— summary: sent south to be claimed by an alpha woman, omega aerion arrives at storm's end armed with his pride, his rage, and a scent he wears like a dagger. but the stormlands are unyielding, and his new alpha mate isn't playing around.
— pairing: omega!aerion targaryen x alpha!baratheon!reader
— word count: 8.5k
— content: omegaverse dynamics, afab!reader, alpha/omega pairing, arranged marriage/mating, instinct-driven behavior, heat/mating cycles, scenting, biting/marking, heavy power dynamics, blood.
— notes: maneater by nelly furtado started playing as i was finishing proofreading and it just made sense to me LOL,, please enjoy this monstrosity i worked on this whole week,, largest fic of mine to the date so yeah! reblogs and comments are encouraged!
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Storm's End didn't just sound like the sea; it felt like you were standing in the shore itself. Water hit stone in a slow, brutal rhythm, sending tremors straight through the floor of the Great Hall and up through the soles of Aerion's boots.
He stood at the threshold; the oak doors groaned shut behind him, cutting off the howl of the storm outside. The damp stayed. It clung to the air, thick and cold, seeping straight through the velvet of his doublet.
Aerion didn’t shiver; he didn’t allow himself to. He locked his jaw and dragged a thumb over the orange silk at his cuff, letting the friction bite.
They had packed him in a carriage, dragged him down the kingsroad, and shipped him south to be claimed by a woman playing at lordship. He stepped forward. A slash of crimson and spun gold cutting through the rotting grey stone of your ancestral seat. He didn't bother looking at the staring lords. He caught the perimeter guards in his peripheral vision (unwashed men in leather gripping halberds they barely knew how to hold) and wrote them off quickly.
He stalked down the center aisle, chin held high and the royal aura he exuded trailed behind him.
But his heat followed.
The omega scent rolled off his clothes. Sugar and burnt ozone. He had coated himself in expensive perfumed oils before stepping out of the carriage, but the jagged edge of his nature bled through anyway, sharpened by his fury. He wore his designation like an open wound. The knowledge that these stormland brutes could smell it on him made him want to strip the flesh from their bones.
Aerion stopped at the base of the stairs. He planted his boots and did not bow. He dragged his gaze up the stone steps, past the mud tracked across the floor, past the smoking iron braziers.
He finally looked at you.
You remained seated. You took up the full width of the oak chair, arms flat on the carved stags, and didn't move. Didn't shift to acknowledge him. Didn't lean forward to get a better look. You let him stand there in the freezing damp like he was exactly where he belonged.
The composure got under his skin immediately. He'd expected pomp. A desperate, fawning provincial lady hungry for Targaryen blood, or at least the loud aggression of a challenged alpha.
Instead, your scent rolled down the steps toward him in waves.
It hit him like a slap in the face. Dark wood, ozone, and wet earth. It didn't spike with aggression, it just sat there, dense and immovable, filling every corner of the hall. Something in him knew what it meant before he could shut it down. A low, humiliated heat caught at the base of his neck. Old instinct pushed at the back of his skull: lower your chin, bare your throat, acknowledge the alpha on the high seat.
Aerion forced his spine straight. Thick blue veins rose against the pale skin of his hands as he fisted them at his sides. He would burn this keep to its foundation before he submitted to a feral brute. He let his eyes travel the room, a slow, bored circuit. A sharp smile stretched his mouth, though his eyes remained dead and predatory under the heavy ridge of his brow.
"I was informed," Aerion drawled, his voice was a smooth, honeyed purr. He projected it effortlessly over the ambient roar of the sea, ensuring every retainer in the room heard the bored superiority dripping from his words. "that Storm's End held a certain unrefined charm. I see the royal court was being generous." He took one step toward you. "Where do you keep the livestock? Or am I standing in the pen?"
He waited, he wanted the roaring rage, he wanted you to stand up, red-faced, shouting about respect and treason. He needed the ugly, predictable shape of a bruised alpha. He knew exactly how to cut apart a screaming brute; he had spent his entire life baiting larger, stupider opponents into making mistakes.
You did not rise to the bait. You looked at him. Unblinking. Unmoving.
Aerion's jaw tightened. The smile stayed, but the muscles under it pulled hard. His pulse picked up. The total lack of reaction was a wall he couldn't climb. You were watching him the way a master watches a temperamental horse.
"Did they rip your tongue out in the womb, my lady?" He dropped the honorific like a dead rat, disgustingly quick. "Or do the grunts and points of your people simply not translate to the common tongue?"
Behind him, your bannermen shifted. Steel scraped leather. A low murmur moved through the hall; they wanted to drag him to the dungeons. Aerion's eyes ticked to either side. The anticipation uncoiled in his limbs like something living. Let them try.
You lifted one hand. Two fingers raised.
The hall went dead silent. The steel slid back into scabbards.
Aerion’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. The absolute obedience of your men hit his stomach like a stone. You held the power here. You held the walls, the swords, and the rank. He was a prince of the blood, and in this room, he was a package someone had delivered to your door.
You dropped your hand and rested it back on the carved wood.
"You have a loud voice for a man with no swords, Prince Aerion."
Your tone matched the stone beneath you. Cold and Immovable. You didn't raise it, didn't try to match his theatricality. You stated a fact.
Aerion’s eyes narrowed. The heavy brow lowered, hooding his gaze entirely. He stepped up, planting one boot on the first stone step.
Your guards stepped forward, halberds crossing to block his path.
"Let him," you said.
The guards stepped back. The weapons parted.
Aerion took the steps. Two. Three. Long strides, unhurried, his scent arriving before he did, burnt sugar sharpening into something acrid, defensive. He stopped directly in front of your chair and let the height and the breadth of his shoulders do their work.
He leaned down and braced his fists on the armrests of your chair, boxing you in.
He wanted the flinch. He'd been working toward it since the doors opened, the stutter in your breathing, the flicker in your eyes. He used the proximity, the heat bleeding off his skin, the furious tension locked in the cords of his neck.
"I have the blood of the dragon," he purred lowly. The honey went out of his voice and left just the edge. "I don't need swords to burn this wet rock down."
You leaned back. You created an inch of space, giving him absolutely nothing. Your hands remained perfectly relaxed against the wood.
"You are three hundred leagues from the nearest dragon, Aerion." No title. The deference stripped without ceremony.
"You are in my house." You kept your voice flat. "You will eat at my table. You will sleep in the chambers I give you. You will breathe the air I allow you to breathe."
Aerion froze. Icy stillness claimed him. The bored superiority shattered, leaving only pure, unadulterated hatred to flood the vacuum.
My house. My table. The air I allow you to breathe.
The sheer arrogance. The unearned, structural authority. You spoke to him as if he were a hound you had just purchased, a feral thing you intended to break. The insult dragged a hot wire straight up his spine.
He stared at your mouth. He wanted to backhand you. He wanted to shatter your composure into a thousand fucking pieces.
But his body betrayed him. The proximity was a mistake. Clean rain, crushed iron, dark timber. The smell of you hit him all at once, and some wretched, bone-deep part of him wanted to bare his wrists. The urge shot through him so fast his vision blurred.
He bit the inside of his cheek hard. Blood flooded his mouth. The sharp pain grounded him.
He pushed off the armrests, standing straight and regaining his height. He brushed invisible dust off his velvet doublet, wrapping the armor of contempt back around his ribs.
"How remarkably rustic," Aerion drawled. He turned his head slightly. "You sound exactly like a sovereign. It must take endless practice in the mirror."
He looked back down at you, his eyes dead. "I sleep where I choose. I eat when I hunger. If you think the paper my father signed makes me yours, you are stupider than you look." He leaned forward again, just a fraction. "I am not a prize you won. I am a plague they sent to infect you."
He held the stance. He waited. He demanded a reaction. He needed the negotiation of a fight.
You denied him and stood up.
You had the Baratheon build for women; tall and solid. You rose and took up the space, crowding him without touching him.
Aerion's chin jerked up a fraction to hold the eye contact. A tiny, furious concession.
"Maester," you called, eyes still on his.
The old man came quickly from the shadows. "My lady."
"The prince is tired from his journey. He's speaking nonsense." You didn't blink. "Show him to the sea-facing chambers in the eastern tower. The ones with the iron locks."
Aerion’s upper lip twitched with a snarl barely contained. "I require no escort from a man in chains. Nor do I tolerate locks."
"You tolerate what I build," you said.
You stepped around, dismissing him entirely. You turned your back and walked down the steps, never checking to see if he followed.
"Dinner is at sundown," you said over your shoulder. "Dress warmer. Your silks look ridiculous."
You crossed the hall. The guards parted for you. The bannermen bowed their heads. You left the Great Hall, and the doors shut behind you.
Aerion stood on the steps. He listened to the echo of the doors slamming shut. The ambient damp of Storm's End pressed in on him. He was surrounded by your men, breathing your air, choking on the lingering scent of crushed iron and dark wood. He dragged in a breath. The violence coiled in his muscles had nowhere to go.
--
The heavy iron lock on the guest chamber door had been an insult, but a surprisingly rudimentary one.
Aerion sat in the dark for three hours after you left him. He did not sleep. The violent, coiled anticipation from the Great Hall had curdled into a cold, sharp focus that made his joints ache. He listened to the castle settle. Listened to the brutal, relentless assault of the sea against the eastern wall.
Your scent, dark wood, ozone, wet earth, soaked the very mortar of the room. It was everywhere. It clawed at something in him he didn't want clawed at, demanding what he wasn't going to give. His own scent spiked in response, bitter and burnt-sweet, building a dull ache right behind his eyes. Keeping himself contained in the middle of your territory wasn't just difficult. It was exhausting in a way that made him furious all over again.
He dug the sharp, ornate pin from his collar and picked the lock in the absolute darkness of the room. The mechanism yielded with a dull, heavy clank.
Aerion slipped out into the corridor. The damp air of Storm's End immediately bit through his clothes. He had stripped off the heavy velvet doublet, wearing only a thin, loose linen shirt and dark breeches. Spite kept his blood running hot.
He moved through the castle like a shadow. The corridors were poorly lit, salt and old damp in the air. He mapped the blind spots. Counted the guard rotations. The dragging rhythm of their boots told him what he needed to know. Slow. Bored.
He found a narrow spiral stairwell that smelled exclusively of the sea. He took it to the top and stepped out onto the battlements.
The wind off the Narrow Sea was a living thing. It hit him square in the chest and ripped the breath from his lungs. Dead of night. The sky a bruised, starless black just beginning to thin at the edges.
Aerion moved along the perimeter. He leaned against the cold stone and looked down at the drop. Jagged rocks. Churning black water. He wasn't looking to escape, because running was a coward's move, and he was not a coward. He was looking for a crack in the armor. Something he could work.
Then he caught it. Iron and clean rain
You were standing on the western parapet.
Aerion stopped. He tracked you through the dark. You stood near the edge of the wall, looking out over the courtyard. No guards. No bannermen. Just you, alone, leaning against the stone, the fur lining of your dark cloak snapping in the wind.
A slow, terribly sharp smile stretched his mouth.
The fury from the Great Hall dissolved. Something bright and dangerous took its place. He had his opening. Down in the hall, you held the throne and the numbers. Up here, without the audience, things looked different. You were just an alpha standing near a long drop, alone with an omega who hated you.
He rolled his thumb over the cold gold ring on his index finger. Let the rigid hostility drop for something more casual, more dangerous.
He prowled down the walkway. He didn't mask his footsteps. He let the hard heels of his boots click against the stone.
You didn't turn around. You kept your gaze fixed on the lower bailey.
"Checking the perimeter, my lady?" Aerion drawled. He pitched his voice to cut through the howling wind, smooth and endlessly condescending. "Or simply out enjoying this miserable fucking weather?"
He stopped three paces back. Leaned his hip against the inner wall, crossed his arms. Held the portrait of unbothered comfort while the wind sliced through his linen shirt.
You finally turned your head. Your gaze dragged over him, taking in the lack of a coat, the thin fabric plastered against his chest by the gale, the arrogant tilt of his chin.
"The wind is louder than usual tonight," you said plainly, not surprise by his apparition.
The amusement sharpened. Aerion pushed off the wall and stepped closer.
"I assumed you'd have guards posted outside my door. Or chained me to the bedpost." He tilted his head, feigning a sigh. "I'll admit, the lock was a disappointment. I expected more from the famed stags of the stormlands."
"I told the Maester to lock the door to keep the servants from wandering in," you replied. You turned toward him fully. "I assumed you'd let yourself out the moment you got bored."
The retort died on his tongue. Aerion shut his jaw.
You knew. You hadn't locked him in to trap him, you gave him a flimsy boundary just to watch him break it. A test. To see how he moved when the door was left loose.
He forced a cruel, mocking laugh to fill the silence.
"How observant of you." He took another step forward. Close enough now to catch the warmth off your body, close enough that your scent hit his lungs full force. "And what did you expect to happen when I got out? Did you think I would wander the halls looking for the kitchens? Or did you expect me to come find you?"
"I expected you to look for a weakness in the walls," you said. You didn't move back. "Did you find one?"
Aerion held your gaze. His voice dropped. "I'm looking at it."
He waited for the reaction. He wanted something to push against.
You waited him out in silence.
His body, though, was losing its own separate war. The cold and the proximity together were too much, his control fraying at the edges. The burnt ozone of his anger was thinning, the sweeter, heavier scent bleeding through underneath. The urge to step into the warmth of his matched alpha pushed up from somewhere old and stupid in him, made his teeth ache. He forced his arms to stay crossed, fingers digging into his own biceps so you wouldn't see his hands shake.
You watched him. You caught the shift in the air.
You reached up and unclasped the brooch at your shoulder.
Aerion's eyes tracked the movement instantly. "What are you doing?"
You pulled the massive wool and fur cloak from your shoulders. You stepped directly into his space and threw it over him.
He flinched. An entirely involuntary, humiliating reaction. The sheer weight of the cloak settled over his shoulders, dragging him down slightly. It swallowed him in heat. It smelled absolutely, fundamentally of you. Dark wood and iron flooded his lungs; a concentrated dose of alpha that hit his blood like a hammer.
"Get this off me," he snarled. He grabbed the edges of the wool, prepared to rip it away and throw it over the parapet.
Your hands caught his wrists.
You didn't grip him hard enough to bruise, but the hold was absolute. You pinned his hands against his own chest, trapping the cloak around him.
Aerion went still. His breath hitched, a sharp, furious sound. He glared at you, his eyes wide and lethal under the dark ridge of his brow. He could snap your wrists. He could throw you back. He had the reach. The leverage. The sheer violent intent.
You didn't brace for an attack. You simply stood there, holding his wrists against his chest while the wind tore at your own unprotected tunic.
"You are shaking, Aerion," you said.
"I am not," he hissed. The melodic pretense vanished. A raw, venomous snap.
"You are freezing. You are exhausting yourself." Your thumbs moved over the blue veins at his wrists. Barely anything. A small, terrible softness. "You don't need to perform out here. There is no one watching."
That softness was worse than the cold indifference in the Great Hall. It bypassed his armor entirely. He knew how to fight cruelty. He knew how to fight arrogance. He didn't know how to fight an alpha who handed over her own cloak in the freezing dark and spoke to him like he was something worth sheltering.
It humiliated him.
"I don't need your charity," Aerion spit. He dragged his chin up to look down his nose at you, pulling his wrists against your grip to test the hold. "And I don't need your permission to be what I am."
"It isn't charity," you replied. You released his wrists slowly, letting your hands drop. You didn't step back. “I'm telling you to put the cloak on before you catch an ague on your first night in my keep."
Aerion stared at you. The urge to throw the wool back in your face warred violently with the deep, instinctual relief the heat provided. The heavy fur collar brushed against his jaw.
He didn't take it off.
He kept his hands gripped on the edges of the fabric, pulling it a fraction of an inch tighter around his chest. He hated that he did it. He hated the faint, betraying spike of sugar in his scent that came with it.
He smoothed his expression back into the mask of bored superiority. He rolled his eyes, looking away from you toward the dark horizon over the sea.
"Fine," he drawled, his tone dripping with theatrical exhaustion. "If the mighty Alpha of Storm's End insists on freezing to death just to prove a point about hospitality, I suppose I will indulge you."
You studied his profile. The sharp cut of his jaw. The way the heavy cloak swallowed his lean frame, making him look less like a capital predator and more like a man surviving a storm.
You stepped closer. You moved to his right, positioning your body entirely upwind of him. You became a physical barrier, taking the direct, brutal assault of the sea gale against your own back, sheltering him.
The wind cut off abruptly.
Aerion turned his head. He looked at your back, standing between him and the storm.
He opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark. To mock the protective instinct. To tear the gesture apart.
He looked at the tense set of your shoulders, taking the cold for him.
He closed his mouth. He pulled the dark wool tighter around his chest, burying his chin in the fur, and watched the dawn begin to bleed over the violent grey sea.
--
The silver knife separated the roasted fowl without a sound.
Aerion dragged the blade through the meat without letting it scrape the plate. He placed a perfectly square cut into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Ash and salt. The food in the stormlands was as brutal and uninspired as the architecture.
He cut another square. He kept his posture. Spine straight, shoulders back, elbows tucked tight to his ribs.
Three weeks.
Twenty-one days since the High Septon babbled the vows. They had wrapped him in a black-and-gold cloak that reeked of your ancestors and they expected him to kneel in the sept. He hadn't.
You hadn't made him. You simply took the cloak from the septon's trembling hands and draped it over his shoulders yourself, bypassing the submission entirely. The legality was settled. Ink dry. Ravens flown. He was a Baratheon consort in the eyes of the law.
But the bond remained unsealed.
The feasting hall of Storm's End roared. The Baratheon retainers had no concept of indoor volume, drinking, shouting across the long wooden tables, slamming iron tankards against the boards. Aerion sat at the high table, a cut of bold orange silk and crimson velvet in a sea of boiled leather and wool. He turned his stillness into a weapon.
Your gaze tracked his movements, steady and searching, looking for the crack in the quiet compliance he'd adopted over the last three days. He wanted you unsettled. Wondering when the knife would slip from the meat and drive into the back of your hand. He refused to give you the satisfaction of his fury.
But keeping quiet was costing him.
A dull ache pulsed at the base of his spine. The rot was hunting him down. The edge of a cycle pressed at the borders of his blood, making his skin raw against the damp air, the crushing noise of the hall. His scent kept threatening to spike, sugar and burnt ozone tipping toward something sweeter, more desperate, more unmistakable. He strangled it back. Drank iced water. Buried the instinct under aristocratic spite. He refused to cycle in this miserable wet cage.
He refused to give you the reason to claim him.
You sat beside him, drinking dark wine from a goblet. The scent of dark wood and crushed iron drifted over his shoulder. Constant and grounding in a way he hated. You didn't crowd him. You let him have his silent, precise little rebellion at the table. You were soft with him in ways that made no sense; yielding the small territories, letting him choose his chambers, letting him dictate his wardrobe, letting his barbed insults go while the walls of your authority stood absolutely firm.
You hadn't touched him since the sept. Hadn't demanded the bedding.
You were waiting him out.
Lord Wylde broke the perimeter of the high table.
A hulking brute from the Rainwood. He smelled of wet dog, stale ale, and the sour tang of an unbonded alpha. He bypassed the lower tables and planted his boots directly before the dais.
Aerion didn't look up. He cut another square of meat.
"My lady," Wylde bellowed over the din.
You set your goblet down. You didn't invite him to speak, just shifted your attention to the floor below the dais. "Wylde."
"The border patrols report no movement from the Dornish marches," the lord said, wiping grease from his beard with the back of a massive, calloused hand. "The men are restless. They expected a tourney. Or at least a proper celebration to mark the royal union. The stormlands have not seen a feast worthy of a mating in decades."
Aerion's jaw locked. He kept his eyes on his plate. The tension in the hall shifted instantly. Conversations at the nearest tables died. The retainers were listening.
"The union was marked in the sept," you said. Measured, bored, the voice of a lord dealing with a tiresome vassal. "The King received the raven. The men will have extra rations of ale tonight. That is celebration enough."
"Words on paper, my lady." Wylde shifted his weight. His gaze slid to Aerion.
An evaluating look. The kind that stripped the gold chains and the royal silk away and looked at nothing but the omega underneath. The look of a breeder sizing up a difficult mare.
"A marriage is sealed in the bed," Wylde continued, his voice carrying the rough timber of a tavern joke. "The lords wonder why the prince still sits his own separate chambers in the eastern tower. An unbonded omega in the keep sours the hounds, they say. They make the men jumpy. We hear Targaryens run hot, but perhaps this one is broken. Or perhaps you lack the hand to discipline a feral bitch, my lady. Some need the whip before they take the knot."
Aerion froze.
The silver knife stopped moving. The insult was so profound, so utterly staggering in its brazen crudeness, that for a split second he couldn't process it. He was the blood of the dragon. A prince of the realm. This mud-smeared degenerate dared speak of him like livestock. Dared question his utility. Dared suggest the whip.
Aerion's upper lip twitched. The constructed quiet shattered. He inhaled, the burnt ozone of his scent turning sharp and lethal. He had the words lined up behind his teeth. He was going to verbally flay the man, strip his dignity, demand his lands, and force you to take his head on a block.
He opened his mouth but you moved first.
You slammed your open hand flat against the oak table.
The crack sounded like a fractured spine. It echoed off the vaulted ceiling. The entire feasting hall went dead silent in under a second. The musicians stopped playing. The hounds stopped fighting over bones.
Aerion snapped his head toward you.
The perfect, unbothered composure was gone. The mask slipped entirely. Your teeth bared, your jaw locked so hard the muscles jumped violently beneath the skin. The crushing weight of your scent exploded outward, pure, unadulterated iron and furious ozone. It hit like a wave.
Aerion’s breath caught. The omega in him submitted to the sheer, terrifying scale of the pheromones instantly, his pulse hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against his ribs. The ache at the base of his spine flared into a hot, humiliating spike of need.
"Wylde," you said.
One word, from the bottom of your chest. Not the measured voice of a political ruler. The sound of an alpha defending her den.
The huge lord took a sudden, involuntary step backward. The color drained from his face. The sour tang of his scent turned to ash under your pressure. He understood, very clearly, that he had walked too far.
"You forget yourself," you said. Leaning forward. Invading the space over the table. "You forget whose hall you stand in. And you forget who sits at my right hand."
You didn't look at Aerion. You kept your eyes pinned on the lord, nailing him to the stone floor.
"He is the blood of the dragon. He is my mate." You claimed the title. Threw it like an axe. "You will not look at him. You will not speak of his nature. If you ever disrespect my husband in my presence again, I will tear your tongue out with my bare hands and feed it to the hounds you are so concerned about."
It wasn't political posturing. You meant it. The raw, unhinged sincerity in your voice sent a cold jolt straight down Aerion’s spine.
"Do you understand me?"
"Yes, my lady," Wylde stammered. He was practically vibrating with the instinct to submit and retreat, bowing his head deeply to expose his neck in a desperate show of appeasement. "I misspoke. The ale made me foolish. I beg the prince's pardon. I beg yours."
"Get out of my sight."
Wylde scrambled backward, nearly tripping over a bench in his haste to retreat to the lower doors.
The silence stretched. Nobody moved. Nobody drank. They all waited.
You sat back in your chair, picked up the goblet and took a slow, deliberate drink of the dark wine.
You smoothed the violence back down into a manageable hum. You commanded the room to breathe again just by relaxing your grip on the cup.
Slowly, the murmur of the hall returned. Subdued, careful, but alive.
Aerion sat completely paralyzed.
His hand gripped the silver knife so hard his knuckles went white, the gold rings digging into the wood. The instinct thrashed against his ribs, screaming at him to lean into your space. To press his face into your neck. To give the alpha who had just violently defended his honor whatever she wanted. The approaching cycle made it ten times worse. A hot, humiliating flush crept up the back of his neck and settled on his cheekbones.
He had never been defended.
Managed by his father. Used by the small council. Shipped across the continent as a bargaining chip to secure the stormlands. But no one had ever bared their teeth to protect his pride. No one had ever claimed him as something worth violence.
He hated it.
Hated the way his chest hitched. Hated the wet heat pooling low in his stomach. Hated that you hadn't even looked at him to do it, you simply reacted, driven by something old and uncompromising, and you threw the word mate like it was the only word that mattered.
The quiet angle he'd been running was useless against that. The unconsummated marriage suddenly felt less like a victory and more like a clock.
He turned his head slightly. He looked at the side of your face.
You set the goblet down. You met his gaze. The ghost of the violence still sat in your eyes, but the hard lines of your mouth softened a fraction. A silent check. A silent confirmation that he was safe.
Aerion looked away, then looked back at his plate, he finally picked up his fork back.
He hated that his hands were shaking.
--
Aerion barricaded himself in the eastern tower. He used the heavy iron locks he had mocked upon his arrival, turning the key himself, trapping the monster of his nature inside the stone room. Refusing to leave. Refusing the meals left outside his door. Refusing to be seen.
The strategy of cold, bored compliance fractured the moment you slammed your hand onto the high table. You had bared your teeth, and claimed him in front of the entire stormlands. My mate. The words echoed in the damp confines of his chambers, bouncing off the walls, driving him entirely mad.
The omega in him latched onto the violent defense and dragged him straight toward the edge.
The pre-heat hit him like a physical fever. Not gradually; it crashed through his blood, sudden and suffocating. His skin burned. A deep, grinding ache took root at the base of his spine, radiating down his thighs, making his legs shake every time he paced the floorboards. His scent changed. The sharp, aggressive burnt ozone dissolving into something thick, cloying, and desperately sweet. Rotting sugar and bruised orchids. The scent of an omega begging to be broken.
He choked on it. He dragged the sea-facing window open, let the brutal cold tear through the room, tried to freeze the fever out of his blood. It didn't work.
By the fourth afternoon, the isolation became a cage. Hiding felt like submission. Cowering in a locked room while you sat in the keep below, waiting for him to break, an intolerable humiliation.
He moved.
He forced himself in front of the polished glass mirror. His hands shook as he fastened the velvet doublet. Crimson. Cloth-of-gold. He layered the ostentatious chains over his chest, constructing the armor of his rank. He applied expensive oils to his pulse points; fully aware they couldn't mask the staggering sweetness of his impending cycle. He painted the mask back on. Smoothed the silk and assembled back the arrogant, untouchable prince.
Unlocked the door and stalked down the spiral stairs.
No escort. He ignored the guards stationed in the corridors. They smelled him coming, nostrils flaring, instinctively stepping back, dropping their gazes to the stone flags. The heavy, rotting sweetness of the pre-heat rolled off him in waves. He hated them for noticing. Hated himself for producing it.
Your solar in the western wing. The heavy oak door stood closed with two household guards crossed their halberds as he approached.
Aerion didn't slow his pace and didn't ask for entry. Walked straight at the crossed steel.
"Move," Aerion commanded.
They looked at each other and uncrossed their weapons.
Aerion pushed the door open. Stepped over the threshold and shut it firmly behind him.
The solar was a confined space. Timber beams, walls lined with ledgers, a massive hearth burning a low fire.
And you.
You sat behind a wide desk carved from black oak. Dark wool, plain and functional. Maps and tax reports spread in front of you, a quill in your right hand. You didn't jump when the door shut. Didn't reach for a weapon. You finished the sentence you were writing, set the quill down, and looked up.
Composed first, you had locked the violence of the feasting hall back up entirely, looking at him with the unbothered stillness of a sovereign in her own territory.
Aerion stood by the door. Spine rigidly straight, he tilted his chin at that cruel, familiar angle, presenting the high cheekbones.
"I assumed I was forgotten," Aerion drawled. The honeyed purr was back, smooth and condescending. "Four days in a damp tower, and not a single summons. I was beginning to think you had choked on a mutton bone, my lady."
He waited for you to address the intrusion. Needed you to demand an explanation. Needed the friction of an argument to distract from the agonizing heat pooling in his lower stomach.
You just looked at him.
The solar was small. The oak door trapped the air inside. His scent saturated the room in seconds, crashing against the dark wood and iron of your own presence. You caught the shift immediately. The sweet, rotting desperation bleeding through the velvet and the perfumed oils.
You didn't mock him, didn’t smile triumphantly at his supposed weakness. You simply leaned back in your chair, resting your hands flat against the desk.
"You look unwell, Aerion," you said.
The factual, even tone infuriated him. It stripped the theatricality away and left the feral, undeniable reality naked on the floor between you.
"I am perfectly well," Aerion lied. He pushed off the door. Stalked toward the center of the room, forcing a lazy swagger into his walk even though his knees threatened to buckle at every step. "I am merely bored. The structure of my quarters is offensive, and the sea air is ruining my clothes. I decided to seek out the only other literate person in this miserable keep."
He reached the desk, walked around to the side, invading your space, stopping inches from your chair.
The proximity was a devastating mistake.
Your scent hit him at close range. Dark wood, crushed iron, and the sharp, clean scent of a breaking storm. It wasn't the ambient, lingering scent of the Great Hall. It was concentrated. Alive. It rolled off your skin and punched straight into his lungs.
Aerion's breath hitched, a harsh sound he couldn't stop. His eyes fell half-shut. The ache at the base of his spine flared into something blinding. Some part of him recognized the alpha who had claimed him in front of everyone, and it demanded he close the final inches. Demanded he drop to the floor and beg.
He clamped his jaw shut. Gripped the edge of the desk with his right hand so hard the veins rose against his skin, the gold rings biting into the wood. Anchoring himself to the furniture to keep from falling onto you.
"You came to discuss literature," you said. You didn't move away. You stayed perfectly still, letting him crowd you.
"I came," Aerion managed, his voice dropping, the smooth purr fraying badly, "to remind you that I exist. Since you seem content to let me rot in that tower while you play with your ledgers."
You turned your head, looking up at him. Close enough that he could see the dark, steady weight in your eyes.
"You locked yourself in, Aerion."
"I was securing my perimeter," he snapped. The venom was real but the delivery had nothing behind it. He was panting slightly, short shallow breaths making the cloth-of-gold shift across his chest. "I do not trust your feral retainers. After the display in the hall, I assumed the entire castle was populated by unwashed degenerates."
"I handled the degenerate."
"You made a spectacle." Aerion leaned down. Braced his other hand on the armrest of your chair, trapping you in the same way he had on his first night. But the power was entirely different this time. He wasn't boxing you in to intimidate you. He was boxing you in because he needed to drown in your scent. "You shouted like a common brute. You embarrassed me."
"I protected you."
"I do not need protection." Aerion's voice cracked. The mask tore down the middle. He leaned closer, face inches from yours. The fever radiating off his skin a real, physical heat. "I do not need anything from you."
You looked at his face. The sweat at his temples. The caged, frantic terror behind the dark, predatory eyes. The cycle was hours away, maybe minutes. The thought of losing control completely, that was what was terrifying him.
You raised your hand.
Aerion flinched. A tiny, involuntary jerk backward.
You didn't strike him. You lifted your hand and pressed the back of your knuckles against the side his cheek.
The contact hit him like a lightning strike.
Aerion gasped. His eyes fell shut. The arrogant prince went away all at once. He leaned into the touch with a desperate, humiliating sound, his brow dropping forward until his forehead rested near your temple. The cold, unyielding pride gone entirely under the warmth of your skin. He chased your knuckles as you dragged them slowly down his jawline, his breathing going ragged.
"You are burning," you said quietly.
"Do not touch me," Aerion choked out. He didn't move away. Stayed bent over your chair, his hands gripping the wood like a drowning man holding a spar. He pressed his face harder against your hand. "Do not."
"You walked into my solar." You turned your hand, pressing your palm flat against his jaw. Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. "You came to me."
"I came to…" He lost the sentence. His mind couldn't form the words. The sweetness of his scent flooded the room, out of control now, pleading with the alpha in the dark wool. "I came to tell you... I hate you."
"I know." You kept your voice low. A steady, anchoring rumble in your chest.
"It burns," Aerion whispered. A confession dragged out of him by the cycle, raw and bleeding and hating. "Make it stop."
"I will."
You stood up.
The movement forced Aerion to step back. His legs nearly went out from under him. The sudden absence of your touch sent a shock through him. He stumbled, caught himself on the edge of the desk. He looked at you, eyes wide and dark, pupils blown completely black.
You stepped around the desk. You didn't crowd him with aggression. You just occupied the space, offering the wall of your presence.
"We are not doing this on the floor of a solar," you said.
You reached out and wrapped your hand around his forearm. No permission asked. Your grip closed over the velvet and the silk.
Aerion let out a shuddering breath. Didn't pull away. He stared at your hand on his arm, the scent of dark wood and iron pulling him under the tide. He had spent three weeks running angles, building walls, sharpening knives. Lost the war in four days.
The cycle had him. And you were holding the leash.
"Come with me," you said.
Aerion closed his eyes. The last of his resistance burned away.
--
Aerion couldn't feel his legs.
The stone flags blurred beneath his boots, a smear of grey rushing past. The gold chain across his chest was gone. Torn off somewhere between the solar and the winding stairs in a desperate bid to get the weight off his lungs. A king's ransom abandoned on the floor because the metal had grown too hot against his collarbones.
Your hand locked around his bicep. Unyielding. You pulled him forward, not dragging but dictating the pace; a relentless, driving momentum matching the violent drumming of his pulse.
