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[midnight036]

SEVEN STEPS TO TAME A BEAST

Aerion 'Brightflame' Targaryen x Reader

Word count: 14k

a/n: Read on AO3 here

The lords of the Seven Kingdoms had long memories, and pride that clung even longer.

Prince Maekar learned that slowly, one letter at a time. One refusal after another, each dressed in courtesy and sealed with finality. House Tarly sent a courteous refusal, all neat phrases and careful distance. House Rowan said nothing for three months, then finally replied with a claim that their daughter had been promised already. The lie was thin enough to show through the parchment. House Baratheon sent condolences. Condolences, as if a death had occurred instead of a proposal. House Hightower did not answer at all, and Maekar did not press them. Smaller houses followed suit, each with their own reason. A daughter too frail, a daughter already in love, a daughter too young, too old, too recently in mourning.

The reasons piled up, one over the other, until they blurred together.

A year had passed since Ashford Meadow. A year since his son dragged that puppeteer girl through the dirt by her hair and broke her finger. Since he called for a Trial of Seven over an insult most men would have swallowed with their wine and forgotten by sunrise. A year since Maekar stood in the field with a hammer in his hand and felt the weight of his own name shift into something people spoke of carefully, if they spoke of it at all.

Men who had never stood near a tourney field could recount it with certainty, as though they had been there themselves. They told it with small changes, but the shape remained. A prince undone in public.

He had tried threatening Aerion with sending him away, exile him to Lys, he wouldn’t be the last Targaryen to do so. He had tried locking him down. He had tried shame. But after all that, Aerion didn’t even flinch, he endured it too easily, quiet in a way that made Maekar uneasy.

So now he had turned to marriage.

At last, Maekar wrote to Dorne. Your father was not the ruling prince, but from Lord Orran Martell, his brother. Close enough to matter, far enough to manoeuvre. When the letter reached him, he read it once, then again, then a third time, slower. Only then did he allow himself a smile.

The carriage carried the scent of cedar and dust, and the road behind you stretched longer with each turn of the wheels.

Your father had spoken plainly. No softening, no illusions. He laid out the value of the match, the reach it offered, the place it would secure. He spoke as he would to a man he trusted with consequence. That was his way of showing regard.

He did not pretend the groom was good. He did not ask you to pretend either.

You are strong enough for this, he had said. I would not send you otherwise.

He had expected hesitation, perhaps fear, but he had not found it.

You watched the land shift through the narrow window, red stone fading into green, dry air thickening with damp. The world changing in slow increments.

You turned the name over again and again, testing it.

Aerion Brightflame.

You had heard the Ashford story, of course, everyone had. The mercy of the hedge knight that some called wisdom and others called weakness. What stayed with you was not the cruelty itself, cruelty was common enough among men with power and power made men careless with other people.

I am no man, he had reportedly said. I am a dragon.

You found this almost amusing.

Not because it was foolish, though it was. Because it told you something useful. A man who believed himself a dragon was a man who had built his entire self upon a story. And stories had seams, they could be read, they could, if one were careful, be rewritten.

Maekar thought he was sending you to tame his son. You could feel it in the careful tone of his words, you could feel the hope through the careful diplomacy of his acceptance letter, which your father had allowed you to read. The prince wanted a strong wife for his son. A steady hand. Something that might anchor Aerion to the earth before he burned everything around him.

But you intended to do something more interesting than that.

The journey north gave you time, and you used it well. The rhythm of the road settled into your bones, wheels creaking, hooves striking dirt, the quiet murmur of voices beyond the curtains. Long hours where nothing changed except the light.

You let your thoughts arrange themselves without forcing them. That was how it always worked best. Piece by piece.

By the time you reached the Crownlands, the structure of your plan had taken shape. You named it: Seven Steps to Tame a Beast.

King's Landing announced itself in smell before sight, woodsmoke, salt, something sour beneath both. Too many people, too little space, all of it pressed together and left to simmer. The Red Keep rose above it all, pale stone against a dull sky. It looked less like a crown and more like something grown in the wrong place.

The reception was brief, formal and efficient.

Maekar received you himself. He stood solid and broad, the years written into his face in hard lines. His hair had gone mostly to silver. His eyes were sharp, searching, measuring. You held his gaze just long enough, then gave him courtesy and nothing more.

Aerion was not there, you noticed.

STEPT 1. Keep Your Distance from the Wild.

A wild creature does not welcome approach. Every movement is weighed, every sound judged. You do not step into its space uninvited. You do not reach. You watch. You learn the rhythm first. Where it rests. What startles it. What draws its attention and what it ignores. Rush, and it turns. Wait, and it forgets you are there.

You did not seek Aerion in those first days, even if it took some effort.

There were servants willing to arrange a meeting. Courtiers who offered, curiosity thinly veiled. You declined each time, politely, with reasons that could not be pressed. Fatigue, settling in, amild headache.

In truth, you were mapping him. You began where he could not avoid being seen.

Meals.

He sat very straight, almost too straight, not relaxed. Every movement placed with care, hands set just so. Shoulders squared. The stillness was deliberate, the kind that came from control, not comfort. He ate little. Drank more than he should, though he kept it from showing. His eyes moved often. Not restless. A sweep, measured, taking stock of the room without drawing attention to it. He noted everything.

He laughed twice in three days, both times it was wrong. Too quick, it stopped at his mouth and went no further. The men around him laughed as well, they always did. You watched them more than him in those moments. Watched how easily they bent to it. Mirrors, all of them, they gave him back what he wanted to see.

On the second day, a steward stumbled over a name. A small mistake, barely worth notice. But Aerion noticed. His jaw tightened, just once. A brief pause before he spoke, a fraction longer than natural. Then it passed, the steward went on, unaware. You did not miss it, he disliked error. Disliked imprecision. The world, in his mind, should hold its shape. When it did not, something in him bristled.

On the third day, there was a gathering. Music, wine, low voices. People playing at ease.

You took a place near the edge, beside a column. Your handmaid stood with you, quiet, unobtrusive. You spoke when required, smiled when expected, nothing more.

Aerion crossed the room twice. The first time, he did not look at you. The second time, he did. A brief glance, flat and measuring. The kind given to something not yet worth attention. You were already looking elsewhere when it happened. Your focus set just past him, as though he were incidental.

Still, you saw enough. The slight tension at his mouth, the way his gaze held for a breath, then moved on. He knew you were there. Of course he did, and he was not interested.

Good.

Interest that comes too easily is useless. It has no weight; it does not last. Curiosity had to be earned.

That night, you sat by the window and let the city settle into silence beneath you.

He was proud, that was obvious, but there was something under it. Control, carefully maintained. He was not as unrestrained as the stories suggested. It meant the outbursts were not constant. They built. Pressure, then release.

He was intelligent. More than most around him allowed. That kind of mind, left without challenge, turns inward. Finds its own amusements, not always good ones. He had been told he was exceptional for too long. Ordinary things no longer held him.

Boredom, then. Boredom as a spark.

You suspected he had never been met with anything real. Only reflections and performance. That would have to change. You drew your braid over your shoulder, thinking.

You were not satisfied. You never were, this early. But you understood the ground beneath your feet now. Where it dipped, where it held. You had not spoken to him yet; you had barely shared a room. And still, you were closer than anyone here knew.

The ceremony took place at dawn.

Black candles burned low, their smoke thick and sweet, curling into the corners of the chamber. The maester spoke in High Valyrian, his voice steady as he shaped words that had existed long before the Conquest. Pale light slipped through a narrow window, thin and colourless. Maekar stood off to the side, his posture rigid, his expression set in that familiar way of a man who no longer expected much in return for doing what was required.

Aerion arrived on time.

He was dressed as expected, red and black, pale hair brushed to the side. He took his place beside you without hesitation, carrying himself like a man waiting out an obligation he could not avoid. He did not fidget; he was too controlled to do so. Instead, he held still, composed to the point of absence, his attention drifting toward the candles now and then as if searching for something that was not there.

When the maester's words required it, he took your hand. His grip was exact, dry and cold. It lingered only as long as custom demanded, then released at once, as if he had touched something hot and withdrawn before the burn could catch.

You kept your gaze forward and before you let your mind move forward, it was over.

The feast was small and slightly mournful. The kind of gathering where people ate and spoke because it was expected, not because they wished to. The food was well prepared, the wine even more so. Conversation moved carefully, never quite settling.

You were seated beside Aerion.

He spent the early portion of the meal demonstrating how effortlessly he could ignore you. He spoke across you, around you, treating the space you occupied as if it had always been empty. It was not for your benefit, it was for the others, for himself, for the quiet need to show that nothing had changed.

During the second course, he turned his head slightly in your direction, just enough to acknowledge you without granting you the full courtesy of attention.

"You are quieter than I expected. I was told Dornish women always had opinions about everything."

It was not the sharpest thing he could have said. You suspected he was holding the sharper things in reserve, testing whether blunt instruments would serve before reaching for finer ones. You let your fingers rest on the stem of your cup before answering.

"We do," you said. "We simply learn early which conversations are worth having."

Then you returned to your plate.

The silence stretched. You could feel it tighten, like cloth pulled just a little too far. You did not look at him; you did not need to. Beside you, he drank, then turned away, letting the moment dissolve.

Across the table, Maekar was watching. When the music began, it was him who moved first. You saw the decision before he acted. He crossed the room with purpose and spoke low to Aerion. You did not hear the words, but you did not need to. There was no request in the exchange.

Aerion turned toward you. He extended his hand with slow precision, making absolutely certain that every person in the room understood this was costing him something.

"Will you honour me, dear wife," he said, the words shaped correctly, the tone less so.

You placed your hand in his.

The floor was not crowded. The other couples kept their distance, leaving a space around you that felt exposed rather than open. He danced well, you noted without surprise, he had been trained to do everything.

This close, you could see the pale sweep of his eyelashes, lighter than his hair, catching the faint light when he blinked. The depth of his lilac eyes was clearer up close, not just colour but something layered beneath it. He had two scars under his cheek, but his skin still looked almost unreal in its smoothness.

His hand at your waist was the same as his grip during the ceremony, measured, controlled, with no warmth.

“Let us understand one another,” he said, his voice low enough to remain private, though there was nothing intimate in it. "I did not want this. I want you to know that I know what my father intends by it, and I want you to know that it will not work."

You let the music carry you through a turn before answering.

“I know you did not want it," you said. "I did not ask for your wanting. I asked for nothing at all, if you recall.”

"You will want things eventually. All wives do."

"Perhaps." You met his gaze briefly, then let it drift past him. "But I did not come here to want things from you, Aerion. I came because the arrangement was made, and I do not refuse an arrangement simply because it is inconvenient."

His hand tightened slightly at your waist, not painfully, but enough to notice.

"You think you can manage me." he said almost curious.

"I think, that they have been trying to manage you your whole life." you said. "And it has not served you much. I am not interested in managing you. I am interested in being your wife. That means I will keep this household in order, I will hold my place properly, and I will do what is required of me. Whether you choose to be part of that is yours to decide."

Another turn as the music continued.

"But I will be here," you added, quieter now. "That part is not negotiable."

He said nothing after that, but you did not mistake the silence for agreement.

Your chambers had been prepared with careful attention as expected. The fire lit, the bed done, everything arranged with quiet precision. You dressed for the night and sat near the hearth with a book open in your lap, though you were not reading.

You waited but he did not come.

The fire burned low. The sounds of the city shifted beyond the walls, settling into the deeper quiet of night. Somewhere, the watch called the hour and you closed the book.

You were not offended; you were not disappointed. You had already known Aerion would rather spend his wedding night in a brothel.

You extinguished the candle by the window and watched the room fall into shadow.

STEPT 2. Become a Familiar Shape.

Constant presence, always at the same distance, without sudden change. Given time, you stop being something to watch for. You become part of the world itself.

In the days that followed, you made yourself ordinary. It took more care than it appeared. True ordinariness had to be consistent. Too much absence would be noticed. Too much presence would draw the eye. You chose your places and kept to them. The great hall in the morning, a corridor near the training yard in the afternoon, a chair by the window in the library, once, where you read for two hours without lifting your head when he entered.

You did not seek him out and you did not avoid him. You were simply there. Aerion noticed.

At first, it was nothing clear. A pause when he entered a room and found you already in it. A shift in his attention, brief and controlled. The smallest recalculation. He had expected something from you. You could see it in what he did not find. No coldness, no wounded pride, no performance at all.

You gave him nothing to work with. Three days after the wedding, he passed you on the library and spoke to you for the first time since the feast.

“I trust you slept well. I confess I cannot say the same for the woman I spent the night with. She complained I kept her awake until dawn.”

You stopped reading and looked up at him.

“Kept her awake, or kept her waiting?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “There is a difference, I find, between a man who exhausts a woman and a man who simply prevents her from sleeping. One leaves her satisfied. The other leaves her staring at the ceiling." A brief pause. “From what I have heard of you, I suspect she saw rather more of the ceiling than she would have liked.”

You walked away with your book before he could answer.

You had learned early that a voice could betray a person faster than any blade. Most people used it badly. They made it loud when they wanted to be heard, sharpened it when they wanted to cut. They filled it with weight and urgency, as if force alone could make something true. Your father had taught you otherwise. In his solar, he spoke with the same measured evenness whether he was discussing grain yields or deciding a man's fate. A voice that only rises when threatened, he had told you once, is a voice that teaches people when you can be threatened.

You remembered that.

STEP 3. Let It Hear You Before It Sees You.

A calm voice, used often, without command. No edge to it, no sudden movement tied to the sound. The creature learns the voice first, without reason to fear it. Given time, the sound settles into the background. Familiar, expected, something it turns toward without quite knowing why.

So, you began to speak.

The first time was nothing. A grey morning, the stone still holding the night’s cold. Aerion walked the corridor outside the great hall with two of his usual companions, and you were walking alone, and there was no reason to say anything, silence would have served just as well, would in fact have required less effort, but you spoke anyway.

“The easternmost courtyard is iced over this morning,” you said as you went by. “If you are riding, the south gate will be quicker.”

You did not look at him as you said it. You did not look back after.

Behind you, there was a brief silence, and then the low sound of his companions resuming their conversation. You could not tell if he had answered, it did not matter. The point was the sound itself, your voice, steady, offering something useful and nothing more, left behind in his morning like a small, ordinary fact.

You did this again two days later. And again, after that.

An observation about the kitchens. A remark about a particular courier who had been delayed. Once, on the stairs, a quiet comment about a book you carried, spoken into the space without asking for anything in return.

He said nothing the first time. The second time, he gave you a look, the same one you had seen before, sharp and narrow, weighing, deciding whether what it saw was worth the trouble of attention. The third time, he answered, briefly, as if the words had slipped out before he could stop them.

You counted this as exactly what it was, progress.

The friction came eventually. Midday meal, smaller than the evening gatherings, the kind where people allowed themselves to speak a little more freely. You were seated across from Aerion rather than beside him, which meant you had the less comfortable position of being visible to him rather than adjacent.

He had been in a particular mood all morning. You had seen it earlier, out in the courtyard. A tightness in the way he held himself, a coiled irritation that suggested some earlier conversation had not gone as he'd wished. He kept it contained, but it showed in small places. The set of his shoulders, the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long.

Halfway through the meal, he looked at you directly.

“I saw you speaking with the hedge knight this morning. The boy could barely look at you.”

“Ser Duncan,” You corrected, “Could barely look at anyone,” you said. “He has learned that drawing attention to himself is dangerous. A useful instinct, when one lives in a dangerous environment.”

Around the table, the shift was immediate. Eyes moved away, shoulders shifted, someone found their cup suddenly very interesting. No one wanted to be part of whatever this was.

Aerion's mouth curved, but not warmly.

“You say that as an observation. I wonder if you mean it as a criticism.”

“I mean it as neither.” You set down your knife. “A knight who flinches is a knight who has learned what happens when he does not. That tells you something about where he lives.” You looked at him steadily. “The more interesting question is what it tells you about yourself.”

“I am not in the habit of concerning myself with knights anymore.”

“No,” you said. “But you might concern yourself with the fact that a man who fears you will serve you only as long as he must. Fear is a short leash, and the moment it slackens, the moment you turn your back, a frightened man will not think of loyalty. He will think of himself.” You picked up your knife again. "Respect holds longer. It is less satisfying, I imagine, but considerably more reliable."

The table was very quiet.

Aerion's expression did not change, which was its own kind of change, in the vocabulary you had spent weeks building. The muscles around his jaw held with a precision that was not natural stillness. He was choosing his next words with more care than usual, which meant the previous ones had landed somewhere he had not expected them to reach.

“You speak as though I require your counsel,” he said almost thoughtful.

“I speak because the observation seemed worth making,” you said. “What you do with it is your own concern.”

You returned to your meal.

He said nothing more. But he did not look away for a longer moment than was comfortable, and when he finally did, it was not with a quick dismissal, it was with adjustment.

In the library, three days later, you found him already there when you arrived.

This was unusual. Aerion was not, in your observation, a man who spent mornings in libraries by preference. You entered anyways and took the chair you usually took, near the far window, which had the best light and a view of the inner yard, and opened the book you had brought.

For a time, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly. From outside came the steady rhythm of steel on steel, practice in the yard below.

“The Celtigar boy.”

You did not look up immediately. You marked your page, then lifted your eyes.

“The one my father is considering for a trade agreement,” he went on. “You spoke with him yesterday.”

“Briefly.” you said.

“He is not what he presents.” There was something restrained in the way he said it. Irritation, perhaps, or reluctance, as though the act of asking you something, or almost asking you something, cost him more than he was willing to fully account for.

You studied him for a moment. “No,” you agreed. “He is not. His family's debts are larger than they've admitted, and his uncle's position in the city has been weakening for two years. The trade agreement would favour him considerably more than it would favour the crown.

Aerion's eyes moved over your face, his gaze precise.

“You gathered that from a brief conversation.”

“From the conversation, and from the days before it,” you said. “People show where the pressure is, if you pay attention.”

A pause.

“My father should know,” he said.

“He should,” you agreed. “I thought you might be the appropriate person to tell him.”

You let that rest between you without elaboration, the implicit suggestion that this was a useful thing, that you were offering it to him rather than taking the credit for it, that you were treating him as someone worth offering useful things to. You did not dress it in sentiment. You did not soften it into a gesture. You simply left it there, plainly, for him to take or ignore as he chose.

He chose to take it. Not gratefully, not with any acknowledgment of the exchange's nature. He simply gave a short, almost inaudible sound of agreement and turned back to his book.

You had met, in your life, exactly three people who understood the particular discipline of the open hand.

Your father was one of them. A merchant woman in Sunspear who had built a trading empire from a single stall was another. The third was a maester who had served your household for eleven years and who had, in that time, quietly accumulated more influence over its workings than anyone with an official title. None of them had achieved what they achieved through force, or through the performance of authority. They had achieved it through the same mechanism, over and over, they gave things away, then let them go.

STEP 4. Offer Without Expectation.

Something of value left within reach, knowledge, advantage, ease. Then you step back. You do not insist. You do not demand. You do not watch too closely. The creature must come to the thing on its own terms, or the thing carries the smell of a trap. Patience here is not passive. It is the most active thing you can do, the discipline of the open hand, extended and then stilled, asking nothing, waiting without the tension of waiting.

You began small, that was where patterns took hold.

The first thing was almost accidental, simple enough to pass unnoticed.

Over weeks, you had seen how Aerion’s mornings turned. When his correspondence waited in disorder, something in him tightened. It was a small irritation, but it spread, it created a particular friction that compounded into the broader texture of his day. His steward handled it unevenly, some days careful, others careless.

You said nothing about this to anyone.

Instead, you mentioned to the steward’s assistant, a young man called Pell, anxious and observant. You mentioned once, that mornings that begin clean tend to stay that way, as though sharing a general philosophy, and then you moved on.

Next day, the letters were sorted before Aerion reached his study. You were nowhere near him when he noticed. You were in the eastern courtyard, the air sharp enough to sting your throat, walking slow circles over frost-hardened ground.

The second offering was more direct, and more deliberate.

The previous night, you had lingered in the great hall long enough to catch a conversation not meant for you. Two of Maekar’s advisors, careless in their angle, speaking of the Plumm family, a loan, a disputed inheritance, a claim that had the potential to become inconvenient for the crown if left unaddressed. The kind of thing that moved slowly until it did not.

You wrote it down, simply a single sheet of paper, placed beneath a volume you had observed Aerion taking from the library shelves twice in the past fortnight, angled just so, easily visible to someone reaching for the book.

You were gone before he arrived, you did not check if it had been taken. This was the discipline, the open hand, and then the stillness.

He found you in the corridor outside the great hall two days later. The way he approached told you enough, straight line, no hesitation, you knew the paper had been found and used.

“The Plumm family matter,” he said. “My father addressed it this morning. He mentioned information that reached him through unusual channels.”

“Did he.” you said.

“He did not know the source.” A pause. “I did.”

You met his gaze, nothing more. “Anyone listening could have heard it,” you said. “I assumed it was worth noting.”

“You assumed,” he repeated sceptical. “And the assumption led you to leave an unsigned document in a place you knew I would find it, rather than simply speaking to me, or to my father directly.”

“Speaking to your father directly would have made it mine to claim. It seemed more useful for it to be yours.” You said, you were well aware that he needed to slowly gain his father’s trusts again.

“You expect me to believe you want nothing in return.” He said.

“I expect nothing from you,” you replied. “I noticed something that seemed relevant to your interests. I noted it where you could find it. That is all.”

He studied you for a long moment, measuring again, then stepped past you without another word. You turned in the opposite direction and continued walking.

The pattern continued.

Days filled with small things, each one easy to miss on its own. A map left open to the right page before a meeting. A quiet word to a knight whose behaviour toward Aerion had been developing a particular insolence. Not a warning, only a reminder of how quickly favour could turn. The knight corrected himself. Aerion noticed the change; you were reasonably certain he had chosen not to address it directly.

During a meal he caught you refilling his cup before the servant reached it, an automatic gesture, barely conscious, and he watched your hand as you set the jug down.

“You do not behave like someone who dislikes me,” he said.

“I am not certain I dislike you,” you said, truthfully. “I have not yet seen enough of you to decide.”

“You have been living in the same castle for a month.”

“So, my husband has taken to keeping track now?” you said, a light note of teasing slipping in despite yourself. You lifted your cup and took a slow sip, letting the taste of the wine linger as a small, knowing smile curved at the corner of your mouth.

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a scoff he meant to share. He didn’t answer. His gaze lingered, a fraction too long to be careless, as if he were trying to smooth over something that had caught him off guard. There was a faint tension in his face, in the set of his jaw and the stillness of his shoulders, the sort of thing that suggested he was trying very hard not to let any hint of embarrassment show.

Later you noticed he took the map you left on his desk. Maekar’s manner afterward told you enough, less strain and more thought behind his words when he spoke to his son.  Aerion did not mention it and you did not either.

The absence of acknowledgment said what it needed to. He would take what was useful, he would not name the source. Pride held that line, but still, he had used it. He had accepted the offering, even reluctantly, even silently. That mattered more.

Which meant the distance was slowly shrinking.

He came to your chambers late on a Thursday, when the castle had settled into its quieter rhythm and the corridors carried only the distant steps of the watch.

You sat at your vanity, drawing the brush through your hair in slow, even strokes, winding you down toward sleep. Your sleeping gown was light, meant for the warmth of the room and the privacy of it, nothing more. Your hair hung loose, longer than it appeared when pinned, falling across your shoulders in a way that belonged to a version of yourself you did not generally allow the castle to see.

The door opened without warning, but you did not turn.

You watched him through the mirror instead. It gave you a clearer view than facing him outright. He stepped inside, then paused when he saw you, or the version of you caught in the glass. Something flickered across his face, quick and unguarded, before he shut it down.

You kept brushing your hair.

He crossed the room at an unhurried pace. No sudden movement, no sign of haste, still, there was weight in it. He stopped behind your chair and rested both hands on its back. In the mirror, his eyes met yours directly, without the usual angle or distance.

You held his gaze and continued the brush stroke to its end.

The silence lasted several seconds. In the mirror you watched him watching you. The loose hair, the gown, the particular version of you that belonged to this room and this hour, and you watched him notice that he was watching, and tighten slightly around it.

“I have been really patient with you,” he said at last, his voice low. “I have watched you move through this household for weeks. The documents, the steward, the arrangements that appear before I ask for them.” A pause. “No one does this without a ledger. Show me yours.”

“I told you I keep no ledger,” you said.

“Everyone keeps a ledger.” The words came sharper now. “Whether they admit it or not.”

You set the brush down on the vanity and folded your hands in your lap, and looked at his reflection. The candle shifted, and for a moment the light caught him differently in the mirror. The closeness of him. The space between you that had narrowed without either of you naming it.

“You are angry,” you said. “Not because you think I want something from you. You are angry because you cannot determine what it is, and that distinction is troubling you more than you would like to admit.”

His grip tightened slightly on the chair, his frown deepened. “Do not tell me what troubles me.”

“Then tell me yourself.” You said. “You came here and opened that door without knocking. If you have something to say, say it plainly.”

“What you have offered me,” he said, and this time the control thinned, sharpened into something colder, “is the manner of a woman who wants something. The oldest trick there is. Every woman I have met wanted things. Every woman in this castle wants things. You-” and here something almost contemptuous entered his voice, directed less at you than at his own inability to solve you “-stand there with your quiet gestures and your useful information and expect me to believe it costs you nothing, that you want nothing from me.”

“I told you I expect nothing from you,” you said, for the second time in your acquaintance “Which is not the same as wanting nothing.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. For a moment, his gaze dipped, catching on the fall of your hair over your shoulder, the line of your neck in the candlelight, before returning to your reflection with more force than before.

“Then what do you want,” he said lowly, moving a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You watched him for a moment. The tension in his shoulders. The way he held himself still, as if movement might betray him. The closeness of him, the warmth of it at your back.

“To see you for what you truly are,” you said, now turning around to look up at him. “When no one is performing fear at you.”

The room went quiet.

He did not move at once. His hands remained on the chair, though you felt the subtle shift in them, the restraint in it. His breathing changed, barely, but enough to notice. His gaze stayed on yours, searching now in a way it had not before.

Then he straightened. His hands lifted from the chair with care, as if he had to think about the motion before making it. He held your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable passing through it. Then he turned and left.

The door closed with a loud thud behind him.

You looked back at your reflection in the glass. The room holding a trace of him still, something unsettled in the air. You reached for the brush and finished what you had started.

A man like Aerion did not adjust. He did not take pressure and reshape himself around it. His world ran on confirmation, on power answered with submission, on a rhythm that reassured him of his place in it. You had been interfering with that rhythm since the morning you arrived. Quietly, consistently, without giving him anything he knew how to answer.

A disruption like that never passed without consequence.

STEP 5. Survive the First Test of Teeth.

Before any bond forms, there is a test. A feint of violence, a warning, a measure of what you are made of. Not always meant to hurt, but whether to see of you will break or bite back. If you do, is over.

You held this thought in the quiet of your morning as you dressed carefully and went about your day.

The argument started in the corridor outside his study, late in the afternoon, when the light came through the western windows, catching dust in the air, turning it gold. You had passed him with the usual moderate acknowledgment, not ignoring him, not seeking him, the same distance you had maintained for weeks, and he had stopped walking.

“You were in my father's solar this morning,” he said.

“I was,” you said. “He asked my opinion on a correspondence from the Arbor.”

“He asked your opinion on that matter,” Something tightened in his face. “Instead of asking me?”

“He did.”

“You have been very busy these days,” he said, “Making yourself useful, to my father, to every corner of this household except the one that is actually your concern.”

“You are my concern,” you said. “Which is precisely why I do not sit waiting for you to need something."

“I do not need anything from you.”

“No,” you agreed. “You have made that very clear last time we discussed. And yet here we are, having this conversation, which you initiated.”

He turned and walked into his study. Not an invitation, but not a dismissal either, and you followed because the conversation was unfinished.

“You think you are very clever,” he said, moving behind his desk, putting wood and distance between you, like it might help him sort what he could not name.

“I think I am.” you said defiantly.

“You think,” he said, and the voice had dropped into its most dangerous register. “That you can arrange yourself into something that suits you, move pieces across a board you were not invited to play on, smile at my father in his solar, look at me like that, and that none of it will have a cost.”

“I have never believed anything is without cost.” you said.

“Then if you are so clever, you should have calculated more carefully.” He stepped past you, toward the door. “You will remain in this room until I say otherwise.” The words came out with anger and the door shut behind him.

You stood in the centre of the room for a moment. Then you moved to his chair, behind his desk, and sat in it, and looked at the documents arranged across the surface, and began, with the unhurried attention, to read them.

Three days later, in the great hall. You had not sought Ser Duncan out specifically. You had spoken with him before, briefly, like with most people in the Keep, and found him to be earnest, possessing more native intelligence than his manner suggested. He was easy to be around. You were in the middle of an unremarkable conversation about the road conditions north of King's Landing, he had travelled them recently, and you had asked a practical question. You felt the shift before you saw him.

A hand settled at your waist. Firm, claiming, meant to be seen, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress. Ser Duncan's expression went still, not quite discomfort and not quite confusion.

“My wife,” Aerion said. “I was looking for you.”

Duncan inclined his head and stepped back. You kept your expression exactly as it had been. Aerion’s gaze lingered on you, then flicked once toward the knight, measuring, assembling something he did not like. The hall had gone quiet.

“Is this a game to you,” he said under his breath. An accusation that had the shape of a question.

“No,” you said.

“Then what is it.” He moved in front of you. “What are you doing with the hedge knight-” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Are you provoking me, deliberately.”

“I was having a conversation about road conditions,”

“Do not.” His voice dropped further. “Do not use that voice with me.”

“Which voice would you prefer then? One where I lie?”

“You know,” he said quietly, to you, only to you. “What he did to me.”

“I know what happened at Ashford,” you said, equally quietly. “As does most of the kingdom-”

The struck came fast. Mid-sentence, mid-breath, in front of the hall and the fire and Ser Duncan's suddenly rigid stillness. The back of his hand across your cheek with a force that turned your head and produced a sound that silenced the nearest conversations.

You straightened. You did not touch your face. You did not look at Duncan, who you could feel in your peripheral vision. You looked at Aerion, directly, steadily, with the same expression you had worn in the study, and you said nothing at all.

His jaw was tight and the hall was watching it all. He gripped your wrist, hard, the mark already beginning, and turned toward the corridor, and you went with him because the scene that would result from not going would cost you more.

In your chambers, he released you without a word and left. The door shut and the lock clicked.

You sat by the window. The light had shifted, pale now, moving slowly across the stone. You looked at your wrist, at the faint marks forming. You were not afraid and you were not angry, so you waited with patience.

Maekar went to Aerion that same evening, of course he did. No one told you outright, but you knew before a word reached you. The servant who came to open your chamber door avoided your eyes, her hands slower than usual on the latch. Raised voices, you guessed. Maekar did not shout often, but when he did, it carried. Aerion would have been made to stand there and take it. For the insult. For making a spectacle of his own wife. For stepping, once again, where he had been warned not to. You could almost hear it. The sharp edge of Maekar’s restraint, the threat beneath it.

You let out a slow breath. This would not help. It would tighten something in Aerion, push him further into himself before it loosened anything at all.

He did not return that night, or the next.

On the third, you woke to the sound of your door.

The room was dark, the fire long since reduced to coals and a faint red glow. The kind of hour when even the castle seemed to pause, caught between one watch and the next. You lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds that followed the door, unsteady footsteps, the sounds of a man navigating a familiar space with less precision than usual.

You had smelled the wine, thick and sour on the air, and something else beneath it, cheap perfume and sweat. You had passed enough doorways in this city to know it came from a brothel.

He moved through the dark toward the bed with care that bordered on effort. Not quite stumbling, but close. You lay still with your eyes not quite closed and your breathing steady and you watched him through your lashes.

He stopped at the bedside. For a moment, he only looked at you.

He was less put together than you had ever seen him, his hair dishevelled, collar open, his clothes carrying the evidence of hours spent in places this castle was not and had not bothered to hide it well. His gaze moved over you, slower than usual, lingering in places he would have ignored in daylight. There was anger in it. That much you knew. But there was something else tangled into it, something the drink had loosened.

Then his hand shot out and closed around your throat.

The force of it drove the breath from you before you could think. His grip was sure, fingers settling with a familiarity that made it worse. The ceiling tilted as your body reacted, instinct rising fast and sharp. His face was above yours, close, and it was not the face of a man in full command of himself. His eyes were bright, unfocused in a way that had nothing to do with the dark. His grip tightened.

You felt the tightness clearly, the pressure at your windpipe, the pulse hammering under his hand. The animal instinct toward struggle that rose in you like a tide and that you identified and still you did not move.

And then, quietly, helplessly, from somewhere underneath the shock and the constriction and the absolute clarity of your own danger, you laughed. Not loudly. Not mockingly. Not shaped for him, not meant for anything at all. It simply came, as if your body had found something in the moment that did not fit the rest of it. Simply absurd and honest and almost intimate in its desperation.

The sound of it, barely audible, stopped him completely.

His hand did not leave your throat, but it stopped tightening. His expression shifted, confusion cutting through whatever had driven him here.

“What are you-” he said. It came out raw, his voice rough, stripped of its usual control. “What are you doing, what are you doing to me.”

You said nothing. You held his eyes in the dark and did not struggle, you did not look away.

“I hate you,” he said. The words came out flat, almost tired, like a confession.“I hate what you do. I hate that I cannot-.” His voice broke across the unfinished sentence. “I cannot find the edges of you. I cannot-.”

His grip loosened, fractionally, and then fractionally more.

Something in his face gave way. The control slipped, not all at once, but enough. His shoulders dipped, the tension draining in uneven pieces. Something beneath the surface rising without permission. His forehead dropped, his weight shifted, and then, with the slow, helpless gravity of exhaustion, he leaned against your chest, his hands still loosely at your throat, his body giving what his pride would not. Choked sobs forming on the back of his throat as his shoulders trembled.

You lay still beneath him. The room held its silence. No voices in the corridor, no movement beyond the walls. Only the weight of him, and the strange, unguarded vulnerability he had not allowed himself before.

Carefully, you lifted your hand. Slow and measured. The way one moves around something that might startle.

He felt the motion before you completed it.

He pulled back at once. Your hand knocked aside, not gently, but not the way he had struck you before either, with less force and more reflex. He was off the bed and standing before you had fully processed the movement, and the reassembly was happening in real time, you could watch it, the walls going up stone by stone, the expression reorganizing, the posture recovering its usual architecture.

He did not look at you as he wiped his tears with the back of his hand, and left.

You lay in the dark for a long time after the door closed. Your throat ached. When you touched it, you could feel where his fingers had pressed, the marks already forming under the skin. You let your hand fall back to the bed. You had survived the teeth.

There is a particular kind of silence that follows a storm.

It is not peace, peace settles. This waits, it hangs over what is left, thin and watchful, as if the ground itself is deciding whether anything will take root again. You lived in that silence for six days. You ate in it, walked the corridors in it, spoke when required and otherwise let it sit around you, like weather that refused to move on.

Aerion was never where you were. Not once, not even by accident.

You noticed the pattern the way you noticed everything else. He left rooms when you entered them, not with obvious avoidance, but with quiet efficiency, but avoiding something nonetheless, something that he had not yet decided how to face. The corridors he had habitually used became corridors he did not use. The hours he had kept became hours he abandoned.

Like he was afraid of you. Not in the way people feared harm. In the way they feared being seen too clearly.

STEP 6. Allow Contact on Its Terms.

The first touch is not taken, it is allowed. A still hand. No pressure. No attempt to hold or redirect or claim. The creature must choose the contact, or the contact means nothing. It is the most fragile moment in the entire sequence the one where everything that has been built can collapse in a single wrong movement. Patience here is not strategy. It is something closer to faith, the belief that what has been established is enough to bear weight, if the weight is placed gently enough.

You dressed with care that seventh night, with a specific kind of nightgown your hair loose again, and went to him.

His chambers were deeper in the keep than yours, further from the outer walls, further from the sounds of the city, the kind of rooms that held heat and shadow in equal measure. The door was heavy. The light beneath it was the particular amber of firelight rather than candle, which meant he was awake and the hour was not the reason.

You did not knock.

The room was larger than you had expected, and sparser. There were maps on one wall, detailed ones, and a writing table covered with papers that had the disordered quality of work abandoned mid-thought. A shelf of books, several displaced at a specific angle with care. On a low table near the window, a cup and a flagon, mostly empty. The fire was high, built up more than the room's warmth required, the kind of fire you build when you want something to look at.

He was standing before it.

He turned when you entered, and the firelight caught his face in a way that daylight had never been permitted to. His eyes carried the particular redness that came not from drink but from something that had happened before the drink. His shoulders, which were always exact, held themselves with an effortful maintenance, but it took effort to keep it that way.

You closed the door behind you. The latch caught with a sound that was very small in the quiet.

“You should not be here,” he said.

“Probably,” you agreed. You did not move further into the room yet. You stood near the door and looked at him across the firelit space between you and said “What is wrong.”

“Nothing that concerns you.” He turned back to the fire. The set of his shoulders said the conversation was over, but the fact that he had not told you to leave said something else.

You crossed the room.

Slowly, without purpose written into the movement. You stopped beside him. Not close enough to require acknowledgment, not far enough to be a withdrawal, and you looked at the fire.

Neither of you spoke.

The fire crackled, wood settled with a low crack, and you waited.

A minute passed, then another. The fire shifted, settling lower in the grate, and in the new configuration of light you saw it, brief, barely visible. A single track of tears, catching firelight, at the corner of his jaw.

You did not look at it directly.

“Aerion,” you said.

“My father-.” he began, and then stopped, like the words had caught on something.

You let the silence hold.

“He saw,” he said with flatness. “The marks on your neck. He saw them. Someone spoke of what happened at the hall too.” His jaw tightened. “He made himself very clear.”

“How clear,” you said.

“In all his wisdom, has threatened me, again, to send me into exile.” The word sat between you. Heavy enough on its own. “He called it a last chance. He has called it that before.” Something crossed his voice that was not quite bitterness. “The words had begun to lose their meaning, but it felt too serious now”

You turned to look at him then.

He was still facing the fire, but the profile of him had changed. The structure of his expression had begun to crack. Not enough for others to notice but enough for you. He looked, in the firelight, less like the man who had locked you in his study and struck you in the great hall and more like something earlier than that, rawer and less certain and considerably more alone.

You reached out. Slowly, with the deliberateness you had promised yourself, no force, no urgency, no claim. Your hand found his and held it with the lightness of something offered rather than taken.

He looked down at it.

“I should have covered the marks better,” you said. “I misjudged the consequence. That was my error, and I am sorry for it.”

“That is not-.” He stopped; his hand had not moved. “That is not what this is about.”

And he pulled away fast. Almost startled by it. With the sudden, electric motion of something that has allowed contact and immediately regretted the allowing. He stepped back, something sharp and unsteady in his eyes.

“Do not,” he said, and the word came out wrong, cracked across the middle of it. “Do not do that. Do not stand there and apologize and take my hand and look at me like-.” He stopped again, breath uneven. “Like there is something worth-.” He stopped again. His hands had closed into fists at his sides and he was breathing with effort. “You do not know what I am.”

“I know what you have done,” you said.

“Then you know enough.” He turned away. “You know I hurt people. You know I cannot-.” His voice fractured. He pressed on through it. “I cannot stop myself… there is something wrong with me. There has always been something wrong with me and everyone who has come close enough to see it leaves or breaks. And you are here, in this room, at this hour, and I do not-.” He stopped.

The fire was the only sound.

“I am a beast,” he said, very quietly. Tears running free down his cheeks. “That is what I am. That is all I am.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

“You are a man,” you said, “who has been told a story about himself for so long that he has stopped questioning whether it is the only story available.”

“It is not a story. It is evidence of everything I have done.”

“Evidence can be read in more than one direction,” you said. 

“Do not make me into something I am not.”

“I am not making you into anything.” You held his gaze. “I am telling you that what you are is not to be fixed. That the thing you have been, it is not the only version of you that exists. And that-.” You paused, because the next words required accuracy, and accuracy required care. “You matter to me. Not the prince, not the name. You. What is underneath all of this. That matters to me.”

The room was absolutely still.

He looked at you with an expression you had no entry for in the vocabulary you had built of him, something unguarded, almost frightened, like he has been handed something he does not know how to hold and is not certain he can afford to drop.

Then something gave way.

Not loudly. Not all at once. His breath shifted. His shoulders dropped. Whatever he had been holding together slipped. His breathing changed. You did not move toward him, but you did not need to.

He crossed the remaining distance himself without thinking about it, and then his forehead was against your shoulder and his hands were at your sides without grip, without force, simply present, and he was not making a sound but you could feel the shaking of him and the wetness against the fabric of your nightgown and the weight of him.

You stood very still.

You did not put your arms around him. You did not make any movement that could be felt as claiming. You simply held yourself and let him use it, and the fire burned lower as he came apart quietly against your shoulder without asking permission and without being asked to stop.

You did not know how long it lasted. Long enough.

You raised your hand slowly, slowly enough that he could have pulled away again, enough to be refused, and brought your fingers to his hair.

It was shorter than it looked. Silver-pale and fine, the kind of hair that carried light rather than colour, and beneath your fingertips it was softer than you had anticipated. You drew your hand through it once, carefully, from the crown of his head down to the nape of his neck, where the hair ended and the skin began, warm and taut over the column of his spine.

He did not move away.

He leans into your touch involuntarily, as if starved for contact. His eyes flutter shut, a shudder running through him at the simple gesture. It's a chink in his armour, a crack in the façade he has built around himself. He hates how good it feels, how desperately he craves your gentleness, like something that had been starved for so long it had forgotten the word for hunger until the smell of food arrived. He hates that it's you, a woman he has dismissed as a nuisance, a distraction.

You kept your hand still at the nape of his neck and waited until the tension in him eased, just a little, then you took his hand. He did not resist the guiding.

That told you more than anything else had. Aerion Brightflame, who resisted everything, who turned even small things into contests, let himself be guided across the room, no argument, no pause. Just the quiet, spent compliance of someone who had nothing left to push with.

You lay down and he lay beside you.

For a moment he remained on his back, staring upward, and you could feel the effort in him, his composure still running even now, still attempting to impose order on something that had moved past the reach of order.

Then, slowly, as if testing each inch of the movement, allowing himself permission one fraction at a time, he moved closer. His head found your chest. His arms came around your waist, and the grip that followed was not gentle exactly, it had too much need in it for gentleness, but it was not aggression either, it was anchoring.

“Don't mistake this for weakness,” he muttered, eyes fixed somewhere above you, studying something very far away. “Or tenderness.” A pause. “I merely refuse to let my father's words haunt me alone tonight.”

“All right,” you said.

You brought one hand up to his hair again. The same movement, slow, unhurried, from crown to nape and back, repeated with the consistency of something that asked nothing in return. Your other hand rested against his back, barely any pressure at all.

The fire had burned low and the room was mostly shadow.

“If you much as breathe a word of this to anyone,” he murmured into your chest, his voice rough but stripped of its usual edge, “I'll deny it until my last breath.” His arms tightened slightly, involuntarily. “Stay with me tonight… please.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” you said.

As the night went on, Aerion slowly succumbed to sleep. Something about being held, about your gentle touch, brought a peace he had rarely known. He did not dream of dragons or conquests, for once. His sleep was free of the constant restlessness that usually plagued him. He burrowed into your chest, unconsciously seeking more of your warmth, of your presence.

You lay awake longer than he did. Not from discomfort, too much to process, lying in the dark with their thoughts arranged in rows like objects after a flood.

His breathing had changed, his weight against you had changed. The man who had come apart was now simply sleeping. With his face against your chest and his silver hair tickling your collarbone and his arms loosely maintaining their hold even in sleep, the grip eased to something that felt closer to a choice rather than necessity.

You ran your hand through his hair one more time, very slowly. He made a small sound, low and entirely unconscious, and pressed closer.

You looked at the ceiling for a long time and eventually, sleep took you too.

The room was in the grey-dark of late night, not yet dawn, but the black had thinned to something softer. His breathing had changed again; he was watching you.

His breath caught as he took in the sight of you, soft, vulnerable, beautiful in the unguarded way of sleeping things. A strange warmth curled in his chest, foreign and unsettling. He hesitated. His fingers twitched toward your hair, as if to brush a stray lock from your face, then stopped. He scowled at himself, at this weakness. But the scowl faltered when his gaze lingered on the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the rise and fall of your breath.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted closer, draping an arm over your waist as if claiming you, not with arrogance, but with something dangerously close to possessiveness. His lips pressed against your temple in a fleeting, uncharacteristically tender kiss.

You opened your eyes. The ceiling was grey above you. Beside you, or rather, around you, Aerion had stilled, as if caught in the act of something he had not meant to do.

“Is something wrong?” you asked quietly.

He cleared his throat, his thumb idly tracing circles on your skin, trying for normalcy, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted at your proximity.

“Are you comfortable?”he asked.

“Yes,” you said. You turned your head slightly to look at him. “Are you?”

He gave a noncommittal hum, not meeting your gaze. The truth was he had slept better than he had in years, but he was not about to say so. That would imply weakness. He shifted slightly, the arm around your waist drawing you a fraction closer without him seeming to notice. His fingers continued their circles, almost absentmindedly, as though he were lost in thought and the touch was the only thing keeping him tethered.

The grey outside the window had begun its slow migration toward something lighter. The fire was entirely cold now, the room held only the warmth of the bed, of proximity, of the particular heat that accumulates between two bodies in the hours before dawn.

Then awareness settled in him fully. Of the closeness. Of the precise arrangement of you against him, the warmth of your body, the thin fabric of your sleeping gown, the way the hem had shifted in the night to lie differently against your skin. His hand tensed briefly.

He swallowed.

You felt it, the shift that moved through him, the awareness sharpening into something specific, something that did not belong entirely to the vulnerability of the preceding hours. His lips parted, but no words came. He looked at you with an expression caught precisely between irritation and something he could not arrange into anything controllable, frustrated by the evidence of his own body, by the want that had surfaced without authorization.

You could feel it, the warmth of him. The unmistakable pressure of his want against your hip, present and unambiguous, and the particular tension of a man who has noticed you noticing and does not know what to do with it.

Neither of you spoke.

His hand, which had stilled, began very slowly, as though testing whether the motion would be stopped, to move again. Not the idle circles of before. Something more deliberate, more aware of itself, tracing the line of fabric against skin, as if testing whether the moment would break.

You did not stop him.

Not passive, there was nothing passive in the attention you were giving to this moment, to his breathing, to the fractional shifts of his weight and the warmth of his mouth near your temple and the press of him against your hip that had not diminished. But still in the way you had always been still near him, present, available, making no demand and offering no resistance, letting the space between you be defined by what he chose to do with it.

He exhaled.

“You are-.” he began, and stopped, his jaw tightened. He tried again, and the words he found were not the ones he had started with, “This changes nothing.”

“I know,” you said.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do,” you said.

His hand moved again with less hesitation, no longer tentative, something with more intention behind it, and his body followed, shifting against you with the weight of a man who has been resisting something for weeks and has arrived, at last, at the particular exhaustion of wanting and the decision to stop pretending otherwise.

His mouth found your throat, the same throat he had gripped days ago in the dark. You brought your hand to his hair, fingers threading through silver.

Aerion exhales slowly, a controlled breath that does nothing to conceal the tension wound through his jaw, his shoulders, the deliberate stillness of his hands. He's beautiful in his conflict, you think. Unbearably so. That sharp face, that proud mouth, carved for cruelty or for this, and tonight the line between them seems very thin.

He opens his eyes again, his gaze locking with yours again. He looks almost pained, his pride warring with the desire that's quickly consuming him. He wants you. Gods, he wants you so much it hurts, and he hates that he can't bring himself to deny it any longer. He hates how powerless he feels at your touch, how he craves more despite his better judgment. His breathing is ragged as he leans over you, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Stop me. Say... say no.” The words come rough, almost like a plea.

You looked at him for one long moment, you take in the conflict laid bare for the first time, the stubborn pride, the hunger he can no longer hide, the exhaustion of holding both apart.

Then you kissed him first.

He kisses you back like a man drowning who has finally stopped fighting the current. His hands come up to grip your face, not gently, and the sound that escapes his throat is low, rough, barely human. The careful prince, the controlled and calculating Aerion Targaryen, dissolves in the space between one breath and the next. What replaces him is something rawer. Hungrier. Something he's kept caged behind violet eyes and cutting remarks for far too long.

The kiss deepens without hesitation, consuming. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of desperate precision, tasting, claiming, as if he's cataloguing every detail through touch alone. You feel the heat of him, radiating off his skin like fever, like fire, like something that has been burning in secret for too long and has finally found air.

His hands roam your body with a feverish desperation, as if trying to memorize every curve, every gasp, every shudder beneath his touch. His kisses trail from your lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin, marking you as his, branding you in the only way he knows how. His hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel just how badly he aches for you. He's lost in the sensation, in the fire between you both, consumed by it. He's not gentle about it. He leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing that sensitive point where your shoulder meets your throat. He wants to mark you, to make you scream his name, to make sure there's no doubt in your mind or anyone else's of who you belong to.

His free hand slides under your nightgown, his fingers trailing up your thigh, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His touch is possessive, demanding, as if he's making up for every minute he's denied himself this pleasure. Your breath hitches as his fingers trace higher, teasing, taunting, every brush of skin against skin sending sparks through you. His lips return to yours, swallowing your gasp as his touch grows bolder, more deliberate. He plays with your breasts, kneading them and pinching at your nipples until you arch into him, your back lifting from the mattress like a prayer. His hands clutch at you, clinging as if you're the only solid thing in the world. He's panting now, his control frayed to the breaking point.

“Gods,” he breathes against your collarbone, “I've been waiting-.” He cuts himself off and bites down instead of finishing the sentence, leaving a bruise.

He buries his face in that spot on your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his lips roaming feverishly as if he can't get enough. Then he kisses down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of hot, wet marks down your stomach, your hip, your inner thigh. His hands slide up your legs, his touch rough but reverent, the touch of a man who has never let himself experience something so wholly, so completely. He moves with the focus of someone who has thought about this, who has imagined and resented and wanted in equal measure.

He pauses for a moment, looking up at you, the desire in his eyes burning hotly as he takes in the sight of you, spread out before him like a feast.

“Gods, woman...” His voice comes out low, cracked at the edges. “You look exquisite.”

Your hand goes to his hair, gripping it, silver-pale between your fingers, and you guide him where the ache pulses hottest. He goes willingly, like a man possessed, his lips tracing a path to the very heart of you. He worships at your altar, exploring you with a fervour that borders on madness, his tongue drawing slow, deliberate strokes against your folds, lapping at the slick heat of you with a thoroughness that makes your thighs tremble. He kisses your core the way he kissed your mouth, thoroughly, hungrily, as if he intends to ruin you for anything else.

He slides one finger inside you, curling, exploring, while his tongue continues its work, finding the rhythm that makes your hips roll helplessly toward him. Then two fingers, stretching you slowly, his pace maddening, his silver head moving between your thighs while his free hand pins your hip to the mattress. He teases. He draws it out with the patience of a man who has denied himself too long and now intends to take his time about the undoing. Every time you feel yourself cresting toward the edge, he eases back, withdrawing just enough, slowing just enough, his eyes flicking up to watch your face with something that looks almost like satisfaction.

The third time he pulls back from the precipice, you take a fistful of his hair and drag him up.

“Now,” you tell him. “Take me now.”

A feral smirk curls his lips at your demand. He rises up over you, his chest heaving, his entire body taut with anticipation. He leans down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, you taste yourself on his tongue, one hand gripping your thigh, the other cupping your face as if to brand the moment into your memory.

“As my lady commands,” he growls against your mouth.

He shifts his hips, pressing himself against your entrance. Then, with one sharp thrust, he buries himself inside you, filling you completely, claiming you in every way possible. The moment he's sheathed inside you, a ragged groan tears from his throat, half pleasure, half disbelief. His forehead drops against yours, his breathing ragged, his fingers digging into your hips as if he fears you'll vanish.

“Gods,” he chokes out. “You feel so- warm. So tight.”

He's barely coherent. That, more than anything, undoes you.

