.”
She didn’t jump in to fill the silence, she simply nodded letting it breathe, and the corner of his mouth lift at the space she gave him.
Encouraged by the way he was already leaning forward a fraction, she continued. “What about the moment the lights go out on the grid? Every driver talks about the pressure, the strategy, the lap times. But… What does it actually feel like?”
His brows drew together slightly, thoughtful. “To drive?”
She shook her head gently. “No. To get in the car.”
Silence settled between them, not empty but alive with consideration. “For a race?” he asked.
“For anything,” she said
This time he didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he thought, really thought, the way someone does when they’re not performing an answer. The studio lights caught the faint tension easing from his shoulders.
“It’s different every time,” he began. “But there’s always this moment,” he continued, eyes drifting somewhere just past the cameras now, as if he were seeing the garage in his mind, “Right before you put the helmet on.” His thumb traced slow, absent patterns along the edge of the table. “Everything’s loud, people shouting, engineers calling out numbers, mechanics moving, radios crackling, footsteps everywhere. And then it just… narrows.”
She leaned in a fraction more, drawn by the shift in his tone. “Narrows how?”
He met her eyes again, briefly, like he was deciding whether to let her all the way in. “Like none of that matters anymore, it’s just you and the car. It’s like the world compresses. Your heartbeat is louder than the engines for half a second, then everything snaps into focus and it’s just… the car and the track and this weird, calm certainty that you’ve done this a thousand times in your head already.” Daeron paused briefly before continuing. “And when you sit down,” he added, voice almost reverent, “when they strap you in… it’s almost calm.”
Her expression softened, seeing how his gaze seemed to shine. “Calm?”
He nodded once, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest, most private smile she had seen from him yet. “Yeah. It’s the only place where everything makes sense.”
There was something almost confessional in the way he said it, like the words had slipped out before he could weigh them. She held the moment carefully, letting it linger.
They moved through a few more like that, questions about the strange camaraderie between rival drivers in the cool-down room, about the way the car’s balance changes lap by lap and how he reads it like a conversation instead of data and more things. With each one Daeron’s answers grew longer, less clipped. He took his time, pausing to find the right words, his posture loosening until he was no longer sitting like a man under scrutiny but like someone actually enjoying the exchange. His hands gestured more freely and a real smile, small, but warm, appeared when he described the way the steering wheel vibrates differently in the wet versus the dry, like the car was whispering secrets only he could hear.
And then, gently, the conversation deepened.
“You’ve talked about growing up in this world,” she said, voice still soft but carrying a new weight. “The Targaryen name has been part of Formula One longer than most of the circuits on the calendar. Your family has always been involved in this world, everyone has some kind of participation, that sounds... intense.”
That earned a small huff of laughter. “That’s one word for it.”
She tilted your head, watching him carefully now. “Was it always easy?”
The question lingered, he didn’t answer right away. This time, the silence stretched a little longer, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, it was a pleasant, understanding silence.
“No,” he said finally in a soft voice.
“You don't have to answer if you don't want to, we can talk about something else,” she said, observing him with a gentle expression, her gaze showing genuine concern.
“No, it's fine, really there's no problem,” he assured her with a small smile. “It’s complicated,” he admitted.
She nodded. “I imagine.”
“When you grow up in it,” he continued, “it stops being just… racing,” his gaze flickered briefly toward the floor. “It’s expectations, legacy and roles you don’t really choose.” The room felt smaller, more intimate. “And everyone thinks,” he added, a faint edge slipping into his tone, “that because it’s this…” he gestured vaguely, meaning the team, the fame, the privilege, “That it’s easy.” Daeron paused again, finally looking back at her. “But it’s not, not always. There were… points where I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep doing it.”
Those words made her still. “Because of the pressure?” she asked softly.
Daeron hesitated, then shook his head just one. “Because of them,” that words landed heavier. “My father,” he clarified. “And my brother… We clashed,” he said, choosing the words carefully. “A lot.” His jaw tightened slightly, not with anger, but with the bitterness of memory. “It gets… exhausting,” he admitted. “When the thing you love is also the thing that keeps breaking things apart.”
Her chest tightened at that. “And did you ever come close to walking away?” she asked.
His eyes flicked to hers, for a second something unguarded passed through them. “Yeah,” he said. “But in the end, I didn’t.”
She held his gaze. “Why?”
Now his voice was softer, almost as if he were confessing it to himself and not just to her.
“Because we fixed it,” he began to explain. “It took time, quite a bit, actually,” he said, unable to suppress a smile. “And it’s not perfect… I don’t think it ever will be, but it’s much better.” He watched her for a few seconds, noticing the way she was looking at him, truly listening, no agenda behind her eyes. “I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before without expecting a specific answer… The right answer.”
She shrugged lightly, the motion easy and sincere. “I don’t think there’s a right or wrong answer. Just the answer you feel you need to give. It’s never wrong if it’s what you truly want to say.”
The words settled between them like a shared secret, the studio lights softening the edges of everything. Daeron’s shoulders had eased further into the chair, the rigid posture from the beginning of the recording now almost entirely gone. He studied her for a long moment, something warm flickering in the blue of his eyes, before she decided to nudge the conversation forward again, gentle but curious.
“So, when you’re not in the car,” she asked, tilting her head slightly, “what do you do to keep Formula One from swallowing you whole? Everyone talks about training and simulators and recovery, but… what actually keeps you from burning out?”
Daeron didn’t answer right away. He took his time, the way he had with every question she’d asked, his thumb brushing once along the edge of the microphone stand as he thought. Then a small, private smile curved his lips, the kind that made the sharp lines of his face look suddenly younger. “Reading,” he said simply. “A lot of reading.”
Her eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. She hadn’t expected that, she imagined him responding with something much more physical, some kind of sport to burn off energy or something similar. She didn't expect that hobby at all, but at the same time she felt it made sense, given the way he spoke and how he expressed himself.
“Reading?” she echoed, unable to hide the delighted note in her voice.
He nodded, the smile deepening. “Yeah. Every time we land in a new city for a race weekend, I slip out incognito, hood up, cap low and no team gear. I hunt down the little independent bookstores, the ones tucked down side streets or hidden behind cafés. The kind that smells like old paper and coffee and feel like they’ve been waiting just for you. I’ll spend an hour in there, no schedule, just pulling books off the shelves until something catches me. It’s the only time the noise in my head actually goes quiet.”
She stared at him for a beat, warmth blooming across her face. “I didn’t expect that at all,” she admitted with a soft laugh. “But… I love it. I read too or at least I used to. Right now I’m stuck in this awful reader’s block, I pick up a book, read three pages and then put it down again. It’s been months.”
Daeron's eyes lit up once again, just as they had several times before during their conversation, bright and unguarded in a way the cameras had never caught before. “Really?” he asked, voice warm with genuine interest. “What kind of books do you like?”
She shrugged, smiling back at him, the conversation feeling less like an interview and more like two people who had somehow forgotten the microphones were still rolling. “I’m not picky at all. I’ll read pretty much anything if it grabs me, but fantasy and science fiction are my favorites. The ones that pull you into another world so completely you forget what time it is.”
His grin widened, slow and real, the kind that made the blue of his eyes look almost luminous under the studio lights. He looked… happy. More than happy, he was engaged in a way she had never seen in any press conference clip, any podium interview, any team radio footage. This was Daeron without the weight of the legacy pressing down on him, just a man talking about something he loved to someone who actually wanted to hear it.
“I can recommend some,” he said immediately, enthusiasm threading through every word. “There are a couple of fantasy series that are perfect for breaking a reader’s block, short enough to finish fast but rich enough to make you want to keep going. And a sci-fi novella that’s basically impossible to put down once you start. If you want, I can put together a quick list. Nothing overwhelming. Just… things that might help pull you back in.”
She felt her own smile bloom, bright and unguarded. “I’d love that. Seriously. I’ll take any help I can get right now.”
Daeron held her gaze across the small space between them, the air in the studio feeling warmer, closer. He looked more alive in that moment than he ever had in front of a camera, animated, relaxed, the usual guarded tension nowhere to be found. The blue of his eyes caught the light with a quiet spark, and for a second neither of them spoke, the moment stretching comfortably between them like an unspoken understanding.
Then she leaned forward a fraction, a playful glint returning to her expression as she tilted her head. “Okay,” she said, voice light but laced with mischief. “Since we’re already way off the usual script… I’m going to ask you something completely unfair now.”
Daeron’s eyebrows rose, but the corner of his mouth curved into a slow, intrigued smile, the kind that made the sharp lines of his face soften instantly. “I’m starting to expect that from you. Go on, let's see what you have for me.”
She grinned. “If your car had a personality, like if it could actually talk back to you mid-race, what do you think it would sound like? Sarcastic? Dramatic? Would it roast you for missing an apex?”
He let out a low, surprised laugh, the sound rich and genuine in the quiet room, and leaned back in his chair with one arm draped casually over the backrest. His eyes lit up even brighter, the enthusiasm from their book talk carrying straight into that.
“God, that’s actually a good question,” he said, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe she’d gone there. “No one’s ever asked me that. Most people want to know about tire strategy or DRS zones.” He paused, thinking for a beat, then grinned wider. “Alright. My car… it’d be a grumpy old bastard. The kind that mutters under its breath the whole session. ‘You’re late on the throttle again, Daeron. I’m not your therapist.’ But then, right when I nail a perfect corner, it’d go dead silent for half a second and just… approve. Like it’s proud but too stubborn to admit it.”
She laughed, delighted, and he watched her with open interest, his gaze lingering on the way her eyes crinkled at the corners.
“See?” he added, voice dropping just a touch, teasing. “You’re dangerous. You make me actually think about this stuff instead of giving the same three answers I’ve rehearsed a thousand times.”
Encouraged, she didn’t let the energy dip. “Alright, next unfair one. What’s the most ridiculous superstition or ritual you’ve ever seen in the paddock? Not the cute ones everyone knows about. Something properly weird that no one talks about.”
Daeron’s grin widened, boyish and unrestrained, the kind the cameras at the paddock had never captured. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, messing it slightly, and leaned forward, elbows on the table like they were swapping secrets at the back of a garage instead of recording a podcast.
“You’re killing me with these,” he said, laughter still coloring his tone, clearly loving every second. “Okay, there’s this one mechanic, he had been with us for years, who swears the car runs better if he tells it a dad joke right before the formation lap. Every single time, dead serious. Last race he hit me with: ‘What’s a car’s favorite movie genre?... Auto-biography.’ I almost missed my grid spot because I was laughing so hard.” he said, watching her laugh at the stupid joke. “The worst part? We set a personal best that weekend and now half the garage does it. It’s ridiculous and somehow… it works. Or at least we all pretend it does.”
He was smiling the entire time he spoke, animated in a way that made the whole studio feel brighter. When he finished, he tilted his head, eyes locked on hers, a shared spark between them.
“You’ve got a gift for this,” he murmured, low enough that it felt intimate, just for her. “Pulling out questions that actually make me want to answer instead of just survive the next ten minutes. Most interviews feel like pulling teeth. This… this is fun.” The compliment hung in the warm glow of the studio lights, and for a second the only sound was the faint hum of the recording equipment. Daeron didn’t look away, instead he leaned forward a little more.
“So tell me,” he said, voice still carrying that quiet warmth, “how did you start all this? The podcast, the setup, learning the lighting and the mics… why Formula One in the first place?”
She blinked, caught off guard, a small laugh escaping her. “Wait, hold on. You’re the one being interviewed here.”
Daeron’s grin widened, slow and teasing, the kind that made the corners of his blue eyes crinkle. He let out a low chuckle, the sound easy and unrestrained. “Before we started you told me this was more of a conversation.” He raised an eyebrow, playful challenge clear in his tone. “So… conversation goes both ways, right? Come on, I want to know.”
She hesitated for half a second, cheeks still faintly warm, but the sincerity in his gaze made it impossible to dodge. She tucked one leg beneath her in the chair, mirroring his relaxed posture without realizing it and shrugged lightly. “It started with my grandfather, my mother’s father,” she said, voice softening at the memory. “He was obsessed with Formula One. Used to record every race on VHS tapes when I was little, and we’d watch them together on weekends. He’d point out the lines through the corners, explain why a certain driver braked so late, and I just… fell in love with it. The noise, the strategy, the way the cars looked like they were barely holding on to the track. When he passed away, I wanted something that kept that feeling alive, something that would help me keep it present in my life. The podcast started as a way to talk about it with other people who got it, just like I did with my grandfather. Then it turned into this whole thing, learning the tech, building the studio, making it feel like a real conversation between people who share the same passion instead of another press conference.” She gave a small, self-conscious smile. “Guess I’m still chasing that feeling from the couch with him.”
Daeron listened without interrupting, his eyes never leaving her face. The way he watched her, head slightly tilted, expression open and attentive, and a small, gentle smile adorning his lips, made her feel a little tingling inside, a warmth that spread through her chest and to the rest of her body. When she finished, he was quiet for a beat and then asked, softer now, “Have you ever been to a race in person? Not just on TV?”
She nodded, a wistful little smile tugging at her lips. “Once. When I was a kid, it was Monza with my grandfather. I still remember the sound of the engines hitting the straight, the way the ground shook under my feet. It was magic.” Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Never managed to make it back as an adult, though.”
She let out a quiet laugh, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Because the universe apparently has a personal vendetta against my race weekend plans. I’m studying mechanical engineering at university so between lectures, assignments, and keeping the podcast running, my schedule is chaos and I don't have enough free time that lines up for a whole race weekend somewhere else. Every time I finally clear a weekend and buy tickets, something happens. I was supposed to go to Imola two years ago… then the floods hit and the whole GP got canceled. Booked Brazil last season and woke up the week before with emergency appendicitis, I ended up selling my pass from a hospital bed. There was Spa the year before that, but my flight got canceled due to a strike and I couldn’t get another one in time. It’s become a running joke with my friends at this point. The paddock curse, they call it.”
Daeron didn’t answer right away. He simply looked at her, blue eyes steady and thoughtful, letting the silence stretch for several long seconds as he registered every word. The story, the quiet resignation wrapped in humor, the way her fingers fidgeted lightly with the edge of her notebook. Something in his gaze shifted, a spark igniting behind those sharp eyes like an idea had just landed fully formed in his mind. But he didn’t voice it. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifted into a slow, soft smile, warm and almost private.
“That’s… a truly impressive amount of bad luck,” he said, voice low and gentle, the amusement in it soft rather than mocking. “The paddock curse, huh?”
She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “Yeah, I’m used to it at this point. I’ve always been the kind of person who’s a little unlucky. Some people just have that energy, I guess.”
"You remind me a lot of Charles... Leclerc, with his famous bad luck," he said, making her laugh. Daeron tilted his head slightly, watching her with that same quiet intensity. His smile deepened, something warmer threading through it now. “But there is a thing about luck,” he murmured, the words low and smooth, almost like a promise. “It can change at any moment. Usually when you least expect it.”
The statement lingered between them, heavier than the casual tone suggested, the studio lights casting gentle shadows across his face as he held her gaze a beat longer than necessary. She felt a flutter low in her chest, but before she could respond, he leaned back in his chair with an easy shift of posture, the playful spark returning to his eyes like he was inviting her to keep the conversation rolling.
“I have one more question for you,” he said after a beat, voice low and playful, the corner of his mouth twitching with mischief. “And I want an honest answer.”
She raised an eyebrow, already sensing the trap. “I’m listening.”
“Who’s your favorite driver on the grid right now?”
The question landed between them with a spark. She let out a soft, surprised laugh and shook her head quickly, cheeks warming all over again.
“Oh no. Absolutely not,” she said, biting her lip to hold back a grin. “I’m not answering that.”
Daeron’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise, but his smile only grew wider, charming and relentless. “Why not?”
“Because it would look incredibly unprofessional,” she replied, fighting the laugh bubbling up in her chest. “Especially now, with you sitting right here. People have asked me that exact question on other episodes and I’ve always dodged it. I can’t suddenly have a favorite when one of you is across the table from me. It would be… biased. Obvious.”
He tilted his head, violet eyes sparkling with amusement and something more insistent. He leaned forward slightly, appreciating how she tried to avoid his gaze. “Come on,” he coaxed, voice smooth and teasing, warm enough to make the air between them feel closer. “It’s just us. The camera’s still rolling but I promise I won’t tell a soul. You made me answer all kinds of personal stuff tonight about family, pressure, the whole legacy thing. It’s only fair.” His grin turned boyish, devastatingly effective. “You can trust me, I assure you that I’m very good at keeping secrets.”
She laughed softly, flustered, covering her face with one hand for half a second before peeking at him between her fingers. “You’re terrible. You’re really going to push until I say something, aren’t you?”
“I am,” he admitted without shame, leaning in a fraction more, eyes locked on hers. “I’m curious now. You can’t build all this tension and then leave me hanging. Just one name. Or… a hint. I’ll take anything.”
The silence stretched for a long moment, charged and easy all at once. She studied him, the way the soft lights softened the sharp lines of his jaw, the genuine spark of interest in his expression, and finally exhaled a small sigh, the corners of her mouth curving into a faint, almost secretive smile.