The fever burned him from the inside out. The pre-heat was gone, collapsed entirely, plunging him straight into the suffocating peak of the cycle. His scent flooded the corridor, thick and desperate. Sugar rotting on the vine. Bruised, bleeding orchids. It soaked into the stone.
Guards turned their faces to the walls. They stepped back into alcoves, averted their eyes, shrinking from the sheer pressure of an alpha claiming her mate in the open corridor. Aerion saw their lowered heads through the haze. He hated them. He hated you. Hated the wet, pathetic sound that tore out of his throat when you briefly loosened your grip to open an oak door.
He stumbled forward, unmoored without the anchor of your hand. Crossed the threshold. The door slammed shut behind him. The iron latch fell into place with a heavy, final clack.
Aerion hit his knees.
His legs simply gave out, he braced his hands on the floor, head hanging between his shoulders, dragging in ragged, shallow breaths.
This was your den.
The scent in here was a physical force. Dark wood, ozone, crushed iron, animal pelts, the sharp bite of the sea. It had none of the stale damp of the rest of Storm's End. It was just you, concentrated and total. It crushed the air from his lungs and replaced it.
He knelt on the floor, shivering violently despite the heat under his skin. The cycle screamed at him to crawl. To drag himself across the rug, find your boots, press his face into the leather.
He locked his elbows and forced his head up.
A wide room, a four-poster bed draped in black furs and gold-threaded wool, a hearth blazing on the far wall, casting harsh, unsteady light over the stone.
You stood by the door, watching him. You didn't rush to pick him up. You let him sit with it, let the room strip the last of his defenses away.
"Get up," you commanded, a low rumble vibrating directly down his spine.
Aerion gritted his teeth. "I cannot."
The first true thing he'd said since arriving in the stormlands. He hated the sound of it. He sounded broken.
You crossed the room. No offered hand. You reached down, gripped the thick velvet of his doublet at the shoulders, and hauled him up.
He collided with your chest. His hands flew up and grabbed the dark wool of your tunic. The heat radiating off you hit his fractured nerves like a drug. He let his head drop against your shoulder, nose finding the crook of your neck, pressing into the concentrated source of iron and ozone.
You walked him backward. His boots dragged over the rug. The edge of the mattress hit the backs of his knees. You pushed. He fell back onto the black furs.
Sprawled across the pelts, his long limbs let go of their coiled tension. He looked up at you from the bed, the dark ridge of his brow failing to conceal the blown-out, pitch-black pupils.
He expected violence. The brutal, transactional claiming of a feudal lord securing a bloodline.
He braced himself for the pain of being broken.
You stood over him. Reached out and caught the edge of his crimson doublet. You didn't rip the fabric, you unlaced the ties with methodical, deliberate precision. The carefulness in your hands terrifying him more than violence ever could.
Stripped the velvet away. Tossed it to the floor. The silk shirt followed, pulled over his head, leaving him bare to the waist. The cool air of the chamber hit his fevered skin, raising goosebumps over his ribs and the scattered moles across his chest. He shivered, chest heaving.
You shed your own dark wool tunic, tossing it aside. Joined him on the furs, crowding his space, settling your weight over his hips.
The contact burned. The heavy, immovable reality of your body pressing him into the mattress short-circuiting his brain. You bracketed his head with your arms, looking down at his face.
Aerion stared up at you. His jaw working, trying to form a weapon, trying to find an insult to hurl into the silence.
"Say it," you said.
He swallowed. The copper taste of his own blood still in his mouth from where he'd bitten his cheek in the solar.
"You are an animal," Aerion choked out. The words had none of their usual venom. A desperate, broken plea.
"You are mine."
You lowered your head. Pressed your mouth against the side of his cheek.
The defense fractured.
It wasn't a brutal taking, it was a searing, settled warmth. The certainty of your claim, not about the Targaryen name or the political treaty, but about the flawed, furious, volatile creature underneath the silk.
His hands released the furs. They flew up, long fingers burying themselves in your hair, pulling you closer. A shuddering breath escaped his lips, a terrifying clarity cut straight through his pride: he wanted this. He wanted the weight; he wanted the iron and the sea. He wanted the alpha who slammed her hand on the table and dared the world to look at him.
His heat spiked, turning feral, his cycle demanded the final thing.
You shifted your weight, pushing his shoulders flat against the mattress. Your nose tracking down his jawline, inhaling the cloying, rotting sweetness of his scent, taking it into your lungs like it already belonged to you. You paused at his jaw and waited.
Aerion's pride fought a final, bloody battle. To bare the throat was to surrender the last thing he had. The admission of defeat, laid out bare on the black furs. He locked the muscles in his neck. Kept his chin tucked, breathing wet and ragged, shaking with the strain of his own resistance.
You didn't force his head back. Didn't use your hands to break him. You pressed an open-mouthed kiss against the pulse at the base of his jaw. Let your teeth scrape lightly over the skin. A promise of the violence to come, wrapped in warmth.
The friction broke him.
Aerion released a fractured, broken sound and he surrendered. He tilted his head back, arching his spine off the furs, exposing the thick cords of his neck. The long, pale expanse of his throat lying completely bare to the dim light of the hearth.
He offered the jugular and you took it. Your teeth sank into the junction where his neck met his shoulder.
The pain was immediate and total. A sharp, blinding white line cutting through the fever haze.
Aerion screamed, the sound muffled against your shoulder as he thrashed. Your jaw locked. Canines driving deep into the scent gland, mixing his blood with your saliva. Flooding him with the raw, undiluted weight of your dominance.
The bond snapped into place.
Iron chains wrapping around his ribs, pulling tight, anchoring him to the stone floor of the keep. The isolation he had carried his whole life shattering into dust. Tethered. Claimed.
The pain triggered a violent, feral recoil deep in his gut. He was an omega, but he was a dragon. The blood demanded reciprocity.
Aerion’s eyes snapped open. Pupils completely blown, black and endless. He dragged you down, hands fisting violently in your hair. Twisted his head, finding the muscle of your shoulder, he opened his mouth and bit down.
He drove his teeth into your skin with everything he had. Tasted salt and copper. Forced his own frantic, territorial claim into your veins. Matching your violence with his.
You groaned, it was low and guttural, vibrating against his chest, but you didn't pull away. You let him bite, let him tear at you. You held him through the storm of the bonding, holding his thrashing until the pain ceased and broke and left only the drug-like weight of what had just happened.
Aerion's jaw went slack, he released your shoulder. He collapsed back against the furs, gasping, chest heaving, his mouth stained with your blood.
The fever finally broke.
--
The grey light of morning crept through the narrow, sea-facing windows.
Aerion opened his eyes.
The storm hadn't broken. The sea still battered the walls of the keep, a distant, rhythmic drumming vibrating through the bedposts.
He lay perfectly still as he registered the heavy, unfamiliar weight draped over his chest. Your arm. The slow, steady rise and fall of your breathing against his side.
He turned his head slightly to look at you.
You were asleep. The hard lines of your face smoothed out, the composure replaced by a deep, exhausted slackness. Your dark hair spilling over the pillows, tangled and coarse. The dark, bruising bite mark he had left on your shoulder, crusted with dried blood.
Aerion touched his own neck, his fingers brushing the swollen, agonizingly tender puncture wounds over his scent gland. The skin hot to the touch.
He lowered his hand.
He waited for the fury. The acid hatred he'd cultivated since the carriage ride from Summerhall. The urge to flee, to burn the room down, to put the arrogant prince back together and aim him like a weapon.
It didn't come.
He went looking for it. He sifted through the familiar grudges, the wounded pride, the endless carefully maintained contempt. He found nothing, it had burned up. In its place was something he had no name for; a quiet so profound and total it frightened him more than the absence of it should have. A weight that tied him directly, bone and blood, to the woman sleeping next to him.
He looked at your face again, the slope of your jaw, the dark lashes against your cheek.
Aerion swallowed, something vast and nameless opened in his chest. Something that bypassed logic and strategy entirely.
I am bonded to a stag, he thought. The realization should have curdled his blood, he should be reaching for a knife, planning his escape.
He didn't move away, he lay in the grey light, listened to the storm, and let the quiet stay.
Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.
Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, set in a modern Westeros, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, medical inaccuracies, inaccurate details about firearms (I'm British lol), no use of Y/N, canon inaccuracies, age gap
Media: Maekar's and Baelor's Scry search history from chapter vi. (Additionally — The front page of the magazine Daella was reading in chapter iv)
Series Masterlist
Maekar's Scry History
"This is a glock." He stated casually, pulling the magazine out as he laid it upon the table, moving onto the next component. The way he laid down each component reminded you of your own rituals before a surgery, rearranging each scalpel, each piece of equipment until you felt prepared. He was doing the very same, rotating the gun as he inspected it in a manner that implied that it was more instinctual than deliberate. "Polymer frame, lightweight, capacity of 15 rounds. This version is smaller, better to conceal." He pointed at each individual component. "Slide, recoil spring, barrel, magazine."
Baelor's Scry History
The pendant was a small rectangular silver charm that had seven gems that twinkled; the centre stone was ruby, the bloodiness of the gem glinting wickedly at you. The other six stones circulated the ruby — diamond, amethyst, lapis, iolite, nacre, garnet, creating a symphony of rich hues that glimmered.
Daella's Magazine
"Think she's a bit young for Dad, Sun-Rhae." Daella interrupted, immediately noting how shocked you appeared as she watched unimpressed, flipping though her magazine (the front page boasted the title 'The Maidenvault' and you quickly recognised the image of Kiera of Tyrosh pictured).
Warnings: animal death, blood, swearing, slight nudity, let me know if I missed any!
Word Count: 10,472
Series Masterlist
Masterlist
Tag List: @cdragons @arkadiaphilosopher @yerhina @diorsvnz
Translation:
Ja'unndthomeva bôyza - handsome boy
Byka zaldrīzes - little dragon
Ao issa zaldrīzes, skorī syt issa ao kesor? - You are dragon, why are you here?
A/N: not beta read we die like men. Also anything I make up in here is from my mind and loosely, very loosely based on legend and folktale of actual mermaid lore
The two of you set off to the tourney in Ashford as Dunk awkwardly places you on the darkest horse.
“He’s strong, well-tempered,” his hands land awkwardly on your hips as you place your hands on his shoulders. He lifts you up on a count to three and places you so you sit side-saddled.
“Is this how ‘ladies’ sit?”
You ask as you take your hands from his shoulders, brushing your fingers off them softly as he shudders lightly.
“Yes,” he clears his throat, “yes, this is how they typically ride.”
He takes his hands off your hips quickly when he realizes they’ve lingered for too long. He quickly walks to the head of your horse and takes the reins, grabbing the reins of the other brown horse and mounts the white one quickly.
“We’re to head off now, to Ashford.”
“Ashford?”
Dunk nods from his white horse ahead of you as you try to make yourself comfy on yours. You watch as he rides with his legs on either side of the horse, tilting your head. You've seen men ride horses throughout your many years. Taken many men from their horses as well, and the way they ride seems to be better suited than the way you ride now.
You move so that you sit with one leg crossed over and shift it so that you now straddle the saddle and shift yourself so that you sit a bit more comfortable.
'This seems much better, much more sensible,' you think to yourself as you hum out a lyric less tune. Dunk turns his head back to you briefly to see you now straddling the saddle, like he is.
"When did you-?"
"This seems much more sensible," you speak calmly as you watch the scenery pass. Large trees swaying with the slight breeze, birds flying high in the sky. It reminds you of when the dragons would fly overhead the seas, long before you moved to that lake.
Dunk takes a look at your eyes the way your eyes don't leave the birds in the sky. He turns forward again, question on his tongue though he doesn't know if he should ask. It's still a half day’s ride to the tourney, there’s the night you need to pass, no sense in it being dreadful and awkwardly quiet.
"Have you seen them?"
You blink as you turn to the large man, hand absentmindedly playing with the mane of your horse.
"Seen who? I've lived many years, you'll need to be specific."
Dunk purses his lips as he clenches his reigns of Sweetfoot, who merely follows the path as if she's crossed it many a time. Maybe she has, maybe it is ingrained in her spirit, in her blood.
"The dragons, my lady. Did you see the dragons?"
You hum as you think back. How long has it been since you've seen a dragon? At least a half a century you'd wager.
"Yes, they would fly over the oceans. Some of them would even dive in and take heaping gulps of fish, rather annoying, but we never had a problem with them. At the time, we were more plentiful, but like the dragons we have begun to go extinct."
You start to braid Thunder's mane now, making tiny plaits as you keep your hands busy.
"The last dragon I had seen was a blood red one. A fierce one that one."
Dunk hangs on every word you say, ears eagerly taking in every word. He feels like a child listening to the old men telling their stories again.
"Have you ever touched one?"
You furrow your brows as you try to think, a hand lifting to move some hair out of your face.
"There was a battle. A dragon shot down with his rider, the boy had struck the water and I'd investigated. The scales were like the toughest nacre and chiton teeth. He was green and had very pale orange wings. He was beautiful, but his time had come to end."
Dunk is enraptured at your words. To touch a dragon and a Targaryen, to see one up close! His mind can't wrap around the concept.
He's quiet as the two of you move further along the trail, eventually as hours pass you are the one to break the silence this time as you see some structures. The day is coming to an end and will soon roll into the night. You grow bored of the silence and of watching Dunk's back.
"What manner of man are you?"
Dunk is startled, so used to the silence he'd almost forgotten that you were behind him.
"What manner?"
"There are many kinds. Lords, kings, princes, knights. Which are you?"
"You seem to know an awful lot about men for a sea creature," Dunk mumbles out, you catch every word as you whisper for Thunder to get closer to the man. The horse obliges, trotting closer until you are beside Dunk.
He turns to see your face close to his as you lean in, balanced despite the uneven weight distribution on Thunder's back. He flinches back in surprise as his mouth falls open.
"You think because I am from the water that I am not intelligent. I can assure you I have roamed the lands and seen much more than even the oldest kings."
Dunk faces you with wide eyes as your stare bores into his eyes. There's no anger on your face, none that he can decipher, but he's never been the most intelligent man. He'd been referred as 'Dunk the Lunk' more times than he can count and he doesn't know the first thing about women, much less their tempers, but he definitely knows that he insulted you in some form.
"I mean no offense- I swear it, I only mean that it seems strange for you to keep the knowledge."
Your eyes glint in the light, reflecting much like a cats would. You lean back into the right riding position and resume fiddling with the many plaits you’d made as you turn your head up to the sky. Not squinting even when the sunlight shines into them. Dunk takes glances at your face every now and then. He thinks that like this you seem more feline than anything.
You give a non-committed hum, "I suppose it is strange for one of my kind to keep any knowledge of men. I know you mean no offense. To answer you, you humans fascinate me. Men in power crush the ones below even though without them they would crumble because they do not want to do the labor of the ones below them. It is all very ridiculous."
Dunk thinks on your words. He supposes from your perspective it does seem a little ridiculous.
"I suppose that is fair my lady. I am one such man. Born from nothing and made a knight by my Ser. I offer nothing."
The way he speaks is downtrodden. You take a glance at him and see his face seems tired, like he's given much thought to his status.
"You are kind."
He looks up to see you not looking at him, merely watching the birds flying away from the trees.
"Being kind is more than wealth, it means you care for others. It will take you far."
Dunk says nothing at your words, only letting the silence take over as he ponders over them.
Soon enough, the sun lowers and a beautiful sunset falls over the land. He stops the horses at another river for the horses to drink and get some rest. He gets off his white mare and approaches you as you sit tall. You go to swing your leg over and nearly topple back as he catches you at the hips, tunic riding up to reveal more of your naked thighs as he tries to ignore the warm feeling of your skin through his tunic and breeches.
"Careful, my lady. You should have waited for me to help you down."
You merely stay still in his grip as you feel the rise and fall of his chest to your back. You turn your head back to see his face. It's much closer now and you can see the dirt specks on his face and some of the freckles hidden underneath.
"You are here to help, no?"
He splutters as he sets you down on the grass gently, the small blades tickling between your toes as you feel the tunic fall back down and cover your thighs. It swallows your figure completely while Dunk just shakes his head and grabs something from Sweetfoots saddle.
You just stand as you watch him reveal some type of strips of something and a loaf of another something. He breaks off a piece of each and hand them out to you. You stare at it at first before slowly taking one into each hand.
You watch as he bites into his own pieces and take the strip and lift it to your nose smelling it first before taking a slow bite. You chew the tough strip before swallowing.
"What have I just consumed?"
You eat the other food he'd placed into your hand, the texture softer and crumbling as your teeth crunch into it. Dunk just watches you eat the bread slowly as he swallows his own mouthful.
"Hard salt beef and bread, my lady," he wipes the corner of his mouth as he watches your eyes narrow as you swallow.
You repeat the words to yourself as you smack your lips, the taste lingers. The salt you recognize, but the other taste evades you.
"I must admit, I am not well versed in your human meals. The texture is… strange."
Dunk just releases a short chuckle, "no, I imagine not. You eat more fish, yes?"
At his words your eyes light up, your head whipping to him as your mouth waters.
"Yes! Oh, they're delicious. The chase makes the meal all the more fulfilling."
His eyes widen a bit at your words as you approach the edge of water that the horses drink from. He watches as your eyes dart from fish to fish, tongue sticking out as your hands open and close, clenching as your nails sharpen. You crouch by the water, watching and waiting for a fish to get close enough.
"'The chase makes the meal all the more fulfilling?'"
Your hand darts into the water and leaves it faster than Dunk can blink and in it is a decently sized fish with your hand in its side. Blood dripping down its side as you quickly snap the fish's neck and spinal cord. You turn to the large man and hold the fish up with two hands proudly for Dunk to see who stands stunned at the speed that you just grabbed the fish from the water.
"How did you-? You just," Dunk mimes with his now free hand how you snatched the fish from the water, "right from the river!"
You take the fish to your nose to get a smell and bring it to your mouth to get a bite before stopping as you think for a second.
"Would you like a bite?"
Dunk takes a bite out of the bread in his hand as he looks from your face to the fish.
"No, I'm- I'm alright, you can have it," he sees the way your eyes glitter at having fresh fish and who is he to take that glee from you?
You waste no time in taking a bite out of the fish, chewing happily as blood gathers at the corners of your mouth. You're trilling happily at the taste of fresh food, nothing like that hard salt beef Dunk had handed to you.
"Careful with bone."
Dunk warns quietly as you practically inhale the fish, you spit out the occasional bone here and there, but largely swallow whatever enters your mouth. He watches in awe as you make quick work of the fish. He can see beneath the blood that coats the bottom half of your face that your teeth still hold a glint to them, sharp canines tearing and ripping into the flesh of the fish as you finish it off leaving only the spine and head uneaten.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, streaking blood across your cheek as you look back out the water. Dunk wants to speak up and say something about the blood on you, but refrains when he sees the way you eye the water. Your pupils have gone to slits as your hand curls around the spine of the fish.
‘Much like a cat,’ Dunk thinks to himself, face flat as he watches you put the fish head in the water, letting other fish gather to pick off the remains.
Your hair falls over your shoulder and some even sticks to your cheek as you dip a hand into the water to cup it to your face and rinse. He comes up behind you and your ears perk up at the sound of grass rustling. You turn your head and see Dunk behind you with something curled in his hand. He gets a bit closer to you as you turn to him fully, still crouched with your hair falling over your shoulder and down your back.
He holds a small, thinner bit of rope in his hand, must have grabbed it from one of the saddle bags as he crouches himself down to your level.
“May I?”
You’re quiet at first as you don’t know what he means to do.
“You may?”
You say with a questioning lilt in your voice, not entirely sure what it is he wants to do.
He nods and gathers your hair, pulling the strands that are stuck to your cheek softly and gather them in the back of your head. He gently turns your head to face forward as you allow him to take your hair back. He takes the rope and wraps it around your hair and ties it off so that it no longer gets in your face.
He stands after that and nods his head a little stiffly. The feeling of your hair in his hands was…nice. Your hair was soft despite having dried from the lake and easily came together. It easily goes down your back as you toy with the rope in your hair, having let the fish head go.
“Thank you, Dunk,” you stand after rinsing your mouth and hands off, wiping them on your, well his, tunic. You turn to face him as you watch his expression.
“Should we be off to Ashford?”
Dunk stands stiffly, still feeling how soft your hair was when he looks at you and blinks.
“We’ll ride a few more hours then find camp fo the night, my lady.”
You let a small smile grace your face at his words.
“‘My lady.’ I never gave you my name did I?”
Dunks brows furrow as he thinks back, you asked for his name, but he never did ask for yours.
“My apologies, I never asked for yours,” he lowers his head in embarrassment as he rubs the back of his neck.
You wave him off as you walk to Thunder and take out the small braids you’d put in. You hum lightly as you see the small waves left behind in his mane and card your fingers through the hair.
“(Y/n), that would be my name in your language.”
Dunk repeats your name several times on his tongue, the name tasting foreign. He goes to your side and clears his throat as he waits for you to stand in front to get on Thunder. You turn your head and move to stand in front of him holding your arms up above your head, tunic riding up.
Dunk pointedly doesn’t look down as he puts his hands on your hips and places you on Thunder, side saddling as you push your lip out and move so that you instead straddle the horse correctly. Unknown to you, the tunic doesn’t cover your pubic region as Dunks eyes flash to the curls that are placed delicately over your privates. His face flushes a deep and dark red as his whips his head away so fast there’s a lingering ache in his neck.
He can feel the blood rushing south as he coughs and settles a palm over the front of his breeches to hide his growing erection, trying to will it away as you move your hips forward to get comfortable. Dunk is very aware of the fact that you have no bottoms on, the tunic is the only thing covering you and shielding your body from his eyes. He needs to find a way to get you clothing, fast.
He moves swiftly with his hand still covering his front as he grabs the reigns and mounts Sweetfoot.
He clears his throat, face still a blazing red, and motions his head forward.
“We’ll find camp for the night and ride to Ashford in the morning.”
You hum at his words as you watch the sun dip lower on the horizon, the bugs start to sound as you ride on. You hum out some more as you continue to pass the greenery. You’re not familiar with an ‘Ashford.’ Your time on land having been spent watching and learning the human customs and how they lived, you'd been with your sisters then. You wonder how they are now. If they're still alive. If they're at home at the reef. Though there was a time you’d met a young prince, you'd been in the ocean still. You wonder how he is now. It must have been over two decades since you’d last seen him. You remember his eyes well.
“Who rules the land now, Dunk?”
Dunk’s head perks at your voice, brow furrowing lightly.
“King Daeron the Good, my lady.”
You purse your lips at the name.
“‘The Good,’ what king has ever been good,” you mutter as you try to think on the last king that you remember ruling.
“Daeron, Daeron,” you try to remember the name.
‘Ah, Daemon that’s the name I’m thinking of,’ you think as your eyes linger on every water source you see. Soon enough, night falls as Dunk stops the horses by a large tree with billowing branches.
He dismounts his horse and goes to you to help you down. He pointedly looks up at the sky as he helps you down and rips his hands away from you and goes to pull out his pack and blankets. He lays them down on the smoothest patch of grass without rocks and also pulls out a pair of extra breeches he has and holds them out to you.
You take them and hold them out. They’re long enough to come up to your ribs. Dunk stands in front of you and mimes how to put it on as you follow his lead and pulls the pants up. They swim on you as you hold them up.
“Oh,” Dunk pulls out a rope and hands it to you as you just stare at it. He slowly takes the rope back and ties it around your waist to keep the bottoms up as you pull the tunic over the breeches. You look and feel like a pup in his clothing.
Your toes wiggle in the grass as Dunk begins a fire for the night and goes to lay down on his blanket after getting it going steadily. You follow suit as he places the pack on your blankets and munches on some more hard salt beef before laying down fully.
“Good night, my lady,” Dunk mumbles as his eyes close and he drifts off to sleep. You’re left on your own as you sit on the blankets and stare at his form for a bit before your gaze starts to linger elsewhere. Your eyes go up to the sky and watch the stars, thinking back to how the ocean would look at night. The deep blue and oceanic lanterns of the night were gorgeous under water.
The various structures that used to be filled with others of your kind would be glittering and colorful. Bountiful in sea life, coral, and fish swimming around while you would rest under the water. Sometimes you would go up to the surface and watch the night sky. It reminds you of home. You wonder if anyone still lingers there. Home or what was your home, it’s been many years since you’d been in the ocean. Maybe the salt has been scrubbed from your veins.
You take the rope out of your hair and lay it by the pack Dunk placed for your head to rest on and turn to watch him sleep. The rising and falling of his chest and his light snoring are what sound through the night. Crickets chirping and other bugs singing throughout the land. Leaves rustling at any slight movement.
You close your eyes at the thought of morning, what Ashford will be like and if there will be any names you’ll recognize. Distantly, in your mind, you can't help but think of the eyes of that one boy you'd met when you were still in the ocean.
You hear rustling when you open your eyes next and see that Dunk is no longer laying down next to you. You rise slowly, wiping the sleep from your eyes and crust that you're not accustomed to. Dunk is brushing Sweetfoots mane as he feeds her an apple. He's just finished packing his blanket that he laid on and he looks to you.
"We'll be heading off soon, did you sleep well?"
You blink slowly, one eye opening after the other as you lick your lips, canine catching on your lip lightly until you lick your lip back to normal.
"I slept. Not used to the quiet or the sound of bugs."
Dunk nods as you stand, stretching your arms high above your head, hair messy as you card your fingers through it and untangle the knots as you grab the rope from beside you and place it in your mouth. You twist two small bunches of hair on each side and smooth down the bumps, then braid your hair back and use the rope to tie it off as you throw your hair back over your shoulder.
"I'm ready whenever you are," you grab the blankets and pack you were laying on and awkwardly bunch them together, trying to mimic the folded blanket that Dunk packed away.
Dunk watches in earnest as you do your best to fold the blankets and takes them from you gently as he unrolls them and folds them.
"You take this side here," he takes the blanket and drops one side down and takes one corner and pulls it so that it goes into the other corner then folds it over into a rectangle. You watch with apt attention as he talks you through the motions.
"Fold this here and now it's ready to be put away, did you want to try?"
He holds the other blanket out for you to try and fold as you take it and messily follow his movements. Take one corner to this side and fold it over, it comes out messy and a little rumpled but you fold it.
“Like this?”
Dunk takes it and smooths it a bit with a small smile.
“It’s good, let’s pack it and get going.”
You smile as you walk to your horse and stand in front waiting for Dunk to lift you. He approaches from behind and puts his hand on your hips lifting you as you throw a leg over to sit saddled. Now with the breeches on you can sit comfier without your skin sticking to the saddle.
He gets on his own horse, reigns in hand as he leads you both back onto the trail. Morning light just breaching over the horizon as you trot for hours until you start to see small settlements of houses and tents. The further you get the more the small settlement starts to take shape. There are tents up and knights walking around.
“Is this Ashford?”
Dunk turns his head to you and the back forward.
“Aye, this is Ashford Meadow.”
Your eyes glance around as you take in the scenery. Some men stumble around, others are at their stalls and putting their wares out. There are some women and you take notice of their clothing. You briefly glance down at your own and back at the women.
'It seems I am incorrectly dressed,' you lift a hand and mess with the pearl beaded necklace around your neck as a means to keep yourself busy and then push it back between your breasts under Dunk's tunic when you see a man cast his gaze to them. Your pupils turn to slits as you growl lowly, the rumbling running through your chest and seemingly spread through the ground.
A melodic hum emanates from you threateningly as you pass the man. His eyes glaze over as he seems to follow your form until Dunk calls to you, breaking your focus. The humming stops as your eyes go back to normal and your head turns to Dunk.
"I’d prefer you not lure men, my lady.”
You just give him a slow grin, one that shows a bit of your pearly teeth and attracts attention as the light seems to glitter around you.
“I make no promises.”
You pass by an area where there are fence posts lined in multiple rows. The rising sun coming over the horizon lights up the area, casting a light glow as your eyes streak across the scenery. Dunk pauses on his horse, causing you and the other to stop as well as he takes in the sight.
"What are they setting up?"
Dunk casts a glance at you briefly before bringing his eyes back to where the jousting is to commence.
"This is where the tourney is to be held, the jousts."
"Jousts, jousts," you mumble the words, "what is a joust?"
"Um, y'know it's where you- two knights ride on a horse across each other and ride toward each other with lances."
You blink at his words trying to imagine what he says.
"What's a lance?"
Dunk turns to look at you now, pursing his lips as he tries to think about how to phrase his next question.
"It's a large stick, basically. Um, if you don't mind me asking, what do you know about humans?"
You hum to yourself as you pull your long braid forward and play with the ends of it while you think.
"Whenever I went onto land I spent most of my time watching and listening to the men near the docks, though there was a time where I would watch this girl who would read her books by a large tree. She had long silver hair."
Dunk thinks on your words as he tries to get a grapple on just how old you are. You've seen dragons, you saw a Targaryen princess, clearly, so just how old does that make you?
He decides not to pry on the matter and kicks his horse forward, pulling you forward as well as your eyes continue to scatter around. Taking in the sight of stalls and men and women setting up their tents and wares. You see one that sells fabrics and look down at your own clothing before looking at some of the women and girls and their clothing.
'Is that what I'm meant to be wearing?'
Dunk turns toward the castle of Lord Ashford, clenching his jaw before turning Sweetfoot around and bringing the group of you forward to a post where horses may be tethered.
"We have stopped," you observe as Dunk unsaddles before turning to you.
"I've to see the master of the tournament, get my name in the lists to ride."
He nears you as you turn to be taken down, hands landing on his shoulders as he brings you down by the hip. He lets go and thinks for a moment. He's not sure if leaving you alone is the best choice, you attract too much attention. Then again is bringing you with him the best choice either? He glances down at your shoeless feet. You could step in something awful.
He inhales before placing a hand on your shoulder and pointing at you sternly, you merely give him an amused glance back. It's like he's talking to a child and not a creature well over two hundred years old. At least he thinks your two hundred years old, truthfully he has no idea.
"I'm going to get my name in the lists, stay with the horses and please," he looks you in the eye sternly, "do not lure men to their death. Even if they leer."
You blink at his words.
"I will stay here."
"And?"
Your face falls as you lick your teeth, tongue catching on your sharpened canines, "and I won't lure men to their death."
He nods with a stern look.
"Good, I'll be back soon."
He glances down at your feet once more, "and we'll need to get you some shoes."
At that you curl your lip.
"My feet are fine, I've no need."
Dunk just sighs and decides this will be a discussion for a later time and goes to move to the castle, casting one last glance at you as you stroke through thunder's mane. He shakes his head and moves forward, already thinking on the trouble you're going to cause. He turns back to look at you once before shaking his head and leaving to find the master of games.
You watch him leave as your eyes flit around. Stalls, drunken men, women setting up their wares with their soon to be drunk husbands. Nothing has changed from the last time you'd been up on the surface, it seems.
You plait thunders mane with some small braids, as men pass you by. Some call out to you, but you largely ignore them in favor of braiding the horses manes.
"You look very handsome like this thunder, ja'unndthomeva bôyza," you mutter.
(Handsome boy)
A man stops before you as you ignore his presence. The man scoffs before turning your shoulder so you face him. You merely give him a blank face.
"Pretty horses for a lone maiden, how much for 'em?"
You glance at him, before looking back to thunder who stomps one of his hooves. You shush him as you look at the man once more.
"They're not for sale, they belong to my knight."
He scoffs as he puts his hand on one of the reigns only for your hand to dart out and grab his wrist, crushing it in your grasp. He gasps in shock as he feels pain radiating from his wrist.
"They are not for sale."
He curses as he tries to pull his wrist from your grasp, only to struggle immensely. It feels iron clad, the grip you have on his wrist. Like his arm has been tethered. You grip tightens until your nails draw blood from him before you release him.
'Dunk said to not lure men,' you look at the man who grips his wrist with a scowl on his face and a nasty look thrown your way. He reaches forward to grab your hair and yank you down as you shift away, just out of reach.
"Filthy whore," the man grunts as he thrusts his hand out to grab Dunk's tunic and pull you forward only for your hand to imbed itself into his torso. He grunts as he looks down and sees red blooming from his wound.
He takes a deep breath, about to scream until he looks at your face and hears a low hum coming from you. He ceases any movement as his eyes glaze over, hands falling to his side as you slowly take your hand out of his torso.
You look at your hand, smelling his blood and pinching your face in disgust as you wipe it on his tunic.
You lightly push him away from you muttering, “seek a maester.”
The man stiffly walks away to find the nearest maester as you watch him leave. You look at your sharpened nails and see blood underneath them. Bringing your hand up to your face you lick the blood off as Dunk walks back to you with confusion on his face.
“Why are you licking your hand?”
You ignore him as you clean off any remaining blood and instead look at him, pearly teeth glinting a slight red.
“Are you really curious?”
Dunk thinks it over for a second before untying the reigns of his horses and grabbing your elbow.
“I’d rather not know,” he sighs, urging you to follow him as he walks. You follow him as he walks further into the small town until he spots the banner of the lord he's meant to find and ties the horses to another post. He gives you a look, only for you to smile back at him. He purses his lips as he thinks over leaving you again, but sighs and just motions for you to follow.