His hips roll against yours in slow, deliberate strokes, each one deeper, more possessive than the last. He watches your face, memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, as if this is the only thing that's ever truly mattered. His eyes, those violet eyes that have looked at you with contempt and hunger and everything in between by now, are dark, pupils blown wide, and he doesn't look away. He watches you as if watching you is a compulsion he can no longer afford to deny.

“Look at me,” he rasps, when your eyes begin to close. “Don't you dare-.”

And you do, you hold his gaze.

His jaw tightens. Something moves across his expression that he doesn't have the composure left to conceal, something raw and frightened and ferocious all at once. His strokes deepen; his grip hardens.

Then he flips you, without warning, rolling you onto your stomach with the ease of a man accustomed to taking what he wants. The mattress shifts beneath you. His hands find your hips and drag you up to meet him. One palm presses flat between your shoulder blades for a half-second, then slides up, fingers winding into your hair, pressing your face into the pillow.

His lips find your ear, his voice low and rough as he whispers, “I won't be gentle, sweetling.”

It sounds like a warning. It sounds like a promise.

“I don't want you to,” you answer.

The sound he makes at that is almost feral, something ripped from somewhere deep in his chest that he would never willingly give you in daylight. His fingers dig into your hips as he takes you with a force that borders on brutality, each thrust deeper, harder, driven by pure unrestrained need. His lips drag across your shoulder, teeth sinking into your skin to stifle his groan as he loses himself in the heat of you. He releases your hair so both hands can grip your hips, holding you in place, as if he fears you might slip away if he doesn't, his fingers leaving half-moon marks you will feel for days.

His pace is relentless. Desperate. Driven by a hunger that has been building since the first moment he looked at you and hated that he wanted to keep looking.

“I can't-.” you gasp, the pleasure coiling impossibly tight.

“Come for me,” he growls, the words bitten off, rough and low. “Come on- I want to feel you. All of you.”

And you do, you shatter. Your whole body arches into it, trembling beneath him, clenching around him, and you hear his sharp, broken exhale, feel the way his rhythm stutters.

His release hits him like a storm, violent, consuming, unstoppable. His body tenses, his fingers digging into your flesh as he spills inside you with a ragged groan, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. For a moment, he just breathes against your skin, his chest heaving, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks.

Then, slowly, he collapses over your back. His weight settles, heavy, present, real. His lips move against one of the bruises he's left on your shoulder. Then another. Not in apology, Aerion Targaryen does not apologize. But in something. Acknowledgment, perhaps.

Neither of you speaks.

His arm slides around you, not tenderly, but with a kind of quiet insistence, as if placing himself between you and something invisible. You feel his heartbeat against your back. Fast, still. Then slower. Then slower still.

The silence stretches. It does not demand anything from either of you. His breathing deepens, but his grip does not loosen. You close your eyes.

Sleep comes for you both like a tide, not gentle, not kind, but inevitable. The way all true things are.

STEP 7. Never Cage What You Cannot Break.

A beast is not tamed by taking away its fangs. That only makes it weaker, and weakness is not the same thing as trust. It is tamed, if it ever is, by giving it a reason not to use them. It stays because it chooses to. It stays… because it chooses to.

The manse Maekar had given you sat at the edge of a quieter part of the city, near enough to court to satisfy obligation and far enough to breathe in peace. It was smaller than the Red Keep, less grand, but that suited the both of you. No one had said so out loud, yet it was clear enough. The walls were warm stone. The windows faced east and caught the morning light instead of shutting it out. Lavender grew along the outer walk, planted by someone before your time, and it had survived the winter with a stubbornness that felt almost personal.

Inside, signs of a shared life had gathered in slow, ordinary ways. His books beside yours on the shelf. Your embroidery frame positioned near the best window, which he had moved without comment one afternoon when he noticed the light falling wrong. A second cup on the table by the fire, already poured.

None of it was dramatic, all of it mattered to you.

You settled deeper into the chair, adjusting your weight carefully. The pregnancy sat heavy in your lap, in your lower back, in the way you rose slowly from chairs and descended stairs with one hand trailing the wall. Seven months had left their mark. Your belly was full and round beneath the loose linen of your gown, warm to the touch, occasionally shifting with the insistence of someone who had not yet been born but already had opinions on its own.

You pressed a hand briefly to your side where the movement was. A flutter, a press. I know, you thought at it. I know you're there.

The fire crackled. Across the room, Aerion sat at the writing table with his back half-turned to you, working through correspondence with the focused quiet of a man who had learned, slowly, imperfectly, to channel his energy into something productive rather than destructive. Candles burned at either side of the table. His silver hair, longer now, caught their light and held it.

He had not spoken in some time. Neither had you.

The silence was not tense. That distinction still struck you sometimes, even now, the difference between his silences then and his silences now. Before, quiet had been the space between provocations, the held breath before a storm. Now it was simply the room at rest, two people existing in the same warmth, without the need to perform that fact.

Your needle moved through the embroidery. A branch. Leaves in pale green thread, stitched slowly because you no longer rushed things that deserved to be unhurried. You had learned that too, somewhere along the way, though you weren't certain when. Perhaps it had been a lesson you taught yourself while teaching him.

“You've been rubbing your back for the better part of an hour.”

His voice came without him turning. Your hand had drifted there without you noticing. You lowered it. “I'm fine.”

“I didn't say you weren't.”

You went back to the embroidery and the scratch of his quill resumed.

You looked at the back of his head for a moment, at the set of his shoulders, the long line of his spine. He was still proud in his posture. That had not changed, nor would it. But there was something different in it now. Less like a man braced for attack. More like a man who had simply grown comfortable inside his own frame.

Maekar had expressed quiet satisfaction, the last time you had attended court. Not in words, the prince was not a man for words where a look would suffice. But satisfaction nonetheless. You had understood it without needing it explained. So had Aerion, which had caused a complicated expression to move across his face, something between pride and the ghost of old resentment, before easing into something closer to acceptance.

He was still Aerion. He could still cut with a word when he chose to. His patience was a thing learned rather than natural, and it occasionally showed its seams. Two weeks prior, at a supper that had run overlong, he had said something to Lord Peake's second son that had made the table go briefly silent. But he had stopped there, he had not pursued it. He had reached instead for his wine and redirected the conversation with a deliberateness you recognized, because you had practiced that deliberateness in front of him, repeatedly, until he understood what it looked like.

He was not fixed, he was better. There was a meaningful difference.

The fire shifted, throwing new shadows. You set down the embroidery and pressed your palm flat against the side of your stomach, feeling the weight of it, the warmth. The child moved again, long, slow, like something turning in a dream. You breathed around it.

The scratch of the quill stopped.

You did not look up immediately. You felt, rather than saw, the moment his attention shifted, the feeling of being observed by Aerion, which you had long since learned to recognize. It was different now too.

You looked up.

When you looked up, he had already turned in his chair. He was watching you with those violet eyes of his, pale in the candlelight, and there was something in his face he had learned to hide less well over time. Not because he had grown careless. Because keeping it hidden had begun to cost him too much, and he had finally decided, with the quiet certainty he brought to every important thing, that it was no longer worth the price.

Then he rose from the table.

He crossed the room at an unhurried pace, the way a man walks when he has already made up his mind. When he stopped in front of you, his gaze dropped from your face to your hands, then to the rounded curve beneath the linen. Then he knelt.

Not in surrender. Not in show. One knee to the floor, steady and deliberate, bringing himself level with what he meant to honour. He reached out, and his hand, the same hand that had once gripped and demanded and taken, settled with impossible gentleness against the side of your stomach.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the fullest part of you.

He stayed there a moment, forehead resting lightly against you, his hand curved around the life you carried. His breathing evened out. His eyes were closed. He did not speak at once, and you did not ask him to.

Then, very quietly, without lifting his head, he said, “I love you.”

You looked down at the top of his silver head, at the broad line of his shoulders bent in a shape that was not quite defeat and not quite humility, but close enough to make your throat tighten. You thought of the man who had once watched you across a banquet table with cold, assessing eyes and found nothing in you worth his attention. You thought of all the months between then and now. The arguments. The patience. The slow, stubborn work of remaining.

You reached down and touched his face gently. He looked up at you. The candlelight made his eyes very bright.

You held his gaze and said, simply, “I love you as well.”

No strategy in it. Just the truth, spoken in the same quiet room where you had spent months learning each other's silences.

He turned his face and pressed one more kiss to your stomach, almost habitual, as if he had already developed the instinct, then rose slowly and settled himself on the arm of your chair. His hand remained at your side, warm and present. You returned to your embroidery. His shoulder rested against yours, and he did not move away.

The fire burned low. The night spread softly around the manse.

Later, when he had drifted into sleep beside you and his breathing had gone slow and even, you lay awake in the dark and thought about the whole path that had brought you here.

Seven steps, written out with the clean, measured certainty of someone who understood that hearts, even difficult ones, had their own structure. You had approached him with respect for what it was, patience for what it could become, and no illusions about the process between.

But somewhere in the long careful middle of it, something had shifted that no guide could have anticipated, or perhaps the guide had always known it and simply not named it. The method had worked. But the method had not been the point.

The point was that he had changed.

Not because you had fixed him. Not because you had caged him or diminished him or stripped away the things that made him difficult. He was still proud. Still sharp. Still capable of the particular cold cruelty that had earned him his reputation, though he used it less now, and never against you.

He had changed because he had chosen to. Because somewhere in the accumulated weight of all those quiet days and careful moments, something in him had found a reason.

And he, Aerion Targaryen, the Bright Prince, the man they called Brightflame for the way he burned, had stayed too.

His hand rested over yours in the dark, light and warm and present.

The beast doesn't need its fangs removed, you thought, closing your eyes. It just needs something worth protecting more than it needs to bite.

Sleep came, slow and complete, and took you both with it.

THE END.

[lovebugism]

THAT FUNNY FEELING ─── jack abbot

summary: on your very first day as an attending at the ptmc, you're forced to navigate the chaos of the night shift, a code silver, and the fact that jack abbot would (and did) take a bullet for you. (7k)

characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, samira mohan, john shen, crus henderson, princess de la cruz, michael robinavitch, jack's dead wife also gets a wee mention

contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, heavily inspired by greys anatomy s6ep24, not proofread soz cw for so many medical inaccuracies (like so many), hostage situations, heavy mentions of blood and gore, mentions of trauma and grief

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

It was your first day as an attending, and almost your very last.

Other than your newfound position, there was little else different about this night compared to all the others. The late evening was filled with all the usual chaos that you’ve come to find a strange sort of refuge within. Your first patient of the day was a woman in a pretty sequined dress, who’d sustained a collapsed lung after screaming a little too hard to “Bohemian Rhapsody” during karaoke — something you’d only find while working the night shift.

“First needle aspiration as an attending…” Jack Abbot said with a nod of approval when the procedure was done. “How’s it feel?”

The simple question made you dizzy. It was as much of a reminder of your new ranking as the foil balloons in the break room, bobbing lazily against the ceiling tiles. Or the crooked banner strung above the coffee maker, reading CONGRATS in cheap gold letters. Or the plastic container of store-bought cupcakes someone definitely bought last-minute, with neon-colored frosting smeared slightly on the lid.

But what really sent you reeling, though, was the inadvertent acknowledgment of the simmering tension between you and Jack — which had always been there in some ways, but was much easier to ignore before now.

The constant will-they-won’t-they between you was buried under layers of hierarchy, rules, and morals — under the unsaid understanding that whatever this thing between you was could never be acted upon. Not while you were his resident, anyway. 

The obvious power imbalance was a line Jack Abbot would not let himself cross, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

Only now, that wretched line isn’t there anymore. For the first time since he met you, you’re both on even ground. The world is your oyster, as it were; all the opportunities lie now at your feet. You need only to reach out and take it.

“First intubation as an attending,” Jack hums from the opposite side of the hospital bed, eyes glittering with amusement behind his safety glasses. “How’s it feel?”

You scoff a quiet laugh and shake your head. “That question got old about the fourth time you asked it, Dr. Abbot…” you deadpan, sewing the trachael to the unconscious patient’s neck.

Reggie Brice; thirty-two-year-old male; exhibiting crush injuries to the chest and pelvis from a gnarly car pile-up. Seven people, including this one, were rushed in requiring immediate assistance. The rest were brought in with sustained head injuries, concussions, or minor fractures that needed tending to. You know that there has been at least one confirmed death.

“Well, it’s a big deal,” the man scoffs. “Why do you think we all chipped in two dollars to decorate the break room? Those grocery store cupcakes actually mean something, you know?”

“Well, I am honored…” you sigh in a distracted monotone.

Jack squints. “Yeah, I can tell. You look downright emotional—”

You take a step back to assess, gaze flickering to the monitor at your side. You find the man’s blood pressure continuing to climb, which is less than ideal for the injuries he’s sporting now.

“Pressure’s too high. We gotta fix that, or he’s gonna crash,” Jack announces in a sharper tone, though it never quite loses its laid-back edge. He always works best under pressure, in truth. “We could always crack the chest, cross-clamp the aorta—  buy him some time till we get him a room.”

“What about preperitoneal packing?” you suggest, gesturing over the patient’s lean stomach with gloved hands. “We do a simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack like hell around the bladder, keep the bleeding in check until we get him upstairs.”

Jack’s silence is less than reassuring.

You peer at him behind the glasses sitting low on your nose, stumbling over yourself as you brace for an inevitable rejection. “I know it’s more of an OR procedure, and I’ve only done it once, but—”

“Hey…” Jack cuts in softly, brows raised to his hairline. “You’re the boss here, kid. Remember? We’ll do whatever you wanna do.”

Your eyes narrow, despite the funny feeling flaring in your chest. His voice, all deep and gravelly and gentle, has always had a way of piercing right through you.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Abbot,” you remind him. 

So there’s nothing standing in your way anymore, old man, you’re really saying.

Jack grins wide, like he can hear it in your silence.

“Force of habit,” he shrugs. “Now, c’mon. Let’s do it your way, boss.”

You’re wrists-deep in the conscious man’s pelvis, packing the blood clot around his bladder while Jack holds the Deaver retractor in a steady head. You fall into a strange sort of rhythm together, the way you always do, moving with each other without ever having to speak. Though, for some reason, you can’t seem to stop your hands from shaking.

“This is good, right?” you murmur behind your mask, shoving more gauze beneath the man’s sliced skin.

“You’re doing great,” Jack praises muffedly, without missing a beat, though he flashes you a stern look behind his glasses a second later. “You’re an attending now— You know what you’re doing.”

You swallow hard with an unsure nod. “Right… Yeah…”

Jack smiles at your sheepishness — a stark contrast to how methodically your hands move — though the expression gets hidden behind his blue surgical mask. “Don’t worry. It’s always a little weird at first. You’ll settle in in no time.”

You scoff a harsh breath through your nose. “You’ve been uncharacteristically sweet to me today. You know that?”

“I’m always sweet,” Jack squints. “But I can always get meaner, if you want. You know, if my kindness isn’t impressing you.”

“Hm,” you shrug and swipe your gloved fingers under the fatty tissue of the fleshy linea alba. “Jury’s still out.”

“Well,” his brows bounce. “I guess I’m just gonna have to try a little harder, then, aren’t I?”

“What can I say? I have high standards, Dr. Abbot.”

Your concentrated gaze flickers from the incision to the man standing across from you. Something mischievous glimmers in your eyes, crinkling at the edges with a smile he can’t see behind your mask. The air between you charges in a flicker.

“You doin’ anything after this shift?” the man wonders suddenly, passing you another stack of gauze with his free hand. “You know, to celebrate?”

“I don’t know…” you sigh and turn away again. “I guess it depends.”

“On?”

“Whether someone can give me something better to do than collapsing face-first into my bed.”

“I think I could make a pretty strong case,” Jack quips.

“Ooh…” you hum. “Do tell.”

“Something involving food. Definitely,” he starts. “Maybe something a lot more filling than two-dollar vending machine snacks.”

“Very compelling start, Dr. Abbot…”

“And maybe— if you’re so inclined,” he croons drily. “Something where we don’t talk about work for an hour. At least.”

You flash him a deadpanned stare. “Well, now, that’s just way too far.”

“Hm. It was worth a shot,” he shrugs.

“I guess we’ll just have to see how the rest of your performance goes...”

His eyes widen in amusement at your sudden teasing, not nearly as shy as he’s grown accustomed to. “Oh, so I’m the one being evaluated now?”

“Yep,” you nod once, popping the p.

“And what happens if I pass?”

You meet his gaze once more, with something a little shier around the edges. “Then I’ll… let me take you somewhere for breakfast in the morning,” you shrug, trying to be casual, though your wavering voice gives you instantly away.

A smile curls slow at Jack’s mouth behind his surgical mask. You can see it squinting the very edges of his light eyes as he nods in response. “Looking forward to it—”

The glass door across the room swings open without warning. 

Your heads whip simultaneously, half-expecting to find a grey-scrubbed nurse standing there, hopefully with some information about the state of the suddenly flooded OR. You find a strange man there instead — late fifties, bearded, tall but with a beer gut that hangs over the top of his baggy jeans. There’s dark blood on his t-shirt and the collar of his beige jacket, dripping from a cut on his temple.

His narrow face is strikingly hollow; his eyes are painfully empty. You figure he must be one of the victims from the pile-up. He wears the shock of it all over, no doubt.

“This is a sterile room, sir,” Jack tells him, authoritative but never unkind. “If you’re family, I’m gonna need you to wait outside. I’ll have a nurse give you the details— and maybe take a look at the cut of yours.”

“I’m not his family,” the man says in an even monotone, with a gritty drawl that insists he’s from somewhere further south. There is little inflection in his voice, the same way there is little emotion on his bearded face. He just lingers there in the doorway, frozen still in a way that feels almost uncanny.

Your wide eyes flit to Jack, glimmering with apprehension. Your stomach twists with it, too.

Jack’s firm gaze never wavers from the stranger across the room. “Either way, sir, you can’t be in here—”

The older man’s weathered right hand reaches slowly for the inside pocket of his jacket. Something silver glints beneath the bright white fluorescents overhead. It takes you a second too long to realize what it is — a gun.

The world narrows in an instant. The oxygen gets sucked out of the room all at once. Your chest hitches for a breath it cannot take.

You don’t realize until then that you’ve never seen a pistol this close before — or at all. Your brain detaches in an instant accordingly, protects you now by convincing you that this is no longer your reality. That you’re only dreaming. That everything around you is just a movie you’re watching from faraway.

“Hey, hey, hey…” Jack cautions on bated breath, bloodied hands raised in surrender. 

His wide eyes dart between the man and the glass door, where the stranger is just out of view of the hallway. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he takes slow steps towards the assailant. 

“Let’s just— Let’s just take a breath here, alright, man?”

The monitor beside you begins to beep wildly when your hands freeze. Your body jerks when the sound fills the silent room. 

Your gloved hands move on autopilot, adjusting the Deaver retractor in Jack’s absence and continuing to pack the bladder with the remaining gauze. The work is the only thing anchoring you now — the glaring acknowledgment that, if you don’t finish up here, the man in the bed will die before he makes it to the OR.

“That man there…” the stranger says in a distant voice, like he’s not all the way here either. “He was driving the car that hit my wife… Blew a red light… Came out of nowhere…”

Jack’s expression shifts. He reaches for his jaw with slow hands, plucking the surgical mask from his right ear, and letting the left side hang by his chin — allowing the man to see his face. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“He killed her… On the scene…” the man continues, gravelly voice tighter now. “I was trying to scoop her brains back into her skull— Do you have any idea what the kinda shit does to a person?”

“That’s hard, man,” Jack nods sympathetically but stands his ground at the head of the hospital bed all the same, planting himself firmly between you and the stranger across the room. “I get it.”

“You don’t—” the man snaps, harsher now.

You flinch when his voice rings suddenly through the room, trying to pack the wound tight with half-numb fingers.

“You don’t just get to— to fix him like nothing happened. Like her life didn’t matter—”

“It does matter,” Jack assures with a rapid nod. “Your wife matters, I promise.”

“Then let me do something about it—”

Jack’s chest tightens when the man’s knuckles turn white around the gun. He holds it steady despite his troubled state, like he knows exactly what he’s doing with it. Jack understands, then, that if he lets that gun off, it’ll hit exactly whatever this man wants it to — wherever he wants it to.

“There are two other people in this room who had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, man,” Jack tells him. “And I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I know that.”

“You’re right… I don’t want anyone else to get hurt…” the man nods, voice heavy and trembling. “So tell her to stop—”

The gun shifts over Jack’s shoulder, aiming right for your head.

A pained whimper sounds in the pit of your tightening throat. You can hardly see the incision below you as burning tears gather at your waterline. Your shaking fingers scramble for the sutures to stitch him back up again.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack blurts, stepping in front of the gun again without a second thought. He keeps his gloved hands raised, but his sympathetic stare turns stern in a flicker. “You’re talking to me right now, alright? So put the gun back on me— We’re gonna figure this out together.”

“I said— tell her— to stop!”

His thumb flicks the hammer of the gun with a daunting click. 

“I can’t!” you hear yourself whimper. “I can’t stop, Jack— He’ll die.”

“I know, kid…” he says without looking back at you, with a voice much more even compared to yours. “I know. Just keep going.”

“Stop!” the man bellows. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you both in the goddamn head!”

Jack is not perturbed by his yelling. He wants him to yell, wants him to cause a scene so that someone’ll check in and call in a Code Silver. He just doesn’t want that gun to go off. So he keeps his voice calm as he counters gently, “And what happens next? If you kill us— If you kill him. What are you gonna do after?”

The man hesitates for a moment. His grip falters on the gun, as if he hadn’t considered the question until that very moment.

“I know you want your wife back… But this isn’t gonna make it any better.”

“Maybe not,” the man says. “But it’ll make it stop.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘it’ exactly is, but Jack doesn’t need him to. He’s been where this man is standing — not physically, maybe, not with a gun in his hand; but in the deep, dark void reserved only for a special, gut-wrenching sort of grief. 

“It won’t. Trust me,” Jack says with a shake of his silver head. “I lost my wife ten years ago. Not like you did, but it still hurt like hell, man, I can tell you that…”

The man softens slightly. It’s the first time since the crash that someone’s tried to level with him, that someone’s actually understood. 

Jack takes a hesitant step forward when he catches the stranger’s resolve starting to slip.

“And I can tell you it doesn’t stay that way forever…” he continues. “Whatever you’re feeling right now, I know you think it’s never gonna stop. But it will. You just have to let it.”

Another step forward.

“You see the woman you’re pointing that gun at?” Jack wonders with raised brows, nodding his silver head in your direction. “I like her… I really like her. And I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anything again.”

Your chest aches at his words. Your glasses fog from the warm tears clinging to your bottom lashes. Your clammy hands fumble with the surgical needle.

The man’s finger loosens slightly on the trigger, and Jack takes another cautious stop. 

“And this is really bad timing, man, ‘cause I was gonna take her out after this,” he confesses with a not-quite smile. “But for that to happen, I need us to walk out of here. All of us.”

The beat of silence thereafter feels borderline suffocating. It wraps its cold hands around your neck and strangles you.

Jack almost thinks he’s gotten through to the man. He can see the cracks starting to fissure throughout his hollow face; the flicker of hesitation, the realization of what he’s doing — where his dark mind has led him.

“So you’re saying…” the man trails off and swallows hard. His drawl is much too soft for the words that spill from his mouth a second later. “…If I shoot her, you’ll understand how I feel?” 

Your blood runs ice cold in an instant.

Jack’s shoes squeak hard against the tile as he lunges for the man before you can blink. He pushes him into the wall with an aggressive thud and tries to shove his gun out of your direction. You bend over the bed on instinct, covering your patient without a second thought.

Two shots ring out.

You expect to feel both of them, or perhaps nothing at all, as your limp body hits the floor. You keep your eyes shut and your jaw clenched tight, bracing yourself for pain or certain death.

The harsh ringing in your ears is slow to fade. When your hearing finally returns to you, and your eyes peek slowly open, you find a sea of bodies crashing into the room like a tidal wave — and you, yourself, still standing.

Your head swivels on your shoulder, still half-hunched over your patient. Your gaze drags unwillingly past the blur of bodies and dark scrubs until it finds Jack, lying flat on the ground instead of you.

It takes your brain a long moment to make sense of it — the strangle ngle of his body, the stuttering of his chest, the tear in his shirt from the bullet, and the wet crimson darkening the tile beneath him. The sight doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong. Not to Jack, anyway; not to the man who’s far too steady, too solid, to ever look like this.

And the worst part of it all — the part that will follow you long after this moment ends — is that that bullet was meant for you, and that Jack didn’t even hesitate to take it instead.

The ED descends into a different sort of chaos than you’re used to. The PTMC fractures, splinters into something unrecognizable, as voices overlap and distort in your ears. “Gunshot wound— Attending down!” you hear someone shout, followed by a quieter, “Help me get him up,” and a harsher, “Someone get me a fucking line!” 

None of it feels all the way real. 

It’s like looking through the rest of the world through a fishbowl, where everything is blurred and warped and muffled. You can see armed guards detaining the crying gunman in the foreground of it all, along with Jack’s body being transferred to a stretcher, right before Samira ducks into your tunnel vision.

Her dark brown eyes are lined with exhaustion from her double shift as they dart attentively across your face — the first person to reach out for you in the midst of all the chaos.

“What do you need me to do?” is all she says.

Your voice comes out strangled. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely as you choke through panted breaths, “F-Finish up his— his sutures, and… and get him to the OR... Walsh has a… has a room ready for him, I think—”

Your legs feel half-numb as you step back from the patient before you, left totally unaware of the chaos surrounding him. You stumble for the entrance, peeling off your stained gown and bloodied gloves as you go, and follow Jack’s body as they lead him out of the room. 

You migrate to his side like it’s muscle memory to you, struggling to find your footing in the midst of the growing crowd as the doctors rush the gurney to the elevators. For every step you take, Shen and Crus seem to take three more. It makes it nearly impossible to keep up in your stupor.

You crane your head to catch a peek of the man from behind the towering bodies before you. “I-Is he okay?” you wonder breathlessly.

The gurney jerks too hard around the corner, scraping the side of the wall.

“Motherfucker!” Jack groans.

“Well, shit— He definitely sounds the same,” Parker quips from beside you.

“How are you feeling?” Crus calls from the man’s side. “Talk to me, Abbot— You’re still with us, right?”

“Not unless you two learn how to maneuver a goddamn gurney,” Jack jokes through gritted teeth.

“Page Walsh,” Shen tells Lena with a stern nod, pushing the button for the lift. “Make sure she’s got a room open.”

The doors part with a ding. They wheel the stretcher inside, and you make sure to squeeze in with them, elbowing past the attendings and nurses to get to Jack’s side.

He’s clammy and pale when he comes into view, writhing in place as he clutches at his ribs. His black scrubs are stained a darker color from the blood spilling from the wound, which turns the white towel pressed there a deeper shade of scarlet than you think you’ve ever seen.

Your trembling hand reaches for him on instinct. You press your palm over his bloodied knuckles — keeping some pressure there, reminding him that you’re still here.

“Jack?” you call to him in a voice taut, as your teary eyes dart wildly across his scruffy face. “Jack? A-Are you okay?”

He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His head turns slowly, just enough to find you, and he blinks wildly to clear the blur in his vision. The corner of his mouth twitches in a faint hint of a smile when he spots you standing over him.

He clears his throat, but his words still come out a little gravelly as he arches an expectant brow and says, “Told ya…”

You shake your head, features screwing in confusion. “Told me what?”

“That I’d make a good case…” 

Your chest flares. Something wells suddenly in your throat, though you can’t be sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. You just scold him instead. “It’s not funny, Jack—”

“Hey. You’re the one who said you had high standards, kid…” he rasps. 

His eyes fall over your form, trying to assess you despite his dwindling vision. You watch his scruffy features twist with concern a second later. His chest stutters as he questions breathlessly, “Whoa— Is that… Is that my blood? Or yours?”

You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. Only then do you feel the warm blood trickling down to your elbow; only then do you feel the white-hot, searing pain of the bullet that had grazed your shoulder. 

You feel very suddenly like the world is spinning around you. 

The stares you get return, as everyone else seems to notice too, only adds to the dizziness. 

“You’re bleeding,” Shen observes sharply. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you got hit?”

“I-I’m fine,” you insist despite the waver in your voice, shaking your head to fight the lightheadedness away. “I can’t— I can’t even feel it, okay? I swear.”

“Get someone to take a look at that when we get upstairs, alright?” Shen commands with a stern glare. “I mean it.”

Your wet eyes harden in an instant. “I’m not leaving—”

Jack’s hand, still weak on his side, twists over the damp towel to grab yours. His bloody fingers are cold and trembling as they struggle to find purchase on your smaller ones. You hold him with enough strength for the both of you.

“You got hurt ‘cause of me, kid. At least let someone—”

“Hey,” you snap, meaner than he’s ever seen you. “That was not your fault.”

“Let ‘em take a look at you, alright?”

You shake your stubborn head. “I need you to focus on yourself right now—”

“I am,” he insists. His gravelly voice never loses its humorous edge, and neither do his glassy eyes lose their tenderness as they flit back and forth between yours. “And I’m not gonna be okay if you aren’t, alright? So just… please.”

Your features crumple at the pleading look he gives you — with his eyes all squishy around the edges, and glazing over with unshed tears.

The elevator stills with a ding, shattering the tense moment. It jolts faintly, just enough to make your swimming stomach feel sicker. You catch yourself nodding despite your better judgment. 

“Fine…” you tell him in a fragile voice.

Jack tries to smile but finds the strength to slowly leave him, a little like the blood trickling from his side.

“I’m in good hands,” he assures you, then turns to the attending on his left. “Right, Dr. Shen?”

The younger man’s brows lower. “Didn’t you just call me a motherfucker?” he quips.

Jack’s weathered face twists as he’s wheeled out of the elevator. “…Did I?”

Your hand slips from his as you watch him go. Something about it feels wrong, though you can’t exactly place why. You just know it feels like something ripping in two — like the torn skin of your bloody shoulder, times a thousand.

The room they put you in is achingly quiet; the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem ten times louder. The green-white fluorescent bulb clicks and buzzes mercilessly over your head, drilling straight into your skull. The AC hums gently alongside it in a mundane sort of symphony that matches the empty room you’re in — where only one hospital bed sits beside a shuttered window, in front of a porcelain sink and mirror.

Everything smells like stale air, sharp antiseptic, and metallic blood.

You stand before the cloudy mirror with your scrub sleeve pushed up your shoulder, kept awkwardly in place by your chin. You struggle to do your sutures with a hand that won’t stop trembling. 

You don’t realize how ardently you’re still shaking until the needle slips across your skin — not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make you hiss through your teeth when it stings. You clench your jaw and pull the thread through, until the raging skin around the laceration pinches together again. Your features flicker as you try and fail to ignore the dull burn that spreads up and down your arm a second later.

The fiery sensation is the only thing keeping your mind distracted from all the rest of it — the way the gunshot made your ears ring; the way Jack’s body jerked before it hit the ground; the way the man called out for his wife when security pinned him to the floor.

You tug the sutures harder, relishing in the sting. You push the needle through once more, harder than necessary, and let it slip a little sloppier than you should — anything to take your mind off of it.

“Careful…” a voice cautions from the doorway.

Your head whips over your shoulder. You blink rapidly as your brain struggles to catch up — like you half-expect to find yourself back in that room; like you half-expect to find the man from before standing there.

You feel a little like the ground has been pulled from underneath you when you find Robby there instead, rubbing disinfectant between his calloused palms.

Someone downstairs must’ve called him about Jack, and about the Code Silver currently turning the PTMC to shambles. And, based on the surgical mask sticking out of his jacket pocket, you figure he must’ve just gotten back from checking in on him in the OR. 

His dark eyes flit from your face, to your shoulder, and to the supplies scattered across the sink before you.

“They said you were supposed to be getting looked at,” he says. “Not playing DIY surgeon.”

You huff out a breath that would’ve passed for a laugh any other time. 

“Everyone else is busy… At least I can make myself useful this way…”

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You can’t stand the way he’s looking at you now. His gaze is too sharp, too focused. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloging, assessing — the same way you do with your patients. The thought of being so helpless makes your stomach twist. 

Robby doesn’t argue, but instead lets his eyes linger on the slight tremor in your hands. The leftover adrenaline is likely buzzing like electricity in your veins just now. You’re bound to crash at any second.

“I know you don’t want my help,” he starts slowly, sauntering further in with his arms crossed over his chest. “But at least lie and say I did your sutures— so Jack doesn’t try to kill me when he wakes up.”

“I think he’ll know you didn’t do ‘em when he sees how neat they are,” you joke drily.

“Rude…” Robby scoffs, sneakers scuffing as he plants himself at your side. You can see the leftover slumber in his swollen eyes more clearly now, as he ducks down to look at you. “Want me to get you something for the pain, at least?”

You shake your head instantly, not trusting your voice enough to speak without wavering.

“You sure?” he presses.

“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m not the one in surgery.”

He is not dismayed by your anger. He knows it’s not meant for him. 

“Well, Jack’s doing just fine. Walsh is finishing up with him now,” he tells you. “Honestly, I think the hardest part is gonna be keeping him off his feet for the next little while…. ‘Cause there’s about a hundred percent chance he’s gonna want to come back to work when he’s discharged.”

You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh as you tie the sutures and cut the excess with a pair of small medical scissors. 

You just barely catch sight of your delirious smile in the cloudy mirror before a chuckle sputters suddenly from your mouth. The sound of it fills the quiet room as you tumble into a fit of half-drunken giggles, bowing your head and propping your gloved hands on the porcelain sink.

Your shoulders shake as your laughter turns quickly into sobs.

Robby softens instantly. “Shit… I’m sorry…”

“I’m fine,” you blurt once more and shake your head. Your voice is strangled through the tears in your throat, but you dismiss him anyway. “I’m fine. I-I don’t even know why I’m crying, so..”

“You went through something traumatic tonight,” he coos. “Everything you’re feeling is completely normal.”

You shake your head again. “I should’ve gone with him— I should be helping in there—”

“You’d just be a liability,” Robby shrugs, a little blunt but not entirely unkind. “You’re still in shock. Your hands are still shaking— I wouldn’t let you anywhere near an OR like this… You’re better off here, and you know it.”

You turn your head to flash him a teary-eyed look. Your chin quivers as your taut voice trembles, “He asked… He asked me if I wanted to go out with him when we got off,” you confess in a strangled whisper.

Robby’s brows raise to his hairline. “Did he?”

You nod slowly. “And I was gonna say yes…”

“Good…” the older man nods, lip flickering into a smile beneath his beard. “About time…”

“So he can’t… He doesn’t get to…” You stumble over yourself to get the words out. “He doesn’t get to not come back after that.” 

Robby’s sympathetic grin widens at the stern, wet-eyed glare you give him. He takes a slow step closer and splays a warm, comforting hand along your back.

“Jack Abbot is the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” he tells you. “If there’s even the slightest chance of him coming out of that OR just to take you out, then… He’s gonna take it. Trust me.”

“Yeah,” you quip drily. “He better…” 

Jack wakes after surgery to a tingling ache in his side and a heart monitor beeping faintly overhead, pervading the strange silence surrounding him — a silence he doesn’t usually allow himself.

His eyes crack slowly open, dry and unfocused for several long moments. They dance across the ceiling tiles as he blinks the haze of sleep from his gaze. He struggles to recall how he got here — in this dim recovery room, which he had never seen as a patient until now. He remembers the stranger with the gun first, the warmth of the blood that came spilling from his side second, and the way you cried from him third.

Your name spills from his dry mouth like it’s the only word he remembers.

“Great. Now I owe Crus twenty dollars,” he hears a familiar voice joke from his side. Jack’s head swivels until he finds Princess standing there, checking the IV hanging by his bed. She smiles softly down at him and quips, “He said the first thing you’d do is ask for her. I thought for sure you’d want a beer.”

“Yeah…” Jack rasps, then clears the gravel from his throat. “I could go for that, too…”

“Want me to go grab her for you?”

He hesitates. “Is she… Is she okay?”

“She’s great. Last I heard, Robby was patching her up,” the woman grins. “And, for what it’s worth, she was asking about you, too…”

The anticipation of seeing you again was somehow worse than the pain, blooming something sharp in his abdomen, and only slightly ebbed by the morphine drip. 

The minutes drag on. The heart monitor at his side counts the seconds instead of his pulse. His fists curl against the stiff hospital sheets when he remembers the sticky red blood that had dripped slowly down your arm — the way you so easily brushed it all off, the way you so desperately wanted to stay at his side.

The door creaks softly open.

Something tightens in his chest.

You linger in the doorway for several long moments, as if you aren’t allowed to come any closer just yet. You’re bathed in the shadow of the lamplit recovery room and backlit by the too-bright hallway outside. He can only vaguely see the outline of your features from here — weighed down with fear and exhaustion and relief. 

The laceration on your arm has been cleaned and sewn. It’s still raging a little around the marred edges, but will heal into a thin scar in a few weeks’ time — a story you’ll tell for years to come.

Jack grunts as he struggles to sit further up on the raised bed, but hides it by clearing his throat. “You look good…” he observes in a rasp.

“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?” you joke with narrowed eyes.

“I am,” he quips back. “Thanks for finally noticing.”

You scoff a faint laugh and shut the door behind you with a quiet click. You can’t help but feel a little like the air has thinned as you walk further inside. You focus on your wringing hands the entire way to his bedside. You don’t have the strength to meet his unwavering stare, still puffy from a medically induced slumber, but never once straying from your face.

“You okay?” he wonders aloud, shattering the silence between you.

You huff a weak laugh. “I’m not the one who just came out of surgery, Jack…”

“Fair point…” he nods.

“But yes… I’m okay,” you add, if only to appease him. “What about you? How do you feel?”

Jack exhales a heavy breath, chest deflating behind his thin hospital gown. “…Like I got shot.”

That almost gets a real laugh out of you. 

“Yeah. That— That makes sense…”

You flounder in place for a moment, before reaching for the chair by the curtained window and dragging it closer to his bed. Jack is able to eye you more clearly when you settle into the cushioned seat by his side. He can see the redness in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your clammy hands hover like you’re not quite sure what to do with them. 

Whatever closeness you had before those shots rang out is long gone now. You orbit around him like he’s a stranger to you, like you’re not quite sure what to do with him, like you’re too scared to get any closer.

He bows his head, made of mussed silver curls, in a feeble attempt to meet your stare. He silently begs you to look back at him, but you never do.

“I’m okay, you know?” he coos to you, equal parts because it’s true and because he knows you need to hear it from him.

“No, I know, I just—” You cut yourself off when your fragile voice finally breaks. You shake your head to yourself and swallow hard, picking at the skin of your thumb until it starts to bleed. The scratch there blurs as burning tears gather once more in your gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? If you wouldn’t have— have gotten as hurt if… you know, if you weren’t standing in front of me like that—”

His chest twists at the thought of you blaming yourself for it. The burning sensation there hurts him far worse than the one at his side.

“You would’ve gotten it a lot worse if I hadn’t.”

Your eyes snap finally to meet his gaze, though your stare is much more hardened than he’d like.

“But what if something worse had happened to you? Huh? What if you died, Jack?” you scold in words that spill faster from your lips than you can stop them. “Were you even thinking about that?”

“No.”

His honesty stops you cold as much as his lack of hesitation.

“I guess I was just thinking about you…”

The room goes eerily quiet, saved only by the even beeping of the monitor at his side and the distant voices talking in the hall. 

Jack holds your gaze even as it weakens around the edges, even as it glazes over with burning tears you can’t seem to keep away. A rogue droplet clumps your bottom lashes together when your eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the place beneath the blanket where you know the damage lies.

“You’re not supposed to do that to a person, you know?” you whimper. “It’s cruel.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “Do what?”

“Make someone like you, and then— And then get yourself shot,” you stammer, gesturing wildly with your anxious hands. “Make someone almost lose you before—”

Your breath hitches.

Jack leans further in. “Before what?” he presses gently.

“Before they’ve even gotten to have you…”

His lip flickers with a weak smile. “You do have me,” he assures. “You’ve had me way before I ever asked you out— You know that.”

“Yeah,” you scoff with a grin of your own, much sadder in comparison. “So much for that date, huh?”

Jack’s eyes narrow in a challenging stare. “And what makes you think it’s not happening?” 

You blink owlishly back at him. “Do you want a list, or…?”

That earns a weak chuckle from him, until he winces at the ache it puts in his side a moment later. He cradles the bandaged wound with a grimace, and your chair scrapes the tile when you stand. “I’ll tell Princess you need more morphine,” he vaguely hears you say, though he reaches for your hand before you can stray too far.

You still in place. Your wide eyes fall to the fingers around your wrist, warm like a furnace, and calloused like softly textured velvet.  

“I’m okay,” he tells you, then takes a wavering breath in before repeating more firmly. “I’m okay— And you’re not going anywhere— And I’m not missing our date for the world, alright?”

Your features screw, hardly convinced.

“We’ll order something here,” he shrugs. “Hell, we can eat the cafeteria food for all I care, just… Don’t leave. I mean, I kinda got shot, so…The least you could do is indulge me a little…”

You cave instantly under the weight of his light-eyed stare. Your chest hitches with a quiet laugh. “It’d be a pretty grim first date…” you quip.

“Yeah, well…” he trails off, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. “I plan on having plenty more, less grim ones with you, so…”

Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint despite the smiling tugging at the edges of your mouth. “That’s very presumptuous of you, Dr. Abbot…”

“Well, you could always so no,” he croons drily.

“Not a chance,” you argue without pause, gripping his hand with great strength — an unsaid promise. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Getting rid of you?” Jack echoes with a scoff, wincing when it hurts him but smiling up at you anyway. “That was never a part of the plan, kid— I took a bullet trying to keep you, in case you forgot."

[annaevermore]

this author's talent know no limits, genuinely

[houseofmint]

THE QUIET KIND – M. TARGARYEN

summary: a political marriage binds prince maekar targaryen to elinor redwyne, a woman who has spent years waiting for a life that never came. in the quiet spaces between duty and expectation, they begin to build something neither of them expected, and neither of them quite knows how to name. pairing: maekar targaryen x original female character (house redwyne) warnings: 18+ MDNI + will be updated as the story progresses! (set a year before AKOTSK)

note: hi! welcome to my self-indulgent maekar fic :,) i have been obsessed with the series, and even more so with maekar, so this story has been living in my head for a while now!

it was originally meant to be a one-shot, but it grew far more involved than i expected, so i've decided to break it up into chapters! i plan to update weekly :)

this takes place about a year before season one of AKOTSK, and will lead into the events of the show - please forgive any small timeline or age inconsistencies, i've done my best to keep everything as consistent as possible!

READ ON AO3

thank you so much for reading, i hope you enjoy!!

PART ONE – THE ARRANGEMENT

CHAPTERS BELOW...

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

[deerfawnn]

this is a very random and small idea but I'd love Langdon dealing with reader crying in their sleep. Nothing dramatic, its just small breath hitches, wheezes, maybe an eerliy quie sob that wracks their frame, and tears just flowing non-stop from behind closed lids. Happens in bed middle of the night, or with reader laying on his lap on the couch. You write Franks caring and comforting side soooo well I sorta had to ask your thoughts on this </3

tears

pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: s2 frank, mention of rehab, but lowk that's it? a/n: hiii!! your idea was so wonderful, and in combination with this crazy pitt episode, i felt inspired to write this so quickly!!!! i hope you like this, lovely <3 wc: 2.4k

Frank was awake and staring at the ceiling. He wasn't sure what had pulled him out of sleep, but then he heard loud yelling from somewhere outside, followed by a car tearing down the street. Typical city noise. Nothing unusual.

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face, letting the tension in his shoulders ease as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Then his eyes found you.

You were turned away from him again, curled on your side with your back facing him. It was a habit of yours he'd noticed more and more. You'd fall asleep tucked into his side, your head on his chest, but somewhere in the night you'd roll away. He hated it. So whenever he woke and found you like this, he'd gently pull you back.

He shifted closer, the sheets whispering against his skin as he moved across the mattress. His hand found your shoulder, warm through the thin fabric of your shirt, and he was about to turn you when he heard a small sob.

His hand froze. For a split second his eyes darted toward the bedroom door, toward the window, where was that coming from? and then he realized it was you.

He turned you onto your back as carefully as he could, his breath catching in his chest. Moonlight filtered through the blinds and in that soft silver light he could see your face. Tears were streaming down your cheeks.

Not the kind that came from a nightmare where you thrashed or gasped, you were perfectly still. Your eyelids were closed, your breathing even, and yet the tears just kept coming, sliding silently into your hairline, catching on your lips, dripping down toward your jaw.

For a moment his heart slammed against his ribs because he thought you're awake, you're crying and you were hiding it from him but you weren't moving.

You were crying in your sleep.

His throat tightened. He'd seen patients do this, but seeing it on you, in his bed hit him differently.

His palm came up to cradle the side of your face, his fingers curving along your jaw, his thumb finding the wet trail on your cheek.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice rough from sleep but soft as he could make it. His thumb swept back and forth across your cheekbone, catching tears, wiping them away. "Sweetheart. Come on. Wake up."

You didn't stir right away, so he kept going, his other hand coming up to brush the tears from the other side of your face. He was gentle as he could be, but also trying his best to wake you up. He smoothed your hair back from your forehead, tucking a strand behind your ear, and that's when your lashes fluttered.

Your eyes opened and you blinked up at him in the dim light.

"Frank?" Your voice was disoriented. Then, almost immediately, you were sitting up, your hands pushing against the mattress. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

You were looking at him like he was the one who needed something. Like he hadn't just been brushing your tears away.

Frank's heart cracked a little in his chest. Because of course your first thought was him. It had been like that ever since he came home from rehab. And here you were, crying in your sleep, and your first word was his name. Your first question was about him.

"Nothing, I'm okay." he said softly, and his brow furrowed as he looked at you, trying to read what your half asleep mind couldn't tell him.

Your hand came up to brush across your own cheek, and he watched you feel the dampness there, watched confusion flicker across your features as you registered the tears.

"What the hell?" you mumbled, confusion threading through your sleepy voice as you touched your cheek again, feeling the lingering wetness.

"You were crying," Frank replied softly.

You glanced at him, brow furrowing. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." He was still watching you with that look that made you feel like he was seeing past whatever answer you were about to give him.

You sat there for a moment, brushing the tears from your face with the back of your hand, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep and figure out why your body had decided to do that without telling you. You couldn't remember what you'd been dreaming about. You weren't even sure you'd been dreaming at all.

But then Frank was pushing the blankets away and rounding the bed to your side. His hands found yours and he tugged gently.

"Come on," he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. "You need some water."

You opened your mouth to tell him you were fine, that he didn't need to get up, that you could just go back to sleep, but something in his expression stopped you. He wasn't asking. And honestly, you were still so disoriented, still so unsettled by waking up with tears on your face, that you didn't have the energy to argue.

You took his hand, letting him pull you up from the bed.

The floor was cool under your bare feet as he led you out of the bedroom and down the short hallway toward the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, the yelling outside had faded, the car long gone, and now all you could hear was the refrigerator.

Frank let go of your hand just long enough to grab a cup from the cabinet. You watched him fill it at the sink.He, then, turned and handed you the cup, and you took it, wrapping both hands around it as you brought it to your lips.

"I'm sorry for waking you," Frank said softly, leaning back against the counter in front of you.

You shook your head immediately, lowering the cup. "No, you're fine." You meant it. If he hadn't woken you, you probably would have just kept crying in your sleep, and you'd have woken up with a headache and no idea why. "I'm glad you did."

He didn't say anything to that, just reached out and gently turned you so your back was to him.

Your hair was in a braid, you always slept with it braided because otherwise it became an unmanageable mess, but somewhere in the night it had come undone. Frank's fingers found the loose end and started working it back into shape. You took another sip of water as his hands braided your hair.

"Wanna tell me what made you cry in the first place?" he asked, his voice casual, like he was asking about the weather.

"No clue." You sighed, letting your eyes close for a second, letting yourself just feel his fingers working through your hair. "Maybe some work stress?" you offered.

It was the easiest answer. The one that didn't require digging. Work stress was always there, always a safe explanation for everything from headaches to exhaustion to the occasional tears. And it wasn't untrue, work had been hard lately. You just weren't sure that was what had gotten to you tonight.

You finished the last of your water, setting the cup down on the counter as Frank finished the braid. He'd gotten fast at it over time, those deft doctor's fingers knowing exactly how much tension to use, how to keep it neat without pulling too tight. You felt him tuck the end of the elastic into place.

Then he turned you around. His hands came up to frame your face, palms warm against your jaw, fingers curving along the sides of your neck. He did this a lot now. You'd realized pretty quickly that he did it because it made it hard to lie to him. When he was looking at you like this, your face said everything before you could stop it.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly, and his eyes searched yours in the dim light, looking for whatever you weren't saying.

You lifted your hands, wrapping your fingers loosely around his wrists.

"I think it's just work, Frank," you said gently, and you tried to make it sound convincing.

He knew you were lying and you knew that he knew.

But instead of calling you out on it, instead of pushing harder the way the old Frank might have, he just pulled you into his arms. One arm wrapped around your waist, while the other came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, brushing softly up and down against your scalp. He leaned back against the counter behind him, pulling you with him until you were pressed against his chest.

"Mhm," he hummed, and you could feel the rumble of it in his chest, could feel the way his lips moved against your hair. "I don't appreciate being lied to."

You didn't pull back and start stammering out excuses. Instead, you just nuzzled closer into his chest, your cheek pressing over his heartbeat. Your arms tightened around his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

"If something's making you cry," he mumbled into your hair, his hand still stroking down the back of your head, "I'd like to know about it."

He paused for a moment, letting that settle between you. You felt his chest rise and fall with each breath, felt his fingers pause at the nape of your neck before continuing their path.

"Even if it involves me," he added softly.

That made you look up.

You raised your head, pressing your chin against his chest so you could see his face. He was already looking down at you.

You stared at him for a long time, before letting out a slow breath.

"Just relief," you whispered, and even as you said it, you knew it wasn't the whole truth, but it was part of it. "I'm glad you're back."

He knew what you meant. Knew that "I'm glad you're back" meant the ten months alone at home, meant nights spent lying alone in a bed that smelled like him even after the sheets had been washed a dozen times.

He knew it also meant I'm glad you came home. I'm glad you're clean. I'm glad you're alive.

"Nothing bad," you whispered, and you meant that too. The tears hadn't been from sadness, not really.

Frank nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. "Promise?" he whispered, and his voice was rough.

"Promise," you mumbled.

He nodded again and then he leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. His lips lingered there for a moment. "Come on," he murmured against your hair. "Back to bed."

He guided you with a hand on your lower back, keeping you close as you walked back down the hallway. The bedroom was still dark, the sheets still rumpled from when you'd gotten up, and Frank pulled them back before ushering you in first.

The mattress dipped as he climbed in after you, and before he could even settle, you were already moving. You scooted across the sheets until you were pressed against his side, your leg hooking over his hip, your cheek finding its familiar place on his chest. Your fingers spread against his stomach, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt, and you let out a relieved sound as you felt his arm come around you, his hand settling on your thigh where it rested against him.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Frank's hand toyed with the fabric of his boxers you were wearing.

You were just starting to drift, when he spoke again. "I don't want you to cry."

It sounded like he hadn't planned to say it out loud. His fingers kept playing with the hem of the boxers, rolling the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

You huffed a laugh against his chest. "Can't do much about that when I'm sleeping, genius."

He chuckled and you felt it rumble through his whole body. The sound made you smile despite yourself, your lips curving against his skin, and his hand squeezed your thigh once.

"I know," he said, and you could hear the smile still in his voice. "Just saying."

His other hand came up, fingers finding the end of your braid where it laid across your shoulder. He brushed over it softly. Then he spoke again, his voice quieter this time.

"Talking about what you're feeling might help," he said softly. His nose nuzzled into your hair, right at your temple, and you felt his breath warm against your skin. "Doesn't have to be right now. But... eventually."

You tilted your head back, looking up at him. "Like you do about yours?" you mumbled, arching an eyebrow.

It was a gentle jab, but you both knew what you meant. Frank could talk for hours about patient cases or about treatment plans. But Frank talking about himself, about what he was feeling, that was rarer.

"Ouch," he grinned. "You got me there."

You started giggling before you could stop yourself and his grin widened in response. His hand slid from your braid to your waist, fingers splaying across your ribs to hold you closer.

"Fair point," he admitted. "Hypocrite. Got it."