"Alright," she said softly, her tone light and carefree, as if her words carried little weight. "Let's just say... he's someone who used to seem very distant, as if you could only admire him from afar and that was enough. But lately... he's revealed much more than just his on-track persona, and he's even more interesting than I already thought, I already admired him before, but after all that, even more so,” she said, emphasizing ‘lately’.
She didn't say a name, team, or color that could give a concrete clue, but Daeron didn't need to in order to understand her words, he had caught it. He went very still, the playful expression on his face shifting into something deeper, warmer, a slow smile spreading across his lips that reached all the way to his eyes. Recognition flickered there, bright and unmistakable, followed by a quiet satisfaction that made the violet of his gaze glow under the lights.
“Interesting,” he murmured, low and smooth, never breaking eye contact. “Very interesting.”
He didn’t push further. He simply held her gaze across the small space between them, the air suddenly thicker, the chemistry that had been simmering all evening crackling into something sharper, more intentional.
The podcast continued for a while longer after that, the minutes slipping by unnoticed. They drifted through lighter topics, his favorite tracks in the wet, the strangest fan signs he’d ever seen, a ridiculous story about a team radio mix-up that had half the garage in stitches, but the rhythm between them had changed. Daeron answered with more ease than before, throwing questions back at her again and again, the reserved driver from the press conferences nowhere to be found. The red light on the camera stayed on far longer than either of them had planned, the conversation feeling less like content and more like two people who had simply forgotten it was being recorded.
When she finally reached over and killed the recording with a soft click, the sudden quiet felt almost intimate. The red light blinked off, and the studio exhaled.
She exhaled too, a bright, genuine smile breaking across her face as she looked at him. “Daeron… thank you. Seriously. Thank you for accepting the invitation and for being so open. This was incredible, believe it or not, this is the longest episode I've done since I started this, it was... really fun talking to you.”
He watched her for a moment, the soft studio lights catching the faint silver threads in his hair that escaped from under his cap and the subtle curve of his shoulders as he relaxed fully into the chair. Then he smiled, slow, sincere and undeniably pleased. “Thank you for inviting me,” he replied, voice warm and unfiltered. “This was one of the best interviews I’ve ever done. Actually, it might be the best one. I had a really good time.” He paused, then added with a small grin that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, “If anyone is lucky enough to get an invitation from you, I’d definitely tell them to say yes. Without hesitation.”
Her cheeks flushed a deep, immediate red at his words, the color spreading fast and unmistakable across her face. She tried to hide it by glancing down at her notebook, fiddling with the corner of a page, but there was no hiding the way her ears burned or the pleased little smile she couldn’t quite suppress.
Daeron couldn’t help the satisfied grin that tugged at his lips as he watched her blush. There was something deeply pleasing about the way she reacted, genuine, unguarded, and so clearly affected by him. His gaze lingered on her flushed cheeks a second longer than necessary, the subtle spark of interest from earlier now openly warm, almost triumphant. He looked like a man who had just decided something important… and was very much enjoying the decision.
The studio lights still hummed softly overhead but neither of them moved to stand. Daeron stayed seated for another moment, fingers drumming once against the arm of his chair as if weighing his next words. Then he rose slowly and glanced around the small, carefully built space one last time, the cameras, the diffused lights, the miniature helmets on the shelf, before his eyes returned to her.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he told her, voice low and steady. “This was genuinely one of the best interviews I’ve had in a long time. And I don’t say that lightly.” He paused, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “So… let me do something for you in return.”
She blinked, already shaking her head before he could finish. “Daeron, you don’t have to…”
“I can get you a pass,” he continued anyway, cutting gently through her protest. “For any race still left on the calendar, you pick. VIP, paddock access, garage, whatever you want. As my guest. The whole experience.”
The words hung in the quiet room. Her eyes widened, and she let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t have to do that,” she said quickly, cheeks still pink. “Really. That’s… that’s a lot. You should save those passes for sponsors, or important people, or…”
“No,” he interrupted, calm but firm, stepping a half-pace closer. “I don’t reserve them for sponsors. I reserve them for people I actually want there.” His blue eyes held hers, steady and certain. “And I want you there. You’ve never had a proper race weekend in person as an adult. I’d like to fix that.”
She stared at him, caught completely off guard. “Are you sure? I mean… you don’t have to feel obligated or anything. The fact that you even came here tonight was already more than enough.”
“I’m sure,” he said simply, the words carrying the same quiet conviction he used when talking about the car. “I’ll tell my agent tonight. She’ll reach out and coordinate whichever weekend works for you, just let us know which one you choose.”
For a second she didn’t know what to say. Her mouth opened, closed again and finally she managed a soft, stunned “Thank you,” the words came out a little breathless. “I… I don’t even know what to say. That’s incredibly kind.”
Daeron’s smile softened, something almost boyish flashing across his face. “I’m looking forward to hearing from you. And to seeing you in the garage.”
He reached for his phone, which was still on the table, but instead of simply turning toward the door, he moved a little closer, close enough for the scent of his perfume to envelop her again. Then, almost without thinking, he leaned down and placed a soft, light kiss on her cheek.
The gesture surprised them both.
She froze, warmth flooding her face all over again, the spot where his lips had brushed her skin tingling. Daeron pulled back just as quickly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his own features, his eyes widening a fraction, as if the impulse had caught him off guard too. He wasn’t the type to do that. He didn’t invite people into his garage; he liked the quiet there, the focus, the absence of extra noise or eyes. He certainly didn’t kiss near-strangers on the cheek after a single conversation. But something about her energy, the way she listened, the way she made the whole room feel easy, had slipped past every usual defense he kept up.
He cleared his throat, the faintest hint of color touching his own cheeks now. "Have a good day," he murmured in a lower, almost apologetic voice. And then he was gone, the door clicking shut softly behind him, leaving the studio suddenly much quieter than it had been all evening.
That same night, long after the city lights had softened and the apartment had settled into its usual late-hour hush, she sat cross-legged on her couch with her laptop open. The edited episode was finally uploaded, teaser clip posted to Instagram, the video on youtube, full audio live on every platform and a short behind-the-scenes story showing the warm studio lighting and two empty chairs side by side. She captioned the main post simply: Longest episode we’ve ever recorded… and easily one of the best. Thank you to Daeron Targaryen for trusting me with the conversation. Go listen/watch if you want the real version of him.
She hit publish, closed the laptop and didn’t think much more of it. Until her phone lit up twenty minutes later.
@/daerontargaryen started following you.
Then the likes began, on the teaser clip, on the studio photo, on an older post of her at a sim-racing event. Even a comment appeared under the main post: Best conversation I’ve had in ages. Thanks for having me.
And a few minutes later, his story went live: a still frame from the recording, the warm lighting catching both of them mid-laugh, the caption simple and unfiltered: Had a really good time today. Go watch/listen if you want the longest episode yet. Thanks again.
She stared at the notification for a long moment, heart doing something complicated in her chest, before she smiled down at her screen in the dark. God, it didn't feel real for her, it felt like she was in a dream or living in one of her fantasies. But it was real, and there was still more to come.
The Baku City Circuit stretched along the Caspian Sea like a concrete ribbon edged in golden afternoon light, the high walls of the old city looming in the distance and the roar of engines already echoing off the barriers even before the weekend officially began. She had chosen that one, the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, partly because it was the next race after their interview and partly because the idea of seeing Daeron on one of his self-proclaimed “cursed” tracks felt like tempting fate in the best possible way.
When she stepped into the Targaryen garage that afternoon, lanyard heavy against her chest and nerves fluttering low in her stomach, he was already waiting for her. Daeron spotted her instantly. The focused set of his shoulders eased the moment their eyes met, and that slow, private smile she was starting to recognize crossed his face. He crossed the garage floor in a few easy strides, race suit half-zipped, hair slightly messy from the simulation session he’d just left.
“You made it,” he said, voice warm over the low hum of tools and radio chatter. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
He gave her the full tour, unhurried, almost boyish in his enthusiasm. He pointed out the telemetry screens flickering with live data, explained how the tight, bumpy streets of Baku punished every mistake in ways most circuits didn’t, gestured toward the tire blankets and the precise angles of the front wing they’d been tweaking all morning. His hand brushed the small of her back once or twice as he guided her around busy mechanics, the touch light but deliberate. Everything he said was casual, technical but never condescending, like he genuinely wanted her to see the garage the way he did, not just a workplace, but as a living, breathing machine.
Halfway through, Valarr Targaryen wandered over from the other side of the garage, helmet tucked under one arm, his easy smile the polar opposite of Daeron’s usual reserve. The older driver’s eyes lit up with open amusement when he saw her.
“So… this is the famous podcaster,” Valarr said, extending a hand with a smile on his face. “Pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Too much, actually. Daeron hasn’t shut up about that episode since he got back.”
Daeron went bright red, actually red, his blue eyes narrowing in immediate embarrassment. “Valarr, shut the hell up,” he muttered, elbowing his cousin hard enough to make Valarr laugh outright. “Ignore him. He’s just jealous no one invites him on decent podcasts.”
Valarr winked at her, utterly unbothered. “He’s not wrong. Welcome to the dragon’s den. Try not to let him bore you with tire talk.”
The weekend unfolded in a blur of noise and color. Free practice was chaotic, Baku’s narrow walls unforgiving, cars brushing barriers and sparks flying, but Daeron was fast, consistent, already looking more at home than the data suggested he usually felt here. Qualifying on Saturday was electric; he fought his way to P4 on the grid, a strong starting position for a track that had never been kind to him. She watched it all from the back of the garage, heart in her throat every time his car screamed past the pit wall, the sheer speed and precision of it hitting differently when you were standing ten meters away instead of behind a screen.
After qualifying, when the garage had quieted and the sun was dipping low over the harbor, Daeron found her again. He was still in his race suit half-zipped, hair damp with sweat, but his eyes were bright.
“Hungry?” he asked, tilting his head toward the team hospitality suite tucked above the pits. “Come eat with me. I need to sit down before I fall over.”
The hospitality area was quiet at that hour, just a few engineers scattered at tables and the low clink of cutlery. They claimed a corner table overlooking the circuit, plates of fresh food between them. Daeron leaned back in his chair, studying her across the small space, something playful yet serious flickering in his expression.
“I have a proposition for you,” he said, voice dropping a little. “This track has been my personal nightmare for years. Never won here, barely even podiumed. But tomorrow… if I win from P4, you owe me a date. A real one. Just us, no cameras, no microphones, no pre-planned questions or safe topics. Just dinner, or whatever you want. No Targaryen legacy, no podcast. Just… us,” he said, his gaze meeting hers.
She stared at him, fork paused halfway to her mouth, a surprised laugh escaping. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” his gaze was steady, his blue eyes warm but utterly serious. “I’m very serious.”
She set the fork down, heart picking up speed. “And if you don’t win? What do I get?”
Daeron’s smile turned slow and confident, the kind that made her stomach flip. “You can choose anything you want, just name your prize… But don’t think about it too hard,” he leaned in slightly, voice low, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Because I’m going to win the race… and the bet.”
She raised an eyebrow, observing him silently for a few seconds before speaking again. "Aren't you being a little too confident?"
He shook his head, clicking his tongue. "No, because I know how well I perform when I'm really motivated," he paused briefly, his intense gaze fixed on her, sending a shiver down her spine. "And you, you're an incredible motivation."
She let out a soft breath through her nose, shaking her head slightly as if trying to steady herself, though the faint smile tugging at her lips gave her away. “I didn’t think you were this bold,” she admitted, a hint of amusement threading through her voice. “Or this… persuasive.”
That earned a quiet, almost thoughtful look from him. She was right, it wasn't common to see him that way, it wasn't like him at all, but those were the reactions she stirred in him. Her mere presence there encouraged him to want to try new things, to take risks, to step outside his comfort zone. “Maybe you don’t know all of my sides yet,” Daeron said, tone calmer now, but no less intentional. “There are a few you haven’t seen.”
Her brows lifted just a fraction, intrigued despite herself. “And you plan on showing them all in one weekend?” she teased lightly.
He shook his head, a small exhale of something like a laugh escaping him. “No,” he said. “I’d rather take my time.” There was something in the way he said it, unhurried, certain, that made the air between them feel warmer, heavier. “I’d like to know yours too,” he added after a beat, his gaze steady on hers. “The ones that don’t come with a microphone or a camera.”
Her fingers curled slightly against the table, the weight of his words settling somewhere just beneath her ribs. For a moment, she didn’t answer, didn’t trust herself to. Instead, she studied him, really looked at him, as if trying to figure out whether this was just another layer of charm, another carefully placed move. But there was nothing rehearsed about him now, no PR-approved smile, no measured distance. Just him, waiting for her.
“So,” he prompted gently, tilting his head just a little. “Do you accept the bet?”
Her lips parted, then pressed together again as she let out a small, breathy laugh, more to herself than to him. “You realize,” she said slowly, “that if you lose, I could ask for something very inconvenient.”
His smile returned, slow and unbothered. “I’m counting on it.”
That made her shake her head again, though this time there was no real resistance left in it.
“Alright,” she said finally, a quiet resolve settling into her tone. “You have a deal.” Something flickered in his expression at that, subtle, but unmistakably satisfied.
She extended her hand across the table, a playful formality to the gesture. He looked at it for a fraction of a second before taking it, his grip warm, firm, but lingering just a second longer than necessary.
“Careful,” he murmured, eyes holding hers. “You might regret that.”
“I doubt it.”
He huffed a quiet breath, something like amusement slipping through, and then, just before letting go, he gave her the smallest wink. Something quick, deliberate, gone almost as soon as it appeared. But not fast enough for her to miss it and definitely not fast enough for her heart to ignore it.
Sunday morning arrived wrapped in tension and sea breeze. The garage was alive with final preparations, tires stacked, engineers huddled over screens, the car gleaming under the lights. Daeron stood beside it in full race kit, helmet still off, focused but relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen before. She hovered nearby with the small group of guests and team staff allowed in the inner sanctum, trying not to look as nervous as she felt.
Before he climbed in, he turned to her, eyes locking on hers amid the controlled chaos. “Kiss for good luck?” he asked, voice just loud enough for her to hear over the radio chatter.
She glanced at the cameras mounted around the garage, the lenses that never stopped rolling. “Daeron… there are cameras everywhere.”
He shrugged, unconcerned, stepping closer until the heat of his body cut through the cool garage air. “I don’t care.”
She hesitated half a second, then rose on her toes and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, right where the edge of his balaclava would sit. He pulled back, eyebrows raised in mock disappointment.
“Not there,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Well, you didn’t specify,” she teased, cheeks warm. “You just asked for a kiss.”
Daeron’s grin turned predatory, delighted. “If I win, you’re going to owe me the one I was actually expecting, a new addition to our bet,” he shrugged, smiling. "Terms can always be changed."
“Cheater,” she accused, but there was no heat in it, only laughter and something warmer blooming in her chest.
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned in once more, voice low against her ear. “See you from the top step of the podium, then.”
The race itself was pure Baku chaos. From the moment the lights went out, the street circuit lived up to its reputation: early contact between midfield cars, a safety car on lap twelve after a spectacular spin into the wall, another virtual safety car when debris littered the main straight. Strategy calls flew back and forth over the radio, aggressive tire choices, a last-minute switch to softs under the second safety car that most of the field missed. Daeron drove like a man possessed, calm and precise on the radio but ruthless on track, picking off positions one by one through the narrow twisty sections where others faltered.
When he crossed the line first, P4 to P1 in the most unlikely of places, the garage erupted. Cheers, hugs, mechanics slamming each other on the back. She stood among them, hands over her mouth, heart hammering so hard she could barely hear the radio celebration.
The podium ceremony dragged on in the best way, champagne spraying in golden arcs under the setting sun, the silver trophy gleaming in Daeron’s hands, the national anthem echoing off the grandstands. When it finally ended, he disappeared briefly with the team before reappearing in the garage still damp with champagne, race suit half-unzipped, hair wild.
She was chatting with one of the senior mechanics near the back, laughing about a particularly dramatic radio call, when Daeron appeared at her elbow.
“Mind if I steal her for a few minutes?” he asked the mechanic, polite but already reaching for her hand. The older man grinned knowingly and waved them off.
Daeron didn’t speak as he led her through a side door and around the back of the garages, away from the lingering cameras and the post-race bustle. The narrow alley between the temporary structures was quiet, shadowed by the high walls of the circuit, the distant roar of the crowd and engines fading to a low hum. He stopped, turned to face her, and for the first time all weekend the confident driver looked almost boyish, triumphant, breathless, blue eyes bright with euphoria, with the emotion of victory in more ways than one.
“I won,” he said simply, the words carrying the weight of everything that had led there.
Before she could answer, he cupped the side of her face with one hand, gentle, calloused from years of steering wheels, and paused. His thumb brushed once along her cheekbone, slow and deliberate, his blue eyes searching hers in the shadowed quiet of the alley. The question was there without words, Are you sure? He held himself perfectly still, giving her the space to step back, to change her mind, to keep whatever line still existed between them intact.
She didn’t step back. Instead, she gave the smallest, almost imperceptible nod, barely a tilt of her chin, more felt than seen, and that was all he needed. It was then that Daeron closed the distance.