"Please don't say anything strange, I've to find a Ser Manfred."
You simply hum as you follow close behind him, carefully stepping to avoid getting too much muck on your feet. He approaches the tent as two men leave and tries to speak with them, only to be pushed aside as you bristle beside him.
A woman with red, coppery hair kindly tells him that the man he's looking for is napping as she casts a glance at you.
"I, uh," Dunk clears his throat and follows her to where she sits beside another red haired woman, "I don't- I don't have a stag."
The woman beside the one who just sat glances at you and your pearls.
"For her necklace, we'll wake him."
You smile and reveal your very pearly, very sharp teeth, "I'll rip your throat out if you even attempt to take my pearls."
Dunk whips his head towards you as you lock eyes on the two women. They both swallow their spit as they nod at you.
"Course, well, what kind of knight doesn't have a stag?"
"It's a hedge knight, ain't it?"
The paler of the two women look over Dunk and his simply clothed form. The other woman glances at her companion in confusion.
"What?"
Red, as you've dubbed her, tilts her head as she speaks next.
"It's like a knight," she pouts, "but sadder."
Dunk splutters at her words as he clenches his fist.
"No, I'm- I'm not-"
Red continues with her words as you fix a hard stare on her.
"He's gotta sleep in the hedges 'cause no lord'll have it."
The other red-haired woman glances at Dunk and gives him a look over, "aw. That is sad."
While you normally have no qualms with women, blatantly insulting someone is something you don't take kindly too. Especially if they do it to someone who you've claimed as your own. You lift a hand, nails sharp and glinting as they extend beyond human capabilities, only for Dunk to snatch your wrist and lower it. He gives you a look as you keep your gaze firm on the two women.
The other red-haired woman continues, not seeing this display, "and Ser Manfred's fucked its wife, too."
She glances back at you to see you with a flat face and an unyielding look, you haven't blinked at all during this encounter. Dunk interrupts with a stutter.
"No, I- I don't have a wife."
"Then who's she?"
Red gestures to you. You only smile back.
"I've joined him on his journey."
The two women nod to themselves, to each their own, going back to Dunk.
"Cause we're used to husbands coming 'round."
"Likes fucking wives, that one."
The woman closest to you turns to Red.
"Near as much as he likes fucking us."
The two exchange a look as you boredly look away, no longer interested in the conversation with the two women. Instead, your attention is taken by some girls running by. They chase each other with large grins on their faces. It reminds you of your own sisters, when you were much younger pups in the large ocean.
Your attention is brought back when Dunk shuffles a bit on his feet.
"Evenfall."
You look to him as he glances away from the women, you pull on his cloak and look to the horses as he clears his throat, only for the women to motion him off as well.
"Goodbye."
"Right," he turns the wrong way, before turning around once more and going the right direction, "arse."
You follow silently with one last glance thrown to the red-haired women, before finally turning forward once more. Dunk leads you with the three horses through the meadow as he mutters to Sweetfoot, "why'd she say that, huh?"
He turns to the horse and then to you, "We're not sad."
You don't comment on it as you walk forward, watching the people of the tourney as you pass them by. Some men stop and gawk at you as you pass, some women stare at your outfit in curiosity and pity. There are older, far older men that give you wary glances, the shine of your hair and those pearls. They don't get a good feeling from it.
You tune back in to Dunk and his mutterings as you stop in front of where some knights are fighting.
"Won't be sad then."
You turn to the noise of metal clanging, the ringing sounding through your sensitive ears as you hiss lightly, ears twitching at the sound. Grunts and groans of men colliding sound as you watch the men fight.
Sweetfoot makes a sound as Dunk halts in his footing, turning to her with his brows furrowed.
"I know. Said if we did win."
He clenches his jaw at her turning her head away as you smile at the horse, running your fingers through her hair.
"Look, it's not a crime against the king to enjoy a nice thought for a trice."
You turn to Dunk to say something, only to be interrupted by a man being pushed through the fence post and collapsing.
"Do not muck about with me, Raymun."
The larger of the two knights with flaming red hair spits out, staring down at the smaller man on the ground.
"You're a good-for-nothing useless rat."
The smaller man rises and swings his mace at the other, only for the taller of the two to deflect the blow, pushing the weapon away.
"What the fuck?"
Dunk whips his head to your form behind him as you watch Raymun get smacked by his cousin.
"That's no language for a lady!"
You just stare blankly at Dunk who pinches between his brow.
"Seven help me," he mutters as you grin back, canines glinting in the light.
'I'm sure this man would not be missed,' you think as you slowly bring a hand up, nails sharpening to blade like points.
Dunk sees your hand lift and your sharp nails and quickly takes your wrist and brings it down, pearl bracelets lightly tapping against his hand as he frowns and shakes his head at you.
He harshly whispers to you.
"Why must you resort to death first?"
The look on your face is unnerving as you respond back lowly.
"Fighting is encouraged, but when others are mistreated, we deal with them swiftly, especially the men."
Dunk chooses to not think on what implications your words carry as he keeps a hand on your wrist, watching your nails go back to normal human nails. He slowly lets go, making sure to serve a sharp look at you as you only keep your eye on Ser Steffon.
You get a weird glance from the man as you keep a careful watch of him and the younger man beside him. Raymun glances at you and swiftly glances away, he finds himself nearly lost in a trance. You look otherworldly and he does not mean that lightly. You look like a creature from myth, surely there’s no way some man and woman came together to create you. You had to have been formed from clay or brought to life from marble, something to explain the look of you.
You tilt your head as you meet eyes with Raymun until he quickly looks away with a flush to his face.
"As you see, me cousin here is not ripe yet," the taller man, Steffon, gestures to his cousin, only for the cousin to look to Dunk.
"Do it, Ser. I may not be ripe, but my cousin's rotten to the core."
His eyes flit to you before going back to Dunk.
"Knock the seeds out of him."
"Quiet!"
Dunk furrows his brows at the cousins, glancing to you quickly before responding in turn.
"I- I thank you, but I have manners to attend."
"What, matters of the hedge, I have no doubt."
Steffon laughs, leaning on the broken post as he goes to the other knights, looking for another fight. Not before giving Dunk another nasty comment and being on his way.
Raymun looks at the two of you and shoot you an awkward upturn of his lips before going back to his cousin. Dunk stands for a moment before turning to you with a furrow in his brow and a clench to his jaw.
"Perhaps we should seek quieter accommodations."
Dunk leads the five of you away from the hustle and bustle of the meadow to a quieter area, one rich with foliage and a stream nearby as he comes upon a large elm tree.
The two of you settle, taking the packs off the horses and getting comfortable under the large tree. You watch Dunk pull sticks together to make a fire for later as you follow him with your gaze. When he deems the camp fit enough for the two of you, he turns to you.
"I'm going to wash up in the stream, stay here."
As soon as the word 'stream' leaves his mouth, you've already taken off his shirt and pants and jumped into the water. He's left slack-jawed as he hears chirping coming from the water, only to turn and see you on your back in the water, hair floating around you.
"What- I was going to wash up!"
You open an eye toward him as you hum out, webbed hands swaying lightly in the water, "I make no motion to stop you."
Dunk goes red in the face at your words, looking around in shock as you stay face up in the water with your eyes closed. He relents eventually, taking his clothes off slowly, looking to you to ensure your eyes are still closed before stepping into the water slowly.
He washes himself, eyes flitting to your form occasionally to ensure you're not looking as he finishes rinsing himself. Your eye cracks open, getting a look of his backside as he exits the stream and goes back to his clothes, beating them against the hedge.
He takes in the smell of his breeches, shuddering with a disgusted face before resuming beating them against the hedge. As soon as he dries and dresses himself he walks back to where you reside in the stream.
“I’ll be returning to the meadow to speak to Ser Manfred.”
“Ser Manfred?”
You tilt your head as you float in the water, bringing a hand up and pooling water on your stomach. Pearls glittering in the water and skin shining that same iridescent light.
“Aye, the knight with those two red-headed women.”
You hum at his words, moving upright in the water and move yourself to the bank. Your tail dries and comes together forming two legs, scales being shed as you collect the shiniest of them and throw the rest in the water.
"I will join you."
Dunk scratches the back of his neck as he peeks at you before turning fully to hide his face and front. You'd pulled your hair back revealing your chest. He leans down and gathers his discarded tunic and breeches, along with the rope used to tie it around your waist and holds them out for you to take.
"You've no need to join."
You take the clothing and pull it on, pulling your hair out from where it was tucked into the tunic and let it fall around you. Still wet, it shimmers and sits down your back in ringlets.
"I enjoy this, what is it called again, tourney. The smells are different."
You twist two small rows in your hair on either side of your head, leaving the rest free. You stare expectantly at Dunk as he just sighs and rubs the back of his head.
"Right, come along then."
He places you on Sweetfoot as he walks beside you, back to the meadow to see Ser Manfred. As soon as you arrive in the meadow and Dunk ties her to a tethering post, he gives you a look. You only look away, arms flat at your sides.
"I'm aware, don't say anything strange and don't lure men."
He gives you a small smile before walking forward as you look around. It seems livelier, the more the sun lowers the more boisterous the inhabitants get. How fun. He talks to Red as you people watch. Very interesting characters around, it reminds you of the numerous merfolk you once knew.
Red stands from her seat and walks into the tent, Dunk following her as your mind drifts. Only for you to turn to look at him and see he is not in your sights anymore.
'It is best if I stay here,' you think as Dunk disappears from your view. A quick smell in the air and you can follow his scent into the tent of that man that he was searching for. No sense in you following. Instead your eyes follow the different people, the way they move and speak.
Soon enough Dunk exits the tent with a pensive look on his face, meeting eyes with you and gesturing only for you to follow. Seems whatever was discussed was not in his favor. No matter, your eyes watch his back as he nears a keg to grab ale. He'll get into the lists. A man as large as him would fetch a hefty some to watch fight. Humans are all the same, watching others go through torment for their own amusement.
Your ears twitch at the sounds of knights passing by in their armor. Your attention is brought to a tent where some performers are doing their show. Dunk walks forward as you follow silently.
Entering the tent, Dunk keeps watch on the woman narrating the knights tale. You only watch the dragon puppet with sharp eyes.
'Looks like that one large black dragon,' your eyes move from the dragon to the girl.
'Tall.'
Dunk watches with keen intent, eyes set strongly on the girl before the performance ends with the dragon 'breathing' fire. You only walk out, not all too interested in puppets as Dunk soon follows behind. He downs the rest of his ale and drops the cup off before walking ahead only to be called.
"Halfman! Halfman!"
He stops and turns to the source of the cries, stopping you as well as you watch the same man from earlier, you think his name was Raymun, calling out to the larger man.
"Do I look like a half man to you?"
His voice is exacerbated as he looks down at the shorter man, only for him to scoff.
"Aye. Half man, half giant. Look, I'm sorry. I should not have urged you to try my cousin."
The two start to walk as Dunk grabs onto your elbow to pull you along as your mind was off. You wordlessly follow as the two converse. They speak on the tourney and who's to fight in it. Meaningless to you, until Raymun asks if the two of you are hungry. Your eyes perk up as they meet his. He looks away as he leads you to a large tent, filled with people and laughter and music.
You garner strange looks from those at the entrance. Your shoeless feet striking oddly against the pearls on your wrists and around your neck. When one tries to get a better look you only bare your teeth, sharp canines glittering as they step back warily.
Dunk pulls you inside before you can act.
Your seated as Raymun pours the both of you a drink. Dunk takes his with an awkward smile before looking at the laughing man at the head of the table. You take your own drink, taking a sip before letting it run out back into the cup.
You push the cup to Dunk who takes it none the wiser as you look at the man in antlers at the front who calls out for attention.
"I've had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen."
His hands are slightly up as the guests in his tent quiet down to hear this profound thought of his.
"Four thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that," he gestures to the field outside the tent, "big field outside to blood each other with sticks and have a little bit of gay fun."
You watch the man with the antlers as he speaks.
'Good jawline, strong hair. He could be muscular,' you stare intently at him as Dunk pours himself some more ale. He follows your unblinking gaze to Lyonel before waving a hand in front of your face. You blink at the movement only for him to give you a bewildered look, you only give a blank face in return.
"Fuck it. A hundred gold to the man, beast, or god who sticks me best."
He tosses a bag of presumably gold coins at the front of the table as the people cheer, food being brought out.
"Now, eat your birds so we can dance!"
Dunk grabs a giant leg of some beast taking a large bite with wide eyes as you stare at the food in front of you. You stab a piece of meat with a finger, bringing it to your face as you smell it. Someone pushes a plate of what looks to be bread and some other sort of food items in front of you.
You stare at it as you place the meat into your mouth, chewing slowly. It's much better than whatever Dunk had given to you a night before, so you swallow it without trouble. You spend much of your time poking at the food and slowly eating to get used to the taste of food as Dunk wanders from the table. Likely to ingest more food.
You poke some more at your food before being pulled up to dance by a woman, you blink in surprise at first. You watch the way the others dance and move their bodies before mimicking as you spin with the girl, hair flowing around you.
You glance up to see Dunk speaking with that Lyonel man at his large table. You make eye contact with the lord before turning back to the woman you dance with.
"What creature is that, that you've brought into my tent?"
"Pardon?"
"The girl with the silken hair that shines under the candles."
Dunk glances at you before clearing his throat, "she- she has joined me on my way here."
Lyonel glances at you before glancing back at Dunk.
"She your woman?"
Dunk's eyes widen as a flush comes to his face.
"No! No. She is a companion."
Lyonel's mouth opens lightly as he leans in to Dunk.
"You like to dance?"
Dunk joins Lyonel in dancing as he awkwardly moves his arms in the circle, linking arms with a woman as they spin. You pass by Dunk with a small smile on your face, one that he mirrors before he is face to face with Lyonel who jabs his foot onto Dunk's with a challenging look in his eye.
The two dance around each other for moments as the rest of you watch, waiting to see which man sticks who, only for Dunk to finally stick Lyonel in his foot. The man slumps forward at first before sticking his tongue out and winking at the larger man. Dunk shoves the man forward as they both now dance wildly, you joining with the rest of the gathered.
Soon enough the two men make it back to the larger table as you continue to dance with more women, unknowing to their conversation.
When you glance ahead from where you step with a woman, you see Red with some man. Further from that you see Dunk and make eye contact with him, you point to the two, now three as he links hands with another woman and his eyes widen as he stands.
The three of them exit the tent as you stalk behind, Dunk not too far from you. He first grabs his things before exiting the tent to see you standing stock still a little from the three. There's no movement from you, not even an indication of you breathing. Your eyes locked on Red, who eyes you warily. Ser Manfred looks you up and down before giving a sleazy smile, one that has your gaze darkening as it flits to him. Men, such wasteful creatures.
Before he can say anything to you, Dunk is behind you and calling out to him. His hand lands on your shoulder as he does so, pulling your gaze off the man and onto your knight. Your gaze falls back to its wide, wet-eyed look. Harmless, Red thinks as she looks at you, like a puppy.
You turn back to look at the man as he denies Dunk. Your lip curls at his lackadaisical response to your knight. Before you can make a move forward, Dunk grabs your elbow and pulls you behind him, stepping forward as he does so to follow the man.
"But Ser Arlan took a wound in your father's service. How could you have forgotten him?"
Ser Manfred turns around with his brows raised in almost mock pity.
"My lord father took eight hundred swords into those mountains. We've forgotten men who reaped much more than a wound."
Dunk's brows crease in worry as he pleads to the man to your distaste, he is not deserving of his pleading in your eyes.
"Please, ser, I- I will not be allowed to challenge unless a knight or a lord will vouch for me."
"And what is that to me?"
He leaves with the two women, but not without Red giving a last sorry look to the both of you as you watch them leave, unblinking. Red can feel your gaze as they leave, sweat falling down her back and gathering at her neck. Something about you is off.
You turn back to Dunk who's eyes have gone misty as you hold onto his arm as he turns to leave. The two of you hie back to camp without so much as a word.
You tilt your head up as you smell the air near camp. A fire and cooked fish! You pick up speed as Dunk calls out to you, feet kicking small rocks and dirt up as you swiftly walk back to camp.
Dunk follows soon after you as you abruptly stop, hair loose around your shoulders and giving you a wild look. The rope you'd had in your hair is on the ground as he leans down, taking the rope in hand and grabs your hair gently to tie it back when he glances at the middle of camp and sees a fire going and a little stowaway.
“Food and a pup?”
You mutter as your eyes zero in on the fish being cooked on a skewer. You briefly glance at the boy who stokes the fire with a small stick with a questioning gaze.
You take note of his hairless head and his own questioning gaze thrown towards you.
“Why are you bald?”
The nameless boy is taken aback as he rubs his head as if forgetting he was in fact bald before giving you a strange look.
“Why are you dressed like that?”
You don’t answer as you just blink at him and go back to smelling the air while Dunk converses with the boy, judging by his tone you get the indication that he is not all too pleased to have the boy at the camp which is a shame as he seems sweet. He made food!
"I like him, he made food," you say as you hold the fish now in your hands and take a bite.
"Hey!"
You stop your chewing as the boy comes closer, curling your lip as he points a finger at the fish.
"I was going to eat that!”
You look at the fish you’d taken a bite out of and use one hand to wipe the side of your mouth.
“I’m sorry, pup,” you hold the fish out to him with an apologetic look on your face.
“I was in such a hurry to eat something normal I forgot myself.”
“Pup? My name is Egg.”
You blink at the boy who gives you a strange look now that you’re closer to him. He looks at your hair, how it shines despite your appearance. By all means someone dressed like you shouldn’t have shiny hair, but yet you do, unnaturally so. He glances at the string of pearls nestled on your chest and the pearls around your wrists.
No common woman could ever dream of owning pearls, even noblewomen seldom had them. They had to pay near dowry amounts to own them, so how in the seven kingdoms did you own them? Not just a full string of pearls as a necklace, but also multiple sets of bracelets?
"Did she steal those?"
Egg whispers to Dunk, pointing to your wrists as Dunk sighs and watches you ingest the fish, leaving only the head and spine left.
"They're hers, not stolen. She's," he glances at you once more before turning the younger boy around and pushing him to help set up the packs for bed, "not like us."
Egg watches as you walk to the stream and hold the head and spine in the water waiting for more fish to eat at it before resuming setting up the packs for the three of you.
After they're all set up and laid out for the night the two of them lay as you sit by the fire, watching the flames.
From up above, a shooting star streaks across the sky, tail end burning out as it travels hundreds of thousands of miles away to give you all a one glance of it.
"A falling star brings luck to those who see it," Egg states, watching the star run across the night sky. Dunk glances at him from the corner of his eye as you turn your head to the boy.
"Go to sleep, boy."
Egg ignores Dunk, "all the other knights are in their pavilions by now, staring up at silk instead of sky."
Dunk turns his head to the young boy now, annoyed.
"Do you want a clout in the ear?"
Egg only turns on his side, but not before you get a last glimpse of his eyes. They're familiar and he has a scent to him. Old dragon's blood.
Dunk continues to watch the sky as you look up to watch the stars yourself.
He stutters first before asking, "So, the luck is ours alone?"
Egg only smiles as he stays turned while Dunk continues to look to the sky. You look to Dunk, sure that he's closed his eyes, and you know well enough that it doesn't take long for him to sleep, and cast your gaze to the young boy.
You stand and step away from the fire, now in front of the boy and looking down at him.
“Byka zaldrīzes.”
(Little dragon.)
Egg looks up startled, eyes wide. You narrow your eyes at him as you hum. A small, low thing, hardly noticeable, but it makes Egg's head spin lightly.
"How do you-"
“Ao issa zaldrīzes, skorī syt issa ao kesor?”
(You are dragon, why are you here?)
Your words echo in his ears as you stare harshly at the boy as he withers under your gaze. You’d seen the Targaryens over their long reign, you'd had many years to watch. From their escape from Old Valeria to now, you know of the old saying regarding their tempers and have grown distrustful of them and of mankind as a whole. Dunk is currently a sole exception. So what does this boy want?
"What do you want with my knight?"
You stand directly above the small boy now, hair free and falling down your shoulders, like tentacles from a leviathan. He may be young, but even younglings can be dangerous.
From this angle, your face is barely illuminated, only your eyes really being seen and the sight sends a chill down his spine. He quietly speaks as to not wake the larger man.
"I want to squire for a knight, a proper knight. Not my drunk of a brother."
The fire reflects from your eyes, but there's nothing human about them. It reminds Egg of his cat, how the fire would reflect from its eyes and he would only see the shine. Whatever you are isn't natural, isn't human.
"Is that all?"
He swallows harshly and nods. He reminds you of the younger pups you'd see, following after their mothers, staying close for protection. Your quiet before you give him a smile, teeth glinting. The humming ceases entirely and Egg's shoulders lower slightly.
You reach forward and pat his head, the younger boy flinching at first before looking up at you with his lip jutted out. You're very strange, almost animal-like.
"If that is all, then stay little dragon."
You step away from him then, moving to your own pack beside Dunk and lay on your back, gazing at the sky.
"Sleep well," are the last words you say before you shut your eyes and doze off. Mind already drifting with wonders of what this means now that you have a Targaryen prince with the two of you. There is bound to be some trouble growing now, you're sure of it. But that is a problem for another day. For now you sleep contently.
Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.
Word Count: 7k+
Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, slightly dark!Targaryens, medical inaccuracies, canon inaccuracies (I'm literally making shit up), age gap
Note: chapter 7, 7k words, heavy mentions of the Faith of the Seven - it's all interlinked. We love some symbolism here (and if you squint, there's hints of the defining characteristics of the Seven scattered throughout this chapter).
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When you were younger, the Septas were always chastising you.
Not because you were a weak student, you had always been diligent in your studies, your father had ensured that such habits had been instilled within you from a young age. He would remind you that Fleabottom was ruthless, that it did not discriminate — you could only escape its grasp if you sought to better yourself.
'The Father Above helps those who help themselves.' He would often remind you, yet ironically his words did not serve to push you closer to the Seven also. You only aimed to better yourself.
It was this very idea that the Septa's did not like, your 'feeble faith'. You would absent-mindedly mumble through your morning prayers, mind distant as you sat in assemblies that preached about the Faith of the Seven and doctrine that you did not truly believe in. And unfortunately, the Septas were proficient in recognising an idle mind.
Your father was often called in when the Septas became tired of your indifference. He would listen attentively to their concerns, of how they feared your soul was at risk, of how you had such great potential. And he would join them in their criticisms. Your father was a believer, and you would often wonder why you did not share his sentiments. You were raised with his ideologies weaved into your childhood, listening time and time again of how the Father had protected the veterinary practice, how the Smith had fixed the business each time it neared collapsed, how the Mother looked after you.
You did not perceive it the same way.
You could not attribute the success of the practice to the gods your father prayed to. You did not see them labouring night after night, sleep-deprived and mind addled with exhaustion — that was your father, not the one Above. It was your father who cared for his patients, it was your father that persevered over the mountain of records that he had collated over the years, it was your father who would pour his life savings in keeping it afloat. It was your father that rescued the business from teetering on the edge of collapse for years.
You could not credit the gods for that.
Even now when you were older, when your life was seasoned with experiences your child mind would not have been able to comprehend, you were still unsure of what you believed in. Perhaps the gods were real; dragons did once reign the skies, how could such great strength exist without being hailed as some great divinity. But the dragons died.
Perhaps your situation was a result of your disbelief. Perhaps this was all punishment for having an idle mind.
You were not shocked to discover that the Targaryens were believers.
Maybe your disbelief was rooted in the circumstances of your upbringing (Fleabottom often taxed a person for all they were worth), but it was clear their faith was founded in their fortune. After all, their blood was of the kings of old, they were the ones to control the dragons. If the dragons were seen as gods, what would that make their riders? Who could demand deities to yield to them?
Yet the Targaryens always had a manner of being able to surprise you. You truthfully did not expect them to be so…festive.
Summerhall had been transformed.
Preparations for Feast Day of Our Father Above were littered across the property, the children had spent days creating origami stars that were to hang from the chandeliers. They had been cut in such a manner that the light flashed through the small decorative holes that Daella had carved into the paper, acting like lanterns. Candles, fresh evergreens and celestial imagery could be found in every single room, not even your bedroom had been spared; the Targaryens were truly committed to the aesthetic.
Baelor had reportedly prepared everything weeks in advance, a fact you only became privy to once Aegon had dragged you to sit on the drawing room's floor, his fingers curling into your skirts as he excitedly chattered.
"Uncle says it's important to celebrate Feast Day, shows that we are grateful for the Father Above." Aegon rambled when you explained that you didn't really celebrate. You had never celebrated to such an extent, not even when your own father was still alive. You would simply visit the Sept in the morning, offering prayers that held no weight as you stared at the carved ornate statues of the Seven, and that would be the extent of your revelries — you would spend the rest of the day at the practice, sat at the desk of the reception while your father continued working. Now you don't even visit the Sept. You haven't stepped foot in the holy building ever since your father's funeral.
Aegon didn't look at you as he spoke, his attention dedicated to the pale oak figurine he was grasping between his hands, painting it in vivid vermilion and cerulean. Apparently Maekar had brought them for all his kids, yet two of the wooden figurines remain in their packaging, void of any paint or personalisation as his eldest two ignored it. Aegon was painting his in the image of his namesake, the paintbrush detailing the Conqueror's crown with impressive precision. However, you couldn't help but notice that he did not paint Aegon I's sword.
Rhae was sat beside him while he spoke, seemingly transfixed by her own figurine that she painted in gilded golden armour grasping a shield that was decorated with a blazing sun. She did not speak to you. In fact, she had avoided doing so ever since your interaction within the kitchen, regardless of how many times you had tried to speak to her.
"It is important." You replied, gaze fixed on the way Rhae painted dark long hair on her figurine, your fingers carding through Meraxes' fur, the small beast purring contentedly on your lap. You were sat cross-legged on the plush carpet, Aegon leaning against your side. "It's nice that you all celebrate together."
Aegon made a face at your words.
"That's just normal." He remarked, lips twisting slightly as he finally raised his gaze to look at you. The pale light of the sun spilled through the large windows, rays falling on his face, exposing the pure violet of his irises. You couldn't believe that you had ever believed they were blue.
You rolled your eyes playfully, smiling as you stroked Meraxes' belly, feeling the tufts of platinum fur.
"Normal for you." You emphasised, feeling Meraxes begin to gnaw at your fingers, her claws digging into your skin as she swatted at your hands. "Most people don't celebrate with their families."
Rhae looked up once you said that, sharing a look of suspicion with her brother for a moment, her gaze tracking your features as if searching for any hint of a lie. She could not find any.
"What do you mean?" She blurted out, sitting up properly as she couldn't suppress the urge to question you.
"Where I'm from, we just don't really celebrate much." You explained, pausing for a moment as you noticed their curious faces. How could you reveal that holidays hold no weight when more essential things take precedence? That you could pray, but it begins to feel futile if no one is listening? Why would you celebrate the gods that ignore you? You couldn't find it in you to sully their understanding, so you offered them a half-truth. "You don't really have the time to celebrate."
They just watched you for a moment, recognising that your candour was marred by information you were withholding. Aegon was the one to break the silence.
"But you're from King's Landing?" He pointed out, lips pressing into a slight frown as Aegon the Conqueror lay forgotten beside him.
"I am." You confirmed, an almost sad smile tugging at your lips. "Just not the same King's Landing as you."
Aegon had a thousand more things to question you on, yet knew better than to. He knew he would only be confused further.
It appeared Rhae shared the same sentiment, and that she had remembered that she was not meant to be speaking to you, a restriction she had imposed onto herself. And with that she remained silent, only addressing Aegon if she required something while she tried to complete, who you quickly realised resembled, Nymeria of Ny Sar.
You were content in remaining in the quietness, to simply listen to the sound of bristles brushing against wood, to the purrs of Meraxes; you had other issues that plagued your mind.
The main being how you had awoken that morning.
It was the scent of flowers that had roused you from your sleep.
It was strange. your mind pulling you out of the grasp of slumber as the unfamiliar scent twirled around you, perfuming the air. Summerhall did not smell of flowers.
It smelled of lingering smoke and chemical disinfectant. It smelled of a cleanliness that erased history, that erased familiarity. It certainly did not smell of blossoms.
It was no wonder your brain had detected the anomaly, that you had immediately noticed the strange outlier within your room. The halls of Summerhall did not carry such a gentle scent: you doubt they would have been able to survive here.
Such gentleness is to be nurtured, protected. Patience is required, and you had yet to witness such patience.
You could not deny that Summerhall had lush gardens, with rows of peonies and roses, and a small section that had been dedicated to gardening — within your first few days here, when you had finally gathered the courage to wander beyond your small corner of the manor, Aegon had forced you outside, excitedly showing you the gardens as he bribed you into playing with him and Rhae.
And now that morning, the eve of Feast Day, you had found a bouquet of those very same blooms enveloped by smooth white opaque wrapping paper, resting on the vanity table of your room, peonies mocking you as you stared at the soft pink petals. There was a small red index card that rested in the centre of the blossoms, supported by a thin plastic stick that was lost amongst the stems. Your eyes had immediately caught onto the card, such a harsh bloodied colour seemed unnatural among the soft hues of the flowers. The card had something written in inky black cursive which you quickly realised must've been High Valyrian. Your grasp on the language was extremely weak, and even with the words before you, you were unsure of their meaning.
'Vaoreznuni syt aōha loss.'
These words held no worth to you, and you suppressed the urge to throw the bouquet into a bin.
The very sight of the flowers irked you; you knew your position here, you were a hostage at the end of the day, you were not afforded the privilege of privacy. Yet the idea of someone entering your room while you were sleeping, while you were vulnerable and unaware of your surroundings, simply served to further your indignation. First it was the necklace, and now the flowers — these gifts, if they could be considered such a condescending thing, were unwanted.
Was Baelor truly trying to buy your compliance? Did he believe that enough pretty glimmering objects would be enough to distract you from the truth of the situation? It was utterly insulting; you refused to believe that anyone would be pathetic enough to fall for such cheap gimmicks.
You would hate to think anyone would perceive you as being so covetous.
This annoyance seemed to only stew throughout the day. And as much as you hated to admit it, it was noticeable. You could offer one hundred excuses pardoning your behaviour but it seemed to boil down to one single reason.
You hated that you were beginning to enjoy Summerhall.
You hated that you looked forward to your moonlit conversations with Daeron, that you liked listening to the ramblings of Aegon, that your heart broke at the fact that Rhae struggled to even look at you. You hated that this was now becoming your new normal.
Unfortunately, your irritation did not remain as veiled as you would have liked. Maekar seemed to have notice immediately.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He questioned, brows furrowing as he watched you washing the same plate for 3 minutes.
You flinched at his sudden voice, the ceramic almost slipping from your grasp, the soap suds blooming against your palms.
"What do you mean?" You argued defensively, scowling as the man prowled closer to you, almost cornering you against the kitchen sink. The Targaryen seemed to have no understanding of the concept of personal space, crowding you in as his gaze flickered to your hand and back to your face. You could just smell him. The scent of sandalwood and lingering soap that bit at the air around you, causing each breath you took to just be full of the essence of him. You hated the fact that your heart began to flitter at his proximity, that the damned organ began to betray you as your annoyance softened, beginning to bleed into an unforgivable emotion. Fondness, how pathetic.
He gestured aimlessly at you, as if that explained everything. "Your face—"
You interrupted him before he could continue, his words would probably become more insulting if given the opportunity. "Real nice, Maekar. You know exactly how to talk to a woman."
He scoffed at you, a disbelieving laugh escaping him as he watched you finally begin to rinse the plate, water cascading down the unblemished porcelain, licking at your hands softly. Your fingers had already began to prune, small wrinkles forming at your fingertips, evidence of your absent-mindedness.
"Don't be dense." Maekar complained, moving to lean against the cabinet beside the sink, his gaze fixed on your face as he watched the small shifts in your features — the minuscule pursing of your lips, the way your eyes narrowed. Something was clearly troubling you. "You know exactly what I mean. What are you thinking about?"
Silence settled for a beat as you thought about his question, the words turning over in your mind while you placed the plate onto the dish drainer, the ceramic clattering against the metal. You were tempted to answer truthfully, to rant to Maekar about every grievance that plagued your mind, yet that would be futile. After all, he was the cause of them.
Instead, you decided to mock him.
"I'm thinking about the gun I have in my drawer." You replied, head tilting up to meet his gaze, your finger grasping at the edge of the sink as you tried to steady yourself. "Some lunatic decided it would be a great idea to give his hostage a lethal weapon. I'm thinking about shooting the lunatic."
Maekar didn't respond immediately, just staring at you as you glared at him.
He began to list familiar names.
"Rowan Waters, Alys Hardyng, Margot Florent—" The list dragged on, every single name that had been documented within your personal files, in order of their proximity and relationship to you.
He simply had to say the names.
He didn't have to threaten, he didn't have to go into detail about how they would receive a bullet in the middle of their forehead, of how the steel would blossom in the soft flesh of their brain — the names were the reason why you never could use the gun against him. The names were leverage enough.
And they had their intended effect.