"That's not what I said," you protested, still smiling.

"You didn't have to say it. It was in the eyebrows."

You swatted at his chest, and he caught your hand easily, pressing it flat against his sternum where you could feel his heartbeat as he chuckled.

After a while, you looked back at him, at the man who had come home to you, at the face you'd thought you might never see again. And then you spoke. "I'll try my best."

Your free hand came up to his face, palm curving along his jaw. You traced the sharp line of it slowly. His eyes had gone soft, watching you with an attention that made you feel like the only thing in the room.

Your thumb found the small dimple in his chin. You pressed into it gently, feeling the familiar dip of it under your skin.

"That's enough for me," he murmured, and then he turned his head just slightly, and his lips brushed against your thumb, a kiss so soft it was almost not there at all.

You smiled before you could stop it, and you felt the last of the tension in your shoulders release. "Okay," you whispered.

His arms tightened around you, pulling you more firmly against his side, and you went willingly, tucking your face back into the crook of his neck.

And when your eyes finally closed, when sleep came to pull you under, the last thing you felt was his lips pressed to your hair and the last thing you heard was his voice, saying something you were already too far gone to catch.

But you knew what it was anyway.

[padmespetal]

✹ NICE TO EACH OTHER — modern au daeron taragaryen x reader (part of the welcome to the family series)

synopsis. daeron targaryen finally begins to see the point of recovery after egg’s babysitter becomes a regular part of the family or the five times daeron targaryen asks you out, and the one time you finally say yes…

word count. 8.0k

warnings. mentions of struggling with alcoholism, not proofread so sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes, english is not my first language!

note. this one is for my daeron girlies. sorry for the wait, also I recommend listening to the song ‘nice to each other’ by olivia dean while reading since I took inspiration from it <3 as always hope you enjoy reading 🤍

welcome to the family series.

The first time it happened, you were traversing the blissful, silent plains of REM sleep, dreaming of something remarkably peaceful, probably a world where professor Ashford didn't bore you to death with his lectures and the Targaryen family tree wasn't quite so dysfunctional.

But then came the unwelcome noise. It wasn't a gentle chime but rather a rhythmic, digital intrusion that felt like a tiny jackhammer against your skull.

You groaned, the sound muffled by your pillow, and flailed a hand toward the bedside table. Your fingers brushed against cold glass, and you squinted as the aggressive blue light of your phone screen seared your retinas.

"Gods be good," you croaked, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through a gravel pit.

The digital clock read 3:14 AM.

At this hour, there were only three reasonable possibilities: a telemarketer with a serious death wish, Kiera having a breakdown over a last minute deadline for a class, or your mother forgetting the eight hour time difference between your home and King's Landing.

However, as your vision deblurred and the dancing spots of light settled, a name crystallized on the screen.

Daeron Targaryen.

Your heart did a strange, uncoordinated little somersault, partly from the shock of the name, and partly from the immediate, gnawing dread that settled in your chest after the mention of the Targaryen name at this hour.

You had become incredibly familiar with Daeron in the past few months.

You were practically a fixture in the Targaryen household by now. Your days were regularly spent bonding with his youngest brother and looking after the rest of his family. In general you were the one keeping things in check.

But with Daeron it was different. It had always been different.

Daeron was a professional at not letting you babysit him, like you did with the others. He was kind but awfully weary, and possessed a talent for finding the bottom of a bottle faster than anyone you’d ever met.

You swiped the green button, bracing yourself for the unexpectable. "Hello?"

A heavy, shaky breath exhaled on the other end. "Y/N."

He said your name like a parched man stumbling upon a desert spring. It was a prayer, a sigh, and a confession all in one, but it was also incredibly slurred.

He was definitely drunk, you immedieatly concluded.

He dragged the syllabells of your name for a second too long, vibrating with the unmistakable aftermath of high-quality wine or knowing the dive bars Daeron frequented, low-quality ale.

"Daeron," you sighed, rubbing the bridge of your nose. "It’s three in the morning. Where are you?"

"You have such a beautiful voice," he murmured, completely ignoring the question. You could almost hear the lopsided, sleepy grin on his face.

"Have I ever told you that? It’s like... like silk. But, you know, the soft kind. Not the kind that makes your skin all itchy."

"You’re poetic when you’re wasted, Daeron. It’s a gift really," you snorted, leaning back against your headboard and staring into the darkness of your room.

"Now, focus." You half guided, half commanded. "Look around. Are you safe? Are you in a ditch?"

"And a beautiful face," he continued, his voice dropping an octave into a conspiratorial whisper. "I love when you wear your hair in that one particular... the twisty thing. With the clip. You look like a painting. A very tired, very pretty painting."

You felt a treacherous warmth creep up your neck at his words, which you promptly ignored and pushed aside.

"Daeron!" you snapped, using the 'babysitter voice', the one that came out when Egg lied to you about the homework Maellon had assigned him.

"Oh! Y/N! It’s you!" he exclaimed suddenly, sounding genuinely delighted and utterly surprised as if he hadn't been the one talking to you all this time.

"Yes, it’s me. Now, for the third time: where exactly are you?"

There was a long, thoughtful silence. You heard the distant sound of a cat screeching somewhere beside him and the low rumble of a car engine several streets away.

"I’m not entirely sure," he admitted cheerfully. "But the ground is very firm. I think it's reliable ground."

"Look at your surroundings, Daeron. Give me a landmark. A sign — anything." You attempted to guide him, as a very clear vision of him curled up in some forgotten corner of Flea Bottom, grimy and full of dust formed in your head.

"Um... there’s stones. And... like houses. Old ones” he muttered, his words beginning to melt into one another. "Oh, wait. There’s a dragon. A huge, red, ugly beast on the wall. He’s looking at me, Y/N. I think he’s judging my life decisions."

Your tension snapped, replaced by a wave of humor and relief. You almost chuckled.

You knew that mural. It was a piece of street art in a narrow alleyway just off the main square in Flea Bottom. It was less than ten minutes from a bar you sometimes frequented.

He wasn't in a ditch, and he wasn't about to stumble into the Blackwater Bay. Which was good.

"Okay. Stay there Daeron. Do not move. I’m calling Valarr, and he’s going to come pick you up. Okay?” Your voice left no room for argument.

"No! No, no, no!" Daeron’s voice rose to a desperate, whiny pitch that was almost comical. "Don’t call Valarr! He’ll give me the look. You know which one I'm talking about. The 'I’m the perfect heir and you’re just a disgrace look. It hurts my feelings, Y/N. It really does."

"Daeron, you’re drunk, you’re outside in the middle of the night, and you need to get home," you chided softly, feeling that familiar tug of pity.

He was a grown man, but in moments like this, he was as fragile as the glass he’d been emptying all night.

"'M not a child," he grumbled.

"You’re currently sitting on a curb in the middle of the street, talking nonsense, so I’m going to have to disagree," you countered. You sighed, the cold air of the room finally making you shiver. "I’m calling him, Daeron."

"Fine," he huffed, sounding like a disgruntled toddler. "Call the golden Boy. But... on one condition only.”

You closed your eyes, bracing for the inevitable. "And what would that be?"

"I am going to take you out," he said, his voice suddenly gaining a shred of misplaced confidence. "On a date. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever I can stand up without the world spinning like a carousel."

You let out a short, surprised puff of a laugh, leaning forward. "Yeah... no."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" He sounded genuinely offended, as if you’d just insulted his entire lineage. "I’m a catch! I have... hair! And a car I’m.. ocassionally allowed to drive!" You almost laughed at that. Almost.

"Daeron, I work for your father. I spend eight hours a day making sure your little brother doesn't transform into a wildling or run off to Dorne. I don't think either of them would be thrilled to find out I’m dating… well you."

"Who cares?" he slurred, his bravado fading into a mumble. "They’re just a bunch of... they don't see... you're the only one who..." His voice trailed off, words slurring into one incoherent blur.

"Daeron?" you called out, your brow furrowing. "Daeron, are you still there? Please don't be dead." Your voice was vaguely filled with panic.

The only response was a rhythmic, heavy sound, the unmistakable snoring of a man who had reached his limit and decided that the pavement of Flea Bottom was as good a bed as any.

"Gods be good," you muttered, hanging up. He really was unbelievable.

You quickly dialed Valarr. He picked up on the third ring, sounding remarkably awake but deeply annoyed. After you gave him Daeron's location and apologized profusely, he sighed and promised to retrieve "the family embarrassment."

"Text me when he's inside," you insisted.

"I will, Y/N. Go back to sleep. You have to deal with Egg tomorrow."

You tossed the phone back onto the nightstand and collapsed into your pillows, but sleep didn't return as easily as it usually did. The silence of the room felt much heavier now.

Drunk words are sober thoughts.

The phrase echoed in the back of your mind, a persistent little annoying ghost.

You had spent months meticulously maintaining a professional distance, treating Daeron with the kind of fond exasperation one might show a stray dog.

You weren't supposed to think about the way his tired eyes lit up when you walked into a room, or the fact that beneath the scent of whiskey, he always smelled faintly of old books and rain.

Your phone buzzed.

Valarr

Package secured. He’s snoring in the backseat. Thanks for the heads up.

You let out a long breath, your heartbeat finally slowing. Peace returned to the room, but as you finally drifted back into dreams, the image of a messy-haired blonde boy with a sad, crooked smile followed you all the way down.

It was just the alcohol talking, you told yourself. But as you fell asleep, you couldn't help but wonder what he would say when he was sober. If he remembered — that was.

—

The second time it happened, the sun was streaming through the high, arched windows of the Targaryen kitchen, turning the marble countertops into polished mirrors. The air smelled sharply of citrus and the faint sweet scent of the new vanilla candles you insisted on burning.

You were currently engaged in a battle of wills with a particularly stubborn lemon.

"King Viserys Targaryen took to wife..." Egg’s voice droned from across the island. He was slumped over his History of Westeros workbook, scratching at his buzzed blonde hair. "...Aemma Arryn."

He paused, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. You gave the lemon one last, brutal squeeze, the juice stinging a small papercut on your thumb.

"They had one daughter," Egg continued, his eyes suddenly lighting up with the triumph of a remembered fact. "But after she died, he took another — younger one. Alicent Hightower, am I right?"

"Spot on." you hummed, offering him a small, encouraging smile as you wiped your hands on your apron.

You tried not to think too hard about the messy, recursive nature of his family tree. It was enough to give anyone a headache, let alone a ten year old.

"Alright, I’m done!" Egg proclaimed with the dramatic finality of a judge passing a sentence. He slammed his notebook shut with a satisfying thwack and hopped off his stool, scurrying over to your side.

"Are you sure?" You arched an eyebrow, reaching for the sugar canister. "One hundred percent sure? Because if I find out you skipped the Blackfyre rebellions again, there will be no extra cookies later."

Egg looked at you with wide, innocent eyes. "I’m not lying... this time. It’s done. Cross my heart."

You were about to press him for proof when the heavy oak door swung open and in walked Daeron.

To your surprise, he didn't look like the walking ghost who had called you at 3 AM two weeks prior. His golden silver hair was brushed back, and while a few strands remained defiantly ruffled, he looked... healthy. Decent even, you dared venture.

He was wearing a simple dark shirt that made his purple eyes pop and casual trousers that actually fit him.

"Oh, hello," he said, and his voice was clear, devoid of the gravelly slur from his drunken escapade. His eyes lit up the moment they landed on you, and a small genuine smile tugged at his lips.

"Egg," he added with a casual nod to his brother as he moved toward the fridge.

Egg didn’t respond. Instead, he narrowed his eyes tracking Daeron’s every move like a miniature hawk.

Daeron feeling the weight of the stare, paused with his hand on the refrigerator handle. He looked back at his little brother, who was currently shaking his head with a slow, deliberate intensity that clearly translated to — don’t you dare.

Daeron rolled his eyes, a silent "piss off" directed at the ten-year-old, and shut the fridge door without taking anything out.

He opted instead to lean against the counter right next to where you were stirring the lemonade. "So... you made lemonade.” he noted, raising his brows in a polite manner.

His presence was suddenly very large in the room. He wasn't crowding you, but the scent of him, this time of clean laundry and a hint of peppermint seemed to overcrowd and replace the lemon scent entirely.

"I did," you replied, focusing very intently on the sugar dissolving in the jug. "It’s Egg’s favorite."

Daeron looked at the pitcher, then at Egg who was still glaring at him with enough heat to melt steel.

"Could I have some?" Daeron asked innocently, his tone shifting into something uncharacteristically soft.

"Um yeah sure, there's plen—"

"No." Egg’s voice was sharp enough to cut glass. He lunged forward, grabbing his own glass and pulling it closer to his chest as if Daeron were some sort ofcommon thief.

"No?" Daeron repeated, giving his youngest brother an incredulous look. "It’s a jug of juice Aegon. Not the crown jewel."

"No." Egg parroted, his chin tilted up defiantly.

Daeron let out a loud, frustrated scoff. "Fine. Keep your sour water." He turned his attention back to you, his expression softening instantly which was somehow more unnerving than his bickering. "What are you doing after your shift?"

The question hit you like an unexpected blow. You felt Egg’s gaze burn into the side of your head, and for a frantic second you considered pretending you’d suddenly gone deaf and not heard his question.

"Well... I have a few things to—"

"Come to see this play with me," Daeron interrupted, not wasting a second and leaning in a fraction closer. "It’s an open-air performance in the Godswood tonight. The weather is perfect for it. No crowds, just the trees and the stage and..."

His eyes were so bright, so full of a rare hopeful energy you hadn’t seen in a long time that you felt a genuine pang of guilt in your chest. For a split second, the idea of sitting in the cool evening air next to him, away from textbooks and sticky countertops, laughing at some stupid play sounded like absolute heaven.

Then you looked at Egg. Who seemed absolutely bewildered by the idea, his mouth slightly agape as he processed his brother’s audacity.

"I’m sorry Daeron…” you spoke quietly, scratching the back of your head and looking anywhere but at his violet expectant gaze. "I’m sorry but I really can’t."

"Wha— why not?" he pressed, his shoulders dropping just an inch. "It’s just a play. I promise I won’t do anything suspicious."

Before you could formulate a polite excuse about laundry or sleep, Egg swooped in like your tiny savior.

"Because brother," Egg said, his nose pointed toward the ceiling in a perfect imitation of his father’s sternest expression, "she has already agreed to take me and Tanselle to the cinema."

Daeron blinked, thrown off his rhythm. "Well... then I’ll just come along. I like movies." He reasoned.

"No space." Egg countered instantly, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Kiera and Duncan are coming too. The car is full."

The silence that followed was heavy with Daeron's defeat. He looked at you, seeking some kind of desperate loophole, but you just gave him a helpless apologetic shrug.

"Maybe next time?” you offered, though the words fell hollow even to your own ears.

"Right. Next time," Daeron muttered, the light in his eyes dimming as he pushed off the counter. He turned and headed for the door, his posture returning to that slightly slumped weary gait you knew so well. You couldn't help the guilt suddenly festering in your chest.

As the door clicked shut Egg let out a long, triumphant breath and took a huge theatrical gulp of his lemonade.

"He's so annoying sometimes.” Egg grumbled, wiping a sugar mustache from his lip.

"He was just being nice Egg," you reasoned softly, eyes still stuck on the door where Daeron had just disappeared through.

"He was being weird," Egg corrected. "Now, can we go over the Dance of the Dragons? I think I forgot who killed who."

You sighed and picked up the notebook but your mind stayed on the Godswood. You found yourself wondering if the play was a tragedy or a comedy and why, for some unknown reason the rejection felt like it belonged to the former.

—

The third time it happened, it was your own words backfiring at you.

“I am Daeron Targaryen’s girlfriend.” The words had left your lips in a haste. A swift lie in hopes of getting through the reception lady.

—

“Excuse me?” Daeron walked up to the reception. The hospital air reeked of cheap coffee and antiseptic as he padded through the lobby.

The lady working there had her hair tied into a ponytail and was aggressively chewing gum. She looked up with an annoyed sigh.

However when her gaze landed on Daeron her demeanor immediately changed. “Yes?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, in a much better mood. He internally cringed at the shift.

“Do you happen to know if there’s an ice machine anywhere?” He wondered leaning against the counter politely.

“Yeah it’s there opposite the hallway your girlfriend just came through.”

Daeron was about to thank her but he froze in his tracks. His what?

For a moment he simply stood there, utterly dumbfounded. All he could hear were those two words.

Your girlfriend.

“My girlfriend?” he repeated dumbly, the phrase slipping out before he could stop it.

The woman behind the desk had already begun blowing a small bubble with her gum, her attention drifting somewhere over his shoulder as if the conversation bored her now that she had already answered his question.

She popped it lazily. “Um, yeah.”

Her eyes flicked back to him with mild confusion, like she couldn’t understand why he was still standing there.

“The girl with the messy hair and wrinkled clothes,” she added, gesturing vaguely down the corridor with a pen. “She came through about twenty minutes ago.”

Messy hair? Wrinkled clothes?

A strange warmth crept slowly up Daeron’s neck.

She was talking about you.

For a moment he simply stared at the counter, the polished surface reflecting the pale hospital lights.

He could see the faint outline of himself there — tall, slightly hunched forward, one hand still resting on the edge of the desk.

You had said that.

You had said that.

His heart lurched in his chest in a way that felt embarrassingly boyish.

Not just nervous and not just surprised.

But the sort of wild, impossible flutter he thought he had grown out of years ago —— the kind boys felt when a girl smiled at them across a classroom or brushed their hand by accident.

My girlfriend. Gods.

“Is she not your girlfriend?” The receptionist’s voice snapped through his thoughts with a sharp edge of impatience.

Daeron blinked. “Oh—”

He cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of how long he had been standing there like a starstruck idiot.

“Yes.”

The word came out a little too quickly.

“Yes… yes, she is.” It was a lie. Or rather — it was continuing your lie.

And yet the moment the words left his mouth something warm and reckless bloomed in his chest.

Because for a split second, in the strange suspended quiet of the hospital hallway, it felt almost real.

The receptionist gave a short nod, clearly uninterested in whatever internal crisis he had just endured.

“Mhm. Right.”

She was already looking down at her computer again.

Daeron lingered there another moment before finally stepping away from the counter.

His head felt oddly light.

You said I was your boyfriend.

The thought returned again and again, circling through his mind like something fragile he didn’t dare examine too closely.

You could have said anything. You could have claimed to be a cousin or a friend or a distant relative.

Instead you had chosen the one lie that placed you beside him.

Not beside Aerion, not beside Valarr — not even Maekar, whose name carried enough weight to open almost any door.

You had chosen him.

Daeron scrubbed a hand slowly through his hair, pushing the soft golden strands back from his face as he walked down the corridor.

Gods. His face was warm. He felt like a green boy once again.

If anyone from the family saw him like this they would never let him live it down.

Aerion would laugh himself sick and mock him. Maekar would stare at him with that terrifyingly perceptive expression and say something blunt and humiliatingly accurate.

And Aegon — Aegon would strangle him.

You had probably said it without thinking. Just a convenient lie to get past the desk. You likely hadn’t even considered the implications.

But Daeron’s mind, traitorous thing that it was, refused to leave the thought alone. The ice and the disgruntled lady at the desk were long forgotten. Instead the only picture in his mind was — you.

His stomach flipped. Seven hells.

You were going to be the death of him.

Which is how you found yourself in your current position.

Curled in one of the garden chairs in the backyard, scribbling furiously across the pages of your notebook while the warm spring air drifted lazily through the estate gardens.

The Targaryen property was absurdly large the kind of place that felt more like a small park than a private residence.

Tall trees bordered the garden, their new leaves glowing soft green under the afternoon sun. Flowerbeds had burst into color almost overnight — pale roses, lavender bushes, little clusters of yellow wildflowers that had pushed through the soil like they owned the place. Birds chirped somewhere overhead.

And the patio which was large enough to host a small wedding, had become your unofficial office.

You sat cross-legged in the chair, dressed comfortably in soft grey sweats and an oversized shirt. Your hair had been hastily twisted into a bun that had long since begun falling apart.

Your pen rested between your teeth as you stared thoughtfully at the half-finished notes in your notebook.

Across the yard Aegon ran in wild circles. He had a wooden sword clutched in one hand and a ridiculous cardboard shield strapped to his arm, shouting something incomprehensible about dragons and battles as he attempted what could only loosely be described as a cartwheel.

You winced. “Try not to break your neck!” you called out instinctively.

Aegon wobbled mid-cartwheel, collapsed sideways into the grass, and immediately sprang back up like nothing had happened.

You shook your head fondly, returning to your notes. Just as you began scribbling down another idea the back door creaked open.

You glanced up lazily. Stepping out onto the patio, shielding his eyes from the sun like some sort of offended vampire was — Daeron. He looked characteristically disheveled.

His pale hair was a soft tangled mess, falling into his face in sleepy waves. He wore loose dark pajama pants and a wrinkled T-shirt that looked like it had been slept in, probably for several days.

And it was three in the afternoon. Perks of being both a college dropout and a Targaryen you supposed.

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your mouth.

“Well hello there, sleeping beauty.” You teased, your pen tapped idly against the notebook as you watched him shuffle toward the patio table like a man being dragged unwillingly into daylight.

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and collapsed into the chair opposite you with dramatic exhaustion.

The sunlight hit his face immediately. He squinted hard, violet eyes narrowing as if personally offended by the existence of the sun.

“…you look like you’ve just crawled out of a cave,” you added lightly.

He grunted in response.

You studied him a little more carefully then.

The faint shadows under his eyes and the slight tension in his shoulders. The way he leaned back in the chair like gravity itself had suddenly doubled.

Your expression softened. “…is it the dreams again?” Your voice was quieter now.

He didn’t look at you. Instead his gaze drifted across the lawn toward Aegon, who was now valiantly battling an imaginary enemy near the rose bushes.

Daeron yawned — long and tired.Then he nodded.

You swallowed slightly. The notebook rested against your chest now, long forgotten.

You had learned over the past few weeks that the dreams were not something he liked discussing. Not with anyone. Not even you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked gently.

He shook his head. “No.” His voice was quiet but firm.

“Not this time.”

For a brief second his eyes flicked toward you and he gave you a small grateful smile.

You nodded, accepting it immediately. You had learned that too — pushing would get you nowhere.

Instead you reached for your notebook again and flipped it open. A comfortable quiet settled between you — only broken by Aegon’s occasional war cries from the lawn.

“So…” Daeron leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. His fingers drummed awkwardly against the surface.

“Do I finally get a date with my girlfriend?”

Your pen froze mid-word.

“…What?”

You blinked at him slowly. Girlfriend? What was he talking about?

For a second your brain simply refused to process the sentence.

And then it clicked and your stomach dropped as your eyes widened.

“Wait.” You sat up straighter, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.

“Do you know about the reception?”

He didn’t answer but he laughed and that was more than enough to answer your question. It was soft at first but the moment he saw the horror creeping across your face it grew louder.

There was even a mischievous crinkle in the corner of his eyes.

“Oh my god.” You slapped a hand over your face. “How do you know about the bloody reception?!” You screeched.

Daeron leaned back in his chair looking unbearably pleased with himself.

“The receptionist told me.” He explained with a proud look in his eye.

“Of course she did.” You groaned, dragging your hands down your face.

“Unbelievable.” You muttered under your breath, face burning with embarrassment.

“I quite liked it actually.” He admitted and your heart did an involuntary leap, but you quickly covered it with casualness.

“Yeah I bet you would.”

“For the record,” he continued lazily, “you could have picked someone else.”

You shot him a look. “Oh please. Who else was I supposed to say? Aerion?”

He made a face. “Fair.”

“Valarr? He already came in with Kiera, having two girlfriends would be kind of weird… even for a Targaryen.” You added and he snorted.

“You have a point.”

“Exactly.” You pointed your pen at him.

At some point Aegon had begun galloping across the yard pretending to be a dragon rider.

Neither of you noticed but the laughter eventually faded and the gentle calm settled in again.

Daeron cleared his throat quietly. His fingers fiddled with the edge of the table.

“So…” he said again, slightly more hesitant this time.

“What do you say?” He glanced up at you expectantly.

“Just you and me, nothing fancy. Maybe dinner..” he shrugged lightly. “Coffee if that feels less… terrifying.” He gave you a sheepish smile.

Your stomach twisted because the way he was looking at you — so careful and so hopeful. Trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t nervous, when the nervous tremor in his hand gave him away.

“I—”

The word caught in your throat. You looked down at your notebook in shame.

“I can’t Daeron.”

The silence that followed felt incredibly heavy. “I’m sorry, but I can’t...”

He slumped back in his chair as a long sigh slipped out of him.

“Why?” The question came quietly, his brows furrowed in irritation. “Just… why?”His eyes flicked toward you again.

“Just give me a reason and I promise I’ll let it go.”

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Do you not like me?”

You opened your mouth immediately.

“Daeron—”

“Do you think I’m ugly?”

You stared at him.

“What?”

“I mean I know I’m not the most handsome looking but—”

“Daeron.”

You leaned forward, cutting him off firmly. “You know that’s not the problem.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze had dropped to the table now. The sunlight caught in his hair, turning the pale strands almost silver.

You hesitated — then finally said the thing you had been avoiding since that first day.

“It’s the drinking.” The words landed quieter than you had intended. But they hit.

He stilled in his seat.

“I’m serious,” you continued quietly “you drink yourself into oblivion half the week.”

His jaw tightened, because he knew — you were only speaking the truth.

“You disappear for days, and no one knows where you are, no one knows if you’re even alive. You could be in a ditch or the bottom of Blackwater Bay for all we know.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. Which somehow made it worse.

“And you don’t even try to get better.” You looked back at him.

“I like you,” you admitted softly. “I really, really do.” His head lifted slightly at that and you could see the hopeful spark return to his eyes.

“But I’m not going to watch you destroy yourself.” Your fingers tightened around your pen.

“I’ve done that before.”The words slipped out before you could stop them and you swallowed nervously.

Daeron’s eyes softened immediately. “You think that’s what I’m doing? Destroying myself?”

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation and your honesty seemed to surprise him.

For a long moment neither of you spoke.

“I don’t know how to stop.” The admission was so quiet you almost missed it. Your chest tightened at his words.

Daeron rubbed a hand over his face tiredly.“I wake up and my head feels like it’s splitting open, or I’m terrified of things only I can see.” He let out a humorless laugh. “And the only thing that makes it better is drinking again.”

“Then get help.” Your words were so blunt his surprised gaze immediately flickered to you.

“…Would you go on a date with me if I did?”

Your heart twisted and you sighed “That’s not why you should do it.”

“I know.” His voice was softer now. “But would you?” He still wondered.

You held his gaze for a long moment “Maybe.”

It wasn’t a promise. But it wasn’t a no either — which encouraged him somehow.

And for the first time all afternoon he found himself smiling.

—

The fourth time it happened was entirely accidental. And in your humble opinion, deeply unfair.

You had not come to the Targaryen house that day expecting to be ambushed. Yet somehow that was exactly what had occurred.

You had originally stopped by just to visit Aegon, since you weren’t on babysitting duties that day. You had decided to check in, maybe play a board game or drink tea in the kitchen while you prepared a snack for Egg.

Instead when you had stepped through the front door Daella and Rhae had descended on you like two extremely determined teenage girls. And you immediately realized — there was no escape.

“Oh perfect! We were just about to ask Aegon where you are!” Daella screeched excitedly quickly taking your bag from your shoulder as Rhae jumped with excitement.

You barely had time to take off your shoes before they were dragging you upstairs to their room.

“Sit.” You opened your mouth to protest as they all but shoved you into their chambers.

“And don’t argue.”

“We just came home from the mall and we bought all of this new stuff we need to try out!” Daella gestured as your eyes landed on the two enormous Sephora bags sitting in the corner of the room.

That had been roughly two hours ago.

Which is how you now found yourself sitting in the middle of the girls’ enormous bedroom like some kind of experimental doll.

The room itself looked like something out of a movie set. A massive vanity mirror lined with glowing bulbs illuminated the entire space in soft golden light.

Makeup brushes, palettes, curling irons, hair sprays, powders, creams, and bottles of things you could not even begin to identify were scattered across the surface like the aftermath of a cosmetic hurricane.

Some faint pop song played from a small JBL speaker on the dresser.

You sat in the middle of it all wearing an expression somewhere between amusement and mild terror.

Rhae stood directly in front of you, holding a sleek little bottle like it contained liquid gold.

“Close your eyes.” You obeyed and squinted as a cool mist hit your face.

“Charlotte Tilbury setting spray,” she announced proudly.

You blinked as she waved the cloud toward you like some kind of makeup priestess sealing a ritual.

Meanwhile behind you, Daella was carefully twisting sections of your hair onto a curling rod with the concentration of a surgeon.

“You have really good hair,” she murmured approvingly.

“Thank you?” you replied politely, though you had absolutely no idea what she was doing back there.

In the mirror your reflection stared back at you looking… suspiciously expensive.

Your skin looked smooth enough to belong on a porcelain doll. Your eyelashes were longer than seemed biologically possible. And your cheeks glowed faintly like you had just run through a field of roses.

You suspected the products on your face probably cost more than your monthly groceries.

“…I mean it’s absolutely ridiculous,” Rhae was saying while touching up your blush with a tiny brush.

“Why would he ever want to go out with her?” She wondered as if it were the most suspicious thing in all the Seven Kingdoms.

“Right!” Daella chimed in from behind you. “They’re so incompatible it’s horrible!”

You nodded slowly. “Mhm.” You had absolutely no idea who they were talking about.

At first you had genuinely tried to follow the conversation — but somewhere around the third “no wait that was Alyssa’s ex not Elia’s ex” you had completely lost the plot.

“Honestly it’s a disaster,” Rhae sighed dramatically, then she leaned closer to the mirror inspecting your face. “Oh no.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What is it? Is my hair burning?” Your hand instinctively went to reach for the back of your head but Daella slapped it away.

“The concealer looks cakey.” She whined.

You stared at your reflection. Your skin looked absolutely flawless. It looked like you had been airbrushed by a professional.

“Rhae it’s perfect—”

But she was already frowning deeply like a disappointed artist.

“No it’s not.”

“It absolutely is.”

“No it’s—”

A polite knock interrupted the argument and the door opened.

Daeron’s head of golden hair poked through the tiny opening. He paused immediately — as if debating if he wanted to take part in any of this.

“Seven hells.” He wrinkled his nose. “It smells like a Sephora in here.”

“DAERON!” Daella gasped.

“You’re not supposed to be here!” Rhae added, waving both hands at him like he was a stray animal wandering into sacred territory. “We’re having a girls day!”

Daeron looked mildly offended. “I live here.” He deadpanned.

You quietly noticed how for the first time in weeks he seemed— not disheveled. Which was particularly unusual for him.

He had a healthy glow in his cheeks and his skin didn’t look like it hadn’t seen daylight in years. His eyes weren’t bloodshot and there weren’t dark circles under them.

“You’re still not supposed to be here.”

He opened his mouth to respond but then his gaze landed on you and he completely froze.

You sat there in the giant vanity chair, your makeup glowing under the lights, hair styled neatly over your shoulders.

You gave him a sheepish little smile. “Is it really that bad?” you attempted to jest.

He did not answer. He was still standing in the doorway utterly dumbstruck.

Rhae snapped her fingers in front of his face — no reaction.

Daella waved a hand dramatically. “Hello? Earth to Daeron!” She mimicked but still nothing.

“Are you deaf or something?” Rhae squinted at him.

Daeron finally blinked and then suddenly straightened.

“No, no.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, as if realizing how foolish he had been.

“It’s perfect.”

“I mean— you’re perfect.”

“I mean—”

He gestured vaguely at the air like he had lost control of the common tongue.

The girls exchanged identical looks — and immediately burst into giggles.

You felt your face heat up instantly.

“Okay well,” Daella said sweetly, clearly enjoying this far too much, “I think Y/N ought to go somewhere nice when she’s so prettied up.”

Rhae nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Obviously!”

Both of them slowly turned toward their brother, raising their eyebrows expectantly.

Daeron noticed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason.” Rhae said innocently “None at all.”Daella added.

He sighed then looked back at you.

“Would you maybe want to…” he started carefully. “…go for a stroll by Blackwater Bay?” He cleared his throat. “Maybe grab a bite?”

The girls practically vibrated behind you.

You smiled softly. “I— I’d love to.”

Daeron’s face brightened instantly, almost believing your words.

But then you winced — because you knew what was going to follow. “But I’ve already agreed to go to this new bar with Kiera and Tanselle tonight.”

His expression fell instantly. “Oh.” The poor boy looked like a kicked puppy.

You hurried to add. “But maybe another time?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, masking his disappointment. “Yeah, of course.” He gave you a weak smile.

“No problem.” Then after a slightly awkward pause he gestured vaguely toward the hallway.

“I was actually just… looking for Aegon.”

“He escaped earlier,” Daella pointed.

“Smart child…” he muttered before backing toward the door. “Anyway I’ll… leave you to the Sephora.” And with that he disappeared, the door shut closed behind him.

As soon as he was gone the girls exploded.

“Oh may the Seven look down upon us.”

“He has the biggest crush on you.” They both exclaimed loudly.

Your eyes widened immediately “What?!”

“Yes he does!”

“Did you not see his face?”

“He literally forgot how to speak!”

You shook your head rapidly, denying their accusations. “No he didn’t!”

“He said you were perfect!”

“He says stupid things all the time!” You countered as they collapsed onto the bed laughing.

You buried your burning face in your hands. “That means nothing!” God you felt like you were a teenage girl all over again and not a university student.

“Sure,” Rhae said between giggles, rolling her eyes. “Totally nothing.”

Daella grinned.

“He’s been wandering around the house for weeks looking like a kicked puppy whenever you’re not here.”

“That is NOT true!” Your eyes widened.

They looked at each other and then burst into another round of laughter.

You pointed at them accusingly. “You two are just delusional.”

“Mhm.”

“Completely.”

“Absolutely.”

They were still giggling.

And despite your determined denial you couldn’t quite stop yourself from smiling.

After a peaceful silence filled only with occasional giggles from them they returned to finish their handiwork.

“No I mean… Daeron has seriously changed since you’re here with us.” Rhae spoke, but this time there was no banter in her voice.

“Yeah… he’s actually been eating and sleeping normally again. He even goes to rehab twice a week.” Daella revealed and it felt like they were letting you in on some grand scheme. Not discussing Daeron’s weekly habits.

“Oh.” you let out dumbly. Though you couldn’t deny the warmth that had filled you at the revelation. He was doing better then.

“Oh she says.” Rhae snorted. “It’s because of you silly! Do you know how many times father has attempted to refine him..”

“And all it takes is one smile from you…” Daella giggled treacherously.

“I… no that’s not true.. he’s finally just come to his senses.” You reasoned and they hummed in response— clearly not believing your words for a single moment.

—

The fifth and final time it happened, the world was all but melting. And with it all your resolve too.

It was mid-July in King’s Landing, and the city felt like it was being held under a magnifying glass. The air was a thick, shimmering curtain of heat that turned every movement into a chore.

Inside your apartment, the only thing standing between you and total physical dissolution was an old electric fan that rattled on your counter, valiantly pushing lukewarm air around the room.

You were dressed in nothing but he lightest clothing you could muster. You wore a pair of linen shorts so short they were more of a suggestion than a garment, and an oversized threadbare t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, the cotton sticking damply to the small of your back. Your hair was piled into a chaotic, bird’s-nest bun held together by a single claw clip and sheer willpower.

You were hunched over the sink, aggressively cracking an ice tray to harvest cubes for a desperately needed iced coffee when the doorbell unexpectedly rang.

You froze as an ice cube skittered across the floor. Who could it be? Kiera had keys and she would've texted you if she was planning on coming. The delivery man usually just shouted from the street and you were pretty sure you hadn't ordered anything.

You padded toward the door, slightly wary, your bare feet sticking to the hardwood, and slid the safety lock back with a metallic click.

When you pulled the door open you were hit with a smell akin to a flower field. A massive sprawling bouquet of summer blooms—wild peonies, deep blue delphiniums, and sunshine yellow lilies filled your entire field of vision. It was a riot of color so vibrant it made your heat-strained eyes ache.

"Oh Seven Hells... hi." The flowers shifted, revealing a pair of bright expectant eyes and that familiar, lopsided grin. Daeron.

"Hi," you breathed, the word caught in your throat.

He looked... incredible — better than you had ever seen him. The weary, haunted shadow that usually clung to his features had vanished. He was dressed in a crisp, white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms tanned by the summer sun. His silver-gold hair, usually a nest of drunken neglect, was neatly trimmed and swept back from his face. He looked clean. He looked whole. You could hardly believe it.

"I—this is, um... these are for you," he stammered, his voice steady despite the slight flush on his cheeks.

You reached out to take the arrangement, and as the weight of the flowers transferred to you, his fingers brushed against yours. The contact felt like a shock, a jolt of electricity that went straight to your pulse.

The scent of the lilies filled your entire apartment, drowning out the smell of stale city heat. "Daeron, gods... they’re beautiful," you whispered, burying your nose in the petals for a second to hide the way your hands were shaking.

You stepped back, setting the heavy vase-less bouquet on the hallway table so you could actually look at him.

Now that the flowers weren't a shield, his gaze swept over you. You saw the exact moment he realized how little you were wearing. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes darkening as they traced the curve of your bare legs and the soft line of your collarbone. For a second, the heat in the room seemed to spike by ten degrees.

"Listen," he started, his voice dropping into a register that made your skin tingle. He took a half-step into the apartment, closing the door behind him. "I know I have absolutely no right just to crash in like this… hell you have every single reason to throw me out." He began, nervously running his hands through his hair.

"But I really, really like you. And I know I’ve been a disaster. I know I’ve given you every reason to keep saying no."

He took a breath, his chest expanding under the thin linen. "But I listened to you. I've… I've been better. I went. I’m three months clean, Y/N. I haven't touched a drop since that afternoon on the patio. And gods, it’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done." He admitted as he reached out, his hand hovering near your waist before he pulled it back clenching it into a fist. Willing his restraint to manifest.

"But every time I wanted to give up, I thought of you. I thought about how I wanted to be someone who deserved to stand in front of you and ask one more time. I’d do it all over again, every miserable withdrawal, if it meant you’d just give me one chan—"

You didn't let him finish.

The three months of suppressed longing, the midnight phone calls, the stolen glances in the kitchen it all surged forward at once. You stepped into his space, your hands flying up to cup his face.

His skin was warm, smelling of expensive soap and summer air. You pulled him down and crashed your lips against his. He let out a muffled sound of pure shock, his body turning to stone for a heartbeat. Then it was like the dam broke.

His arms wrapped around your waist with a sudden, bruising intensity, lifting you slightly off your feet as he pulled you flush against him. The thin fabric of his shirt was no barrier to the heat of his chest. His mouth was soft, far softer than you had imagined but his kiss was hungry and desperate, tasting of mint and pure unadulterated devotion.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, needing to anchor yourself as the world tilted. In that nothing matter — no Aegon, no Maekar, no complicated family situations. You would deal with that later.

Right not it was just you and Daeron and his lips chasing your own as if his life depended on it.

It was a collision of months of pent-up tension, a release that felt like finally reaching the surface after being underwater for a lifetime.

When you finally broke apart you stayed in the circle of his arms, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together. The only sound in your ears were your frantic breaths and both of your rapid heartbeats beating in sync.

"Gods..." Daeron’s voice was a wrecked hoarse whisper. He kept his eyes closed, his thumb tracing the hem of your short shorts against your hip, his touch reverent.

You let out a small, breathless giggle, the sound bubbling up from a place of pure relief. You were doomed — but in the best possible sense.

He opened his eyes then violet irises glazed with a mixture of passion and disbelief. He looked at you as if you were a miracle he hadn't quite figured out how to deserve.

"So..." he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. "I take it you’ll go out with me? For real this time? No excuses about going out with Kiera or babysitting my brother?"

You looked at him — really looked at him, and saw the man he had fought the last three months so hard to become.

The "no" that had lived on your tongue for months suddenly dissolved into nothingness. Not even crossing your mind.

"Yes," you smiled, your heart feeling dangerously full. "Yes, Daeron Targaryen. I will go out with you."

His eyes were overwhelmed with love and relief as he simply let out a long, shaky exhale and leaned down to steal another kiss, slower this time as if he finally had all the time in the world.

As your lips interlaced once again — this time in a slower steadier manner, you found yourself utterly appreciative of that day you decided to listen to Kiera and take up a part time job.

Because it had led you exactly to this moment — into his arms.

©padmespetal 2026 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

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[padmespetal]

✸ WELCOME TO THE TARGARYENS VI — modern!targaryen au

summary. you return to King’s Landing and the aftermath of everything finally unfolds.

word count. 11.2k

warnings. hospital setting

note. wow. I can’t believe I’ve actually gotten to this part of the fic, I will leave a longer note above this post later but for now I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed creating this fic🤍

previous part. series masterlist.

The cab ride from the airport to the hospital was tense in a way that a wire pulled too tight is tense. And at the moment you were that wire — threatening to tear and cause absolute disaster.

From the very minute you had received Daeron’s message, it was as if your organism had forgotten the proper order of things. The basic functions of your body suddenly became irregulated — your breathing felt too shallow, your thoughts ran ahead of themselves and you were rigid with tension. Every second stretched and collapsed all at once.

You hadn’t slept in over twenty–four hours. Your eyelids were yearning for rest but at the same time they refused to shut. Your mascara was smudged and you couldn't help the yawn that escaped you every thirty seconds. Your body simply refused to calm down.

Not since hearing about Baelor’s accident.

The city outside the cab window blurred past in smudges of grey stone and budding green trees, but you barely registered any of it. King's Landing felt both foreign and familiar now that you were back.

You still felt the cups of sour airport coffee sitting in the pit of your stomach as your leg nervously bounced up and down. The driver glanced at you once through the rearview mirror, furrowed his brow, before deciding it was better not to say anything.

Your luggage sat in the trunk like the remains of a small disaster. Clothes had been shoved into the suitcase in a hurry — linen dresses crumpled, blouses half–folded, a silk scarf caught in the zipper. At security you had nearly forgotten to remove your jewelry entirely. The guard had to remind you twice.

You had apologized three times, and all the while you had been shaking. Even now your fingers trembled faintly in your lap.

You couldn't stop thinking about Baelor.. You didn't know him very well — but you knew he was the heir to the Targaryen dynasty and such a horrendous accident would cause absolute chaos if any serious harm came to him. Your stomach flipped at the thought.

And not to mention he had been so incredibly kind to you that one night he took you home. He was polite and understanding and he carried himself with a grace few possessed. He was a good man, he did not deserve anything bad to come his way.

The moment Daeron texted you, you had immediately written to Kiera. Hoping to strangle some information out of her. You knew it must be terribly painful for Valarr at the moment.

What happened?

What are the doctors saying?

Where is Aegon?

Who is taking care of him?

Her replies had come slowly, cautiously, like she was measuring every word before sending the message. What she told you was —

Aerion had gotten into an incredibly ugly fight in some club in the city, of which the details she had spared you.

A very bad one apparently and Maekar had gone to retrieve him.

Except Baelor had been notified as well — and of course he had gone too. As he always did. You thought back to the time Maekar stumbled into the house with a drunk Daeron and Baelor followed them, making sure everything was fine. Always the one to fix things, to smooth the damage his nephews left behind and to tame his brother's fury.

On the way there a drunk driver had crashed into him. A frontal crash. A nasty accident.

Kiera hadn’t given the details. But Daeron had told you enough.

He was in a coma at the moment and no one was certain when he would wake — that is if he would even wake up at all.

The thoughts had settled into your chest like something cold and heavy. A ticking time bomb. Nothing about a coma was good. At least he was alive — yet it was of little comfort.

Since then a quiet dread had taken root inside you. It lived somewhere beneath your ribs, pulsing with every heartbeat. Everyone you spoke to seemed careful — too careful. Their voices calm, measured. Controlled.

As if they were trying to keep the situation contained, wrapped in a neat layer of composure. But you could feel the truth beneath it.

Nothing was alright.

Baelor Targaryen was fighting for his life and all any of you could do was sit around in hallways and wait for doctors to say words that would change everything.

Helpless didn’t even begin to describe it.

What frightened you almost as much was not knowing what state the others were in.

Was Maekar pacing somewhere, furious with himself? Blaming himself for all of this?

Was Aerion bloodied and bruised after the fight? Was he also laying in a hospital bed?

Was Daeron drinking himself numb somewhere in the city?

Had the girls been sent to someone else's house?

Your thoughts circled endlessly.

But most of all you thought about Aegon.

The boy’s face kept appearing in your mind. His wide violet eyes filled with fear. The way he clung to you that day when you found him in the park.

You had demanded both Kiera and Daeron tell you where he was. Who was with him and if anyone was looking after him.

Their answers had been infuriatingly vague.

He’s fine.

They had both said.

You didn’t believe them.

Not until you saw him yourself.

The cab stopped outside your apartment first, only long enough for you to hop out and shove your luggage inside and grab a clean cardigan. You didn’t even change clothes and you almost forgot to lock the door to your aparment on your way down.

Then straight to the private hospital where Baelor had been taken. Kiera had texted you the location-

As the cab pulled up you noteed it was nothing like the massive medical center in King’s Landing. This building was quieter, much more subtle, tucked behind tall iron gates and carefully manicured gardens.

It was painfully exclusive but more importantly secluded. The sort of place where powerful families waited out tragedies behind closed doors. Where no press and no media could feed off their sorrows.

The guards at the entrance looked skeptical when you hurried in. Your hair was wind–tangled from the flight. Your makeup slightly smudged. Your clothes unmistakably wrinkly and travel–worn.

You probably looked like you had just walked off a sleepless red–eye flight. Which, in truth, you had.

But after the glare you shot them they let you through.

The air outside still carried that early spring warmth unique to King’s Landing. Not the dry golden heat of Dorne you had learnt to expect in the last few weeks and not the scent of dust and citrus groves. Here the warmth smelled of flowers and damp stone.

The hospital halls were quiet. The usual sterile lights didn't feel as intruding as they usually would.

The lady at the reception had asked you for your information and id, but after you had told her you were Daeron Targaryen's girlfriend (just to avoid all the trouble) she had nodded skeptically and pointed you towards the waiting room the Targaryens were seated in. She demanded two guards accompany you in case you were lying but halfway throught the hallway you had convinced them to let you go on alone.

The polished floors gleamed under the soft lights and your footsteps echoed faintly as you rushed through the corridors, chest aching from how fast you were walking.

Sunlight filtered through tall windows. Outside,the green trees rustled gently in the breeze. It was around ten in the morning. A beautiful day.

The only thing ruining that thought was that somewhere in this building Baelor Targaryen lay unconscious, suspended in the fragile space between life and death. Fighting for another moment on this planet.

Your heart hammered in your ears as you turned the final corner.

You were scanning for something, anything, a familiar face a—

White hair. That unmistakable pale silver. And then you saw them.

The waiting room looked less like a hospital room and more like a quiet, luxurious living room.

Soft plush armchairs were strewn about. A polished coffee table. Muted beige walls.

And inside the Targaryens. Not all of them but… most of them.

Valarr sat on a couch beside Kiera. Their hands were intertwined, her fingers brushing slowly over the back of his hand in a steady, soothing rhythm. Valarr’s posture was rigid, shoulders tight, his expression hollow and sleepless. You noted Kiera’s hair was messy, strands falling loose around her face. Her brows were drawn together in quiet concern.

Next to them sat a boy you didn’t immediately recognize.

But you quickly placed him. Matarys. His chestnut hair — inherited from his late mother, Jena Dondarrion — fell across his forehead in soft disarray. Yet his face carried the unmistakable lines of Baelor. He looked as utterly defeated as his older brother.

Further across the room sat Daeron the Good. He was older now, his neatly cut silver hair framed a face lined with age and responsibility. He wore a navy button-up shirt tucked into matching trousers, his posture was straight, composed — though the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

Beside him sat his wife Myriah Martell. You recognized her immediately. Her tan Dornish skin contrasted softly with the pale colors of the room. Dark hair was gathered neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a beige wool sweater and matching trousers, her hand wrapped firmly around her husband’s.

Then there was Daeron. Your Daeron. He sat slightly apart from the others, shoulders slouched, gaze fixed somewhere distant.

He was disheveled and tired in that way you had come to recognize and appreciate.

The girls weren’t here, neither Daella nor Rhae. Neither was Aerion.

And finally, your eyes searched for him.

Maekar stood near the window with his back turned to the room. He was as tall and as rigid as ever. His hands were clasped behind him as he stared out at the trees beyond the glass.

You couldn’t see his face. You had no idea what storm was happening inside his head or behind his eyes.

The moment you stepped into the room Myriah’s brows knit together. She clearly did not recognize you.

For a split second you were certain she was going to call a guard. But before that could happen Kiera looked up and her eyes widened instantly. Relief flashed across her face like sudden sunlight.

Daeron turned too and he immediately stood, eyes wide with something dangerously close to relief.

And Maekar, Maekar slowly turned from the window.

Gods. He looked terrible.

There were deep shadows beneath his eyes, his expression sharp with exhaustion and something darker beneath it. But as his eyes recognized you his purple irises softened.

And before you could even speak a sudden blur of movement rushed toward you. You barely had time to brace yourself before a small body collided into your torso with surprising force.

You stumbled back a step as arms wrapped around you. Their grip was clutching and desperate and unwilling to let go.

Aegon.

He buried his face into your shirt, gripping you as if you might disappear into thin air if he held you any less tightly.

“Gods—” A breathless laugh escaped you. Relief flooded through your body so quickly it made your knees weak. Your hands immediately came up, cradling the back of his head. His pale hair was still growing back in soft, uneven strands.

You pressed a kiss to the top of his head, caressing him with such love. Your vision blurred slightly.

Your boy was here. In your arms. Safe.

“It’s alright, Egg…” you murmured softly.

The room had gone silent behind him. Everyone was watching you but you didn’t care.

Aegon finally lifted his head just enough to speak into the fabric of your shirt.

“Never ever leave again.”

Your chest tightened painfully. A pang of guilty moving through you.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His violet eyes were glossy with unshed tears — a strange mix of sorrow and overwhelming relief.

You brushed a thumb beneath one eye.

“Never,” you said quietly. “I promise.”

He sniffed, looking weary.

“Pinky promise?”

You held out your hand without hesitation.

“Pinky promise.”

His small finger hooked around yours and a weak smile appeared on the corners of his lips.

Only then did you notice Daeron approaching.

He looked exhausted too, hair as messy as ever, his shirt wrinkled — but he gave you a genuine smile of relief.

“Hey.” The crinkles around the corners of his eyes were undeniable.

“Hi,” you breathed.

“You look good,” he said gently.

You snorted quietly. You knew you looked horrible and all messy after so much rushing.

“Yeah. After all that travelling, I bet...”

He just shook his head and huffed out a chuckle, still not believing you were here in front of him.

Then suddenly you remembered where you were. Your eyes drifted toward Daeron the Good and Myriah standing just a few paces away.

“Oh—” You cleared your throat awkwardly. You should probably introduce yourself. Explain why you had intruded on this private family matter.

“I’m so sorry, I— I am—”

Daeron lifted a hand slightly, stopping you from murmuring any further.

“We know who you are.”

The voice came from Myriah. Her Dornish accent wrapped around the words like you had come to recognize.

“Our boys… and girls,” she continued calmly, “have told us quite a lot about you.”

Daeron nodded beside her, a warmer look in his violet orbs.

Your hand drifted nervously to the back of your neck.

“Oh… they did?”

You scratched your hair awkwardly.

“I hope only the good.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Daeron’s mouth and his wife chuckled. Your attempt at humor wasn't so horrible after all.

“They told us,” he said slowly, “that you are the greatest thing that has happened to our family since the defeat of the Blackfyre rebels.”

His face was slightly amused.

You blinked. Processing what he just meant with that.

Was that… Good?

Probably good.

Good enough — you decided.

Somewhere behind them, Maekar was still watching you. Utterly silent.

You inched forward. It was the instinct of someone who could not bear to simply stand still while the world was cracking open around them.

Your body wanted to do something — anything — yet your feet suddenly felt as though they had grown roots deep into the polished hospital tiles beneath you.

You swallowed. The quiet of the room pressed against your ears. Slowly and reluctantly, you let go of Aegon.