The kiss was slow at first, almost careful, like he was still half-convinced she might vanish if he moved too fast. His lips brushed hers softly, warm and tentative, tasting faintly of champagne and the faint salt of the sea air that still clung to his skin. For a heartbeat the world held still, the distant roar of the paddock fading into nothing. Then she leaned into it, a soft, involuntary sigh escaping her as her hands rose to rest against his chest, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his race suit.
Everything shifted.
The kiss deepened, slow and sweet and certain, like something they had both been circling since the night he’d left her studio. His other hand slid to her waist, drawing her closer until the dragon crest on his suit pressed against her, warm from the heat of his body and the afternoon sun. She felt the steady thud of his heart beneath her palm, matching the quick rhythm of her own. Without thinking, she slid one hand up into the strands at the nape of his neck, threading her fingers through his slightly damp hair and tugging gently, enough to draw a low, surprised sound from the back of his throat, something between a sigh and a quiet groan that made her smile against his mouth.
Daeron answered by tilting his head, kissing her a little deeper, a little slower, like he wanted to savor every second. His thumb brushed tenderly along her cheekbone again, the calluses there rough and grounding against her skin. Another soft sigh slipped from her lips as she melted further into him, the taste of victory and champagne and something that was simply him filling her senses. The narrow alley behind the garages disappeared, the noise of mechanics and cameras and the entire chaotic weekend narrowed down to just that, the warmth of his body, the gentle tug of her fingers in his hair, the way he held her like she was something precious he’d been waiting to claim.
When they finally broke apart, it was only by a breath. Their foreheads rested together, noses brushing, both of them breathing a little harder than before. Daeron’s eyes stayed closed for another second, a small, utterly content smile curving his lips as he let out a quiet, happy sigh against her mouth.
“Worth the wait,” he murmured, voice low and rough with feeling, thumb still tracing lazy circles on her cheek.
She laughed, a little dazed, fingers still curled in the fabric of his race suit. “You really are a cheater.”
“Only when the prize is this good,” he replied, stealing one quicker kiss before the noise of the paddock started to creep back in around them.
Daeron kept his forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. The distant cheers and engine roars felt miles away. For once, there were no microphones, no cameras, no carefully chosen words. Everything between them had happened off the record and somehow, that made it feel more honest than anything either of them had ever said on camera.
She smiled against his lips, fingers still lightly tangled in his hair.
They had started with an interview.
They had ended with something neither of them had planned to find.
And neither of them planned on letting it end here.
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Baelor Targaryen married you for alliance and politics, nothing more, you knew that, and you accepted it. The Hand of the King’s wife, nothing else, and you made peace with that. You wore nightgowns and adorned yourself only for your own enjoyment, to savor your time alone… but that backless night dress, the one you wore once did something to Baelor.
𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: Baelor Targaryen x wife!F.Reader
𝙒𝙘: 3k
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜: MDNI +18 mutual pining, slightly bratty reader, kinda pervert!Baelor, Attempt of seduction, sprinkle of plot with porn smut: pillow humping, F!masturbation, ankle pulling(?), slight spanking(like twice), slight licking, p in v, overstimulation, creampie.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are deeply appreciated ꨄ︎
꩜ Masterlist
𝘼𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧'𝙨 𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨: ITS BAELOR TIME! HAVE FUN :P + be aware that English isn’t my first language, so please forgive me for any mistakes/errors <3
+ if you know the gif maker tell me to credit them plz.
You had always known your marriage was nothing more than a matter of politics, another quiet bargain struck in the shadow of crowns and power. Your feelings, and anything softer, had no place in it, they were yours to swallow and keep.
He treated you with a lord’s courtesy, measured and distant. He honored you, saw to your needs, granted what you asked of him… yet his touch was a rare thing. His only touch upon you had been on your wedding day, nothing more than the fulfillment of a duty, as if it were a task to be completed, not something he longed for
And so, the gowns you brought with you, silks and soft linens meant for shared nights.. were worn in solitude instead. You dressed up for yourself instead in silence company of your own reflection.
The robe prepared for you became a habit more than a comfort; you would slip into it whenever Baelor came to your chambers, a careful layer between you, as though it might spare him any discomfort.
You were alone in your chambers, no servants, no one to disturb you, just the night… the heavy scent of wood, and the silk of your nightgown. you chose to wear the one that revealed your back, draping over your body with a wide cut exposing the curve of your buttocks.
Nothing underneath, just the single piece of fabric covering you, why not? No one was around. Your gaze drifted to the wall of books, wondering which novel would claim your attention tonight.
Your eyes landed on the dark red-covered book. You rose onto your tiptoes, it was a bit high, but no matter. fingers brushing its cover.
began to slide it from the shelf, a creak behind you made your heart jump, the door swung open. Your eyes widened, anger and alarm both flaring. Which servant would pay the price for entering unbidden, for disturbing your solitude?
It was your husband, prince Baelor Targaryen, with the servant who hadn’t even dared to look up he trailing behind him like a shadow. He removed the cloak Baelor wore swiftly, and with a gesture, the man was sent away, the door closing with a soft click.
Baelor’s gaze lingered on your back, following the delicate line of your spine as it dipped and curved, the fabric fell away just enough to leave you exposed beneath his eyes drawing him in, silent and captivated.
“Lord husband,” you said, spinning around quickly after realizing what you were wearing, leaving the book hanging from the edge of the shelf. The robe was on the chair, and you were about to pull it on quickly, but his voice stopped you.
“No need,” he said, and your fingers fell to your sides, fidgeting nervously. This was strange, so late at night, and he didn’t usually come. You murmured in surprise, “Is something wrong? Husband”
“No,” he replied, stepping closer. You instinctively stepped back and bumped into the shelves behind you. The book toppled onto your head; you let out a soft groan, rubbing the spot. It wasn’t a heavy book, but it had hurt nonetheless.
Then, hands not your own touched your head, checking if you were hurt. Also the book hadn’t fallen from a dangerous height, baelor just brushed your head lightly. He spoke softly, “You’ll be fine.”
He didn’t knew these small touches ignited a storm inside you. The tiny seed of admiration, of longing, still grew within you.
Baelor continued toward the goblet and wine on the table as you realized he wasn’t coming at you; you had misread it. But the situation still felt strange, you weren’t used to this.
“I shall stay for the night i-..” he began, and you cut in quickly flustered “glad you are here, lord husband”
You were just nervous, didn’t know whether your choice of attire pleased him or not, you always wear your robes.
“Bring me that candle, wife” he said, interrupting your thoughts, pointing to the one next to the bed as he made his way to the desk, taking his seat with quiet ease. You moved toward the candle, still lightly rubbing your head, your mind spinning..
why the farthest candle? You became suddenly aware that your bare back facing him, was he… examining you?
You walked slowly then, cheeks flushed. You never thought the day would come when your husband would explore your body with his eyes like a pervert. But in the same instant, your mind questioned whether these were your own thoughts, maybe he was focused entirely on something else. You quickened your steps, picked up the candle, and glanced back.
Yes, you swore you noticed it how his eyes quickly shift to the cup from which he sipped wine. You bit your lip, suppressing a smile. If this was the way to draw him in, you would have worn your most revealing pieces from the very first night, for most of what you owned was still modest.
You picked the book up from the floor and went to lie on your stomach on bed, trying to read. You tried your hardest to convince yourself not to think about the man behind you,he was surely busy.
On the other side, he was indeed busy… but with staring at your bare skin. So bold of you lying like that before him.
How easily he could just pull that nightgown down your rear from that slit and have your body fully exposed to him. How obvious it was that there was nothing beneath it, the fabric falling along your curves, your hardened nipples faintly visible through it.
How it would grant him such easy access.
You shifted slightly, just enough to change your position and ease the numbness, but even that affected him. He wanted you, badly.. but no, this was a marriage for alliance, nothing more. No pleasure in it.
The thoughts in his mind made him feel like some a virgin boy. He was disgusted with himself, for thinking of you this way, for dishonoring you even in his mind. So he forced his gaze away, returning to the papers before him.
You tried everything to calm your nerves. This was the strangest night you had spent here.
Now you lay against his chest, his arm wrapped around you like any married couple, but in this chamber, you were two people bound without affection.
Or perhaps… that was a lie you had both chosen to believe.
“It was a tiring day, wife” he spoke, voicing what occupied his mind, but yours had drifted elsewhere. To his hand.
You felt it on your back -on your bare skin- as if leaving small stings like a bee, a wandering touchs in your field, a shiver ran through you instantly.
Then it was no longer just his fingers, it was his whole palm of his hand, your breathing quickened. Heat began pooling low in your stomach.
He continued speaking about matters of the small council, yet all your focus was on where he touched you. You answered only in soft hums.
His hand moved to your side, slipping beneath your nightgown, brushing what was hidden, what was barely covered. You felt it along your ribcage… just inches away from your bare breast beneath the thin fabric.
Your breath caught, your hand tightened on his tunic, fingers curling into the fabric on his chest, tension, desire, the need for more.
But suddenly it stopped.
His words cut off. His hand withdrew, returning above the fabric, simply holding you as if nothing had happened, preparing for sleep.
You wanted to protest, Desperately. But then you remembered, this marriage, its purpose. These small indulgences were not meant for you.
So you chose to savor the moment instead. You pressed yourself closer to him, pretending to adjust your position, letting him feel what he was missing, what he would regret.
You closed your eyes, willing yourself to sleep.
Baelor, on the other hand… was already close to losing his mind, still wasn’t sure.
You woke up alone in the bed. You had expected that. Still… at least now you knew, your husband did want you, of course his eyes and hands did not lie.
But how would you make him act on it?
Yesterday you had worn the white one. Today the same piece, but in deep red. Though you weren’t even sure he would come tonight. Just a feeling… nothing more.
Night fell.
You wore what you had chosen, but Baelor didn’t come.
You lost hope, but the fire inside you hadn’t died. You wanted release, to ease the pressure building inside you. You were about to use your own hand, when your eyes fell on the pillow he had slept on beside you the night before.
Your face buried into it, your fingers between your thighs as you breathed in his scent, a little sounds leaving you, what was wrong with him touching you? You were his wife, damn everyone.
You lifted yourself slightly, seeing the faint trace of tears and saliva you had left behind, your breath uneven, hadn’t reached your peak yet.
You pulled the pillow beneath you closer and straddled it, a soft moan escaping your lips the moment it brushed against your silky folds.
You began grinding gently, trying to imagine it was your husband, slides into you with slowness, as if savoring every part of you, feeling your walls steadily.
Then you picked up the pace, your breath faltering as his name slipped from your lips without thinking, just Baelor.
Your eyes widened instantly, as if you had committed a sin, but… was he here? what was stopping you?
You tasted his name again on your tongue, and again… until it became the only thing on your lips as you rubbed your cunt faster against the pillow, leaving behind a damp mark of your arousal, something he might see, something that would tell him just how disobedient you had been, how you had reached your peak without him.
You lowered the straps of your dress just slightly, but with how little fabric there was, they slipped all the way down to your wrists. Still, you didn’t stop, continuing to move against the pillow, against your imaginable husband, your eyes shut tightly.
You imagined how he would take you rough, forceful, after you had disobeyed him. You wanted that from him, wanted his harshness, his control.
You came with helpless whimpers of his name, but you were still so pent up, you didn’t want a pillow, you do really want the real thing, nestled inside you.
You organized your breaths, tried to forget, and lifted the straps of your dress, then adjusted your hair. Your cheeks were still warm. You wiped your face with a damp cloth from the plate by the bed, then lifted yourself off the pillow, hissing slightly at the sensation.
You left everything as it was and began moving toward the water, craving something to quench your thirst, when suddenly the door opened. You raised your eyebrows, had you forgotten to lock it from the start? Gods, could anyone have walked in while you were in that state?
It was Baelor, his eyebrows rising briefly as he saw you in the same dress but in a different color. He quickly lowered them. He was dressed in his nightwear, without his servant this time, closing the door behind him as he turned his gaze back to you.
You didn’t rush for the robe. You stood, staring at your husband, and smiled “pleased to have you here again, lord husband”
He returned a small smile and stepped toward you. You didn’t move back, correcting your mistakes, perhaps aware he hadn’t touched you yesterday because he thought you were afraid.
“Red suits you, wife” he murmured, patting and scattering strands of your hair. You let out a soft sigh, why was he treating you like a child now?
He noticed your flushed cheeks, even though the room wasn’t cold, and guided your chin toward him with one hand, while the other traced your skin. What a sensation that was for you? Warmth?
“Are you unwell, wife? Shall I fetch the masters?” he asked, acting clueless but you shook your head quickly in refusal. What you had done earlier flashed in your mind, and you hoped he hadn’t noticed the pillow in the center of the bed.
“So, the candle then, dear” he said, pointing again to the one beside the bed. What was his intent with the candle? And why was he treating you like his servant again? this being the second time, You wanted to argue and refuse, but what if this was his way to watch you without your knowledge, like a filthy pervert?
You smiled, “Of course” This time you walked slowly. As you approached the bed, you didn’t walk beside it like yesterday. You climbed onto it, placed the pillow back, and crawled toward the candle in a subtle attempt at seduction.
You arched your back slightly, adding your final touch of allure, and glanced at him. This time he didn’t avert his gaze, showing he was neither shy nor ashamed. You lifted a finger toward the candle, speaking in a playful tone “you mean this one? Husband”
He advanced toward you, faster than how you walked. Rising on the bed with one knee, he reached you. You felt his hand around one of your ankle, pulling you to the edge of the bed, so masculine, so thrilling.
“You already know what you’re doing to me,” he said in a husky voice, still gripping your ankle. You shed all shyness, propping yourself again on your knees but this time lowering your head until your face pressed onto the cover, arching your back. He could see your stretched skin, your hips pressing on his obvious erection, eliciting a little moan from you.
You lifted your eyes, feigning innocence “Maybe,” you whispered. Then a spank landed on your backside, making your body jolt forward. You let out a sound, eyes wide, unaware of what had just happened.
“Brat” he said, releasing your ankle to deliver another spank. You gasped at the sting, a few tears forming in your eyes.
He leaned toward your nape, teasing you with his beard, leaving marks you never thought he would. You felt him pressing against your rear as you moaned, while his hand traced every visible skin, claiming you.
“Husband” you moaned as his hand slipped beneath the fabric toward your chest, squeezing them between his hands and pinching your nipples. You clutched the blanket beneath you tightly.
Small kisses traced down your spine until reaching the base of your hips, and he pulled your dress down as he desired and wished yesterday. Your skin was flushed from his spanks.
But your cunt was red and glistening from the acts you did alone, you were ashamed while he was looking at it.
“Did you play with yourself, little wife?” he asked in a rough voice tracing your core lightly.
“I needed you, ah-I needed you, and you weren’t here. I didn’t think you’d help me even if you were” you admitted softly.
Then what you never expected happened, Baelor licked you once between your folds, making you shiver violently, and with no warning two fingers entered you, moving quickly, impatiently, just like you.
“Don’t touch yourself again… I’ll be right here. I’ll make sure to fill you properly” He growled just from the thought.
“Oh, Husband… please”
Within seconds, you reached your peak for the second time tonight and he didn’t stop still could feel him working you, his fingers with rings. If you had the power, you would have licked them clean.
He didn’t wait for you to recover your breath… releasing his aching cock, guiding himself toward you as you shivered in anticipation.
But how delicious he thinks when he saw your lubricated cunt swallowing him easily until he was fully deep in you, you were sensitive but you wanted him, and the moment he thrust inside you a pleasurable pain spread into you.
Hands now on your hips his movement was measured, slow, and precise, knowing the right spot to hit to make you cry, steadily letting you feel every inch.
“Please… don’t s-stop” as shameless moans bleed from your lips, you waited for this too long and when he heard you oh you felt how he twitched inside dose he also waited like you?
“Never even crossed my mind to stop, not for a second, wife” he answered you between his breathing and soft grants filling the chamber with your louder voice.
Between his rocking into you and your complete focus on them, you felt his hands lift you, his fingers tilting your chin toward him. The strain tugged at your neck, almost aching, yet you found yourself yearning for whatever he would do next.
he kissed you.
The brush of his beard caress skin as the kisses were uneven, unsteady, sloppy… both of you chasing more, craving one kiss after another.
“Bael-or” you said with dazed mind between the messy kisses and his raw name unleashed something within him.
He stopped, getting you back into position, this time pressing your head down firmly.
His thrust became brutal, rougher, faster he was close, letting out those low, strained breaths as he pressed your head further into the mattress.
He knew you needed a little more friction to reach your peak, with him… so his other hand slipped beneath the fabric to fondle with your clit.
Moaning desperately all you could do while tightening your grip on the sheets again, quivering with pleasure.
A tingling warmth spread across your skin with other warmth spilled inside filling you fully and stealing your breath away.
Once again, You both lay across the bed, resting your head against his chest, only now you were very satisfied, your fingers roamed freely over his chest, as he let out a soft murmur “How many shades of this nightgown do you have, dear?”
“Tons” you respond bitting your lips excitingly.
Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it!!
This literally, heavily need to be edited but my bed is calling 😴
Batards, Dragons and Royals; The Prince and the Dragon Girl
Valarr Targaryen x reader part two
Synopsys: In which the prince falls for the dragon girl
Content: slow burn romance, prince x commoner dynamic, dragon bonding, brief self-esteem insecurity, awkward flirting, soft Valarr, first kiss.