"You're a real piece of shit, I hope you know that." You rasped out, trying to stop your voice from wavering as you turned the tap off. Fuck, even just hearing the names threatened to break you, threatened to dismantle your defences and leave you a sobbing mess. Even in your annoyance, you were the one to suffer the consequences. A perpetual victim, how embarrassing.
Maekar clicked his tongue at you. "Not very festive of you."
You turned, the edge of the sink digging into the small of your back as you mirrored his stance, leaning against the cabinets, your arms crossing.
"I'm not exactly a festive person."
"Aegon said you don't celebrate." They were talking about you?
You tried to ignore that thought, yet it spiralled in your mind, pirouetting as you found it difficult to discern what the father and son would talk about regarding you. Did Aegon have questions about why you weren't leaving? About how Aerion's condition was improving, and you no longer had a purpose to linger in Summerhall?
"Gossiping, are we?" You chastised mockingly. He stated your name in a warning tone, not patient enough to endure your mocking. You decided to provide him with some honesty, despite the fact that he was wholly undeserving. "Why would I celebrate something I don't believe in?"
He remained silent for a moment, brows furrowing as if noticing an inaccuracy. "I've heard you pray before."
"You have?" You questioned, shocked that he had even remembered such a small detail.
He continued, his head nodding slightly. "With Aerion, you were whispering prayers, but I still heard them. That's not the actions of a disbeliever."
"I suppose I believe when I'm desperate."
He watched you for a moment, and you were unable to decipher the emotion that flashed across his violet eyes. Yet regardless you knew the source of that emotion. He was not expecting you to answer with such genuine sincerity.
"You still think of yourself as a hostage." He commented, changing the topic. It wasn't a question.
"Aren't I?"
He offered you an almost smile, his features surrendering to an expression other than a scowl as amusement flickered in his eyes, leaving you with silence as your answer.
And you found yourself unable to remain in it for long, wandering out of the kitchen as your mind began to spiral once more, ghosting the halls as you tried to find something to distract you.
Instead you found Rhae in Aerion's bedroom.
The older Targaryen was asleep, he seemed to be sleeping more these days, the pain no longer festering within him. You enjoyed it when he was asleep, when his mind was blurred with exhaustion and he no longer had the energy to be cruel or vitriolic. He was kinder then, softer.
And it was a good sign he was able to sleep, the first few days after his incident, he struggled to find unconsciousness no matter how much he craved it. He would snap at anyone near him, and you were often the one to receive the majority of his brutish nature due to your unfortunate proximity. But you knew why he was being so uncooperative — he was in pain. His muscles feeling as if they were continuously being sliced open, as if daggers had carved their place into his abdomen.
He didn't tell you this, unwilling to admit to such 'weakness', but you could just tell; the way he carried himself, clutching the rippled skin that had been forcefully torn open and stitched closed, the way he looked at you silently for help, unable to voice his pleas. You would always help, unable to find it in you to be malevolent when he was in such pain.
You just hoped that you would never have to see Aerion after this was all over.
After. Was it stupid for you to believe that there would be an after? You were not completely sure, you could only hope that this was not your new normal. And although you would never admit it, you would whisper prayers to the Smith each night, hoping that he would mend what was broken, to help return you to your home. You truly had become desperate.
Rhae appeared to just be staring at her brother, her gaze tracing over his sleeping form as if to confirm something she had concocted within her mind. You often found her in Aerion's bedroom as of late, and he would always bark at her to leave, only for her to scream back at him. Yet despite the brutality of their interactions, you would catch a fleeting look of relief as she left, as if she was glad to find him awake.
She swivelled at the sound of the door opening, the hinges creaking lowly as they yielded to your touch, the sound of your slippers scuffing against the dark oak herringbone flooring.
Your heart clenched at the sight of her small frown, the immediate displeasure that tugged at her features. She looked more like Maekar like this.
She made a move to leave, to scutter past you and disappear into the winding halls of Summerhall like she had done any other time you were alone with her.
"Rhae—" You called out quickly, trying to stop her from escaping. She halted when she heard the desperation in your voice. You could feel your heart break the longer she was angry at you, and the sensation only worsened when you realised that anger was not the only emotion she directed towards you. She was disappointed. "Rhae, I am so sorry, I promise that—"
"You shouldn't do that." She mumbled, her hands twisting each other as she turned to face you, her gaze fixed on the floor. "Shouldn't make promises you can't keep."
"But I will keep them." You vowed, keeping your voice even. You didn't want to scare her off, you were unsure of what exactly about you had caused such sudden fear and derision. "I just need to know what I'm promising."
She stayed silent for a moment, her gaze fluttering up as she searched your face. You were unsure of what she was looking for, but she seemed to have found as she inched closer to you, her hand hesitant as it found yours.
"Promise you won't hurt us?"
You crumbled at her small voice, the sheer veracity of her words paining you as you returned her grip, your thumb brushing against the back of her hand.
"Rhae, I promise I would never do that."
"Not even— Not even if someone tells you to?" She continued, the words spilling out of her. You couldn't help but notice the way her hands had began to tremble, even while you were holding them.
"Not then, not ever. I would never do such a thing. I promise." You stated firmly, ensuring that there was no way for her to mistake your words for anything other than honesty.
"And you won't leave us?"
The question caused your mind to stall. Could you promise that? "Rhae…"
She mumbled your name, her voice wavering slightly, her eyes turning glassy as her grip on your hand tightened. "Please, just promise me."
Her lips began to wobble at your lack of answer, the tears beading along her waterline threatening to spill. You could see a tear begin to catch onto her pale lashes.
"Of course—" You quickly interjected, kneeling as you pulled her closer to you, hugging the poor girl. Her arms immediately wrapped around your neck, her head tucked into the slope of your neck as she hid her face in your hair. You could hear her sniffle slightly. "I promise, sweet girl, I won't leave you."
Her grip tightened as you heard a soft wailing cry escape her, tears dripping onto the exposed skin of your neck as she settled onto your lap. Her chest tremored with the pain that had festered within her, and you could only regret not being able to treat such a wound. You caressed her hair gently, finger brushing against the silver-gold locks as you tried to soothe her, whispering soft words of comfort.
Her cries slowly began to settle, and eventually so did her trembling. Her breathing began to even out, and soon you felt her body go limp against you. She had cried herself to sleep; she had been carrying all that devastated energy within her that it had utterly exhausted her.
You began to adjust her body, wrapping your hands around her tightly as you began to shift your own body so that you would be able to stand while carrying her. You should drop her off to her bed. At least she would be able to rest there comfortably.
You heard a low whistle.
"Don't you think it's cruel to lie to her like that?"
Aerion.
His voice was laced with mockery. He didn't even have the decency to act as if he had not witnessed the scene. Yet despite his callous taunts, there was something softer in his gaze that caught you off-guard. His gaze kept dipping, from your face to Rhae sleeping within your grasp. For a moment he didn't think you were holding his sister, for a moment his mind maliciously wandered to the thought that you were holding his child.
You would suit being a mother.
"What?" You murmured, keeping your voice low as to not disturb the sleeping Targaryen. You adjusted her slightly so that the majority of her weight rested upon your hip.
"To make a promise that you will definitely break. You would run at the first opportunity, and if my uncle allows you to leave, I'm certain you would be halfway to Pentos."
"If?" You repeated, your brows furrowing slightly, lips curling into a frown as you narrowed your gaze at the bemused Aerion who began to peel back the covers, grabbing at the clutches beside his bed as he tried to stand.
"You didn't deny that you would leave." He pointed out, ignoring your questioning tone, his grin widening as if he had caught you out on something. As if your lack of denial simply validated his sentiments. The bottom of his clutches clicked against the hardwood flooring as he tried to get closer to you
"You're such a cunt." You hissed, not bothering to entertain him further, turning your back to Aerion as you stormed out of the room. He had such a talent of infuriating you. Yet even now you couldn't decide whether or not he was wrong. You should run if ever given the opportunity; this could not become your life.
To care for mysterious stab wounds and digging out bullets from torn flesh. This was not your purpose in life.
You had already found your purpose — you were content in the little life you had curated, the practice and your friends, you were satisfied with what you had. You did not want what the Targaryen's offered you. You did not want them.
His voice called out after you.
"I thought you didn't give a shit about us!"
You could hear his laughter behind you, slowly fading as you quickened your pace away from his room.
You tried to ignore his words, but they haunted you as you began to pull back Rhae's bed sheets, fingers curling into the soft pink cotton printed small prancing unicorns as you ensured you kept her balanced. And, slowly, you began to rest her body onto the mattress. She rested limply, the skin of her eyelids shifting slightly as if her mind had detected that something had occurred. But she did not rouse from her sleep.
I thought you didn't give a shit about us.
As mocking and cruel as his words were, you hated to admit that they might have carried some truth. You were beginning to care — you could blame it on your circumstances, that the constant proximity had caused some level of Stockholm Syndrome within you (because you were constantly surrounded by dragons, how could emotions not begin to stir, whether those emotions were negative or positive), but you should know better. You shouldn't be making futile promises to soothe the Blood of the Dragon.
Yet even while these very concepts were whizzing through your mind, you found your heart split in two. How could you categorise this child as being the same as your captors — she had no hand in your situation. It was not her fault that the blood of Old Valyria ran through her veins, that she shared their twinkling amethyst irises and silver-gold hair.
You could argue that it was not your duty to comfort Rhae, that you had done nothing wrong. That you had never once acted out of hand, that you did not deserve what was happening to you. But even that was a foolish thought.
Perhaps you did not deserve this injustice, perhaps you had done nothing for the gods to punish you like this — but you were an adult. Rhae was just a child, and her emotions, as tumultuous as they were, were only natural. It was only right for her to be sad, for her to be scared, for her to be angry. You had cycled through these emotions multiple times a day, addicted to the way they would cause you to spiral in your self-pity.
You knew more than anyone how those emotions corroded an individual. And you knew that she did not deserve to experience such cruelty.
Regardless of how you felt, regardless of how you tried to distance yourself from the Targaryens, you knew it was always inevitable. You would have always been cursed to care.
And this would be how Baelor would find you, wallowing in your own thoughts as you laid on the floor of the library, the lights flickering low as only the fairy lights that had been draped across the ceiling illuminated the room. You were staring aimlessly at the ceiling, gaze tracing the crystals that dangled from the ceiling, following the small rainbows that formed when the light hit the facets. You had helped Daella put them up last night, gossiping aimlessly about your university life as you threaded fish wire into the holes that had already been chiselled into the crystals, securing them with tight knots.
You didn't hear him at first. You didn't notice him at all until he joined you on the floor, the fabric of his blazer rustling as he laid beside you.
Your head turned slightly, gaze meeting tender violet and brown, before returning to the wooden ceiling. You hadn't expected him to find you here, you didn't even know that he had returned from King's Landing.
You almost were unsure of where to begin — you rarely spoke to him during the day, the majority of your conversations occurring when the moon brightened the night sky, the stars dotted along the inky canvas, when your inhibitions softened, when your mind was more vulnerable.
But now the sun was still dangling in the pale blue heavens, and you found that your heart had endured enough taxing emotions for the day, your barriers worn down.
"Hello." He murmured, his arms folding over his torso. From your peripheral, you could see he was still staring at you, his head tilted in your direction as he fidgeted with the rings that decorated his fingers.
"Hi." You rasped out, voice low and unsure as you kept your gaze forward, unable to direct your complete attention to him. You cleared your throat slightly before continuing. "I spoke to Rhae today."
"Yeah?" He asked, his voice deeper than you were used to. You hated that your heart began to flutter at just one syllable.
You hummed softly. "She was quite sad, but I hope we solved whatever had been bothering her."
"That's good."
You were unable to control yourself, the words spilling out of you as you felt your eyes sting at the thought of the conversation you had had.
"She made me promise that I wouldn't hurt her." You exposed, your voice trembling slightly as you felt tears begin to form. Fuck, you couldn't believe that you were about to cry. He was unable to respond to your revelation. "Do you know how much that broke my heart, Baelor? To know that she thinks I'm even capable of doing such a thing?"
"She has her reasons." He comforted, his hand finding yours as he brushed his thumb against the rivets of your knuckles, tracing the bones gently. You allowed him to.
"Will you ever tell me what happened?" You questioned, your head turning to finally meet his gaze once more. His brows were furrowed in a soft pity that almost felt mocking to see. You hated that he seemed to want to console you, that his eyes seemed to glimmer in the pain you felt. "I'm not stupid, it's clear that something has happened here."
You felt tempted to list every piece of circumstantial evidence that you had noticed. The lack of household staff, your very presence, Rhae's sudden coldness, for Seven's sake, even the gun that Maekar had given you had very heavy implications. Why would you ever have need for a weapon, unless Summerhall itself could not promise safety?
It was only a matter of time that you would notice the flaws within the manor.
"You're not stupid." He repeated earnestly, his grip tightening a fraction when he noticed that you were finally offering him your attention. He sighed deeply, his lips pressed in a deep line as he tried to think of how to approach the topic. "It's just not easy to explain."
"You just have to begin." You encouraged, manipulating the position of your hands so that the inside of your fingers were flush against his palm, before slowly travelling up to lace with his fingers. His fingers quickly curled against yours, forming a slight lattice as he mirrored your grip. From this distance, you could see the threads of silver in his hair, the flecks of amber that lightened his brown iris. You could feel your breathing stutter for a moment, unable to become accustomed to seeing him in such a soft light.
He was silent for a moment, the only sound was your soft joint breathing. He dragged your hand to his face, his lips pressing against your knuckles in a feather-light kiss, an action that caused your pulse to flutter, your face flushing as you tried to ignore the implications of his gentleness.
"Forgive me, but I cannot."
"Baelor—" You interrupted, aghast at his insistence of keeping you in the dark
"Just know that I'm not just keeping you here for the sake of cruelty." He quickly continued, interrupting you before you could begin to cuss him out. " It's also vital for your welfare for you to remain at Summerhall."
"That's so fucking stupid, my safety was never at risk before you brought me here." You argued, tone laced with incredulity, sitting up as you glared down at him. You tried to pull your hand out of his, but his grip only tightened, as if he were afraid that the moment he let you go, you would run.
He joined you, his arm pushing at the plush carpet as he sat up straight, your joined hands falling onto his thigh.
"Your safety was at risk from the first night you met me." He hissed back, his tone becoming biting as if he couldn't understand why you were becoming so difficult, as if he truly expected you to take his lack of answers dutifully. He did not deserve such understanding. "I came to you with a stab wound. Did you not think the very people who inflicted such an injury would not be able to find who fixed it from becoming fatal?"
Your heart dropped at his questions. You wrenched your hand from his grasp, standing up as you backed away from him.
"So it's my fault for helping you?" You questioned, your voice raising as it bordered on a shout. You couldn't believe the audacity he was emitting.
Baelor mirrored your actions once more, "That's not what I mean—"
"No, that's exactly what you mean." You harshly interrupted, snarling at him. You couldn't even look at him, feeling disgusted by what he suggested. You began to pace, your hand pressing against your brow as you felt a headache begin to brew. "If I had never helped you, you wouldn't have returned when Aerion got shot, and I wouldn't be in this situation!"
"If you didn't help me, I would be dead. Aerion would be dead." He interjected, his head tilting slightly. "Is that what you truly want?"
You stilled, your gaze darting to him and instantly you wanted to apologise, mouth falling open in horror. No, of course you didn't want them dead, how could he say such a thing— wait.
Your brows furrowed as you noticed the evident manipulation of his words. Seven Above, the audacity of this man, how dare he try to manipulate you?
You buried those futile apologies deep within you — with Rhae you had offered them because she was a child, she was not intentionally trying to mislead you and her emotions were rooting in true pain. You could not offer Baelor these same excuses. He was a grown man, father of two; how dare he think you would be stupid to fall for such blatant cons?
"Oh, you're a right piece of work." You laughed, the mirthless giggles escaping your lips. Your hand clasped over your lips as your eyes stung with frustrated tears, spilling as you found yourself unable to stop laughing. "You, Baelor Targaryen, are disgusting. How fucking dare you say that to me?"
He murmured your name, his hand passing over his face in immediate regret. "Please, I didn't—"
"I honestly don't care. All I ask is for some honesty and you can't even offer that."
"I would tell you, believe me I would. It's just better if you don't have all the details."
"Better for who exactly?" You snapped, wiping at the tears that began to bead down your cheeks, the wetness smudging messily as you pointed at him. "Because all I've seen is that you act for yourself. Even your gifts are rooted in selfishness. Do you honestly think you can bribe me with necklaces and flowers?"
"Flowers?" He questioned.
"Yes, flowers." You parroted, your voice dropping in a deeper octave, mocking his voice. "Speaking of which, I don't want them, you can just take them and shove them up your—"
He interrupted your sentence with your name, his irises swirling with confusion. "I never gave you flowers."
"What?"
"I gave you a necklace, yes, but I never gave you flowers. I only just returned an hour ago."
Your brain stalled for a moment. In the morning you had been so caught up in your own anger, at the idea of your privacy being violated, that you had not considered that glaring fact. Baelor had been in King's Landing, it would have been impossible for him to put the flowers in your room.
You shook your head slightly.
"No, Baelor, that doesn't make any sense, who else would've…" You tried but the words died on your tongue as your denial began to ring false. Instead you turned on your heel, swiftly darting out of the room as you practically sprinted up the stairs. You could hear a patter of footsteps behind you, Baelor calling out your name as he chased after you.
You didn't stop at the sound of his voice, instead racing towards the direction of your room, almost crashing into a confused Maekar.
"What the fuck?" You heard him hiss bewilderedly, his gaze frantically flickering between you and his brother that followed you.
You didn't bother apologising to him, instead ripping open the door of your room, the metal handle rattling against the wall as the wood of the door trembled at the sudden force. The flowers were right where you had found them in the morning.
The petals were more wilted now, dehydrated and dry, drained of their vividness as the passing hours of the day aged them. Your heart raced unsteadily within its cage, clamoring against your lungs as you struggled to catch your breath, inhaling short gasps as you found yourself just staring at the flowers.
Baelor quickly entered the room soon after, accompanied by his brother shadowing him. Their presence reminded you of exactly why you had entered the room. You beelined towards the vanity, hands shakily wrapping against the bouquet as you thrust towards Baelor's direction.
"You're saying you didn't put it there, right? Then who did, and why do you all just enter my room when I'm sleeping? Do you not think that's weird?" You hissed at him, hitting the bouquet at his chest, the peonies colliding against his pristine white button-up, erupting into a pile of fallen petals. Your words were punctuated with the blossoms crashing against his front. "Fucking!" Hit. "Weirdo!" Hit. "Behaviour!". Hit.
But Baelor did not offer any rebuttal, instead his gaze was transfixed upon the startling red card that rested in the centre of the blooms. His hand wrapped around yours firmly, preventing you from hitting him once more with the petals as his free hand deftly picked at the card, drawing the plastic stick from out of the blossoms.
He stared at the card, his face setting into a stern look, brows knitting together in displeasure as he flipped the card in his hands.
"You found this in the morning?" He questioned, his gaze roaming over the perimeter of the room as he walked towards Maekar, showing him the card. His next words were directed towards Maekar. "Call Donnel. Now."
It only took Maekar one look at the card for his face to mirror his brother's, a solemn expression carving its way into his features as he didn't spare you another glance, instead immediately abiding by Baelor's orders, fishing his phone out of his pocket as he began to dial a number.
Your heart dropped at their reaction. Baelor's frowns, Maekar's scowls — Maekar often scowled, it often was the only expression that graced his face, yet this was far different to his usual scowl. This was concern, unadulterated peturb.
You hadn't expected this. You were prepared for defensiveness, for them to accuse you of overreacting over such a meaningless issue — not suffocating graveness. They were reacting as if you had just announced someone's funeral.
Baelor called out your name once more, repeating the question. "Are you sure this was here in the morning?"
"Yes — yeah, it was—" You stammered slightly, your face falling as the gravity of the situation began to dawn on you. "Baelor, what's going on? What does it say?"
Maekar's voice cut in, greeting the other person on the line with swift words, his words blurring together as he walked out of the room. "Donnel, you need to…"
Baelor watched his brother leave, gaze trailing after him as he rubbed at his cheeks, fingers brushing against the salt and pepper hairs of his beard.
"Vaoreznuni syt aōha loss." He recited, his gaze dipping to the card within his hand, following the loops of ink that mocked him. The syllables flowed off his tongue naturally, rolling in a way that suited his voice. "It means 'Sorry for your loss'."
Your brows furrowed slightly as you slowly shook your head, your arms crossing as you index finger drummed against your bicep.
"Then clearly that's not meant for me, that makes no sense." You tried, although even as the words exited your mouth, you found yourself unconvinced. And it was clear that Baelor wasn't either.
"It does if it's a threat."
He held the card up, flipping it so that you could clearly see the back, a symbol that had been monogrammed against the continuous crimson, one that you had not noticed previously.
Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.
Word Count: 6.5k+
Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, slightly dark!Targaryens, medical inaccuracies, inaccurate details about firearms, age gap
Note: I know nothing about firearms lol, please don't cringe at my explanation
Series Masterlist
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You preferred nights at Summerhall.
When the sun began to dance along the horizon, that blazing gold medallion disappearing as the sky bled into softer romantic hues; Summerhall finally seemed to rest. During the day the manor buzzed with frantic energy — children darting down the hallways, Kingsguard filtering in and out of the doors after conducting covert meetings with the Hammer and the Anvil. During the day there was nowhere you could hide. You were forced into exposure, into meaningless conversations that began to feel abnormally natural.
So, naturally, you took refuge in the nights. Once the clock ticked 12:00, and every Targaryen resident of the manor finally retired to their own quarters, you would finally be able to slip out of your room and just exist in the silence that coated over Summerhall.
Well, to be accurate, it wasn't truly your room nor would it ever feel as if it were. It was just another guest room. It didn't matter if the wardrobes were filled with clothing that was eerily your perfect size, or if the connecting bathroom had been decked out with the exact brands of toiletry products that you used. If anything, all those small facts just disgusted you slightly; clearly someone had returned to your home, rifled through your belongings to collect this information, cataloguing them for it to be passed on.
You hated the room.
Hate may be a strong word, but it was the only one appropriate for these circumstances. It wasn't that you were against the decor (you were thankful that this room was untouched by crimson and onyx, instead being painted in a gentle pearlescent shade), but there was something inherently strange about the room. You felt as if you were being watched.
It was a sensation that you had swiftly became accustomed to in Summerhall as during the lighter hours of the day, regardless of where you were in the manor, there was a high chance that you were being accompanied by someone. Whether that someone was a Targaryen or a Kingsguard, that distinction did not really matter — you had just gotten used to not being alone.
But there was something disturbing about still feeling that way when you knew you were alone; the inability to stop performing despite knowing that no one was there to witness your actions. But you found it difficult to become comfortable within the room, the first few days you found yourself compelled to search every corner, investigating every decoration as that feeling of being watched refused to abandon you.
But you found nothing. Nothing to confirm your suspicions, nothing to assure you that you weren't going insane — there was not a single trace of evidence to suggest that you were being watched. No discrete cameras, no concealed microphones. Nothing.
Yet despite that, you didn't dare shower within the connecting bathroom. Instead, you would gather your bathing products, and use Daella's shower (who was confused when you first asked her, but did not ask any further questions once she noticed your discomfort).
The only time this sensation was weakest was at night. You were unsure if this was caused by your own exhaustion, if your sleep-addled mind had finally relaxed enough to release its grips from the delusions that haunted you during the day, but you couldn't find it in you to care. You were just thankful that the heavy weight of discomfort finally left you.
Yet solace could not be promised during the witching hour.
The halls of Summerhall were haunted by your fellow noturnal creatures, the most common being Daeron. He would often find you on the terrace, your gaze fixed on the unmoving stars as he joined you, offering you a cigarette. Most nights were filled with mindless discourse, of the high society gossip that you had no context for and his random philosophical ponderings that made little to no sense. Other nights were filled with silence, only the crackle of the lighter and the scent of acrid smoke — he would be quieter those nights, more reluctant to engage in conversation, only telling you that he wouldn't sleep.
Wouldn't.
You would question further, asking if he had insomnia, and he would only shrug half-heartedly, refusing to meet your eyes.
The next individual you would most often see at odd hours of the night was Dunk. Unlike Daeron, you were certain Dunk's appearances were not motivated by insomnia, but rather obligation. The Kingsguard would often join you in the kitchen once his patrol of the manor was completed, brewing some tea that would be shared over idle conversation. You would never ask about the numerous men you had seen enter and leave the grounds of Summerhall through the morning hours, nor would he ever willingly sacrifice that information. You would both simply ignore that lingering fact, playing the fools part.
The worst of your midnight companions would be Baelor.
With Baelor you would force yourself to not interact, to retreat to your godforsaken room, to not linger. Unfortunately, you found yourself unable to control your tongue around him. Intentional or not, you often found yourself provoking the brunet Targaryen, which would result in his mild amusement and your remembrance that he was a Dragon. You could not forget yourself around him, not when your presence in this very manor was only maintained through the active blackmail that he was conducting.
It did not matter how your heart seemed to waver for a moment, that your interactions during the later hours often included in him being dressed more simply. no longer donning his armour of impeccable Crownlander tailoring.
The most recent time you interacted with him under such circumstances, you found it difficult to draw your eyes away from him. He was dressed in soft cotton, his silhouette gentler in the black t-shirt and jogger bottoms, no longer dressed in harsh lines and sharp edges.
Aerion had been steadily improving day by day, yet he was still in a fragile state, needing help to do small tasks such as eating when the pain began to flare up again. This had been one of his better days, where he quickly fell asleep instead of using his free time to terrorise you. However, unfortunately for you, you could not find sleep as easily. You had tossed and turned in your bed, that uncomfortable feeling settling within you once more, and you quickly found yourself exiting your room, wandering the halls of Summerhall like a spectre.
And that was how Baelor found you. Laying on the floor of the library, surrounded by random books you had pulled out of their respectable places upon the towering bookshelves that crowded the perimeters of the room. You hadn't noticed him at first, your mind partially occupied with rereading the same paragraph over and over from a book you found dreadfully boring with the sole purpose of trying to bore yourself into exhaustion (which was beginning to work, so thank you Archmaester Thurgood for writing Inventories and somehow managing to make Valyrian steel swords sound so bland).
Valyrian steel is considered one of the most sought after commodities within this post-Doom world. It is no wonder our ancestors seemed to revere it, making it the most desired material for their weapons. No other metals could compare to its properties; a sharpness that seems to never dull, the blade lighter allowing its wielder to be swifter. It can be easily distinguished compared to other metals through one key distinction — the ripple-like effect that spans across the steel, a result of the way Valyrian steel is forged. It is unfortunate that this method has been lost through the Doom of Valyria, and despite numerous efforts, it appears almost impossible to replicate.
But then you heard it.
A soft huff of laughter.
Your eyes darted to the source of the sound, half-convinced (and half-hoping) that it was just a figment of your imagination, only to find him ghosting the entrance of the library, his lips curled with slight amusement as he watched you silently.
You didn't acknowledge his presence, instead forcing your gaze to drag back to the pale pages of the book, rereading the sentence about Lady Forlorn, even though you were certain you knew it by heart. You had spent the past few days ignoring his very existence, replying to his questions with concise answers, gaze drifting over him as if through the very act of avoiding him you could convince yourself that he was not truly there. And even now you didn't want to speak to him, to even look at him, yet you found your face gradually becoming warmer as you could see him from your peripheral, drifting further into the room.
Baelor's footsteps stopped right next to you.
You didn't dare look at him, not when he crouched down beside you, not when you could feel the heat of his person radiate into your skin — you couldn't look. You almost felt petrified.
Not in the way rooted in fear, but rather as if you couldn't will yourself to move away, to create some distance between the two of you.
"Lady Forlorn referred to two blades; the original that carried myth and legend, and its Valyrian replacement…" His voice trailed off, huskier than what you expected. You could feel your flush deepen as his hand came to ghost over yours, fingers tracing over the edge of the pages as he flipped to the next one. "I didn't know you were interested in Valyrian steel."
His voice was quiet, an almost whisper that threatened to disturb the solace you had crafted. The unsteady hammering of your heart suggested that he had succeeded.
"I'm not." You replied after a moment, words coming out in a slight mumble, harshly swallowing as you sat up, your loose hair falling around your shoulders. Your gaze met his, colliding with violet and brown. You were unsure if it was because of the poor lighting of the library, only the large vintage floor lamp illuminating the room in a wash of soft amber, but his irises seemed darker, the abyss of his pupils almost swallowing the vivid hues. "Just bored."
Yet your half-hearted answers did not dissuade him, instead he seated himself beside you, infinitesimally leaning closer. You hated the fact that you didn't pull back, that you didn't retreat. Instead you found yourself reciprocating his attention, gaze tracing his features; he looked unfortunately handsome, even in the low lighting of the library.
"And the words of Thurgood satiate your ennui?" He teased, pushing back a strand of hair that fell in front of your face and you tried to suppress the urge to shiver when you felt his fingers brush your skin slightly, his touch lingering for a moment. "I find his work leaves much to be desired."
Your brows furrowed slightly — there was something strange about his words, yet you couldn't quite figure out what, so you chose the safer option. You chose to ignore them.
"Do you seriously want me to talk to you about 'Inventories'?" You questioned incredulously, watching him with a deadpan stare.
"If it means that you'll finally speak to me, then of course." He answered, a certain glee flickering in his eyes when he noticed that you were finally entertaining a conversation with him. "Thrill me with what you've read, darling."
Your gaze dipped, tracing his lips as they stretched into an amused smile, before you caught yourself, forcing them to return to his eyes, hoping that he didn't notice. Instead, you found something you decided was much worse — he was doing the exact same, gaze flickering between your eyes, and then to your lips, before returning to your eyes once more as if he was unsure on what he should focus on.
What the fuck?
You pushed yourself back, drawing your knees up as a sort of shield from him. No, he was not looking at your lips, he couldn't have been — you must've seen incorrectly. Yet you were unable to convince yourself of this when the evidence was right before you, his gaze dipping once more.
Either you were delusional, or he was.
This was not real.
He was still staring at you, awaiting for a reply that you struggled to form. You had to think quickly, to not let him believe that you had been so easily affected by receiving some of his attention, yet you found it difficult when he was looking at you like that.
"I'd rather have this conversation from the comfort of my own home." You responded drily, speaking the first words that had come to your mind. And they had their intended effect.
He faltered for a moment, lips parting before pressing into a tight line, caught off-guard by your confession. Not that this should have been news to him, you had shared this fact numerous times before, yet he couldn't ignore the churning feeling it caused. Baelor would never admit it aloud, but he was beginning to hate the idea. There was no reason for you to leave, so why were you so insistent to abandon them? To leave the children, to leave him?
"I'd rather you stay in the comfort of mine." He murmured, his hand finding the soft skin of your ankle, fingers trailing up the bone before wrapping around the appendage.
His hand gently cradled your ankle, thumb softly drawing circles on the skin — his touch was so light that you didn't register it immediately, just feeling the phantom of warmth before you finally noticed. And once you did, your pulse was cruel to you, reacting so violently to the softest of touches.
"I'm sure you would." You mocked, gaze chasing his as you noticed his attention wavering. "I know you're reasonable, Baelor. And I know that you know that this full situation is insane. So let's all just forget it and move past it."
He muttered your name, the syllables leaving his lips in a soft sigh as he rubbed his hand over his face, trying to soothe the headache he knew would inevitably come.
"Let's not do this now, it's late." Baelor deflected, tone gentle. Yet no matter how good-natured he tried to depict himself as, you could hear the slight irritation that laced his tone, as if he was exhausted by the mere concept. "We should go to bed and revisit this in the morning."
You could only frown at his response, more disappointed than annoyed. Disappointed by his redirection, disappointed by how you reacted.
He sighed once more, releasing your ankle as he stood up. And he left you there, his shadows spilling along the bookshelves as he exited, stealing one last glance at you.
You laid back down, unable to find the energy to chase after him, to demand answers. You were just exhausted.
Yet despite your tiredness, your mind seemed determined to torture you, distracting you from the next passage of Inventories as you found it wandering over what could motivate his actions.
There must be a reason to this insanity, one that you couldn't see. Yet it seemed as if everyone could.
Which led you to one conclusion.
There was something brewing beneath the surface.
Despite the fact that everyone seemed content in maintaining their deceptive ignorance, you could tell there was an issue that simmered within the walls of Summerhall, something that predated your arrival. And despite the fact that you had decided that the philosophers were wisest, that ignorance truly was bliss, the silence of midnight would cause your mind to theorise about what was plaguing Summerhall.
You simply could not ignore the lack of staff.
For a man as domineering as Maekar, it baffled you to believe that the very house he was raising his children within was not brimming with individuals he had employed to cater to their every need. To make them breakfast, to clean after them, to aid in their enrichment — for Seven's sake, to care for them when they had sustained life-threatening injuries!
Yet the manor was vacant.
The only employed staff were the overwhelming amount of Kingsguard that patrolled the grounds, armed with lethal weapons that should certainly not be carried around young children. You would argue that you could not be classified as an employee either, regardless of how much disdain Maekar treated you with, regardless of how much Aerion would remind you that your sole purpose was to care for him.