The boy’s hand lingered in the fabric of your cardigan, clutching the soft knit as if it were a lifeline. His fingers slipped free only when the stretch of the fabric forced them to, his wide violet eyes still locked onto you with a mixture of relief and confusion. He looked as though he might follow you again.

But Daeron had already crouched slightly beside him, resting a steady hand on his shoulder.

You took a breath. And stepped toward Maekar.

The distance between you wasn’t more than a few feet, yet it felt strangely enormous. As you approached, the room shifted in that quiet social choreography people perform when two individuals clearly need a private moment.

Valarr leaned toward Matarys and murmured something low. Kiera began asking him about something in a soft voice. Myriah and Daeron returned to their seats with the calm dignity of people who knew when to look away.

Daeron had bent slightly toward Aegon, pointing at something outside the window as if a bird had suddenly become fascinating.

No one looked at you Maekar stood there waiting.

For a moment neither of you spoke. Up close he looked worse than you had first realized.

The lines in his face had sharpened overnight. Dark shadows hollowed the space beneath his pale eyes, and the tension in his jaw was so pronounced it seemed almost painful.

His hair — normally so meticulously kept — had come slightly loose, pale strands pushed back unevenly where his fingers had clearly run through them again and again.

He looked like a man who had not slept. A man who had been holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“You’re here.”

The words came out stiff and formal. So unmistakably Maekar.

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Not because it was funny, nothing about this moment was funny — but because beneath the rigid tone you could see it. The quiet unraveling of relief behind his eyes.

“You came,” he added more quietly.

You met his gaze steadily.

“You called.”

That was all you said.

As if it had been the most obvious thing in the world. But the truth sat heavier than the simplicity of the words.

That one call still lingered on your phone like a shadow. Unanswered.

You had seen it after waking from a brief, restless ten–minute nap somewhere above the clouds during your flight. For a moment you had thought your sleep–fogged mind had conjured it up.

But it had been there.

Maekar Targaryen.

One missed call.

No message. No explanation.

To anyone else it might have meant nothing. But you knew him. You understood the language of the things he didn’t say. That call had been his version of a confession. His way of saying I need you.

And you had come.

Maekar exhaled slowly now, the breath leaving him like something he had been holding for far too long.

His hands clenched at his sides. For a split second you thought he was angry. But the longer you watched him the clearer it became.

It wasn’t anger. It was something far more complicated.

It was shame, relief and gratitude — all of it tangled together beneath the surface of a man who had never quite learned how to properly process or show any of those things.

He gave a small, tight nod.

But before he could say anything else arms suddenly wrapped around you from the side.

Their embrace was warm and familiar.

Kiera. Your Kiera.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she whispered into the crook of your nec as she embraced you in a near death grip. Her voice trembled slightly.

You turned into the hug immediately, your arms circling her waist as if anchoring yourself to something solid.

Her scent — soft perfume and the faint trace of her shampoo — filled your senses, and the familiarity of it made something deep in your chest finally loosen.

“So am I, Kie,” you murmured. Your voice came out more hoarse than you expected. “So am I.”

Kiera pulled back just enough to look at you. Her eyes were slightly red. She sniffed, letting out a small laugh through the last remnants of tears.

“I am never letting you go away again,” she said, half joking. “Ever.”

You nodded seriously. “Deal.”

She wiped quickly at her cheeks, trying to regain composure.

When you glanced up again, Maekar had already stepped away. He had retreated quietly across the room and now stood beside his parents, posture once again carefully controlled. The sight of it was oddly surreal.

Maekar — who carried himself like a soldier even among his family — looked subtly different standing near Daeron and Myriah.

Not smaller exactly. But… younger. More like a son than the imposing figure he usually was.

You leaned slightly closer to Kiera.

“How’s Valarr?” you whispered.

She glanced toward the couch where he still sat beside Matarys. Valarr’s posture was tense, shoulders slightly hunched forward, fingers laced together between his knees.

“Not great,” she admitted quietly.

“I mean… he’s worried sick.” Her voice softened.

“We all are.”

You nodded slowly.

The silence that followed lasted only a moment before another thought pressed forward. A more intruding and unwelcome one. “…and Aerion?”

Kiera blinked. The question clearly caught her off guard. But she answered regardless.

“Um… he’s in that room,” she said, tilting her head subtly toward a door at the corner of the waiting area.

“He’s fine. Just… pretty beat up.”

You followed her gaze.

“I wish to see him.” The words came out louder than you intended.

Kiera immediately turned back toward you, her gaze unsure.

“Oh— maybe you should—”

But before she could finish Daeron the Good spoke.

“If the young lady wishes it so.” His voice was calm, measured. He inclined his head slightly toward you in permission.

You met his gaze gratefully and then you walked toward the door.

As you passed the others, you felt several pairs of eyes follow you. Aegon’s confused frown and Daeron’s uncertain look all but pierced through you. But you kept walking.

The room beyond was quiet.

It looked much like the rest of the hospital — soft lighting, clean walls, polished floors — though here machines hummed quietly and medical equipment lined the walls.

A hospital bed sat in the center. And in it lay Aerion.

Your breath caught slightly. He looked terrible.

One of his eyes was swollen shut, the skin around it bruised in deep shades of purple and blue. His lip was split and stitched, the thin thread stark against pale skin. There were nasty cuts along his cheekbone. A bandage wrapped loosely around his ribs beneath the hospital gown.

You couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of fight had led to this. You stepped closer, careful not to disturb him.

The machine beside the bed emitted a steady rhythmic beep.

He appeared to be asleep or unconscious. You couldn't be entirely sure.

Up close the sharp arrogance usually carved into his features had vanished completely. Like this, lying still beneath sterile hospital light, he looked strangely young. Almost harmless or boyish one could say.

Your throat tightened. “You idiot,” you murmured quietly.

The words carried no real anger. More a weary reprimand. A quiet frustration reserved only for someone you cared about.

You shook your head softly. But then someone cleared their throat behind you.

You turned.

Daeron stood in the doorway, carefully watching you.

Your eyes snapped away from Aerion. You shifted towards his older brother.

Daeron was leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The hallway light behind him cast a soft glow around his messy blond hair, making the uneven strands look almost like a golden halo.

Your shoes made barely any sound against the polished floor as you padded over to him. You glanced once more toward Aerion.

“He’ll be fine,” Daeron said quietly, taking note of your concern. His voice was low, careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb the fragile stillness in the room.

His gaze flicked briefly toward the hospital bed before settling back on you. Those familiar violet eyes studied your face with quiet intensity.

You nodded, even if the sight of Aerion bloodied and bruised had twisted something unpleasant in your stomach.

You didn’t like him. You had never liked him — not really. Not in the way you liked the others.

But seeing him like this, broken open by the consequences of his own recklessness, it still made something inside you recoil.

It irked you. No one deserved to look like that.

“But you…” Daeron breathed.

Your attention returned to him. His brow furrowed slightly.

“Are you fine?”

The question caught you off guard. No one had asked you that in a long time.

You blinked. For a moment you hadn’t even considered your own state — the exhaustion still clinging to your bones, the tight knot of anxiety that had lived in your chest since yesterday.

Your eyes met his.

“I… now that I’m here, I’m fine,” you admitted quietly.

It wasn’t entirely true — but it was the closest thing to truth you had at the moment.

Daeron nodded slowly, yet something in his expression told you he didn’t fully believe you.

“Listen,” he said after a moment. He pushed himself off the doorframe and stepped a little closer.

“I’m sorry about what I said.”

Your brows knit slightl, not sure what he was talking about.

“That day on the porch,” he continued. “About my family. About my dreams. About not being able to fix us.”

His gaze dropped to the floor.

“It wasn’t right... It wasn't fair.” His shoulders slouched slightly, the posture of someone who had been carrying that guilt longer than he should have.

The apology hung in the air between you. You watched him quietly for a moment and then the question slipped out before you could stop it.

“Did you dream about this?”

He looked up. Confused.

You immediately clarified. “About Baelor’s accident, I mean.”

Daeron blinked. A faint crease appeared between his brows as he considered it.

“I… I’m not sure,” he admitted slowly.mHis hand rose absentmindedly, brushing a strand of dirty blond hair away from his forehead.

“My dreams… they’re strange sometimes.” He glanced briefly toward the hospital bed, towards Aerion.

“They’re not always clear.”

He exhaled softly.

“They’re more like riddles.”

You hummed quietly in response. Though you couldn’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like. To glimpse fragments of things that had not happened yet. To feel the pull of past and future threaded through your mind like tangled string. And still be powerless to stop what was coming. It must be terrible for him.

Daeron opened his mouth again, but this time he spoke before you could ask anything else.

“Listen.” His voice shifted slightly.

“I think you should take Aegon out for a little while.”

You blinked. “He’s been cooped up in here all day,” he explained.

Your expression softened immediately.

Poor Egg. The thought of the boy sitting in that quiet waiting room for hours, surrounded by anxious adults and whispered conversations, made your chest ache.

“Take his mind off all of this,” Daeron continued gently. “Some fresh air. Sunlight.”

He shrugged slightly. “It’ll do him good.”

You nodded, agreeing with him.

“Yes… it will.” But another thought surfaced.

“What about… your father?”

The question made Daeron’s jaw tighten faintly.

“He blames himself,” he said simply.

The words were blunt. Honest.

“He hasn’t said it,” Daeron continued, “but we all know he thinks that if he hadn’t called Baelor to come, it wouldn’t have ended like… this.”

His voice trailed off. The weight of the unspoken hung heavy in the room.

You shook your head immediately. “Hey,” you said softly. You reached out and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“It was Baelor’s choice to get in that car.” Your voice was steady, sure. “He couldn’t have known what would happen.”

You squeezed lightly. “It’s not his fault.”

“Nor Maekar’s.”

Daeron stiffened slightly under your touch — the reflex of someone unused to comfort — but after a second the tension melted away.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose you’re right.”

He let out an exhale. “But try convincing him of that.” A weak laugh escaped him.

It faded almost immediately and you withdrew your hand.

“Alright,” you said gently. “I’ll take Egg out.”

Daeron nodded. “Thanks.”

The two of you stepped back into the waiting room together. The soft murmur of voices returned immediately.

Aegon was now perched comfortably in Myriah’s lap, holding a small book in his hands.

He looked utterly bored. His legs swung absentmindedly off the side of the chair as he flipped half–heartedly through the pages.

But the moment his eyes landed on you, they light up. Bright and alive again.

You walked over, crouching slightly so you were level with him. “What do you say,” you suggseted with a small smile, “we go for a little adventure?”

His eyebrows shot up instantly.

“Just you and I.” You tilted your head playfully. “Like in the beginning.”

There was an unexpected optimism in your voice. You weren’t entirely sure where it had come from.

Maybe from relief or maybe from exhaustion. Maybe the quiet determination that sometimes light appeared even when things felt darkest.

Whatever it was, Aegon reacted immediately. He hopped down from Myriah’s lap with the enthusiasm of someone who had been waiting for exactly those words all day.

“Aye aye, captain!” he declared dramatically. Clearly imitating the voice of the SpongeBob cartoon he loved so much.

Then he grabbed your hand. Violet eyes sparkling.

“Let’s go!”

—

Daeron had tossed you his car keys with the quiet practicality of someone who understood that getting around the city with a nine–year–old and no vehicle would be nearly impossible. Public transport was out of the question.

Not with Aegon attached to your side like a limpet and half the city likely recognizing the unmistakable white buzzed hair of a Targaryen child.

So now you found yourself behind the wheel of Daeron’s car. It was nothing like Aerion’s ridiculous black Porsche that looked like it belonged in a music video.

Daeron’s was much more… sensible.

A grey Audi. Very clean and understated. The sort of car that blended into traffic without drawing a second glance. It didn’t scream luxury — but it was undeniably nice. Quietly expensive in that way people with old money preferred.

Aegon had insisted on sitting in the front seat and you hadn’t even bothered with arguing.

The moment he buckled himself in he immediately began fiddling with everything within reach — the air vents, the radio dial, the window button that he pressed down and up several times just to watch the glass move.

You started the engine.

“Alright,” you said, adjusting the mirrors. “Where to?”

Aegon nearly bounced in his seat with excitement.

Outside the hospital gates the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze, sunlight flickering between their leaves. It was the first time he had seen anything beyond hospital walls all morning.

“Well first of all,” you said as you eased the car out of the parking lot, “I need to stop at my apartment.”

He looked over.

“To change my clothes,” you added with a small huff of laughter. “Because I look like an absolute disaster.”

He gave a thoughtful nod. Very serious.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “You do.”

You gasped, feigning offense. “Excuse you.”

But he was already staring out the window again as the streets of King’s Landing slid past.

“I’ve never been to your apartment,” he noted suddenly. The statement carried a curious kind of weight — like it was a fact he had only just realized.

“Well…” you said, glancing at him briefly before returning your eyes to the road. “Trust me, it’s nothing grand compared to your house.”

All the houses in the Red Keep district were practically palaces. And your apartment was… not.

“Good,” Aegon said simply.

You blinked, you tilted your head towards him. “Good?”

But he had already turned the radio dial, flipping through stations until he found something he liked. A Queen song filled the car and he immediately began humming along under his breath.

You smiled faintly as you drove. It still felt strange being behind the wheel again. After so many days of taking buses and trains, the quiet control of a car felt oddly luxurious.

Ten minutes later you pulled up outside your building. “We’re here,” you announced, turning off the engine.

Aegon looked up. His expression shifted from excitement to visible confusion as he took in the surroundings.

Older buildings with simple stone facades. Laundry hanging from one balcony down the street. Nothing remotely resembling the sweeping marble courtyards and iron gates he had grown up around.

“…This is it?” he asked.

“Yep,” you said, stepping out of the car.

You stretched slightly before shutting the door behind you.

“Told you it’s nothing spectacular.”

Aegon climbed out too. He stood on the pavement, tilting his head back to examine the building with intense concentration.

You watched him, slightly nervous for his verdict. After a long moment he nodded thoughtfully.

“It’s not perfect,” he said.

You braced yourself for something worse. “But it’s nice.”

You blinked and then laughed. “Well alright then, if you say so.”

You nudged him toward the entrance. “Come on, architecture critic.”

The building hallway was quiet as you led him upstairs. When you reached your door you pulled your keys from your bag and unlocked it. The familiar creak of the door opening made something warm settle in your chest.

Home.

You stepped aside dramatically and gestured him inside. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Aegon walked in slowly, turning in a small circle as he took everything in.

“Not exactly Red Keep style but—”

“It’s perfect.” The sincerity in his voice surprised you enough that you paused mid–sentence.

Your apartment looked exactly as you had left it. Your suitcase still stood unopened near the couch. A blanket draped across the armrest. A few plants drooping slightly from lack of watering. You silently thanked the Hightower girl who had been staying here temporarily for not turning the place into a complete disaster before leaving.

At least one thing had gone right.

“Okay,” you said with a sigh, dragging your suitcase toward your bedroom.

“Stay here while I change.”

You pointed a finger at him. “And try not to make a mess.”

Your gaze narrowed in mock suspicion. Aegon raised a single eyebrow with impressive dignity.

“Do I look like a child to you?”

You stared at him. Then the two of you burst out laughing.

“Just— seriously,” you called over your shoulder as you closed the bedroom door. “Don’t set anything on fire.”

“Got it!” he shouted back.

The apartment grew quiet again. Aegon wandered slowly through the small space.

It was… very different from his home. He was used to the enormous ceilings and echoing hallways, antique furniture polished to perfection.

Your place was compact. Cozy, with plants everywhere and mismatched thrifted decorations. Stacks of books on the shelves and floor.

It felt lived in, warm. It felt like you. And he found that he liked it immediately. His curiosity eventually led him to a box tucked beneath the bookshelf.

Inside he found various records. Lots of them. He opened it without hesitation and began flipping through them.

Artist after artist. Some he recognized, while others he had never even heard of.

He was so absorbed in the discovery that he didn’t even notice how much time had passed, until you came out of the bedroom.

“Okay I’m— hey, what are you doing?”

He looked up. You were standing there in the doorway now, wearing a simple t–shirt and jeans, hair brushed back and looking far less like someone who had survived a twenty–four–hour travel marathon.

You strode over, eyeing the open box.

“You listen to Sabrina Carpenter?” he asked mischievously, holding up an album.

You planted your hands on your hips.

“Yes,” you said defensively. “Sometimes.”

“Do you have a problem with her?”

He immediately dissolved into giggles. “No… it’s just unexpected!”

“There’s everything here..” he went on.

You squatted down beside him, scanning the records.

“Yeah,” you admitted.

“This is kind of like my treasure box.”

He carefully slid the album back where he found it.

“It’s cool,” he concluded. Then he closed the lid.

You stood up and offered him your hand.

“Alright then,” you said. "Shall we go grab something to eat?”

He took your hand and you pulled him up. “I’m starving,” you added.

You hadn’t really eaten since yesterday. That tiny airplane sandwich hadn’t stood a chance against a stomach full of nerves. Now that things were calmer, hunger had come back with a vengeance.

“I agree,” Aegon declared. “I could eat a cow.”

He happily skipped toward the door.

You paused and raised an eyebrow. Had anyone fed this kid today? You wondered but then as if right on cue.

His stomach growled loudly.

You groaned. Yeah. They definitely forgot to feed him.

—

As you exited your neighborhood, the radio hummed softly in the background — some forgettable song playing low enough that it blended into the rhythm of the car engine and the distant city noise.

Sunlight streamed through the windshield, warm and gentle. For the first time since arriving back in King’s Landing, things felt… almost normal. You drummed your fingers lightly against the steering wheel while Aegon kicked his feet against the dashboard area.

The two of you were currently engaged in the most serious discussion of the day. Where and what to eat.

“We should try that Mexican place,” you suggested thoughtfully as you slowed at an intersection. “Kiera said it’s really good.”

Aegon made a face so dramatic you nearly laughed.

“I do not wish to have a bathroom disaster.” He spoke with the grave wisdom of someone who had clearly learned this lesson the hard way.

Then he giggled behind his hand.

You scrunched your nose. “Ew. Disgusting.”

“…but valid.” You nodded solemnly.

Aegon seemed very pleased that you had acknowledged the seriousness of his argument. You drove another block in silence, both of you thinking.

Then he leaned forward slightly in his seat. “How about that bakery on the main street?” he suggested. “The one with the delicious pastries.”

You hummed, considering it. “That actually sounds perfect.”

Then your brain caught up. “Wait.” You frowned slightly. “Isn’t it Sunday?”

Aegon blinked and nodded his head.

You groaned. “I think they close at noon on Sundays, me and Kiera wanted to go once but it was closed”

He slumped dramatically back into his seat. “Right.”

The world clearly conspired against hungry children.

“We are never going to decide where to eat like this,” he declared miserably. The hangriness was starting to show. You scratched your jaw thoughtfully as you turned right at the next street.

Then just on cue the perfect solution appeared.

“Oh.” Aegon turned his head slowly, anticipating your answer.

“How about…” you began. “McDonalds?” His eyes lit up instantly like someone had flipped a switch.

“Lead the way!” he declared dramatically, pointing forward like a tiny general commanding troops into battle.

You snorted. “Yes sir.”

—

You pulled into the first McDonald’s you found a few districts away. The bright red and yellow sign stood proudly beside the road like a beacon of questionable culinary decisions.

You parked the car. Aegon was already halfway out the door before you even finished locking it.

The moment you stepped inside the building the overwhelming smell of fried oil, salt and something terribly artificial hit you.

It smelled exactly like processed junk food. Somewhere in the back of your mind you concluded Maekar wouldn't be too happy if he found out what you were feeding his son.

But right now it smelled incredible. You both walked up to the big digital ordering screen.

You began tapping through the menu. “Okay,” you sighed. “What do you want?”

But before you could even start selecting anything, Aegon gently shoved you aside. “I got it.” The kid moved with the calm precision of someone who had clearly studied this system before.

Very professional. He selected a happy meal — cheeseburger with no pickles, apple slices and four chicken nuggets.

Then — with the confidence of a seasoned strategist — he added a vanilla ice cream.

He stepped back proudly. “All done.”

He gestured toward the screen.

“Your turn.”

You stared at him and raised an eyebrow. You decided not to argue so you just ordered your own meal and paid.

The machine whirred before spitting out the receipt.

“Okay…” you read. “Our order is sixty seven.”

Aegon’s mouth opened. A very familiar mischievous smirk appeared. His hands twitched like he was about to perform the six seven meme gesture.

Your glare shut it down immediately. “Don’t even think about it.”

Your voice was sharp and utterly final-

He burst into giggles but wisely kept his hands to himself.

When your order was finally called, the tired-looking worker barely glanced at you as he handed over the tray.

You carried it outside. The weather was too nice to sit indoors.

The outdoor seating area was shaded by a few trees, and several people were scattered around eating their meals and chatting quietly.

You found an empty table. The moment you sat down Aegon tore open his happy meal like a feral raccoon.

Fries first, always fries first.

“Whoa,” you said, watching him inhale them. “When was the last time you ate?”

He paused with a fry halfway to his mouth. He thought about it, scratching his head.

“Um… I think—”

You raised a hand immediately. “Wait.”

He froze. “I don’t think I want to know,” you continued. “Because I’ll just end up yelling at another Targaryen.”

He shrugged. Fair enough.

Then he unwrapped his burger and kept eating.

You finally started on your own food, sighing softly at the first bite. It tasted incredible. Mostly because you were starving.

Neither of you spoke much for the first few minutes. The table was filled only with the sounds of chewing and the occasional crinkle of paper wrappers.

Eventually Aegon leaned back slightly. Food high settling in.

“So…” He glanced at you.

“How was Dorne?”

You froze mid–bite as your brain scrambled slightly.

“It was nice,” you said carefully. “I mean… everything is so different there.”

“How different?” He shoved another nugget into his mouth.

“Well…” You thought how to answer for a moment. “It’s much hotter than here.” You glanced at the sky.

“Everything is more colorful.”

“The markets. The spices. The clothes people wear.” You smiled faintly at the memory. “The people are different too.”

Aegon listened quietly. "I heard they have some of the best puppet shows in Dorne." You hummed in response and then he asked the inevitable question.

“Do you wish you could have stayed?”

His tone was casual, almost careless. But you knew him well enough to hear the quiet weight underneath it.

You set your food down slowly and your shoulders stiffened.

He immediately sensed the shift and tried to correct himself.

“I mean it’s not—”

You cut him off gently. “Egg.”

He looked up.

“If I had wanted to stay,” you said softly, “I would have stayed.”

Your gaze met his directly.

“But I didn’t want to.” You shrugged slightly.

“That’s why I’m here.”

He studied your face, looking for a sign of deception.

“Why did you leave then?” he asked quietly. You inhaled sharply.

“Because…” You hesitated. Then decided that honesty was easier.

“I was scared.”

He blinked, unsure what you meant.

“Scared?”

“Of what?” You looked down at your food. “Of myself, I guess.” A small shruge escaped you. “Of how I felt.”

He didn’t push further. Instead he wiped his hands and quietly started eating his ice cream. The conversation faded into a comfortable silence again.

When you both finished eating, you gathered the wrappers and wiped your hands. “I think your father would kill me if he knew I was feeding you McDonalds,” you said casually.

Aegon rolled his eyes. “He never lets us eat this.”

He paused, but then he added quietly.

“But I think he would have gone mad if you hadn’t shown up.”

The truth of that sat between you, both light and heavy. So he quickly changed the subject.

“So.” He leaned forward. “What now?”

You checked the time. 1:30 PM.

What did one do with a ten–year–old in King’s Landing on a random Sunday afternoon?

Then you remembered the very first day you had babysat him. Mario Kart. Any child loved video games.

Your eyebrows lifted.

“How about…” He leaned forward, attentively listening. “…an arcade?”

His eyes immedieately exploded with excitement. He leaned back in his chair, hands dramatically over his chest.

“I think this might be the best day of my life.”

Then he jumped up and sprinted toward the car. You laughed under your breath as you followed.

Gods. You had really missed this kid.

—

You ended up spending the rest of the day at an arcade in a nearby mall.

It had been Aegon’s idea, well technically it was your suggestion that he had accepted with the enthusiasm of someone who had just been promised unlimited sugar and zero parental supervision.

The place was exactly wha one would expect it to be, filled to the brim with flashing neon lights and electronical whirring. The cheerful chaos of children running between machines while teenagers tried to look cool in front of outdated racing games.

It was loud and colorful and incredibly overwhelimg, but in this moment it was oddly perfect.

For the first time since that awful phone call from Daeron, your mind had something else to focus on. You had bought a giant stack of arcade tokens and handed half of them to Aegon like a solemn business transaction.

“Spend them wisely,” you warned.

He squinted at the tokens in his palm. “Or what?”

“You’ll have to work them off doing chores.”

He gasped. “Cruel woman.”

“Don’t push your luck, Egg.”

The competition began immediately.

Your first stop was mortal kombat. Aegon cracked his knuckles dramatically like a tiny professional gamer preparing for battle.

“You’re going down,” he announced confidently.

“You realize I was playing this game before you even existed, right?” you replied sweetly.

His purple eyes narrowed and the fight lasted exactly thirty seconds. You absolutely destroyed him.

Aegon stared at the screen in disbelief.

“You cheated.”

“I absolutely did not cheat.”

“You pressed something weird.”

“That’s called skill.”

He folded his arms. “This rematch will be your downfall.”

It wasn’t — you beat him again and his outrage was immediate.

“You are banned from mortal kombat,” he declared, pointing accusingly at you.

“Oh really?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” You gestured toward the basketball machine nearby.

“Winner of this one gets bragging rights.”

Now that was a game he could get behind. The machine beeped as the timer started.

You grabbed a basketball and missed the first shot entirely. Aegon laughed so hard he nearly dropped the ball he was golding.

“Oh my gods you really are terrible!.”

“Focus on your own hoop!” You yelled back at him.

Soon both of you were frantically throwing basketballs toward the baskets while the timer counted down and the scoreboard blinked aggressively above you. Balls bounced everywhere and one even rolled across the floor.

Aegon dove for it like it was the final point in the Olympics. “HA!”

The timer beeped and the scoreboard flashed. You had clearly lost, but only by a few points.

“I AM THE CHAMPION.” He announced.

“Relax, Michael Jordan.” At that you both erupted in a fit of giggles-

The entire afternoon passed like that. Game after game.

There was pac-man and space invaders, racing simulators where Aegon drove like a reckless maniac and crashed into every digital wall available.

You kept trying a claw machine. But unfortunately you lost three tokens trying to grab a tiny stuffed dragon.

Aegon watched the attempt with brutal reluctance.

“That was painful.”

“You try then.”

He did and failed miserably.

“…This machine is rigged.”

You nodded solemnly. “Clearly.”

Eventually you both collapsed onto a bench near the prize counter, slightly sweaty and completely out of breath. Your pile of tickets had grown impressive.

Aegon counted them with great seriousness.

“This might buy us… one plastic dinosaur.”

You huffed. “Dream big.”

While he sorted through the tickets you leaned back against the wall. “You know,” you said casually, “on my first date my boyfriend took me to an arcade.”

Aegon froze then he slowly turned his head toward you.

“You had a boyfriend?” The offense in his voice was soincredible you burst out laughing.

“Yes.” He looked personally betrayed.

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

He made a horrified face.

“But it was very short lived,” you added quickly.

“I don’t even want to know,” he muttered.

“Oh come on, it was very innocent.” He shoved a handful of tickets toward the counter.

“I refuse to imagine your romantic life.”

“Wow.”

“You are my babysitter.”

“That does not erase my past, Egg.”

He shook his head like a disapproving old man. “Disgusting.”

The rest of the afternoon continued in the same cheerful chaos. You played until your tokens were gone and your laughter had turned slightly hoarse.

For a few hours, you managed something rare. You simple existed — without the dread of hospitals and duty looming over you like a constant reminder. Just flashing arcade lights and childish competition.

Eventually exhaustion caught up with both of you. When you stepped outside the mall, the late afternoon air felt cool and refreshing after the artificial buzz of the arcade.

You drove toward Blackwater Bay — the docks were quiet, as some people walked their dogs or engaged in late afternoon activites.

The sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the water in streaks of orange and gold. A soft breeze rolled in from the bay, carrying the scent of salt and distant ships.

You and Aegon walked along the wooden dock. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie now, energy finally fading after hours of excitement.

For a while neither of you spoke. Just the sound of the waves and distant gulls.

You leaned against the railing.

“Hey Egg.”

He looked over.

“Are you worried about Baelor?”

He shrugged. It wasn't exactly dismissive but rather uncertain. As if he didn't know what the right response should be.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. His shoe nudged a loose pebble across the wood.

“I guess I am.”

He paused. “But everyone else is already worried.”

That was such a child’s answer.

You nodded softly, understanding where he was coming from. “That’s fair.”

The sun dipped lower and the sky deepened into shades of pink and lavender.

Eventually you checked your watch. 6:30 PM.

You sighed quietly.

“We should probably head back.”

Aegon groaned dramatically.

“Must we?” He kicked at the dock railing with mild rebellion.

“Yes, it’s getting late.”

Your phone had remained untouched in your pocket all afternoon. There were no messages and no calls. You weren’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying.

But sooner or later you had to go back.

You glanced at him reluctantly. “Come on.”

He sighed again but followed you toward the car. He was still slightly disappointed and much more tired.

But lighter than he had been that morning. Both of you were.

—

The hospital halls were quieter than before.

Not empty, they were never truly empty — but softened somehow, as if the building itself understood the fragile weight of the hours that had passed within its walls.

Your footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floor as you walked beside Aegon, his small hand clasped tightly in yours.

The warmth of it grounded you. The entire day replayed in your mind in small flashes, the neon arcade lights, the sound of basketballs hitting plastic hoops, his delighted laugh when he beat your score by ten miserable points.

For a few hours the world had been simple again. But now the hospital smell had returned. And the sterile sharp smell grounded you back to reality.

The receptionist glanced up when you passed the front desk. Her eyes immediately recognized you. There was a brief flicker of something — sympathy perhaps — before she simply nodded.

You nodded back and then continued down the corridor.

The waiting room door came into view and your stomach immedieately tightened.

You pushed it open. The room looked mostly the same as when you had left. The quiet tension of people who had been waiting far too long was still palpable.

But this time there were two additional figures sitting near the couch — and the moment they saw you they jumped to their feet.

“Oh my gods!” “It’s really her!” “You’re back!”

Daella and Rhae practically launched themselves across the room. You barely had time to brace yourself before they wrapped you into a double hug that nearly knocked you off balance.

“Hey—” you laughed softly, stumbling half a step backward under the impact. Both girls were talking at once.

“We could hardly believe it-”

“When father told us-”

“We thought he was joking-”

Their braids bounced as they spoke, still neatly done from school earlier that day though their uniforms had been replaced by casual sweaters and skirts.

You squeezed them both tightly. “I’m here,” you said gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

They finally released you, though clearly reluctant to do so. Only then did you notice Aegon standing slightly to the side. His little arms crossed and face mildly offended.

He looked like a cat who had just been informed that his favorite human had other responsibilities.

You smirked. “Hey,” you nudged him with your elbow. “No jealousy now.”

“I’m not jealous,” he grumbled immediately. The lie was awfully transparent. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and marched straight toward his grandparents instead.

Within seconds he had begun enthusiastically recounting your entire day. “And then she cheated at Mortal Kombat—”

“I did not cheat!”

“Yes you did!”

You rolled your eyes but let him continue.

Across the room, Kiera was still seated beside Valarr. Their hands were still clasped together, fingers intertwined in quiet solidarity.

Valarr looked up when you entered, and his expression softened immediately.

Matarys, you noticed, was not there. You hadn’t properly met him earlier and the absence tugged briefly at your curiosity.

But before you could ask Daeron appeared beside you.

“Oh— right,” you remembered suddenly, digging into your bag. “Your keys.” You tossed him the Audi keys and he caught them easily.

He opened his mouth to say something but the waiting room door opened again.

And this time everything stopped. A doctor stepped inside, his white coat flashing in the late sunlight, glasses perched on his wrinkled face and a clipboard held firmly in his grip-

Every single person in the room fell silent. The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Everyone held their breath.

No one had been allowed to see Baelor since the surgery that morning. The swelling in his head had been severe, and the procedure delicate. They had placed him in an induced coma afterward. You all knew what that meant, but none of you dared say it.

This moment and the doctor’s words would determine everything. The fate of Baelor Targaryen. The very fragile fate of this entire family sitting in that room.

You felt the sudden prickle of cold sweat along your spine.

Maekar stepped forward before anyone else could move. His posture was rigid, shoulders tight as steel, awaiting the verdict.

The doctor cleared his throat gently. “Yes… I apologize for keeping you waiting so long,” he began carefully. “You must understand the situation was quite serious.” Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto him.

Go on. Please just go on. You silently willed him on.

“We have successfully reduced the swelling in the head,” the doctor explained, his expression unreadable. “The wound will scar, of course, and recovery will likely take some time.”

He adjusted his glasses. “We are not entirely certain when Mr. Targaryen will regain consciousness.”

Aegon had stopped talking and the girls had gone completely still. Valarr’s grip tightened around Kiera’s hand.

The doctor continued.

“He will likely experience some difficulty with fine motor control and vision during recovery—”

“He will live? Maekar’s voice cut through the room, rough and direct like the rest of him. It was the only thing that mattered right now.

The question carried both command and desperate prayer.

The doctor paused and to your utter relief — he nodded.

“Yes." A breath escaped him. “Yes. He will live.”

The room collectively exhaled. Like a single body finally allowed to breathe again.

You saw the tears immediately and you felt your own begin to form.

Myriah’s hand came up to her face, wiping quickly at wet streaks that had formed on her cheeks. Daeron the Good leaned slightly toward her, relief softening the stern lines of his face. Across the room, Kiera pulled Valarr into an embrace and he held her tightly. His shoulders shaking once.

Your own body loosened slowly, tension draining from muscles you hadn’t even realized were clenched.

He was going to live. Baelor was going to live. The though overwhelmed you with such joy.

Daeron let out a small disbelieving laugh beside you. A quiet burst of victory.

The girls had already turned to Aegon, whispering excitedly about somethingz that hardly mattered now.

And Maekar — Maekar collapsed into one of the armchairs like a man whose bones had suddenly lost all their strength.

He leaned forward, elbows perched on his knees and his face buried in his hands. For a moment you thought he might actually start shaking. The relief had hit him like a storm.

You leaned slightly against the wall. Your voice came out softer than you anticipated. “Well,” you murmured quietly. “It was about time some luck caught up with this family.”

Daeron huffed out a small laugh beside you.

“Yeah,” he said. “It was really about time.”

But he wasn’t looking at the others. He was looking directly at you.

And for the first time since stepping off that plane in King’s Landing, your heart finally felt like it was exactly where it belonged.

—

The days after that seemed to settle into a strange, fragile sort of peace. It kind of felt like the air that follows a storm when it sill smells faintly of rain but the sky has finally opened up again and the sun resumed to warm the world.

At first it felt almost unreal. For weeks everything had been so incredibly loud — your own fear, rushing footsteps in hospital corridors,sleepless nights in Dorne and the constant dread of something missing.

And then suddenly… all of it calmed. Life resumed in that steady, familiar rhytm you had come to appreciate more than ever.

You went back to your apartment, back to university lectures and crowded hallways and professors droning about assignments you had almost forgotten existed. You started meeting Kiera for coffee again in the little café across from campus, the one with the old chairs and the Sade playlist that looped endlessly.

In the beginning people stared at you. A lot. Word had travelled — of course it had. Students whispered, curious glances following you down corridors. A few brave souls even asked questions.

Why did you leave Dorne so suddenly?

What happened?

Why are you back already?

You simply smiled politely and changed the subject. After a while they gave up and stopped asking. You refused to reveal anything.

Life, it seemed, had an extraordinary talent for continuing.

You returned to yoga classes on Tuesday mornings, your muscles protesting the long absence. Pottery on Thursdays, your hands slowly remembering the gentle pressure needed to shape clay. There was something grounding about it — about the wheel spinning steadily under your palms while the world outside moved forward.

Ordinary things. Beautifully ordinary things that filled life with so much happiness and meaning.

And then there was the house. The Targaryen house. The family.

You started going there again in the afternoons, just like before.

Your job title (you weren't sure what it was anymore) — babysitter, unofficial homework supervisor, occasional emotional support system for one extremely dramatic child, all of it resumed with immediate enthusiasm from its smallest employer.

He greeted you the first day back like a triumphant general welcoming a long-lost ally. “You’re late,” he informed you gravely, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. “You’re nine,” you replied, stepping past him into the hallway, removing your shoes. “You don’t have a concept of time.”

“I waited three weeks.”

“You survived.”

He sniffed dramatically. “Barely.”

Afternoons quickly filled themselves again with homework at the kitchen table, where Aegon would dramatically collapse over math worksheets and valyrian grammar like a tragic poet suffering artistic torment.

YouTube rabbit holes that started with history videos and somehow ended with twenty minutes of watching a man build tiny medieval castles out of sand. Dance breaks in the living room when someone put on music too good to ignore. Backyard soccer games where Aegon insisted on refereeing and playing striker simultaneously.

And of course there was cooking — if one could generously call it cooking. Your culinary experiments became somewhat infamous.

There had been the “fusion pancakes incident,” which involved blueberries, chocolate chips, cinnamon, and inexplicably chili flakes. Aegon still spoke about it like a survivor recounting a near-death experience.

“She poisoned me,” he told Daella one afternoon while doing homework. “I did not.”

“You did. I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

“You ate three plates.”

“That’s because I was trying to be polite.”

And the girls — they adored you.

Daella and Rhae had welcomed you fully, enthusiastically, and without any hesitation into their chaotic sisterly orbit. Which meant sleepovers and makeup tutorial and brutal fashion advice you absolutely did not ask for.

Somehow along the way you had acquired an entire drawer of expensive beauty products that appeared in your apartment one by one like mysterious offerings.

They insisted on braiding your hair, experimenting with eyeliner styles, and gossiping about school with the dramatic intensity of royal court politics.

You became their sounding board. Their confidant. Something between a friend and an older sister.

Aerion on the other hand, had changed in quieter ways. The aftermath of his fight had left him bruised in more ways than one. His usual sharp arrogance had softened slightly ,not gone but rather tempered.

He still scowled when you entered rooms. Still rolled his eyes at your presence. But he had stopped actively antagonizing you, which you were grateful for.

And sometimes, but very occasionally when you assumed he was in a good mood — he said hello. The first time it happened on campus you and Kiera had both stared at him like he’d just started speaking an entirely new language.

“Did he just greet you?” Kiera whispered.

“I think so.”

“Should we call someone? Is he high?”

But the biggest change was Daeron.

He had started rehab. It wasn't easy and it wasn't perfect but he had started. You had pestered him relentlessly for weeks until he finally relented with an exhausted sigh and a muttered, “Fine, fine — you win. I'll go.”

Recovery was messy and some days were better than others.But he talked to you now. He talked to you about the nightmares and about the memories that refused to leave him alone. About the strange, fragile hope that maybe things could be different.

When you babysat Aegon in the evenings, Daeron would sometimes wander into the kitchen and sit across from you while you supervised homework.

You would talk about anything and everything. Sometimes about serious things. Sometimes about nothing at all.

He had even started talking about going back to college — and the first time he said it your heart nearly burst with hope.

And Maekar… Maekar had changed too. In a much more subtler and quieter sense. The man who once greeted you with cold suspicion and sharp looks now simply nodded when you arrived.

He stopped glaring at you and he began calling you by your name. Sometimes he even asked if you needed anything — though he phrased it like a practical observation rather than kindness. But the difference was there.

Whenever you walked through the front door, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. As if your presence meant something, as if things were stable when you were there.

It was his idea actually (though he would never admit that), to establish a routine, every Friday night would be family dinner. With no excuses. And somehow, week by week, it became tradition.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Daeron had picked you up from university earlier that evening, the car ride filled with half-finished stories and laughter over some absurd campus drama.

And instead of cooking, a fact that had apparently scandalized Maekar to his core, everyone voted for takeout. It was six votes against one. He stood absolutely no chance.

Which is how you ended up sitting in the massive marble kitchen surrounded by pizza boxes and noodle cartons while the house filled with something it hadn’t heard in years.

Real laughter and warmth. The kind that bounced off the high ceilings and echoed down the hallways through the entire house.

The girls were arguing loudly about the Grammys. Aegon had appointed himself judge of the debate despite clearly not understanding half the categories.

“That artist had artistic vision,” Daella insisted.

“It was boring,” Rhae shot back.

“You’re boring.”

“I’m not boring!”

Aegon slammed his hand on the table dramatically. “Order in the court.”

You nearly choked on your drink laughing.

Even Maekar was talking , complaining about incompetent employees with such theatrical irritation that everyone kept laughing at him.

He scowled at the amusement, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Aerion, ever the outlier, had grabbed his food and retreated upstairs. No one had forced him to stay.

Healing took time. You understood that.

When you were with them hours passed like minutes and eventually you checked the time and realized it was nearly eleven.

You remembered you had yoga class early tomorrow and reluctantly stood up. “Alright guys… I think it’s time for me to depart.”

A chorus of protests erupted immediately.

“Must you?” Daella groaned.

“You could just sleep here,” Rhae suggested.

“We could have a sleepover!” Aegon declared enthusiastically.

You laughed, gathering your bag. “I have responsibilities tomorrow.”

“I think if you pester her any longer she might never come back,” Daeron added casually from his seat, chewing thoughtfully on a slice of pizza.

Everyone groaned. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow after—" You had just reached the doorway when—

“Wait!” Aegon’s sharp little voice rang out and you paused. He was staring at Maekar.

“Should I?” he asked quietly. Maekar rested his clasped hands beneath his chin, then he nodded. A strange glint in his eye

Aegon bolted from the room.

You blinked. “What—”

Before you could finish the question, he returned, breathless — holding a small box in his hands. He walked up to you carefully.

All of their eyes were on you now.

“Here,” he said softly, placing the little box in your hands. “This is yours.”

Your fingers trembled slightly as you cradled it, carefully removing the lid.

Inside lay a necklace with delicate pendants rested against dark velvet. A shooting star crossed with a sword — the sigil of House Dayne. A three-headed dragon — House Targaryen. And beside them… your own house’s sigil.

Your breath caught.

“It’s Valyrian steel,” Maekar said quietly.

“It belonged to our mother,” Aegon added, observing your face for the reaction.

“We added your sigil,” Rhae explained gently from her place beside Daella.

“It’s yours now,” Aegon finished.

Your throat tightened painfully and you shook your head instinctively. “I… I can’t. This is Dyanna’s locket. I can’t just—”

“Oh hush now girl and just accept it,” Maekar interrupted firmly.

But there was warmth in his eyes and a rare quiet smile on his face.

Tears blurred your vision. “I don’t know what to say.”

Aegon huffed softly.

“There’s really not much to be said,” Daeron murmured, still gazing at you.

And then Egg spoke, his violet eyes were steady and his voice more sure than ever.

“Welcome to the Targaryens.”

©padmespetal 2026 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

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tags:

[cosmictheo]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 | baelor targaryen

| gif credits: @valarrs-targaryen |

— summary: forced into marriage with baelor targaryen after the downfall of her family, daemon blackfyre’s daughter expects humiliation and cold duty as the price of peace between their bloodlines... but instead she finds a gentle prince determined to protect her dignity and win her heart through patience and compassion. — pairing: baelor targaryen x blackfyre!reader — word count: ~3k — content: targcest, pre-akotsk and post-blackfyre's first rebellion, young!baelor, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers-ish, slow burn, canon divergence.

A/N: I know this is a BIG departure from canon and the established timeline, but I fell so deeply in love with this concept that I couldn’t resist writing it, especially for young!Baelor. Please walk with me on this one 😭

Exile.

That's all you can feel as your chariot nears the Red Keep, a place you can hardly remember being in a handful of times, back when you were younger, and you had been raised, imprisoned within the castle's crimson walls.

You have fond remembrances of the gardens; it used to be your spot, your little hideaway from all the noise and crowds and formalities.

It's hard to believe, after everything that's happened, that you're coming back.

You stand where the eye does not reach.

Traitor, disloyal, unworthy. Usurper.

You had grown up hearing such words spoken about your family, in particular your father.

Blackfyre.

The name still hangs heavier than any crown ever could.

Since the downfall of the rebellion, you were forced to renounce your family name and pledge your allegiance to House Targaryen in front of King Daeron II, your uncle by blood. He had spared you, after all. Spared you and bound you to his heir so your father’s blood might never rise against the throne again.

Your father's demise, you believed, would somehow liberate you. It seemed like the perfect reason to seek forgiveness for his misdeeds and to distance yourself from the stain of your lineage, the burden of your name, and most significantly, the sins of your father.

But, on the contrary, for some reason, your life had deteriorated even further since the death of Daemon Blackfyre. The end of the rebellion had been sealed by arranging your marriage union with Prince Baelor.

To keep your remnant family from banishment to distant lands, your own hand had been the price.

The chariot comes to a halt in the courtyard, and for a long moment you do not move, hearing the herald announce your arrival, pronouncing your name.

From House Targaryen, he says. And the words rings so foreign to you that you scarcely realize he is referring to you.

Every time you hear that family name attached to your person, you are reminded that you are a traitor to the ghosts of your fallen brothers. Your father's shadow hangs heavy over you, black wings swarming around, crushing you under the weight of his own doom.

“They’re waiting, my Lady,” your attendant whispers softly.

Of course they are.

The crimson dress you have been forced to wear weighs like scale armor, a taunting reminder of the blood that flows through your veins.

“The Black Dragon’s daughter,” someone sneers from your right. “How dare she wears red?”

The ceremony goes by like a fever dream. The Septon recites sacred words about the union of two bloodlines, about peace and forgiveness, but to you they are nothing but empty words.

You feel Baelor's hand seeking yours to seal the pact; his touch is firm, yet surprisingly gentle. He does not squeeze, he does not claim, he only waits.

When your hands meet, a shiver runs through you, but you keep your eyes downcast on the embroidery of your own skirt.

You kneel when instructed and rise when told and you don't speak a single word to each other. The silence between you is an ocean deep and teeming with ghosts. Neither of you tries to pry the other into conversation, nor do you seek each other's gaze intrusively in the midst of the nobles cheering for a truce born of your own sacrifice.

“In the sight of gods and men, I hereby proclaim you husband and wife.”

The king inclines his head once in approval.

The Court claps even louder, sealing the union and sealing away the sorrow of the past behind it.

An hour later, the banquet degenerates into a torture of fake laughter and hypocritical toasts.

The mood becomes unbreathable, claustrophobic. Every time someone steps forward to congratulate the “Crown Prince and his new wife,” all you want to do is hurl insults and screams.

The Crown Prince.

Baelor... you had only heard of him. The image you had created in your mind is nothing like what he actually is. He has a dignified and charming presence, dark hair, and a pair of exceptionally gentle eyes that, when they're brave enough, fall upon you by his side, occasionally glancing sideways at you to ensure that you are physically still there.

He carries himself with quiet dignity, yes—but not cruelty.

Cruelty would have been easier, cruelty you understand.

The atmosphere in the Great Hall hangs heavy, with echoes of bitter memories flooding back, the sound of whispers of your name and the sting of venomous glances.

So many eyes.

Curious. Suspicious. Appraising.

As Lords Bracken and Peake surround Baelor to discuss matters of the Realm, you begin to feel truly suffocated.

Not thinking twice, you seize the opportunity. Your fingers dig into the fine satin of your dress, you lift your skirt just enough, and your feet fly over the floor.

You pass through the limestone archway, and instantly the clamour of political intrigue and your own marriage fades away, to be replaced by the rustle of the wind in the myrtle bushes and the sweet scent of summer roses. The Royal Garden feels like it did when you were but a child—comforting.

You freeze near a young oak tree, leaning your back against the trunk and focusing on steadying your erratic breathing. Your eyes begin a panicked, unconscious sweep of your surroundings, searching for an exit, a fence to climb over, a way to slip away.

Your lungs burn and your heart thumps in your ears as you stray from the main path and venture into the undergrowth until you come up against a fence of bushes, so tall and thick that it hides any view of the outside world.

Your fingers dig into the branches, looking for a place to hold on as you look up at the height of the massive shrubs, made to be unclimbable.

You quietly curse the weight of your gown and the tightness of your corset. You're figuring out how much it'll cost you to climb over to the other side without breaking an ankle or without messing up your hair—

“If you try to climb up there, I'm afraid the thorns of the hidden roses will ruin your hands before you reach the top, my lady.”

You flinch violently, releasing the branches with a huff of frustration, but you don't turn around just yet; you're too furious, too humiliated for having been caught trying to sneak away like a thief in your own home. And even worse, on your wedding day.

“Well, I prefer thorns to the forked tongues of the Lords in there,” you spit venomously, still with your back turned to him and gazing up at the top of the bushy wall. “And if you’re so keen on giving advice, you could start by learning not to stalk people in gardens. Go lick some Targaryen’s boots and leave me alone. I don't need another guard watching my every move.”

A tense silence falls over the garden, and you're waiting for a reprimand, an insult, or to be grabbed by the arm and escorted back to the castle.

But what you hear is a soft, humorous sigh.

“That's fair advice,” he agrees, and you can sense a hint of a smile in his words. “Although, technically, I'm not a guard.”

You turn slowly, head held high and fire gleaming in your eyes, ready to blast anyone who dares interfere with your escape plan.

“Look, don’t meddle in what doesn’t concern you—”

But the words die in your throat when you recognize him.

Prince Baelor stands before you, his hands interlaced in front of him gracefully. He doesn’t display the stern, triumphant expression you had braced yourself for. Much less does he have the sharp, judgmental tone he should have addressed the usurper's daughter with.

Your eyes widen as you realize, with a sinking feeling in your stomach, that you have just told the future king of the Seven Kingdoms to go lick some boots.

“I don’t want to meddle, but I’m afraid,” he adds with a slight tilt of his head, in your shock-stricken silence, “that I won't be able to have my own wife run away on our first day of marriage.”

The air gets stuck in your lungs, and the defiance you felt seconds ago falls apart in a flash, leaving you with cold chills running down your spine.

There are no guards around him, no White Cloaks, only him and his gaze, one that holds no offense or disdain, but rather sympathy and lighthearted humor.

“I... Y–your Grace...” you stumble, finally releasing the branch of the bush you were still clutching as if it were a weapon. Your cheeks, previously flushed with rage, now burn with crushing embarrassment as you give him an apologetic bow. “Do forgive me.”

Baelor steps forward to lend you a hand in helping you out of the undergrowth and flowerbeds and back onto the main paved path. You accept it immediately, avoiding eye contact as he carefully guides you by his side.

“Anyone would be overwhelmed in your situation, my lady,” he comforts you with his words and his gaze. Then, an eyebrow arches on his forehead, “but I never thought marrying me would cause such distress that you’d wish to run away.”

The ground beneath your feet seems to become wobbly as you walk beside him, and the warmth of his hand on yours is a puzzling contrast to the coldness you would expect from the man who helped quell your father's rebellion.

“It’s not... it’s not marriage that distresses me, Your Grace,” you assure him under your breath, your gaze focused on the tips of your shoes peeking out from under the silk. You feel your throat tighten, but your pride, though wounded, urges you to speak. “It’s—it’s this place. The walls seem to have grown since I was a child; they feel taller, more suffocating... and more red.”

“The Red Keep has that habit, it does,” he concedes, and for the first time you hear a tinge of weariness in his voice, but then he offers you a shy smile, tilting his head to seek your gaze. “But I’ve been told this was your favorite spot. I spent much of the morning making sure the gardeners didn't trim this section so much. I thought you might prefer a bit of... wild disarray, rather than the rigidity of the court.”

“Why are you so kind to me, my Prince?” you blurt out unexpectedly, the question spilling from your lips before you can hold it back.

Baelor’s eyes soften even more when they finally lock onto yours. Standing so close, you notice that each of his eyes has a different color, neither the purplish hue that characterized the other Targaryens, nor matching the dragon’s wrathful gaze. The sun of Dorne lingers beautifully in his complexion, with a sharp bridge of his nose, delicate lips, and expressive eyes.

The intensity of his stare alone sends a tingling sensation through your stomach, and you have to force yourself to maintain eye contact.

“Just call me Baelor,” he says, shaking his head dismissively. His smile morphs into a sheepish little grin, suddenly bashful now that you’re so close to him, looking up at him like that. “And you are my wife. You are more deserving of my kindness than anyone else in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

You had spent weeks building up a shell of resentment and fear, preparing yourself for a tormentor, but Baelor... Baelor is gentleness itself.