If you're in the taglist please comment, i love comments!
WC: 15K
The market at Dragonstone was a modest affair by the standards of King's Landing, but it was the heart of the island's commerce and the one place where villagers and castle folk mingled as equals. Fishermen spread their catches on wooden tables, their shouts competing with the screech of gulls overhead. Farmers displayed wheels of cheese and baskets of early apples, the red skins gleaming with morning dew. Craftsmen hawked everything from pottery to horseshoes, their voices rising and falling in the familiar rhythm of haggling that had been the same for a hundred years.
You loved market days.
Not because you had coin to spend—you rarely did—but because of the way the world felt fuller on market days, more alive. The grey stone of Dragonstone seemed less oppressive when the yards were crowded with color and noise and the smell of fresh bread. You moved through the crowd with the ease of long familiarity, your basket on your arm containing a small wheel of Marta's best cheese and a bundle of herbs you hoped to trade for fresh bread. Your eyes scanned the stalls with the contented interest of someone with nowhere particular to be and all day to get there.
The past few days had been wonderful. Moonfyre's wing was healing beautifully, the swelling had gone down, the new scales growing in pale and perfect over the mended bone. She had even started stretching the wing when she thought you weren't watching, spreading it wide until the tips brushed the obsidian walls of her chamber. You had pretended not to notice, not wanting to embarrass her, but your heart had nearly burst with pride.
She was getting stronger. She was going to fly.
You had started bringing her larger animals now. Rabbits and fish had given way to the occasional sheep, procured through a complicated web of trades and favors that left you owing half the village something or other. But it was worth it. Moonfyre was growing or maybe just filling out, her ribs no longer visible beneath her scales, her body taking on the sleek, powerful lines of a true dragon.
Life was good. Better than good. Life was something you had never dared to dream of.
You stopped at a baker's stall, eyeing a loaf of dark rye bread that smelled like heaven itself had descended upon Dragonstone. The baker's wife, a round woman with flour-dusted cheeks and arms like hams, smiled at you as you approached.
"Morning, Y/N. That's a fine cheese you've got there." She leaned forward, squinting at the wheel in your basket. "Marta's work, is it?"
You nodded, setting the cheese on her stall. "Her goats have been giving particularly rich milk this season. Marta says it's the new pasture she moved them to."
"Bless that woman's hands. My husband's stomach has been troubling him something fierce, and her cheeses are the only thing that sit easy with him." The baker's wife picked up the cheese, turning it over in her calloused hands. "What are you looking for in trade?"
Your eyes drifted to the rye loaf. "That one, if you'll part with it."
"One loaf? This cheese is worth at least two."
You hesitated. Two loaves would be more than you and Marta could eat before they went stale. But then again, Moonfyre had been eyeing your bread the last time you brought it to the cave, sniffing curiously at the loaf before losing interest. Maybe she would like it. Dragons ate meat, yes, but the old stories sometimes mentioned them eating other things too. Sheep, cattle, the occasional horse but also, sometimes, the charred remains of things that weren't meat at all.
"I could trade for two," you said slowly. "If you'll throw in one of those small honey cakes."
The baker's wife laughed, a great booming sound that made several people nearby turn and smile. "Haggling with me, are you? And here I thought Marta raised you to be polite."
"Marta raised me to know the value of a good cheese," you replied, grinning. "And these are very good goats."
"They are at that." The baker's wife wrapped the two loaves and a honey cake in brown cloth, tying the bundle with a piece of twine. "Done. And tell Marta I'll have more of her cheese whenever she's got it. My husband's stomach thanks you."
You handed over the herbs as well, a bundle of dried mint and chamomile that Marta had insisted you bring, saying the baker's wife had been looking pale and could use a good tea. The woman's face softened when she saw them, and she added an extra honey cake to your bundle without a word.
You were tucking the bread into your basket, savoring the warmth of the loaves through the cloth, when a disturbance rippled through the crowd behind you.
At first, you thought nothing of it. The market was always shifting, people moving, voices rising and falling. But this was different, a wave of stillness spreading outward, like a stone dropped into still water. People were stepping aside, their chatter dropping to whispers, their heads bowing.
You turned, still holding your basket, and saw them.
Guards. Four of them, their armor polished to a gleam that seemed almost out of place among the rough wool and worn leather of the market. And at their center, walking with the easy, unconscious confidence of someone who had never in his life had to step aside for anyone, was a young man.
He was tall and lean, with dark hair that fell just above his shoulders, parted in the middle to reveal a striking streak of silver-gold at his left temple. His face was serious without being stern, the kind of face that looked like it spent more time thinking than smiling. He wore a tunic of deep blue with silver fastenings, simple but clearly expensive, and a sword hung at his hip in a scabbard worked with dragons in gold thread.
Behind him, the guards scanned the crowd with watchful eyes, hands resting on their sword hilts. But the young man himself seemed relaxed, almost casual. His eyes—mismatched, you realized with a start, one brown and the other a blue—moved across the market with curiosity rather than suspicion. He was looking at the stalls, the people, the children running between legs, with the genuine interest of someone who had not spent much time in places like this.
And then his eyes landed on you.
You froze. Your basket hung from your arm, the cheese and bread and honey cakes suddenly feeling very heavy and very humble. You were aware, all at once, of your worn woolen cloak, your patched sleeves, the way your hair was escaping from its braid in wisps that the sea wind had tangled. You were aware of your mouth, slightly open, and your eyes, probably too wide, and the fact that you were standing directly in his path like a startled rabbit in front of a cart.
The young man's step faltered. Just for a moment. And then he changed direction, walking directly toward you.
The crowd melted away around him. You heard whispers "Prince Valarr," someone breathed, and the name echoed through the market like a ripple. Prince Valarr. The heir's heir. The grandson of the king. The most eligible prince in the Seven Kingdoms, if the songs were to be believed.
And he was walking toward you.
You dropped into a curtsey so fast you nearly upended your basket. The cheese shifted dangerously, and you grabbed for it, fumbling, and ended up in a half-bent, half-standing position that was probably the most awkward curtsey anyone had ever performed for royalty.
"Your Grace," you managed, your voice coming out too high. Your eyes were fixed on the ground, on his boots—fine leather, you noticed, with silver buckles—and you could feel your face burning. "I'm sorry, I didn't—I wasn't expecting—"
"Please, rise."
His voice was warm. That was the first thing you registered. Not cold, not haughty, not impatient. Warm, with a hint of amusement underneath, like he was trying not to laugh but in a kind way, not a mocking one.
You straightened slowly, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your temples. Up close, he was even more striking. Strong cheekbones, a firm jaw, his skin was fair but not pale, touched with color from the sea air. He was looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. Curious. Thoughtful. And something else, something that made your stomach do a strange little flip.
"You're the girl from the petitions," he said. "The one with the dragon."
It wasn't a question, but you nodded anyway. "Yes, Your Grace. Y/N. From the village."
He inclined his head, a small, formal gesture that somehow felt less formal than it should have. "I am Valarr. Prince Valarr. Baelor's son."
"I know who you are, Your Grace." The words came out before you could stop them, and you felt your cheeks flush even hotter. "I mean—everyone knows. You're the heir's heir. And you're—" You stopped yourself before you could say something truly embarrassing, like and you're very handsome or and I've heard songs about you. "You're the prince," you finished lamely.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was a nice smile, you thought. Genuine. "I am. Though I confess, I didn't expect to be recognized at the market. I thought I would blend in."
You glanced at the guards behind him, at the fine tunic, at the sword with the golden dragons. You looked back at his face, at the silver streak in his dark hair that marked him as surely as any crown.
"With respect, Your Grace," you said carefully, "you are not blending."
He laughed. It was a real laugh, surprised out of him, and it changed his whole face, made him look younger, less serious, more like the boy he probably was under the prince's mask. You found yourself smiling in response, unable to help it.
"No," he agreed, still smiling. "I suppose I'm not." His eyes moved over your face, lingering for a moment on your hair, your eyes, and you saw something flicker in his expression, recognition, perhaps, of what your coloring meant. But he didn't comment on it. Instead, he said, "How is your dragon?"
The question was casual, almost offhand. But you caught something in his voice—a gentleness, a carefulness—that made you pause. He didn't believe you, you realized. He was humoring you. The way the baker's wife humored her grandchildren when they talked about the fairies they had seen in the woods. The way the villagers smiled and nodded when you mentioned Moonfyre, their eyes sliding away from yours. But you were too excited about Moonfyre to be offended. Too proud of her, too happy. And besides, he was being kind. No one had to be kind to a village bastard, but he was, and that counted for something.
"She's doing wonderfully!" The words tumbled out of you, bright and eager. "Her wing is almost completely healed now. I set the bone straight a few weeks ago—it was crooked, you see, from when it healed wrong, and I was so scared I would hurt her, but Marta taught me how to do it properly on the sheep, and Moonfyre was so brave, she only screamed once, and after that she let me finish without fighting at all."
You paused for breath, suddenly aware that you were babbling. Prince Valarr was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite name. Not pity, exactly. Something softer.
"I didn't know dragons could be brave," he said quietly.
"All dragons are brave," you replied, and the words came out more fiercely than you intended. "But she's braver than most. She was alone for so long, and hurt, and she didn't let anyone help her until I came. She fought me for weeks. She would rather have died than let me see her weak." You bit your lip. "I understand that. I think. Wanting to be strong even when you're not."
"What does she look like?" he asked. "Your dragon."
You brightened. "She's white. Pale white, like snow, but when the light hits her scales just right, you can see purple—like sea foam at dusk, when the sun catches it. Her eyes are gold, like—" You stopped, looking at his face, at the eye that was almost golden in the morning light. "Like honey," you finished, your voice suddenly softer. "Warm gold, with flecks of lilac."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Moonfyre. That's what you called her?"
You nodded. "Because she's white like the moon. And dragons are made of fire and i really like Princess Baela, I thought—" You hesitated, suddenly uncertain. "Do you think it's a silly name?"
"No." He said it softly, and there was no condescension in his voice, no amusement. Just sincerity. "I think it's a beautiful name."
Your cheeks warmed again, but this time it wasn't from embarrassment. "Thank you, Your Grace."
The market noise flowed around you—shouting, haggling, the clatter of carts, the screech of gulls—but it seemed distant, muffled, as if you and the prince were standing in a small bubble of quiet. You were acutely aware of the guards behind him, of the curious glances from nearby stalls, of the cheese and bread still clutched in your basket. You should go. You knew you should go. Marta would be expecting you, and you still had trading to do, and you had already taken up far too much of the prince's time.
But you didn't want to leave. And he wasn't moving either.
"Are you..." He hesitated, as if unsure whether to ask. "Are you well? You and your family?"
"I live with Marta," you said. "She's the village healer. She took me in when I was a baby. And we're both well, thank you for asking." You paused, then added, "Marta's goats are doing well too, if you were wondering about them."
A small smile tugged at his mouth again. "I was, actually. Goats are very important to the prosperity of any village."
"They are! They give milk for cheese, and Marta says goat's milk is easier to digest than cow's milk for people with weak stomachs, and their wool is warmer than sheep's wool if you card it properly, and they can graze on land that cows won't touch, so they're better for poor soil like we have here, and—" You stopped, flushing. "I'm sorry. I talk too much when I'm nervous."
"You're nervous?"
"You're a prince." You said it as if this explained everything, which it did. "I've never talked to a prince before. Except your father, I suppose, but that was different. He was on a dais and I was on the ground and there were a lot of people watching and I was mostly just terrified. This is more... conversational."
He laughed again, and this time it was warmer, easier. "I'm glad I'm less terrifying than my father."
"You're still terrifying," you admitted. "Just in a different way. Your father is terrifying because he's the heir to the throne and he holds the power of life and death and he could have me thrown in a dungeon if I said the wrong thing. You're terrifying because—" You stopped, realizing what you were about to say.
"Because?" he prompted, and there was a teasing note in his voice now.
Because you're beautiful, you thought. Because you're looking at me like I'm a person instead of a peasant. Because you laughed at my joke and asked about Marta's goats and I'm a village bastard who's never been looked at like that by anyone, let alone a prince.
"Because you're very tall," you said instead, which was half-true but not the whole truth. "And you have a sword. And there are four guards behind you who look like they could break me in half."
He glanced back at his guards, who were doing their best to look stern and imposing. One of them—the one with the scarred face—caught his eye and shrugged, as if to say, she's not wrong.
"The guards are mostly for show," Prince Valarr said, turning back to you. "And the sword is for tournaments, mostly. I'm told I look very impressive with it."
"Do you?" you asked, and then immediately wished you hadn't. You were being too familiar. You were forgetting yourself. Marta would box your ears if she could hear you now.
But he didn't seem offended. He seemed... amused. Pleased, even. "I'm adequate," he said. "My father is much better."
"I heard Prince Baelor won the tourney at King's Landing last year. My friend's cousin is a stable boy in the castle, and he said it was the most magnificent thing he'd ever seen."
"Your friend's cousin has good taste," Prince Valarr said dryly. "Though I think my father would say the horse deserves most of the credit."
You laughed. "That sounds like something Marta would say. She always says her goats do all the work, she just provides the hands."
"She sounds like a wise woman."
"She's the wisest person I know," you said, and meant it. "She can't read or write, but she knows every herb that grows on this island and what it cures. She's delivered half the babies in the village, and she's never lost a mother yet. And she took me in when no one else would, even though she had barely enough for herself." You smiled, thinking of Marta's gnarled hands and her gruff voice and the way she always saved you the best piece of bread. "I owe her everything."
The prince was quiet for a moment, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "It sounds like she owes you nothing," he said finally. "And you give her everything anyway."
The words settled into your chest, warm and unexpected. You looked down at your basket, at the cheese and bread and honey cakes, suddenly feeling very seen.
"I should—" you started.
"I should—" he said at the same time.
You both stopped. You felt your cheeks heat again, and you saw a faint flush creep up his neck, and for a moment you were both just two young people who had said the same thing at the same time and didn't know what to do about it.
"You go first," he said.
"I was just going to say I should finish my trading. Marta's expecting me back before dark, and I still need to trade for some wool if I can find a good price." You hesitated, the words bubbling up before you could stop them. "If you ever wanted to see Moonfyre, you could. I mean, you'd be welcome. She's very friendly now—she tried to eat me at first, but that was before she knew me. Now she's very gentle, with me at least. I don't know how she'd be with strangers, but she trusts me, so if I told her you were safe, she would probably—"
You stopped yourself, biting your lips. You were babbling again. You were always babbling when you were nervous, and Prince Valarr made you very nervous indeed.
Valarr looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he said, very gently, "Perhaps someday I'll take you up on that."
It was a polite dismissal, you recognized. The kind of thing people said when they had no intention of following through. But you smiled anyway, because he had been kind to you, and because his smile had been beautiful when it happened.
"I hope you do," you said. "Goodbye, My prince."
Valarr stood in the middle of the market long after she had disappeared into the crowd, her basket bouncing against her hip, her laughter still echoing in his ears. His guards waited patiently nearby, exchanging glances that he pretended not to see.
"Well," one of them muttered to the other, just loud enough for Valarr to hear. "She's certainly pretty. Shame about the head."
The other guard snorted. "Did you hear her? Talking about setting a dragon's wing like it was a sick sheep. She's clearly not right in the—"
"That's enough." Valarr's voice was quiet, but it cut through the guards' muttering like a blade. They straightened immediately, their faces going blank. "You will speak of her with respect. Is that understood?"
"Yes, my prince." The scarred guard, spoke first, his voice steady. "Apologies, my prince. We meant no offense."
Valarr didn't answer. He was looking toward the distant bulk of the Dragonmont, where the caves honeycombed the ancient stone. The mountain was shrouded in morning mist, its peak lost in clouds, but he knew the eastern tunnels were somewhere on its lower slopes. He had explored them as a boy, crawling through passages too small for adults, searching for the dragons that his grandfather said were all gone. He had never found anything but cold stone and the bones of old fires.
But she had found something. Or thought she had.
She was beautiful. That was the first thing he had noticed. She was kind, too, clearly kind, with a sweetness that seemed entirely natural, not put on for his benefit. And she was so alive, so full of light and laughter, that he had found himself smiling in response without meaning to.
But she was also clearly not well.
I set the bone straight. Moonfyre was so brave. She only screamed once.
She talked about the dragon as if it were real. As if it were a beloved pet, a companion, a friend. She had named it, tended it, spent moons bringing it food and water and medicine. And she had looked at him with such hope when she invited him to see it, such innocent trust, that his chest had ached with something he couldn't name.
He started walking slowly back toward the castle, his guards falling into step behind him. The market noise faded behind them, replaced by the sound of waves and the cry of gulls. The grey stone walls of Dragonstone rose before him, ancient and forbidding, a castle built by dragonlords who had conquered a continent with fire and blood.
He was descended from them. He carried their blood in his veins, their legacy in his name. And yet he had never seen a dragon, never felt the heat of one, never known what it was to look into eyes that had seen the Doom of Valyria and the rise of the Seven Kingdoms.
She had. Or thought she had.
She's white. Pale white, like snow, but when the light hits her scales just right, you can see purple underneath. Her eyes are gold. Warm gold, like honey.