And unfortunately, it seemed as if the very residents of the manor were not exactly as independent as these circumstances would require. The children struggled to do basic chores for themselves, and they would often be completed by (or under the guidance of) Daeron, yet even then they would be completed by a subpar level. Breakfast often burnt, dishes shattering in the effort of cleansing them, the washing machine often brimming with clothes leading to them being washed inadequately.
So once again, you returned to your initial conclusion. There was something wrong.
You could not find it within you to interrogate further, to openly ask questions about what had exactly occurred for this to be the state of things. But you were not stupid.
You would pick up on comments referencing conversations that had clearly been cycled through multiple times, the young Targaryens issuing warnings to each other. That they should not do certain actions, that they should not forget. They would often reference memory, and it was evident that that would be context enough for the other Targaryens to understand exactly what they had been referencing.
There was enough information for you to notice that something was wrong, that every detail seemed slightly askew, but not enough to uncover the whole truth.
And it seemed that you would never get closer to discovering it either, never get any clarification as to why your presence in the manor was required as the very next morning, Baelor was nowhere to be found.
You had awoken early that morning after your little interaction in the library, the sky a pale blue that blinded your eyes as the sound of birds chirping disturbed the silence while you groggily got ready for the day. And despite the fact that you had risen before any other member of the Targaryens, Baelor was gone.
Coward. He had ran back to King's Landing before you could even continue your conversation, claiming that he had an important meeting in which his presence was vital. You knew it was a lie. Even while Dunk was revealing this news to you, the tip of his ears tinging a blushing pink revealing that even he couldn't believe the words he was reciting, you could only nod.
Truthfully, you weren't sure what you were expecting that morning. A part of you knew that the conversation would never be revisited, that it would hang in the air half-addressed — acknowledged but never discussed. You knew that Baelor would avoid it somehow, but you just didn't know how exactly.
However, despite these thoughts already racing through your mind while you were brushing your teeth that morning, there was something you were certain you could have never expected. An unpredictable variable.
Upon the nightstand beside your bed was a small box.
It was simple in the way that suggested elegance; the box was a matte blush and smooth to the touch, wrapped in an ivory silk bow that fell apart like the delicate petals of a rose when you pulled at it. And once you pried open the lid, the magnetic clasp snapping open, you found a delicate silver chain inside that had a small matching silver pendant that glinted at you.
The pendant was a small rectangular silver charm that had seven gems that twinkled; the centre stone was ruby, the bloodiness of the gem glinting wickedly at you. The other six stones circulated the ruby — diamond, amethyst, lapis, iolite, nacre, garnet, creating a symphony of rich hues that glimmered.
Under any other circumstances, you would have struggled to name these stones because truly what need did you have for such insignificant knowledge. Even now with the necklace before you, you could barely distinguish the differences between garnet and ruby (except perhaps some differentiation within the shades of the gems?). Yet it seemed that whoever had left the necklace there had prepared for this also, a small sheet of paper falling from the lid of the box, detailing each stone in neat inky cursive.
You were unsure of what emotion should have been elicited by the gift; were you meant to be thankful that your captors had thrown a pretty piece of jewellery at you? Was this also another bribe? Because currently you felt more offended than thankful.
Even the list of gemstones on parchment prompted indignation within you — clearly even the giver knew that you wouldn't be able to decipher the value of such a gift, why else did they feel the need to clearly clarify each and every stone?
However there was one piece of information missing from the piece of parchment. It did not state the metal of the pendant.
At first glance you had assumed silver, the way it had gleamed implied purity (it was nothing like the jewellery you would often buy for yourself, the metals mixed, the glimmering coating wearing off after a few uses) but it seemed too dark to be silver. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a glaring detail.
Waves.
The metal seemed to have ripples within it, the pattern consistent throughout the pendant. It was Valyrian steel.
That one singular fact revealed the gifter.
Yet it only served to further your confusion — what could possibly motivate Baelor to give you such an item? You had no answer.
Instead you placed it back into its original location, not sparing it another glance as you exited your room, determined to find the Targaryen and question him (only for you to fail as you would quickly find that he had left the premises).
You tried to think about the necklace throughout the day, yet you often found yourself thinking about the rippled steel, even while you were mixing together a simple pancake batter.
You had become bored of the breakfasts Summerhall had to offer. In nature, they were all the same — convenient, swift, simple. Toast, cereal, and more toast. So you had decided to solve the crises of your starved taste buds and began to make a breakfast you knew Maekar would scowl at, brimming with sugar and sweetness with no proteins or fibre in sight.
You found it therapeutic, and for a moment you could almost imagine that you were in your own kitchen as you sifted the dry ingredients, whisking the clumps of flour until you reached a smooth batter. You heated the pan, the gas stove clicking until it sparked into a consistent flame, watching as a knob of butter melted on the stainless steel. Ladling the batter onto the silvery surface, the melted butter pooling around the circumference of the pancake, you waited, watching as air bubbles dotted around the creamy ivory batter. You flipped it, the batter sizzling as the cooked side of the pancake was exposed, the edges slightly crispy as the centre was a golden-brown.
You continued this process, a stack of pancakes forming beside you until you heard a soft rustle behind you. Slippers dragging along the marble of the kitchen floor. You turned at the sound, smiling at the sight of a yawning Rhae who shuffled towards you.
"Good morning!" She chirped, her fingers curling into the cotton of the dress you were wearing, her head slightly pressing against your thigh.
"Good morning, Rhae." You mirrored, your hand coming to brush her messy silver-gold locks back. "Want some pancakes?"
She froze at your offer, her entire body stilling as she watched you for a moment, her gaze fixed on the pan before you. She slowly pried her fingers off your skirt, backing away from you as she watched you wearily.
"What?" Rhae mumbled, as if she wasn't entirely sure she had heard you correctly.
You didn't notice the sudden shift in her demeanour, instead focusing on flipping another pancake.
"I'm making some for me and Aerion." You continued, gently sliding the edge of the spatula beneath the pancake, lifting it swiftly as you let it fall on its uncooked side. "Do you want some? There's plenty of batter—"
She interrupted you, her tone icy as she glared at you. "Why would you do that?"
You paused for a moment, caught off-guard by the way she bit out the words, yet she didn't give you a moment to question her, the words falling from between her lips uncontrolled.
"I thought you were different." Her voice was gradually getting louder, her hand movements become frantic as she clenched her fists. "No, you weren't— you weren't meant to be like the others! Why would you—"
"Rhae…" You interrupted gently, putting down the spatula as you faced the young girl, frowning at her. You wanted to comfort her, to clarify any misunderstanding. But immediately she reminded you that she was not just some young girl — she was still a Targaryen.
"Don't!" She shouted, her lips curling in disdain as her eyes began to prick with glimmering tears. "I can't believe you would try to-to—"
She was unable to finish her sentence, instead turning on her heel as she bolted out of the kitchen, almost colliding with her older cousin. Valarr glared at you from his spot in the door way, his gaze darting between you and Rhae's disappearing figure.
"What the fuck did you do?" He questioned sharply, the way he was staring into the hallway revealing that he wanted to chase after his little cousin. There's a visible struggle occurring within him — to comfort poor Rhae, to scream at you for whatever you dared to do. He choose the latter.
You just stared at him, pancakes forgotten as they began to burn, mouth agape as you began to stutter over a reply. "I— I offered her pancakes?"
The words came out as a question, as if you were beginning to doubt yourself. Pancakes shouldn't have elicited such a violent derision. Don't kids like pancakes? If this was how she reacted to them, was offering them to Aerion a death wish?
Valarr visibly relaxed at your words, sighing softly as his lips pulled into a deep line, a sudden comprehension flashing across his features. No wonder you appeared so painfully confused; your offer was pure at face value.
His bi-coloured gaze returned to yours, brows furrowed as he warned you. "Just don't do that again. Ever."
He didn't bother offering you an explanation, immediately beelining after his poor cousin.
You threw away that last pancake, one side a charred mess as it laid forgotten upon the hot pan. Your heart hurt for Rhae, wishing to console her but you knew it was best to give her some distance. You weren't even sure what you had done exactly to cause her pain, and Valarr's parting words only served to further your confusion. If you only knew why you couldn't offer her breakfast (if your assumption was correct in believing that you couldn't offer her any food), you would have been able to handle the situation far more delicately.
Instead you were stood in the kitchen dumbfounded, staring at the stack of pancakes that were beginning to cool as you washed berries. What in the Seven Hells had occurred for Summerhall to be so strange?
You were still no closer to the truth.
You tried to not think about Rhae's reaction, you tried to not think about the necklace, you tried to not think about the fact that you were here against your will. Truthfully, it appeared that you were striving to avoid the very act of contemplation as a whole as it just caused your mind to spin and your heart to ache.
Yet even now when you were before Aerion, he eyed your offerings wearily.
"No." He declared, eyes narrowing at the tray of food clutched in your hands.
"Aerion—"
"Get rid of it all." He interrupted, trying to not wince as he felt the deep ache travel up his abdomen, feeling it piece through his muscles. Shit, fucking shit — everything just hurted so much. "I don't want food, just give me something for the pain."
"You need to eat." You insisted, placing the tray on his bedside table, ignoring his plea for medication. You wanted to remind him of the words he had announced days prior, something about how 'dragons didn't need meds', yet you decided to not be cruel. "Either you eat this, or I'll get you something else, or I'll ask Daeron. But no matter what, you're going to eat."
"You can't force me to eat." He hissed out, his hand coming to cover his side, where the pain was the harshest.
"Eat, or no pain meds."
He glared at you, a flicker of something resembling pride softening his scowl as he rolled his eyes.
"If you're so desperate, you can feed me." Aerion grumbled out, his head nodding towards the plate you had prepared.
You stared at him. He could not be serious. Yet the way he made no indication suggesting he was going to reach for the plate exposed that he was. Your gaze flickered between his amethyst irises, and the plate of golden-brown pancakes you had spent the better part of an hour preparing.
A part of you wanted to just throw them away, plate included and force Daeron to deal with his demon of a brother, yet you couldn't find it in you to throw the food away. Instead you pushed your pride the side, grabbing the plate as you sat on the edge of his bed, the cool ceramic settled on your lap as you began to slice into the soft pillows of pancakes.
Aerion didn't bother hiding his smirk as you fed him, each bite offered just inflating his ego as he came to his own conclusion. Despite how much you enjoyed grumbling about how you didn't want to be there, how they had taken you against your will, this small act of feeding him was done at your own accord (albeit some slight encouragement from him) — it simply meant one thing. You cared more than you would ever confess. You cared about him.
Or so he had convinced himself.
He didn't notice the dazed look in your eyes, mind distant as you couldn't help but replay the interaction you had with Rhae. The sudden shift, the harsh coldness, the swift disdain, all stemming from a mistake that you still could not identify. Perhaps you were at fault, perhaps there was something within the Summerhall etiquette rulebook that banished the offering of pancakes.
Yet Aerion seemed content in eating them, lips wrapping around the silver fork you offered, his tongue darting out to catch the syrup that had smeared onto the corner of his lips.
He finished the entire plate, picking at the berries as you administered the promised pain meds, ignoring the smug look in his eyes.
You quickly returned to the kitchen once he was done, feeling a strange unease wash over you as you placed the dishes within the sink, trying to distract your mind as you began to rinse them. But it appeared as if Summerhall was your own personal purgatory; you could do nothing without being interrupted.
"Leave them." Maekar demanded, entering the kitchen as his gaze immediately latched onto your figure. You closed your eyes, another thing they commanded you not to do. The list was beginning to become quite lengthy.
You turned to snap at him, your head aching as you glared at the older Targaryen. But the words immediately died once you noticed what was clutched between his hands.
A gun.
A fucking gun.
What the actual fuck.
"Follow me." He grumbled, walking through the french doors and into the patio, his boots crunching against gravel as you found yourself following him. Maybe you shouldn't be following him. Shit, was this about the pancakes? Were you about to get killed over pancakes?
Fuck your fucking life.
Maybe you should run? (But he has a gun). That sounded like a good idea. (Not really). If you ran now, you would probably catch him off-guard. (He'll probably just shoot you).Just run into the forest. (He has a fucking gun). You were dead. You were walking to your literal death and —
Maekar turned once you were a considerable distance away from the manor, now within one of the many gardens on the property. Blushing gardenias lined the edges of the sprawling grass carpet, accompanied with smaller pale blossoms.
He guided you to sit on the chairs beneath the pale beige parasol, pushing the gun towards you as he sat across you, the plastic scraping against the metal of the garden table. He stared at you silently, lazily observing you as he slouched in his seat, watching as your gaze flickered between the gun before you and him.
Did he honestly think you would take it?
You weren't that stupid. There were far too many variables that could turn the situation to the worst — the gun could be empty, there could be people watching you, Kingsguard hidden in the foliage with their own weapons aimed at you, waiting for you to reach for the stupid lump of metal before they decided to shoot you.
Everything about it screamed that it was a test.
You pushed it back.
He rolled his eyes at you as he picked the piece back up, facing the barrel away from you as his fingers began working on it, quickly disassembling the components as he spoke.
"This is a glock." He stated casually, pulling the magazine out as he laid it upon the table, moving onto the next component. The way he laid down each component reminded you of your own rituals before a surgery, rearranging each scalpel, each piece of equipment until you felt prepared. He was doing the very same, rotating the gun as he inspected it in a manner that implied that it was more instinctual than deliberate. "Polymer frame, lightweight, capacity of 15 rounds. This version is smaller, better to conceal." He pointed at each individual component. "Slide, recoil spring, barrel, magazine."
He began reassembling the gun, making sure you could see where each piece was inserted. You interrupted him when he began talking about how to insert rounds into the magazine.
"Why are you telling me this?"
You watched as a slight scowl began to pull at his features, his hands still playing with components of the lethal weapon.
"Because this is yours." Maekar simply uttered, watching as a thousand different emotions crossed your face, until you reached one decisive one. Utter resistance.
"No. No." You blurted out, head shaking slightly as you stared at him with a shocked expression. "That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard."
He tilted his head, quirking a brow as he watched your complete rejection at the idea.
"Stupid?" He echoed.
"So stupid! Why in Seven Hells would you even think to give me a gun?" You rambled, your pitch becoming higher as you tried not to look at the gun, your mind becoming dizzy at the very sight of it.
"Because I'd rather you have it."
"Maekar." You stated incredulously. "You cannot be serious."
He parroted your name in a mocking tone. "Does it look like I'm joking?"
"You look like you don't even know what humour is." You mumbled.
"Stop changing the subject and focus." He chided, reaching across the table to grab your hand. You tried to pull away, the skin of his fingers rougher than you expected, but he was stronger, practically dragging you out of your chair as he once again guided you.
He didn't care to be gentle with you, didn't care at the sudden yelp that escaped your lips as he dragged you along, instead he forced you further into the garden before stopping, pressing the gun into your hands, the cold plastic replacing the warmth of his touch.
Laying more than 20 metres before you was a paper silhouette, the printed black outline of a man with white ovals with small numbers that you couldn't read. Your heart raced at the sight of it, that familiar feeling of your chest closing in on itself occurring, feeling as if the sharp of your ribs are scraping against your lungs with every breath.
The gun was heavy in your hands. Heavier than you expected, and Maekar had described it as being lightweight. You would hate to know how a 'regular' one would feel in your hands, you prayed that you never would.
You didn't even want to touch this once, the sudden iciness of polymer searing into your palms, feeling your hands trembled as you tightened your grip.
Maekar stood right behind you, his boot kicking in between your feet as he forced them apart, aggressively widening your stance. You let out a soft noise at the sudden intrusion, feeling caught off-guard as you felt his heavy hands fall on to your hips, adjusting them slightly, the warmth of his hands radiating through the cotton of your dress. They lingered for a moment, grip tightening as he stepped closer, his chest right against your back as they slowly travelled up the curve of your waist, goosebumps flaring in their wake, until he reached your arms. He guided your arms into the right position.
Hands cradling yours as he murmured about the different safety features, and you tried not to shiver as you felt his breath hit the exposed skin of your neck.
Your hands had stopped trembling, yet it almost felt even more difficult to breath when all you could feel was him. His warmth, the scent of his sandalwood cologne, the feeling of him pressed right against you, the sound of his voice. You might have even found it comforting if it had been anyone else.
But it was Maekar.
You exhaled a shallow sigh, tightening your grip.
"Every shot has the potential to be fatal." He murmured, his voice husky. "If you ever need to use this, it's best to aim for centre mass." You wanted to interrupt him, to tell him you would never have to use it, but the words died on your tongue as he released your hands, stepping away from you, uttering one singular command. "Shoot."
And you did, your finger pressing against the trigger, the deafening sound of the bullet piercing through the air, the gun rattling at the sheer force of the action. You winced violently at the sound, eyes screwing shut as you suppressed the urge to flee, to hide from the wailing sound that seemed to impale your eardrums. Your ears physically ached from the sound, ringing as you heard Maekar speak to you, yet the words seemed to be lost, his lips moving as you struggled to understand them.
His hands fell to your shoulders, forcing you to turn towards the target once more, and it was only then did you notice the brilliant grin on his face. The paper silhouette boasted a clear puncture right in the centre of all the white ovals,
You had made the shot in your first try.
"Good girl." He praised, his grip on your shoulders tightening a fraction more, the sort of aggressiveness that implied approval from a man like Maekar. You should have shared his happiness, to feel a slight sense of pride in being able to make that shot with zero experience. Yet you found yourself unable to even focus on the bullet you had fired, or the gun that your fingers were curled around.
The ringing in your ears became mocking, parroting Maekar's gruff voice, those two words causing your heart to dip violently, pulse racing from something you was certain was not caused by the sound of the bullet.
Your mind went completely blank.
Oh no.
Your face flushed furiously, feeling the blood rush to your cheeks as a certain heat seemed to radiate throughout your entire body. And you thanked the Seven that Maekar seemed to not notice, trying to pay attention to his voice as he began guiding you to the next target.
You tried to distract your mind from your reaction, to solely listen to his words as he guided you through the next target, yet it was difficult with the way he grinned at you each time you made the shot, each time the bullet you fired pierced through the target in a perfect bullseye. He seemed genuinely elated at your success, as if your aim had effectively shifted his perception of you.
But this very experience was the reason for you to cement your perception of him. You could not afford to be stupid. To make stupid mistakes like believing that they were good people.
The gun would join the necklace, stuffed into the bottom compartment of your nightstand, hidden so that you wouldn't have to see it. Yet unfortunately, their presence haunted your mind at night.
You decided that there could only be one opinion to remain in your mind.
So good to me, so right (Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader)
Masterlist
Pairing: Jace Velaryon x Reader
Word count: 3.5k
Summary: He met you by coincidence and for some reason, he can’t seem to let you go.
Warning: Nothing really, well it’s cringy and it doesn’t make any sense, I wrote this by being sick and drugged with the whole bunch of medicine I have to take
A/N: So here’s the second fic of my little project, it’s kinda a re-told of the little mermaid? kinda, I really don’t know what I wrote :D
The day was grey, the clouds were angry and the wind was screaming for blood but down into the darker waters, the ocean was singing in harmony within the ongoing storm and show. You could hear the song so clearly and perfectly, an inviting tune that lured you into join in.
Jace knew he wasn't one of the mad men in his family. So, why does he feel like he's being watched?
ft. jacaerys velaryon x siren!reader
genre/warnings: fix it fic, no smut, hotd s3 spoilers, mentions of grief and death, manipulation, no use of y/n (describes reader as having a green/olive toned skin but thats all rlly), p2 already in da works :D
wc: 2.3k.
not proofread.
Jace’s body felt numb.
His fingers clumsily struggled to unfasten himself from Vermax, desperate not to share his dearest friend’s tragic end.
His first breath scraped his throat raw; the next burned with smoke.
Thwip.
Heat burst through his shoulder, sudden and blinding.
Thwip. Thwip.
The sky glowed a murky orange, smothered by smog and fire. Or was it the water blurring his sight?
He was cold. His chest hurt. He felt like he was floating.
I think I'm dying.
—
A shadow passed over his fading vision.
A touch to his cheek.
—
Cold on his lips.
Men were sinking before you.
You had seen them before, from afar.
But this one was sinking.
Slower.
You could hear his heart beating sluggishly. Could smell his blood.
How could a man smell like fire even underwater?
You took him south.
Men needed warmth, yes?
Yes. And food. Fish would do.
Plenty of fish.
—
This man had strange spikes.
They bled red when you touched them.
That isn’t right, is it?
No. So you took them out.
This man’s blood tasted like ash.
Pain radiated through Jace as he sprawled across rough stone, the air thick with damp salt. A cough clawed up from his chest, pain blooming in his sternum and neck as he rolled, spitting seawater and blood. Time had slipped by—hours, maybe a whole night, lost since the chaos above. Then came the shaking, cold gnawing at his muscles as adrenaline faded.
He blinked. Grit stung the backs of his eyes, salt burning from the sea. Pain sharpened in his neck as he turned, forcing his breath to catch.
Too weak to rise, he curled on his side. Slowly, his vision cleared: rock walls bathed in the pool’s glow. Moonlight spilled through a small hole in the cave ceiling, trailing down with a gentle trickle of water. It might have been beautiful, if not for the pain that kept him tethered to the now.
His hand comes up to the sensitive skin just above his collarbone.
Something glittered in the water at the edge of his vision. The hairs on his neck bristled as it slipped past once more.
He waits a few seconds before shuffling forward—albeit awkwardly and incredibly painfully—to peer over the pool.
Nothing.
Maybe his battered mind was conjuring things in the haze of pain.
—
Jace isn’t sure exactly when he fell asleep, nor how he had moved to the back wall of the cave. It was peculiar, but he knew injuries brought on strange behaviour.
A sudden splash behind him made him jerk around, regret slicing through him as pain flared in every muscle.
Once the pain ebbed, he spotted a battered, half-dead fish on the stone, its fins trembling feebly.
Confusion is the first emotion Jace experiences in that moment. How does a creature in such a state have enough strength to fly itself ashore? Did it get those… strange injuries from doing that? How is—
There it was again. The same glimmer, only closer now.
He almost caught its shape, but it vanished, leaving only a fleeting shimmer behind.
Whatever it was that was bringing him food, Jace realised over the next few days. Which also meant it knew humans.
The thought made his stomach turn. Or, it was the raw fish.
—
Jace wakes to the sound of water trickling onto rock. His head is pounding. Body shivering.
His eyes flutter open for a mere second, exhaustion keeping him at the edge of his consciousness. Something, a soft, muted green colour, enters his view before he is gone again.
—
Green. Water. Vermax. Arrow. Cold.
Jace hurts. His body? Not so much anymore, but his chest. Vermax.
He could feel him—well, perhaps the lack of him. He had never known a life without Vermax; it was… cold. The sort of cold that sticks deep in your gut. He was alive. Vermax was dead. Somewhere in the Gullet. Dead.
Drowned.
Tears pricked in his eyes. First his brother, then his dragon. How much more suffering can a person take? His mother comes to mind. She must think I’m dead; a whisper echoes against the wall of the cave.
His voice doesn’t sound right. Cracked, raw, so not him.
Trill.
Jace stiffens. Something was here with him.
The noise comes again. It’s soft, almost familiar—close to the noises Vermax and Arrax would make as dragonlings, but wetter.
He turns slowly. Searches every corner of the cave as he propped himself up, with dull aches pulsing in his chest and shoulder.
Nothing.
Now, he knew he wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t one of those Targaryens who lost their minds. That was not him. Something was here, and now it was gone.
Trill.
No, it was still here. Where was it?
Something moves to his left.
Oh.
A frog. Gods, perhaps he was going insane.
—
He could hear you.
And that nasty little toad took credit for it.
You could hear it taunting you.
Disgusting.
The frog didn’t last long. After waking (he wasn’t even sure how he had slept upright like that), he saw a little leg in the water—just a leg.
Jace was for certain convinced there was something else here.
His fingers find the skin of his neck again. It still felt a little raw; the skin puckered to the touch, but it was better.
His clothes were tattered, doublet torn and half a trouser leg gone. How long had he been here? Days? Weeks? No, he hadn’t choked down that much raw fish.
No more than five days, he thinks, feeling the roughness of his stubble.
Lost in thought, Jace missed the green shape slipping just beyond his sight.
—
Was he truly a man?
Pretty enough to be a woman, yes.
But his chest was flat.
Shame.
Lookatmelookatmelookatmelookatmelook—
—
Jace cannot move. Your gaze has him pinned. He doesn’t even allow himself to look over you for fear you would lunge at him.
He thought back to stories his grandsire and father would tell him, of creatures in the sea. You were not a kelpie. Kelpies were half horse, and you had… Well, you were not half horse.
You tilted your head almost mechanically, and he could have sobbed.
You were going to eat him. You had been fattening him up with fish and you were going to—
“Are you a man?” Your lips hadn’t moved. Instead, the flaps on your neck– gills had moved.
“What?” He whimpers, swallowing his aforementioned sob.
You blink, inner eyelids swiping sideways. “You. Are you a man?”
Jace blinks back, tongue darting out to lick his lip. “A man? I… yes, I am a man.” He finally allows himself to look you over.
Your skin was human-like with an almost olive tinge, fading to green at your clawed and webbed fingers, as well as your tail. Fine scales shimmered there, catching stray glimmers of light and shifting like the surface of shallow water. Your movements were precise and strangely graceful, muscles flexing beneath that strange skin, every motion calculated, predatory, yet fluid—as if you were always half-melted into the water even when still.
When you spoke, your voice echoed with a low, melodic resonance, carrying hints of something unearthly beneath the words, and every so often, he caught the faint scent of salt and copper drifting from you, sharp and unfamiliar. He was sure you were something out of those books he used to read as a young boy, a beast made to kill; sharp talons and sleek body for hunting.
You bend at the waist unnaturally, catching his gaze again and making his breath hitch. “You look like a woman.” Your mouth opens, rows of teeth glowing in the light from the overhead fissure. “We eat men.”
The man in front of you pales. “Excuse me?” He knew it. He knew you were going to eat him. He had survived an arrow to the neck and this was what was going to kill him, Gods—
You close your mouth and sit back up, the corner of your lips curled slightly. “Joke.”
Jace exhales harshly, eyes still wide.
“Well. Not joke.” You hum, looking over him. “But not you.” You lean toward him, the vertical slit of your pupil widening. “You taste like ash.”
Oddly, that brought him no comfort.
After revealing yourself, you began to linger by the pool’s edge. Sometimes sitting beside him, your muscled tail coiling into the water, other times watching from just beneath the surface.
It gave Jace time to study you. Your speech was strange, as if several voices jostled for control. He learned your mouth was not required for words, though you sometimes used it. Maybe you were mimicking him? He still wasn’t sure.
“What are you doing?” Your voice was pitched higher than usual, arms and chin propped on the pool’s edge.
Jace hadn’t heard you surface, nor did he know how long you’d been watching. “I… am trying to start a fire.”
You push yourself up with a trill in the back of your throat, claws creaking against the rock. “Fire? Why?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the sound, still jumpy around you, and exhaled in relief to see you sitting still.
“Because… I get cold. And I am tired of eating raw fish.”
An amber eye glimmered at the edge of Jace’s vision. The eyes unsettled him most—they shifted colour, never the same twice, and he hadn’t dared ask why. Not to mention your relentless need for eye contact.
“Cold?” When he turned, he caught the faint scrunch of your face. “But it is warm here.”
“It isn’t warm.”
“Yes it is. The water is warm. Warmer than everywhere else.”
“I don’t live in the water.”
Your pupils narrowed as you tried to make sense of his needs.
You don't understand men. Warmth?
How much more warmth could he need?
It was almost too warm.
You glanced down at the two stones in his hands. “Stones make fire?”
“They can,” Jace finds his voice softening, as if speaking to a child. “If they are the right stone. You need flint.” He had pinched an arrowhead that has been tossed aside of where he had awoken: one you had clearly pulled out of him.
“Fu-lint.” You echoed, pupils dilating as you locked eyes with him. In that moment, you almost seemed innocent. Jace knew you were clever, but there was so much you didn’t know about the world above water.
“Yes, flint.”
Blink. “I do not know this flint.”
He inhaled, glancing away to hide a smile. “It’s okay, I have flint.” Jace turned one of the stones in his hand, holding it up. “See? This is flint.”
You leaned in, neck stretching just a bit too far for any human. Something twisted in his gut. He was sharing space with a man-eater who could turn on him in an instant.
Jace’s hands stilled, dropping into his lap. “Where exactly are we?” When your eyes met his, he had to hold his breath. Deep amber, almost gold—a colour he’d never seen before.
“South.” It is the only word you speak, quiet and subtle enough that if it weren’t for the ripple of your gills, he wouldn't be sure if you had actually spoken.
His hand trembles ever so slightly, the pads of his thumb and forefinger white around one of the stones he holds. “Okay, how far south?”
Your irises darken. It makes his stomach fall, hair prickling on his nape. “I do not know. South.”
He decides to drop it.
—
You watched him make fire.
You then watched him cook your fish.
He let you try it. Yuck.
But they were quite resourceful. Men.
You watched him strike fire with an arrowhead,
Then use the same tool to clean his face.
Clever.
After he complained about the same meal, you started bringing him all sorts of fish. Sometimes they looked too strange for him to eat, but that was fine—you finished whatever he left behind.
His curiosity for you only grew each time you visited him.
You moved with deliberate care, never too fast, every motion calculated not to startle him. Watching you was mesmerising; so fluid, like water given form. It brought a strange calm, a welcome distraction from the life he’d lost. Without you, Jace would be dead. He can acknowledge that. And the more he watched you, the more your dreamy eyes lingered on him, the less he wanted to leave.
It was a scary thought.
—
“Do you have a name?” Jace finds himself asking on a quiet day, laid back on the cave floor and admiring the small crack.
Your head emerges from the water, inner eyelids blinking to reveal a soft pink. You stare, blinking again with a tilted head. “Name? No.”
He hummed, fingers tracing a pebble you’d brought him. “Why?”
A swoosh and splash, and suddenly you loomed above him, silky hair framing your face, droplets sliding down to land on his skin.
Jace swallowed, lips parting on a shaky breath. Beautiful. He bit the word back before it slipped out.
“Why?” You echoed, staring intently. Your eyes flickered from soft pink to lilac-grey before settling. “I do not need a name; we do not live with others. Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Have a name?”
He hesitated. Myths of sea creatures and forest spirits who stole people away flickered through his mind. Grandsire always warned: never give your real name to such beings. He met your gaze, then blinked, pulling himself back to the present.
“I do have a name.” He says gently. “My grandsire gave it to me.”
Your eyes seemed to glow as you lowered yourself until he could feel the chill of your skin. “Would you tell me? Please?” The look on your face was eerily like the one you wore at your first meeting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He can’t. He still isn’t even sure what you are, but it spills out of his mouth before he can stop it.
Hellooooo! I saw your requests were open for akotsk. Can i request a Valarr x wife!reader fic. Where Valarr and the reader had their first major argument, and are giving each other silent treatment for days now. And Valarr has become stressed and snappy because now his wife does not cuddle and comforts him at night. And its freaking the entire family out, because the two are usually so talkative and lovey-dovey. So the family tries to smooth thing out between them.
Thank you for considering my request!
Family Affair
Summary ✩ After two years of being married, you and Valarr have never had a fight this big—until now. Distant and cold to one another, your family each devises a scheme to get you back together
Warnings ✩ reader and Valarr being petty, marital fighting, Targaryens being Targaryens, slight angst but fluff at the end
Authors Notes ✩ Hi lovely, thank you for your request! I tried to incorporate some Targaryen meddling and I hope you like it
divider by @anitalenia
Truthfully, it hadn’t been that big of a deal.
You weren’t killed or anything or even harmed by the man that had advanced upon you, but leave it to Valarr to tell the tale and he’d swear that it was an act against gods themselves.
He was furious against the small folk man that had tried to rob you whilst you were in Kings Landing, sent in a rage that no one could bring him out of. Not even you with your pleas to spare the poor man’s life, which he refused.
Valarr would have none of it. He made a comment that the man should be put to death for even thinking about harming you, and that’s how the argument started.
A few hours later, you and Valarr were in a screaming match so loud that you were sure they could hear you all the way in Dorne. Your chest rose and fell with anger and your body shook, your hands pointing an accusing finger at him.
“I cannot believe you,” You scoffed at Valarr who stood a few paces away from you, arms crossed and equally as angry. “How dare you do that to him! How dare you sentence a man for the crime of being poor!”
“How dare you!” Valarr shot back, his mismatched eyes wide with fury. “I was only trying to help, and yet you go and accuse me of ruining everything!”
“Because you did!” You told him. “I had the situation under control! Had you not stepped in, then maybe all of this could have been avoided!”
“Had I not stepped in then you would have been killed! Did you honestly expect me not to defend my wife?” Valarr asked incredulously.
You let out a sigh of frustration. “I did not need defending, Valarr! For the last time, Ser Belmy and I had it under control. That man didn’t mean any harm. He was just hungry, and my necklace stood out like a beacon of hope to him.”
“He meant no harm, yet his had his arms wrapped around your neck ready to kill you! Is that what you call ‘no harm?’”