“Baelor,” you repeat in a whisper, rolling the name around on your tongue, tasting it. It sounds strange, less intimidating, but much more intimate.

He nods, and you notice how the tension in his shoulders also subsides as he hears you speak his name.

Together, you begin to walk slowly along the stone path, away from the fence you were trying to climbed over.

“I know you didn’t choose this,” he clears his throat, breaking the silence as he comes to a stop in front of a rose bush that exudes an enchanting fragrance. “I know my name is a reminder for what you lost. And I’m sorry about that, I really am. I wish it hadn’t been this way.”

You stand still and glance at him out of the corner of your eye, twisting your head to observe the bees buzzing around the flowers. As you watch the insects get lost among the crimson petals, it occurs to you that they move with a freedom you do not possess.

“You don’t have to apologize for winning, Baelor,” you eventually state. You turn a little to face him, keeping a safe distance. “My father chose his own path. I’m just… what’s left behind. And now I’ll have to pay for his mistakes for the rest of my life.”

“You are not your father,” he says quietly. “Just as I am not my own.”

You let out a brittle laugh. “You say that now. But the court will never forget. They look at me and see rebellion. Treason. They’ll be waiting for me to stab you in the back and betray you.”

“They look at you and see what frightens them,” Baelor corrects gently. “You are living proof that war ends. That enemies can sit at the same table. That blood does not have to answer blood forever.”

He looks like he’s absurdly trying to make this work.

“You are very good at saying the right thing,” you observe.

He smiles faintly. “I rehearse them in my head. Often badly.”

That earns the smallest curve of your lips.

Silence falls again, but it is softer this time, sess suffocating, more comforting. Somewhere beyond the hedges, a fountain trickles steadily as the bees continue their lazy orbit around the roses.

“If you truly rehearse your words,” you break the silence quietly, looking up at him sheepishly, “what did you plan to tell me tonight? Once the doors to our chambers were closed and the Lords were no longer watching us?”

The afternoon sunlight accentuates the Dornish tones of his skin as well as the sincere radiance in his two-toned eyes when they look back at you.

“I had rehearsed a speech about duty and loyalty,” he admits sincerely, breathing a sigh. “About how our families need this union to heal.” Then his fine lips twist into a frown of distaste. “Now I just want to let you know that you don’t have to be my wife in the way they expect.”

You look at him in utter disbelief, your eyebrows raised. In Westeros, an unconsummated marriage is a sign of weakness, a loophole that one’s enemies absolutely relish in exploiting.

“You're a future King,” you breathe, the shock finally overriding your caution. “The succession, the optics... the court would tear you apart if they thought you couldn't—or wouldn't—claim your prize.”

The word 'prize' tastes like ash in your tongue. It’s what you’ve been called in every hushed corridor of the Red Keep since you arrived.

“I am a Prince of the Blood,” he states, “And you are a woman who has lost her home, her name, and her family. I will not add your dignity to that list of thefts.” He pauses, his gaze drifting to the scuffed toes of your shoes—the evidence of your attempted climb. “If the door is locked from the inside, the court will assume what they wish to assume. Let them whisper. They have been whispering since the Redgrass Field; a few more rumors won't break the throne.”

You offer him a warm, genuine smile. “Thank you, Baelor”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Baelor replies, his voice light. “We still have to survive the rest of the evening. And the sun is setting. If we stay out here much longer, my father will send the Kingsguard to find us, and I’d rather not explain to Ser Gwayne why my lady wife has oak bark in her hair.”

You instinctively reach up, your fingers brushing against your temple. Sure enough, a small shard of bark is tangled in a stray lock. But before you can pluck it out, Baelor’s hand is there. His touch is lightning—brief, electric, and devastatingly careful.

He removes the debris and holds it up like a trophy before letting the wind take it.

He offered you his arm and this time, you don’t hesitate. You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow, the fine fabric of his doublet smooth beneath your fingertips.

You stand by the foot of the massive bed, your fingers nervously twisting the silk of your skirts.

“You look like you’re waiting for an executioner, wife,” Baelor points out, unbuttoning the top buttons of his doublet to breathe more easily, exhausted in the aftermath of the overwhelming experience of the ceremony.

“I expected the executioner to have a less friendly face,” you reply quietly, forcing a small smile as your fingers finally release the silk of your skirt.

Baelor places his doublet on an oak chair and runs a hand through his dark hair, undoing the perfect composure he had maintained through the entire feast. Without the layers of heavy silk and state jewels, he looks less like a legendary prince and more like just a man.

“I’m afraid the only punishment awaiting you tonight is absolute silence and a bed that's too big for one person,” he responds, gesturing gracefully toward the bed as he walks over to one of the tables and pours water into two glasses.

You bite your lip, observing how he moves around the room with peaceful confidence in your direction, offering you one of the glasses.

“Baelor... the court is not naive. Tomorrow they will search for marks, they will search for that... ‘proof’ we spoke of. If the sheets are clean, your father will know.” You shake your head gently, taking a long sip of water. “Your enemies will know. They will say that you are not man enough to claim what is yours by right.”

“Let them say what they want,” he shrugs, unconcerned. “I’d rather they question my manhood than have me question my own honor. I won’t take by force what should be a voluntary act of devotion. You are not spoils of war, even if my father sees you that way.”

After taking a long sip of water himself, he draws a small dagger from his belt, its blade glinting in the candlelight.

Without taking his eyes off yours, he presses the tip against the palm of his hand. A small trickle of red blood, as vibrant as the dress you are wearing, flows from the wound. And with an uncanny sense of calm, he walks over to the bed and presses his hand against the white linen sheets, staining them irrevocably.

“There’s your proof,” he declares, letting out a sigh. “On the morrow, the maids will see what they want to see.”

You approach him quickly, your bare feet scarcely making a sound on the rugs as you dig through a small chest nearby, where you know the maids keep basic supplies. You find a roll of clean linen bandages and a bowl of water that had been left out for nighttime washing.

“My prince, let me,” you plead, carefully taking hold of his wrist.

He seems a little surprised by your initiative, but he doesn't pull his hand away. You sit down on the edge of the bed, right next to the stain he made, and invite him to sit down beside you. With a gentleness you weren't aware you could muster, you clean the wound with fresh water.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you murmur without looking up, focused on the crimson line across his palm. “It's quite a deep wound for a simple deception.”

“A prince must be willing to bleed for his people,” Baelor reassures you calmly, observing how carefully you wrap the bandage around his hand. “And you are my people now. My family.”

Your fingers brush against his warm skin as you adjust the knot of the bandage.

“Thank you, husband,” you whisper in gratitude, your hands cradling his in a tender embrace.

Baelor does not withdraw his hand; instead, he loosely closes his fingers around yours, holding them in a gesture that seeks to offer comfort. Only for a fleeting moment, because right after that, he's already pulling away from you, putting himself on his feet.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he soothes you, smiling sheepishly. “I’ve spent my whole life learning to be a good heir, a good warrior, and a good son. But I think I’d rather learn to be a good man for you.”

Then he explains that he will be sleeping on the settee by the fireplace, assuring you that you can have the bed to yourself, but you barely hear what he is saying, for you can only sit there gazing at him in silence, observing the subtle gestures of his body, the shifting expressions on his face, and the way his eyes linger on your face.

You can only sit there, watching him as though he were a riddle you had not yet decided how to solve.

He moves about the chamber with deliberate calm, removing the last of his rings and placing them carefully upon the table.

“You needn’t look at me as if I’ve grown a second head,” he points out abruptly, and you can notice a faint flush creeping up his neck beneath your scrutiny.

“I’m trying to decide,” you hesitate, “whether you are very foolish... or very brave.”

He pauses, considering that. “I’ve been accused of both before.”

“You would truly sleep there?” you ask, glancing at the narrow settee by the hearth.

“If it grants you peace, yes.”

Peace. That’s what this is all about.

Because peace is safe, peace is distant, it means space.

And you are not entirely certain you want him so far away.

[padmespetal]

✸ WELCOME TO THE FAMILY IV — modern!targaryen au

synopsis. your frantic search for aegon continues as uncomfortable truths surface and you realize that perhaps you never stood a chance of surviving among the dragons.

word count. 9.8k

warnings. smoking, dysfunctional family dyanmics, english is not my first language so sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes

note. there is A LOT of stuff going on in this chapter, be prepared, and do not fret it’s not the last one!! as always hope you enjoy reading🤍 ( and sorry to everyone who I forgot to tag!!)

previous part.

When you arrived in King’s Landing for your first year of university, the city did not greet you gently.

It nearly swallowed you whole.

The descent into King's Landing International Airport had been turbulent, and you had gripped the armrest like it might detach and send you spiraling into the Narrow Sea. You had cried somewhere above the clouds, quiet and ugly tears streaming down your cheeks you hoped the man beside you would mistake for fear of flying. It wasn’t that.

It was the weight of leaving.

You could still vividly picture your mother’s hands at the departure gate. Your father pretending not to cry. Your childhood bedroom back home, now stripped of any remnants of you living there.

As you got off the plane the late august breeze greeted you, slightly ruffling your hair. You were in a t-shirt and shorts. It was still warm in King’s Landing at that time.

As you walked through the security check and went through passport control you noticed how the airport was way too bright, too loud and too alive.

Announcements echoed in three languages. People moved with the brisk confidence of those who belonged there.

In the middle of it all you stood still for a second too long, two oversized suitcases at your sides, backpack digging into your shoulders and your entire life compressed into a few small bags.

You had made it.

—

The Uber ride into the city was obscenely expensive, but you didn’t care. You’d rather pay a ridiculous amount of money than drag your things through public transport while navigating a city for the first time.

You watched King’s Landing through the cab window, unfolding like a fever dream in front of your eyee, you had dreamed about this since you were a little child.

Glass skyscrapers glinting in the late afternoon sun, old stone buildings squeezed between new steel monstrosities, golden banners hanging from lampposts in honor of some political gala you would later learn was hosted by the Targaryens. The Blackwater shimmered in the distance like molten glass.

You pressed your forehead to the window.

This was the Capital. This was where everything happened. And somehow, you were here.

When the car dropped you off in the district you’d be living in — not quite glamorous, not quite grimy, somewhere in the liminal middle — you nearly cried again. This time from exhaustion or relief you weren't quite sure.

The building you would call home for the next four years wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t grand. It was narrow and slightly crooked, brick darkened by years of rain. But it was yours.

You dragged the suitcases up three flights of stairs because the elevator was “temporarily out of service,” a sign that would, as you would later discover, never be removed. By the second floor you were sweating. By the third you were bargaining with the Seven.

Your landlord arrived fifteen minutes late. He was an older man with a round belly, who smelled faintly of cigar and sweat. He inspected you suspiciously as if making sure you weren’t some kind of hooligan.

After deeming you respectable he croaked out the few rules you had to follow, notified you when he’d come for the rent and handed you over the keys.

He wobbled down the hallway and disappeared down the stairs.

You stood there with the key in your hand, giddy with excitement.

Inside, the apartment was painfully bare. There was a bed in what you presumed would be your new bedroom. A tiny table in the living room. A kitchenette that looked like it could combust if you boiled pasta too aggressively. White walls that felt too big for your small existence.

You stood in the doorway, chest heaving, hair sticking to your neck.

And you whispered to the empty room, almost shyly. “I’ll make you mine.”

You promised yourself you’d fill it with thrifted lamps and mismatched mugs and music playing at midnight. You’d study at that tiny table until your eyes burned. You’d cry here. Laugh here. Fall in love here, maybe.

You didn’t know with whom. You didn’t know how. But you knew this was the beginning.

—

Your first morning at King's Landing University felt like preparing for war.

You woke up before your alarm. Your stomach churned violently. You brushed your teeth twice because you were convinced your breath smelled like anxiety. You changed outfits three times. You applied an appropriate amount of makeup, that hopefully wouldn’t melt off in the heat.

You googled “how to not look like a first year” and immediately closed the tab because every suggestion required money you did not possess.

What if you got on the wrong bus? What if you misread your schedule? What if everyone else already had friends?

What if you embarrassed yourself so spectacularly on day one that the humiliation echoed for four years and you’d have no friends and you would be miserable for the rest of your life?

Your brain was cruel like that.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink. Your hands were trembling.

“Stop,” you whispered to yourself.

You were not a coward. You had moved across the country. You had boarded a plane alone. You had survived airport security with two overweight suitcases and dignity mostly intact.

You could survive a campus.

—

The bus ride was chaos. You missed your stop the first time and had to circle back, cheeks burning as if anyone noticed. You clutched your phone tightly, the KLU digital map glowing like sacred scripture.

When you finally got off at the right stop, clutching your bag for dear life you saw the campus gates looming in the distance.

They were massive, wrought iron intertwined with golden accents, the university crest etched proudly at the center.

Beyond them sprawled a city within a city — modern glass lecture halls, older ivy-covered stone buildings, fountains spraying water into the air like something out of a film.

It was enormous and terrifying at the same time. Labyrinthine.

You stepped through the gates. And that’s when something in you shifted.

There were people everywhere. Not uniformed rich kids, not polished crownlanders like you had feared.

There were students with sun-darkened Dornish skin and silver jewelry that chimed when they walked. Tall Northmen wrapped in oversized sweaters despite the killing heat. Girls speaking rapid Braavosi into their phones. A group of Dothraki boys laughing loudly, all sharp cheekbones and braided hair. Stormlanders in athletic jackets. Someone wearing a Myrish band tee.

It was chaos and it was beautiful.

And no one was looking at you. No one cared about you.

Your heartbeat slowed.

For the first time since landing, the weight on your chest loosened. You were a stranger here — yes — but so was everyone else in some way.

This city did not revolve around you. Your awkwardness was not revolutionary. You could be anyone you wanted to be.

You stared at your phone again, trying to locate the building for your first lecture. The name of your professor glared back at you:

Lyonel Baratheon.

The surname alone felt intimidating. You'd imagined some ancient, booming-voiced academic who’d chew up first years for breakfast.

You were navigating the map on your phone trying to get to class when— you aggressively bumped into someone.

The collision was abrupt and humiliating.

“Oh shit!” you yelped as your phone slipped from your hand and clattered against the pavement.

You bent down instantly, mortified.

“I’m so sorry, I—” Your eyes immedieately shot up to your unfortunate victim as heat spread to your cheeks.

The girl in front of you looked like she’d stepped out of an art exhibit.

Bubblegum pink hair fell in glossy waves around her shoulders, the color vivid against her deep brown skin. Her eyeliner was sharp enough to draw blood. She wore layered gold jewelry and a denim jacket splattered with paint like it had stories to tell.

She was stunning. Not in an intimidating way. Just… radiant. For half a second you were sure she’d snap at you. But instead, to your utter relief she laughed.

It wasn’t mean or annoyed liked you had expected it to be. On the contrary it was warm and bright and conspiratorial.

“It’s all right,” she said, voice lilting with an unfamiliar accent you couldn’t quite place but loved immediately. “Let me guess. First year? Wandering around wondering where the seven bloody hells you’re supposed to be?”

You blinked. “Yeah,” you admitted, scratching the back of your neck. “Right on the spot.”

She snorted. “Same.”

You both stood there for a moment, awkward and smiling.

“I don’t really know anyone here,” she added, glancing around as if hoping a familiar face might materialize.

“Me neither,” you croaked out, equal parts embarrassed and relieved.

There it was. The shared vulnerability. The invisible thread.

“What class are you heading to?” she asked, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder.

“Um — hold on.” You fumbled with your phone, unlocking it quickly. “Professor… Lyonel Baratheon.” You said it like you were invoking a curse.

Her eyes widened dramatically. “Oh shit! Me too!”

“Seriously?”

“Yes! Oh thank the gods,” she groaned dramatically. “I was about to cry in a bathroom stall if I had to walk in alone.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

“We should go together,” she said decisively. “At least if we get lost, we’ll be ditching first day together. You know like…solidarity!”

“Solidarity,” you echoed, grinning.

She extended her hand suddenly, as if remembering something important. “Oh by the way I’m Kiera. Kiera of Tyrosh.”

Tyrosh. That explained the color.

You shook her hand and gave her your name, feeling something click into place in your chest — small but certain.

The two of you began walking, eyes darting between the digital map and the physical world, narrating your confusion like sports commentators.

“Is that the humanities building?”

“No, that says engineering.”

“Why is everything so far apart?”

“Because they obviously hate us.”

You missed one turn. Then another. At one point you almost walked into the fountain.

But you were laughing. Actually laughing.

By the time you finally stood outside the correct lecture hall — slightly out of breath, slightly flushed — the anxiety that had threatened to swallow you whole that morning had thinned into something manageable.

Students were filing inside in clusters. You hesitated.

Kiera nudged you gently with her elbow.

“Ready?”

No. But also — yes.

You took a deep breath.

And together, with the girl you had just met fifteen minutes ago, you stepped through the doors of Lyonel Baratheon’s class for the very first time, unaware that this chaotic, pink-haired collision would become one of the most important friendships of your life.

And just like that, your life in King’s Landing truly began.

—

Same lecture hall. Same slanted seats that made your back ache if you leaned wrong. Same faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Same professor.

But everything was terribly different.

Kiera wasn’t beside you anymore — hadn’t been since she’d dramatically dropped the class halfway through second year, declaring that she refused to let “a man with that much main character energy grade her essays.” You could almost hear her whispering commentary in your ear now, something irreverent and comforting.

Instead, the seat next to you was empty. And your leg would not stop bouncing.

At the front of the hall stood Lyonel Baratheon, as enigmatic as ever.

His curls were particularly unruly today, dark strands falling into his eyes as he paced in front of the whiteboard. Small silver hoops glinted in his ears when he turned his head. He wasn’t tall. He wasn’t broad. He didn’t resemble the stag of his ancestral sigil in any obvious physical way.

But spiritually? He was all storm.

Not because of the volume which he spoke, in truth he never shouted. Not in intimidation either, he didn’t demand impossible workloads or assign heaps of homework.

No, his storms came in passion. In the way his hands moved when he explained something he loved. In the way his voice sharpened when discussing injustice or softened when describing history like it was something alive and breathing.

He genuienly cared. Which was more than could be said for professors like Ashford, who taught like he was reading off a teleprompter in his own head.

Normally, you adored this class. Today however, you could not absorb a single word.

Your heartbeat had not steadied since dawn. Since Daeron’s name had flashed across your phone screen while you were still half asleep.

Since his voice filled with a strange unease — had said, We can’t find him.

Aegon was gone. He had left his phone behind. Hadn’t packed a bag. Hadn’t told anyone.

Just… gone. Your stomach twisted again at the memory.

A part of you clung desperately to the logical angle — he hadn’t planned anything elaborate. He hadn't take anything with him.

No clothes missing. No food taken. That had to mean something. He was a smart boy. Impulsive, yes. Moody. Dramatic in the way only a ten year old Targaryen could be.

But he wasn’t reckless.

Still, he was alone in this cavernous city. He could be anywhere.

Some grimy bar in Flea Bottom or on a bus north to Winterfell for all you knew. Wandering the Blackwater docks or sneaking into a sept. Thought you highly doubted that last option.

The endless possibilities clawed at your brain.

You kept your phone face-down on the desk in front of you. If you turned it over, you knew you’d refresh your messages every thirty seconds. You’d stare at the screen willing it to magically light up.

So you didn’t look. And yet you didn’t listen either.

Lyonel’s voice washed over you in waves — articulate, animated, entirely wasted on your fraying focus. Your pen hovered uselessly above your notebook. Your handwriting, when you tried, came out crooked and illegible.

The minutes dragged. Every second felt swollen, spanning into one infinite loop.

A class you once cherished now felt like deliberate torture. Like being trapped behind glass while your house burned and all you could do wass watch.

You checked the clock mounted above the door. Three minutes left.

Your leg bounced harder. And then finally —

“Alright,” Lyonel’s familiar voice rang out, cutting through the haze. “I’m expecting the assignments to be handed in by this time next week.”

A chorus of groans erupted around you. “Now now, I told you all about this three weeks ago. No excuses.”

You shoved your notebook into your bag. You needed to move. To call someone.

Kiera? She was probably in class too, but at least she’d answer on the first ring.

Daeron? He was probably trying not to die from a hangover.

Maekar? The thought alone made your pulse spike.

You didn’t know. You just knew that sitting still was impossible. You were halfway to the aisle when—

“Miss.” Your name followed, precise and unmistakable. You stopped mid-step and turned, jaw tight. Your patience was running thin.

Lyonel was leaning casually against his desk, one eyebrow arched in that infuriatingly perceptive way.

“Yes, professor?” You couldn’t quite keep the edge out of your voice.

He tilted his head at your tone. “Has my class bored you?” If this were any other day, you would have probably laughed.

“Of course not,” you replied quickly, adjusting your bag strap. “It’s just—”

He straightened a little, studying you now. Not accusatory, just assessing.

“You were not listening to a word I said the entire lecture,” he said calmly. “I tend to notice when my best students stop engaging.”

Your throat tightened. That word — best — landed heavier than it should have.

“It has nothing to do with the topic,” you said. “I’m just… busy.”

Busy was certainly one way to describe a missing Targaryen heir.

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer. You could see the storm gathering behind his eyes — not anger, but concern.

He didn’t believe you. But thank the gods, he didn’t press.

“Well,” he said after a pause, pushing off the desk, “the reason I stopped you wasn’t to interrogate your academic devotion.”

You blinked, not sure where this was heading.

“The student exchange application from Sunspear arrived this morning.”

For half a second, you just stared at him. Your eyebrows squinted.

The what?

And then your brain placed it.

Back at the beginning of the year — in one of those restless, impulsive moods where you felt suffocated by routine — you had applied for the exchange program in Dorne. Hosted in Sunspear. A semester under the Dornish sun. Slower pace of life. With new professors and a new perspective.

You had told yourself you needed the warmth. A change that would do you some good. Distance from King’s Landing’s grim relentless pulse.

You had filled out the application at two in the morning and almost forgotten about it entirely. Ninety percent of you had assumed you wouldn’t get in.

Apparently, you had.

“Oh,” you said dumbly. You should feel ecstatic.

People fought for these spots. Kiera had once joked she’d commit mild crimes for a term in Dorne. The opportunity meant prestige and valuable experience. A different academic network.

It meant escape. Instead, all you felt was the frantic need to leave this building and start searching for Aegon.

Lyonel’s voice softened, losing its teasing edge. “I hope you won’t pass up on this opportunity because of… whatever is weighing on you so heavily.”

Your chest tightened.

Were you really this transparent? Or maybe he just saw too much.

“I’ll… think about it,” you managed.

But not now.

Now there was a missing boy with too many feelings and a tendency to do impulsive, stupid things.

Now there was an entire dragon family in quiet panic. Now there was no room in your brain for sun-drenched courtyards and Dornish lectures.

Lyonel nodded slowly, as if accepting the answer for what it was — insufficient, but honest.

“Very well,” he said.

You didn’t wait for his dismissal. You turned and hurried up the aisle, heart hammering, fingers already reaching for your phone before you’d even cleared the lecture hall doors.

The corridor outside suddenly felt too bright. Too normal.

Students were laughing outside. Complaining about assignments. Discussing their lunch plans.

And somewhere in this sprawling, indifferent city — Aegon Targaryen was missing.

The sky above King’s Landing was painfully blue. How could the world look so normal?

You descended the stone steps two at a time, heart hammering. You had left behind Dorne and exchange programs with Lyonel Baratheons classroom. None of that mattered right now.

Aegon was still missing.

You pulled out your phone, thumb hovering.

You had mentally decided that calling Kiera would be your best and safest option.

You pressed her contact. It rang twice before she picked up.

“Hey.” Her voice was steady. Grounding.

“Hey—what’s up? Any news of Aegon?” The words tumbled out too fast as you pushed through the crowd of students.

“Unfortunately, no,” she replied, and you could hear street noise behind her. “Valarr’s dad told us to meet at Maekar’s. They’re trying to handle the situation.”

Of course he had. You hadn't doubted for a single moment Baelor Targaryen would be the voice of reason in all of this.

He was always calm and measured about these things. Endlessly strategic. He was the second most important man in the family after Daeron the Good for a reason.

You exhaled shakily.

“Where are you right now?” Kiera asked.

“Still on campus. Just finished Baratheon’s lecture. I’m… I think I’m skipping the rest of today.”

The words felt foreign on your tongue. You never skipped class.

“Okay,” she said simply. No teasing comment. No mock gasp of academic betrayal this time. “Wait at the front. Me and Valarr will pick you up.”

“Okay.”

You ended the call and stood near the iron gates, people brushing past you, their conversations blurring into white noise.

You opened your messages. Aegon’s name stared back at you.

You knew his phone wasn’t on him. Daeron had said it was still on his desk.

But you typed anyway.

You

hey egg. bad time to disappear. you’re kind of giving us all a heart attack.

You stared at the blinking cursor.

You

please come home.

Your fingers hovered. He wouldn’t read it. Not now, maybe not ever.

What were you trying to accomplish? To ease the guilt clawing at your chest, to ease the storm in your mind? A poor attempt that you had reached out?

Before your thoughts could spiral further, a car screeched to a halt in front of you.

A sleek black Mercedes benz pulled up beside the curb where you were standing.

The passenger window rolled down and Kiera’s bubblegum pink hair spilled into view. “Come on, get inside.”

You didn’t hesitate.

The door opened and you scrambled in. Normally you’d admire the interior , the soft leather seats, the ambient lighting, the faint scent of expensive cologne that lingered in the air.

Right now, you barely registered it.

Valarr was behind the wheel, his posture straight, hands steady on the wheel. He had inherited his father’s composure — that terrifying ability to compartmentalize even under pressure.

“So,” he said after you muttered your greetings, eyes fixed on the road. “Did he say anything? Any indication he’d want to run away?”

You swallowed.

“No. We just… we talked about Dyanna before I left.” Your voice softened at the name. “But I didn’t think he’d run away because of that.”

Valarr’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. The car fell quiet for a moment.

“Should I have known?” The doubt crept in before you could stop it. “Should I have seen something?”

“No.” Kiera turned in her seat sharply, fixing you with a stern look. “Absolutely not. None of this is your fault. Do not blame yourself for a single second.”

“It doesn’t feel like that,” you muttered, watching the city blur past.

They drove toward the Red Keep district, the buildings growing grander, older, more suffocatingly opulent.

Valarr spoke again. “My father thinks he ran because of the Lannister charity gala tonight.”

You blinked. It sounded like a place for the members of the great houses to drink obscure amounts of alcohol and silently insult each other.

“The what?”

“He probably didn’t want to attend,” Valarr said carefully. “Thought disappearing would get him out of it.”

A gala? Aegon hadn’t mentioned a word about it.

“That would make more sense,” you murmured. “But why wouldn’t he tell me?”

Valarr’s eyes flicked to you in the rearview mirror. “Maybe he felt embarrassed about it. Does that sound like something Aegon would do?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

The car turned into the long driveway of the Targaryen manor — red stone, manicured hedges, iron gates that whispered old money and older secrets.

You all stepped out at once, the tension thick between you.

—

As you stepped through the entrance door, the house was louder than you’d ever heard it.

Voices were overlapping as footsteps echoed off the wood. The air was heavy with restrained panic.

Baelor stood near the window, phone pressed to his ear. He was dressed in a white shirt and navy vest. “Yes, we have notified them..” He gave you all a nod as you entered, acknowledging your presence.

Maekar sat rigid in an armchair, jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack.

Daeron was slouched on the couch, pale as a ghost and hollow-eyed. Part of you wanted to reach for him and ask him if everything was alright. Even if you knew nothing was.

Aerion was conspicuously absent, likely outside, avoiding the emotional circus.

“Thank the gods you’re here,” Rhae said as Daella lounged nearby. The tension in her shoulders was barely masked by her posture. “It’s kind of a… disaster.”

“Yeah,” you replied quietly, scanning the room. “I can see that.”

“Baelor’s speaking to grandfather — Daeron" Rhae clarified. “He says we need to keep this quiet. No pr circus. It’s better this way. We don’t want all of King’s Landing to know a Targaryen child is alone in the city.”

There were many things left unsaid in that sentence.

To protect the family reputation. You thought bitterly.

“Oh, fuck me,” Maekar muttered darkly from his chair. You looked around at all of them.

“So what do we do?” you asked expectantly. You thought they would have devised some kind of plan by now.

Baelor ended his call and stepped forward. Voice as measured and composed as ever. “What we do is we wait and we stay calm.”

Your eyebrows shot up, turning to look at him. “You’re joking— I mean the kid is missing!.”

“Yes,” Baelor’s voice cut through the air, his mismatched irises not revealing anything. “And the City Watch has been notified. They’re searching. We have to trust they’ll find him. Until tonight’s charity gala—”

When you heard him say the word ‘charity gala’ you snapped. That was it. This was the last straw. The anger burst out of you before you could cage it.

“The lot of you are unbelievable!” Your voice cracked through the room like thunder. "All of you!" All their eyes were trained on you now. “Your son is missing and all you care about is finding him in time for a stupid charity gala?”

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Rhae gulped as Daella watched on in disbelief. Daeron’s lips quirked up in amusement and Kiera opened her mouth to say something but Valarr grabbed her hand.

Maekar scoffed as Baelor pinched his brows. “Get her out of here. She’s clearly hysterical.”

Something in you snapped.

“No, you!” you shot back. “Maybe if you spent less time scowling and more time showing emotional maturity toward your children, they wouldn’t feel the need to disappear!”

The words hung there. Ugly and irreversible. He knew you weren't only talking about Aegon right now. Everyone did.

The way Daeron was constantly in and out of taverns, how the girls always avoided being home as much as possible, how Aemon had decided to leave for Oldtown, how Aerion always strayed into trouble. And now Aegon, missing.

Maekar stared at you, genuinely taken aback at the nerve. He opened his mouth, perhaps to fire you on the spot, would have been reasonable, but no words came out.

The patio door swung open and Aerion strode in, his eyes sharp, assessing the tension in the air.

Baelor sighed, rubbing his temple. “Perhaps we ought to listen to her…” He reluctantly nodded.

Heat flooded your cheeks as the reality of what you’d just said sank in.

“He couldn’t have gone too far,” Baelor reasoned. “We can maybe search the neighborhood.”

“That sounds better than just sitting around,” Kiera added quickly, showing her support. Her hand still interwoven with Valarr’s.

Baelor nodded. “I’ll stay here with the girls for updates. Valarr and Kiera, you go together.”

Daeron shifted, about to speak, but Maekar cut him off and raised a finger at him.

“You. Are not going anywhere boy. I’m keeping you in my sights after that stunt you pulled last eveing.”

His tone was final. Which left you with.

Baelor’s gaze moved to you.

“Aerion and you can check the city center. If he wanted to blend in, that’s where he’d go.”

You and Aerion both opened your mouths to protest but Baelor’s look shut you up instantly.

Great, of all people, him. The one person who hated your guts and who you hated in equal measure. If not more.

To your surprise Aerion grabbed his keys without a word, already heading for the door.

You composed yourself and swallowed your pride. Aegon mattered more than your pettiness right now.

And if that meant searching King’s Landing with the one Targaryen who looked at you like you were an inconvenience. So be it.

—

Aerion’s car was exactly what one would expect it to be.

A black sleek Porsche, low to the ground and gleaming like it had never known dust. The kind of car that didn’t just move through the city, it roared through it.

As you opened the passenger door, a shiver crawled up your spine. Not because of the fine leather interior. But because of him.

You slid into the seat beside him in silence, spine rigid, hands folded in your lap as if bracing for impact. The door shut with a heavy click that felt far too final. You could only hope he didn’t drive you into a ditch out of spite.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

He started the engine. It purred to life smoothly, controlled power, and you rolled out of the manor gates without ceremony.

The silence inside the car was suffocating. It pressed against your ears, against your ribcage. It was charged and volatile, testing both your patience.

You kept your gaze forward, watching the estate disappear in the rearview mirror. Your heart still hadn’t settled from the argument. From Maekar’s scoff and from your own outburst. Would he fire you once he realized what you had done?

Aerion’s jaw was tight, sharp profile illuminated by streaks of sunlight filtering through the windshield. His hands were steady on the wheel.

He looked completely unaffected. But you could tell he wasn’t.

You could feel it.

“So…” you began carefully, more to break the unbearable quiet than anything else. “I think we could maybe start looking near the bay area.”

He didn't respond, he didn't even glance at you.

The city blurred past, ancient stone buildings, café umbrellas, a few pedestrians crossing the street recklessly.

He took a sharp breath through his nose.

“The impudent little idiot couldn’t find a better time to disappear,” he muttered finally, words edged with bitterness.

You turned toward him.“He’s your brother.” You reminded.

The words left you harsher than you had expected.

His mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “He’s an idiot.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your calm. “He’s ten.”

“And therefore incapable of basic reasoning.”

“He’s scared and he's alone,” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

Aerion’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“I can’t believe I have to do this,” he continued after a beat, voice low and irritated. “With you of all people.”

You blinked at him. “Why do you hate me so much?”

He didn’t answer. The car’s engine hummed steadily beneath you.

You pressed on. “Did I do something to you? Insult you? Exist incorrectly?”

Still nothing.

You studied his profile — the sharp cheekbones, the cold line of his mouth, the faint scar near his temple you’d only ever noticed in certain lighting.

“Because trust me,” you said, heat rising in your chest again, “I’m not exactly thrilled I have to search for Aegon with you of all—”

“I don’t hate you.”

The words were so out of character you didn't want to believe he was the one saying them. You stared at him dumbfounded. That was not what you had expected.

His jaw flexed before he swallowed, and for a brief, disorienting second, his eyes flicked toward you.

There was something there. Something that had never been there before. Not contempt and not anger. Something sharper. More dangerous and unfamiliar.

You opened your mouth—

And then movement caught your eye through the windshield.

“Wait—do you see that?”

You leaned forward, pointing. Ahead, the central park had transformed into chaos.

Colorful stalls lined the pathways. Banners fluttered in the breeze. A stage had been erected near the fountain as music drifted faintly through the air.

It looked like some kind of carnival. A festival perhaps?

Aerion followed your gaze.

“Reckon he could be there,” you murmured, more to yourself than him.

If Aegon wanted anonymity, distraction, noise loud enough to drown his thoughts and distract him— this would be it.

Aerion pulled into a parking spot along the curb, movements efficient and precise. The engine cut off and the silence returned.

You stepped out into warm sunlight and the distant scent of fried dough and roasted meat filled your senses. Laughter carried on the wind. Somewhere, a child shrieked in delight.

You glanced back. Aerion was still standing by the car, unmoving.

“Are you coming?” you asked.

His expression shuttered instantly, the brief vulnerability from earlier long gone, replaced by the familiar cold.

“I’ll circle the perimeter,” he said flatly.

You sighed. Of course.

“Fine.”

You turned and headed into the festival alone. The air was practically electric.

Stalls sold honeyed pastries and mugs of dark, brewed beer. Children crowded around a puppet show, shrieking at exaggerated dragon costumes. Artists painted faces in swirls of gold and crimson. A group of musicians played something lively and off-key near the center.

You scanned every head of hair, looking for a light blonde buzz. Every slight figure. Every possible little boy.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

You spotted Tanselle near an arts-and-crafts table, painting what looked like a wooden shield in careful strokes of red and orange. You almost approached her, almost asked if she’d seen a bald little boy trying to look inconspicuous—

But something barreled into you. Or rather someone?

You stumbled backward as a large dog nearly knocked you flat onto the grass.

“Hey—!”

“Thunder!”

The voice shrieking was familiar. Childlike.

Your heart slammed against your ribs and you turned sharply.

There he was. Aegon.

Dressed like any other boy — striped green shirt, loose shorts, slightly dirty and dusty. No expensive clothes. No fine posture drilled into him by etiquette tutors.

Behind him came Duncan the Tall, sprinting in long, frantic strides, two equally massive dogs bounding beside him.

“Thunder, get back here!” Duncan called, breathless.

The dog that had nearly flattened you barked happily and ran back to him.

For a second, you just stood there gaping.

Relief crashed into you so violently your knees nearly buckled.

Duncan reached you first, chestnut hair messy in the sunlight, freckles flushed across his nose.

“I am so sorry!” he blurted. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him—Thunder, sit! Sweetfoot, Chestnut, calm down!” The dogs obeyed instantly, tails wagging furiously.

You barely registered them. “Aegon.” Your voice was breathless.

You crossed the distance in two strides and pulled him into your arms. His face pressed against your stomach.

You squeezed him like you were making sure he was solid, real and warm. Made of flesh and blood and bones and not some strange hallucination of your mind.

He stiffened in surprise, then slowly relaxed in your embrace.

“Are you alright?” you whispered, hands moving instinctively — caressing his head, checking his shoulders, his arms, his face for cuts or bruises.

To your relief you found none.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

But there was something in his eyes. Guilt sparkled in his violet irises.

You swallowed hard, fighting the sting behind your own.

“Don’t do that,” you choked. “Ever again.”

His shoulders sagged slightly.

“The next time you want to get out of a stupid charity gala,” you said more firmly, pulling back to look at him, “you come to me. We figure something out together. You don’t just disappear.”

His lips twitched. But before he could respond—

“I’m sorry—what?” Duncan interjected, staring between you. “Aegon… as in—?”

“Yes,” you confirmed gently. “As in Aegon Targaryen.”

Duncan’s eyes widened in comical horror.

“He told me he was a farm boy!” he exclaimed, pointing at Aegon. “Said his family had goats!” He blurted out.

You turned slowly toward the boy in question.

“Egg.” You gave him a sharp look as if reprimanding him, but you couldn't find it in your heart to be cross with him. Not right now.

He raised his shoulders in exaggerated innocence. A small, guilty grin tugged at his mouth.

“He was very convincing,” Duncan added weakly.

You huffed a shaky laugh, relief still flooding your veins. “I bet.”

“Thank you,” you told Duncan sincerely. “For looking after him.”

He blinked. “I didn’t know I was looking after him.”

“You were,” you said softly. "Believe me."

Aerion silently appeared behind you. His eyes locked onto Aegon instantly. He scowled as his gaze fell upon Duncan.

“Well,” he drawled, voice cool. “Found the prodigal idiot. Or shall I say idiots?”

Aegon rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. You shot Aerion a warning look.

“Let’s go,” you said gently, placing a hand on Aegon’s back.

He hesitated, glancing at Duncan and the three happy dogs. He petted them and promised to meet them sometime and then bid farewell.

You thanked Duncan one last time before giving him a quick hug. He still looked dazed as you led Aegon away from the carnival noise. Poor guy.

—

The walk back to the car was quieter this time. Aegon walked between you and Aerion, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Did you really think no one would notice?” Aerion asked coolly.

Aegon didn’t respond.

“You left your phone,” you added softly.

He kicked at a pebble. “I didn’t want them to track me.”

“We were all terrified,” you swallowed.

That made him glance up.

“Even my father?” he asked, skeptical.

You didn't hesitate. “Everyone.”

That seemed to land somewhere.

Aerion unlocked the Porsche and the doors clicked open.

You guided Aegon into the back seat before sliding into the passenger side again. This time, the silence felt different.

Less sharp and more fragile. Aerion started the engine once more. As you pulled away from the curb, you finally allowed yourself to breathe properly.

You pulled out your phone. Your fingers trembled slightly as you typed a message to Kiera.

You

we found him.

You paused. Then continued.

You

he’s safe, everythings alright. we're together with aerion, going back home.

You hit send. Within seconds, your screen exploded with notifications.

But you didn’t look at them yet. You leaned back in the seat, eyes closing briefly.

Aegon was behind you alive and unharmed. That was all that mattered.

The city rolled past outside the window, golden in the afternoon sun. And for the first time all day, your heartbeat began to slow.

—

The front door had barely clicked shut behind you when the sound of a chair scraping against polished marble echoed through the foyer.

Maekar was already on his feet. The house suddenly felt wrong. Too quiet.

When you had stormed in earlier with Kiera and Valarr, the place had been absolute chaos—voices ricocheting off vaulted ceilings, the twins anxiously chattering between each other, Aerion smirking outside like he was enjoying seeing everyone so riled up.

Now the air was eerily silent once again, as though someone had wiped the house clean of all sound.

Baelor must have left with Valarr and Kiera. The Lannister charity gala was still being hosted tonight ; no doubt they had gone to prepare. Daella and Rhae were likely upstairs in their own rooms, getting ready for the same event.

Maekar crossed the distance between himself and Aegon in three strides.

“What were you thinking?” His voice cracked like a whip against marble. Aegon shrank beneath it.

You noticed, not for the first time, that Maekar never raised his voice thoughtlessly. It was always controlled. Measured. The anger was real, but it was forged, hammered into shape before it ever left his mouth.

“Someone could have taken you,” he continued, now towering over the boy. “Or worse! Do you know what kind of situation you put us in? You’re not some stable boy to go running around wherever you please!”

Aegon’s shoulders curved inward. You felt the urge to protect him somehow, to wrap a hand around him or assure him everything would he alright.

He looked like something fragile, something caught in a storm without shelter.

“I am sorry, Father.”

His voice was small and meek. Almost swallowed by the house. He was shaking like a lear.

Maekar’s jaw flexed.

He turned away abruptly, as if the sight of the boy’s lowered head did something unbearable to him.

And you saw it then, for the first time, the lines carved deep around his mouth, the exhaustion beneath his eyes. Grief had aged him unevenly. There were days he looked carved from iron, almost immovable. And then there were days like this, when he looked like a man stitched together only by heartache.

“Go to your room. Wash yourself,” he commanded at last, quieter now. “We are attending the gala tonight.”

The decree fell final and cold.

Aegon opened his mouth, defiance flickering for half a second but one look from his father extinguished it.

Aegon glanced at you instead. As if asking you for some kind of apology. You just nodded. I’m not mad at you.

Then he disappeared down the hall.

“You too, boy.” Maekar turned to his other son.

Aerion had been leaning in the doorway, silently witnessing the scene, arms folded over his chest. His eyes glittered with something sharp and unreadable. For a moment you thought he might argue as he so often did, unable to resist striking flint against steel.

But Maekar only tilted his head. Warning him not to challenge further.

Aerion said nothing. He merely brushed past you, shoulder grazing yours deliberately, and vanished upstairs.

And then it was just the two of you.

You became suddenly aware of your appearance—the wind-tangled hair, the crease in your blouse, the faint smear of city dust along your wrist. In this cathedral of glass and stone, you looked painfully human.

Maekar remained in the threshold. The house behind him was cavernous. Grand and immaculate as ever.

And in that moment you realized why you felt so uneasy in this house, it was haunted.

Haunted by ghosts and memories.

The picture of Dyanna’s portrait flashed in your mind, the one tucked away in the room just above the sweeping staircase.

Graphite on paper. She was smiling in it, soft almost amused, as though she knew some secret no one else did. Whoever had drawn it had captured her gentleness, the warmth in her eyes.

And you knew the ghost of it followed Maekar everywhere.

“I…” he began. The word seemed foreign in his own mouth.

He glanced toward the stairwell, ensuring no one lingered within earshot. His pride demanded privacy even when he was being vulnerable. Especially then.

“I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.”

For a moment you wondered if you had imagined it. Maekar Targaryen did not apologize. He issued statements, corrections and orders. This is the closest you had ever heard him come to an apology.

You swallowed, shifting on your feet.

“I shouldn’t have said those things either, sir—”

“Please.” His voice frayed. “Just… Maekar.”

The name hovered between you.

You had said it countless times in your mind. To Kiera. In frustration. In quiet understanding. In arguments with yourself about why he unsettled you the way he did.

But never like this.

“Maekar,” you repeated softly, testing the word on your lips.

Something in his gaze shifted.

“And you have nothing to apologize for,” he continued, exhaling sharply, almost laughing at himself. “You were right.”

The admission seemed to cause him physical pain as he winced. “I know I’m not the best father.” His gaze drifted, not meeting yours. “Hell. I don’t even know if I qualify as a good one.”

You absorbed that confession like a septon. Ready to decree mercy.

He pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose, as though staving off a headach or memory.

“I don’t…” His voice faltered. “I can’t.”

He had been raised in a dynasty that worshipped restraint.

In a family where love was implied through expectation, not spoken.

Where sons were shaped and not comforted.

He didn’t know how to love properly.

His affection came out sharpened. He feared softness the way other men feared failure.

“He’s my last son.”

The words were quiet, but they rang with terrible clarity. Not his last in blood. But the last one still untouched by something darker, by his own shortcomings.

Daeron had grown distant. He had lost himself in the dreams and had numbed it all by drinking. Aerion burned too brightly, too cruelly at times. Even Aemon, golden and composed, carried his own private fractures.

Aegon was still unformed clay. His last chance at being a good father.

You stepped closer, careful as one might approach a wounded animal.

“I know,” you said.

His eyes were glass-bright now, though no tears fell. Maekar would sooner break than weep.

“They know you care,” you continued carefully. “But sometimes it’s…” You searched for a word that would not wound him. “…harsh.”

He considered that. You could almost see the machinery of pride grinding against reflection.

“That’s why Dy—” He stopped himself.

The name caught in his throat like a shard of glass. Alas he forced himself to finish it.

“Dyanna… she knew how to handle them. To be… gentle.”

The sketch of the woman with black curls was burned behind your eyelids.

“I don’t know how to be a father and a mother.”

The confession landed heavily between you.

Dyanna Dayne Targaryen haunted this house not through superstition, but through her absence. Every moment, every waking hour of every day.

Her presence lingered in the way Daella folded her hands. In the way Rhae hummed under her breath when she was nervous. In Aegon’s soft heart. In Aerion’s fury. In Daeron's silence. In Aemon's absence. In Maekar’s fury.

“You don’t have to be both,” you said quietly.

He looked at you then, not as an employee. Not as an inconvenience. But as though you were something steadier than the very marble beneath his feet.

And for a moment, the steel left him.

“Perhaps Aegon could stay home tonight,” you suggested gently. “He’s shaken. The gala will only—”

“No.” The walls snapped back into place as if they had never been lowered.

“Aegon is blood of the dragon. His place is beside his family.”

The old creed was back. The armor on him once more. He straightened his cuffs as though adjusting himself back into position, mentally and physically.

You felt something inside you wilt. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” you whispered.

Because you could not soften him if he would not allow it. You could not mother his children while he demanded they be warriors.

He held your gaze one second longer than necessary.

There was something unspoken there. Perhaps gratitude and a pinch of frustration. Perhaps even fear of needing you too much.

He said nothing more. He turned and ascended the staircase.

You watched his back disappear.

You remained in the foyer alone, listening to the stillness.

Soon, doors would open. Suits would be buttoned. Dresses zipped. Faces composed.

And somewhere in the quiet of his bedroom, Maekar would stand before her picture—small and private—and wonder whether he was failing the ghosts as much as the living.

He loved his children fiercely. But love, in this house, was always earned before it was given.

—

You sat on the garden porch with your elbows resting on your knees, staring out at the backyard as though it were a painting you had memorized but still could not fully understand.

The first time you had stood here, the house had felt like a museum—too large, too polished, too aware of your smallness. The stone had seemed colder then. The glass sharper and the silence heavier.

Now it felt… almost familiar.

The pond in the far corner reflected the dying light of the sun, its surface trembling faintly with the breeze.

The purple flowers beside it swayed gently, stubborn little bursts of color against the disciplined geometry of trimmed hedges and imported marble.

The goal post still leaned slightly to the left from when Aegon had collided with it during your first makeshift match. The course he had built stood empty.

He was a good boy.

Sweet-hearted, quick-witted and a little bit wild. Sometimes too smart for his own good.

And you—God help you—you cared for him. More than you had ever cared for anyone’s child. More than you had allowed yourself to care in years.

He had undone something in you. Loosened that invisible rope that was choking you.

He taught you that not everything required perfection. That sometimes you could laugh too loudly. That sometimes it was alright to be messy and barefoot and unapologetically soft.

Your throat tightened.

The sun sank lower, bleeding orange and crimson across the sky like something wounded. The overhead porch light flickered to life with a dull hum.

You wiped your eyes quickly when the door behind you creaked open. You didn’t turn immediately. You already knew who it was.

The footsteps were quieter than Aerion’s, less deliberate than Maekars’s. Slower, almost reluctant. And his presence was undeniable.

You looked up. Daeron stood there, framed in the doorway.

His dirty-blonde hair hung loose around his face, not yet disciplined by whatever gala expectations awaited him. He wore a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled carelessly, dress pants slightly creased as though he’d been sitting too long on that couch in the living room. He had not put on his blazer yet.

The corners of his mouth were upturned in a sad little smile.

His eyes—those unmistakable Targaryen violet irises—held secrets and knowledge far older than he was.

He stepped outside without asking permission and came to sit beside you on the steps. Close enough that your knees almost brushed, not touching. But almost.

The silence between you was not empty. It was crowded with unsaid things. You took in a sharp breath, not knowing how to proceed.

After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette pack, tapping it lightly against his palm.

“Where’d you get that from?” You raised a brow at him. “I thought you were under house arrest or something.”

“Father always keeps a pack in his study room.” He revealed.

“Want one?” he asked. You didn’t smoke and normally you would have refused. Old you would have definitely made some comment about lung cancer and poor coping mechanisms.

But your chest burned in a different way tonight. So you just nodded.

He slid one between your fingers and brought the lighter up, shielding the flame from the wind with his hand.

For a second his knuckles brushed your cheek. The cigarette caught and the smoke curled upward and dissolved into twilight.

He lit his own and leaned back on his hands, staring at the garden. For a while neither of you spoke.

The smoke drifted between you like a ghost. The heavy smell settled into your bones.

“My mother planted those,” he said at last, nodding toward the purple flowers by the pond.

His voice had shifted, it was softer. Stripped of its usual fatigue

“She said they reminded her of back home.” Of Dorne you thought.

The word lingered unspoken but heavy. Warm sands and sunburned terraces and laughter that did not echo in these cold marble halls.

You picked at the skin around your thumb, unsure what comfort could possibly sound like here.

“Now you know the truth,” he continued quietly. “This is who we are. This is our family.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I know it’s hard to believe but… we weren’t always like this. We weren’t always so broken.” The word broken seemed to dissolve into the evening air.

“I’ve always had the dreams,” he added after a pause. “But… my dreams aren’t like yours.”

“Like mine?”

He shook his head faintly. “Yours are hopes. Futures you build in your head. Perhaps memories.”

He looked at you then. “But mine come true.” The air in the garden suddenly felt colder.

You had heard whispers, of course. Of such things as dragon dreamers. But you had never actually entertained the thought as something real. It was more of a good night tale wetnurses told children.

But hearing him say it like this, without any mysticism, with so much pain in his eyes, it made them real.

“They don’t feel like dreams,” he continued. “They feel like memories from a place I haven’t been yet.”

His gaze drifted to the pond.

“I see things." He swallowed.

"Little things, like a broken glass before it shatters or a phone call before it rings" He explained.

"Sometimes bigger things.”

He took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Sometimes I see fire.”

The word sat between you. Not metaphorical fire. He meant real fire.

“I know I’m doomed to hell,” he added with a faint, crooked laugh. “Likely one without wine.”

You didn’t smile. There was something hollow beneath the humor.

“And Aerion,” he went on quietly, “he wasn’t always so cruel.”

You glanced at him, not believing his words..

“He liked fishing,” Daeron said. “And we used to play outside, in this very garden. Pretending we were dragons, ready to conquer the world.”

You searched his face for irony. You found none.

“And then Father made a man out of him,” he murmured. “As he surely he will do with Aegon.”Bitterness laced the words.

“I tried talking to him,” you said hoarsely. "Your father."

Daeron’s mouth twitched, as if knowing what reply to expect. “And?” He offered regardless.

“There’s no point in flogging a dead horse.” You whispered.

He nodded, as though you had confirmed his suspicion. The cigarette between his fingers had burned almost to the filter.

“I dreamt of you,” he said quietly, your hand stilled on the railing.

“Before I met you,” he clarified. “Weeks before.”

“I saw your face,” he said, eyes distant now, unfocused. “I didn’t know your name. Didn’t know why you were there or who you were. You were just… standing in our hallway.”

Your heartbeat quickened.

“I remember feeling warm,” he continued. “Like the sun through a window in winter. And I remember thinking, this must be what angels look like.”

The admission was simple. There was no teasing or seduction in his voice. Just… honesty.