She had described the dragon as if she had held it in her arms. As if she had looked into its eyes and seen something that looked back.
He shook the thought away, annoyed at himself. The girl was unwell. It would be dishonorable to think of her any other way, to imagine the curve of her smile, the sound of her laugh, the way she had said you're terrifying in a different way as if she had been about to say something else.
He was betrothed. His marriage had been arranged a year ago, a careful alliance with a Tyroshi house that would strengthen the crown's ties to the Free Cities. He had never met his betrothed, had only seen a miniature painting that showed a girl with pink curls and a solemn face. He would marry her, and he would be faithful, and eventually, perhaps, love would grow.
—
The first time Valarr returned to the village, he told himself it was coincidence.
He had business in the lower town, something about inspecting the fisheries, a duty his father had assigned him to teach him the responsibilities of lordship. The fact that the inspection took him past Marta's cottage was simply geography. The fact that he found himself scanning the market stalls for a flash of her hair was simply habit.
He did not see you that day. He told himself he was relieved.
The second time, he did not bother with excuses.
It was a warm afternoon, the kind that made the stone of Dragonstone feel almost pleasant rather than oppressive. Valarr had finished his training early, had no duties until supper, and found himself walking toward the village with no clear purpose in mind. His guards followed at a respectful distance, Ser Raymund having assigned two reliable men to accompany the prince whenever he left the castle. They were discreet, at least, experienced enough to know when to fade into the background and let their charge have some semblance of privacy.
He found you at the well, drawing water. You were wearing a simple dress of pale grey, the sleeves rolled up past your elbows, your braid swinging against your back as you worked the pulley. A bucket sat at your feet, already full, and you were in the process of lowering another when you glanced up and saw him.
Your face lit up like sunrise.
"Prince Valarr!" You dropped the rope—the bucket splashed back into the water with a distant, echoing sound—and hurried toward him, already dropping into a curtsey before you had quite stopped moving. "I didn't know you were coming to the village today."
Valarr held up a hand, gesturing for you to rise. "Please, no need for that. I wasn't planning to come, actually. I had some free time and thought I would walk."
"You walked all the way from the castle?" You straightened, brushing dust from your skirt, your eyes wide with what looked like genuine surprise. "That's a long way, Your Grace. Nearly an hour's walk, at least."
"I like walking." He paused, watching you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the motion so familiar now that he had seen it a dozen times before. "You're drawing water."
You glanced back at the well, then at him, and laughed a soft, warm sound. "I am. Marta's back isn't what it used to be, so I try to do the heavy work. The well in the village is closer than the stream, and the water is sweeter anyway. Or so everyone says." You shrugged, your hands opening in that gesture he had come to recognize. "I can't really taste the difference, but Marta says her mother always said well water was better for cooking, so I suppose there must be something to it. Do you have a preference, Your Grace? For well water or stream water?"
He blinked. "I've never thought about it."
You tilted your head, considering this with the same seriousness you might give to a matter of state. "I suppose princes don't have to think about such things. You probably have servants to fetch your water, don't you? And they bring it in silver pitchers, I imagine, and it's always the perfect temperature, and you never have to wonder whether it's going to taste of old rope or not."
"Old rope?"
You gestured vaguely toward the well. "The rope. When it gets old, it makes the water taste... ropey. But we got a new rope last month, so it's quite good now. Would you like some? To see if you can taste the difference between well water and stream water? I mean, you probably have much better things to do than stand around drinking water from a village well, but you did walk all the way from the castle, and it's a warm day, and—"
"I would like some water," he said, cutting off what was clearly about to become a very long sentence. "Thank you."
You beamed at him—that same radiant smile that made your whole face change—and hurried back to the well. He watched as you drew up the second bucket, your movements practiced and efficient, and poured water into a small clay cup you produced from somewhere in your apron pocket.
You brought it to him with both hands, as if you were offering something far more precious than well water in a clay cup. "Here, Your Grace. Fresh from the well. No rope taste at all, I promise."
Valarr took the cup, your fingers brushing briefly. He noticed again how calloused your hands were, how there was dirt under your fingernails and a small scar on your thumb. Working hands. Honest hands.
He raised the cup to his lips and drank. It was cool, clean, and tasted faintly of the earth it had been drawn from. It was, he realized, the best water he had had in a very long time.
"Well?" You were watching him anxiously, your hands clasped in front of you. "Is it good? Does it taste like stream water? I've never really been able to tell the difference, but Marta says—"
"It's good water," he said, and handed the cup back to you. "Very good."
Your relief was almost comical. "Oh, good. I was worried it might be off today. Sometimes when it hasn't rained for a while, the water gets a little... I don't know how to describe it. But it seems fine today. You're lucky."
"I'm lucky?"
You nodded seriously. "You came on a good water day. If you had come last week, it was very ropey. Marta said it was fine, but I didn't like it. I had to make tea with it to make it drinkable."
Valarr found himself smiling. "I'll remember that. Only visit on good water days."
"Or bring tea," you suggested. "Then it doesn't matter what the water tastes like. Do you like tea, Your Grace? Marta grows her own herbs, so we always have a pot brewing. She says a cup of chamomile before bed is better than any sleeping draught, and she's probably right because she's usually right about these things. I could bring you some, if you like. To the well. On good water days. So you don't have to worry about the mineral taste."
"You're offering to bring me tea?"
"I'm offering to bring you good tea," you corrected, with the air of someone clarifying a very important distinction. "Marta's tea. It's much better than the tea you probably get at the castle. Not that castle tea is bad," you added quickly, your cheeks pinking. "I'm sure it's very good. But Marta's tea is made with herbs she grows herself, and she's been doing it for fifty years, so she knows exactly when to pick them and how to dry them and—"
"I would love to try Marta's tea," Valarr said, and meant it.
Your smile could have lit the entire castle.
—
The walk to the caves was familiar enough that you could have made it with your eyes closed, but tonight your feet felt heavier than usual, your thoughts too tangled to let you move with your usual lightness.
You had left the well hours ago, had helped Marta with the evening chores, had eaten a dinner of bread and cheese that you barely tasted. And now, with the sun setting and the sea turning the color of old blood, you found yourself climbing the path to the eastern tunnels, seeking the only company that never made your heart feel like it was trying to escape your chest.
Moonfyre was waiting.
She always seemed to know when you were coming. Perhaps she heard your footsteps, or smelled you on the wind, or simply felt your presence the way you sometimes felt hers, a warmth in your chest, a pull toward the mountain that you could not explain. Whatever it was, she was always there, lifting her head when you entered, her golden eyes soft in the dim light.
"You'll never guess who came to the well today," you said, settling against her warm side, your back against her scales. She made a rumbling sound that might have been interest or might have been amusement. You chose to interpret it as curiosity. "Prince Valarr. The Prince Valarr. Baelor Breakspear's son. The heir's heir. He came all the way from the castle, walked the whole hour, just to—" You paused, your cheeks warming. "Well, I don't know why he came. He said he had free time and liked walking. But he came to the well, and he talked to me, and he drank water from a clay cup like it was something precious, and he said he would come back tomorrow to see you."
Moonfyre's tail curled around you, a gesture you had come to recognize as her version of a hug. You leaned into it, letting her warmth seep through your worn cloak.
"He's very kind," you continued, your voice softer now. "He always is. When I talk too much, he doesn't get impatient. He laughs, but not in a mean way. And he listens, like what I'm saying matters. He asked about Marta's goats, can you imagine? A prince, asking about goats. He wanted to know if they were well."
You paused, staring at the flickering torchlight on the obsidian walls.
"He has mismatched eyes, did I tell you? One is dark brown, like the earth after rain. And the other is blue. I noticed it the first time we met, in the market. I noticed a lot of things about him." You bit your lip. "I notice too many things about him, I think. The way his hair falls across his forehead. The way he smiles when he thinks no one is looking. The way he says my name—Y/N, like it's something worth saying, not just a sound to get my attention."
Moonfyre made a sound that was almost a purr, and you could have sworn there was knowing in it.
"I know," you said, your cheeks burning. "I know what you're thinking. And you're wrong. Or you would be, if you were thinking it. Which you probably aren't, because you're a dragon and you don't care about the romantic entanglements of village girls. But if you were thinking it, you would be wrong."
You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them.
"He's a prince," you said, and the words felt heavy in your mouth. "He's going to be king someday. He has a castle full of people who bow to him, and knights who would die for him, and probably a dozen highborn ladies who would give anything for him to look at them the way he looks at—" You stopped. "The way he looks at everyone, probably. He's kind. That's all it is. He's kind, and I'm not used to kindness, so I'm reading things into it that aren't there."
Moonfyre's head turned, her golden eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your chest ache. She did not speak—could not speak—but in that moment, you would have sworn she understood every word.
"He asked about my dragon," you said quietly. "About you. He said maybe someday he would come to see you. And I know he doesn't believe. I can see it in his eyes when I talk about you, that gentleness, like he's humoring a child who believes in fairies. He thinks I'm..." You swallowed. "He thinks I'm not well. That I've made you up. That you're a fancy I've built to make myself feel less alone."
The words hurt more than you had expected them to. You had known, of course. You had seen it in the market, in the way he said I'm sure you do when you spoke of Moonfyre. You had heard it in his voice at the well, that careful gentleness that was really disbelief dressed up in kindness.
But knowing it and saying it aloud were two different things.
"He's probably only being kind," you said, and your voice was very small. "That's what princes do, isn't it? They're kind to the common folk. They smile and nod and drink water from clay cups, and then they go back to their castles and forget you exist. He's probably already forgotten me. Or he will, once he's back in King's Landing, once he's married to whatever highborn lady they've chosen for him, once he's too busy being a prince to think about the silly village girl who thinks she has a dragon."
Moonfyre made a sound low in her throat, not a purr this time, but something sharper, almost indignant. Her tail tightened around you, and her head came closer, her warm breath ruffling your hair.
You laughed, despite yourself. "You're right. You're right, I'm being ridiculous. Moping over a prince who probably doesn't think of me at all is a waste of time, and you need me to bring you a sheep tomorrow, not sit here feeling sorry for myself."
But even as you said it, you could not quite shake the memory of his face when he had said tomorrow. The way his voice had softened. The way he had looked at you, like you were something more than a village bastard with too much imagination.
"Whatever happens," you said softly, "you and me. We'll face it together. Right?"
Moonfyre made a sound that might have been agreement. Her wing came up, curving around you like a blanket, and you let the warmth of her chase away the cold that had settled in your chest.
Tomorrow, the prince would come. And tomorrow, everything might change.
But for now, there was just you and Moonfyre and the quiet darkness of the cave, and that was enough. That was more than enough.
—
The visits became a pattern. Every few days, Valarr would find an excuse to walk to the village. Sometimes he brought his guards; sometimes, when he could slip away unnoticed, he came alone. He always told himself it was the last time. He never meant it.
You talked about nothing and everything. You told him about Marta's goats—about which ones were stubborn and which ones were sweet and which ones had escaped into the castle yard last spring and caused a tremendous uproar. You told him about the village gossip, who was marrying whom and whose sheep had been stolen and what the septon had said about the unusually rainy weather. You told him about the herbs you were learning to identify, their names and uses and the best times to harvest them.
He told you about his training, about the hours spent in the yard with sword and shield until his arms ached. He told you about his brother, Matarys with his easy laugh. He told you about the endless lessons in history and law that his father insisted were necessary for a future king, and the way the maester's voice seemed to blur into meaningless sound when the afternoon sun came through the windows.
He did not tell you about his betrothed. He did not tell you about the dreams that had started haunting his nights.
It was on a grey afternoon, with the sea mist rolling in and turning the village into a place of ghosts and shadows, that you asked him the question he had been dreading.
"Prince Valarr?" You were sitting on the low stone wall at the edge of the village, your legs swinging, a cup of Marta's chamomile tea warming your hands. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask me anything," he said, and meant it.
You were quiet for a moment, your violet eyes fixed on the distant castle. "Why do you keep coming here?"
He opened his mouth to give one of the easy answers, because he enjoyed the walk, because the village was pleasant, because he had business nearby anyway. But something in your voice stopped him. Something in your face, so open, so trusting, so clearly expecting a truth that he had been avoiding giving.
"What do you mean?"
You turned to look at him, and there was something in your expression he had not seen before. Not hurt, exactly. Not disappointment. But something that might have been the beginning of both.
"You're a prince," you said simply. "You have a castle full of people who want to talk to you. You have brothers and lords and knights and servants. You have important things to do, important people to see. And instead, you come here. To the village. To talk to me."
"Perhaps I prefer your conversation to theirs."
Your smile flickered. "That's kind of you to say. But it's not an answer."
Valarr was silent for a long moment. The mist swirled around them, damp and cool, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked and was answered by another.
"I like talking to you," he said finally, and the words came out more honest than he had intended. "You don't... you don't want anything from me."
You tilted your head, considering this. "Should I want something? Are princes supposed to be wanted for things?"
"Everyone wants something from princes." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Favor. Gold. Justice. A hearing. A place at court. Something. It's all anyone ever talks about when they talk to me. What I can give them. What I can do for them. Who I can introduce them to. What favor I can grant."
He stopped, suddenly aware that he was complaining to a village girl about the burdens of being a prince. It was absurd. You had real problems Marta's failing back, the price of wool, the taste of the well water. And here he was, talking about how tiresome it was to be wanted.
But you did not look dismissive. You did not laugh at him or tell him he had nothing to complain about. You simply watched him with those violet eyes, waiting.
"And I haven't asked for anything?" you said quietly.
"You haven't."
You thought about this for a long moment, your brow furrowed. Then you said, very seriously, "Well, now I feel I should ask for something, just to be polite. What do princes usually give? Gold? Titles? Lands?"
He laughed, genuinely this time. "Sometimes."
"Dragons?" you suggested, and there was something in your voice, a hope, a test, a question wrapped in a joke.
He should have said yes. He should have said, Yes, I'll give you a dragon, I'll give you anything you want, just keep looking at me like that. But the words would not come. Because the truth was, he had no dragons to give. No one did.
"Dragons are in short supply these days," he said, and the words came out gentler than he intended, softer, as if he was afraid of breaking something.
Your expression flickered. He saw it, the brief shadow of hurt, the moment of recognition that he did not believe you. But it was gone almost immediately, smoothed over by that sunny smile you wore like armor.
"That's all right," you said, your voice bright. "I already have one."
Valarr's chest tightened. He wanted to believe you. He wanted it so badly, sometimes, in the quiet moments when your eyes were bright and your voice was warm and the world seemed full of impossible things. He wanted to walk into those caves and find a dragon waiting, wanted to see your triumph, wanted to prove to everyone who whispered about the mad silver-haired girl that you had been right all along.
But he was a practical man. His father had taught him to see the world as it was, not as he wished it to be. And the world, as it was, did not have dragons.
"I'm sure you do," he said, and hated the way his voice sounded. Hated the gentleness that was really condescension, the kindness that was really disbelief. "I'm sure she's beautiful."
You looked at him for a long moment, and he wondered what you saw. A prince who was kind to you out of pity? A young man who visited because he had nowhere better to be? A liar, pretending to believe in your dragon because it was easier than telling the truth?
"Would you like to see her?" you asked, and your voice was very quiet. "Moonfyre, I mean. I know you said maybe someday, and I don't want to push, but—" You looked up at him, and there was hope in your eyes, and fear, and something that looked like desperation. "She's very beautiful. And I think she'd like you. You're kind."
You're kind. The words hit him like a physical blow. He was kind, wasn't he? That was what people said about him. Baelor's son, the heir's heir, steady and honorable and kind.
And here you were, a sweet, innocent girl who believed in dragons, offering to share your most precious secret with him. Trusting him. Thinking the best of him.
He could not go. He knew he should not go. To see your dragon—to see nothing—would be to shatter your delusion, to prove to you that your dragon was not real, to break something fragile and beautiful that you had built for yourself. And for what? So he could feel better about his own curiosity? So he could stop wondering?
"Y/N—" he started.
Your face fell. He saw it happen, the way the hope drained out of your eyes, the way your shoulders dropped, the way you tried to smile anyway, to hide the hurt. "It's all right. I understand. You're busy, and it's a long walk to the caves, and you probably don't have time for—"
"Perhaps another time," he said, and the words came out softer than he intended, gentler.
—
The training yard at Dragonstone was quiet in the late afternoon, most of the knights having retired to clean up before the evening meal. Only a few figures remained, servants collecting discarded practice weapons, a young squire running laps at his master's insistence, and Prince Baelor, who stood at the edge of the yard watching his eldest son trade blows with a training dummy.
Valarr's strikes were precise, controlled, but there was something distracted in his movements. A slight hesitation between combinations, a gaze that drifted toward the castle walls and the village beyond.
Baelor had noticed this before. Several times, over the past weeks.
He waited until Valarr finished his set, lowering his practice sword and reaching for a cloth to wipe his face. Then he stepped forward, his presence drawing his son's immediate attention.
"Father." Valarr straightened, the cloth still in his hand. "I didn't see you there."
"Clearly." Baelor moved closer, his dark eyes studying his son's face. "Your mind was elsewhere. Somewhere beyond those walls, unless I miss my guess."