“He wasn’t trying to kill me!” You shouted at your thick headed husband, “He was aiming for my necklace! He was starving and wished to use the gold to buy some food. You would have known that if you had not pounced on him and had him imprisoned! You cannot just go around punishing hungry men for acting in desperation, Valarr!”
“I am the Prince, and I will very well do as I please. I had every right to do as I did and I will not stand here whilst my wife makes me to be the villain for upholding my duties,” Valarr said. You scoffed as you stared at him, your eyes narrowing in annoyance.
“Fine then. Stand no more. We are done here,” You said furiously, and then your shoulder smacked into his as you barreled towards the door. You were so blind with rage and worry for the poor man that you just had to get out of that room, lest you said something to Valarr that you would regret and couldn’t take back.
“Is that so?” Pettily, Valarr raced past you and got there first. He wrenched the door open and stomped down the empty hallways, boots thundering with every step.
“I believe that it is I that should leave first since it is you who dismissed me. Do not follow me,” He said coldly, and you had the sudden urge to take off your shoe and throw it at him.
“I wasn’t planning on it!” You barked towards him, and swiftly you made haste for the opposite direction.
“Fine!” Valarr called over his shoulder.
“FINE!” You screamed back.
“Good!”
“GOOD!”
As you stomped away, you passed by a group of maids that had been sent up to prepare your chambers for the nighttime. Unbeknownst to you, they and the Kingsguard that were stationed near your chambers had heard your yelling.
They all exchanged glances as you flew by them in a fit of rage, and then once you were out sight one whispered,
“What do you suppose that was about?”
“I don’t know,” another maid answered, “but I’ve never heard them argue like that.”
“Do you suppose their marriage is on the rocks then?” They exchanged worried glances. “Are they not happy anymore?”
“Nonsense,” the third maid spoke up, firmly shaking her head in denial. “Prince Valarr and the princess love each other. Whatever that was about, I’m sure they’ll make up soon enough,” she said confidently, though as they continued their way towards your rooms, she didn’t understand just how wrong she was.
—
Later that evening, the conflict between you and Valarr had not been solved. If anything, it had been made worse as you both had time to stew in your anger separately, and now you sat across from each other as you had dinner that night.
Had it been up to you, you wouldn’t have saw your Lord husband at all. You were content go a few hours without seeing his face but unfortantly, royal duties triumped all.
There was a guest in the Red Keep that day. Lord Manderly and his family had travelled to Kings Landing to discuss some business with King Daeron and unfortunately you were stuck entertaining them.
They laughed and talked without a care in the world, but you barely engaged. You and Valarr were both oddly silent, pushing around your food and refraining from conversation.
Occasionally you’d glance at once another and you cursed your heart for softening. You wanted to forgive him, you really did, but every time you thought about the man he had imprisoned you got angry all over again.
It didn’t help that Lady Manderly was insistent on bringing the incident up again.
She spoke with such dramatics and flair, clutching a hand over her heart as she said, “Oh Princess, I heard the awful news of what happened today. Are you alright?”
Suddenly, all eyes went to you and you nodded, staring at your plate in embarrassment.
“I am fine, my Lady. No harm was done, and the situation has been…handled. I most appreciate your concerns, though.”
From across the table, Valarr scoffed at the first part of your statement and shook his head.
“The upmost harm was done by attacking the princess,” he corrected you, “but not to worry. The thief shall meet his fate soon enough.”
Lord and Lady Manderly seemed more satisfied with that answer than your own, but you weren’t. You gritted your teeth as you stared him down, furious.
Valarr didn’t even meet your eyes, but you knew that he felt you staring. It infuriated you how he was still steadfast in his ridiculous need for vengeance, something that you would not allow.
You stabbed your peas angrily, eating them one by one and imagining them as Valarr’s face. You were so distracted by your cruel little game that you missed Egg tugging on your arm.
“Can you pass the rolls please, cousin?” He asked you, and you momentarily stopped your cruel game to grab them.
“Here you are Egg,” you said with a smile smile, and he returned it but yours didn’t last long.
You were distracted by an agitating voice speaking up next, Valarr having the nerve and courage to speak to you.
“May you please pass the rolls to me as well, wife?” He asked, and it may have been childish but you pretended not to hear him.
You went back to eating your peas, your fork harshly stabbing the plate which made everyone at the table flinch. Baelor cleared his throat and Egg looked between the two of you, confused.
“Y/N?”
Still, you ignored Valarr, picking at your food until your name was called again.
“Cousin…Y/N…May you pass me the wine, please?” Daeron slurred from further down the table, and though it looked like he didn’t need anything else to drink, you complied anyways.
“Of course, cousin. Here you are.”
You handed it off and Valarr watched you in disbelief.
“So you can hear,” he said sourly, and your head snapped towards him in a fury.
“What was that? I do believe my ears are incapable of listening to those who speak without reason,” you hissed at him, and Valarr scoffed as your voice caught the other’s attention.
By now, the tension between the two of you had been picked up by everyone had the table. It was unexpected, and impossible to ignore the way you glared at each other.
You and Valarr were a couple that never fought. Ever. Since you’d gotten married two years ago, your marriage had been a peaceful one, full of agreements and compromises. Truthfully, this was the first time anyone had seen either of you full on angry.
It was confusing to say the least, but you and Valarr ignored it.
Now, it was his time turn to stab at peas angrily whilst you stewed into your wine. You took a sip and suddenly wished that you had more, knowing you’d need at least three cups to get through the rest of this evening.
“Cousin, I think that I may need the wine back,” you told Daeron, and it was a good thing that he didn’t have to hand it over to Valarr, because you’re quite certain that the pitcher would’ve never made it you way if it had.
—
The next morning, Prince Baelor called you to his solar.
It was early, and the Prince was already breaking his fast when you arrived. The smell of sausages and eggs reached your nose, and you hoped that he might be alone because you were hungry. But to your dismay, he was dining with Valarr, your husband and his stupid face already present.
He looked up as you graced them with your presence, but you ignored him and addressed only his father.
“Good morrow, Prince Baelor,” you curtsied, not even sparing your husband a glance which the elder Prince noticed. He rose an eyebrow at the two of you but you refused to comment, having a seat on the opposite side of Valarr.
“Good morrow to you too, good daughter,” Baelor blinked. He looked between the two of you, not quite used to seeing you so apart. “How did you both sleep?”
You thought back to the night before, where you had slept in your shared chambers alone and disappointed. Since the day that you had married Valarr, you had not slept alone, and the night had been rough, lonely, and cold. Truth be told it was awful, but you refused to let Valarr know of this.
Instead you plastered on the biggest smile you could muster and said, “I slept wonderful, Your Grace. Truthfully the best I’ve had in years.”
As soon as the words left your mouth the room grew quiet. Valarr snapped his head up, his mismatched eyes settling on you and glaring. There was a flicker of hurt that crossed his face and momentarily made you feel guilty.
You opened your mouth to change what you had said, believing that perhaps you were too harsh with your husband when he countered:
“Really? I slept wonderful as well, father. It’s amazing how fast one can fall asleep when there’s peace and quiet.”
Your jaw dropped and Valarr smiled smugly, now his turn watch the hurt cross your face. You placed your utensils down, glaring right back and Baelor cleared his throat. “Valarr, I don’t think—”
He was cut off by the sound of your chair scraping against the floor. Furious and no longer hungry at all, you turned to him and bestowed a tight smile.
“My apologies, your Grace. I do appreciate your invitation this morning, but it seems that I am no longer hungry. I will take my leave and eat later in my chambers, if that’s alright.”
You stared accusingly at Valarr and even Baelor knew that it was wise to let you go. With a sigh, he quietly nodded, and as you stomped off you could have sworn you heard him say something along the lines of,
“Idiot!”
—
Prince Maekar was the second to seek you out.
It was odd, seeing you rarely ever interacted with Valarr’s uncle but you did not wish to be rude. When you got word that he wanted to see you, you made your way to his solar dutifully.
To your relief, he was alone when you made your way in, save for the Kingsguard Ser Willis. No Valarr was in sight so you figured that it was safe, smiling politely to Maekar who strangely did not return it.
“You wished to see me, my prince?” You asked, wondering what this could be about.
“Yes. Please have a seat.”
He gestured to the table and nodded your way, all while looking as bored as a Septon in a whorehouse. As you sat down, only silence stretched between the two of you. Maekar did not attempt to further the conversation or speak up, so awkwardly you cleared your throat.
“Forgive me for my brashness, my prince,” you said slowly, “but was there a reason that you called upon me?”
He didn’t seem to want anything, really. There was no food to have dinner or anything that seemed worthy of discussing. Prince Maekar’s eyes kept flickering towards the door like he wanted to leave, and when he realized that he couldn’t, he just sighed.
“Oh, well, yes. I—”
He was cut off by the door opening. You had your back turned so that you could not see who had entered, but you stiffened as soon as you heard your husband speak.
“Uncle. My father sent me and told me that he wishes to see you,” Valarr said, and you could not gauge his reaction to your presence as you refused to turn around.
Maekar looked relieved by the arrival of his nephew. He gave you a curt nod and then got up so fast that you almost got whiplash.
“Yes, well, I shall go see what that’s about. I’m terribly sorry to cut our…discussion short, though I assume Valarr can entertain you until I get back.”
He left so fast that you didn’t even have time to remind him that there was no discussion. He’d barely said two words to you and then in waltzed Valarr, who finally came into your view.
Your narrowed your eyes at each other simultaneously.
“What are you doing here?” He asked you, no doubt as confused as you were. Prince Maekar barely spoke to him, let alone you, so seeing you here was a wonder.
“I could ask you the same thing,” you said tightly, wondering why he had interrupted. “Shouldn’t you be in the yard training by now?”
“My father sent me here instead,” Valarr told you, voice still full of suspicion. “He said that it was urgent that he spoke to my uncle.”
“It seems that he sent me here, too,” you told him, having recognized the penmanship on the note. It was too regal to be Prince Maekar’s and too casual to be a Maester’s. That meant that it was Prince Baelor that wanted you here, but why?
For a second, you and Valarr only stared at each other, silence coating the room. You could probably hear a pin drop on the floor before you husband cleared his throat, finally speaking and breaking it.
“Have you came to your senses then?” He asked curtly, mismatched eyed filled with somewhat hope. “I might have thought that a good nights sleep would finally change your stance. Make you see the reason in what I’ve been saying all along.”
His eyes met yours, but all he got was a scowl and a scoff.
“Come to my senses?” You asked him, appalled. Valarr nodded.
“About the man. Have you finally realized that it’s no use to defend such actions and that I’m in the right here?”
The glare that you gave him could have burned a hole through stone. You stood up, your chair scraping as you pointed a finger at him.
“Have you come to your senses, you lunk, and finally realized that punishing a man for being hungry is a ridiculous thing?”
By the way Valarr’s lips bundled up, he hadn’t.
“It is not ridiculous,” his nostrils flared, his face giving away to his annoyance. “He tried to attack you! I cannot just let that go!”
“Then I suppose that we have nothing to talk about,” you said sharply, “and I have no reason to stay.”
If Prince Maeker wanted to see you then he could send for you again. Otherwise, you refused to stay in this room with your thick headed husband so you got up, this time breezing past him and leaving first.
Valarr stiffened as you pressed against him. It was only for half a second, and you felt it too, though you did not let the longing in your heart slow down your pace.
If Valarr wished to reconcile, then he was free to apologize, change his mind and do so. You on the other hand would not yield no matter how much your heart ached or how much your feet desperately wanted to turn around and go back to him.
You would not be the first to break, so you kept going, the distance between the two of you growing wider and wider.
—
A day later, Egg came to you in peril.
He found you while you were sitting and chatting with your ladies in waiting, all of them comforting you after your spat with Valarr.
You had confessed what had happened, confiding in them that you felt confused and angry at the same time. You missed Valarr, but at the same time you couldn’t stand to be around him so long as he still sought vengeance upon the man.
Dagon, you had learned he was called, was only a poor begger doing what he had to do. You were sure that it was your necklace he’d meant to grab and not your neck, and you didn’t think he deserved to die for that. And until Valarr saw that then well, you wanted nothing to do with him.
You told this to your ladies in waiting and as you ranted, Egg approached.
“Cousin, may I steal you for a moment?”
Only a boy of eight, you could not resist his sweet face and pleading eyes. They peered up at you so innocently that you didn’t even hesitate to say yes, bidding your ladies goodbye and walking with him.
“Of course. Where are we going, Egg?” You asked him as he began leading you, and you were behind him so you could not see the small smirk on his face.
“You’ll see.”
A few steps later, Egg took you to the fountain, the one that was just before you got to the garden. He stopped there and then turned to you with the saddest look you had ever seen, immediately making your heart drop.
“What is it Egg? Is something wrong?” You asked him, worried.
He put on his best pout and nodded. “I’ve lost Syrax, cousin, and I think she may have ran into the gardens. I would go looking for her myself, but father says I’m not to wonder alone. I might get lost, he says, so could you help me please?”
He looked at you with those big, unyielding eyes and of course you said yes. Without a second thought you gave him a kiss on the cheek, promising that you’d go and find the cat yourself.
You hiked up your dress and made your way into the gardens, disappearing into the neatly trimmed hedges while Egg smiled.
He indeed stayed by the fountain whilst you wondered into the bushes, making cat sounds and trying to think of where a cat might be hiding in a place like this.
Perhaps she’ll be near one of the trees, you thought, and no sooner did you venture there did you run into Valarr.
To your surprise, he was in plain clothes, crouching beneath a hedge of bushes in the shape of a dragon. He had his back turned to you as he made kissing sounds, saying sweet words to try to lure the animal back to him.
You started to smile at the sight and softly giggled, momentarily forgetting the situation. You thought that it was adorable how much effort he was putting into this but then you cursed yourself as the sound caught his attention. Valarr whipped around, and you instantly stopped laughing as his eyes met yours.
“Princess,” he blinked, surprised and a little embarrassed by your presence. “What are you doing here?” He asked you, if only to distract you from looking at his current predicament.
“I am looking for a cat,” your eyes scanned the trees, but nothing stood out to you except for Valarr. Him looking for the cat had warmed your heart indeed, but you couldn’t resist being a little petty as you said, “Though it seems that I’ve ran into a donkey instead. How unfortunate.”
Valarr did not seem offended by your insult, which was good because deep down you didn’t mean it. Instead he looked amused as he stood, wiping some dust from his hands before saying, “And it seems that a mule has found me as well. Stubborn this one is, but she has good hips at least.”
You gasped in mock offense. You had the sudden urge to give him a clout in the ear, and Valarr laughed as he dodged your attempts, amused as you stomped your foot down.
“You were recruited by Egg, weren’t you?” You accused him, and he nodded.
“Well of course I was. Syrax is his cat,” he said smoothly.
A bitter taste began to form in your mouth. Now that you thought about it, it sure was convenient that Valarr was here and yet, the cat was nowhere to be found.
You gave your husband a look and it seemed that Valarr was thinking the same. He followed you as you quickly ran back to the fountain, sighing as you saw that Egg and Syrax were safe and sound.
“Well. Isn’t this a miracle,” you drawled, crossing your arms as you looked the cat. She looked fine; perfect even as she pranced by Egg’s feet without a care in the world. She was entirely too clean for a cat that was supposedly ‘lost in the gardens,’ and your suspicions rose against your good cousin.
“Oh yes. It’s a miracle indeed,” Egg nodded vigorously, a wide smile crossing his little face. “Syrax found me just as you entered the gardens, but I figured that it would be imprudent to impose on the two of you. Did you talk?”
You narrowed your eyes at the little boy who seemed a little too eager to know the answer. And now that you thought about it, this whole thing seemed a way too convenient for your taste.
“Yes. We talked,” you informed Egg, but apparently that wasn’t enough for the boy.
“And?” He pressed, staring at you expectantly while you frowned.
“And we didn’t find the cat there,” Valarr stated the obvious, “and I nearly impaled myself looking amongst all the thrones.”
“Oh nevermind that!” Egg waved him off, sounding exasperated as he threw up his arms. “Did the two of you make up or what?” He asked.
He looked hopeful, but it was safe to say that by the scowls on yours and Valarr’s faces, you had not.
“Egg!”
“Aegon!”
He shrugged sheepishly as he avoided your gaze. “What? It does not hurt to ask.”
—
After the whole fiasco with Aegon, you were highly suspicion when you were approached by Daeron.
Admittedly you were a little late, only just now seeing how your family would seek you out and coincidentally Valarr would be there as well. It had become a pattern, one that was slowly turning from coincidence to intentional.
Egg had all but confirmed it when he tried to nose his way into your business, but you gave Daeron grace because he really did seem drunk and in need of help.
“I just…I just need you to help me over—just there. By that bench, please.” He stumbled, leaning on you for support and by the way he reeked of alcohol, you did not think that it was fake.
You did keep an eye out for Valarr though, the suspicions never quite leaving your mind. You were half tempted to bolt before he so conveniently turned up, but still you asked,
“Is there anything else that I can get for you, cousin?” Because you did not want to leave him in the sun to die.
“If you will, dear cousin, fetch me something to drink,” Daeron moaned. “Preferrably wine, if the kitchens have it.”
In the back of your mind, you made a note that he probably did not need it but you weren’t one to judge. With a polite nod you went anyways, though you had that sneaking suspicion that you might not have been alone.
Sure enough, as soon as you entered all of the cooks bowed to you, but they did not give you their immediate attention. That was because they were too busy talking to Valarr, who stood with the pitcher you were meant to take to Daeron.
You felt eye twitch. Of course.
“What are you doing here?” You asked him, though it was out routine at this point because you knew exactly who had sent him.
“I’m getting Daeron another pitcher of wine,” Valarr replied coolly. “Why are you here?”
It was then that you knew that this meeting was no act at all. Drunk and all, Daeron had played you, and that much was clear by the fact that he had disappeared by the time you got back to the bench.
You and Valarr held the pitchers like a couple of fools and your husband sighed. He placed his down on the bench and then glanced at you from the corner of his eye, casually saying,
“I’ve decided to grant Dagon with a trial.”
He’d said it so nonchalantly that you almost missed it. His face didn’t show, his back still turned to you, but you could tell he was probably waiting for your reaction.
You frowned.
“I’d rather there be no trial at all,” you told Valarr, “for it has never been a crime in Westeros to be hungry.”
The groan that left your husband‘s lips sounded fed up. He turned to you, and you could tell that was indeed what he was feeling by the way his lips hardened into a line.
“I am doing everything that I can, Y/N,” he said desperately, and you tried to ignore how much you wanted to melt by the way he said your name. “But I cannot do much because he did attack a princess. You are royalty by marriage and to do what he did usually means death. A trial is a mercy that many do not get.”
“And if I recall, you’re the one who said that a prince may do as he pleases. If that is true, then why can you not grant me this, husband?”
Valarr did not answer.
He lowered his gaze and you had the sudden urge to reach out to him, the near week of absence getting to you. You missed him and you missed his touch as well. Your body craved him every night even if your mind was as stubborn as a mule. You wanted to be with him, but your sense of justice would not allow you to do so.
“I am doing the best that I can,” Valarr said finally, “but as much as a Prince may do as he pleases, I am not the king. The law does not bend to my will but to his.”
He shook his head, and you felt guilt rise in your chest as he began to walk away.
The pitcher in that was still in your hand suddenly felt a thousand times heavier, the words in your throat even worse. You wanted to call out to him, to tell him to wait, but by the time you had swallowed your pride, it was too late.
Valarr was gone.
—
Aelora and Aelor had been your last straw. By then, you thought you’d gotten used to your families shenanigans, but then the little twins approached you all sad and you became oblivious once again.
“Cousins? What’s the matter?” You knelt beside them, watching as they dragged their feet and looked solemnly at you through sad eyes.
“We don’t have anyone to play with us,” Aelora said glumly, kicking the dirt underneath her in frustration. “We asked Egg, but he says that he’s busy.”
“Daeron is too drunk and Aerion told us to go away,” Aelor shook head, and then he peered through his lashes and made sure that you were looking when he said, “And Valarr usually would, but he’s been so down this past week that he hardly wants to play anymore.”
“It’s just not fair,” Aelora then sniffed. “He’s the only one that will chase us besides Egg, and I miss our cousin. I do hope that he feels better soon.”
You felt a pang of guilt that the reason he was acting this way was maybe because of you. It had been well over a week since the fight now, and the two of you still hadn’t made up or talked unless it was to argue. You figured that maybe it was time to change that though because you couldn’t bear to see the children so sad anymore. You also couldn’t bare it to sleep alone anymore, the barren sheets and the bitter cold at night driving you insane.
You sighed.
“I will talk to him and figure out what is wrong him,” you told them, “and in the meantime, I will chase you.”
It was the least that you could do to make up for your strife against Valarr, and the children seemed satisfied with that. They laughed and giggled while you followed them around, pretending to be a great big dragon trying to eat them. You were sure that you looked and sounded quite silly, but it was your fault they were down so you dealt with it.
And afterwards, as you all sat on the ground and breathed heavily from your playing, you stared at the twins for a moment before asking,
“What else have you noticed about Valarr this past week?”
You couldn’t help yourself. The two of you weren’t talking, and you hadn’t realized how starved you were for any interaction with him. It felt like torture not knowing so here you, trying to extract gossip from a pair of nine year olds.
Pathetic.
“Well, he seemed snappier, that’s for sure,” Aelor pretended to think, touching a hand to his chin.
“And he seemed sad, like he was really guilty of something. I think I overheard him telling father that he wished to apologize for something, but first he wanted to go to the gardens to think,” Aelora said. Her eyes twinkled with a kind of mischief that you missed because you were too busy thinking.
“The garden, huh?”
Your feet suddenly found their footing and it seemed that you were acting on instinct. You stood up, this time not to chase the two children but to go after your husband. It felt like something had finally knocked some sense into you, and you knew what you had to do.
“I’ll be back,” you told the children, your stomach churning with anxiety and anticipation. “Go find your Septa so you’re not alone out here.”
The two children took off and you waited until you knew they were safe to do the same. Your heart pounded, your knees nearly going weak as you walked to the gardens.
It was ridiculous. You shouldn’t have scared to approach your own husband but yet you were—and you had to remind yourself that you were going to make up with him, not go to war.
Like the children said, you found Valarr in the gardens. His back was turned to you as he knelt over some bushes, fingers nimbly plucking at stems. You felt your heart squeeze when you realized that he getting flowers. Plucking daffodils, your favorite, and holding them to his chest.
It was such a heartwarming sight that you couldn’t help but to break the tension.
“I do hope you’re not picking those for another woman,” you called out to him, startling him. “I’d sure hate to have to cut out her tongue for winning my husband’s affection.”
Valarr turned and on his face you could see a small smile as he spotted you. In what felt like forever, you gave him one back, your chuckle letting him know that you weren’t being serious.
“No. I don’t think I’d let you. I quite like her tongue,” he replied cheekily, hiding the daffodils behind his back. “It is sharp and full of cheek; and it speaks the truth even when I am not willing to hear it. Trust me when I say, no other woman deserves these but her.”
He pulled the flowers from behind his back, and your eyes nearly filled with tears. You took them into your hands and looked at him, not being able to take the distance anymore.
“I’m sorry,” both of you broke at once, the words flying out together. As it turned out, neither of you could hold it in any longer. It was killing you be this way towards one another. It was unfair, unnatural, and your fighting had gone on long enough.
“No, I’m sorry,” you were the first to speak again, guilt coating your face as you shook your head. “I’m the one that has been ungrateful as of late, and I have been punishing you for acting only as a husband should. Had it been me, I think I would have done the same.”
The statement left a bitter taste in your mouth, but it was true. Had some woman came up to Valarr and tried to attack him, you would’ve been the first to call for her head.
It was what one did when they loved someone the way you two did. The desire to protect them consumed all else, and you could no longer fault him for being engulfed by it.
“As am I,” Valarr quickly apologized as well, frowning as he recalled. “I’ve acted with haste and like husband—not as a prince. I found myself so eager to protect you that I was willing to deny a man justice. I spoke with him the other day, and you were right. He was merciful, and it is not fair to punish a man to death for only trying to live. I know that now.”
He grabbed your hand and gently squeezed, but you surprised him by throwing your arms around him instead. You buried your face in his neck and sighed, missing the feeling of his warm skin.
“You are a good man, husband. And you were only doing what you thought was right. I don’t deserve you, I’m sorry,” you muttered into his shoulder.
You felt Valarr’s grip tighten around your body.
“No, it is I who does not deserve you,” he told you. “And I’m sorry.”
The two of you stood there, holding one another and soaking in all that you had missed over the previous week. Your hands found his hands. His heart found your heart. And together you let the silence wash away all of the bitterness between you.
When you pulled away, you gave Valarr a small smile.
“How about we just agree to disagree, lest all of our apologies go out the window and another argument ensues,” you joked.
Valarr chuckled at this, and he agreed to let it be.
“Let us just say that we are both sorry, and we both do not deserve one another,” he suggested, and you grinned.
The Prince and the Dragon Rider - Part One: The Oath
Jacaerys Velaryon x dragon rider!reader
Summary: after three years of peaceful living on Dragonstone, Prince Jacaerys stumbles upon an answer to his growing anxieties of mastering dragonriding. But when this new companion is discovered prematurely, how will the Princess respond?
Warnings: mentions of blood loss and wounds
soundtrack
part two: tempest
part three: the dawn
part four: the test
part five: precipice
part six: pieces and players
part seven: the rift
You stand silently in the throne room of Dragonstone awaiting judgment while a storm rages outside the black stone walls. Two kingsguard are posted at the large doors opposite the throne. Their eyes fixed on your small, shivering frame. A flash of lightning followed closely by the crack of thunder causes you to jump and one of the kingsguard calls out to you from across the room.
“We said be still!”
You nod curtly and continue to stare out the windows at the rain. Tears begin to flow against your will as another bolt of lightning strikes nearby and you try your best to remain still.
This is not what I wanted. You think to yourself, reflecting upon the events that led you to be separated from your dragon and now, possibly, from your closest friend.
Jacaerys Valeryon had discovered you and your dragon living within the natural caverns beneath the fortress of Dragonstone nearly four moons ago. The two of you became quick friends, meeting in secret to train one another. He had witnessed your skills on dragonback firsthand when he and Vermax happened upon you and your dragon one morning before the sun had risen. Your deftness alone would have been enough to impress the young Prince but after watching the two of you dive into the sea to escape their curious pursuit, he knew he needed to seek you out. In exchange, he had offered you the chance to hone your skills in combat. Being common born, your abilities with a blade were much more crude than those of the knight trained prince. You relished the opportunity to learn how to properly defend yourself.
You are pulled from your thoughts by the sound of the ornate doors swinging open. A small procession of colorful lords file into the great hall surrounded by armored knights that begin to peel off in pairs to stand along the walls as they approach. The last two take positions on either side of you. Once the guards are in their places, a caller steps forth to announce the silver haired woman standing alone in the doorway.
“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name, heir to the Iron Throne!”
The caller bellows throughout the room while the woman walks with purpose through the grand hall to take her place upon the throne. Once seated she meets your gaze. You cast your eyes down to the black stone below.
“This council has been brought together to address the matter of this child’s involvement in the endangerment and injury of my son, the Prince Jacaerys Velaryon,” her voice becomes shaky when she says his name but she does her best to gain her composure before addressing you directly, “What do you have to say in your defense?”
You hesitate for a moment, steadying yourself with a breath while trying to remember what you had intended to say. But when you look up to see tears welling up in the Princess’s eyes, only one thought fills your mind.
“Is Jace going to be alright?” You ask timidly.
“That does not answer the Princess’s question, child,” snaps a silver haired man standing below the throne. “We want to know how this happened.”
The Princess’s eyes remain fixed on you. She examines you carefully as you wipe the lingering tears from your face and begin recounting everything.
“The Prince and I have been training together for quite some time.” The Princess raises an eyebrow at this but you continue, “We flew out to practice on dragonback this morning when the wind rose up quickly around us. We couldn’t outrun the storm and when it consumed us, we were both thrown into the sea. The dragons were nowhere to be seen, whisked away by the tempest, so we began making our way to shore but-” you shutter and grow silent, remembering the deep wounds carved into your friend’s shoulder. “Jacaerys had been injured. I believe Vermax may have tried to take hold of him as he fell. He lost consciousness during the swim and I carried him the rest of the way.”
Once the words leave your mouth there is a beat of silence before you begin to sob, the horror fresh in your mind of Jace going limp in your arms. You can barely hear the low murmurs that flurry around the room until the Princess brings them all to a halt.
“How could you be training on dragonback? Were you both astride Vermax?” The Princess calls down to you from the throne, her tone shifting from sorrow to accusatory.
You freeze while the tears continue to pour. Jace had recently begun trying to convince you to reveal yourself to his mother. He was certain you would be offered a proper bed to sleep in but when the subject of revealing your dragon was brought into question, he was unsure of how the Princess and her second husband would respond to someone outside their blood being bonded to a dragon. The discussion ended shortly after expressing this to you.
Now faced with this dilemma, without Jace’s guidance, you decide to remain honest. Still holding onto the glimmer of hope that you will find acceptance and refuge among this family.
“No, Your Grace, I was riding my own dragon.”
Amidst the uproar, the man with silver hair draws his sword and storms down the steps toward you.
“Who are you to have claimed one of our dragons? We should have your hands you thief!”
“Daemon, no!” The Princess shouts and the room falls silent once again.
The man stops his advance but his sword is still drawn in your direction.
“I am no thief,” you manage to say with a quivering voice. “My mother was an acolyte of the priests of R’hllor on the outskirts of Asshai. When I was six years of age, a lord came to our temple to enlist the help of the red priests in hatching a dragon egg.”
Another round of concerned whispers echo throughout the hall.
“I know not who the lord was or where he acquired the egg. It made no difference as during the ritual the temple caught fire, leaving myself and my dragon as the only survivors to emerge from the ashes. We had been traveling west across Essos together for nearly eight years until she finally led me to this island four moons ago.”
The man, who you now identify as Daemon, looks you up and down and begins speaking a language you cannot understand. When he meets your eyes and sees your confusion, he scoffs and turns to Princess Rhaenrya. They have a brief exchange in the foreign language before they are cut off by a frantic man in robes entering the room.
“The prince has awoken,” he exclaims, out of breath.
Rhaenyra immediately stands and makes haste to the door, followed closely by her guard. However, Daemon stays put in front of you.
“We shall reconvene at a later time,” the Princess calls over her shoulder as she exits the room. “See this child placed in a room under watch until-“
“Wait, no!” You cry out, interrupting the Princess. With the relief of knowing that Jacaerys is alive and conscious, the fear of your dragon’s safety fills the entirety of your being. “Please let me return home! I need to know if my dragon is safe.”
Her and Daemon make eye contact above your head.
“We cannot allow you to leave until a decision can be made,” she says plainly, a slight look of remorse flashes across her face, before she disappears out the door without a second glance.
The lords disperse around you. All except Daemon who still stands with his sword drawn.
“How do you command a dragon of you do not speak High Valyrian?”
“I don’t,” you reply, confusion evident in your voice, “I have been at her mercy since she grew large enough to ride. I have simply trusted her instincts.”
He chuckles lightly, “I wonder then, if you were to make a command of her, would she return that sentiment? Would she trust your instincts? Is she truly bonded to you? Or were you a convenient mean for survival?”
He sheaths his sword and walks away from you, taking a seat on the steps below the throne. The guards at your sides escort you out of the hall, leaving Daemon’s questions to rattle around in your mind.
- - - - -
Dragon-riding was an art that did not come naturally to Prince Jacaerys. He had been so relieved when his family left King’s Landing, as it meant he no longer would be sharing dragon keeper lessons with his spiteful uncles. This relief was short lived however, as once Vhagar had been claimed by Aemond, a frantic drive to master the sky filled his entire being. Once Vermax became large enough to ride, he trained often and obsessively, stealing the joy from what was previously a childhood dream of the young prince. Until he began training with you.
Although he initially approached your training with the same urgency, he soon found an unexpected solace riding alongside you. With you, it never felt like a burden or duty. It felt like freedom. It felt like peace. You had turned the sky into a safe haven.
Which is why the sight of you being thrown from your dragon in the middle of that storm was on an endless loop in his mind while he fell in and out of consciousness. Despite the pain of the maesters working on his wounds, he wouldn’t allow himself to be pulled into sleep until he knew you were safe. Thankfully, once their work was complete and the discomfort from their treatment had ended, he was able to fully recover his mind from that haunting vision.
He sat up slowly in his bed, head still spinning, to see the maesters cleaning up their instruments.
“What happened? How did I get here?” He mutters.
The maesters whip their heads towards the prince at the sound of his voice and the room buzzes back into action.
“Inform the Princess!” Grand Maester Gerardys commands to the room before taking place at Jace’s bedside. “Steady, my Prince, the wound is freshly stitched and you’ve lost much blood.” He attempts to help the boy back down but Jace protests.
“No,” he mumbles, using his good arm to weakly bat away the Grand Maesters hands. “Tell me what happened.”
Gerardys sighs. “You were found wounded on the beach with a stranger who refused to leave your side.”
The rest of the memory flashes through Jace’s head. The gust of wind and rain that ripped him from his dragon’s back, the pain of Vermax’s claws in his shoulder, finding you in the cold water, your arm around his body as he grew even colder.