“And then,” he said softly, “a few days later you walked through the front door.”

You swallowed, smoke catching in your throat. So his dreams were real.

“You can’t fix us,” he said abruptly. It wasn't a challenge or an accusation, it was a fact. One he had come to accept a long time ago.

The dragondreamer had seen too much to believe in fairy tales.

But before you could respond, a sharp knock sounded against the glass of the door behind you. It was Aerion.

He stood inside, dressed in a deep red blazer. He gestured sharply for you both to come in.

Daeron didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything more. He merely flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his polished shoe.

You followed suit and stood up.

—

When you stepped inside, the sight before you stole your breath.

Maekar stood at the center of the foyer, immaculate in a black tuxedo. The cut was severe, perfect. His posture unbreakable.

Rhae and Daella wore black and red gowns with silk that shimmered under chandelier light, ornate detailing tracing their waists like something out of an old dynasty portrait. Their white hair pulled into sleek buns.

Aerion looked like a prince of something dangerous.

And Aegon— Aegon wore a suit identical to his father’s, only smaller. A black hat rested atop his head, slightly too large. You knew why.

Your chest ached. They looked perfect. So regal, so untouchable. Like the picture of a dynasty that did not fracture behind closed doors.

But you knew the truth.

“Daeron, fix your hair and put on your blazer,” Maekar commanded without looking at him. “We are leaving.”

The children filed toward the door one by one.

“Our driver will drop you home,” Maekar said to you, voice controlled once more.

“It’s alright,” you replied softly. “I prefer to take the bus.” You were a simple girl after all.

He hesitated. Something flickered in his eyes. Then he nodded, too tired to argue. “Very well.”

The door opened and the cold evening air rushed in. Aegon was the last one to linger.

He looked at you as though memorizing your face. Apology and fear and hope were all tangled in his violet gaze.

“I’ll see you,” you whispered.

But something in your chest tightened painfully and something in your brain was screaming at you. Liar.

—

When you reached your apartment, the hallway light flickered the way it always did.

Usually it would have comforted you—that small, predictable imperfection. The faint hum of the fridge when you stepped inside. The familiar creak of the floorboard near the kitchen. The soft yellow lamp you always left on in the corner of the living room, casting everything in a gentler shade.

The books on your shelf stood untouched, dirty dishes in the sink.

Tonight it felt completely wrong. Too small and too quiet for your loud thoughts.

You locked the door behind you and leaned your forehead against it for a moment, listening to the echo of the latch sliding into place.

The world of dragons and marble and suffocating legacy was on the other side now.

And yet somehow — they were still here with you. In your lungs. In your throat. In your mind and perhaps in the very carvings of your soul.

You moved without really thinking. Brain on autopilot. Out onto the small terrace.

You didn't bother with removing your shoes or your jacket.

The terrace was barely large enough for two chairs and a small rusted table, but you had always loved it.

The city stretched out beneath you in a blur of headlights and neon signs. You had always found serene peace here.

The traffic pulsed like veins. Sirens wailing in the distance. Life, messy and anonymous and ordinary, carried on without dynasties or dragonblood.

You wrapped your arms around yourself tightly and stared down at the moving lights.

And somewhere in that silence, something inside you had already been decided. And the clarity was so terrible you almost didn't want to see it.

The way rot sets in quietly. The way winter arrives not in one storm but in gradual frost.

You loved that boy so much. That was the problem.

You loved him in a way that was beginning to frighten you. In a way that blurred lines and hollowed out parts of you that had once belonged solely to yourself.

You loved him enough to know you could not stay and watch him be reshaped into something harder. Something cruel.

You sighed and slide the balcony door open. It clicked shut behind you as you stepped into the living room.

Your laptop sat on the coffee table where you had left it that morning, dark screen, slightly ajar.

You sank down onto the couch and opened it fully. The glow illuminated your face in pale blue.

You opened your mail and inbox blinked with unread messages. Assignments. Notifications. Reminders that you had another life beyond House Targaryen.

You clicked on “compose.”

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment. Then you began to type.

To: Lyonel Baratheon

Dear Professor, I hope this email finds you well. After careful consideration, I have decided to take part in the exchange program to the University of Sunspear this semester. Please let me know what steps I need to take in order to carry through my full application.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you signed your name.

You didn’t allow yourself to think about Dorne’s heat. Or it’s distance. Or how fitting it was that you would be leaving for the very place Dyanna had once come from.

You opened a second email.

The cursor blinked accusingly.

To: Maekar Targaryen

You swallowed and began.

Dear Sir, I am sorry to inform you that I can no longer continue working for you as Aegon’s babysitter. Due to personal and academic commitments, I will be stepping down from my position effective immediately.

You paused. The words looked sterile. Cowardly.

You deleted the last sentence and rewrote it.

Dear Sir, I am sorry to inform you that I can no longer continue working for you as Aegon’s babysitter. This was not an easy decision, and I am deeply grateful for the time I have spent with your family. However, I believe it is best for everyone if I step away.

Everyone. What a lie. It would not be best for Aegon. It would not be best for you. It would not be best for anyone.

You hesitated again and your vision blurred.

You added one more line before you could stop yourself.

Please tell him I am proud of him.

Your breath hitched the moment you typed it. You quickly erased it.

You closed the email with a simple:

Thank you for the opportunity. Sincerely.

You stared at both drafts on your laptop screen.

You imagined someone else in your place looking after him. Someone colder. Or worse—no one at all.

You pressed your palm against your mouth to stifle the sound threatening to rip from your throat.

You were not his mother. You were not his sister. You were not bound by blood or name or dynasty.

You were a girl with a bus pass and a scholarship and a future that did not include burning with them. And yet the tears spilled over, hot and relentless.

You clicked "send" on both of the emails.

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tags:

[padmespetal]

✸ WELCOME TO THE FAMILY III — modern!targaryen au

synopsis. your first weeks as aegon’s new babysitter unfold and you find yourself being drawn dangerously close to the fire of the dragons.

word count. 9.2k

warnings. daeron living up to his nickame but besides that just the usual emotional immaturity

note. first of all 1k followers is insane what tysm?! for everyone who has been asking will this be a daeron, maekar or aerion fic… all i can say is stay tuned to find out!! hope you enjoy reading🤍

previous part.

“Alright — and exhale now.”

The instructor’s voice floated through the dim studio like incense smoke, soft and curated, the kind of calm that probably cost two hundred dollars a month in rent alone.

The sunlight seeped in through the large floor to ceiling windows , the city beyond was reduced to a tiny smear of colors . Somewhere far below, a tram bell clanged faintly — the sound of a city that never really slept, only shifted moods.

You were currently folded into a position that felt structurally impossible, one leg trembling behind you, arms extended forward as though reaching for divine intervention.

Your hamstrings burned and yur shoulders shook.

You inhaled through your nose like the instructor had drilled into you, then exhaled through your mouth like you were releasing a decade of poor decisions.

To your right, Kiera was the picture perfect of elegance. As she always was. She held the pose as if she’d been born in it, spine straight, chin lifted slightly, pastel hair twisted into a sleek bun that somehow hadn’t moved an inch.

She looked like she belonged in one of those minimalist wellness campaigns — “Balance Your Inner Spirit” or some other nonsense written in beige font.

You, meanwhile, felt like overcooked pasta.

You had convinced her to come. Or more accurately, you had begged.

It had been nearly two weeks since you’d seen each other properly — not just quick campus pass-bys or voice notes sent at 2 a.m. between essay drafts and bedtime stories.

Babysitting Egg Targaryen while juggling a full academic scholarship and a reputation for being “that terrifyingly put-together girl in seminars” did not exactly leave room for social hours.

You liked yoga for one reason: it shut your brain up.

The burn in your muscles drowned out the pit in your stomach. The sweat on your temples distracted you from the constant what-if spiral. When you were here, contorted and aching, you couldn’t overthink Aerion’s snide remarks or whether you’d cited that theory correctly in your political philosophy paper.

You could only survive the next breath.

“Great job, everyone,” the instructor chirped. She was a middle aged woman who somehow looked better than half the girls your age. She was already melting into a graceful seated stretch like she hadn’t just tortured an entire room of trophy wives, young students and finance bros. “We’ll finish with some light stretching.”

Light, she said. You almost laughed.

Kiera grabbed her stainless steel water bottle — matte black, obviously — and took a slow sip, eyes sliding toward you with that familiar calculating look.

There was a question behind her eyes you could tell.

“You’re more stiff than the ice used to build the Wall,” she said flatly.

You shot her a look, cheeks flushed, baby hairs plastered to your forehead. “Kie. I love you. But try balancing a full course load, maintaining a perfect GPA, and babysitting for the Targaryens before you start critiquing my flexibility.”

Kiera’s lips twitched. “I’m starting to think talking you into this job was a catastrophic mistake.”

You shifted into a low lunge, palms pressing into your mat, gaze lifting toward the mirrored wall. The city skyline reflected faintly behind you — high rises, construction cranes, the distant colors of various billboards.

“Well,” you muttered, “I think it’s too late for that.”

She followed your movement with her eyes instead of the instructor’s cues. She always did that — watched you like she was trying to read between your ribs.

“I just didn’t think,” she continued more softly, “that signing you up would mean I’d never see you again. It feels like the Targaryens abducted my best friend.”

You huffed a laugh. “That’s what happens when you throw someone into the dragon pit without warning.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “You act like I handed you over to organized crime.”

“You basically did.”

The older woman on the mat in front of you turned slightly, disapproving glare sharp as a dagger. You offered her a tight smile and returned to your stretch.

“Anyway,” you continued, lowering your voice only marginally, “I am being paid an obscene amount of money.”

“Because you’re not a regular nanny,” Kiera cut in smoothly. “You’re supervising Egg Targaryen, for the love of the Seven. The child shaved his own head. In solidarity. With what, no one knows.”

You bit back a laugh. It was still a mystery how he had done it. You presumed with an electric shaver that belonged to Daeron or Aerion.

“Exactly,” you said. “And honestly? He’s sweet. A little dramatic. But sweet.”

"Then what’s the problem?” she asked, though you both knew.

You shifted positions again, sitting back on your heels. The room smelled faintly of eucalyptus and expensive perfume. Outside, sirens wailed briefly — city lullabies.

“Aerion,” you said flatly. Even saying his name soured your mouth and put a permanent scowl on your face. You must resemble Maekar with how much you grimaced when talking about his son.

That man really did have a built in glare.

Kiera’s expression tightened. “He’s…”

You arched a brow. She was clearly trying very hard to locate the correct diplomatic term.

You didn’t bother lowering your voice this time. “He’s a fucking spoiled egomaniac.”

—

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

The memory arrived in a flash — sharp and undeniable.

He had been standing at the foot of the entrance, like something carved out of cold marble. His eyes still half disbelieving and half insulted by your presence.

His scowl was not theatrical. It wasn’t the exaggerated irritation of a spoiled rich boy inconvenienced by a stranger. It was sharp, and filled with a genuine hatred.

His gaze dragged down your figure like he was assessing damage.

You swallowed, heart thumping in your ears but you held your chin high regardless.

“I— I work here.”

The words had come out thinner than you intended.

He blinked once, slowly, as though you had just informed him that the Lannisters had relocated to Winterfell and taken up ice fishing.

He did not move for several seconds. Just stood there, head slightly tilted, processing.

Then came the scoff. It was quiet — but surgical.

“Well,” he drawled, adjusting the chain at his neck like some self-appointed monarch about to deliver a verdict, “being a student at KLU has fallen on… sad days.”

It landed exactly as he intended.

You felt the sting pf his words behind your ribs.

He stepped forward, brushing past your shoulder — not accidentally. Not subtly. Deliberately. A physical reminder.

The front door slammed shut moments later, the sound ricocheting in your ears.

You had stood there alone in the pale light, blinking rapidly, willing your composure back into place.

You had dealt with entitled boys before. Campus was full of them. But this was different. You felt it in your bones, in the way his eyes had swept over you like you were a dust of dirt beneath his shoe.

This wasn’t arrogance born of fraternity houses and mediocre trust funds. This was something much worse. This was someone who had never been told no.

You glanced back at the house that evening, illuminated by the lights in the street. It looked far more sinister.

And you felt in your gut that things had just got much more difficult.

You had no idea how right you were.

—

The first incident after that happened two days later.

You were in the kitchen with Egg, helping him with his maths homework while squeezing fresh orange juice. You carefully peeled the oranges placing their skin on a sheet of paper towel. You breathed in the citrusy tang.

“Seven times eight?” you prompted gently. Aegon was slouched over his calculus homework.

Aegon scrunched his nose. “Fifty-six.”

“Good,” you smiled. “See? You’re not hopeless.”

He grinned, pleased with himself.

"The oranges smell nice." He said, grabbing one of the small slices you had peeled and he popped it into his mouth.

That was when you felt it — the subtle shift in atmosphere. Like the temperature had dropped by two degrees.

Aerion appeared in the doorway as though summoned by your moment of peace. And of course ha just had to come in and ruin it.

He was sporting grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He was effortlessly put together in a way that made you irrationally annoyed.

Egg stiffened immediately, gaze dropping to his workbook. You had noticed he always had this reaction around his brother, guarded and quiet.

Aerion rarely entered the kitchen. Staff handled most things here. He certainly never poured his own water.

Yet there he was, moving with deliberate casualness toward the cabinet. You kept squeezing the oranges, the juices suddenly slimy and cold against your fingers.

You would not entertain him. You would not rise. You told yourself, eyes fixed upon the task in front of you.

You were just about to finish peeling the orange when—

Egg jumped at the sudden noise that reverberated in the kitchen.

The shattering sound was unexpected — sharp and violent.

You spun around instinctively, heart leaping into your throat.

The glass Aerion had previously taken out of the cupboard lay destroyed at his feet, glittering shards scattered across dark wooden floorboards.

He looked at you. You. Not at the glass shattered by his feet.

His purple eyes gazed directly towards your rigid posture, as if awaiting some kind of outburst.

“Oops.” He had some nerve.

“My hand slipped.” The word was laced with something ugly.

His hand most certainly hadn't slipped.

You would bet your tuition on that.

He held your gaze a second longer — as if daring you to challenge him. The corners of his mouth quirked up in mild amusement and then he turned and left without another word.

No apology. No offer to clean it. Just gone.

“Is he bloody serious right now?” you muttered, staring at the mess. Clearly he got a twisted kick out of treating you like a maid.

Aegon didn’t look up. “He’s always like this.” There was no drama in his tone. Just tired acceptance.

You swallowed your anger.

“Stay there,” you instructed gently, wiping your hands on a cloth. “Don’t move. We’re not having your feet stitched because your brother has emotional regulation issues.” Egg let out a snort of laughter at that.

You went to fetch the broom from the staff room, returning to carefully sweep the shards into a tray.

Don’t let this get to you.

He wants a reaction.

He wants you unsettled.

You dumped the glass into the bin and forced your shoulders to relax.

But your pulse didn’t steady for another hour.

The second time was on a Saturday.

Maekar was away for the weekend, in the Vale on business. The house felt lighter without the constant pressure he might pop up at any minute and unleash his sour mood on all of you.

You had ordered pizza for dinner — four different kinds — and the kitchen island was cluttered with boxes and laughter. The smell of cheese and dough wafted in the room, it was definitely a stark contrast to the polished interior of the dining space. You guessed it hadn’t been built with the intention of hosting cheap pizza dinners.

“Pineapple belongs on pizza,” Aegon declared confidently, not a single doubt in his voice.

“It’s an abomination,” Rhae shot back, dramatically shielding her slice.

Daella giggled, nipping at her own slice.

You found yourself smiling more than you had all week.

You checked your phone absentmindedly. Still nothing from Daeron. You hadn’t seen him since that strange morning he had waited for you by the gates.

A part of you was hoping your screen would light up with a notification from him. At least a what’s up or how are things back home?

You knew it wasn't your place to worry for him, he was an adult man. But you had grown fond of him and well with his rumored drinking problems you could only hope he was doing fine.

A quiet unease lived in your chest about that. But you said nothing. It wasn’t your place.

Rhae squealed when Aegon squeezed ketchup onto his slice. The squirting noise was followed by a streak of blood like sauce. He licked it off his finger viciously.

"I cannot believe we are related!” She squealed, brows pinched in genuine irritation.

You laughed despite yourself.

And then — like a dark cloud passing over the sun — Aerion entered.

He was in a skin tight under armour shirt and workout shorts. A sheen of sweat glistened on his palw brow.

He held a glass of murky green liquid, eyes scanning the pizza boxes with visible disdain.

“So,” he said coolly, “ is this what my father is paying you for now? To feed them garbage and junk?”

Your jaw tightened.

“At least I feed them,” you replied through gritted teeth. You couldn't stop yourself.

A tense silence fell.

He stepped closer just as you stood to grab a napkin.

His shoulder collided with yours — forceful enough that the green juice sloshed over the rim and splattered down the front of your top.

The murky green liquid was all over your chest, a very obvious stain forming already.

He stepped back instantly.

“Clumsy, are you?”

For a split second, you saw red. You could say something now. You could scorch him. You could—

But Daella jumped in quickly, sensing things would escalate quickly if she didn't intervene.

“Oh it's no big deal! I have a shirt upstairs from Subdued I never wear. You can borrow it!”

Her tone was deliberately bright.

You latched onto it like a lifeline. For the sake of the kids you wouldn't lash out at him. And the sake of keeping your job.

“That would be lovely, thank you.” You glanced at her, your tone clipped, restrained anger pulsing inside of you.

Aerion’s mouth curled sharply inspecting his sister.

“These people work for us, Daella. We don’t share our things with them.”

The words were venomous. But Daella ignored him completely.

Rhae stared at her brother with open disdain.

He lingered another moment, clearly dissatisfied by the lack of chaos, then muttered something under his breath and left.

The front door slammed shut behind him and engine revving was audiable seconds later as his black car tore out of the driveway.

“Sorry about that,” Rhae said quietly.

“He’s a jerk,” Aegon added.

“Sometimes,” Rhae tried.

“All the time,” Aegon corrected.

You gave a tight smile.

“I’ve noticed.”

—

The third time was arguably the worst.

Because it wasn’t in his territory.

It was yours.

It had happened on campus.

KLU’s student networking gala buzzed with polite laughter and overpriced canapés. Fairy lights hung between trees in the courtyard. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for future CEOs of European companirs.

You were speaking with Duncan the Tall — whose nickname was not ironic — Valarr, and Raymun Fossoway about sustainable agriculture initiatives when a familiar presence cut through the group.

Raymun was just talking about how his cousin had made a sketchy deal when the interruption came.

“Ah, cousin.”

Aerion addressed Valarr as though the rest of you were invisible. He was dressed in a dark red polo shirt and black dress pants. The only colors he wore were black and dark red apparently

Duncan’s jaw tightened visibly. It was a well known fact him and Aerion had bad blood from the past.

“Aerion,” Valarr greeted, tone carefully neutral.

Aerion’s gaze drifted lazily across your group.

“I’d say you were networking,” he mused, “but looking at these people…”

His eyes landed on you.

“…there isn’t much to network about, is there?”

He laughed, his joke clearly amusing only to himself.

Duncan did a micro movement and Raymun subtly gripped Duncan’s sleeve to prevent escalation.

Then came the final blow.

“Did you know,” Aerion continued smoothly, eyes fixated on you know, “that Y/N works for us?”

He said it like an accusation. Like it was something to be ashamed about.

Your spine went rigid.

“Yes,” Valarr replied calmly. “I’m aware.”

“And yet you choose to associate?” Aerion pressed, incredulous.

Valarr’s expression didn’t change. “A person’s character is not defined by blood. You'd do well to realize that, cousin.”

Aerion’s eyes flickered. Something dangerous sparked there.

He stepped closer to you now.

“So tell me,” he murmured low enough that only you heard, “does blood really not matter when you're playing house for that impudent little rat of my brother?”

Heat crawled up your neck.

“I’m employed,” you replied evenly. “Not indentured.”

His smile was slow. Predatory. Like a dragon smirking at his prey.

“I suppose we’ll see how long that lasts.”

And then he left, as always — trailing disruption behind him like smoke.

You had stood there afterward, pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

"I'm going to beat him so bloody hard one day." Duncan grumbled from beside you as Raymun sighed.

You told yourself he was irrelevant. You told yourself he was just bored. This was his cruel way of entertaining himself.

You told yourself you would not let him define you.

But whiel you were lying in bed that night, staring at your apartment ceiling, replaying the humiliation — you understood something clearly.

This wasn’t random cruelty.

This wasn’t thoughtless arrogance.

Aerion Targaryen had decided you were something to torment.

To prod and to unsettle. See how far he could push your buttons.

And the worst part? He was enjoying it.

— 

You continued, staring at your mat like it had personally offended you. “He treats everything like it’s a game. Like the world exists for his entertainment. He walks into a room and expects it to rearrange itself.”

“Some would say that’s confidence,” Kiera offered cautiously.

“More like narcissism.”

Your heart rate had picked up, but not from the yoga this time. The memory of how Aerion had been persecuting you riled you up to no end.

“He watches me,” you added after a moment, quieter now. “Like I’m… I don’t know. A poor animal he has decided to torture until he drives me away.”

Kiera went still.

“That’s… awful,” she said carefully.

“It is.” You swallowed, not denying the reality of it.

The instructor dimmed the lights, beginning a soft closing meditation. A gentle instrumental track filled the room, something airy and slightly cinematic.

“Lie back, everyone,” she murmured.

You did, staring at the ceiling where faint reflections of city lights shimmered.

“Why don’t you quit?” Kiera whispered.

The answer came too quickly. “Because I can’t.”

She turned her head toward you.

“They pay enough to cover my tuition next year,” you admitted. “And my rent. And my dad’s car repairs.”

Silence stretched between you.

“Also,” you added, staring at the ceiling, “I don’t like the idea of him thinking he’s chased me away."

There it was.

Kiera sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“Big city girl now,” you murmured. “I can handle a dragon.”

She huffed quietly. “That’s not a dragon. That’s a trust fund with a God complex.”

You smiled despite yourself.

The instructor’s voice floated over you again. “Let your thoughts drift away…”

If only it were that simple.

You closed your eyes. For a moment, there was only the hum of her voice, the warmth in your limbs, the faint scent of lavender oil.

No Aerion’s smirk. No academic pressure. No expectations hanging over your head like chandeliers.

Just breath.

After class, you and Kiera stepped out into the evening air. The sky was that deep indigo shade right before full night, skyscraper windows glittering like constellations. The pavement was still warm from the day. Students laughed somewhere down the block, someone blasting music from an open car window.

You felt lighter. Not free — but steadier. You loved yoga because it cleared your mind.

Kiera bumped her shoulder into yours. “Dinner?”

“I have to be at the Targaryens’ by eight,” you groaned.

She made a face. “Of course you do.”

You checked your phone. Three unread messages.

Egg

please come right now my father is going to have an aneurysm if you don’t appear in like fifteen minutes .

How did he even know what that word meant? Being taught by private tutors clearly had it’s perks. Like knowing what the word aneurysm means at ten.

You quickly typed away.

You

Is everything okay???

Egg

Yeah

Typing…

Kind of

Typing…

Not really

Your stomach dipped.

Kiera noticed instantly. “What did the little menace say?”

You locked your screen without answering. “Nothing important.”

She studied you for a long moment, clearly not believing you.

“Don’t let Aerion get into your head,” she said finally.

You lifted your chin, summoning that polished campus persona — the composed, high-achieving girl who never cracked.

“He won’t.”

You bid Kiera goodbye at the corner, her hug lingering for half a second longer than usual, as if she could sense the shift in your mood.

“Text me if the dragons start breathing fire,” she murmured.

“You’ll hear about it on the news,” you replied, forcing a smile.

But the moment you turned toward the bus stop, your stomach dipped.

Egg never texted you first. Not this urgently and not without context.

By the time you reached the glass shelter, your phone was already in your hand. The sky over King’s Landing had begun its slow descent into gold — the kind of sunset that made the Blackwater shimmer like molten coin. The city was loud as ever: traffic crawling, street vendors shouting, distant music bleeding from open windows.

Still no notification.

You opened your messages.

You

Is everything okay?

Delivered.

And nothing else.

Your fingers found the edge of your thumbnail and began picking at it, a nervous habit you hated but couldn’t seem to shake. What if he was hurt? What if something happened? What if—

The bus roared up in a sigh of brakes and you climbed on, taking a seat by the window. The ride felt longer than usual. You watched as the streets shifted from crowded storefronts to manicured avenues, the architecture growing increasingly polished, increasingly expensive.

Sunset spilled over Blackwater Bay in sheets of pink and orange. Normally you would have admired it but tonight it only made your anxiety sharper.

Still nothing from Egg.

By the time the bus stopped at Red Keep Station, you were on your feet before the doors fully opened. You stepped onto the pavement and practically power-walked — then jogged — then nearly sprinted the last stretch toward the gated neighborhood.

The Targaryen house glowed warmly in the twilight. Street lamps flickered on one by one, casting golden halos along the pristine sidewalk. The guard at the front gate recognized you now; he opened it before you even reached it.

“Evening,” he nodded.

You gave a tight smile, too preoccupied to reply properly.

You slowed just enough to compose yourself before approaching the door. You didn’t want to look frantic. You didn’t want to look like you’d run.

You hesitated for half a second — knock or not? You figured you had come here enought times already. Then you pushed the door open.

You were past formalities.

Immediately, something felt off.

The house was messy.

Not chaotic — but careless. Shoes tossed near the entryway. A coat abandoned halfway up the stairs. A long black cashmere overcoat, the Armani logo visible on the tag, MT stitched discreetly inside the lining.

Maekar’s. Of course he would own a personalized Armani jacket.

You recognized the size instantly — none of his sons would fill that frame.

You quieted your breathing and stepped further inside.

Voice carried from the living room.

“Seven bloody hells, Baelor, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Maekar’s voice was sharp, frayed at the edges. He stood with his back half-turned to you, phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight.

"You know very well this isn't the first or last time." He all but growled.

You froze.

His eyes snapped to you mid-sentence.

You caught a faint voice through the phone speaker before he exhaled heavily.

“Hold on. I’ll call you back.”

He didn’t wait for a response before ending the call.

Then he turned fully toward you.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You became painfully aware of your outfit — tight black leggings, a soft wrap ballerina top thrown over your sports bra after yoga. Your hair was still pulled back loosely, skin faintly flushed from earlier exertion. You didn't have time to change between your workout and job.

“You told me eight,” you replied carefully, glancing at your phone. “It’s eight.”

For half a second, you thought you saw his gaze drop — assessing, lingering at the curve of your thighs.

You told yourself you imagined it. Pull yourself together.

He pinched the bridge of his nose instead of responding.

“I’ll need you to stay. Indefinitely.” He hesitated, jaw flexing. “There’s something I need to take care of.”

You didn’t bother asking what.You already knew he wouldn’t tell you.

“You may have to stay the night. Rhae and Daella are at a sleepover. Aerion is—” He paused, scowling. “Where the fuck is he?”

He muttered something under his breath.

“Oh, bloody hell. I cannot worry about him as well. If you need anything, check the girls’ room. They have enough clothes and products to supply half of King’s Landing.”

You almost felt relief. At least Aerion wasn’t here. But something was clearly off.

“Alright,” you nodded. “You just… do what you need to, sir.”

You nearly asked about Daeron but you stopped yourself glancing at his stern demanour.

“Very well. Aegon’s in his room.” He turned toward the door, then paused. “And perhaps… you should shower.”

Heat rushed to your face.

Of course.

You probably smelled like sweat and coconut-vanilla body mist.

“Oh— yes. Of course.” You said sheepishly.

He gave a curt nod and left. Moments later, tires crunched against gravel and the sound of his car faded into the night.

You exhaled slowly.

Fantastic. Somehow, you kept managing to embarrass yourself in front of him.

It was like a special talent at this point.

You made your way to Aegon’s room and knocked lightly.

“Come in!” The boy had come to recognize the pattern of your rapping on the door.

He lay sprawled on his bed, book open in his hands. His hair had begun to grow back — pale strands forming a soft buzz. He looked like a tiny white-haired kiwi, and despite everything, it made your heart soften.

“What happened?” you demanded immediately. “Why didn’t you text me back? I thought you were dying.”

He grimaced. “Father took my phone. Said he needed to install a child-tracking app.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I know.”

You rubbed your temples. “What’s got him like this?”

Aegon shifted to face you more fully.

“They found Daeron drunk in a ditch. And then he got arrested.”

You laughed instinctively, thinking he was jesting.

Then you saw his expression. Your laughter died instantly.

“Wait you’re serious?”

“As serious as Aegon the Conqueror.”

Your mind scrambled.

Daeron — kind, gentle-eyed, awkward-smiling Daeron — arrested?

You had worried about him earlier on the bus without even knowing why.

“Don’t worry,” Aegon said lightly. “It happens.”

It happens? What kind of kid says that their brother being found drunk in a ditch and then arrested 'happens'. Aegon Targaryen apparently.

Your shoulders sagged.

You decided not to press him about it. Instead, your gaze fell to the book in his hands.

The script looked unfamiliar — elegant, looping.

Se zaldrīzes iksin rōva se zōbrie.

You could read the letters but the words were completely unfamiliar.

“What’s that?”

He stiffened slightly.

“My… High Valyrian dictionary.”

Your eyes narrowed, suspicion rising.

“And why, pray tell, is it open?”

He hesitated.

“Don’t get mad but… I have an entire text to translate for tomorrow’s lesson with Maellon.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“What?” You blinked hoping he was joking this time.

“It’s only—”

“Aegon.”

He winced.

If the translation wasn’t immaculate, Maellon would shred both of you alive with disappointed lectures about legacy and intellectual discipline. He'd drone on about how neither of you respected the intellectual importance of nurturing ancient languages and family history and blah blah blah.

But worst of all he would definitely tell Maekar.

You inhaled slowly.

Okay. Calm down.

“We’ll figure it out,” you said finally.

He looked relieved you didn't yell at him. “Thanks.”

He paused.

“But maybe you should shower first. No offense but you smell like gym and coconut oil.”

You groaned. “So I’ve been told.”

You left him giggling and made your way upstairs.

The girls’ bathroom was pristine — marble counters, gold fixtures with tiny dragons, shelves lined with expensive skincare and perfumes. You locked the door behind you and leaned against it for a moment.

Daeron was arrested. Aerion was missing.

Maekar was unraveling in realtime.

You quickly rid of your sweaty clothes and turned the shower on. You stepped under the spray, letting the warm water cascade over your shoulders.

Your mind wandered — unwillingly — to Daeron.

The way he had waited for you that second morning. The softness and sincerity in his voice.

The almost-apology in his eyes for things he hadn’t done.

There was something fragile about him. Something tired.

You tilted your head back, water running through your hair.

And then, uninvited, another thought surfaced. The more urgent one.

High Valyrian. The script in Aegon’s book had looked hauntingly beautiful. Ancient and intimate.

You imagined the same words spoken aloud — low, melodic, curling like smoke in the air.

You wondered how Aerion’s voice would sound speaking it. You squeezed your eyes shut immediately.

Absolutely not.

You did not think about him in any context that involved softness or beauty. He was pure evil.

Yet fragments of earlier encounters replayed anyway — the way he’d leaned close at the campus gala. His shoulder brushing past yours on purpose.

Heat crept up your spine.

You pressed your palm flat against the cool tile wall.

He was cruel. Calculated. Deliberate.

He absolutely despised you.

And yet—

High Valyrian. Ancient dragon-tongue.

You wondered what kind of boy grew up fluent in a language no one else in the city spoke.

You wondered what it must feel like to carry that weight.

You wondered why, despite everything, you kept thinking about the other brother — the one found in a ditch — and the one who made your life miserable in equal measure.

Water streamed down your face. You told yourself it was just stress, exhaustion.

Too much proximity to the dragon house.

You shut the water off and stood there for a moment in the quiet bathroom, steam rising around you.

You wrapped yourself in a towel and stared at your reflection — cheeks flushed, eyes distant.

The steam from the shower still clung to your skin when you stepped into Daella’s closet.

Calling it a closet felt criminally reductive — it was closer to a boutique. Soft recessed lighting glowed along the shelves, illuminating rows of neatly arranged tops in identical shades, trousers organized by fabric, shoes lined like curated art pieces. Everything smelled faintly of rose and expensive pefume.

You ran your fingers over silk and cashmere before settling on something simple: wide-leg grey sweatpants and one of the ten identical white t-shirts folded in perfect stacks.

You changed quickly, grateful for the softness of the cotton against your freshly showered skin. The sweatpants were slightly short; Daella was a touch smaller than you. You adjusted the pants and caught your reflection in the mirror.

You looked younger like this. Softer. Almost like you belonged in the house rather than orbiting it.

Your mind, unfortunately, refused to stay soft.

High Valyrian.

The words felt heavy even in thought. How did one translate an ancient dragon language?

It wasn’t taught in school. No elective brochure had ever offered Introduction to High Valyrian Grammar. If someone truly wanted their child fluent, they hired private tutors — and even then, most parents didn’t bother. Ancient languages were ornamental. Impractical.

Clearly Targaryens weren't most parents.

You’d heard Old Valyrian was offered in specialized university programs for history majors studying Old Valyria before the Doom. Maesters learned it, of course — but you were neither a history student nor studying in Oldtown.

You were a KLU student with a caffeine dependency and a part-time job in a house that functioned like a modern monarchy.

Fantastic. Hopefully google scholar could save you from doom.

You made your way back to Aegon’s room.

He was already seated at his desk, papers spread in chaotic formation. Dictionaries open. Notes scribbled. The air carried the faint scent of pencil shavings and stress.

He looked up when you entered.

“Alright,” you said, cracking your knuckles dramatically. “Let us begin.”

He nodded solemnly, as if you were about to charge into battle.

In a way, you were. Except it wasn't a battle with swords and shields. It was a grammatical war.

You sat beside him and began reviewing everything he knew about High Valyrian.

Which, unfortunately, was not much.

There were lists of vocabulary with translations scrawled beside them. Verb conjugation tables that looked like they’d been designed to personally torment students. Marginal notes from Maellon in precise red ink.

Nothing connected. Nothing flowed.

The sentences in the text refused to resemble anything coherent in the Common Tongue.

You had already tried Google Translate but the text made absolutely no sense.

It had spit out something resembling poetry written by a confused robot.

You were certain if you stared at another declension chart your brain would simply collapse in on itself.

“Tell me again,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose, “why your father thinks this is necessary.” You swallowed the harsher version of that sentence.

Aegon rested his face in his palms, voice muffled. “Because he says it’s vital for all Targaryens to honor their roots and history.”

He droned on as if he had repeated the words a thousand times already.

Of course Maekar believes that.

You nearly scoffed.

It sounded exactly like something Aerion would say — self-important and reverent, as if speaking High Valyrian made you somehow morally superior to everyone else.

You leaned back, stretching out on the carpet among scattered papers.

It was nearly ten pm.

Your brain felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. And you had only been doing this for an hour.

You stared at the ceiling, thinking. The gears desperately shifted in your head.

“What if,” you said slowly, sitting upright again, “we just had someone translate it for us?”

Aegon blinked.

“Well, as you just witnessed, there is no translator capable of accurately converting High Valyrian to the Common Tongue.”

“No, not an app,” you clarified. “A person. Someone who actually knows it.”

His posture sharpened. “Oh.”

“Your family is basically a walking Valyrian dictionary,” you pressed. “Someone must speak it fluently.”

He considered.

“Father and Baelor do,” he admitted. “But that’s not an option.”

You both silently agreed that Maekar discovering this situation would be catastrophic.

“Daella and Rhae speak it about as well as I speak Dothraki,” he added.

So. Not at all.

“Aerion is out of the question,” Aegon said quickly.

You nodded instantly.

You would rather face Maellon’s wrath than ask Aerion for help.

You didn’t even suggest Daeron.

Considering he had just been found in a ditch and arrested, he was hardly a viable academic resource.

“What about Valarr?” you offered.

“He's at a charity gala. With Aerion.” He added with a roll of his eyes.

Of course he was. You were running out of Targaryens.

Your mind raced.

Could you hire someone online? At ten at night? For an obscure ancient language?Highly unlikely.

“What about your grandfather?” you ventured.

Aegon’s eyes widened. “Daeron?” Daeron the Good as he was called. He had restored peace to the political scene of Westeros and raised more fundraisers than any man in the history of the realm.

You nodded.

“I doubt he would approve of me cheating.”

Fair enough.

Calling the head of the Targaryen family at ten p.m. to outsource homework seemed like a death wish.

“What about your grandmother?” Myriah Martell was an older woman, yet her beauty and elegance was timeless.

“She’s Dornish.”

You blinked. Right.

You groaned, flopping back onto the carpet. “Aegon, we’re doomed. We cannot translate this stupid text. And we've run out of your family members."

You watched the last flicker of hope dim in his expression.

Then— His eyes lit up.

“Wait.”

You sat up immediately, ears perked up.

“I know someone.”

You raised an eyebrow, awaiting his solution.

“Aemon.”

The name clicked instantly. The answer had been so obvious all along.

Aemon Targaryen. Currently studying in Oldtown. Training to be a maester. He was allegedly brilliant. And allegedly more fond of books than human interaction. Which was more of a pro than a con at the moment.

He definitely knew High Valyrian.

The only issue—

“Aegon. Oldtown is on the other half of the country, it's three in the morning in there. There is no way he is going to pick up."

He ignored your protests and reached for his phone anyway.

“Father left it on the counter,” he said. “I checked while you were showering.”

You stared at him. He had initiative. You’d give him that.

“But he won’t answer,” you insisted. “No one answers at three a.m. unless someone’s dying.”

“You doubt my brother?” he challenged.

“I doubt his willingness to destroy his sleep schedule for your grammar crisis. I know I wouldn't." You added under your breath.

He was already pressing the green call icon.

You both leaned closer to the phone as it rang.

Once. Twice. Three times.

You opened your mouth to say I told you so—

The ringing stopped and a face appeared through the screen.

“Egg!” a bright voice greeted. “Gods, you really are bald.”

You blinked.

Aemon Targaryen had the traditional Targaryen look to him. Snow white hair and piercing purple gaze. Yet he had an easygoing studios demeanor.

And Aemon was most certainly not in bed.

He was sitting upright at a wooden table, an enormous book open before him. He looked wide awake. Alert and slightly amused.

Who functioned like this at three in the morning?

“Oh no,” you murmured quietly. “He’s one of those.”

“Those?” Aegon whispered.

“People who thrive at ungodly hours.”

Aemon peered closer to the screen. “How are you?”

"I'm good Oldtown has been treating me exceptionally well."

They exchanged quick pleasantries, but Aegon’s anxiety was visible.

“We need your help,” he blurted.

“We?” Aemon repeated, curious.

“Oh— this is my… my new nanny.”

Aegon flushed faintly.

You waved awkwardly. “Hi.” You had never talked to him before.

Aemon smiled warmly. “Pleasure to meet you.”

He seemed… normal. Relatively.

Though anyone studying at three in the morning might qualify as slightly unhinged.

“What are we working with?” he asked, slipping effortlessly into scholar mode.

You explained the translation assignment while Aegon snapped photos of the text and sent them over to Aemon.

He listened attentively, nodding occasionally.

When you finished, he hummed thoughtfully.

“Alright. That’s manageable. Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes.”

You nearly sagged with relief.

“Unless,” he added, “you’d prefer to go over it together—”

“No!” you and Aegon shouted in perfect unison.

You cleared your throat. “I mean. We would love to. But Aegon also has calculus.”

A blatant lie.

Aemon blinked. “Oh. Do you need help with that too?”

You stared at him.Was he real?

“No, that’s fine,” Aegon assured quickly. “We can handle calculus.”

“Alright then. I’ll send it shortly. Tell Father and the others I’m thinking of them.”

“Will do,” Aegon replied.

You both waved as the call ended. The room fell silent for half a second.

Then Aegon fist-pumped the air and jumped up in victory.

You exhaled deeply, tension melting from your shoulders.

“We are tactical masterminds,” you declared.

Thirty-five minutes later, Aegon’s phone buzzed.

Three attachments. Neatly organized translations. Clean formatting. Notes on grammar structure.

Aemon had even highlighted key verbs. You had never been more grateful that Maekar Targaryen had six children. Which would sound really weird in normal circumstances.

You watched as Aegon rapidly copied everything into his notebook, handwriting slightly frantic but determined.

“We’re geniuses,” you said, leaning over his shoulder.

He giggled. “We are.”

For the first time that night, you felt something close to triumph.

Not elegant. Certainly not noble. But victorious all the same.

After Aegon finished copying the translation in his neat, slightly slanted handwriting, you both leaned back and stared at the notebook like you had just conquered a small nation.

Relief washed over you in waves.

“Add two mistakes,” you instructed suddenly.

He blinked. “What?”

“Two small ones. Nothing catastrophic. Just enough to make it believable.”

His eyes widened with admiration. “You’re evil.”

“I’m trying to not get us discovered.”

He grinned and scratched out a minor ending on one verb and adjusted a tense in another sentence.

“There,” he declared.

You examined it like a general reviewing battle plans.

“The old man will never figure it out.”

“No way,” Egg said cheerfully.

The tension that had sat between your shoulder blades all evening finally loosened.

You clapped your hands once. “Alright. What do you say we celebrate with some ice cream? I think we deserve it after this war.”

His face lit up at the idea. “Sounds like a plan.”

You both padded to the kitchen, the house quiet and dim around you.

The overhead lights cast a warm pool of gold over the marble island. Outside, the world was pitch black — the kind of deep city-night darkness where only the wealthy neighborhoods remained hushed and glowing.

Aegon hopped onto one of the stools as you opened the freezer.

There was, of course, a section of aggressively healthy protein ice creams — flavors like salted almond and zero vanilla whey.

You ignored those immediately.

Behind them, like contraband, were the real ones.

Imported pints with labels in French and Italian. You reached for a familiar one — Häagen-Dazs.

“What flavor?” you asked, scanning the options.

“Chocolate chip!” he chirped.

You grabbed it and selected your own — cookies and cream — then shut the freezer with your hip and grabbed two spoons.

You slid one toward him across the island like you were conducting a secret exchange.

He peeled the lid off dramatically.

You both dug in at the same time.

Cold sweetness flooded your mouth. It was sugary and creamy. Absolute perfection.

You hadn’t realized how tense you’d been until this moment — freshly showered, wrapped in soft borrowed clothes, high off academic deception and childhood-level indulgence.

It felt strangely perfect.

Just you and Egg, 11 p.m., tubs of ice cream under soft overhead lighting.

“So,” he said between bites, “you were at yoga before you came here?”

“Yes,” you replied cautiously. “Why is that funny?”

He snorted. “I don’t understand how stretching your muscles like medieval torture is enjoyable.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s the mental part. It clears your head.”

“Mhm,” he said, unconvinced.

"What's the worst ice cream flavor?" He suddenly wondered aloud.

You pondered for a moment. "Mint, definitely."

"Tastes like toothpaste, yuck." He made a face and you both giggled.

You continued eating the ice cream until suddenly his voice rose.

“My mom would kill me if she knew I was eating ice cream right now,” he added casually.

The spoon paused halfway to your mouth. He had never mentioned his mother before. Not once. Dyanna was practically a taboo topic in this house.

The sweetness turned heavy on your tongue.

He must’ve been four. Maybe five. When she died. He couldn't have many memories of her.

His small face softened, smile fading.

“I don’t know why I said that,” he muttered quickly, as if apologizing. You could detect the shame in his eyes and the quiver in his voice.

“No, Egg, don’t apologize,” you said gently. “You don’t have to.”

Silence lingered.

You chose your next words carefully. “What was she like?”

His eyes flicked up to yours — surprised.

“I don’t remember much,” he admitted. “But she was kind. She had black hair. It always smelled… fresh. Like oranges or something.” He swallowed.

“She’d sing me lullabies in Dornish. Tell me stories.”

He stared down at the melting ice cream.

“I think she loved me.”

Your chest tightened at his words.

“I know she did,” you said softly. “She does.”

His eyes glossed over.

Suddenly the overhead lights felt too bright and the silence cavernous.

“Father was happier when she was here,” he whispered. “We all were.”

You opened your mouth to say something but the sound of a car pulling into the driveway cut through the quiet.

Headlights flashed briefly against the kitchen wall.

Egg slid off the stool almost immediately.

“I should shower,” he said quickly, wiping the tears that had threatened to fall. “Goodnight.”

He turned in a flash and he didn’t meet your eyes as he walked away.

You weren’t sure if he felt exposed. Or embarrassed. Or simply overwhelmed.

You moved quietly, sealing the ice cream lids and returning them to the freezer just as the front door opened.

You debated going after Aegon but the sight in front of you stopped you.

“Get inside.”

Maekar’s voice was rough, edged with restrained fury.

You froze.

He practically shoved Daeron through the doorway.

Your breath caught at the sight.

He looked utterly wrecked.

Pale as paper. Shirt stained — dark patches you couldn’t quite identify from this distance. His dirty blonde hair was disheveled, eyes hollow.

He looked smaller somehow.

Maekar muttered something low and harsh, gripping his arm as he dragged him toward the stairs.

For one fleeting second, Daeron’s gaze met yours.

There was no shy smile this time. Just exhaustion. And something else.

Shame, maybe.

Then they disappeared upstairs. Their footsteps growing quieter as they retreated upstairs.

You exhaled slowly.

You took that as your cue to leave before things got out of hand.

You grabbed your backpack from where you’d dropped it earlier and slung it over your shoulder.

Just as you were reaching for the door handle it opened again before you could stop it.

Your eyes glanced up. The man standing there was unfamiliar.

Tall — taller even than Maekar. Broad shoulders. Dark hair trimmed short. A neatly kept beard threaded with faint silver. His nose looked like it had been broken at least once. Despite it all he was handsome.

But his eyes were what caught you.

Mismatched.

One darker the other lighter.

“Oh," his voice was tinted with surprised as if he wasn't expecting to see you. "hello,” he greeted warmly.

His voice was calm and steady. Nothing like Maekar’s clipped authority.

Baelor. Valarr’s father.

You recognized him instantly. From his eyes

“Good evening,” you replied, suddenly aware again that you were in grey sweatpants and a borrowed t-shirt.

You needed to start dressing more carefully around these people.

He observed you carefully, a curious glint in his eyes.

“I take it you’re the young lady looking after Aegon,” he said straightening to full height.

“Yes. That would be me.”

For the first time in weeks, standing in front of a Targaryen, you did not feel evaluated.

You just felt… strangely seen.

“I’m Baelor,” he said, extending his hand. “Maekar’s brother.”

You shook it.

His grip was firm, calloused, warm.

The contrast between the size of your hands was almost comical.

His gaze flicked briefly toward the staircase where his brother had previously been.

“Well,” you said, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, “I should probably be going. It’s quite late.”

“It was nice meeting you,” he replied. “And please, just call me Baelor.”

You nodded. “Baelor.”

In all the weeks you had been working for Maekar he had never once offered you to call him by his first name. Which you didn't find strange. But obviously his brother was the polar opposite of him.

You stepped toward the door.

“Is someone coming to collect you?” he asked gently.

“Oh — no. I take the bus.”

You waited for the flicker of judgment from his gaze. It didn’t come.

“It’s late,” he said instead. “Allow me to drive you. It wouldn’t be wise for a young lady to wander alone at such hours.”

You immediately shook your head. “I appreciate it but that's really not necessary—”

He raised a hand lightly. Not dismissive. Reassuring, as if urging you not to argue with him about this.

“I’m heading that way regardless. I only stopped to ensure my brother handled Daeron properly.”

You hesitated. Another hour on public transport suddenly sounded exhausting.

“Alright,” you relented.

He did not bid Maekar goodbye instead he held the door open for you. You stepped into the cool air and your eyes fell upon the vehicle in front of the house.

The car parked outside nearly made you stop breathing.

Vintage Aston Martin.

Polished to a mirror finish. It was impossibly sleek. It looked like something out of a james bond film.

You tried to be as graceful as possible while walking towards the car and carefully opening the passenger door.

You slid into the passenger seat carefully, trying not to gape. The interior smelled faintly of leather and something woody.

Baelor fell into the drivers seat and put the keys into ignition.

As the engine purred to life, you folded your hands in your lap. What were you supposed to say?

Silence stretched briefly. You cleared your throat but before you could speak Baelor started.

“I hope my brother doesn’t give you too much trouble,” Baelor said gently. “I know he can be… intense.”

You were leaving the Targaryen house behind as you drove through some of the nicest streets in King's Landing.

You chose your words carefully.

“They’re… all very passionate.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“That’s one way to describe us.”

The city lights blurred past as he drove smoothly through the sleeping streets.

“You handled Aegon’s lesson tonight?” he asked.

“Yes.” You replied tentatively.

You had a feeling he sensed something. How, you had no clue.

“And?”

You hesitated.

“We managed.”

He smiled faintly. “I imagine you did.”

There was something observant in the way he looked at you — not invasive. Just thoughtful.

“You’re studying at KLU, aren’t you?” he continued.

“Yes.” You told him your major and the fact you were studying abroad.

“A difficult path.”

“So I’ve been told.” You huffed.

He nodded once. “You carry yourself like someone who knows exactly where she’s headed.”

The comment caught you off guard.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

He glanced at you briefly.

“Not many people do at your age.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

The car slowed as you approached your neighborhood — noticeably less polished than the one you’d left behind.

He parked carefully near your building.

“Thank you,” you said sincerely, unbuckling.

“It was no trouble.” He smiled gently.

You opened the door but paused.

"Baelor?”

“Yes?”

“You’re… different from your brother.”

A small, knowing smile touched his lips.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I am.”

You stepped out into the cool night air, watching as the Aston Martin disappeared down the street.

For the first time that evening, you felt something other than anxiety.

Something steadier.

And as you climbed the stairs to your apartment, one thought lingered:

Not all dragons burned the same.

—

You went into your apartment building sighing as you walked up the narrow stairwell to your floor. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming faintly.

There was always something happening at the Targaryen household.

Always some undercurrent. Some crisis. Some unspoken grief lurking behind polished marble countertops and expensive chandeliers.

You thought about Aegon.

About the way his voice had softened when he spoke about Dyanna.

About the way his spoon had stilled in the ice cream. The way his eyes had turned glassy but determined not to spill.

That hadn’t been a small gesture.

That had been raw, unfiltered trust.

A serious and fragile step in whatever strange thing the two of you were building.

Even if you were technically just his nanny.

You unlocked your apartment and stepped inside, the familiar scent of laundry detergent and old radiator heat greeting you like an anchor. Small and modest. But yours.

No ridiculously expensive furniture and ceiling high windows.

You dropped your bag onto the chair and leaned against the closed door for a moment.

He might start to look at you as a mother figure.

The thought made your stomach twist.

That was… a strange thought.

You could never replace his mother. You didn’t want to. You would never try to replicate something sacred like that.

A boy only has one mother. One lullaby voice in Dornish. One memory of black hair that smelled like oranges.

You weren’t her. You would never be here.

And you didn’t want to become some diluted substitute.

Still… he had looked at you like he needed someone.

And you had been there when no one else was.

You pushed the thought away.

Enough.

You changed into pajamas, washed your face, and crawled into bed telling yourself that for the next eight hours you would forget about dragons and their disasters.

No Maekar. No Daeron. And this time no Aegon.

No family tensions.

Somehow drifting off to sleep that evening felt uneasy and incredibly unsteady.

—

Your alarm didn’t wake you as it usually would have.

It was the vibration of your phone.

You groaned and blindly reached for the device on the nightstand, eyes still half glued shut with sleep.

You squinted at the brightness of the screen.

And your stomach dropped.

10 missed calls.

You blinked.

No. That couldn’t be right. You were either still sleeping or hallucinating.

You rubbed your eyes and looked again.

Two from Maekar. Three from Daeron. One from Aerion. Strangest of all. How did he even have your phone number?

Two from Rhae. Two from Daella. And two from Kiera.

Your heartbeat spiked instantly, slamming into your ribs like it was trying to escape.

What the hell. You shot upright in bed.

Your hands suddenly felt cold and sweaty. You opened your messages.

The first name at the top:

Daeron Targaryen

5+ unread messages.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you tapped the thread open.

The messages came in frantic clusters.

Daeron

Hey.

Sorry about yesterday evening.

Are you awake?

Please answer.

Do you by any chance know where Aegon is?