Valarr's expression flickered, just for a moment, but Baelor had been reading people for thirty years. He saw it.
"The village," Valarr said, and there was something careful in his voice. "I've been... getting to know the people there. It seems like something the future Prince of Dragonstone should do."
"A noble sentiment." Baelor clasped his hands behind his back, his tone mild. "And the girl? The one who believes she has a dragon in the caves? Have you been getting to know her as well?"
Valarr's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Her name is Y/N. And yes, I've spoken with her. Several times."
"Several times." Baelor repeated the words slowly. "In the past weeks, I've seen you ride to that village more often than you've trained with your brother. More often than you've sat in on petitions with me. More often than—"
"I know how often I've gone." There was an edge to Valarr's voice now, quickly suppressed. "I'm sorry if I've neglected my duties. That wasn't my intention."
"I didn't say you'd neglected anything." Baelor's voice remained calm, patient. "I asked about the girl."
Valarr was silent for a moment, his gaze dropping to the practice sword in his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"She's... not well, Father. You saw it yourself at the petitions. She genuinely believes there's a dragon in those caves. She talks about it constantly—about feeding it, healing it. She's not pretending. She truly believes."
"And you feel sorry for her."
"Yes." Valarr looked up, meeting his father's eyes. "She's kind. Genuinely kind, not the kind that comes from wanting something. She helps everyone in the village, mending nets, gathering herbs, tending the old and sick. She's beautiful, and she's good, and she's completely lost in a world that doesn't exist. I just..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't know. I feel like someone should be kind to her. Since the rest of the world isn't."
Baelor studied his son for a long moment. Valarr at eighteen was so much like he himself had been at that age, serious, honorable, burdened by a sense of responsibility that went beyond what any young man should carry. He saw the world in terms of duties and obligations, of things he should do and people he should protect.
It was a good quality. But it could also be a dangerous one.
"You're worried about her," Baelor said. "That's understandable. She's young, alone, clearly struggling with... something. But Valarr, you're not a healer. You're not a septon nor a maester. You're a prince of the realm, betrothed to a woman who's expecting you to honor your commitment."
"I know that." Valarr's voice was firm. "I haven't forgotten. I've never given Y/N any reason to think... I'm just being kind. That's all."
"Kindness can be misinterpreted." Baelor's voice was gentle but unyielding. "Especially by someone who may not see the world clearly. You visit her, you bring her gifts, you spend time alone with her—what do you think she makes of that?"
Valarr's brow furrowed. "She... she seems happy to see me. She talks to me the way she talks to everyone—openly, honestly. She told me about the dragon again yesterday. How it's healing well, how she thinks it will fly soon." He shook his head. "She doesn't... she doesn't see me as anything special. She treats me like a friend."
"And you?"
The question hung in the air between them.
Valarr opened his mouth, then closed it. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Baelor waited.
"She's very beautiful," Valarr finally said, the words quiet and reluctant. "And kind. And when I'm with her, I don't have to be Prince Valarr, heir to this and betrothed to that. I can just... be. She doesn't want anything from me. She doesn't even really understand what I am, I think. To her, I'm just the boy who comes to visit and listens to her talk about her dragon."
"That sounds like more than just feeling sorry for her."
Valarr's jaw tightened again. "It's not. It can't be. I know my duty, Father. I've always known it."
"I know you do." Baelor moved closer, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "That's why I'm not ordering you to stop visiting her. I'm asking you to think about what you're doing—for her sake as much as your own. If she's as lost in her own mind as you believe, she may not understand the boundaries you think you're maintaining. She may be building hopes you can't fulfill."
Valarr was silent, his expression troubled.
"We leave for King's Landing in ten days," Baelor continued. "The king has summoned us back. There are matters at court that require my attention, and your grandfather wants to see his grandchildren before the autumn turns."
Valarr nodded slowly. "Ten days."
"After that, you'll be back in the capital, surrounded by courtiers and duties and the business of being a prince. The village girl will fade into memory, as such things do." Baelor squeezed his son's shoulder. "It's for the best. For both of you."
He turned to go, but Valarr's voice stopped him.
"Father."
Baelor looked back.
"What if I stayed?"
The words hung in the air. Baelor turned fully, facing his son with an expression that was impossible to read.
"Stayed?"
"Here. On Dragonstone." Valarr's voice was careful, measured, as if he were choosing each word with great precision. "You said yourself—I'm going to be Prince of Dragonstone someday. That's not just a title. It means something. It means I should know this place, its people, its ways. What better time to learn than now? While you're at court handling the important matters, I could stay here and... and learn to rule. Really rule. Not just watch from the sidelines."
Baelor was quiet for a long moment.
"You want to stay on Dragonstone," he said slowly. "Alone."
"Not alone. There's a household here. Castellan, maester, guards. I wouldn't be unsupervised. But I'd be... in charge. Making decisions. Learning what it actually means to be the lord of this place." Valarr met his father's eyes steadily. "You were younger than me when you started taking on real responsibilities. Grandfather has said so himself."
It was true. Baelor had been sixteen when his father first sent him to rule Dragonstone in his name, to learn the craft of lordship through practice rather than theory. The memory of those years—the mistakes, the lessons, the slow growth of confidence—was still vivid in his mind.
But that had been different. There had been no village girl then, no silver-haired beauty with violet eyes and an imaginary dragon.
"You're using your duty as an excuse," Baelor said quietly.
Valarr's chin lifted. "I'm using my duty as a reason. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." Valarr's voice was firm. "I'm not asking to stay because of her. I'm asking to stay because I want to be worthy of the position I'll one day hold. If that also means I have a few more weeks to be kind to someone who needs it... where's the harm?"
Baelor looked at his son for a long, searching moment. He saw the stubborn set of his jaw, the earnest light in his eyes, the absolute certainty of youth that it could have everything it wanted without sacrifice.
He had been that young once. He remembered what it felt like.
"Three moons," he said finally.
Valarr blinked. "What?"
"I'll give you three moons. Until the end of the year. You'll stay here, with the castellan and the maester, and you'll learn what it means to be the lord of this island. You'll hear petitions, settle disputes, manage the household, and report to me regularly on what you've learned." Baelor's voice hardened slightly. "And you will remember, every day, that you are betrothed to Kiera of Tyrosh. The arrangements have been made. The contracts have been signed. Her family expects this marriage, and so do we."
Valarr's face was carefully blank. "I haven't forgotten."
"Good." Baelor held his son's gaze. "Because if I hear that you've given that girl any reason to hope—any reason at all—I will return here myself and drag you back to King's Landing by your ear. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Father."
Baelor studied him for another moment, then nodded slowly.
"Three months. Use them well."
He turned and walked away, leaving Valarr standing alone in the training yard with the evening shadows lengthening around him and the weight of his father's words settling onto his shoulders like a cloak.
—
The morning air was cool and salt-tinged as you made your way along the eastern cliffs, your basket swinging at your side and your eyes scanning the rocky ground for the telltale blue-green leaves of the herbs Marta needed. It was a good day for foraging, the mist from the sea had settled into the hollows, keeping the ground damp, and the ghost-flowers were already beginning to open their pale faces to the weak morning light.
You had risen before dawn, as you always did, and had already visited Moonfyre in her cave. She had been restless today, her wings stretching and folding, stretching and folding, her golden eyes fixed on the sliver of sky visible through the crack in the chamber ceiling. You had sat with her for a long while, your hand on her warm scales, wondering if she was thinking about flying. Wondering if she was ready.
Soon, you had whispered to her. Soon you'll fly, and I'll watch you, and it will be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
She had rumbled in response, a sound that vibrated through your bones, and you had smiled and left her to her dreams.
Now you were alone on the cliffs, the village a distant huddle of grey roofs behind you, the sea crashing against the rocks far below. It was peaceful here. Quiet. The kind of quiet that let you think, or not think, as you pleased.
You had been gathering herbs for perhaps an hour when you heard footsteps on the path behind you.
Your heart jumped, but only for a moment. The footsteps were too measured, too deliberate, to be anything threatening. And besides, there was only one person who knew you came here at this hour.
You turned, and there he was.
Prince Valarr stood at the top of the path, slightly out of breath, his dark hair windswept and his cheeks flushed from the climb. He was dressed simply today—a dark tunic, no cloak, his sword at his hip but no guards in sight. He looked younger like this, less like a prince and more like a boy who had walked too far and was glad to have found his destination.
"You," you said, and you couldn't quite keep the smile from your voice. "You came all the way out here?"
"I heard there was a girl who gathered herbs on the eastern cliffs," he said, his own smile tugging at his lips. "I wanted to see if it was true."
"And you had to climb a mountain to find out?"
"It's a very interesting rumor." He moved closer, his mismatched eyes warm. "I had to investigate personally."
You laughed, tucking a strand of silver hair behind your ear. "Well, you found me. I'm gathering feverfew and pennyroyal for Marta. It's not very exciting."
"Everything you do is exciting," he said, and there was something in his voice that made your cheeks warm.
You looked away, pretending to examine a clump of herbs at your feet. "You're in a strange mood today, my prince."
"Am I?"
"You're being... complimentary. More than usual." You risked a glance up at him. "Did something happen?"
He was quiet for a moment, and something flickered in his eyes—something you couldn't quite name. Then he smiled, and it was softer than before.
"My father leaves for King's Landing in ten days," he said. "I'm... staying. On Dragonstone. To learn to be a better lord."
You looked up sharply. "You're staying?"
"Three months. Maybe longer, if I prove myself." He took another step closer, and now he was near enough that you could see the silver streak in his dark hair, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes from squinting into the sun. "I wanted to tell you myself."
Your heart was doing something strange in your chest. "You're staying," you repeated, because you couldn't quite believe it. "For three months."
"Is that... would you like that?"
"Would I—" You laughed, a bright, surprised sound. "Of course I would like it. I—" You stopped, suddenly aware of how much you were about to reveal. "I mean. It will be nice. To have a friend. For longer."
His smile widened. "Friend."
"That's what we are, isn't it?" You looked down at your basket, at the herbs scattered inside. "You're a prince and I'm a village girl, and you're very kind to me, and I... I'm grateful. That's all."
He didn't answer immediately. When you looked up, he was watching you with an expression that made your breath catch.
"You're not just a village girl," he said quietly.
"I'm exactly a village girl." You tried to smile, but it felt wobbly on your face. "That's all I've ever been. That's all I'll ever be. A bastard girl who helps old Marta with her goats and gathers herbs on the cliffs and believes in dragons that no one else can see."
"I see her," he said. "The girl. And she's not nobody."
Your throat tightened. "You don't have to say that. You don't have to be kind to me because you feel sorry for me. I know you think I'm—"
"I don't feel sorry for you." His voice was firm, cutting off your words. "I've never felt sorry for you."
"Then why do you come? Why do you keep coming back, day after day, when everyone else in the castle thinks I'm mad and everyone in the village humors me and you have duties and responsibilities and—"
You stopped, your voice cracking. You looked away, your cheeks burning, suddenly afraid of what you had almost said.
Valarr was quiet for a long moment. Then he moved.
"Y/N." His voice was soft, closer than you expected. You looked up, and he was right there, barely an arm's length away. In his hand was something small and gold, glinting in the morning light.
"What is that?" you whispered.
He held it out, and you saw it properly for the first time—a pendant, delicate and intricate, two dragons wrought in gold, their bodies curving together to form the shape of a heart. Between them, nestled where their necks met, was a ruby, small but perfect, catching the light like a drop of blood.
"I had it made," he said, and his voice was low, almost hesitant. "It arrived yesterday."
You stared at the pendant, at the dragons intertwined, at the ruby heart they cradled between them. Your own heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
"Valarr," you breathed. "I can't take that. It's too much. I'm—"
"Turn around."
"What?"
"Turn around." His voice was gentle but insistent. "Let me put it on you."
You should have refused. You knew you should have refused. This was too much, too fine, too everything. You were a bastard girl from a fishing village. You wore patched wool and secondhand boots. You had nothing, owned nothing, were nothing.
But your body moved before your mind could stop it. You turned, your back to him, your hands gripping your basket so hard your knuckles were white.
You felt his breath on your neck as he stepped closer. Felt his fingers, warm and careful, brushing your hair aside. The clasp of the necklace was small, delicate, and his fingers fumbled with it for a moment before it caught.
The pendant settled against your collarbone, cool at first, then warming quickly against your skin. It was heavier than you expected. Solid. Real.
"There," he said softly. His hands lingered on your shoulders for a moment, and you could feel the warmth of them through your thin cloak. "Now you can turn around."
You turned slowly, and found him closer than you expected. His face was inches from yours, his mismatched eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"I don't deserve this," you whispered. "I'm nobody. I'm a bastard, I'm—"
"Don't." His voice was rough. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that."
"It's true." Your eyes were burning, though you didn't know why. "You know it's true. Everyone knows. I'm nobody's daughter, nobody's heir, nobody's anything. I don't have a name, I don't have a family, I don't have anything to give anyone. I'm just—"
"You're Y/N." His hands moved from your shoulders to your face, cupping your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't realized were falling. "You're the girl who saved a dragon when no one else would. Who tends the sick and the old and asks for nothing in return. Who talks to me like I'm a person, not a title, and who makes me laugh when I've forgotten how."
"Valarr—"
"You're the most real person I've ever met." His voice cracked on the words. "And you are not nobody. You're not nothing. You're everything I didn't know I was looking for."
He stopped. His eyes were wide, startled, as if he had surprised himself. His hands were still on your face, warm and calloused from sword practice, and you could feel his breath mingling with yours, and the world had shrunk to just this moment, just this space between you.
"I shouldn't say that," he whispered. "I know I shouldn't. But I can't seem to stop myself around you."
"Then don't," you breathed. "Don't stop."
His eyes searched yours, looking for something—permission, perhaps, or confirmation that this was real. Whatever he saw must have been enough, because he let out a shaky breath and leaned closer.
"Y/N," he murmured, and your name had never sounded like that before—like a prayer, like a promise, like something precious.
He kissed you.
It was soft at first, almost questioning—his lips brushing against yours like he was asking if this was allowed, if you wanted it as much as he did. You made a sound, something small and surprised, and your hands came up without thinking, fisting in the fabric of his tunic.
That was all the answer he needed.
His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him, and the kiss deepened, and you were aware of nothing but him, the warmth of his mouth, the press of his hands against your back, the way his heart was pounding against your chest in time with your own.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, his arms still around you like he was afraid to let go.
"I've wanted to do that," he admitted, his voice rough, "for weeks. Every time I saw you. Every time you smiled at me. Every time you said my name."
"Then why didn't you?" The words came out breathless, barely a whisper.
He let out a shaky laugh. "Because I was trying to be a gentleman. Because I didn't think I deserved to. Because I was afraid you didn't feel the same."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, to see the uncertainty and hope warring in his mismatched eyes. Your fingers were still curled in his tunic, and you could feel the warmth of his chest through the fabric, the steady beat of his heart.
"I've wanted you to," you admitted quietly. "Every time you came to the village. Every time you sat with me by the caves. Every time you looked at me like I was something more than... than this."
His expression softened, and he raised one hand from your face to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on the shell of it.
"You are more," he said firmly. "You've always been more. You just never let anyone see it."
"I let you see it."
Something shifted in his expression. Something that looked almost like wonder.
"Y/N," he said, and your name was barely a breath.
He kissed you again, and this time there was nothing hesitant about it. His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him, and you rose on your toes to meet him, your hands sliding up from his tunic to twine around his neck.
When you finally broke apart, you were both smiling. He pressed his forehead to yours again, and you could feel his smile against your skin, warm and real.
"Three months," he said softly. "I have three months to prove to you that you're not nobody. That you never were."
"That's a lot of proving," you murmured, your fingers tracing the collar of his tunic.
He caught your hand, brought it to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles that made your heart stutter. "I'm a very determined man."
You laughed, the sound bright and startled and full of joy. "Are you now?"
"I am." He grinned, and it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen, open and unguarded and utterly, completely real. "Ask anyone."
"Hmm." You pretended to consider. "I suppose I'll have to take your word for it."
He pulled you close again, wrapping his arms around you, and you let yourself be held. The morning sun was climbing higher, painting the cliffs in gold and pink, and somewhere below, the sea crashed against the rocks in its ancient rhythm.
"What will your father say?" you asked quietly, your cheek pressed against his chest. "About you staying, I mean."
"He gave me three moons." Valarr's voice was steady, though you could feel his heartbeat quicken beneath your ear. "To learn to be a lord. To know this place, its people, its ways."
"And do you think that's the only reason you're staying?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then, very softly, "No."
You pulled back to look at him, and found him watching you with an expression that made your chest ache.
"I'm staying because of you," he said. "Because when I'm with you, I don't have to be anyone but myself. Because you make me want to be better. Because..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Because I couldn't bear the thought of leaving and never seeing you again."
The pendant felt heavier against your chest, more real. You reached up and touched it, your fingers brushing against the two dragons.
"You gave me this," you said. "Before you even knew you were staying."
He smiled, a little sheepishly. "I was hoping. I sent word to the goldsmith weeks ago, before my father even told me we were leaving. I didn't know if I'd get to give it to you. I didn't know if you'd want it."
You looked down at the pendant, at the dragons twined together, at the ruby heart they guarded.
"I want it," you said softly. "I want to keep it. Always."