“Where is y/n?” His eyes snap open.
“Taken before the council to face judgment for your endangerment.” The maester gives up the fight with his stubborn patient and returns to his supplies laid out on the table.
“But-” Jacaerys begins before being cut off by his mother.
“Jace!” She cries as she burst through the door and runs to his side, embracing him as gently as she can manage.
“Mother, where is y/n? They have done nothing wrong, they saved my life.” He takes a moment to catch his breath after the words tumble out of his mouth. Still struggling to keep his grip on the waking world.
Rhaenyra releases her son and she looks over him. Her face grows stern at the mention of your name, which she had neglected to ask for.
“And why was your life at risk in the first place? Who is this dragonrider that you’ve kept secret from me? And why trust a stranger to train you over Daemon or myself?”
Jacaerys turns away sheepishly, trying not to dive too deeply into the sliver of joy he had found in your presence. “Y/n is my friend, not a stranger. As well as a skilled dragonrider.”
“How could you know that Jace? How do we know this isn’t a trap set by our enemies?”
He considers this briefly. Trying to determine how he can convince his mother that you are not a threat to them. Wishing desperately to cite the countless occurrences of your trustworthiness and honor that he has already witnessed. But he knows that it is not just his mother that he is speaking to. He is also speaking to the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And the Queen cannot afford to place that much faith in the feelings of a young man. So instead, he decides to respond like a future king.
“Why would our enemies want us to gain such a powerful advantage? Supplying our cause with a large dragon and a masterful rider does them no favors.” Prince Jacaerys states.
Rhaenyra is taken aback by Jace’s strategic thinking. She looks over his face and ponders his words while tracing the healed scar down her arm. A bitter reminder of her own betrayal by someone she once held dear.
“Do you trust this person with your safety? With the safety of your family?” Rhaenyra questions, her eyes momentarily welling up against her will.
Jacaerys meets her gaze and nods solemnly. The Princess grabs her son’s hand tenderly.
“If this to be our decision; to allow an outsider to inherit the power of our house…” she pauses, trying to find the right words. “Then this not an ally we can afford to lose. And we must ensure their loyalty to my claim to the throne, as well as your own.”
- - - - -
The room you are placed in offers little comfort while you wait for your fate to be decided. Housed high in the tower, it sways ever so slightly with the wind. Exhaustion from the events of today combined with the gentle motion of the room threaten to lull you to sleep but the distress at being away from your dragon for the first time in years keeps you from finding any rest. You sit on the hard floor with your back up against the wall, facing the door, counting the seconds between lightning strikes and rumbles of thunder.
A knock on the door startles you and you spring to your feet as a kingsguard steps through the doorway followed closely by Princess Rhaenyra. You notice her face appears less grim than it had been in the throne room. She examines you from head to toe then finds your eyes. They soften ever so slightly before she speaks.
“Jacaerys is resting and the maesters are confident he will make a full recovery.”
You breathe a sigh of relief and nod at the Princess’s words but the worry still lingers on your face. She continues.
“We have also received word that Vermax has returned to the dragonmont with a large black dragon in tow. Both weary but seemingly unharmed.”
You gasp as though this is the first real breath you’ve taken all day and place your hands over your eyes as tears flow freely down your face. Their intensity dies down, however, as you recall the Princess’s final words to you in front of her council. A new dread fills your stomach.
“And what is to be done with me?” You ask in as neutral a tone as you can manage, dropping your hands from your eyes but still staring intently at the stone below.
The Princess lets out a heavy sigh and takes a step closer to you.
“We would ask that you swear an oath of loyalty. Declare fealty to House Targaryen and to myself as heir to the Iron Throne. And for this you will be granted permission to serve our house as a dragonrider.”
You shake your head, trying to comprehend her words.
“And what would my service entail? What would be expected of me?”
“The same that I ask of every lord and lady sworn to me. As well as every member of my family that commands a dragon; that should this house become threatened, they will heed the call to arms and meet the enemy with fire and blood.” Her voice becomes foreboding as she recites the words of her house. Indicating to you that this is less of a choice you are being offered, and more a sentence that you are being served.
“Though I hope such a need will never come,” she adds, trying to lighten her tone.
Your thoughts turn to your dragon and the years you have spent protecting each other. You may not speak the same language but you know you trust her with every fiber of your being. And, although the gods may have left a foul taste in your mouth for prophecy and purpose, you do believe she chose you as her rider for a reason. If taking this oath is the only way you can continue to be allowed to live alongside your dragon, then so be it.
You raise your head, sparing a quick glance at the kingsguard, before your eyes meet with the Princess’s. “I am at your service, Princess.”
“We are glad to have it, y/n.” She says with sincerity. “The hour has grown late, let us see you to a more suitable chamber.” She turns and begins walking out the door, beckoning you to follow.
You fall into line behind her down the winding stairs.
“Once you are settled,” she calls over her shoulder, “if you are not spent, I can take you to the dragonmont.”
You nod fervently and small smile flashes across her face.
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 Your family had followed the Targaryens across the sea to Westeros, aided them in conquering the land and then swore their lives to protecting them. You end up as Jacaerys' sworn sword and shield. The years of closeness leaves you in love with him - so much so, that you'd give up your own hopes of love to see him on the Iron Throne.
ᶜʷ cannon divergence, Lannister mention, makin out, doomed lovers (at least thats what i was goin for), prolly a whole lotta bullshit in regards to proper cannon, Valryian heritage but no physical description, angstish - semi(?) happy ending
ʷᶜ 6.1k
Before the war things were easy.
Before the war Jacaerys could force you onto dragonback for a fun flight. Well, fun for him; you were terrified to death of falling off and plummeting to your death. But your Prince's command was your duty, and you'd fulfill it every time. Now you were forced onto dragonback to accompany Jacaerys on his journeys to persuade Lords to join his mothers cause.
Before the war Jacaerys would hand you food from his plate under the pretense of ensuring it wasn't poisoned. It was always the tasty bits – roasted duck, charred vegetables, the softest breads, and raspberry tarts. Now it was a true matter of life or death. You'd plate the meal yourself. Gently sift through the items, giving the poison the opportunity to coat the entirety of the food. Then a not large, but definitely not small, bite would be lifted to your lips. decent enough to truly get a lethal dose, but not too much that Jacaerys would have any hint of hunger. If you could deliver the plate to your Prince, then it clearly was not poisoned – thankfully your Prince hasn't gone hungry since this war started.
Before the war the two of you could pretend. Believe that Jacaerys would ask his mother to take your hand, and she would say yes. Bask in the idea of being wed in the Sept. That the two of you could have children, legitimate children, and raise them to be the apples of the Seven Kingdoms eye. You would call him Jace – the name that feels most like him, not tacking on the traditional Targaryen name ending and allowing him to be free of the weight on his shoulders if only for a moment.
Now there was no room for childish dreams. People were dying; suffering at the hands of Aegon the Usurper, and you would be foolish to still wander the halls of Dragonstone as if the two of you were lovers instead of Prince and his shield.
Jacaerys, however, seemed to not get the memo.
Sure – in front of the council, he was brash and angered at the state of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, as soon as he stormed off with you hot on his tail he tried to revert back to old ways.
He attempted to slow his stride and fall into step with you. It never worked, you being so focused on him that every miniscule change was noticed before Jacaerys knew he was doing it.
He spoke to you as if you were his dear friend of nineteen rotations around the sun. You responded in polite, practiced answers.
He tried to take meals with you. Often asking to eat alone in his chambers, with a warm feeling of hope in his chest that you would walk in with two plates.
You only ever brought his plate.
There weren't many opportunities to ride on dragonback anymore, but Jacaerys would stalk his way out to the greener, mossier parts of Dragonstone – you would be in tow, of course. And like before the war, he would plop down in such an unprincely manner. Thumping a hand on the ground beside him as he waited for you to do the same. Instead of sitting you would scan the perimeter. A hand secured over the hilt of your sword, prepared to draw at any moment. Your eyes would never meet his, not once, for you knew seeing him silently begging you to sit would be enough to crumble your resolve. Because how can a shield block an attack if it is lying on the ground?
Sometimes, after a long day, he seeks physical comfort. A brush of the back of his hand against yours. Arms extending to wrap around your waist in a hug. You'd allow these; they were friendly gestures, he was simply seeking human warmth that he did not want to bother his mother with.
But on the really rough days, Jacaerys would grasp your hand in his. Then slowly, he'd caress up your arm, over your shoulder, up your neck, until his palm found the curve of your jaw and his thumb could caress your cheekbone. He'd whisper some plea,
just one, my heart, please
i only want to be close to you
it would be equivalent to the light at the end of this dreary, dim, cavern
And similar to the way the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, you would remind him of his betrothal. That Baela could quell the ache in his chest. It was Baela's responsibility to give him comfort now.
You always said it softly, reminding him with a tenderness that he rarely felt anymore. But the words still only served as a chisel, adding another inch into the chasm between you.
The past few moons had been brutal for Rhaenyra’s claim.
Houses pulled away from their sworn allegiance to her. Her allies in King’s Landing had been slain for upholding their loyalties. Daemon made moves that allowed the citizens of the realm to name her as cruel.
All because some old, wrinkled, codgers could not stomach a woman sitting upon the Iron Throne. But it wasn’t simply Rhaenyra they were contesting. By attempting to uproot Rhaenyra, they also uproot Jacaerys.
You would kill them if the opportunity arose. As his sworn sword it was in your rights to do so. Seven Hells any disrespect towards him allowed for you to rightfully draw your sword.
But you cannot leave your prince for days to discreetly row your way to the mainland, it would leave an opportunity for an assasination attempt. Cannot quickly fly into Kings Landing on dragonback, because that means Jacaerys would be with you, putting him at risk.
You are unwed though. A woman in very high standing. A Valyrian. The Crown Prince’s closest companion and his most trusted ally.
Your hand could be used to turn the tides. All men need wives; someone to produce them an heir, to warm their bed, to run the inner workings of their house, or sometimes to simply complete the image of normalcy.
But who?
Who had what Rhaenyra needed to win?
Who had land? Or money? Or men?
You’d leave Jacaerys as he began to change to his sleep cloths, bidding him a restful night and pleasant dreams. It was your job to retire too, change into comfortable garb and find as much of a break as you could. Instead you would be hunched over a desk, writing out who you knew that sided with the greens, what their standing was, how they could help Rhaenyra’s cause.
Afterwards cross referencing with the books they had in the library. How did they operate in the past? Who would desire this type of uptick in status?
It took a toll. A deep hue began to settle under your eyes. Steps that lagged for a fraction of a second. Yawns that were disguised as deep breaths. Eventually, you found it. A crack, something to exploit – a viable opening.
Naturally, only one person's opinion mattered – unnaturally, it was not Jacaerys’.
You follow the normal routine; Wish Jacaerys pleasant dreams, move down the hall towards your chambers, sit at your desk and ponder. You let the castle quiet, allow the servants and maids to find their quarters, and the cooks to finish their preparations for tomorrow's meals.
When you begin to hear the rats skittering and the sound of a sword falling would echo through the entire castle, you head to Rhaenyra’s chambers. Your fist is heavy when you knock. The sound could easily be mistaken as rageful, but you know that Rhaenyra will hear the certainty in it.
You walk in at her call with a confidence that most would not have. Most would consider that their idea may be thrown out, that the Queen will disregard it because she did not come up with it herself. But you are not most people, you were born and raised to be stronger, smarter, and just overall better than everyone else. You speak without a waver in your tone, not a quiver in your lips, or a glance away when the Queen keeps eye contact.
“We are losing support quicker than we can gain allies, My Queen.”
Rhaenyra sighs. You’ve stated the obvious as if it matters. Bringing up a problem while not producing a solution. “I suppose you have an idea to quell this issue?”
She watches you realize that she is listening; realize that they truly are desperate enough to listen to every idea. Watches you weighing the benefits against consequences. Then finally coming to terms with the words that are about to leave your mouth.
“Marry me off.” You speak it so fast, as if speaking them hurts you and you want to suffer as little as possible, “To Jason Lannister.”
The idea is preposterous. Vile in nature. He is nearly seventeen years your senior, a grown man before you were even a thought. They are not that desperate, and there are many routes they can journey across before even toeing across the threshold of this one.
The Lannisters are a green house at that. They fly the Hightower banner when needed. They have, and will, fight in the name of Aegon.
“Tyland is more sworn to the greens than Jason.” While Rhaenyra’s eyes have strayed, losing herself in thought as you had moments ago, yours stay steady. A calm in them that brings a sense of unease to her. “As head of the house, what Jason says goes and Tyland will be forced to resign if he wishes to still be the next heir of Casterly Rock.”
“If he does not accept we will be seen as fools. Grasping at strands that are not there.”
“He will accept. A Valyrian wife, lavish apartments in the Red keep, someone to produce legitimate heirs with, and a chance at those heirs wedding someone in the royal family due to my status with the crown prince.”
The thought process was thorough. You must have spent hours scanning and searching for cracks in the greens numbers. And this was the most viable one. The Baratheons had been sealed over a betrothal – what’s to say the Lannisters cannot be switched over one?
A tight grimace rests on Rhaenyra’s features as she tells you she’ll bring the idea to the council. You request to be absent, for one of the King’s Guard to watch over Jacaerys while you ‘prepare for the inevitable’. She allows it because she knows you're lying; she’s watched you grow up along with her son and she knows you’re more worried about his reaction than you would be standing alone on the battlefield.
The walk back to your chambers left you content. This was your purpose. You protected Jacaerys. Took a fatal blow simply so you could have the opportunity to see him succeed to the throne. But you would see it through – as his dedicated sword and shield you would ensure he would rule the Seven Kingdoms as King one day.
If you were being honest, your day had been smooth.
You woke early enough to dress and leave on horseback before breakfast was being served. Meaning you avoided Jacaerys.
Dragonstone had many small alcoves worn into the cliffside. They were too narrow for a dragon to even consider putting a claw into, but just wide enough for a human to comfortably lounge. So you rode out to one of those, allowed your horse to roam free while you climbed into one and attempted to rest despite the deep pit of concern that took root in your sternum.
When you heard the familiar screech of a dragon, you had retreated as far back into the alcove as you could. The shadow passed over the space in front of you and a breath of relief entered your lungs because you had managed to avoid Jacaerys again.
You came back late, when the castle would be in between periods and you could easily slip through the bustling help. Making haste directly back to your room where you could comfortably reside for the rest of the day. Most would still think you were out, resting somewhere in the wet grasses of the hills, leaving you to comfortably live out the rest of your day before dealing with the hellscape that the morrow would be.
Thankfully, if Jacaerys was upset you hadn’t heard it. You don’t know why it concerned you, why you had believed that he would cause a riot over you wedding a Lannister. It was childish – hope from the fizzled out flame the two of you used to have.
Him being content makes you content. That is how it has always been; he has a way that he is supposed to act – calm, composed, and thoughtful – but you could be the opposite, the beast simply waiting to pounce as long as Jacaerys felt it fit.
You’re tucked into bed when a knock resounds through your room. A maid. Stating something about knowing you were on leave for the day, but the Prince needed you.
As you approach there’s muffled voices that can be heard through the walls.
‘My Prince, we can have Ser Roland –’
‘I do not want Ser Roland, I want my sword and shield.’
Whoever is in there has likely been suffering for a while. And you feel for them – your prince has been growing more fiery lately, and it isn’t fun to be on the receiving side of a Targaryen’s rage. So you push the door open, rougher than intended, and allow it to land against the wall to announce your presence.
Both heads whip in your direction. One face flashes relief. The other allows their eyes to narrow and lips to purse.
“What is wrong, My Prince?”
“You, are what is wrong! How dare you propose a betrothal to Jason Lannister of all people?”
The question was not one that required an answer. Jacaerys would only be more angered if you did respond. You allow his rant to continue.
“Why would you ever think something so stupid would work? He is already sworn to the greens! We know where his loyalties lie!”
The knight who was in here before has quietly excused himself. Jacaerys paces as if his anger is charging with every step.
“You’re sworn to me! Sworn to defend me until my or your dying breath! And you wish to marry the head of Casterly rock? What am I to do? Vacation in Casterly Rock so you may see your in-laws, so his heirs will see what they are to inherit?”
You’ve assumed a position leaning against his desk. Eyes tracking his movement, and you wait for the turn. For him to pivot on his foot and before he can take the first stride in the opposite direction your voice softly drifts into the space. “It was to strengthen your chances of sitting on the Iron Throne.”
It halts his movements like you expected. He needs to process, needs to weigh the positives and the negatives. Seemingly doesn’t believe that you would offer yourself on a platter to a man you’d loathe, just to see him on the Iron Throne. Like it was not your life's purpose to help him achieve his dreams.
It’s all he’s ever wanted – the throne. And his heart hurts, it pulses and a deep ache settles. But it doesn’t ruminate, it begins to pull and tug, as if his heart is trying to climb out of his chest. He wants to give it to you, the only person who has treasured him as much as his mother.
The physical impossibility of it is what stops him. Instead he resigns to reigning himself in. A simple, “Thank you.” It’s gruff, tearing from his throat as if it pains him to say.
He can do this for you; chain up the dragon inside himself and allow you to have this. He can suffer this small injustice so long as you stay by his side. Lie to himself that he can handle it before it eventually morphs itself into truth.
Jacaerys was wrong. He could not lie to himself.
He tried, Gods did he try. But the claws that sunk themselves into his heart only dug deeper anytime he thought of you being with anyone but him. He could allow it if you were trying to wed someone you cared for. Or maybe even if you were trying to wed one of the unclaimed houses, not one already sworn to the greens.
The two of you are sat in Dragonstones library, folded over books when the idea hits him. To wed two was not unseen in Westeros. Aegon the Conqueror took two wives. Maegor the Cruel took two wives. There was no reason he could not do the same.
One out of duty, one for love.
The book he is holding is closed with a loud, resounding thud. Your head rises at the disturbance, one of your eyebrows raising in a silent question.
“When I am King I will change the law. So I am able to take two wives.”
The words are heavy. Spoken as if the Gods will move to place Jacaerys atop the Iron Throne tomorrow so that he can instill this law.
Your heart flutters. Warmth filling your chest, roving up your neck to bring a flush to your cheeks. The edges of your lips upturn; small, nearly imperceivable smile. Jacaerys is willing to write a new law into order, just for you.
Willing to face scrutiny in the eyes of the commonfolk. To have his small council disagree, and still go through with the decision.
But he wouldn't need to write the law into order if his mother had not betrothed him to Baela. Sweet Baela. Who did nothing wrong. Who would feel betrayed that Jacaerys felt her love was not enough, and he had to take another wife.
How would he navigate that?
Allow both wives apartments and move between them each night? Allow you and Baela to switch sides at dinner every night so you both equally sit on his right side? Have the two of you in an unspoken competition to bear his heir first so your child could sit upon the Iron Throne?
The warmth that was sitting behind your ribs and on your face begins to boil. The blood no longer holds a pleasant, appeased form. It's changed, molded into something that cannot hold shape. The blood rushes, splashing against the vessels that hold it in increasing irateness. It leaves your skin buzzing, a new steady hum that only angers you more.
“Do tell, My Prince, you expected me to stay unwed, unloved, unseen for a few decades? Because unless you intend to usurp your mother or see to it that she is slain, it will be years before you sit upon the throne. And not to mention you've said it yourself, your ruler is your mother, and you do not wish to see it otherwise.”
Jacaerys stops, gnawing his bottom lip as he weighs his choices. He could lie, but that would only anger you more, “Well, yes. Everyone must endure their duties before they can indulge in what they've always wanted.”
“Indulging would be us wedding after both of our spouses have died – as your mother and Daemon have. This is just you being cruel. A dragon unwilling to see what he believes is his, even slightly removed from him.”
“You are mine.”
Tragic. In a sense you were his; sworn to him in an oath that you took by blood. But in reality, he was yours. Yours to defend, yours to kill for, yours to keep alive, yours to see prosper no matter the cost.
The selfishness. The audacity. It's a new face for Jacaerys, one you don't care for, “I am your sword and shield. I cut down your enemies and defend your honor, my relations are not for you to decide.”
Your brows are furrowed, prominent frown adorning your lips. Jacaerys is in a similar state, his bottom lip being gnawed raw by his teeth as he thinks of his next retort.
But you do not wish to hear it. If allowed, the two of you would go in circles about this topic for days and days. So you take the reins from him, swinging open the doors to the library and loudly huffing through the hall, “Ser Bywin will see to your safety for the rest of the night, My Prince.”
Before Jacaerys can react, can mutter a disbelieved ‘what?’, the door has been shut again. As is the argument. Tomorrow you would wake, and put your duty above all else. You'd forget the way that he spoke of you. Forget the insult of being a second wife, while his first was still alive.
You could only hope he would do the same.
Two weeks pass with your ‘relationship' stuck in limbo.
Despite the way your heart aches for how it once was, you do not try to mend it either. Jacaerys is finally accepting what is, and it's good for him. Healthy that he stops living in a delusion that will never be true.
Tonight had been another where he dismissed you early. At first you considered it to be because it hurt too much to be in your presence; that reality was tearing him apart as it was you. But the help is never quiet, and you were soon graced with murmurs and stammers that Princess Baela had been joining him in his chambers often.
You want to cry, to allow your emotions to express themselves in a visual way. Instead you pray to the seven – a prayer of thanks, for Jacaerys’ ability to adapt. It's what you're supposed to do, and you can fool yourself into believing that prayer brings you a sense of comfort.
Ever since the revelation came you've slept early. Not retired. Not laid in bed. But truly slept.
Why would you lie awake if Jacaerys had someone to comfort him, and a protector right outside the door?
You fear the worst when a maid knocks on your door. Storming in before you can give her allowance, she pleads for you to see the Prince. That he's just not right and she feels so awfully for him because he won't call on you, but he needs you.
Upon entering his chambers your gaze softens. He's simply drunk. A blush upon his cheeks, hazy glaze over his eyes, and a golden goblet in his hand.
“Mayhaps you've had enough for the night, My Prince.”
His face lifts with his eyes, and from this new position you can easily see his brows pinch. “You're not real.”
If the maid's words were to be expanded on, perhaps he's hallucinated you in his drunken stupor. Missed you so much his brain resorted to tricking himself for a moment of peace.
“I assure you I am real. How can I prove it to you?”
Jacaerys does not speak. Instead he rises and moves to the small table next to his window. He picks up a second goblet and fills it with a very hearty portion of wine.
The goblet is placed in front of you. A loud resounding thud echoes as its placed – Jacaerys is allowing some of his Strong qualities to slip through his carefully crafted Velaryon shell. “Drink.”
“I cannot, My Prince.” Your fingers move to push the goblet away from you. A few inches give way before Jacaerys' hand stops the goblet again. “You know it goes against my oath to become inebriated.”
He sighs, a loud nearly thunderous sound of all the air in his lungs expelling in complete and utter exhaustion. “It is one bit of wine. It is the sweet one at that, the one made with cherries?”
Of course he picked that wine. The only one you've ever succumbed to. One night when you were too young and innocent to realize the dangers that could have befallen your Prince had an attack taken place. The two of you had indulged, more than was reasonable, and there had been no one there to spectate – because who would? A Targaryen and their sword and shield were to be seen together at all times, even behind closed doors, even despite gender differences.
Your hesitation causes Jacaerys to speak up again, “Is it not in your oath to follow my commands?”
“If they do not put you at risk, My Prince.”
His hand begins steadily adding more pressure against the goblet, millimeter by millimeter pushing it closer to you. “Then I command you to drink.”
A light laugh leaves your lips, some hair falling to frame your face as your head shakes in disbelief, “It would put your safety at risk, My Prince. How about we get you to bed instead?”
“Drink one goblet with me and I will sleep.” Petulant like a child, Jacaerys resorts to bargaining. “It is not nearly strong enough for you to become inebriated from one goblet.”
And you bend, because this is your prince, Jacaerys, the first of his name, a strong Targaryen name that many down the line would love to have; and even if you'd never call him it again, simple, and most like himself, Jace, the name that didn’t dishonor his mother and still let the weight of his family lift a little from his shoulders.
You drink it slowly, hoping that there might be a moment where Jacaerys is distracted enough for you to escort him to bed without having to finish the whole thing. He doesn't, of course, too engrossed in watching you drink the wine he specifically had imported for you.
As you drain the last bit of wine from the goblet you can feel his eyes on you. Watching the hollowing of your cheek as you drink as deep as possible to finish it as quickly as possible. Watching your throat as you swallow the liquid. Watching your chest as you heave a breath afterwards.
Then you stare at him, divert your eyes pointedly towards his bed, then back at him. Jacaerys rises, turns his head towards his bed, then steps in your direction.
His left hand comes to cradle your face. Your own hand is on his wrist in a blink, tired of him delaying the inevitable. But before you can drag him to bed, his thumb traces your bottom lip. He pushes slightly at the seam where your lips meet – testing the limit, will you bend here too?
And you're stuck. Shocked at the turn that has occurred. But your lips are stuck shut, thank the seven.
Jacaerys leans in when he gets nowhere with his thumb. His lips sealing over yours with a weight to them that you don't want to think about. They move despite your own remaining still, tongue poking out and licking your bottom lip periodically.
You should kiss him back. You've missed him after all. It couldn't hurt more than the past few weeks have.
So you do. Part your lips and allow him to lick into your mouth like a man starved. He's remapping a place he's been to hundreds of times, acting like something has changed even though you have been in no fight that may have altered the shape of your mouth.
When his tongue slides against yours you taste it. The wine. Remnants of however much he had, how much did he have?
You let your eyes blink open, briefly. They scan the desk where the bottle rests and try to see how much of the bottle is missing. The light must be playing a trick on you though – there's nothing in the bottle.
Had he poured you the last cup? Think. Think. It had dripped at the end of the pour but you had thought it to be because he was lifting the bottle from its pouring position.
Oh the seven help you.
He's drunk.
Drunk.
He doesn't know what he's doing and he'll regret it in the morning. Seven hells and you were really sitting here considering how bad one last night could be.
Your lips still and one of your hands raises to push him away. The other grabs his doublet and drags him to the bed. The coverlet is tossed back, Jacaerys is placed into his bed, and the coverlet is thrown back over him.
His reactions are slowed by the alcohol, but he still trashes out from under the covers, “Wait — wait! You cannot just leave after that!”
“We can discuss it when you are more yourself – not emboldened from cherry wine.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“Yes, yes tomorrow. Now back into bed.”
You usher him as you would a child, a hand between his shoulder blades, then atop his shoulder as you nudge him into a laying position.
“Do you promise?” He's staring at you with wide eyes. A shimmer of uncertainty swimming in them.
“Yes Jacaerys, I promise.”
The promise settles him. You watch as he shifts and begins to get comfortable before finally allowing his eyes to close. And yet, even after his breathing settles you don't leave. You watch.
Some may label it odd, creepy even that you would stand watch when there was no threat. But you love him past your station, and you want to ensure he doesn't wake in a fit.
You do leave before the sun can begin to peek in through the silk curtains. If you were lucky, he would forget the entire previous night happened. He would forget the promise and you would be able to go on about your life as you had. With a stable ache in your sternum that clawed for attention only on long days.
The day could not have gone smoother.
Jacaerys’ opinions were taken into consideration at the small council.
You'd accompanied him on a walk with Baela, which led to them flying their dragons together.
He took his dinner from you with a smile, but forwent the playful ‘where's yours?’ that usually came along when the smile began to fade.
You thought yourself to be free. That all you needed to do was see Jacaerys off to bed. No risk of complicated conversation. No reason to deceive him for his own good. Just peace.
But as you turn to bid him goodnight, early as was usual of late, he grabs onto your wrist like a vice.
“But we have to talk.” His voice begins steady but wavers as he reaches the end of his sentence. It quivers, raising just a pitch, as if he’s questioning if you remembered instead of declaring it.
Panic swells your senses. He was supposed to forget. This conversation was never supposed to happen and you were going to serve out your oath in peace. You consider lying to him – feeding into the hallucinations you believe he's had.
However, Jacaerys is stubborn. You know he will comb over every detail in his memory of last night. Replay every second searching for a crack, one that will prove it true or fake. It would be a waste of time to walk back to your chambers only to be summoned back mere minutes later.
“What do you wish to speak of, My Prince?”
His hand loosens its grip a fraction, “Of our relations.”
“It is simple, we should not have them.” Your tone is firm, attempting to leave no room for further debate.
Jacaerys stands and lifts both of his hands to rest on your face. Thumbs resting upon your cheekbones. “You kissed me last night.”
“No, Jacaerys. You kissed me.”
A breathy laugh leaves his lips, “Well, you kissed me back. I felt it, and believe me, I’ve spent days attempting to recreate the feeling.”
“I am your sword and shield,” your tongue darts out to wet your lips, “My Prince. That does not mean I give in to your every whim.”
Jacareys’ hands stay firmly planted on either side of your face, thumbs beginning to caress your cheekbones.
“Before – before was a mistake,” you huff, eyes staying firmly locked on the chipped brick behind Jacaerys’ head, “a lapse in judgement, from us both, My Prince.”
You think he has given up. That your words struck whatever chord inside him that they were supposed to and he will finally drop what was and accept what is.
“I declare that the air is attacking me. And you must save me by sharing your breath.”
He leans in, slow enough that you can dodge, pull away and reject him fully. But still fast enough that you don't have time to think about how this must go against your sworn oath; the few seconds only allow you to process that you want this, you have wanted this since Rhaenyra announced his betrothal to Baela, it would seem that Jacaerys has as well.
It’s not a pretty kiss. One that you would see young maidens reading about in their books. It begins rough; teeth clashing, saliva coating the corners of your mouths, noses shoved so deeply into the other's face that breathing becomes difficult.
You believe it’s a fight for dominance. Your tongue pushes his out of your mouth, your lips glide against anothers for a moment before you force your tongue into his mouth. If he wanted a battle, you would win it.
Despite the fact that he’s no longer in control, Jacaerys doesn’t pull away. His body presses into you – chest to chest, hips to hips, his legs are nearly bracketing yours. His hands are tilting your head up, into a position that would give him better access if he was the one leading.
You pull away from him, chest heaving in search of oxygen. You bring your bottom lip into your mouth to gnaw on it, but Jacaerys is there – like he is everywhere else – his thumb pulling it out before his mouth seals over the flesh to suck and pull on it.
Now you push him, hands on his shoulders. There’s just enough force in it to separate him from your lip but he still refuses to allow the rest of your body to separate. And you look at him, just look. He looks devastated; eyes glistening with unshed tears, lips slick with spit and swollen from the ‘fight’ for dominance.
It’s undeniable that he wants this. That he’s willing to sacrifice the sanctity of his betrothal because his desire for you is too insatiable. And Gods do you want it too. The urge forces you to lean back in, to steal the breath Jace demanded you give him.
He lets you walk him back, shuffling until the backs of his knees hit his bed. You think he’s going to stop you there – that the reality will finally sink into his bones. Instead he leans back into the cushion, dragging you with him.
A laugh tumbles out of your lips and breaks the kiss. Jace has let his hands fall to your hips, slipping under your top to caress at your skin. You allow your gaze to fall to them, then rise back to his face. His pupils are dilated, swimming with an undeniable amount of adoration while his lips have broken into a wide grin.
You’ve already come to terms with the fact that you want this, and that Jacaerys wants this. Keeping eye contact, you move to remove your shirt from your chest. Halfway up Jacaerys moves his hands to halt your movement.
“You - you have to promise me.”
Your eyebrows crease. Every physical sign led to Jacaerys wanting this, a very prominent one was between your legs at that. Why would he stop you now? After months of both of you wanting this. What promise could he possibly want?
“Promise you what?”
“Promise me that you’ll wait.” A huff of breath leaves him, “That you won't ever leave me, especially not for some green cunt.”
“Please Jace.” You hope your pleading, that you calling out to him plainly will make him change his mind. That it will shock him into compliance. Instead you get another unwavering command.
“Promise me.”
You ponder it for a moment. Sit atop him and gaze at the only man you’ve ever loved. The man who has owned you – body, mind, heart, and soul – since the day you were one and ten. The man you’d give up your life for.
Seven forgive you.
You’d melt into his embrace tonight. Kiss his lips until they’d be imprinted in your memory forever. Feel the planes of his chest under your palms and memorize how the muscles beneath his skin felt. Rub the strands of his hair between your fingertips and vow to find something similar and have pillows made of it.
So you agreed. Nodded before sealing your lips back to his. That you'd suffer in the background, in the shadows, until your time came.
Jace needn't know that Rhaenyra had told you of Jason Lannister's acceptance of the betrothal that morn.
That your waiting would include warming another man's bed, and bearing his heir and back-up before you have heirs to uphold your own legacy.
Summary: A young lady resents her unwanted betrothal, and attempts to flee the Red Keep. Unluckily for her, even the most gallant of knights does not wish to aid her escape. (Inspired by Queen Charlotte.)
Word count: 2.2k
Warnings: none. (Reader does not have any description, name or house mentioned!)
A/N: This has not been proofread and I haven’t published fanfiction in five years, so I might be a bit rusty!
Cross-posted on AO3 (for registered users only, because I’m scared of my work being scraped by AI).