Your vision tunneled.

Daeron

We can’t find him.

The words blurred for a second as dread settled into your chest like a stone.

You remembered clearly, he had gone upstairs to shower. He had said goodnight but he hadn't looked at you.

And you hadn’t followed him.

You hadn’t checked.

The guilt settled in your gut like a stone. God you were responsible for all of this.

He was clearly unregulated after yesterdays conversation.

Your breathing grew shallow

We can’t find him. The words floated around in your head.

Your thumb hovered uselessly over the screen as another notification buzzed in.

Daeron calling.

You stared at it ringing.

Your heart hammered harder.

Well shit.

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©padmespetal 2025 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

[padmespetal]

✸ WELCOME TO THE FAMILY — modern!targaryen au

summary. as a struggling college student at king’s landing university your best friend kiera suggests getting a part time job, and what better opportunity than to babysit her boyfriend’s youngest cousin — aegon known as egg targaryen?

word count. 8.2k

warnings. aegon being an absolute menace and maekar crashing out as usual, english is NOT my first language so sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes!!

note. i genuinely had the most fun writing this fic (went a little overboard with the text oops), not really much to say besides that, just hope you enjoy reading!!

next part.

When Kiera first brought up the idea of getting a part-time job, you thought she was joking.

You were seated across from her in The Dragon’s Brew, the campus café tucked between the humanities building and the old red-brick law faculty.

Sunlight seeped in through the windows, outside King’s Landing was bustling as it always did—restless, metallic, a little grimy around the edges.

Through one of the windows you could see students scurrying off to class, while others were enjoying the sunlight that had come with spring.

Inside though it was quietly pleasant. Ferns hung from exposed pipes. Fairy lights coiled around black metal beams. Sade was crooning softly through the speakers.

At the table beside you someone was typing aggressively like the fate of the Seven Kingdoms depended on their thesis.

“I mean, when you think about it,” Kiera said, stirring her iced coffee with unnecessary elegance, “you could really use the extra cash.”

It was easy for her to say. When your father managed international investments for one of the largest dye conglomerates in Tyrosh, you didn’t wake up at 3 a.m. calculating whether you could afford groceries and next semester’s textbooks.

You were an international student on a visa that came with built in safety nets and a wardrobe of imported linen.

You loved Kiera — truly. But sometimes she floated a few inches above the ground. Or above your ground at least.

Being a scholarship student at King’s Landing University meant you did not have the luxury of floating.

“Kie,” you said carefully not wanting to offend her. You wrapped your hands around your coffee cup like it might anchor you in some way, “there is absolutely no way I can fit a part-time job into my schedule.” You deadpanned waiting for her reply.

Your planner was color-coded within an inch of its life. Filled with lectures and study blocks. Therapy appointments. Gym sessions you clung to like lifeboats. Pottery on Thursdays because molding clay was the only thing keeping you from pulling out all your hair.

You were surviving, not thriving. And surviving took precision and careful planning.

She rolled her eyes in a way that was affectionate but infuriating. “My mom always says we make time for the things we really want.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Your mom also has a private driver and three assistants.”

“That is not the point.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, pushing her streak of vibrant pastel hair behind her ear.

“It’s our last year. You’re literally a month ahead of half the class. You could find something flexible. Somewhere you can study while working.” She was absolutely relentless.

“Plus,” she added, “it would look good on your résumé.”

Kiera was the social media manager for the campus. She ran the official KLU student page which was filled with campus tours, interviews and various other content. The page had more than fifty thousand followers.

They paid her well. She thrived on engagement metrics and comment sections. She did not have to maintain a perfect GPA to keep her funding.

“For you,” you said gently, “passing is fine. For me passing is like a ticket back home. My parents would never let me hear the end of it if I got one grade less.”

Her expression softened for half a second before she masked it with a dramatic sigh. “You are so intense.”

“And you are so detached from reality.” You countered.

She grinned. “That’s why we balance each other.”

You checked the time on your phone and felt your stomach dip. Fifteen minutes until Professor Ashford’s two-hour lecture on post-Conquest political structures.

Two hours of fluorescent lighting and his droning voice dissecting the failures of the Targaryen Restoration like he personally witnessed it.

“Can we change the subject?” you pleaded. “I want to forget that I’ll soon be trapped in Ashford’s lecture of torture.”

Kiera winced. “Poor you. Ashford really is unbearable.”

Last semester he’d spent twenty minutes berating a student for citing a Dornish historian. As if bias didn’t exist in every archive from Oldtown to Braavos.

You’d considered skipping his lectures and teaching yourself. But attendance was mandatory. And you needed every attendance point.

King’s Landing University did not care about your anxiety or sleep schedule. It cared about numbers and attendances.

“So,” she said brightening, “Valarr and I are going to a concert Friday. You should come along.” She suggested, visibly looking forward to the idea.

Valarr Targaryen pre-law, perpetually grumpy looking yet somehow always kind.

He and Kiera had met at a Freshers’ Week party three years ago and started dating almost immediately. Everyone had assumed it would implode by midterms. Instead, they’d grown into the campus most beloved couple.

You shared a few seminars with him. He was sharp in debates but gentle in private conversation, the sort of person who’d never condemn you even if he wasn’t particularly fond of you.

“And third-wheel the entire evening?” you deadpanned. “Hard pass.”

She waved a hand dismissively and rolled her eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“It is exactly like that.”

She hesitated. And then, as if casually remembering something entirely insignificant added “Aerion’s coming too.”

Aerion Targaryen. Valarr’s cousin. He was a business major and campus menace.

He drove a black sports car that you’d bet all your money on was from his daddy’s pocket.

He wore designer brands like he was perpetually exiting a fashion editorial. He had that sharp, almost predatory beauty the Targaryens were infamous for—snow white hair that caught light in just the right way, violet eyes that held amusement and boredom in equal measure. He held himself as if he were superior to everyone and everything. Always gloating on about how King’s Landing would have never been built without his ancestors.

He also once tried to fight Duncan the Tall (as he was nicknamed for his extreme height), outside a club in Flea Bottom and got knocked flat on his back before security dragged the other guy away.

All bark. No bite.

Still, people gravitated toward him. There was nothing quite like pretty privilege and a deep pocket to gain an appropriate social status.

“Well,” you said evenly, “good luck with that.”

Kiera groaned, collapsing back into her chair. “I was hoping you’d come suffer with us.”

“You’re unbelievable, you really hate me so much that you’d drag me into a friday night with Aerion Targaryen?” Your lip twitched as the words left your lips.

“You could at least keep him distracted.”

You stared at her, completely unconvinced.

“Oh by the Seven,” she laughed. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

“You are not.”

She grinned, unrepentant.

“I have pottery Friday,” you said. “And I plan to spend it molding something symmetrical instead of arguing with a Targaryen about late-stage capitalism.”

She snorted. “He doesn’t argue. He monologues.”

Your nose wrinkled but you couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Even worse.”

Rumors clung to the Targaryens like expensive perfume. They were old money of valyrian roots, it was a known fact. Political donors. A family foundation that funded half the city’s art museums and quietly influenced half its policy.

King’s Landing wasn’t medieval anymore. There were no armies and dynasties. But power still moved in bloodlines.

And you were very aware of where you stood on that map.

A scholarship student from nowhere special. Carefully balancing ambition and exhaustion.

Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder: Ashford – 10:00 a.m.

You inhaled slowly, mentally composing yourself .

“Okay,” you sighed, standing and slipping your notebook into your bag. “I need to go pretend I care about succession disputes.”

“You do care,” Kiera’s eyes moved to you, rising too. “You just pretend you don’t.”

You paused, considering that.

Maybe she was right. Maybe you cared too much.

About grades. About stability. About not falling behind.

The city hummed beyond the café walls. Somewhere in the financial district, deals were being signed that would ripple through generations.

Somewhere in Flea Bottom, someone was counting coins for rent. Somewhere on campus, Aerion Targaryen was likely skipping class because attendance was not mandatory for people like him.

And here you were. Measuring your life in fifteen-minute increments.

“Kie,” you said suddenly, adjusting the strap on your bag, “if I did get a job… it would have to be something super quiet. Flexible. Low-stress.”

Her eyes lit up immediately. “Oh my gods, so you are considering it.”

“I said if.”

She looped her arm through yours as you both stepped out into the cool King’s Landing air. “We’ll find something perfect.”

You highly doubted that.

But as you crossed the busy street toward the humanities building, wind tugging at your coat, the thought lingered in the back of your mind like an unfinished sentence.

Would it really be that bad to drop on of your hobbies and get a job? You’d still keep yourself occupied and at least you’d be earning some extra cash.

Maybe there was a way.

Maybe you just hadn’t seen it yet.

By Sunday evening you were slouched over your laptop, hair still faintly damp from the shower, your new citrus shampoo clinging to you like something clean and hopeful.

You wore your oldest most worn university shirt, the one with the faded gold KLU crest stretched across the front and a pair of soft plaid pyjama pants that had survived three exam seasons and at least two minor breakdowns.

Your dorm room was dim except for the glow of your desk lamp and the city bleeding in through the curtains.

King’s Landing never slept. Traffic hummed along the main road beyond campus. Somewhere farther off, closer to the river, bass from a club pulsed faintly like a second heartbeat.

You had the part-time job website open. Scrolling.

There was dog sitting. Retail assistant at the mall in the Crownlands Plaz — must be available weekends. Bartender in a Flea Bottom cocktail bar—experience preferred. Private tutor for first-year economics. Receptionist. Event staff. Library aide.

Every listing felt like a test you were destined to fail.

Thirty-minute commute to the mall?That was an hour lost every day. An hour you did not have.

Three high-energy huskies? Your nervous system could barely handle your own brain at 2 a.m.

Bartending until midnight? Absolutely not. You needed sleep like other people needed oxygen.

Tutoring? What if someone asked a question you couldn’t answer and you exposed yourself as an academic fraud?

Your mind was efficient at self-sabotage. It wrapped every opportunity in caution tape.

You imagined yourself in a retail uniform, exhausted, grades slipping. You imagined coming home too tired to study, too wired to sleep. You imagined losing your scholarship. Losing the fragile scaffolding you had built your life on.

By the time you reached the bottom of the page, your dinner had gone cold.

You exhaled sharply and shut the laptop. Your brain was utterly exhausted and your eyes were watering from all the blue light.

“Not happening,” you muttered to the empty room. You decided you were just not destined for a part time job.

The idea dissolved as quickly as it had come.

—

The weekend passed gently. You read. You outlined an essay. You reorganized your notes for Ashford’s class because control over formatting felt like control over something.

You lit a candle Sunday night and convinced yourself you were recharging instead of procrastinating your future.

By Monday morning, the job hunt felt distant like something you’d thought about in a fever dream.

You met Kiera before your 11 a.m. lecture at a new bakery that had opened near campus.

It was tucked into a renovated townhouse with ivy crawling up the stone façade and gold-lettered windows that read Honey & Hearth.

Inside everything smelled like butter and sugar.

They had a little patio garden in the back wrought iron tables, pale blue cushions, climbing roses that were probably fake but convincing enough. Students filled the space, laptops open, sunglasses perched on their heads.

The atmosphere was comfortable and light.

You both ordered coffee and pastries, Kiera something elaborate and aesthetic “instagram worthy” as she’d say, you a simple croissant still warm in its paper sleeve.

“So,” you asked between bites, flakes scattering onto the small ceramic plate, “how did Friday go?”

You meant the concert. The one you had so wisely declined.

Kiera’s expression darkened immediately.

“Ugh. Don’t even ask.”

She grabbed a hair tie from her wrist and twisted her bright hair into a messy bun with the kind of careless elegance only she possessed.

“That bad?” You chuckled.

“It was absolutely horrendous,” she continued. “Aerion made a scene. As usual.”

You felt laughter bubbling in your chest before you could stop it.

“I told Valarr I am never going anywhere with Aerion ever again.”

You covered your smile with your coffee cup. “Hey, don’t look at me like that,” she snapped playfully. “You were supposed to suffer with us.”

“And third-wheel a Targaryen meltdown? I think not.”

She muttered something under her breath and you nudged her knee with yours in apology.

“Well,” you said, leaning forward slightly, “what did he do this time?”

Kiera straightened in her chair, clearly ready to relive every second.

“So you know Tanselle, right? The super tall arts major? Theater and painting?”

Your eyes widened. “Of course I know Tanselle. She’s so sweet. I saw her in that contemporary piece last semester—she was absolutely incredible.”

Tanselle was one of the rare genuinely kind people on campus. Soft-spoken. Creative. The type who genuinely remembered your name and asked about your exams. And not just because she was ‘networking’ or thought your boyfriend was hot.

“Yeah,” Kiera continued, “so we’re at the party, everything’s fine. Aerion’s flirting with some chic by the bar, and then he spots Tanselle across the room.”

She made a dramatic pause.

“And?” You waited for her to continue.

“And he practically lunges at her.”

“What?”

“I’m not exaggerating. He storms over and starts going off about her latest play. The one with the dragon dying in the final act.”

You frowned. “It was symbolic, the whole point of the play—.”

“Tell that to him. He starts ranting about how it’s disrespectful to the Targaryen name, how she’s pushing some anti-monarchy political agenda—”

You blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

Your disbelief curdled into irritation.

“No fucking way,” you muttered. “He cannot be serious.”

“Oh, he was deadly serious.” She took a sip of her coffee.

You imagined poor Tanselle cornered by Aerion Targaryen’s wounded ego and felt your stomach twist.

“What happened?”

“Well,” Kiera sighed, “you know Duncan? Everyone knows he fancies Tanselle, but still hasn’t scrambled together the courage to ask her out. He nearly punched Aerion. Valarr had to physically drag him back before it turned into a full-blown brawl.”

You let out a low whistle. “Seven hells.”

“It was chaos,” she admitted, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Entertaining chaos.”

“Yeah, I’ll pass on witnessing that firsthand.”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“Anyway,” she said, shifting gears, “how was pottery?”

You grimaced. “Canceled. Apparently there was a power outage at the studio.”

She groaned. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. So I just stayed in. Watched Netflix. And I… kind of browsed part-time jobs like you said, but I didn’t—”

You didn’t get to finish. Kiera froze mid-bite, eyes widening dramatically.

“Oh my gods. I completely forgot to tell you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s never a good start.”

She leaned across the table, brimming with excitement. “I have literally the perfect opportunity for you.”

Your stomach dropped. “Do I want to hear this?”

“Trust me. It’s perfect.”

She lowered her voice slightly, though not enough to mask the thrill in it. “You know how Aerion has siblings?”

You stiffened.

“Yes.”

“Well. His youngest brother is, like, ten. And Valarr mentioned that his uncle is looking for someone to babysit him. Just part-time. Because he’s always busy.”

Your mind immediately conjured the image of the Targaryen family. Modern royalty of King’s Landing.

Maekar Targaryen—board member of half the city’s financial institutions. His father Daeron was practically a policy architect.

His oldest brother Baelor chaired cultural foundations and appeared on magazine covers like a statesman from another century.

Their surname carried weight.

You’d heard Maekar’s wife had died a few years ago.

The thought flickered through your mind—Aerion as a child. However insufferable he was now, grief at that age left marks.

Kiera kept talking.

“Aegon’s actually sweet. I’ve met him. He mostly plays in the backyard or video games. You’d just have to make sure he does his homework, maybe drive him to practice, make dinner. That’s it.”

She said it like it was nothing.

“You could study while you’re there,” she added eagerly. “And they’d definitely pay well.”

That part lingered. The Targaryens did not do anything cheaply.

“The only family wealthier is the Lannisters,” Kiera added casually, as if that clarified everything.

You pressed your lips together.

“Okay, but if Maekar Targaryen wants someone to look after his son, why not hire a professional nanny?”

Kiera hesitated. “He has.”

That was not reassuring.

“What do you mean he has? And, what happened?”

“And Aegon isn’t exactly fond of them. The last one quit on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

You stared at her.

“What? What do you mean she had a nervous breakdown?”

“No, no, it’s not like that!” she rushed. “He’s not a monster. He just gets bored. Adults bore him.”

“That’s worse.”

She waved you off. “Maekar actually asked me first, but I’m too busy.”

You snorted. “Too busy getting your nails done and curating Instagram posts.”

“Exactly,” she said without shame. “So what do you think?”

You looked down at your coffee. It had gone cold.

Working for the Targaryens. The thought circled in your mind.

Spending afternoons in one of those sprawling estates you’d only seen in society magazines. Studying in marble kitchens and glass-walled living rooms. Getting paid enough to ease the constant pressure coiled in your chest.

It sounded… practical. Dangerous, but practical.

“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “I’m not even good with kids.”

Kiera rolled her eyes. “You’re patient. You’re organized. You overthink everything. You’ll be amazing.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Then you quit. You wouldn’t be the first.”

That shouldn’t have been comforting.You weighed it carefully.

A few weeks, you told yourself. You could try it. Save some money. If it turned into a disaster, you’d fabricate a scheduling conflict and leave.

You inhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, almost to yourself. “Fine. Sign me up.”

Kiera practically vibrated with excitement. “Yes!”

She immediately reached for her phone.

“I’ll send you Maekar’s contact.”

You swallowed.

Somewhere in the city, in a house much larger than yours, lived a ten-year-old Targaryen who had driven professional nannies to the brink.

And you had just volunteered to be next.

—

You had spent an absurd amount of time perfecting that email.

First draft then delete then rewrite then reword. You had lost count how many times you had redone the entire thing.

You kept it formal but not stiff. Competent but not desperate.

You attached your CV, your transcript, even a short paragraph about your experience tutoring first-years. You debated whether mentioning pottery made you sound well-rounded or just straight up unserious.

By Friday evening, you were so tired of staring at it that you hit send purely out of spite. Fuck it.

The message whooshed away into the abyss of the Targaryen inbox. The rest was in the hands of the Gods.

You were ninety-five percent certain it would vanish into administrative oblivion.

Kiera had given you Maekar Targaryen’s business email—and, helpfully, his assistant’s, “in case he’s drowning in meetings,” as she’d put it. You had addressed both.

Then you spent the entire weekend pretending you didn’t care. Or at least tried to.

You went for a run along the river, the wind sharp against your cheeks. You tried to study but read the same paragraph six times without comprehension. You even considered taking a spontaneous trip out to the Kingswood just to escape your own thoughts.

None of it had helped.

But Monday arrived regardless.

You were sitting in your usual 11 a.m. lecture, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, Professor Ashford dissecting something painfully abstract, when your phone gave a small, traitorous ping. The icon of your mail app popped up.

You told yourself not to look. You clicked on it anyway.

Your heart began to pound before you even opened it.

Inbox. One new message.

From: Maekar Targaryen.

Your fingers trembled as you clicked.

The email was brief. Efficient.

We appreciate your interest. After reviewing your application, we would like to proceed. You are hired. Please begin tomorrow from 13:00–19:00. Further details attached.

You stared at the word. Hired.

Professor Ashford’s voice faded into white noise.

You were actually hired.

You were going to be responsible for Aegon Targaryen.

You were going to enter the Targaryen household.

The thought that you were going to inevitably cross paths with Aerion Targaryen crossed your mind for the first time.

Your stomach twisted violently. You hadn’t truly processed that part before.

Tomorrow. 1 p.m. to 7 p.m. That meant shifting one seminar online. Rearranging your week. Rearranging your entire life.

What have you done?

—

You woke at 5 a.m. the next day. Not because you needed to — but because your nerves refused to let you sleep.

You stood in front of your closet like it was a battlefield.

What does one wear to babysit a Targaryen child?

You discarded outfits onto your bed one by one. Too casual. Too academic. Too try-hard. Too plain. You did not want to look like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world.

In the end, you chose light wash jeans and a soft V-neck sweater. Clean. Neutral. Competent.

You brushed your hair twice, put on some natural makeup and applied your favorite lipgloss.

You looked friendly, not too try hard, not too trying to fit into the Targaryen picture thing.

After your morning lecture, you boarded the bus heading toward the Red Keep district, it was the most polished slice of King’s Landing.

Skyscrapers gave way to manicured hedges and wide, tree-lined streets. Cars here gleamed. Pavement here shone.

The air itself felt more expensive.

The Targaryen residence was impossible to miss.

Red brick, but not in the harsh way rather deep, smooth, almost velvety.

A sweeping driveway. Iron gates etched with a three-headed dragon sigil so subtle it was almost understated.

Your eyes widened as you approached.

A guard stopped you at the gate. You showed your ID, your email confirmation. He nodded and escorted you through like you were entering a consulate.

If the exterior was imposing, the interior was something else entirely.

Mahogany wood so polished it reflected light like water. Intricate carvings along the banisters. Portraits lining the walls—ancestors, no doubt. You noted a portrait of Aegon the First “Conqueror” his nickname was.

The entire house breathed legacy. Old money forged in fire and blood, translated into marble countertops and designer lighting.

It was silent. Oppressively so. Not a soul anywhere.

You stood in the foyer, unsure whether to move, when footsteps echoed against the polished floor.

“Ah. You must be Aegon’s new governess.” An unfamiliar voice startled you.

The man approaching you was older, grey-haired, dressed impeccably in a white button-up and pressed slacks. His accent was faintly foreign—Lysene, perhaps but you couldn’t be sure.

“I am Maellon,” he said, extending his hand. “Aegon’s tutor. I’ve served this family for over twenty years.”

Governess. That was certainly a way to put it.

You straightened instinctively. “Yes. That would be me.”

He studied you for a fraction too long as if assessing if you really were the right person and not some fraud.

“We have concluded lessons for the day. Aegon is in his room.”

There was something in his expression—hesitation. As if he wanted to warn you.

“Well,” he continued, already stepping backward toward the door, “I am sure Lord Targaryen has left you instructions.”

He had not. No one had done such a thing.

You opened your mouth to clarify, but Maellon was already moving.

“I wish you luck, young lady.”

His lips curved faintly. Not unkindly. Almost… sympathetically.

And then he was gone.

The front door clicked shut behind him and the silence was almost loud at this point.

You slipped off your shoes and ventured deeper into the house, heart thudding.

The corridor stretched endlessly. Doors lined both sides, most closed. The place felt less like a home and more like a museum where you were not meant to touch anything.

You turned left—Maellon had come from that direction.

What if Aegon had escaped? What if he had run off just to spite you?

What if you have failed within the first ten minutes?

Your thoughts spiraled until you heard something behind one of the closed doors.

A faint noise. Electronic and rhythmic.

You followed it to a door at the end of the hallway.

You rapped your knuckle twice on the wood.

The noise stopped instantly. There was no reply.

You tried the handle. Unlocked.

You pushed the door open slowly.

The room was large but lived-in—bookshelves, a sleek desk, a gaming console hooked to a massive screen. There were some posters on the walls, albeit all framed.

It was ridiculously clean for the room of a ten year old child.

In the center of it all stood a boy with pale blond hair almost identical to his brother’s.

He stared at you like you had broken into his home. And in some abstract way perhaps you had.

His gaze was sharp and calculating.

“Hello,” you offered gently. “You must be Aegon.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He was clearly assessing you.

You felt it physically—the way his eyes scanned your clothes, your posture, your expression.

“Hello,” he said at last. His voice was calm. Controlled.

“Are you my new nanny?”

The word felt like a test.

“Yes,” you replied, keeping your voice even. Children could smell insincerity the way dogs sensed fear.

He didn’t move from the center of the room.

“What’s your name?”

You introduced yourself.

He repeated your name slowly, tasting it, like he was testing whether it suited you. Then he raised a single pale eyebrow.

How could a ten-year-old make you feel like you were being evaluated for a corporate position?

“And what do you study?”

There it was again—that unsettling composure. The judgemental tone.

He stood like a miniature executive conducting an interview.

“I go to KLU,” you said, naming your major.

His eyes sharpened. “You must know Aerion then.”

Your stomach tightened. You had no idea what the internal politics of this family looked like.

“Yes, he’s—”

“An asshole,” Aegon finished flatly, spinning back toward his console.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“Well,” you muttered under your breath, “at least we agree on that.”

He didn’t hear you—or pretended not to. Either way you were glad he chose not to respond.

The PlayStation hummed back to life.

You cleared your throat. “So. Maester Maellon mentioned you had homework.”

He didn’t even look at you.

“I finished it.”

You glanced at the pristine notebook and textbook sitting untouched on the massive desk across the room.

“I don’t think so.”

He swiveled in his chair slowly, eyes narrowing. “You don’t believe me.”

“I can see your notebook from here, Aegon.”

He scoffed. “I don’t need that.”

You inhaled. So this is how it’s going to be.

You walked calmly to the console and reached for the plug.

“What—hey!” He jumped up. “You can’t do that!”

“Oh yes, I can.” You unplugged it smoothly. “No games until homework is done.”

“You’re such a shrew!” he snapped, face flushing. “I hate you. You’re horrible.”

The words were sharp, but hollow. You could tell he didn’t fully understand the weight of them.

“Oh, I bet,” you replied coolly. “And you’re a spoiled little punk.”

His eyes widened slightly at your boldness.

“You know,” you continued casually, “I have a niece. She does all her homework without arguing. Smartest little girl in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

You absolutely did not have a niece.

He stared at you clearly eating it all up.

“I bet,” he muttered darkly. “My father is going to fire you anyway.”

“Maybe,” you shrugged. “But before that happens, I’ll make sure to tell my niece how lazy Aegon Targaryen is.”

Silence fell between you. He was calculating.

You could almost see the gears turning behind his pale eyes.

“If I do my homework…” he said slowly after a minute, “…will you let me play my PC?”

There it was. Regulation and negotiation.

“Yes. Of course.” You promised him.

He moved to his desk—an enormous slab of polished wood that was, frankly, bigger than your entire dorm table—and grabbed a pencil.

“If you need help—”

“I don’t.”

You folded your arms. “Alright. But I’ll still check it.”

He shot you a look and began scribbling.

You sat quietly, scrolling idly on your phone but watching him from the corner of your eye. He worked quickly. Focused. No dramatics now. At least he was efficient.

After a while he pushed back his chair.

“Done.”

He stood, posture stiff. “Can I please play now?”

Mannered — you noted.

“Let me check.”

“Do you think I’m stupid, miss?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” you replied gently. “I think you’re a student.”

“You’re a student too.” Oh he was quick witted.

“Yes. But I’ve been studying for ten years. You’ve been writing for, what, two?”

“Four,” he corrected immediately. “Since I was six.” There was pride in his tone.

You nodded solemnly. “Impressive.”

You flipped through the pages. Most of it was correct. A few spelling errors. You handed the notebook back.

“Erase those. Rewrite them properly.”

He groaned dramatically but complied. After a few more minutes, you nodded.

“Good job. Now you can play.”

You plugged the console back in. He sat cross-legged on the floor, controller in hand.

“Egg,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Everyone calls me Egg.”

You softened slightly. “Alright, Egg.”

He seemed satisfied with that.

“Would you like a snack?” you asked.

He stared at you like you’d asked if the Dothraki lived in Westeros.

“Um. Sure.”

“Anything particular?”

“Peanut butter.” Simple.

“Alright,” you said. “Peanut butter and apples.”

—

You stepped back into the hallway and exhaled. Round one: successfully survived.

Now you just had to find the kitchen in this architectural labyrinth.

You walked left. Then right. Opened a door—linen closet. Another, this one was some kind of sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a manicured garden.

Everything gleamed. Everything felt too expensive to even breathe on.

The kitchen had to be somewhere obvious.

You finally found it after passing what looked like three separate dining rooms.

And it was… absurd, like everything else in this house. Well more manor than house.

Marble countertops the size of small islands. Two refrigerators. A pantry larger than your dorm bathroom. Copper pots hanging from a rack like decorative trophies.

You stood in the center of it, momentarily overwhelmed.

Apple and peanut butter. How hard could that be? You weren’t going to let some snob kitchen better you.

You opened the first fridge.

Sparkling water. Imported cheeses. Pre-cut fruit arranged like artwork. No whole apples in sight.

Second fridge. Still no sign of apples.

A thought popped into your head. Produce drawer.

You tugged it open.

Rows of perfectly polished apples, red and green, organized by variety.

Of course they were, riche people were like that.

You grabbed two, then turned to the cabinets.

Which one held peanut butter?

You opened one. Plates.

Another. Glassware.

Another. Some kind of artisanal grain collection.

You muttered under your breath.

“Why does anyone need this many compartments?”

You opened a sleek drawer. Cutlery. Another—spices arranged alphabetically.

You crouched to check the lower cabinets. Nothing but baking trays and mixers that probably cost more than your tuition.

Finally—finally—you opened a tall pantry door tucked beside the double ovens.

Rows of labeled containers.

And there was your peanut butter.

Three different kinds. Organic. Almond. Regular.

You grabbed the regular jar like it was a prize you’d won in battle.

You found a knife after another brief scavenger hunt, sliced the apples carefully on a marble board that probably had its own insurance policy, and arranged everything on a small plate.

You paused. This was ridiculous.

You were scrambling through a palace kitchen to make a snack for a ten-year-old who had just called you a shrew.

And yet — you felt oddly triumphant.

Balancing the plate carefully, you made your way back through the maze of hallways, half-worried you’d get lost and starve before reaching his room.

You knocked lightly before entering. Egg looked up from the floor.

You held up the plate like an offering.

“Apple slices,” you said. “With peanut butter.”

For a moment, he just stared at it. Then at you. Assessing the gesture.

Round two, apparently, was about to begin.

Aegon—Egg—balanced the controller against his knees while grabbing the apple bites off the plate.

You sat cross-legged on the rug a few feet away, answering emails on your phone and trying not to look completely out of your depth.

The television glowed against the pale walls of his room.

Onscreen, animated karts sped around a brightly colored track.

He paused the game abruptly and looked over at you.

“Do you want to play?”

He held out the second controller like a challenge.

You hesitated for half a second.

“Sure.”

You had never owned a PlayStation. Growing up, consoles were luxuries reserved for well off families—the kind with extra money after bills were paid. Regardless you accepted the controller as if you’d been doing this your whole life.

He unpaused the game. Mario Kart.

Bright music, and tiny characters. Pure absolute chaos.

You pressed buttons at random, pretending you knew what they did.

“So,” he began casually, steering his character with unnerving precision. He clearly played a lot. “do you have a boyfriend?”

You barked out a laugh, nearly driving your kart off the edge of the track.

“Straight to the point, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “It’s a yes or no question.”

“No. I don’t.”

He hummed, swerving past you effortlessly.

“Most nannies do.”

“Do they?”

“They talk about them a lot. Like I care.”he rolled his eyes.

You grinned despite yourself as your character spun out after hitting a banana.

“One of them wanted to know exactly what time I used the toilet every day,” he continued. “She tried to make a schedule.”

“Seven hells,” you muttered, mashing buttons uselessly.

“I won’t ask you to schedule your bathroom habits,” you assured him.

“Good.”

He threw a blue shell that obliterated your already tragic position.

“You’re terrible at this,” he observed.

“Thank you.” Your lips quirked up in a mock smile.

“Do you want me to teach you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you going to be condescending about it?”

He considered. “Maybe a little.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Go ahead.”

For the next twenty minutes, he instructed you with surprising patience.

His little fingers pointing to each and every button and explaining exactly what it was used for.

“No, not that button. That’s drift. See? Like that.”

You followed his guidance, slowly improving. When you finally managed to knock him off first place with a perfectly timed item, he stared at you.

“You did that on purpose!” He groaned.

“I did.” You grinned triumphantly.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “You’re not hopeless.”

High praise from Egg Targaryen.

As you played, the house remained eerily silent.

No footsteps. No voices. No distant clatter from a kitchen.

“Is it always this quiet?” you asked.

“Yes,” he replied simply, eyes still on the screen.

“Sometimes Daella and Rhae are here,” he added. “Then it’s loud. They blast Taylor Swift and usually bring friends. Father hates strangers in the house.”

There was something in his tone when he said father. Not fear. Not exactly resentment. Just… distance.

“And Aerion?” you asked carefully.

He snorted. “He’s around sometimes, unfortunately.”

“And Daeron?”

Egg’s fingers tightened briefly on the controller.

“He doesn’t live here much.”

You nodded. You’d heard the rumors—Daeron Targaryen had dropped out of university a few years ago. There were whispers about him having a serious drinking problem and going to rehab.

“And Aemon’s abroad,” Egg continued matter-of-factly. “In Oldtown.”

He listed his siblings like items on a shelf. A full house that somehow felt empty.

“I’m bored,” he declared suddenly, dropping the controller.

“You’ve been playing for an hour.”

“I’m still bored.”

You laughed. “Alright, what do you suggest?”

“Outside.” He shot up and ran out the door.

—

The garden behind the house was enormous. Like everything else in this house.

Not just a yard—an estate. Perfectly trimmed hedges. A wide stretch of grass. Stone pathways weaving between flower beds. A pond stood at one edge. There was a small practice goal set up at the other.

You blinked against the sudden brightness.

Egg grabbed a football from near the patio doors.

“Can you play?”

“Define ‘play.’”

He rolled his eyes. “Kick the ball.”

“Yes, I can kick the ball.”

He placed it at his feet and passed it toward you with surprising force. You barely managed to trap it.

“Okay,” he said, stepping back. “Let’s see how athletic you are.”

“You’re testing me again, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “No.”

You kicked the ball back, a little too hard. It veered off to the side.

He chased after it, laughing.

“You’re terrible!”

“You’re ten! It doesn’t count!”

“And I’m better than you!”

“Oh, it’s on now.”

For the next several minutes, you ran across the lawn, passing the ball back and forth. You tripped once on uneven grass and nearly took him down with you. He darted around you like a fox, quick and agile.

“You’re slow!” he shouted.

“I have adult knees!” you shot back.

At one point he attempted to nutmeg you, clearly very pleased with himself when it worked.

“Ha! Did you see that?”

“I did. Unfortunately.”

He burst into genuine laughter—the kind that crinkled his eyes and made him look exactly his age.

Not sharp. Not calculating. Just a boy.

After football devolved into chaos, he dragged you toward a small wooden structure near the hedge.

“Obstacle course,” he announced.

“You built this?”

“Mostly.” He was obviously very proud of it.

It consisted of cones, a low bench, and a rope strung between two poles.

“You have to follow my instructions,” he said. “No questions.” Suspicious.

“Fine.”

“Run to the bench, jump over it, crawl under the rope, then spin five times and sprint back.”

“You’re trying to make me dizzy.”

“No.” He giggled again.

You stared at him.

He crossed his arms. “Afraid?”

Absolutely not.

You took off running.

You vaulted the bench (gracelessly), ducked under the rope, then spun in circles until the world tilted sideways. By the time you tried to sprint back, you nearly collided with a hedge.

Egg was laughing so hard he could barely stand.

“You’re evil,” you gasped, clutching your side.

“My turn,” he declared proudly.

You gave him equally ridiculous instructions—hop on one foot, recite the kingdoms of Westeros backward, then cartwheel (he attempted it, failed spectacularly, and blamed the grass).

Soon you were both breathless.

He flopped onto the lawn, staring up at the sky.

You hesitated before lying down a few feet away, grass cool against your sweater.

For a moment, there was no testing. No power struggle. Just shared laughter fading into comfortable silence.

He picked at a blade of grass.

He glanced at you sideways, as if trying to decide if he should say something or not.

“Most of them leave,” he said quietly.

The breeze stirred the hedges. You knew what— who he was referring to, his nannies.

You remembered this boy had lost his mother when he was very young. He probably didn’t remember her at all.

Your heart squeezed at the thought.

You didn’t promise anything. Promises felt too fragile in a house like this.

“Well,” you said lightly instead, “I haven’t left yet.”

He rolled onto his side, studying you again—but this time, there was less suspicion in it.

“Okay,” he said.

Not a challenge. Not a threat.Just… okay.

And for the first time since you’d walked through those red-brick gates, the vast Targaryen estate didn’t feel quite so intimidating.

It felt almost alive.

—

After tumbling around in the grass and laughing so hard your ribs hurt, the sun began its slow descent behind the tall hedges, staining the sky in streaks of amber and rose. You brushed stray blades of grass from your jeans as you both went back inside, breathless and giddy.

“Alright,” you said, clapping your hands together once as if you had everything under control, “I should probably make some dinner. Any preferences?”

The vast kitchen was now glowing beneath the chandelier, all polished marble and intimidating silence.

“Ummm…” Aegon tilted his head standing in front of the fridge. He was serious as if negotiating a state treaty. “I’d like some mac and cheese—” He paused dramatically. “No wait! Chicken nuggets!”

You hesitated. You weren’t entirely sure how pleased Maekar Targaryen would be if he came home to find his son being fed processed poultry in porcelain surroundings that screamed Michelin-starred dinner party. But surely nuggets were better than starvation.

“Alright,” you nodded. “I can do that.”

“Thanks! I’ll go shower and change until then,” he declared, already halfway out of the room.

“Okay…” you called after him, faintly relieved he was at least behaving like a normal ten-year-old.

You opened the freezer—of course it was filled with organic, gluten-free, ethically-raised chicken nuggets. Even their junk food had pedigree. You found pre-cut potatoes and sighed.

“Of course,” you muttered.

The air fryer seemed like the safer option. Wrong choice.

Fifteen minutes later you were still jabbing at the touchscreen settings like it had personally offended you. Meanwhile, you failed to notice one crucial detail: there had been absolutely no sound of running water upstairs.

Eventually, by some divine intervention, the nuggets were done. You placed them carefully onto an ornate porcelain plate that had absolutely no business holding chicken nuggets.

You had just reached for cutlery when the front door opened.

You heard heavy footsteps.

Measured but purposeful.

You froze with the plate of dino shaped nuggets in your hands.

A man entered the kitchen—tall, broad-shouldered, silver-white hair trimmed neatly, beard impeccably groomed.

His suit jacket hung over one arm; his shirt sleeves were rolled just slightly. His expression was carved from stone, a permanent scowl between his brows. He looked terribly handsome in spite of it.

“Who the fuck are you,” he all but snarled at you, “and what the fuck are you doing in my house?”

You nearly dropped the plate.

“I—”

“If you’re another of Aerion’s girlfriends or worse Daeron’s, I suggest you pack up and leave right now.”

“I apologize, sir,” you stammered, heat flooding your face. How do you even break this to him?“You… hired me.”

He stared at you like you’d just claimed you were his long lost daughter.

“And when the fuck did I do that?”

You quickly explained about the email. About Kiera and the babysitting she had mentioned.

His eyebrow arched skeptically. You concluded it was his assistant who had hired you and sent that email.

“Well,” he said stiffly shifting his weight to stand at his full height, “Aegon has been in need of a new babysitter. After the last one had a nervous breakdown.”

“So I’ve heard—”

And then Aegon appeared. Your heart stopped and you nearly choked on your own spit.

His head was completely shaved. Not trimmed, not buzzed. Shaved.

Gone were the soft silver locks. In their place—smooth, pale scalp. He looked exactly like his nickname. He looked like an egg.

Maekar slowly turned toward him.

“Seven bloody hells!” His voice thundered as his eyes fell upon the boy. “What the fuck is this now?”

You felt tears prick at your eyes. This was it. You were done. You were witnessing your unemployment in realtime.

Before Maekar could explode further, the front door opened again. Laughter echoed in.

“Ooooh, I hear there’s a fine new boy from Dorne—” a girls voice trailed off as she entered the kitchen.

They were both dressed in impeccable plaid skirts and white tights.

Daella and Rhae took one look at Aegon and burst into hysterics.

“You look like a skinhead!” Daella wheezed through laughter.

“Enough!” Maekar snapped at all of them.

They quieted, barely.

“Is this why I hired you?” he roared at you. “To let my son make a freak of himself?”

“I—” you didn’t even know what to say. You thought Aegon liked you. Clearly you were wrong.

“Father.”

Another unfamiliar voice, yet this one was calm, if slightly amused.

Behind the girls stood what you could only assume was Daeron Targaryen.

His hair wasn’t silver pale like the rest of his family’s. It was dirty blonde pulled back into a ponytail.

His expression was amused, hands casually in his pockets.

“I told Aegon to shave his head.”

Maekar looked like he was about to have a stroke. Before his rage could be unleashed any further he sighed.

“I cannot deal with this right now,” he muttered darkly. “I’ll speak to you two later.”

He turned to you.

“And you. Get out of my house.”

Then he disappeared upstairs.

Were you fired? Probably. You looked at the giggling girls. Definitely.

You did not even want to look at Aegon.

The girls grabbed him immediately.

“Come on!” Daella chirped. “We have to post this on Instagram!”

“And TikTok! And Snapchat!” Rhae added gleefully.

They vanished in a flurry of giggles.

You stood there, clutching your dignity by a thread.

Daeron stepped closer, hands still casually in his pockets.

“Rough day,” he said mildly. “Welcome to the Targaryen household.”

“Welcome?” you muttered. “More like goodbye.”

“Oh, don’t be so grim.” He chuckled. “My father is always like that.”

“Well I’m fairly certain your father just fired me.”

“If he wanted you fired,” Daeron said thoughtfully, “you wouldn’t still be standing here.”

“That’s… oddly reassuring.”

You placed the plate down at last.

“Thanks for covering for me.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “It wasn’t a lie.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“I told him to shave it. He said he hated being a Targaryen. I said maybe losing the hair would make him feel less like one.”

You stared at him. That was not a sentence you wanted to unpack. You were not in the mood to play family therapist. Because clearly this household seriously needed one.

You just hummed at his words. “Well..” Daeron said slightly awkward. “I’ll clean this up if you want to..” he glanced at the door. “Don’t get me wrong it’s not that I want you out of the house,” he quickly corrected himself. “It’s just — well— you saw my father.” He stated.

“Yeah… I think it’s better if I go.” You agreed.

—

By the time you stepped outside, the sky was fully indigo. The garden where you’d been laughing an hour earlier felt distant now, surreal.

Aegon ran out just before you reached the gate.

“Hey!” You turned albeit everything in you was screaming not to. You were still cross with him, even if he didn’t shave his head to spite you.

He stood there—bald, sheepish, and suddenly very small again.

“Are you… coming back?” he asked.

You hesitated, something in you softeningZ

“I don’t know,” you admitted honestly.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sorry about the head thing.”

“You could’ve warned me,” you sighed.

A tiny grin tugged at his lips. “It was kind of funny.”

You tried not to smile.

“It was a little funny.”

He brightened.

“Thanks for not treating me like I’m five.”

“That’s because you’re not.”

He seemed to hold onto that.

“Well,” he said awkwardly, “if you don’t come back, I’ll probably get someone who schedules my bathroom breaks again.”

You snorted.

“I’ll… see what happens.”

He nodded once.

“Bye.”

“Bye, Aegon.”

You walked down the long driveway feeling like you’d just survived a medieval trial by fire.

—

When you finally got home, you collapsed onto your bed fully clothed. Then you grabbed your phone.

You:

I am going to strangle you.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Kiera:

?????

You:

You sent me into a HOUSE of silver-haired psychos.

Kiera:

HAHAHAHAHA did you meet the dad???

You:

He told me to get out of his house while I was holding chicken nuggets on fine china.

Kiera:

STOP 😭😭

You:

Aegon SHAVED HIS HEAD. He’s an egg. Literally.

There was a full thirty seconds of typing.

Kiera:

I’M SORRY WHAT

You:

Bald. Completely bald. In front of his terrifying father. I almost died.

Kiera:

…

But are you fired???

You stared at the ceiling.

You weren’t sure.

You thought about Aegon asking if you were coming back. About how he laughed in the grass. About how the house felt quiet in a way that wasn’t normal.

You:

I don’t think so. But if I go back and get publicly humiliated again I’m haunting you.

Kiera:

Worth it. This is elite content.

She was so unserious. You groaned and tossed your phone aside.

You were going to strangle her.

But as you lay there replaying the day—the laughter, the chaos, the shaved head, the absurdity of it all—you found yourself smiling despite everything.

It had been a disaster.

A ridiculous, overwhelming, unhinged disaster.

And somehow… you had a feeling you’d be going back.

©padmespetal 2026 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

[the-darklings]

Would you ever consider writing something with Lady Stark and Ser Duncan? I feel like she would appreciate him in a way that would set Aerions blood on fire because wdym she’s fond of a *hedge knight* when he’s been trying to get praised by her the entire tourney????

⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: In which a humble hedge knight accidentally meets the queen of the realm.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: ser duncan the tall x f!stark!reader (platonic) ft. lyonel && aerion.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 5k+

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: stark!reader, soft husband!baelor, sweetheart!dunk, lyonel is lyonel, tw: aerion (never change you lil freak). no HW spoilers, this is that hypothetical series of events I use in most prompts where you marry Baelor and in this he's already king, since by HW's muddy timeline, Ashford would happen a bit later. I love, LOVE Dunk and think him accidentally becoming a royalty magnet is perhaps the funniest thing to ever happen. I got way too carried away with this, enjoy!

read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.

“Come to my pavilion,” Lyonel murmurs in your ear, voice all wicked invitation and summer storm. “You’ve done your duty. Time for real fun.”

You angle a look at him over your cup. The Ashford field roars and dazzles around you—colourful banners in every direction, braziers lit, the sour-sweet stink of spilt ale, sweat and crushed grass mixing with mud. The royal dais is a bright, isolated island in all the chaos, all gold-thread and velvet and too many watching eyes pressing in from all sides. 

“And what exactly does ‘real fun’ entail, my lord?” you challenge, soft enough that it won’t carry beyond you two. 

Lyonel grins at you in response, broad and too bright for his own good, considering the eyes on you. There’s familiar warmth in his expression, though; in the way his features fold with teasing fondness, you know he can wield both as a blade and a friendly hand. He’s equal parts safe and known, a summer storm you drink in because you’ve missed him a great deal in all the moons you’ve not seen him at court.

“Cards. Dice. Terrible songs. Better company, for certain. Mine, in case you were wondering.” He lets the words roll out lazily, almost innocently, then adds, “Slip away when you can, Your Grace. Third row of pavilions, stag on gold. I’ll even pretend I’m surprised if you show up.”

“You’re incorrigible,” you tell him with a shake of your head. 

“Mh. That’s not a no,” he crows, already slipping away from your side. “Try not to let your good husband talk you into another dull border dispute.”

He’s gone before Baelor can turn from the lord he’s talking with and pin you two under that mismatched, too-knowing gaze of his. Your husband’s hand finds your knee under the table, a light touch, grounding for him more than you if you had to guess. You lay your fingers over his for a moment, squeezing once to savour the warmth. I’m here, the touch says. 

Later, you’ll go, if only to clear your head and stretch your legs. The wolf in your blood can only put up with so much political chatter. 

—

You go. 

Not right away. There are simply too many people watching you, and you refuse to give anyone reason to gossip. You’re a steady presence by Baelor’s side the whole evening, and your husband seems to find any excuse to brush his fingers against yours, looping them into gentle knots before someone else steals him away. 

The feast thins by the hour, people leaving for their own pavilions and merriment away from royal eyes and tongues. The air inside the royal tent grows thick with wine and breath, and you feel more flayed by the second the longer you linger. The guards have gone from their previous, vigilant, ramrod-straight line to a more relaxed, watchful ease that says they’ve settled in for a long night. 

Baelor bends with Lord Ashford over some last tangle of accounts, expression that too familiar mixture of patience and clenched jaw. His hand, when it skims over your skirts, is absent-minded, reassuring himself more than you yet again. 

You press your palm briefly to his shoulder, squeezing once. “I’m going to lie down,” you murmur. “It’s too warm in here.”

His gaze flicks up at once, softening around the edges. “Do you want—”

“I’ll take two of the northern girls,” you cut in gently. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

He hesitates, then nods in agreement, his thumb drifting once over your knuckles before he lets you go. You feel the weight of his gaze on your nape until you’re gone from his sight. 

Behind a screen, back with the quiet of your thoughts, you strip the queen off in deliberate layers. 

First goes the Stark grey and Targaryen red, the heavy, luxurious gown with its silvered direwolves and dragons gone in a whisper of cloth that feels almost obscene. Your jewelled girdle follows immediately after, the weight around your waist sinking into a chest, finally out of your sight, and your limbs looser for it. Rings fall off next, one by one, your hands once again returning to the familiar northern grip that feels absent when you’re decked out as a queen of the realm. 

You keep your knife. 

You pull on a simple, dull brown wool dress, the sort of garment any knight’s lady or highborn household maid might don, and lace it yourself with deft fingers. Your hair you undo with careful tugs, loosening pins and pearls until all that remains is simply you, loose and a little wild at the edges again. A dark cloak, hooded, hides the rest from sight. The only bright thing left on you is the gleam of steel at your hip; a promise and a threat. 

Your handmaids blink when you order them to stay. One opens her mouth to protest, but you give her a look that brooks no arguments, steely. Wolves did not come south to be shepherded at all times. 

When you step out into the cooling night, you are no less yourself; if anything, you are unmarked, and therefore a girl again, prowling through Winterfell’s maze of walls. 

Ashford Mead glows with life, making it seem as if it’s come from an old story. Lanterns sway in the slight breeze, smearing light across the mail and painted canvas. Pavilions both small and large rise in the distance in great swathes of bright colours—crimson, green, and deep blue; all battling for dominance wherever your eye drifts—the banners snapping overhead like restless wings of birds. The ground already churns into a mash of mud and stomped-on grass, laced with spilt drink; your boots squelch softly as you weave through the crowd and tents in your path. 

Your lungs fill with the scent of distant smoke, roasted meat, horses and humans; the raw, unapologetic stink of humanity you’ve missed dearly since you donned the crown. It’s ugly and so alive, and real in a way the court rarely is. No one turns their head as you pass them. No one drops into a bow that arrests your stride or forces you to smile. Your chest aches with the sheer, blinding relief of it. 

You’re two tents shy of Lyonel’s golden stag when you walk into a wall. 

No, not a wall, a man. Just one tall enough and solid enough that the impact knocks a breath clean out of you. 

“I’m sorry, my lady—” The apology comes in a flustered rush, each word tripping over the previous. Giant hands catch your elbows before you can do more than rock back a step. “Seven, I didn’t see—are you hurt?”

You find yourself eye to eye with a broad chest in mail, the links are plain but well-kept, the kind of armour that’s been mended by patient hands, not replaced by quick coin. Your gaze drags upwards slowly, over a wide set of shoulders, towards the strong curve of a neck nicked with an old shaving scar, to find a face that’s all awkward angles and earnest uncertainty. Shaggy light brown hair that looks as though it’s been hacked off with a knife and without a mirror in sight frames his face. The man stares down at you, eyes blown wide, torches reflecting the colour of a clear sky on a sunlit day. 

“Hurt?” you echo, smoothing your cloak with more dignity than you feel at this moment. “No. Just reminded to watch where I step.”

His ears redden. “It’s my fault. Ser Arlan—” The man pauses, swallows hard. His awkwardness is surprisingly endearing, especially for a man of his stature. “My old ser always said I went about life like a half-broken colt. I should have looked. Begging your pardon, my lady.”

He dips his chin again, as if to punctuate his point. The apology is clumsy but sincere, free of any slyness you’ve grown accustomed to hearing daily. It makes you want to smile, which is precisely the sort of thing you came out here for and precisely the sort of thing you’re not supposed to indulge in while anyone who might recognise you is around. 

“I’ve been run down by worse than overgrown colts,” you tell him dryly. “At least you apologised.”

He laughs—a quick, startled sound, as if you’ve told him a joke when you didn’t mean to. “Even so. A knight’s supposed to keep his feet and his wits about him.”

“You’re a knight?” you ask, letting your gaze drop to the shield propped against the nearby stake. Plain wood, but freshly painted, with a tree and a falling star depicted by a talented hand. No house you recognise. 

“Yes, my lady,” he answers dutifully, straightening a fraction. “Ser Duncan the Tall. Most folk just call me Dunk.”

“Do they, now?” Duncan the Tall. Well, the name certainly fits his height, if not his hesitancy while holding a conversation. “And is Ser Duncan the Tall winning much honour at Ashford?”

“Not yet,” he admits, almost shyly, shifting the bulk of his weight. The mail over his shoulders clinks at the movement. “But I mean to. All I need is a good showing. Maybe some lord’ll take me into his service then. Or at least remember my name when there’s a need of swords.” He peers over his shoulder at the thick forest of banners and silk illuminated by the light. “Hard to stand out, though. There’s knights everywhere you look. Some got squires just to polish their spurs.”