His breath caught. "Always?"
You looked up at him, at this boy who was a prince, who had climbed a mountain to find you, who had given you a heart of gold and ruby and kissed you like you were something worth keeping.
"Always," you said.
He kissed you again, and this time there was no hesitation, no questioning. Just warmth, and joy, and the taste of salt on his lips from the sea wind.
The wind whipped around you, carrying the scent of salt and wild herbs, and somewhere in the caves behind you, Moonfyre stirred, as if she could feel your happiness echoing through the stone.
Three months stretched before you like an endless summer, full of promise and possibility. And standing there in his arms, with his heart beating against yours and the pendant warm on your skin, you let yourself believe that three months could be the beginning of something that would last forever.
—
The three days that followed were the happiest of your life.
They passed in a blur of stolen moments and secret smiles, of hands brushing under the guise of accident, of lips meeting in the shadow of the Dragon's Tooth or behind the baker's stall or in the quiet hollow where the ghost-flowers grew. Valarr found you everywhere. He sought you out in the mornings when you gathered herbs, in the afternoons when you ran errands for Marta, in the evenings when you sat by the sea and watched the sun set the water on fire.
You kissed until your lips were swollen and your cheeks ached from smiling. You talked about everything and nothing, about the constellations that wheeled overhead, about the taste of Marta's honey cakes, about the way the light caught in Moonfyre's scales when she stretched her wings toward the ceiling of her cave.
Soon, you told him. Soon she'll fly. I know she will.
He smiled when you talked about her. Listened. Asked questions. But there was something in his eyes when you spoke of her, something gentle, something that made your stomach twist in a way you didn't quite understand.
You pushed it away. You didn't want to think about what that look meant. You wanted to live in these three months, in the warmth of his arms, in the press of his lips against yours, in the weight of the pendant that hung between your collarbones like a second heartbeat.
On the fourth day, you met him in the eastern meadows, where the grass grew tall and wild and the wind carried the smell of salt and summer. You had brought bread and cheese, a small feast spread on a cloth, and you sat together in the shade of a great black rock that the villagers called the Dragon's Claw.
Moonfyre had been restless again that morning. Pacing. Stretching. Her golden eyes fixed on the crack of sky above her chamber with an intensity that made your heart race.
Soon, you had promised her. Very soon.
"She's going to fly," you told Valarr, your voice bright with excitement. You tore off a piece of bread, offered it to him. "I know it. She's been testing her wings for days now. This morning, she almost lifted off the ground. I saw it. Just a little hop, but she was in the air, Valarr. For a heartbeat, she was flying."
He took the bread, but he didn't eat it. He was watching you with that expression again—the one you didn't want to name.
"That's... wonderful," he said carefully.
"It is!" You leaned forward, your hands gesturing, unable to contain your joy. "She's been waiting so long. Her wing is completely healed now—the scales have grown back, you can barely tell it was ever broken. And she's strong. Stronger than she's ever been. She's been eating well, and she's grown so much, and I just know that when she finally takes to the sky, it's going to be the most beautiful thing anyone has ever seen."
You stopped, suddenly aware that he hadn't said anything. That he was just looking at you, the bread forgotten in his hand.
"What?" you asked, your smile faltering.
"Y/N..." He set the bread down. Ran a hand through his dark hair. Hesitated. "I need to talk to you about something."
Your stomach tightened. "What kind of something?"
He was quiet for a long moment, his mismatched eyes fixed on something in the distance the sea, perhaps, or the mountain, or something you couldn't see. When he spoke, his voice was very gentle. Too gentle.
"I've been thinking about what you said. About Moonfyre. About her flying."
Your heart had begun to beat faster, though you didn't know why. "What about it?"
He turned to look at you, and there it was—the look you had been pretending not to see. Pity. Concern. The careful kindness of someone about to tell you something they knew would hurt.
"Y/N," he said softly. "Moonfyre isn't real."
The words landed like stones in still water. You stared at him, waiting for the rest of the sentence, for the joke, for the misunderstanding that would make this all make sense.
He said nothing else.
"What did you just say?" Your voice came out strange. Flat.
"Please don't be angry." He reached for your hand, but you pulled away before he could touch you. "I've been thinking about this for days. About how to say it. I don't want to hurt you, but I can't—I can't keep pretending that I believe you when you talk about her. It's not fair to either of us."
"You think she's not real." You could hear your voice rising, could feel something hot and sharp building in your chest. "You think I've been lying."
"No. I don't think you're lying." His voice was so gentle, so patient, that you wanted to scream. "I think you believe it. I think you believe it completely. But Y/N, there hasn't been a dragon on Dragonstone in sixty years. Everyone knows that. The last dragons died out after the Dance. There are no eggs, no hatchlings, no—"
"You don't know that." You were on your feet now, the bread and cheese forgotten, the cloth crushed beneath your boots. "The caves go deep. Deeper than anyone has explored. Dragons are secret creatures, they hide when they're hurt, they—"
"Then why has no one seen her?" He stood too, his hands raised, as if he were trying to calm a frightened animal. "You've been visiting her for months. You've been feeding her, tending her wound, spending hours in that cave. And yet no one else has ever laid eyes on her. Not once. Not even a glimpse."
"Because she hides! She was hurt, she was scared, she—"
"You said her wing was healed. That she's strong now. That she's been stretching her wings, testing them." He took a step toward you, and you took a step back. "If she's real, Y/N, why won't she let anyone else see her? Why does she only appear to you?"
"I don't know!" Your voice cracked. "Maybe she's not ready. Maybe she's waiting. Maybe—"
"Maybe she's not there." His voice was soft, but the words hit you like a blow. "Maybe the dragon you've been caring for, the one you named, the one you've been waiting to see fly... maybe she exists only in your heart. And maybe that's a beautiful thing, Y/N. Maybe it's kept you going, given you hope, made you the kind, brave person you are. But it's not real. And I can't—I can't keep pretending it is."
You stared at him. Your hands were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. The pendant felt cold against your chest, the dragons and their ruby heart suddenly heavy, burdensome.
"You said you believed me." Your voice was barely a whisper. "At the market. You said Moonfyre was a beautiful name. You said you wanted to see her."
"I wanted to be kind." He ran a hand through his hair again, frustrated, pained. "I thought if I was gentle, if I was patient, you would see the truth on your own. But you haven't. And now I'm leaving in three months, and I can't—I can't just leave you like this, Y/N. Living in a world that doesn't exist. Waiting for a dragon that will never fly."
"She will fly." You could feel tears burning in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now. "She is real. I've touched her. I've felt her heartbeat. I've sat beside her and listened to her breathe. She is real, Valarr. She is."
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, there was something in them that looked almost like grief.
"Then prove it."
The words hung in the air between you.
"What?"
"Prove it." His jaw was set, his voice steady. "Take me to her. Let me see her. Let me touch her. If she's real, if everything you've told me is true, then I will apologize. I will get on my knees if I have to, and I will beg your forgiveness, and I will never doubt you again."
You stared at him, your heart pounding.
"But if she's not there," he continued, and his voice cracked, just a little. "If we go to the cave and it's empty, if there's no dragon, no scales, no fire... then I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise that you'll stop. That you'll try to get better. That you'll stop living in fantasies and start living in the world that's actually here. With me."
The world seemed to tilt around you. The grass, the sky, the great black rock behind you—all of it suddenly seemed insubstantial, like a dream you were about to wake from.
"You want me to prove she's real." Your voice was flat. "Like she's some kind of... of trick. Like I'm some kind of liar."
"I don't think you're a liar. I think you're—"
"Don't." You held up your hand, and he fell silent. "Don't tell me what you think I am. You don't know. You don't know anything."
"I know you." He stepped forward, and this time you didn't step back. He was close enough to touch, close enough to kiss, but there was a chasm between you that hadn't been there before. "I know you're kind. I know you're brave. I know you helped a wounded dragon when no one else would. But Y/N—"
"But you don't believe her."
He was silent.
You looked at him this boy who had kissed you in the morning light, who had given you a pendant with dragons and a ruby heart, who had made you believe that maybe, just maybe, you could be something more than a village bastard with an imaginary pet.
He was looking at you now with those mismatched eyes, and you saw it clearly for the first time: he didn't believe you. He had never believed you. All those weeks of listening, of nodding, of asking gentle questions—it had been pity. Kindness. The careful patience of someone humoring a child.
You thought of the villagers, their smiles and their sidelong glances. Poor thing, they probably said when you weren't listening. Thinks she has a dragon. Marta's girl has always been strange.
You thought of Prince Baelor, granting you a dragon he didn't believe existed, his kindness a form of dismissal.
You thought of Valarr, kissing you with the pendant warm between you, already planning how to cure you of your delusion.
"Fine." The word came out harder than you intended. Sharper.
He blinked. "Fine?"
"You want proof?" You lifted your chin, and the tears that had been threatening finally spilled over, hot on your cheeks. "Fine. Tonight. After dark. Meet me at the Dragon's Tooth, and I will take you to her. I will show you Moonfyre, and her scales, and her wings, and her fire. And then—" Your voice cracked, and you had to stop, had to swallow, had to force the words out. "And then you will apologize. On your knees. Like you said."
Something flickered in his eyes, doubt, perhaps, or hope, or fear. "Y/N—"
"Tonight." You stepped back, putting distance between you. "If you want to prove I'm mad, come and see for yourself. But don't expect me to smile at you tomorrow, Valarr. Don't expect me to let you kiss me again. Not until you've seen her. Not until you believe."
You turned and walked away before he could respond. Before he could say something else gentle and kind and devastating. Before you could see the pity in his eyes again.
Behind you, he called your name. Once. Twice. You didn't look back.
The wind whipped your hair across your face, and the pendant bounced against your chest, the two dragons and their ruby heart, and you ran. You ran until the meadow was behind you, until the village was behind you, until there was nothing but the path to the caves and the salt-stung air and the tears streaming down your face.
You didn't stop until you reached Moonfyre's chamber.
She was there, curled against the obsidian wall, her pale scales catching the dim light from the crack above. Her head came up when you stumbled in, her golden eyes sharp, watchful. She made a sound, not a purr, not a rumble, but something questioning, almost worried.
You fell to your knees beside her, your hands finding her neck, her scales warm and solid beneath your fingers. She was real. She was real. You could feel her pulse, her breath, the life that hummed through her like a song.
"He doesn't believe," you whispered, your voice raw. "He thinks you're not real. He thinks I imagined you."
Moonfyre made a sound deep in her chest, and her tail curled around you, pulling you close. Her warmth seeped through your clothes, into your bones, and you pressed your face against her scales and let yourself cry.
"He's coming tonight. To see you. To prove that you're not here." You looked up at her, at her golden eyes, at the purple undertones in her white scales, at the wings that were strong and whole and ready. "You'll be here, won't you? You'll show him? You'll make him believe?"
Moonfyre blinked at you slowly. Her head lowered, her snout coming to rest against your shoulder, and the rumble in her chest deepened, vibrated, became something that felt almost like a promise.
You closed your eyes and held her, and waited for the sun to set.
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XII LINK
Chapter XIV: SOON
[A/N] - If there are any scenes, ideas or moments you want to see or have come up with, feel free to let me know.
I have certain small arcs, but I would love to add more and bring your ideas to life by making them part of this amazing story!
Chapter XIII: The Princes
At that moment, one of the nearby chamber doors suddenly swung open.
A wet nurse stepped out into the hallway in clear frustration.
Her dress was splattered with something sticky and bright; juice, perhaps, or some kind of fruit mash.
It had been smeared across her sleeve and cheek. She looked ready to curse someone thoroughly when she nearly collided with Baelor standing in the hall.
Her anger vanished instantly. “Oh— Your Grace!”
She bowed quickly, trying to wipe the mess from her face with the corner of her sleeve.
From inside the chamber came the loud, unmistakable sound of a baby crying.
Not gentle crying either. Full outrage.
Baelor’s brow lifted slightly. "What happened?”
The wet nurse glanced back toward the door with a tight expression. "The young prince threw a tantrum,” she said stiffly.
Spur appeared beside you then, hackles raised faintly as he sniffed the air around the woman.
A low growl rumbled in his throat.
Your eyes moved slowly from the wet nurse’s stained clothing to the doorway behind her. "Tantrum is not the only thing he threw,” you murmured.
The wet nurse’s head snapped toward you immediately.
Her glare was sharp.
Yours was sharper.
Baelor stepped past both before the moment could grow any longer. He pushed the nursery door wider.
The sound that greeted him was immediate.
Loud.
Unrelenting.
The cry of a frustrated child echoed through the chamber, bouncing against the stone walls and wooden beams overhead.
It was the kind of cry that came not from simple discomfort but from full, offended outrage.
Matarys.
Baelor recognised it instantly. He had heard it enough times to know it.
The nursery itself was in disarray.
Bright painted toys littered the floor: wooden horses, carved animals, small painted blocks scattered across the carpets as though a small storm had passed through the room.
A low table had been knocked sideways, its contents spilt across the rugs.
A bowl of mashed fruit had burst somewhere near the middle of the floor, leaving bright stains across the woven carpet.
Valarr sat near the centre of the chaos.
His small arms were crossed stubbornly over his chest, his face streaked with tears and whatever fruit had been flung across the room earlier.
His mismatched eyes glared stubbornly at the adults around him, though the trembling in his lower lip betrayed how close he still was to crying again.
Across the room, the second wet nurse held Matarys awkwardly across her lap.
The infant twisted unhappily in her arms, red-faced and furious, his small fists clenched as his cries rose louder with each passing breath.
“Shh now, shh—”
Baelor stepped fully into the room, drawing attention.
The nurse looked up immediately, startled. "Your Grace—” Her voice faltered slightly.
Baelor’s eyes had already moved past her. He was observing.
The overturned table.
The fruit splattered across the carpet.
Valarr’s defiant expression.
Matarys’ furious wailing.
The scene had the familiar feel of a battlefield, not in violence, but in chaos.
Too many movements happening at once, too many small disasters colliding together. An everyday occurrence, almost. It was why he had asked you to come in the first place.
And then you spoke."You’re holding him wrong.”
The words cut cleanly through the noise.
Baelor turned his head slightly.
You had stepped into the room behind him, your eyes fixed entirely on the child in the wet nurse’s arms.
The woman stiffened immediately.
Her exhaustion was plain to see; dark circles beneath her eyes, and her patience clearly worn thin from the events of the afternoon. “I am holding him exactly how a babe must be held after feeding.”
Your gaze did not move from the child.
Baelor watched you carefully.
There was no hesitation in your expression.
No uncertainty.
Just quiet certainty.
The same one you had when assessing an injury. When demanding it be treated before it worsens.
He felt a strange flicker of curiosity then.
You had been in the Red Keep for less than a day. And already you were correcting the women tasked with raising royal children.
Baelor looked at you. Then he nodded.
Just once.
The permission was subtle, but unmistakable.
You stepped forward. "Give him here.”
The wet nurse hesitated for only a moment. Then she surrendered the crying child into your arms.
Matarys’ cries did not quiet immediately. But the moment you shifted him against your chest, something changed.
You adjusted him slowly, turning his small body so that his cheek rested against your shoulder rather than across your lap.
One hand supported his back firmly, the other resting gently against the middle of his spine. Your palm began moving slowly.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
You began walking slowly across the room, your steps steady and calm as though you had done this a thousand times before.
Your voice dropped to a quiet murmur near the child’s ear.
Too soft for Baelor to hear clearly. But the tone alone was enough.
The baby’s cries faltered... then softened. His small fists slowly unclenched against your shoulder.
Baelor felt himself go still.
It had taken the wet nurses nearly an hour earlier that previous day to calm Matarys from one of his moods.
Yet here... The boy quieted within moments.
Then came a small sound. A soft, unmistakable burp against your shoulder.
You continued rubbing his back gently.
The child’s breathing slowed. His small cheek rested heavily against the fabric of your dress. And then… silence.
Matarys had fallen asleep.
Baelor realised then that he had been watching without blinking.
He had seen soldiers survive wounds that should have killed them.
He had watched commanders rally broken armies.
Yet the quiet skill with which you had calmed his youngest son carried its own strange weight.
Behind him came the sound of claws skittering against the floor.
Spur.
The dog entered the nursery with a sharp bark.
The reaction from the wet nurses was immediate.
The first shrieked, stumbling back against the wall.
The second lifted her feet from the floor entirely as if the creature might suddenly attack.
Spur ignored them both. His nose had already caught a more interesting scent.
Valarr.
The boy looked up suspiciously as the dog approached.
Spur slowed as he neared him, sniffing cautiously. Then... a long, wet lick across Valarr’s cheek.
The boy blinked in surprise.
Spur licked him again. Valarr pushed at the dog’s snout weakly. "Stop!”
The Dog barked once. Then lowered his front legs into a playful bow. His tail wagged furiously.
Valarr tried grabbing him again. Spur darted sideways.
Another bark. Another dodge.
Despite himself, the boy began to laugh.
The first sound of laughter in the room since Baelor had entered.
It started small... then grew.
Baelor watched the scene unfold in silence.
Spur circled the boy like a playful storm, darting from one side to the other each time Valarr tried to catch him.
Another bark.
Another giggle.