A disclaimer to add to that: I do not consent to my work being used to train AI models of any kind. That includes character AI and similar websites.
Part two!
Her septas had always told her anger was an unladylike emotion to have. On any other day, she would perhaps try to remember their teachings and temper her exasperation. Today was not like any other day, however, and fire burned in her soul as she stormed into the Godswood.
Her father had sighed deeply as she ran off, but he did not try to stop her. He was well aware of her displeasure at her betrothal, though he did not care to understand why. In his eyes, she could not have hoped for a better match. The heir to the heir was a match well above her station. Gods willing, she would be queen of the Seven Kingdoms one day, and yet, she was unsatisfied for reasons unbeknownst to him. Women and their whims and emotions, he mused quietly as he followed the Hand of the King, Prince Baelor, into the Tower of the Hand. They still had much to discuss before the wedding in a week's time.
His daughter's betrothed had not been present for their welcome, to his disappointment. His daughter had seemed strangely happy at the absence of the Young Prince, however, smiling slightly as Prince Baelor explained his son had not yet returned from his hunt. That happiness was in stark contrast with her current state.
The young lady lifted her skirts slightly as she hurried deeper into the Godswood. She was not sure where she was headed, but the sight of a tall wall in the distance lifted her spirits slightly. She knew the chances of a true escape were more than insignificant, but she did not know what else to do.
She had known of her future duties as a lady and a wife since before she could even read. The prospect of marriage had always struck fear into her heart. She had seen the tears on her elder sister's faces as they stood before a Septon, kissing cruel men old enough to be their fathers. They had all married into great Houses, her father had explained when she shared her doubts, so her sisters should consider themselves fortunate. She had never heard of a notion so nonsensical. Nothing about their lives seemed fortunate to her.
She rather liked her life as an unmarried lady. Her father, despite it all, doted on his youngest daughter. She got away with things most ladies would have received a beating for, and he had never pressured her to find a husband. Until now, it seemed. Likely because he had been plotting this betrothal for many months now, she thought bitterly. It broke her heart to know that her father had not even given her the opportunity to choose a husband for herself.
They had left for King's Landing not even a full day after he had broken the news to her. He probably knew she would have attempted an escape plan, had he given her more time to mull it over. Tears started sliding down her cheeks as she neared the red walls separating the royal castle from Blackwater Bay.
She did not know anything about her husband-to-be, and perhaps that is what scared her the most. If she had heard tales of him, any at all, she might know better what to prepare herself for. Any tale she had heard of the Targaryen princelings, though, had been worse than the last. Prince Aerion is said to be cruel, vain and heartless, while his brother Daeron was a useless drunk. In contrast, she had not heard much of the heir's sons. She did not know whether that was good or bad, but she did not wish to find out. Even her father had remained tight-lipped on their long journey here. She was not sure why he had not tried to comfort her, even if he had to lie about the prince's nature by doing so, but she did not think it boded well.
As she finally approached the wall, she found herself out of breath. Her maid had tightened her corset more than normal this morning, clearly expecting the young lady to meet her betrothed today. She was glad she was spared that humiliation, at the very least.
She happily leaned against the red stone wall when she arrived, heaving slightly. All shame left her as she decided to sit down, her back to the wall as she tried to blink away her tears. The day had barely started, and she was already overwhelmed. The smell of King's Landing as they entered through the gates, the sheer magnitude of the Red Keep, the burning eyes of the onlookers in the outer yard. The careful judgment in her future father-in-law's strange eyes. She could not imagine herself living here, constantly gawked at and constant pressure to be the perfect wife. She already longed for home.
After what seemed like an eternity, she finally found the strength to get up off the ground. She took a few steps back, carefully assessing the wall. She had heard of the grandness of the Red Keep, but this wall did not seem so tall, all the way in the back of the Godswood and with only the Blackwater behind it. Perhaps she was delusional, but she did not think this was an impossible task. She had climbed many a tree as a young girl, after all, and she had become quite proficient at it.
She held a calculating look on her face as she touched some slight dent in the wall, assessing whether her foot would have enough grip to hold on to it, when someone cleared their throat loudly behind her. She jumped away from the wall immediately, turning around so fast she almost got dizzy.
The man in front of her was covered in a black cloak, covering his doublet underneath. His pants and boots were the same shade of black, and she silently mused whether he was a Sworn Brother who had lost his way. He had short brown hair, eyes a color she could not make out at this distance and a curious, kind smile on his face. She had to admit he was quite handsome, though she knew it to be an inappropriate thought.
When she did not say anything, the man decided to speak first.
"Good morrow, my lady. Are you in need of any assistance?"
She shook her head slightly at him, and turned back to the wall. "I am perfectly fine, good Ser, thank you. You may leave me be,” she said.
Unbeknownst to her, the man's amused smile only grew at her words, and he observed her silently.
"I might, if you answer my question."
Her temper rose at his obnoxious response, turning back to him in annoyance.
"Depends on the question," she replied roughly, narrowing her eyes at him in deviance. That only made his smile grow and his eyes sparkle, however.
"What is it are you doing?" He asked, shifting his weight from his right leg to his left, eyeing her curiously. Unlike the people in the courtyard, he did not look like he was judging her for her bad manners or whatever else she lacked in their eyes. He simply seemed genuinely curious, which confused her a great deal. She did not understand him, and that frustrated and scared her in equal measure. Who exactly was he?
"Nothing," she was quick to resort, crossing her arms.
He chuckled at her response, shaking his head slightly.
"It does not appear that way, my lady."
"And yet it is the truth. What business is it of yours, anyway? Are you some sort of guard send to drag me back?"
His eyes lit up at her words. He clearly knew something she did not, and it unnerved her greatly. Men can be so insufferable, she thought bitterly.
"I am not, do not worry. I am merely curious," he replied, tilting his head at her slightly, encouraging her to answer his question.
She contemplated it for a second, before deciding she did not actually care if he knew the truth. What difference did it make, anyway? If he wanted to return her to her father, he would have done so already.
"If you must know, I am attempting to climb over this wall."
The amused look in his eyes did not disappear, though he did seem slightly bewildered.
"Climb…? Whatever for?"
He must not know who I am, she thought bemused. She rather enjoyed this back-and-forth with him, and she had not had the chance to express her true feelings to anyone as of yet. Why not just subject this random guard to it? Let her true feelings get back to the two princes who had sealed her fate. Not to mention her father.
Her brows furrowed at the thought, and his silly question. She turned her back to the man once more, determination flowing through her.
"Because I think he may be a monster," she replied simply as she attempted to hold on to the smokeberry vines. When she tried to pull on it, however, she found they broke off almost immediately. She let out a disappointed huff as she stood back to reassess.
"A monster?" he repeated dumbly. His amused smile had left his face, though she did not see it. His gaze was almost hurt now, eyeing her carefully.
"Yes. I fear for my life, in fact. Now, would you be so kind as to help me?" She turned her head towards him, awaiting his answer. He plainly ignored her question, however, and instead returned one.
"Who is it you speak of?"
She rolled her eyes at him and let out an annoyed breath.
"That, Ser, is none of your business. Now, if you please–"
"I fear I cannot help you until you answer me, my lady," he replied easily, a slightly smug look on his face now. He crossed his arms, observing her leisurely. What a strange man, she thought. Surely he knew who she was now? What other maiden had arrived to the Red Keep recently, with enough fear in her heart to attempt an escape in this manner?
When he did not relent, she huffed again. She stepped closer to him, waving her arms around slightly in annoyance. "Prince Valarr, of course. No one will speak of him, not even my father. That cannot mean anything good. He must be as cruel or useless as his cousins, if not worse."
A chill went down her spine at the thought of him being worse than Prince Aerion. Was such a thing possible? A flicker of emotion she could not place crossed his face. Now that she stood closer to him, the daylight reflecting in his eyes almost made it seem like they were two different shades. She could not determine what that reminded her of, but her stomach twisted slightly at her inability to place it.
"Ah, I see," was all he said, continuing to eye her curiously, shifting slightly on his feet. His lack of words frustrated her. What could he possibly want from her?
"Now, will you help me? Please?"
"One more question, my lady," He did not wait for her reply, but he seemed entertained by the scowl forming on her face. "Do you believe all Targaryens are monsters, as you say?"
She faltered slightly. Did he want to trick her into speaking treason, leading her to be executed?
"I would never speak such treason, Ser. Now, if you please…?"
"You want me to lift you over the wall so you may escape from the Red Keep?" He tried to clarify once again.
"That is what I said, yes," She said, beyond annoyed at his antics now.
"People will notice you are missing, will they not?" He questioned, not caring in the slightest for her clear annoyance.
"That is not my problem, for I will be long gone by then. Do not worry, they won't know you helped me. Now come on, make haste."
He once again stood there silently, not moving a muscle. She was quite done with him now, and attempted to climb the wall by herself. Once again, to no prevail.
"I have no intention of helping you, my lady," he said, a smile in his voice. His eyes twinkled at her, and she finally saw that his left eye was a brown hue, whereas his right eye was a bright blue. It would be quite enchanting to see, if he was not the most vexing man in the Seven Kingdoms in that moment.
"I am a lady in distress," she called out, desperation evident in her voice. "You refuse to help a lady in distress?" She came down from the wall again, approaching him. She stood only an arm's length away from him when he responded.
"I refuse, when that lady in distress is trying to escape the Red Keep, only so that she does not have to marry me."
Her eyes widened in shock at his words, and she took a quick step back. She suddenly remembered where she recognized those eyes. He had the same dual-colored eyes as his father, Prince Baelor. Those judgemental eyes seemed so soft now as he gazed upon her.
"Hello, gevie. I'm Valarr."
Note: gevie means ‘beautiful’ in Valyrian.
Hope you guys enjoyed! If you did, I would really appreciate if you reblog, like or leave a comment!
UPDATE: I just published part two of this story! I hope you guys like it!
synopsis: summoned to the red keep to prove her family's loyalty a decade after the blackfyre rebellion, the lady of house peake only intends to survive court politics — becoming entangled with prince valarr targaryen was not part of the plan.
author’s note: first and foremost, just a quick shout out to @the-darklings and the incredible holy waters for sparking the idea for this!!
this part is rather exposition heavy. but i promise we will get to the juicy stuff soon, so please have patience!! i told you guys i took the slow in slowburn seriously!!
also please forgive any errors in timelines/lore/canon, i am not very well versed and fighting for my life!! gentle corrections welcomed, just please be nice <3
wordcount + tags: 4,909. + enemies to lovers, slowburn, forbidden romance, sparring as flirting, canon-typical misogyny/violence, pre-akotsk
part one || part two || part three || part four || part five || part six || part seven
Valarr Targaryen x F!Reader
The letter bears the three-headed dragon pressed deep into red wax.
It sits between you and your father on the long oaken table in Starpike’s solar, unbroken since it was delivered, as though the words inside have already delivered the news despite remaining unread.
You’re no fool. You’ve heard the rumours circling these past few months – a knight overheard praising Daemon Blackfyre too loudly in a Reach tavern, one of your cousins travelling too frequently to Tyrosh, a levy slow to answer the Crown’s call. Nothing treasonous, nothing evident, but enough.
Your father reaches forward in his seat and finally breaks the wax seal, reading in silence. The fire snaps in the hearth, wind pressing faintly against the narrow windows of Starpike’s stone tower, and you wait, pulse thrumming close to your skin as you shift your weight from foot to foot.
You watch his face instead of the parchment, the careful stillness settling over it, the minute tightening of his expression, and your heart sinks down to your stomach before he even opens his mouth.
“It is an honour,” he says at last, setting the letter on the table with a deep breath. “For you to be invited to stay at the Red Keep.”
You remain very still where you stand. “...Invited.” The word feels bitter in your mouth, obvious in its lie – it is not an invitation, it is a summons.
“King Daeron believes it would strengthen the bond between our house and the Crown.” Your father’s voice is steady – already practical, already disattached.
“And if I decline?” It leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
His eyes lift to yours then, and the expression you find there makes you want to cry.
You know the burden your father has carried since the rebellion – the grief of the loss, the humiliation of being forced to bend the knee, the careful rebuilding of your house’s reputation, the way every decision must now be weighed twice as heavily – but at this moment, he just looks like a tired old man.
“You will not decline.” He says quietly, and you understand that there is no room left for argument.
The wind rattles the shutters again, and you think of the banners that flew from these towers when you were a child – bright and defiant swaths of orange. You think of how quickly they were lowered in obedient surrender, how few of them were rehung in the aftermath.
You fight desperately to keep your temper at bay as the unfairness of the situation threatens to overwhelm you. “So I am to serve as… some sort of bargaining chip? Because the Targaryens suddenly no longer trust our word?”
“You are to serve as the Lady of House Peake, and as my daughter,” he corrects gently, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “As proof of our loyalty and good faith, a reminder that House Peake stands with the realm.”
The distinction feels thin. And if we do not? The question hangs unspoken. You look toward the window, toward the hills beyond within which the road to King’s Landing begins, dread settling low in your stomach.
“I will be a prisoner and nothing more,” you shake your head, clenching your jaw. “Do you not see? This is how they keep us under lock and key–”
Your name leaves your father’s lips in a harsh bark, and your mouth snaps shut. “You will be a Lady at the Red Keep. There is no higher honour for someone of your standing.”
You can tell from his voice that your father’s patience is waning, but it’s your life on the line, you who will be torn away from your home, followed by suspicion and whispers and held under constant scrutiny.
You focus very intently on the wood of the table, your nails biting into the flesh of your palm. “For how long?”
“As long as the King requests.”
There is no anger in your father’s tone, no cruelty, only necessity and resolve. You swallow, sagging as the fight drains from you. He rises then, coming around the table to stand before you, his hands settling firmly at your shoulders.
“You will be watched,” he says quietly. “Every word measured, every alliance noted. You must be careful.”
“I know.” Your voice is soft, defeated.
“You must not give them reason to doubt you. To doubt us.”
You want to scream, to hurl curses, to cry, to hurl the letter across the room and refuse to go. You meet his gaze instead, resolve settling heavy in your veins. “I will not.”
He studies you for a moment longer – not as the Lord of a house, not as a political strategist, but as a father sending his daughter into a court that once executed his kin. “They will see your strength.” He says reassuringly.
You are not reassured, but you still sigh, arching an eyebrow. “Would you not rather they see our loyalty?”
A smile almost overtakes the exhaustion on his face. Almost. “You will show them both.”
You leave at dawn a day later, no tears, no public display. An escort awaits you bearing banners of red dragons on black fabric, enveloping you before you’ve even had the chance to say your proper goodbyes.
The gates of Starpike creak open, and you ride through them without looking back, though you feel weight pressing against your spine as though the stone castle itself is reluctant to let you go. You do not know when you will see it again.
The Red Keep is larger than you remember. When you were younger and the world had not yet narrowed to whispers and careful words, you imagined it as something glittering – spires of red stone and dragon banners snapping proudly in the wind.
Now it just feels like a fortress. The corridors twist endlessly, their walls thick and cold, the narrow windows letting in only thin shafts of pale light from the afternoon sky – not that different from your own home, but still so unfamiliar.
Inside, everything gleams – armor burnished, stone scrubbed clean, courtiers dressed in silk and careful smiles. You feel the shift as you pass, the way conversations halt, the way eyes linger just a moment too long, recognizing your house colours, the sigil stitched at your breast.
Your footsteps echo softly against the stone as you follow the knight ahead of you. He does not speak. The guards you passed in the courtyard did not speak either, only watched you as you passed, their gazes scrutinising and cold.
You keep your hands folded before you as you walk, fingers laced tightly enough that the knuckles pale.
Your father’s words echo stubbornly in your mind. They will see your strength. You only hope they will not see it as impetuous.
The door ahead opens at the knight’s knock, and he gestures you forward with a respectful incline of his head. “You may enter, my lady.”
You swallow, take a deep breath, and step inside.
The solar is warmer than the corridor outside, the hearth burning low despite the mildness of the day. Sunlight spills through tall windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, the water far below a dull silver beneath the clouds.
Standing beside the table near the window is not King Daeron, but you recognise him nonetheless.
Prince Baelor Targaryen does not look particularly like the other Targaryens you have encountered or heard tales of – his hair is short and dark, almost black in the dim light of the room, his skin touched faintly by the sun in a way that makes tales of the silver-haired Targaryens seem ghostlike by comparison.
He is broad-shouldered, solid in the way of a man accustomed to armor and horses rather than court silks, though today he wears neither – only a plain black doublet with the three-headed dragon worked subtly over the breast in deep red.
He turns as you enter, his eyes settling on you with quiet attention, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of one brown eye, one blue.
You remember yourself and drop into a deep curtsey. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Peake.” His voice is warm, though not overly so, the sort of tone that fills a room easily without needing to rise in volume. When you straighten again, he is already stepping forward. “You have had a long journey. I hope the road treated you kindly.”
It is a polite thing to say, but you cannot quite bring yourself to smile. “The road was… uneventful, your Grace.”
A pause lingers between you. Baelor studies you for a moment – not rudely, but carefully, the way a man might look over a new piece on a cyvasse board, considering how it might best serve him.
At last he gestures toward the chairs near the hearth. “Please. Sit.”
You obey, folding yourself into the seat with measured composure. Baelor takes his seat behind the desk, and for a moment, he simply rests his elbows on the arms of his chair, hands loosely clasped.
“I imagine this was not a journey you were expecting to make.” He says, the words spoken plainly, without accusation or false softness, and you lower your gaze to your hands.
“I… was not, your Grace.”
Baelor nods once, as if that answer was expected. “I will speak plainly,” he starts, and you appreciate that, at least. “The realm has had little peace since the rebellion. Too much blood shed. Wounded pride that takes longer to heal than many men like to admit. My father seeks to restore stability. Unity.”
Your throat tightens. Images flash unbidden through your mind – smoke rising beyond Starpike’s walls, ravens flying from tower to tower, your cousins riding out beneath banners of red fabric bearing black dragons.
You blink, clearing the memories away. “And my presence here is… to further that aim.”
“It has the power to.” The words are deliberate, and he considers you for a moment before continuing. “There are… whispers, as there are always whispers. I would rather silence them with closeness than with force.” There it is. Not a threat, not quite, but a warning.
“You believe my father’s loyalties have shifted?” You ask despite yourself, brows tugging together as you try to understand what changed, what brought you here, why now.
Baelor hums softly, head tilting as if weighing the words before he lets them fall. When he speaks again, his tone is measured – patient, but deliberate, each phrase placed carefully where it must land. “The King believes now is the time to ensure that old alliances are given the chance to become new ones.”
His gaze lifts back to you, steady and searching, though there is nothing openly accusing in it. “The war ended some years ago,” he continues, fingers loosely folded atop the desk. “But wars do not truly end when the swords are sheathed. They linger in the memories and stories men tell when the candles burn low.”
He pauses, watching to see how you react.
“There are many houses who fought for my cousin in the rebellion,” he says at last, the word cousin used plainly rather than with bitterness. “Some did so from ambition, some from grievance, others from loyalty to men they believed in… I do not pretend that every man who followed the black dragon did so out of treachery.”
The statement lands quietly, but it is a generous one, more generous than you expected from the heir to the Iron Throne. He leans back slightly in his chair, studying you with that same thoughtful attention. “But the realm remembers banners, and who carried them.”
Your fingers tighten subtly in your lap.
“And so, my father believes,” Baelor says, voice still calm. “That it is wiser to bind such houses close to the throne rather than leave them standing at its edge.” His gaze flicks briefly to the sigil at your breast before returning to your face. “Hostages make enemies. Guests make allies.”
The corner of his mouth shifts – not quite a smile, but something gentler than the political calculation of the words might suggest. “You are here as the latter, Lady Peake. My family does not intend you harm, nor isolation. You will move freely in these halls, and you will be treated with respect. I would prefer it remain that way.”
Another pause settles, heavier this time, before he adds, more quietly, “But that, I think, will depend as much on you as it does on us.” The statement is not harsh, not even particularly stern, but you recognise it unmistakably as a test.
You already knew everything he said, but hearing it all so plainly spoken by the Hand of the King makes something in your stomach turn. Still, you are relieved by the honesty, the clarity with which it has all been laid out before you.
“I understand, your Grace. I would prefer that as well.” You nod, the gentlest of smiles turning your lips.
His tone remains gentle, but there is steel somewhere beneath it. “I hope that your time here may allow such mending to begin.”
Silence falls again, the only sound a gull crying somewhere over the water outside. Baelor rises slowly from his chair, pacing toward the window. “You will find the Red Keep complicated,” he says. “There are many voices here. Many opinions.”
You cannot help the small breath of humor that escapes you. “I have noticed.”
That earns you a quiet chuckle, the sound knocking something loose in your chest, letting you ease into your chair slightly. “Yes,” he says. “I imagine you have.”
For a moment he studies you again thoughtfully. “You need not fear speaking plainly to me, Lady Peake,” he adds after a moment. “I value honesty more than courtesy.”
You meet his gaze again. “That may be… inadvisable, your Grace.”
Baelor’s smile deepens just slightly. “Perhaps,” he says, before his expression grows thoughtful again. “But I suspect you have already learned that court can be far more dangerous when no one speaks the truth at all.”
He inclines his head toward the door. “You will be assigned chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast. I saw to it that they overlook the gardens.”
You blink, taken aback by the gesture, but before you can think too much about it the door creaks open behind you.
You turn in your seat, and immediately blanch in the face, recognising King Daeron at once. The resemblance between father and son is clear, though the King carries himself very differently – where Baelor’s presence filled the room with steady calm, Daeron’s seems to tighten the air itself.
His gaze lands on you immediately, and you drop into a deep curtsey, nearly tripping over your own skirts in your haste. “Your Grace.”
He looks you over quickly, his eyes pausing briefly on the three castles sewn into your bodice before returning to your face. “So,” he says, voice brisk, already sounding faintly impatient. “You’re Lord Peake’s girl.”
There is no warmth in the words, but still, you keep your head bowed in deference. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Baelor inclines his head. “Lady Peake arrived only a few moments ago.”
“I see that.” The King’s attention remains on you for another moment, weighing, measuring. Then he flicks a hand in a curt gesture toward the door, his gaze already turned toward his son. “You may go.”
The dismissal is immediate enough that it takes you a heartbeat to react, but when it does, you bow your head once more. “Of course, your Grace.”
Neither man stops you as you turn and practically flee into the quiet corridor beyond, the door closing softly behind you – but it does not latch completely.
You have only taken a few steps when the King’s voice carries through the wood, causing your footsteps to falter. “I see you have already been too gentle with her.”
A pause, before Baelor answers, calm as ever. “Courtesy costs us little.”
“They rode beneath the black dragon,” Daeron replies sharply, the name of Daemon Blackfyre left unspoken but unmistakable all the same. “Do not forget why the girl is here.”
“She is a guest.”
“She is an example.”
You do not wait to hear more, wary of the Kingsguard watching you, instead turning towards the servant sent to escort you to your new chambers. You stride down the corridor with your spine straight and your hands folded carefully before you, the echo of the King’s words following you through the halls.
Baelor had been almost shockingly kind, but kindness, you realise now, does not mean you are welcome here.
The attendant finally stops before a pair of heavy oak doors carved with twisting dragons, their wings stretching across the panels in intricate detail. The iron hinges are black as soot, shaped like claws curling around the wood.
“Your chambers, my lady.” He says, bowing as the doors swing inward.
For a moment you do not move, breath caught in your throat.
The room inside is large – far larger than the chamber you left behind at Starpike, its high ceiling supported by dark wooden beams, the walls dressed in rich hangings of crimson and black. A hearth burns low along one wall, the faint scent of smoke and cedar lingering in the warm air.
Most notably, however, are the dragons that surround you.
They coil through the embroidery of the tapestries, their heads carved along the mantle, their wings etched into the legs of the table near the window. Even the tall bed dominating the far end of the chamber rises with bedposts carved in the shape of three-headed dragons rising into the sky, beneath a canopy worked with the sigil in thread that gleams faintly when the light catches it.
You step inside slowly. It is beautiful, and you unmistakably do not belong here.
“Do you like it, my lady?” The voice pulls your attention suddenly, withdrawing your outstretched fingers from the dragon curling along the bedpost.
Two young women stand near the wardrobe, both dressed neatly in the dark red and black livery of the royal household, one with soft blonde curls, the other with dark hair and darker features. They drop quick curtseys when you turn toward them, their expressions polite but curious.
“We are to attend you,” the tall blonde one says. “I am Ellyn. This is Mara.”
Mara inclines her head with a shy smile, and you study them for a long moment before nodding once. “I… have attendants now.” You say, almost to yourself.
Ellyn’s expression brightens with a curious smile at the wonder in your voice, while Mara moves quietly to place a small chest beside the wardrobe. “The rest of your belongings will be brought shortly, my lady,” she says. “If there is anything else you require–”
Your attention drifts toward the door again, just now noticing the two Goldcloaks posted in the corridor outside. They straighten the moment they see you peering out, and your brow lifts.
When you turn back toward the maidens, your mouth has curved faintly at one corner as you gesture toward the hall. “Is the extra security meant to keep me in… Or everyone else out?”
The two girls exchange a quick glance, eyes wide. “Oh– No, my lady,” Ellyn says hurriedly. “They are not for you.”
At your confused expression, they exchange another glance, expressions twisted. Mara hesitates before answering, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial hush. “Prince Valarr’s chambers are down the corridor.”
You blink once, the words settling slowly. You had heard the name, of course. Prince Valarr Targaryen, eldest son of Prince Baelor, second in line to the Iron Throne, and apparently the man who will sleep only a few doors away from you.
Your gaze drifts back toward the corridor where the guards stand waiting as if carved out of the very stone.
“Oh…” You murmur.
Ellyn either does not hear the shock in your voice or politely pretends she hasn’t. “The prince’s rooms have always been here,” she adds, busying herself by unpacking one of your chests. “It is one of the most secure parts of the keep.”
Secure. The Kingsguard just beyond your door. Your thoughts begin to churn again, restless and heavy all at once. This morning you were still at Starpike, fulfilling the role you were born into, but now you are here – summoned by a king, surveyed by a prince, installed in chambers heavy with dragon sigils and quiet expectations no one has yet spoken aloud.
You pace once across the room, then again, the carpet beneath your boots thick enough to muffle the sound, but the motion does little to quiet the restless energy building in your chest.
Mara watches you through her dark lashes uncertainly. “...Would you like us to prepare a bath, my lady?”
You shake your head sharply. “No.”
You stop near the open window, closing your eyes to feel the breeze drifting in from outside, listening to the distant sounds of the castle it carries – voices, footsteps, the dull rumble of carts moving through the lower wards.
And beneath it all something sharper – steel striking steel. Your eyes fly open as you turn back toward the girls. “Where are the training grounds?”
They blink. “The… training grounds?”
“Yes.”
Mara gestures vaguely toward one of the walls. “In the courtyard, my lady. Through the eastern tower and down the stone steps.”
You nod once. “Good.”
Ellyn’s eyes widen slightly. “You wish to go now?”
You are already moving toward the door. “Yes.”
“But your things–”
“—Will still be here when I return.” You flash her a smile as you disappear from the room, leaving your two new attendants gaping after you.
You continue down the corridor, following the echo of clashing blades toward the stairwell as the dragon tapestries watch you go in silence.
The cavern of the Red Keep causes you to lose your way more than once, so when you feel the fresh breeze blowing the sounds of swords clashing down the corridor, you follow it keenly.
When you stumble upon the training yard, it is alive with the dull percussion of late afternoon training – the steady clang of practice swords, the barked corrections of knights, the thud of shields absorbing blows. The rhythm of it all is almost grounding, familiar to you in a way the corridors of the Red Keep are not.
You stand beneath the shade of a carved archway, watching, assessing, fervently trying not to think about the reality of your current situation that dawns more on you each moment, and for the first time all day, you are able to simply breathe, unwatched.
Of course, nothing lasts forever, and you feel the shift before you understand it – a subtle thrum in the air of the yard, men straightening unconsciously, attention drawn toward a single man moving through the crowd draped in an air of measured confidence.
The Crown Prince’s son carries his father’s features clearly, even from afar – the elegant features, the strong line of his jaw, the dark hair cut short, the only evidence of his Targaryen namesake the streak of silver woven through the dark strands, pale as forged steel as it catches the light.
Prince Valarr is not armored in ceremony, wearing simple garments, dark and fitted, a dragon clasp fastening his cloak at the shoulder. His gaze lands upon you, his expression unreadable as he finds you watching from beneath the arch, and before you have time to prepare to meet another Targaryen today, he is heading toward you.
“Lady Peake.” He greets, his voice smooth and formal as he inclines his head towards you. Up close, you’re surprised to notice how little he looks like the Targaryens of whom you’ve heard tales, faint freckles scattered across fair skin, one of his eyes a warm brown, the other a pale violet blue, mirroring those of his father.
You blink, remembering yourself, and dip into a rushed curtsey. “Your Grace.”
When you rise, you find him surveying you coolly, and you can feel the scrutiny plainly, though he hides his expression well. The court has surely spoken your name enough since your arrival was announced, and he is no doubt curious of what to make of you – as you are of him.
There is a moment of silence, not quite awkward, but definitely not comfortable, where he presses his lips together and you fidget with your hands.
“You have been received by my father?” He asks finally, ever the courteous, and you nod with a small smile.
“I have, yes,” you answer, and then tack on. “He is a very gracious host.”
Valarr nods, seemingly pleased with your answer. After another beat of silence, he glances down the corridor, then back to you. “And my grandsire?”
You pause, calculating the best response for the brusque dismissal you’d received. “I– Yes, but only briefly.”
Another silence, and it really ought to be your turn to prompt conversation, but you’re too busy willing your palms to stop sweating and your heart to quiet down.
At last his gaze flicks down toward the yard, then returns to you. “You’ve come to watch the knights train?” He asks, raising a brow.
The faint lift at the corner of his mouth carries a suggestion you recognize immediately, of ladies fanning themselves and loitering around to watch the knights and princes sweat beneath the sun.
Your spine straightens almost imperceptibly, bristling at the insinuation.
“I came to see where I would be spending my mornings, your Grace.” You have to fight to smooth your tone despite the tightening in your chest, your hands folded in front of you to stop them from curling.
Valarr frowns slightly, searching your face for humour, but he doesn’t find any. “You jest, my lady,” he says after a moment. “Surely you will not be–“
“Training?” You supply politely. “I shall, my Prince. I was told it would be best to resume my daily habits from Starpike. For the sake of my… assimilation.”
“Your daily habits?” The amusement in his voice is clearer now.
The briefest image of you slapping the amused look off his face flashes at the back of your mind, and you take a deep breath to dispel it. “Yes.”
Valarr studies you for a long moment, then exhales a quiet breath that almost resembles a laugh, and you run your tongue along the sharp edges of your teeth.
“I see,” he says slowly. “Though I do wonder whether the other occupants of the yard will know quite what to make of such habits.”
You tilt your head. “Surely a prince as accomplished in arms as yourself understands the value of keeping one’s skills sharp, your Grace.” You blink at him with deliberate innocence.
His eyes narrow instantly, nostrils flaring ever so slightly as you watch him wrangle his expression into a near perfect mask of impassivity. “Of course, but perhaps there are other activities more suited to your ladyship’s temperament. Might I suggest needlepoint? Promenades through the gardens?”
You feel heat rush to your face. For a moment you nearly let it pass – you are in the Red Keep, and he is the prince. Courtesy should win, but the yard below rings with the clash of steel, and your hands still remember the weight of a sword.
When you speak again, your voice remains polite, only the edge has sharpened.
“I did not realise the people of King's Landing had such… delicate sensibilities, my prince,” you say evenly. “I shall try not to disturb the balance of things.”
Valarr’s expression cools even further. “I assure you,” he replies, “The balance of the King’s Court is hardly disturbed by ladies waving wooden swords around.”
“Perhaps that’s why–” You nearly lost the throne, you’re about to say, and you shut your mouth fast, suddenly realising the idiotic and treasonous retort that was about to fly out. You pause for a moment, summoning another ending to your sentence that won't get you executed, and Valarr studies you, eyes narrowing in confusion.
“Why your knights seem so very comfortable.” Still too insolent to be said to a prince, but better than flat out treason.
The silence that follows is sharp, the prince before you going very still, the muscle in his jaw jumping visibly as he clenches it – likely fighting back a harsher retort.
“I was told that given a little time the Lady Peake would remember her place in this court,” he tilts his head, levelling you with a look that makes your heart race and heat rush to your face. “It appears now that may have been optimistic.”
For several long seconds, neither of you speak, the voice in the back of your head telling you to shut up and mind your tone finally working properly.
Then, Prince Valarr inclines his head in a perfectly courtly gesture, expression tight and eyes slightly narrowed. “Good afternoon, my lady.”
He steps away before you can respond, striding toward the steps leading back up into the halls of the Keep. You watch him go, heart still thundering in your chest, the streak of white in his dark hair flashing once in the afternoon sun before he disappears.
Only when he is gone do you release the breath you have been holding, and decide – with perfect certainty – that you despise Prince Valarr Targaryen, and if the look he left you with is any indication, the feeling seems entirely mutual.
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