The mess on the floor was forgotten. The earlier tantrum was forgotten.
Across the room, you stood quietly with Matarys sleeping peacefully against your shoulder. You continued rubbing his back slowly.
Methodically. Motherly.
Your expression had softened, your focus entirely on the child resting in your arms.
Baelor remained where he stood. Watching. Something deep inside him settled then.
A quiet certainty.
The chaos of the room had vanished.
His eldest son was laughing.
His youngest son slept.
And the woman he had brought from the battlefield stood calmly in the centre of it all, as though she had always belonged there.
For the first time since entering the nursery... Peace had returned.
And Baelor realised, almost with surprise..
He had made the right choice.
The sun had set not long after, the last light of day slowly bleeding out of the sky beyond the windows, leaving behind a dimming world wrapped in quiet hues of deep blue and fading gold.
Evening had settled.
And to Baelor’s quiet surprise, it had ended… differently than he had expected.
Not in battle, nor in council, nor in the endless weight of duty that had defined so many of his days.
Here, within the walls of his own home, in a room that had once felt too large and far too empty.
After the boys had calmed, after the chaos had been eased into something manageable, something quieter, he had dismissed the wet nurses.
They were no longer needed. Not with you there.
The decision had come easily, almost instinctively, and yet the reaction it drew was anything but subtle.
Their glares lingered as they departed, sharp and unmistakable even to him, though you did not so much as spare them a second glance.
Your focus had already shifted, anchored entirely on the small figure leaning heavily against Spur.
Valarr.
The boy had exhausted himself in the aftermath of it all; his earlier energy spent in restless movement, in scattered emotions that had finally worn thin.
After chasing and being chased in equal measure, after laughter and stubborn resistance alike, he had eventually surrendered to exhaustion.
Now he sat, pressed against the dog’s side, his body slack with fatigue, his breathing slower, heavier.
Sleep was close.
“Come,” you told him gently, your voice softened by instinct, by familiarity. Matarys remained asleep in your arms, his small weight resting securely against you as if he belonged there. “Let’s get you changed and tucked to bed.”
Mismatched eyes lifted to meet yours.
For a moment, Valarr simply looked at you; studied you with a quiet intensity that felt… older than it should have.
There was something in that gaze, something steady and searching, that echoed far too closely the look his father often wore.
It did not go unnoticed. Not by you.
The boy nodded at last, the motion small, defeated in the way only a tired child could be. A yawn broke through his attempt to remain composed, his small shoulders sinking further.
Baelor stepped forward then, closing the distance between them in two measured strides.
Without hesitation, he bent and lifted his son into his arms. Valarr fit easily there. Too easily.
The boy seemed smaller within the hold of his father, his slight frame all but disappearing against Baelor’s broader one, as though he weighed nothing at all.
Strong arms secured him, steady and practised; not unfamiliar with the task, despite what others might have assumed of a man in his position.
“I will go change him and put him to bed,” Baelor said, turning his head slightly to look at you.
You did not answer immediately.
Instead, your gaze lingered on him; truly lingered. Studying the man before you with a quiet attention that had nothing to do with duty.
There was something… different.
Stripped of title, stripped of expectation, stripped of the weight of court and crown; what stood before you was not the Hand of the King, nor the heir to the Iron Throne.
It was a father.
A tired one.
A widower, holding his child with a care that felt… real.
It unsettled what you thought you knew.
You had heard the stories, the whispered remarks passed from village to village, from soldier to soldier.
Of nobles who rarely touched their children.
Of princes raised by servants and maids, handed off like tasks to be completed rather than lives to be nurtured.
You had expected that.
You had almost believed it when you first stepped into this place.
Now… you were not so certain.
“I presume you can do the same for Matarys,” he continued, his voice drawing you back from your thoughts. You blinked once, grounding yourself, and nodded. “There is a change of clothes in the cradle.”
Your eyes shifted instinctively toward it, brows knitting faintly.
The placement struck you as odd.
Not inconvenient, but intentional in a way that spoke of habit rather than chance.
Baelor noticed. Or perhaps he simply anticipated.
“My… late wife,” he began, and the change in his tone was immediate; subtle, but unmistakable. Slower. Quieter. “She would often have Valarr’s spare clothes ready on the bed. She said it made things easier… during the night. No need to search.”
Something in your expression softened before you could stop it.
You could see it.
The image formed easily in your mind: his wife, graceful in her movements, arranging things just so.
A room like this one, alive with quiet purpose rather than silence.
Her voice guiding servants, her hands placing objects where they would be needed most.
And Baelor... standing nearby.
Watching.
Smiling.
A thought followed, unbidden. He hasn’t smiled like that since she died.
You knew that look.
You had seen it before.
Your father had worn it too, after your mother passed; his laughter gone, his warmth dimmed, as though something essential had been taken from him and never returned.
No amount of noise, no childish antics or desperate attempts at joy had managed to reach him.
Grief did that.
It was a heavy thing. It burdened one's heart, dulled the colours of life, stole all the light of a happy life.
Realising the silence had stretched too long, you cleared your throat lightly, breaking it before it could deepen into something heavier. “I will handle him. Don’t worry.”
You did not ask for more.
Did not press further into the space he had opened, even briefly.
You moved on.
And in that choice, something in his mismatched eyes shifted; subtle, but there.
Gratitude.
He had not wanted to continue. And you had given him that mercy.
Per Baelor’s words, you found the night clothing set laid neatly within the cradle.
You paused, your gaze lingering as you took in its structure before reaching for anything at all.
The wood was rich, polished to a smooth sheen that still carried the faint scent of recent carving.
Dragons had been etched across its surface; small, intricate figures coiling along the frame, their wings spread in silent motion, their bodies frozen in a display of legacy and power.
It was… excessive. For something meant to hold a babe.
The size alone spoke of it. Larger than needed, deeper than practical. Built not merely for use, but for presence.
For expectation.
Red sheets lined the interior, soft and clean in a way that almost felt unnatural, small pillows arranged with care, positioned to support even the slightest movement.
Your eyes dropped to Matarys.
Still asleep.
Still unaware.
A future king.
And yet, in your arms, nothing more than a child.
Changing him was not easy.
Though he did not wake, not fully, his body resisted in the small, instinctive ways of an infant disturbed in sleep.
His limbs shifted, stiffened, then slackened again as you worked carefully around him, easing fabric away and replacing it with cleaner cloth.
Your movements remained steady. Measured.
The same hands that stitched torn flesh now worked with gentle precision, adjusting, supporting, moving without disrupting the fragile balance of his rest.
It took time. But eventually, it was done.
You lowered him into the cradle with care, your arms easing away only once you were certain he would not stir.
The blanket followed next, wrapped around him in practised folds; secure, controlled, leaving him a small, contained bundle within the red.
A memory surfaced, soft but unyielding.
“They tend to roll now, grab onto things when they sleep…”
Your mother’s voice. Warm. Familiar.
“This way, we make sure they don’t harm themselves.”
Your fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary.
You missed her, some days more than others. Tears rarely came now, though the emptiness inside was never forgotten.
Would she have approved of this place? Of this life?
Your gaze drifted across the room; the carved dragons, the careful order, the weight of expectation woven into every object.
Then you exhaled softly and stepped back.
No answer would come. Only memory.
You turned for the door... and stopped.
Spur.
He lay close to the cradle, head resting low, but his eyes remained open, alert in that quiet, watchful way he had when he chose something to guard.
“Spur,” you called softly, mindful of the sleeping child. “Come, boy.”
One ear flicked. He looked at you.
Then, with a heavy sigh, he lowered his head once more.
You blinked, surprised. Spur did not ignore you. Ever.
Your gaze shifted, following the line of his body, the direction of his quiet vigilance.
The cradle.
Understanding settled.
A small smile touched your lips, softer than most. “You can stay,” you murmured. “But don’t scare away any servants in the morning.”
His tail thumped lightly against the carpet. He did not move. But he had heard.
Satisfied, you stepped out of the room, closing the door gently behind you; careful, always careful not to disturb what little peace had settled within.
Something moved at the corner of your eye. You turned, muscles tense.
A guard stood against the wall, gaze locked forward; chin held up.
Was he there before? Or was he summoned to protect for the night?
You were unsure, though your heart beat faster still. Dark eyes cast your direction, silently assessing you.
Baelor had already spoken; the news had been spread across the keep faster than wildfire on a dried forest.
"Well then, goodnight, ser," you politely said, walking to the room a few feet down the hall.
His eyes followed you as you did, and in the dimly lit corridor, you failed to see the corners of his lips tugging upwards.
Just a fraction. But it was there.
Baelor had changed Valarr into a cleaner set with a care that came naturally to him, despite what others might have assumed.
The child barely resisted.
There had been a moment, brief, instinctive, where small hands had pushed weakly against his father’s chest, a quiet protest born more from habit than will.
But it faded quickly, swallowed by exhaustion. His limbs grew heavier with each passing second, movements slowing until they ceased entirely.
The day had taken what little energy remained in him.
Carefully, Baelor guided him toward the bed, lowering him with a steadiness that spoke of practice rather than uncertainty. The mattress dipped beneath the boy’s weight, soft.
The child was small and thin, drowning in the huge bed. But he would grow to it, slowly; as they all did.
Baelor reached for the covers, pulling them upward until they rested just beneath the child’s chin, smoothing them down with slow, absent motions.
His hand lingered there for a moment longer than needed, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric as if ensuring it would hold him there, safe, still, unmoving.
The room was quiet.
Only the distant hum of the Keep lived beyond its walls; muted footsteps, faint voices, the faraway echo of a place that never truly slept.
Inside, it felt… still.
Baelor remained standing at the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on his son.
Their eyes met.
In the dim light spilling in from the city beyond, their features were cast in soft shadow, gold and darkness dancing across their profiles.
It was in moments like this that the resemblance struck hardest; those same mismatched eyes, that same quiet way of looking, of observing rather than speaking.
Baelor had often found himself staring at Valarr, searching.
Not for resemblance.
For something else.
For what had been lost.
When Jena had still lived, the boy had been different.
Lighter.
There had been a spark in him then, a brightness that had filled the room long before his laughter followed.
He had spoken freely, moved without restraint, his joy something that could not be contained within walls or expectations.
Baelor remembered it vividly.
The sound of it.
The way it had echoed.
The way it had made everything feel… whole.
But after her passing... That light had dimmed.
Slowly, then all at once. His son had grown quiet... Too quiet.
Words had vanished first, replaced by silence that stretched longer with each passing day.
Then the smiles faded, the laughter stilled, until what remained was something subdued… contained… as if the child had learned far too early how to carry something he could not yet understand.
And Baelor... had not known how to reach him.
Not truly.
Not until today.
Today, his son had laughed again. Not forced. Not fleeting.
Real.
Baelor could still hear it.
The memory lingered in the back of his mind, vivid and fragile all at once, as though holding onto it too tightly might cause it to slip away.
He had tried to fix it there, in that moment; to carve it into memory, to preserve it in a way that would not fade by morning.
Because he had believed...Feared.... It might be months before he heard it again.
But he would have been wrong. He simply did not know it yet.
“Will she stay?” The voice was soft. Small. Barely more than a breath.
And yet it shattered the silence entirely.
Baelor stilled.
His breath caught, not visibly, not enough for the child to notice, but it was there. A pause, a fracture in his composure as his mind struggled to catch up with what he had just heard.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he looked down.
Valarr’s eyes were on him. Clear. Awake. And speaking.
For a moment, just a moment, Baelor nearly broke.
Nearly reached for him, nearly spoke his name, nearly let the overwhelming rush of relief and disbelief spill past the walls he had so carefully maintained.
But he did not. He held it in.
Now is not the time, he repeated silently, the thought grounding him, steadying him.
If he made it too big… too important… it might scare it away.
So instead, he answered.
“Yes,” he said, his voice softer than it had been all day, stripped of command, stripped of expectation. “She will.”
Valarr watched him for a moment longer, as if weighing the answer, as if deciding whether to trust it.
Then...
A faint smile.
Small.
Fragile.
But real.
“And the dog?” he asked, eyelids already beginning to droop, sleep reclaiming him piece by piece.
Baelor exhaled quietly, something easing in his chest at the sight of that expression. “And him too.”
That seemed to be enough. The child asked no more.
His eyes closed slowly, the faint curve of that smile lingering even as sleep finally took him fully.
Baelor did not move. Not immediately.
He remained there, standing at the edge of the bed, watching. Counting the breaths. Listening to the quiet.
Ensuring, perhaps more for himself than anything else, that it had truly happened.
That he had not imagined it.
That the silence had been broken.
A full minute passed before he allowed himself to shift.
His heart beat just a fraction faster than before; enough for him to notice, enough for it to matter.
His son had spoken.
On the same day you had entered their lives.
The thought settled deep.
Any doubt that had lingered, any quiet voice that had questioned his decision, faded.
He had done well.
There was no argument left to be made.
It was only then that he felt it.
A presence.
Subtle.
Unannounced.
But there.
Baelor turned his head.
You stood by the open door, quiet as you had always been, your figure half-framed by the dim light of the corridor beyond.
For a moment, he simply looked at you. And then... he smiled.
Not wide. Not openly. But warmer than before.
Grateful.
He stepped away from the bed, careful in his movements, each step measured so as not to disturb the fragile stillness that had settled over the room.
When he reached you, he lowered his voice instinctively, as though even the walls might carry sound too far. “Everything okay with Matarys?” he asked.
He stepped past you as he spoke, pulling the door gently closed behind him. The motion was slow, deliberate; the soft click of it sealing the quiet within.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the guard stationed nearby, ensuring his presence, his attentiveness.
Then back to you.
“Yes,” you answered just as softly, your tone matching his without effort. “He is fast asleep. Hopefully, he does not wake until the sun is up.” A small pause followed, then, “Spur wished to stay with the boy.”
Baelor’s brows lifted faintly, surprise flickering across his features before it softened into something else, something deeper.
“He may stay as many nights as he wishes,” he said, and there was no hesitation in it. “He has been of immense help already.”
A small smile touched your lips. “Animals tend to do that. They simply… have their way to communicate in ways we don't understand.”
Baelor inclined his head slightly, thoughtful.
“Indeed. Today it was proven.” His hands moved behind his back, a familiar posture returning, but looser now, less guarded. “Valarr had not laughed like that in months… nor had he spoken any words to me ever since…”
He did not finish the sentence.
He did not need to.
You understood.
Ever since she died.
Ever since everything changed.
And because you understood, you did not push.
Instead, you shifted the conversation gently, offering him the same quiet mercy he had been given earlier. “My duties start tomorrow, correct?”
Baelor looked at you then, truly looked, and something in his expression shifted once more.
Surprise.
Not at the question, but at you.
At the way you seemed to read what others avoided.
At the way you moved through conversations, not blindly, but with awareness that felt… practiced.
Earned.
It eased something in him.
“Yes,” he said, offering his elbow once more. “I can cover them up for you, as we return to your chambers.”
This time, your hesitation was shorter.
Still there, but quieter.
Your fingers found his arm again, wrapping around the firm line of his bicep. Even through the layers of fabric, the warmth of him was unmistakable; steady, solid, grounding in a way that felt unfamiliar and yet… not unwelcome.
Beside them, the guard’s gaze flickered briefly in your direction.
Observing. Measuring. Then still again.
Silent as before.
The walk to your chambers felt shorter than it had before.
Perhaps it was the quiet that filled it.
Or the way the corridors seemed less like a maze now and more like a path you had already begun to understand.
Or perhaps it was simply the weight of the day settling into your bones, dulling everything around you into something softer, slower.
Your chambers had been placed merely a floor below the royal ones.
Convenience, Baelor had called it. A practical choice. A thoughtful one.
One that would allow you to move easily between spaces, to reach the boys without delay, should anything be required of you.
You had not argued.
In truth, you were grateful for it.
Less distance to cover.
Fewer corridors to memorise.
Fewer chances to lose yourself within walls that still felt too large, too foreign.
Baelor spoke as you walked, his voice low, measured; never rushing, never overwhelming.
He paused where needed, giving you time to absorb each detail, each instruction, as though he understood that this was not merely information, but responsibility.
He spoke of schedules. Of structure. Of the rhythm the princes followed each day.
Lessons in the morning.
Reading in the afternoon.
Supervised play, though limited.
Then more lessons still.
A routine carefully crafted, perhaps too carefully, to shape them into what they were expected to become.
Valarr’s days were fuller. He was older. Closer to expectation.
Matarys, in contrast, was only beginning to be guided; encouraged to walk, to grasp, to interact with the world around him in small, controlled ways.
“They require attention,” Baelor said, glancing briefly at you as you walked beside him. “Presence. Someone to observe… to intervene when needed.” His tone softened slightly. “To guide, when I cannot be there.”
You listened. Truly listened.
Each word settling into your mind, finding its place, forming something structured from what had once been uncertainty. This was no longer a vague idea of duty. It was real. Defined.
Immediate.
And yet... Your thoughts did not agree entirely.
There were things you might have said. Questions that pressed at the edge of your mind. Small observations, quiet disagreements, instincts born from a life far removed from court and crown.
But you held them back. It was not your place.
Not yet.
Who were you to question the upbringing of princes? Of future kings?
So you remained silent. And he did not press you to speak.