You follow his gaze, trying to imagine what he sees. There is a certain sameness to it all if you strip away the sigils. Too many men built out of pride and metal, each imagining themselves the centre of every song and gallant tale. This one just wants work, and there’s a certain candour about it all you can’t help but find charming. 

“I’ll keep an eye out for tall knights toppling everyone in their path, then,” you say. “It would be a shame to miss the start of your legend.”

He flushes all the way to his hairline at your words. “You’re very kind to say so, my lady. Most folk look at me and say I’m better suited to hauling logs.”

You almost smile at that. “I’d wager you do that well, too,” you reply, openly amused. “But your armour fits, your mail’s mended, and you haven’t fallen on me again just yet. I’ve seen worse.”

His mouth twitches. “You talk like you’ve seen a great deal of knights, my lady.”

“You could say that.” You dip your head, studying him from under your lashes. A towering man with patched mail and hopeful, sincere eyes. “Ashford must be a change.”

“Oh, aye,” he breathes, almost relieved you’ve noticed, glancing around himself. “All these fine pavilions, lords with three horses each, squires running to wipe their brows at every beckon. It’s like being dropped inside those old songs. Only the songs leave out how much everything smells.” He grimaces openly. “Begging your pardon.”

You laugh. 

Not some demure, carefully measured sound you give the courtiers when necessary, but a real, barking sound, quick and unguarded in its intensity, cracking out of you like ice off a river in spring. 

“Well,” you begin, still grinning, “that’s the most honest thing I’ve heard anyone say about a tourney in a long time.”

His answering grin is so wide, so delighted, you feel absurdly pleased with yourself. That is, until a familiar shadow lengthens across both of you. 

“Dunk,” a voice drawls, rich with amusement. “You’ve started stealing my guests already?”

Lyonel slides into the lanternlight between pavilions, a familiar prowling gait to his walk. He’s shrugged out of his feast doublet, leaving his shirt unlaced too far for anything other than a night of debauchery, his throat gleaming faintly with a line of sweat already, hair a dark tangle. His cheeks flush from wine and the prospect of winning at dice, no doubt. His golden stag pavilion ripples behind him, an invitation and warning both, a crowned beast poised to leap. 

“No, my lord,” Dunk blurts. “I—she— I wasn’t—”

“She,” Lyonel cuts in, eyes flitting between you with bright curiosity, “is the she-wolf of the North, and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Dunk. Which means you’re perilously close to arguing with my dearest friend with your boots disgracefully muddy.”

Dunk goes rigid, then drops so fast you half-fear the man has fainted. It’s not a graceful bow; a man of his size was not built for sudden genuflection; he folds like a felled tree, mail clattering, shield wobbling on its prop. 

“Your—Your Grace,” he stammers, head bowed so low his nose is almost in the dirt. “I didn’t know. Forgive me. If I’d known, I’d never—”

“Ser Duncan.” You step in before he brains himself on the packed earth. “Please don’t crack the ground on my account.”

He peeks up at you, morification blazing bright. “I should have… I didn’t see your… I mean, you’re not—” His gaze flounders over your plain cloak, your unadorned hair, the absence of any visible silver or rubies. 

“I’m not dressed like a jewelled shrine,” you supply gently. “On purpose.”

You offer him your hand. He hesitates, wipes it on his cloak hurriedly, then takes it as though it’s made of spun glass, and you help haul him back to his feet. It’s like trying to right a toppled oak. 

“It’s quite all right, I’m not offended,” you tell him once he’s upright again, though he can barely meet your eyes. “Truly. I snuck out to avoid being bowed to every other step. If you start now, people will notice I’m gone.”

He chokes down a small, helpless sound. “Even so, Your Grace. I should have—”

“You treated me like a woman alone on a busy field and made sure I wasn’t hurt,” you interrupt him with a pointed look. “That seems good enough service for any queen, and far more than most would do.”

Your words sink in, slow at first, then all at once. You see it happen in tiny increments. The small, stunned flicker across the planes of his strong face, then the way his shoulders square, lifting a notch at your praise.

Something softer and almost fond settles in the set of Lyonel’s mouth as he watches you both. 

“Alas,” you add, letting out a weary breath, “I only left for a short walk and should get back before my lord husband notices his queen has gone missing and decides to blame you as well as Lyonel.”

“He’d be right,” Lyonel says cheerfully. “Though if your dragon throws me in a cell, perhaps he’ll let you visit. For real fun.”

You give him a look that promises pain, and turn back towards Dunk. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Ser Duncan the Tall.”

His gaze slides again to the dark beyond the circle of Lyonel’s lamps. The noise there has shifted—less laughter, more shouted boasting and the ugly slur of men well past drunk, the atmosphere now less merriment and more chaos. 

“Begging Your Grace’s pardon,” he says slowly, head angled respectfully, “but… that way’s rough this hour. If you’re walking back to the king’s tent, I could see you safe as far as the outer ring. A queen shouldn’t have to mind drunkards.”

“She carries a knife,” Lyonel pipes up smugly, brows wiggling.

You flip your cloak just enough to show the hilt at your hip, the worn leather warm under your thumb. 

“I’m very fond of drunkards,” you tell him. “They bleed so well.”

Lyonel barks out a delighted laugh at that.

Dunk just looks pale. “I know you can, Your Grace. Only… my old ser always said a knight’s work is keeping decent folk between bad and worse. I’d sleep easier knowing I tried at least.”

You feel your lips curve without your permission. There’s a disarming sincerity in this man that you seldom encounter these days. 

“I know what you meant,” you say, and there’s something warm in your voice now. A tone you usually reserve only for your family and closest friends. “And I’d be glad of your company, ser. If only to see which fool decides to stand between a hedge knight and his duty.”

That pulls a shy, crooked smile out of the larger man. He bows again—less deep, more controlled this time—and you squeeze Lyonel’s wrist in passing, a farewell that’s quick and familiar and entirely your own. 

“Tomorrow?” he offers. 

“Perhaps, if you’re not too busy being too drunk to get off your arse.” You examine the flush across his cheeks and lift a brow. “Don’t lose all your coin.”

“Never,” he lies with a beaming smile. “I intend to win just enough to buy you a better disguise than that sorry sack you’re wearing.”

“Didn’t realise the Lord of Storms End needs charity.”

Lyonel cackles, then slaps Dunk between the shoulder blades. The knight jumps at the sensation. 

“Ah, do keep her safe, Dunk.” His smile drops into frighteningly calm intensity. “Or I’ll have your head.”

You roll your eyes and let Dunk lead you away and into the darkening lanes full of people.

—

Away from the warm safety of Lyonel's tent, the tourney ground feels different. More cramped, shadows pooling at the edges with invitation and warning both. Torches burn lower, throwing long, jagged shadows stretching almost ominously between tables and tents. The air is colder now than when you first departed. But Dunk is a large, solid weight at your side, moving with surprising ease despite the mud sticking to your heels. He walks half-step ahead and to your left, as if some old training still lives in his bones. You’re suddenly ceased, impossibly, by memories of Winterfell yard, and how the guards would arrange themselves without thinking when you moved through snow and stone both. The thought makes you ache.

“So,” you begin, because silence sits strange between you, “Ser Duncan. Have you been to many tourneys before?”

“Never one as grand as this, Your Grace,” he replies, daring a brief peek in your direction as if reminding himself this is real, and he didn’t, in fact, dream you up. “Ser Arlan took me to a few small ones, now and then. Little fields by holdfasts mostly, a couple of lords with more pride than sense, in truth. You could ride all day and see the same faces. Here…” He shakes his head, a little awed despite his best attempt to remain solemn. “Here’s it’s like someone tipped the whole realm into one meadow.”

“You don’t like it then?” you wonder.

He thinks about it for a few, measured strides, big hands opening and closing at his sides. 

“I like the riding,” he replies slowly. “The horses. Watching knights better than me trying their best to learn. But I don’t hold with men who knock rivals from saddles just because they can, then never look to see if the man can stand after. Or with those who turn their noses up at a patched surcoat.” His mouth twists wryly. “Steel’s steel, even if it’s been mended.”

You hum thoughtfully. “I’ve heard the same being said about queens and their crowns.”

He glances at you, startled, then laughs—a true, startled bark of pure amusement. Much to your surprise, you feel it pull an answering laugh from you, before you can smooth it down. A breathless, wild sound that seems to startle both of you in equal measure. For a heartbeat, there is no court, no crown, no ever-watchful eyes counting your every breath. Only two people, lost between tents, laughing at the stink and silliness of lords in love with their own reflections. 

The sound of your mith must carry, and you imagine it’s that, more than anything else, that draws him in. 

“Your Grace,” a silky smooth voice calls out from the darkness ahead. “You do keep interesting company.”

You halt mid-step, Dunk falling motionless a step ahead of you. 

Aerion emerges from the gap between two tents as if darkness itself has birthed him, all coiled up, dangerous energy soaked into his prowling, unhurried gait. He draws closer with predatory grace, every movement calculated and meant to inspire both awe and fear. His silver hair glows in the dimness, now cut so short the sloping, elegant lines of his face stand out even more; a shine to him, truthfully, more befitting a spectre than a prince of the realm. The crimson tunic he wears stretches across his lean shoulders, his hand resting idly, dangerously, on the pommel of his sword. 

His eyes—those strange, deep violets so dark they appear black in this light—move across your plain wool dress, the messy hair, the hedge knight at your side. His pupils flare, the recognition sharp and ugly in its satisfaction. 

A part of you isn’t surprised it’s him. That somehow, in a dark meadow packed full of people, he found you still. He would recognise you in any shape, you think.

Then his attention snaps to Dunk, and contempt sharpens his features like someone drew a knife down his cheekbones. 

“Prince Aerion,” Dunk blurts, as if the name has been kicked out of him with force. “I— I was only—”

“Only what?” Aerion asks lightly, but you hear the venom underneath. “Only strolling through the mud with the queen on your arm? How… charming.”

“Aerion,” you call out, a careful warning, letting your voice curl around his name and do the otherwise unspoken work. 

He shoots you a glance, the briefest drag of his gaze across your face, your frame, and you can feel the way he drinks in every detail: the loosened hair, the cloak, the knife at your hip, the glow of good laughter still draining away slowly, too slowly for him not to notice, or feel greedy about the origins of said sound. A muscle in his jaw flexes. 

“I suppose,” he goes on, lashes lowering as he looks Dunk over like something he’s considering buying only to toss it aside once bored with it, “when one has no lands, no name of note, no… anything, one must find honour where one can. Even if that means stumbling into queens in the dark.”

Dunk’s shoulders stiffen. “I meant no dishonour, Your Highness. Her Grace was alone, that’s all. I thought she might welcome—”

“A taller wall between herself and the drunkards?” Aerion’s smile is small, but vicious. “How very noble. And when the drunkards decide they want a piece of her anyway, will you beat them off with that ugly shield of yours?”

“Aerion,” you repeat, sharper this time, levelling him with a stare. “That’s enough.”

He ignores the words, but not the tone; he knows better than that. There’s a minute shift in the angle of his head, a twitch in the fingers wrapped around his sword. Heat licks at the air around him; you can almost feel his temper, banked, straining at the leash you’ve wound around it, starving for more air. 

“Ser Duncan was kind enough to offer his arm when he thought I was only another lady foolish enough to wander alone,” you explain, letting steel creep into your tone and spine. “He didn’t know who I was until Lord Baratheon chose to enlighten him.”

Something pulses in Aerion’s expression at that: the mention of Lyonel, of you walking willingly into another man’s pavilion, no tricks, no cruelty. He masks it quickly with a lazy tilt of his mouth, but you know him far too well to be fooled by it, or not notice the ugly crack in his nonchalant demeanour. 

“And now that he does know who you are,” Aerion says softly, “he should remember that a queen deserves better than a hedge knight.”

He ambles closer, smooth as smoke drifting through the meadow, until there’s practically no distance between the three of you at all. He cuts Dunk off from your side with grace that would be impressive, if not enviable, if only you didn’t know exactly how well-versed he is in such casual cruelty. Aerion tips his head to one side, watching you for a moment, unblinking. His free hand stretches toward you in offering, lingering and patient, a flawless imitation of a courtly prince. But you read a thousand things in the crook of his fingers, the quiet, intense way he gazes at you. 

“Come, aunt.” The endearment curls from his tongue like barbed mockery, but there’s bite to it all the same. “Let me return you to my uncle before the whole camp realises its northern star is missing.”

He’s vibrating, you realise. Nothing visible, nothing anyone, much less Dunk, could ever notice, but under that pale skin, he is all flame, scorching at the seams. Jealousy, yes. Fury that you are here at all. Fury that you laughed for someone else. Fury that your hand touched some hedge knight’s arm without a thought, and his own still burns with the memory of times you’ve allowed him that same privilege and how hard he had to work to earn it.  

You can practically taste how fragile the balance is right now, how easily this can end in blood. 

You turn first to Dunk.

“If you ride in the lists, Ser Duncan,” you say, straightening so that the queen is there in the set of your shoulders even in plain wool, “I shall hope to see you ride well. And I will be hoping for your good health.”

The words cost you nothing, but you see what they do to the knight beside you. 

Dunk’s whole face cracks open like a ripe fruit, lit from within by some light. A queen of the realm will be watching. A queen of the realm will hope he rises from the dust with all his bones unbroken. For a man who likely spent his life sleeping in ditches and stable-lofts, that is no small blessing. 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he manages, voice gone rough. “I’ll… I’ll do my best.”

On your other side, you hear Aerion’s breath catch. 

It’s a tiny sound, sharp as a stone striking stone, as if you’ve slid something thin but cruel between his ribs without touching him. You don’t look at him, not yet. 

Instead, you place your hand in the awaiting crook of his offered arm. 

He’s all heat and hard muscle when you wrap your hand around the silk of his sleeve. Aerion is taut in a way that makes your fingers curl further around him, every inch of him straining, but he lets you take your place at his side. Because this is always the goal, you know, even if the intent is something else. You let him be the picture of a dutiful prince escorting his uncle’s queen because it’s better than the alternative your mind can already conjure up. Your thumb presses lightly into his arm, a small, soothing stroke over fabric. Not forgiveness. Not quite, but just enough to remind him you’re not angry. That he is seen by you, always. 

“A queen is allowed to favour courage, is she not?” you ponder lightly, lifting your chin to meet his gaze at last. "Even if it’s wrapped in plain mail.”

Hurt, hunger, hatred all swirl behind Aerion’s eyes, bound up so tightly you can’t tell them apart. Then he shutters it behind a light, amused sound. 

“Of course,” Aerion says, though the words scrape as they come out. “You are… always most generous, Your Grace.”

He leans, so close that the hint of wine on his breath warms your cheek. “Tell me,” he asks quietly, for you alone, “will you pray for my safety when I ride, too? Or do you save your hopes for hedge knights with soft eyes and dirty hands?”

The question lands like a hot stone in your gut. 

You hold Aerion’s gaze for what feels like a small eternity, feel the heat of him next to your body, the brittle break in his words. The shape of a knife you could use to cut him down is clear: no, I don’t care for you, no I don’t pray for you, no I would rather see you gone. Except you think of Baelor in his armour, of every time you have watched him ride out in the past and had to make peace with the idea you might never see him whole again. You think of Aerion, too, reckless and cruel, but still family, still yours in every way that counts. No matter what shape he twists himself into, he’s still a boy who used to ask for stories about wolves and snow, and perhaps that’s your failing, for still fostering that affection for him inside your heart.

“I pray for you as much as I would for anyone else worth the prayer,” you say evenly. Your fingers flex, once, against his arm, curving there. “You know that.”

Aerion’s mouth twists. “You did not say you would hope for my good health.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” you answer softly. “You know I will.”

His composure cracks, just slightly, just enough to glimpse a flash of naked, furious longing. Everything inside him—the child, the man, the dragon he fashions himself to be, all straining towards you in ways you refuse to name.

Always for you, you hear, in the space between your bodies and his words. Always for you.

He swallows down whatever else he was going to say. 

“Good night, Ser Duncan,” you call back, letting a smile curve your mouth, queenly and real at once. “May the old gods and the new watch over you. And may your enemies’ lances miss.”

Dunk bows again, more awkward than graceful, like a tree trying to remember it once bent in high wind. When Aerion steers you towards the distant blaze of the royal pavilions, you can feel the hedge knight’s gaze on your back the entire way back, warm and bewildered. 

Aerion is more blade than man at your side, sharp and too silent, jealousy coiled under his skin like a slumbering serpent. Your hand rests in the crook of his arm, your knife rests at your hip, and you silently wonder what other oddities this tournament may bring. 

an: rip Dunk, you have no idea what kind of drama you're getting involved in, diva 😭

[happilyhertale]

A Vigil Unbroken - Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader II

Summary: Baelor opens his eyes, and the realm gains its prince again. Yet beside his bed you learn that survival is not the same as return, and that love must sometimes be rebuilt from silence, patience, and moments he no longer recalls. As his body heals and his mind slowly clears, you begin to understand that recovery is not remembering battles, titles, or oaths — but finding his way back to you.

Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: None

Author’s note: This is the second part of A Vigil Unbroken.

With the help of my lovely moots’ ideas and long conversations, I have put Baelor's road to recovery into words. I hope you'll like it! English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 6.1 k

A Vigil Unbroken I

Other stories of mine

Other stories of Baelor Targaryen

Morning light no longer has you startling awake in fear, yet you still wake before it. Long before the servants stir, and before the corridor outside the chamber finds its voice again, you are already watching him, your body accustomed to the quiet rise and fall of his breathing.

The shutters remain half closed, and a length of pale cloth hangs across them so the sun enters soft and gentle rather than sharp. Just as you’ve noticed and the maesters has told you afterwards, that brightness would cause him pain, and since then you have even kept daylight from touching him too strongly.

Each morning you study his face as the light slowly grows, ready to darken the room again at the smallest sign of discomfort.

Baelor sleeps more often than he wakes, and when he wakes it is only for short spans of fragile awareness, as though returning from whatever distant place he wandered costs him more strength than any battle ever did.

This morning you feel the change before you see it, a faint movement of his hand beneath yours. You lean closer at once, careful not to shift the mattress.

“I am here,” you murmur softly, the words now as natural as breathing. You have spoken them so often that sometimes you think he must hear them even in sleep.

His eyes open slowly, heavy with effort, and unfocused at first. You wait without moving, giving him time, and after several quiet moments his gaze steadies and finds you. Relief rises instinctively, yet it never lasts as long as you wish it would.

He looks at you, but not as he once did.

There had always been warmth in his eyes before recognition even fully formed, a gentle certainty that needed no thought. Often a faint humor would follow, the beginning of some kind remark he had already decided to offer. You never had to speak first; he always knew you.

Now he studies you carefully, his attention lingering with quiet concentration, as though he is assembling a memory piece by piece and fears losing it if he blinks. You give him a small smile despite the tightening in your throat.

“You slept peacefully,” you tell him.

He does not answer at once, and you do not press him. Words come slowly now and leave him tired when they finally arrive.

“…morning?” he asks at last, his voice barely more than breath.

“Yes,” you whisper gently. “Dawn has passed. You have rested.”

He considers this for longer than the thought should require. A faint crease appears between his brows, not from pain but effort, and your fingers close a little more firmly around his hand before you notice yourself doing so.

“How long?” he manages.

“Several days,” you reply carefully. “You were gravely hurt.”

His gaze drifts from you to the walls of the chamber, lingering as though he expects recognition to come from them instead. When his eyes return, they settle on you once more, searching with patient uncertainty.

“We are in Ashford,” you explain softly. “After the trial.”

His fingers shift faintly within your grasp. “The… trial…”

You watch the effort behind his eyes and feel your breath catch when he whispers, “Duncan.”

Relief washes through you, warm and almost painful. “Yes, Ser Duncan lives.”

He closes his eyes briefly, and this time the movement carries understanding rather than simple exhaustion. After a moment he asks: “Did we win?”

“You saved his life,” you answer.

You wait for the familiar modest dismissal he once would have given, the quiet humor, the gentle deflection of praise. But instead, he remains still, absorbing the words as though they describe a man he has heard of rather than one he remembers being.

When his eyes open again, they return to you.

“You stayed,” he says slowly.

“Of course,” you whisper.

He watches you in silence, and although there is kindness in his expression, the certainty that once lived within does not follow it. His gaze is careful and courteous; the look he would give someone he wishes to reassure but does not truly know.

“You are very kind,” he murmurs. “My lady.”

The words wound you more deeply than you expect. Your smile remains, though it takes effort now, and you lean closer, tightening your hold around his hand with fragile care.

“It is I,” you say quietly. “Your wife.”

He studies you again with visible concentration, frustration touching his brow as though the answer stands before him but remains out of reach. There is no rejection in him, only distance, and that distance frightens you more than his stillness ever did.

You smooth his hair gently where the bandages allow, letting your fingers linger.

“You used to know me at once,” you whisper. “You never needed to think.”

His fingers move weakly against your palm, an uncertain response, and he keeps looking at you even without understanding. Gradually you begin to realize that he has not forgotten you out of indifference, but because he cannot yet find himself.

Lowering your forehead carefully to his hand, you close your eyes. His gaze lingers on you with a quiet attention that does not fade as quickly as his strength does.

In the hours that follow he sleeps longer than he‘s awake, and each time his eyes open they seek the same point in the room before settling upon you. You begin to notice it slowly, almost against your will: he does not yet know your name, yet he rests more easily when you speak, and the tightness that sometimes shadows his brow eases when your hand remains in his.

Once, when a maester approaches too quickly to adjust the bandages, his breath quickens and his hand moves restlessly across the coverlet until it finds yours, closing around it with surprising insistence. Only then does he find calmness again. He never remarks upon it, and perhaps he is not even aware he does it, yet after that you no longer question why you remain so near.

The fear does not leave you, but it changes. You begin to understand that memory is not the only path by which he might return to you, and though he cannot yet name you, a part of him already knows where to look when he wakes.

Days pass more gently after that. His strength improves by small degrees, enough that you dare, at times, to loosen your constant watch, trusting that he will not vanish the moment your eyes leave him.

For the first time in days you allow yourself to move a few steps away from the bedside, albeit no farther than the small table near the hearth where the maesters have left their jars and folded cloths. The fire has burned low and you mean only to warm the water before he wakes again, thinking he still sleeps in the gentle, shallow way he has for most of the morning.

You keep speaking softly as you work, more from habit than reason, telling him small things that require no answer — that the light is mild today, that the castle yard has grown noisy again, that the worst of the fever seems to have passed. You have noticed that silence frightens you more than any sound.

Then suddenly, you hear the mattress behind you shift softly.

It is a small sound, but you know it at once.

You turn only halfway at first, expecting no more than restlessness, and for a brief moment your mind refuses to understand what you are seeing.

Baelor is pushing himself upright.

He moves slowly, with painstaking care, bracing one hand against the bedding as though the weight of his own body has become unfamiliar to him. The effort shows in the tension of his shoulders and the tight line of his mouth. He has not noticed you yet.

“Baelor—”

The name leaves you before you can stop it.

He pauses, breathing unevenly, and turns his head slightly toward your voice. “I did not wish to disturb you,” he murmurs faintly, as though he has committed some small discourtesy.

“You must not rise,” you say at once, already crossing the room.

“I am well enough,” he answers quietly, though the words come slowly. “I cannot lie abed forever.”

For a heartbeat you almost believe him. He is sitting now, though unsteadily, his feet just touching the floor, and some instinctive part of you longs to see strength in him again.

Then the color drains from his face.

It happens gradually. His posture falters first, the steadiness leaving his shoulders as his hand tightens against the mattress. His eyes lose focus, not closing but unfixed, and you see confusion replace determination before he understands what is happening.

The room has begun to move for him.

You reach him just as his balance fails. His weight tilts forward and you catch him awkwardly, one arm around his shoulders as he sways against you. He makes no cry, only a sharp intake of breath, and his hand grips your sleeve with sudden, desperate force.

“I have you,” you whisper quickly, supporting him as carefully as you can. “Do not fight it. Lean on me.”

His body trembles, not with weakness alone but with effort, as though remaining upright requires all the strength he possesses. You feel how little steadiness there is beneath your hands, how uncertain his weight has become.

The motion has cost him dearly. His breathing has turned shallow and uneven, and after a moment he presses his forehead weakly against your shoulder, eyes shut against the dizziness he cannot master.

“I am… sorry,” he whispers, almost sobs.

The words undo you far more than the collapse.

You steady him, easing him back toward the bed with slow care, guiding him down until he lies again against the pillows. Only once he is settled do you release him, though your hands remain hovering as if he might fall even now.

“You need not apologize,” you tell him softly, though your throat tightens around the words.

“I wished only…” He pauses, gathering breath. “I wished to spare you worry.”

Your hand trembles where it rests against the coverlet. “You could never be a burden to me.”

His eyes open, heavy with exhaustion, and he studies your face with quiet regret. “You have done more than you should be asked to do.”

For a moment you cannot answer. You smooth the blankets instead, adjusting them though they need no adjusting, because it gives your hands purpose.

“I would do it again,” you whisper.

He watches you as if trying to understand something beyond the words, but strength fails him before thought can. His eyes close once more, not into peaceful sleep but into sheer exhaustion, his breathing gradually easing as the dizziness passes.

You remain beside him, one hand still resting lightly over his, and only then do you understand fully how fragile he has become.

The man who once rode into danger without hesitation cannot yet cross a room.

And though he lives, you feel fear settle deeper in your chest than it ever did while he lay unconscious, because now you have seen the truth with open eyes — not the memory of the prince you knew, but the wounded man he is, and how easily he might have been taken from you altogether.

You do not move your hand from his again.

In the days that follow the chamber is still your whole world. Morning and evening bells lose their meaning, marked only by the arrival of maesters, the changing of linens, and the careful measuring of his strength. You learn the small signs of his endurance — the steadiness of his breathing, the way his brow tightens when pain begins to return, the fatigue that overtakes him after even the smallest exertion — and you begin to measure time not in hours but in how long he can remain awake beside you.

Sleep comes to you only in fragments, and in the quiet moments your thoughts refuse you rest. Again and again your mind returns to the trial, not as it was told afterward but as you remember it: the dust of the yard, the weight of unease you could not name, the moment he prepared to ride. You had spoken then, though softly, because you would not shame him before others, and you had told yourself it was enough.

Now you are no longer certain.

You wonder whether you might have said more, whether you should have held him longer, whether one word spoken differently might have reached him past honor and duty. You know the answer a wife is meant to accept — that a prince of his house could not refuse such a challenge, that the realm watched and expectation bound him more tightly than any plea of yours ever could — yet the knowledge does not quiet the thought that returns each night as you sit beside him: that he rode because he believed he must, and you let him go because you believed the same.

Sometimes you watch him sleep and try to picture the moment again, searching for a place where you might have stood before him, taken his hand, and asked him to choose you instead of honor, and each time you find yourself uncertain whether he would have listened, or whether you would have truly wished him to.

A feeling of helplessness lingers, quieter, deeper — not that you might lose him, but that you came closer than you ever understood while you still had the chance to stop it.

And so, you remain, speaking gently when he wakes, guiding him through small efforts, and waiting for some sign that the man you knew is not lost behind the wound that keeps him from you. When his thoughts grow clearer you begin, cautiously, to reach toward memory, not because you wish to test him, but because you need to know whether what you nearly lost can still return.

And tonight, he seems stronger, not with the easy strength he once carried without thought, but with a steadiness that had been absent for days, as though the haze behind his eyes has thinned enough for the world to settle back into its proper shape. Propped against the pillows he holds himself with less visible effort, and his breathing runs even and untroubled, while his gaze, when it comes to rest upon you, lingers with a clarity you have scarcely dared hope for

You lie beside him, still careful despite the maesters now allowing him a little movement, never forgetting how fragile his recovery feels to you, how easily it might yet slip away. The fire has burned low, its embers dim beneath a cradle of ash, and the chamber rests in the quiet particular to late evening, when the castle beyond the walls has softened into distant murmurs and there is nothing left but the faint sound of soft talking.

“You remember Duncan,” you say gently, your fingers resting over his hand, light enough that he could withdraw if he wished. “You remember the trial.”

He gives a faint nod, slow but certain. “Yes.”

Encouraged, though your heart has begun to beat more quickly, you continue, watching him with careful attention, afraid to miss even the smallest change in his expression. “And Summerhall. The southern fields. Your brothers.”

There is a pause long enough that you almost regret the question, yet he nods again, quieter but unmistakable.

Relief comes first, warm and immediate, and for a moment you almost allow yourself hope.

You swallow, and before you can stop yourself the question that has lived within your chest since the maesters first spoke their cautions finally finds voice.

“And our son?” you ask softly.

He grows still.

Not with recognition, but with uncertainty so visible that you feel it before he even speaks. His eyes do not move toward the room, nor toward you, but inward, searching with an effort you can almost see, as though he turns through memories that refuse to open where he needs them to. His brow tightens and he looks at you with a gravity that makes your breath falter.

“Our… son,” he repeats carefully.

You hold his gaze, willing him toward it, as though the strength of your hope alone might guide him there.

“The day he was born,” you whisper, unable now to stop yourself, the memory rising too vividly to contain. “You held him before I did. You told me he had my eyes.”

His breathing shifts, not with understanding but with strain, and his fingers tighten slightly around yours in a gesture that feels less like recognition than apology.

“I—” He falters, and you see the moment the effort fails him. “I do not see it.”

The words are gentle, spoken with care, yet they strike with a weight you had not truly prepared yourself to bear.

You had told yourself you were ready. You had believed it.

Still, something within you recoils.

“You were afraid,” you continue quietly, because stopping now would make the silence unbearable. “You pretended otherwise, but your hands were shaking. You would not admit it.”

He closes his eyes briefly, and for a heartbeat you think the memory may yet surface if he reaches only a little further, but when his gaze returns to you there is no recognition within it, only a quiet, aching sorrow.

“I am sorry,” he says, and there is more pain in his voice than in any wound he suffered in the lists. “I do not remember him in my arms.”

The chamber seems to contract around you. You keep your smile, because you cannot allow him to see the full depth of your hurt, yet your chest tightens as though something fragile inside it has been drawn too taut. You turn your face slightly, not to hide from him but to gather a single steady breath before your composure fails you entirely.

“You sang to him,” you whisper after a moment, your voice thinner now despite your efforts. “You claimed you could not carry a tune, yet you sang anyway.”

He watches you with an attentiveness that almost wounds more deeply than the forgetting itself.

“I would have,” he says softly.

“Yes,” you answer, and your voice trembles despite you. “You would have.”

Silence settles between you then, not distant and not cold, only unbearably heavy, because what stands between you is not absence of love but absence of memory, and no tenderness can bridge it.

“It was years ago,” you say at last, gently. “You need not force it.”

Your gaze drifts toward the faint glow of the embers, and as you watch them dim the old fear returns, slow and certain: that the man beside you remembers the realm, his brothers… yet not the small, private world the two of you once shared.

But after a while you try again.

The question has lingered within you for hours before you dare give it voice. You can see how tired he is in the heaviness of his eyelids and in the faint tension that gathers behind his eyes, yet his thoughts are clearer tonight than they have been, and some fragile part of you still believes that if you reach for the right memory, the right moment, something of what was lost might yet return to him.

You smooth the blanket near his shoulder, more to steady yourself than to comfort him, letting your hand rest there as you gather the courage you have nearly abandoned twice already.

“Do you remember our wedding?” you ask at last, keeping your voice gentle, almost light, as though the question carries no weight at all.

His gaze shifts to you immediately.

There is no avoidance in it, no sign that he would turn away from what you ask, only a quiet searching as he studies your face and turns inward at the same time.

“Our wedding,” he repeats softly.

You nod, unable to look away from him. “The sept at Summerhall. The roses my sister insisted upon. You said there were too many.”

A faint crease forms between his brows as he reaches for something you can almost see just beyond his grasp. You hold your breath without intending to, afraid even the smallest movement might break whatever fragile thread he is following.

“The roses,” he murmurs slowly. “I… remember roses.”

Hope rises too quickly, bright enough to hurt.

“Yes,” you whisper, leaning closer before you realize you have done so. “White and pale gold.”

He closes his eyes, not with recognition but with effort, and when they open again you feel the hope in your chest begin to loosen its hold.

“I remember a sept,” he says carefully. “I remember standing before a Septon.”

Your fingers tighten unconsciously against the blanket.

“And me?” you ask, the words escaping before you can stop them.

He grows very still.

You see the moment he understands what you are truly asking, and the expression that touches his face is not confusion but sorrow.

“I do not see your face there,” he says quietly.

He speaks gently, with such regret that you almost forgive the words at once, yet they settle inside you with a weight that steals your breath.

“You wore blue,” you tell him, though your voice has grown thin despite your efforts. “Not black or burgundy... because you said you shouldn't wear such dark colours on such a glorious day.”

He studies you with a concentration that feels almost like an effort to will the image into existence.

“I wish I could remember it,” he whispers.

The ache that rises in your chest is sudden and sharp, and you turn slightly under the pretense of adjusting the candle on the nightstand because you cannot let him see how deeply the loss wounds you.

“It is only a memory,” you say softly. “Rest now. You are tired.”

“I am failing you,” he murmurs instead.

You shake your head at once, though the motion is small. “No. You are healing.”

You remain beside him in the dim light, watching the outline of the man who once stood before a sept and chose you without hesitation, and the thought comes unbidden that perhaps you must now be chosen again by a heart that no longer remembers why it once turned toward yours.

But he stirs before you can gather yourself, shifting with care as he gathers what strength he has, and his hand lifts slowly toward your face. The movement is unsteady yet deliberate, and his fingers brush your cheek where tears have escaped despite your restraint.

“I am sorry,” he says, and the regret in his voice is unmistakable. “I do not remember these things.”

The steadiness you have held fractures.

“I know,” you whisper, softer now. “I know you do not.”

He studies your face, and you realize too late that he sees more than you intended him to see. The fear you have tried so carefully to conceal rests plainly in your eyes.

“You fear I will not remember you,” he says quietly.

You draw a sharp breath, startled by the clarity of it, and cannot bring yourself to deny him.

“I fear,” you admit, your voice barely steady, “that I will become only a duty to you. That you will look at me and see kindness… but not love.”

The confession leaves you more exposed than tears ever could.

For a moment he says nothing. His gaze remains upon you, thoughtful rather than distant, and you sense something shifting behind his eyes — not memory, but recognition of another kind.

“I do not remember the moment,” he says quietly, “but I know I loved you then.”

Your breath falters. “How can you know?”

“Because I love you now,” he answers, and though his voice is fragile, the certainty within it does not waver. “And it does not feel new.”

The words do not restore the lost images. They do not return the sight of his hands holding your child for the first time.

Yet they anchor something else.

You lean into his touch despite the ache that remains, resting your forehead lightly against his palm.

“I wanted you to remember,” you confess softly. “I wanted it to still belong to us.”

“It does,” he says, and sorrow lingers beneath the gentleness of his voice. “Even if I must learn it from you.”

The pain does not vanish, yet it changes, becoming something quieter and more bearable, because the man beside you is wounded, and though memory fails him, he does not turn away — he is still reaching for you.

For a long time afterward neither of you speaks. The chamber has fallen into deep night, the fire reduced to a low red glow, and the quiet no longer presses upon you as it once did. You remain close beside him.

At some point exhaustion overtakes you despite your efforts, and you drift into a shallow rest with your hand still resting in his.

You wake before dawn, not to sound but to warmth.

For a moment you do not understand what has roused you, until you realize his fingers are loosely curled around yours, not by accident but in sleep, his grip faint yet unmistakably deliberate. He does not wake when you shift, nor when you carefully adjust the blankets, yet his hand follows the movement as though unwilling to lose its hold.

You lie still after that and watch the faint light gather along the shutters through the cloth that still hangs there, while his breathing remains slow and steady beside you.

When the morning bells sound you do not dread them as you have on other days… you allow yourself, cautiously, to believe that healing may not come all at once, but that it is coming.

The maesters arrive shortly after the morning bells, their chains glinting faintly in the pale light that filters through the shutters. They speak in low, careful voices, praising the steadiness of his thoughts while warning against impatience, repeating that recovery must come slowly if it is to last at all. You remain beside the bed despite their polite suggestions that you should rest, and though you nod at their counsel you make no move toward the door.

You do not leave.

Baelor listens with quiet attentiveness, answering when spoken to and offering neither complaint nor protest, yet you can see the effort beneath his composure in the faint tension at the corner of his mouth. When they propose he attempt standing again, something like pride stirs in his expression, subtle but unmistakable, as though the notion of remaining confined to the bed wounds him more deeply than the injury itself.

The maesters guide him carefully, lifting him in stages so his body may adjust, one supporting his shoulders while another steadies his back. You stand close to him, but leave him and the maesters space, and try to give reassurance without making him feel watched, even though your attention never strays from him for a moment.

When at last his feet reach the floor he draws a slow breath, his focus fixed not upon dignity but upon balance. You see the tremor that runs through him, subtle yet undeniable, as his weight settles uncertainly and he tests the strength of his own body as though the ground itself might betray him.

He takes a step.

It is small and cautious, yet deliberate. For a moment he manages well enough, his gaze lowered in concentration, but the effort quickly begins to show in the tightening of his grip upon the maesters and in the faint shadow of dizziness that crosses his face.

“That is enough,” you murmur softly, more plea than instruction.

He does not argue. Instead he allows them to steady him as they guide him back toward the bed. The distance is no more than a few paces, yet your heart beats as though you have crossed a battlefield together, and only when he is seated again do you realize how tightly you had been holding your breath.

The maesters offer gentle praise for the effort and, satisfied for the day, withdraw at last, their footsteps fading down the corridor until the chamber returns to stillness.

As evening settles and the light fades to the soft glow of embers, you lie beside him without speaking of weddings or memories that might wound you both. You do not ask questions, and you do not fill the quiet with stories; you simply stay, offering your presence without expectation, allowing him rest without the burden of remembering.

In the darkness he turns slightly toward you, his breathing slow and even, and the warmth of him against your side feels steadier than it has in many days.

His breathing has settled into a slow, even rhythm, yet you know now the difference between sleep and wakefulness in him, and this is not sleep. There is a quiet awareness in the way he lies beside you, as though his thoughts are moving somewhere beyond the dim chamber.

After some time he shifts, carefully and with deliberation, as if he considers the movement before allowing his body to follow. He turns onto his side to face you fully now, his eyes open in the low firelight. There is no strain in his expression tonight, only a stillness touched with thought.

You meet his gaze but say nothing.

He watches you for a long while, not searching as he once did in confusion, but studying you with a steadier attention, as though something has caught at the edge of his mind and he is reluctant to disturb it by speaking too soon.

“It was raining,” he says at last.

The words are so unexpected that for a moment you wonder whether you have misunderstood him, yet you do not interrupt. You have learned how fragile these moments are, how easily eagerness can scatter them before they take shape.

“The ground was soft,” he continues slowly, his voice quiet, almost distant. “The path near the orchard had turned to mud.”

Your breath stills.

He is no longer quite looking at you but beyond you, into something only he can see, his attention held by a memory still forming.

“You should not have walked so far,” he murmurs, softer now. “Your shoes were ruined.”

Confusion comes first — orchard, mud, ruined shoes — and you search your own recollections carefully, afraid to seize upon the wrong memory and break whatever fragile thread he follows. You remain silent, hardly daring to breathe.

“It was late in the afternoon,” he says, with growing certainty. “The storm came sooner than we expected… I had watched the clouds and thought we still had time.”

And as he speaks you are no longer wholly in the chamber.

Your heart begins to pound.

You remember.

You see the path again, the orchard stretching behind you, the air heavy and warm before the rain, the wind stirring the leaves in warning neither of you took seriously. You remember the way the first drops fell — large and sudden — darkening the dust at your feet before either of you understood how swiftly the sky would open.

Yet you do not speak. You let him find the path himself.

“You were angry with me,” he adds, and the faintest warmth touches his tone, almost wonderingly. “You said I had promised the sky would hold.”

You remember it clearly… the irritation you tried to hold onto, your skirts gathered uselessly in your hands as the ground softened beneath your steps, the absurdity of trying to hurry in silk while he attempted, with earnest futility, to apologize and not to laugh at once.

“I thought you would not forgive me,” he says, almost thoughtfully.

You had not meant to forgive him. You had meant to remain offended all the way back to the castle, yet the rain came harder, sudden and drenching, and the both of you had broken into helpless laughter as dignity abandoned you entirely.

He frowns slightly, not in confusion but concentration, his hand shifting faintly against the blanket as though he can still feel the rain striking there.

“Your dress,” he murmurs. “Blue silk. It was never meant for weather.”

The world narrows around you. You scarcely trust yourself to move.

“You laughed,” he says, and his voice softens further. “Not because you were pleased… because you knew I would not know what to do.”

Your throat tightens painfully as the memory unfolds completely in your mind: the broad old oak at the edge of the field, the sudden downpour that drenched you both before shelter could be reached, the sound of rain against leaves overhead.

“You stood beneath the tree,” he continues, his gaze dark in the firelight. “You came closer because you were cold… and because you knew I would not step away.”

He blinks slowly, and when his gaze settles upon yours again it is no longer distant or unfocused, no longer searching for meaning he cannot reach, but steady and present in a way that startles you more than any confusion ever has.

“I had not meant to kiss you,” he says quietly, his voice low and certain in the dimness. “I told myself I would not.”

Your heart falters at the words, because they do not sound like guessing or reconstruction but memory.

And you remember the moment of hesitation, the way he looked at you as though weighing something far greater than propriety, and how your heart had begun to race before you even knew why.

“Yet you did not move,” you murmur faintly.

“No,” he says, his voice softer still. “Nor did you.”

And you feel again the rain against your skin, the damp silk clinging, the closeness beneath the tree where neither of you could pretend not to understand.

“I remember thinking,” he says, “that if I stepped back I would regret it for the rest of my life.”

Your eyes close as the moment returns in full — his hand uncertain at your arm, the breath you both held, and then the kiss itself, gentle at first and almost questioning.

“That was before the betrothal,” you whisper, scarcely daring to shape the thought aloud.

He draws a slow breath, and recognition reaches him fully, not pieced together by reason nor offered by your prompting, but known with the simple certainty of something once lived.

“Yes,” he says softly, and the steadiness in his voice leaves no doubt. “You tasted of rain.”

Tears rise so suddenly that you cannot contain them. He watches you closely, and you see awareness deepen in his expression, not only of the moment he recalls but of what it means to you to hear it spoken.

“That was the first time,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you breathe, your voice trembling openly now. “It was.”

He shifts nearer without thinking, the movement careful because of his injuries yet no longer hesitant, and his hand finds yours with a familiarity that feels effortless, as though some part of him has always known its place.

“I remember how you looked at me after,” he says softly. “As though you feared I would regret it.”

Relief aches through your chest so sharply it almost hurts.

“You did not,” you whisper.

“No,” he answers, and a faint echo of his old smile touches his lips, fragile but real. “I decided then I would marry you.”

The words undo you completely, and a small, unsteady laugh escapes you through tears as you lean forward, your forehead resting gently against his.

“You did marry me,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies, and there is no uncertainty in him now.

His hand rises to your cheek, his touch steadier than it has been in days, and he studies your face as though committing it to memory in a way deeper than recollection. For a moment he hesitates, not from doubt but from caution, aware of his own weakness, and then he shifts closer still, slowly lifting his arm around you. The movement costs him effort you can feel in the tension of his breath, yet he does not stop until he has drawn you carefully against him.

The embrace is gentle and imperfect, his strength not yet fully returned, but it is deliberate, and the warmth of him surrounding you carries a reassurance no words could give.

“It was raining when I chose you,” he says quietly near your hair. “I would choose you again.”

Your chest feels too full for breath as you lean into him, careful of his bandages yet unwilling to pull away. For the first time since the trial you no longer feel you must teach him who you are.

He has not remembered the ceremony, nor the roses, nor the vows spoken before witnesses, but something older and far more yours — the moment before duty and titles, when affection first overcame restraint.

And that, somehow, belongs to you more deeply than the wedding ever did.

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[the-darklings]

PLEASE Lady Stark and her direwolf being all protective of her around men (if you still take requests)

⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: In which a dragon prince meets an overprotective direwolf (and must win his approval).

⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 2.6k

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: stark!reader, you're betrothed (congrats!), smitten!baelor must impress a very grumpy, and very unimpressed direwolf. I got so many different variants of this request, hope you enjoy!

read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.

Blackwind finds him before you can.

Snow is coming down in slow, fat flakes when Baelor Breakspear rides through Winterfell’s gates, wrapped in dark leather and pale fur that never quite looks right on him. He is still more sun than snow: skin touched gold, dark hair damp with melted frost, a short beard shadowing his jaw. He smiles up at you on the battlements, that quick, bright flare that feels like standing too close to a hearth.

You mean to meet him in the yard with your father, all courtesy and proper words. You get as far as the steps. The growl reaches you first—low, thunder-deep, the sound stone might make if it could voice displeasure. You take the last few steps at a run.

The courtyard has gone very still. Grooms and guards hang back, horses stamping nervously. Baelor has dismounted, one gloved hand on the reins, the other loose at his side. His Kingsguard already has a hand on his sword.

Between them and the prince, hackles up and teeth bared, stands Blackwind.

He looks bigger in the southern saddles and trappings scattered around him, as if your betrothed has dragged an entire foreign court north and set it at the direwolf’s feet for judgment. Snow clings to Blackwind’s black fur in flecks of white, his lips peeled back from those great pale teeth. His eyes are fixed on Baelor—not wild, not frantic, but steady and unblinking.

Baelor is not afraid. You can see that, at least. His shoulders are loose, weight balanced, breath a pale mist between them. His gaze is intent, yes, but calm, as if he is weighing some puzzle rather than facing six feet of northern fury.

“Stand down,” one of the knights murmurs, metal whispering.

“Draw on him, and I’ll have your hand,” you snap, the words out before you can soften them.

Baelor’s mouth curls. Even now.

“Call him off,” your father mutters at your shoulder. “Before someone does something foolish.”

You step forward into the open yard, heart beating high and fast. “Blackwind.”

His head jerks toward you. The growl drops, but does not vanish. He shifts, putting himself between you and the prince, massive shoulder brushing your thigh as he steps. His fur is cold and coarse under your hand when you lay it there, fingers curling tight.

“It’s all right,” you mutter, low and steady. “He is a guest of Winterfell. My… betrothed.”

The word hangs in the frozen air between all three of you. You feel it land in your own chest as much as see it in Baelor’s eyes. Blackwind huffs, hot breath against your skirts, but he doesn’t back down.

Baelor takes a step closer.

Every man in the yard seems to inhale at once. Blackwind’s lips twitch, that growl building—until Baelor does something you do not expect.

He removes his glove. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls it off finger by finger, tucks it into his belt, and then—without breaking the direwolf’s stare—he sinks down onto one knee in the snow.

A prince of the blood, bending in your courtyard before your beast.

He sets his bare hand in the snow between them, palm up, fingers spread. The cold bites his skin pink almost immediately, flakes melting on contact.

“Peace,” he says softly, not in the Common Tongue but in that liquid, older language you have heard on his lips in the king’s solar. High Valyrian, you think. Words like banked coals. “I am not your enemy, shadow-wolf.”

There is something in his voice—a note you have heard in council once or twice, the same quiet command that can make grown lords fall silent and lean in. Dragon-blood, the bards call it. The ripple in the air when a Targaryen truly chooses to be heard.

You feel it even standing where you are, a prickle along your spine. Blackwind hears it too.

His eyes narrow. He scents the air, head dipping, then edging forward inch by inch until his nose is almost touching Baelor’s hand. He snuffles, snorts, breath steaming over that offered palm. You hear your father swear under his breath.

Baelor does not flinch.

Blackwind presses his muzzle down once, hard, into the snow just shy of Baelor’s fingers. A sharp, testing push.

Baelor’s fingers curl. Not grabbing. Just… closing, as if resisting some instinct. His throat works; you see him swallow.

“He keeps you safe,” Baelor says offhandedly, this time in the rough northern cadence he’s been practising for your sake, words still threaded with that same quiet power. “Good. I would have him keep doing so.”

Your heart stutters.

Blackwind draws back, shakes himself, sending a flurry of snow up around them both. The growl fades. He throws one more long look at Baelor, full of a wolf’s unknowable judgement, then turns away with a huff and pads to your side, massive head bumping your hip. Claiming you, as if to say: mine.

Baelor rises, flexing his fingers once as feeling returns, and meets your gaze over the space your direwolf has carved between you.

“Winterfell is… watchful,” he says, and the smile that follows is for you alone.

You fold into him without another word.

—

Over the next few days, Winterfell begins to learn Baelor Breakspear, and Blackwind decides whether he will allow it.

On the second morning, you find Baelor in the godswood.

The air is knife-cold, enough that your breath spikes white with every exhale. The heart tree’s face is run through with red, sap frozen in thin, bloody streaks. Baelor stands before it hatless, dark hair dusted with frost, cloak hanging open despite the chill.

“I wanted to see where you speak to your gods,” he says, when you crunch over the snow to join him. His nose is pink with cold. It is, absurdly, charming. “They have heard my name often enough of late. It seemed rude not to introduce myself.”

“You think they listen to Targaryens?” you tease, tucking your hands into your sleeves.

“I think they listen to anyone who means what they say.” His eyes flick to you, warm even in the shadow of the weirwood. “And I mean this.”

He turns to the tree again, and you are ready to be embarrassed—ready to hear something grand and foolish, some overwrought vow fit for a sept, not a godswood.

Instead, what comes is simple.

“Watch over her,” he murmurs to the carved face, the words barely more than breath. “She is of you. I am… not. But I will do my best.”

Something tightens under your ribs. 

A twig snaps behind you. Blackwind pads into the clearing like a shadow that has stepped loose from the trees. Two smaller wolves flank him, then skitter off when they notice you, vanishing into the undergrowth. He does not. He comes to your side first, as he always does, brushing against your hip. You thread your fingers into his coat. Snow crystals sparkle on his fur.

Baelor turns and inclines his head, courtly, as if greeting a lord.

“Good morning, Blackwind.” He still says the name carefully, as if tasting each consonant for the first time.

Blackwind stares back, unmoving. Baelor shifts his stance, spine straightening. You feel the air change, subtle as a shift in wind before a storm.

“My lady’s guard,” he says, voice low. “I will not take her from you. But I will stand with you. Do you understand?”

You almost laugh at the absurdity of it—your betrothed speaking to a wolf as if brokering a treaty—but the sound dies when Blackwind moves. He steps forward, slow and deliberate, until his snout is a handspan from Baelor’s chest. You can see your prince’s pulse in his throat. The direwolf huffs, breath fogging Baelor’s beard, then gives him a long, slow sniff from jaw to shoulder, like a man leaning in to catch someone’s scent.

You flush, ridiculously, as if Baelor has done the same to you.

The direwolf’s nose bumps against Baelor’s chest once, just above his heart. A sharp, assessing jab.

Baelor closes his eyes for half a heartbeat, steadying himself. When he opens them again, there is something molten there.

“For her,” he says quietly, the words a vow and a command both. “Always.”

Blackwind sneezes, a violent, almost comedic sound in the solemn cold, then turns away as if he has decided the matter is beneath him. He circles around you both, leaving a wide track in the snow, and settles near the roots of the heart tree where he can watch.

You catch Baelor looking at you, not the wolf, something like awe in his eyes. As if your direwolf’s grudging tolerance is the greatest honour he has yet been paid.

—

By the fourth day, the household has learned a pattern.

Where you go, Baelor goes; where you both go, Blackwind appears.

At first, it makes the servants nervous. A Dornish-blooded prince in dark wool walking the walls with Lady Stark on his arm and a monstrous black shadow padding behind them like a second cloak—it looks like a story the wetnurses would whisper to frighten and thrill children. But no one is harmed. No one is even snapped at. Blackwind reserves his teeth for foolish southron hounds who stare too long, and for the one over-bold stable lad who thought it would be humorous to toss a rock in his direction. You never find the lad’s name, only the torn sleeve and the sharp lesson learned.

Baelor takes the incident with surprising calm.

“He warned him,” the prince says, watching Blackwind pace the far end of the yard while your father rages at the boy. “More than once. A man who ignores such warnings is a danger to himself.”

“And to others,” you say.

“And to others,” Baelor agrees, looking pointedly at the cluster of knights who still eye Blackwind like a coiled viper.

When you spar in the yard—cloaks off, you in padded leathers, Baelor with a practice sword that moves like an extension of his arm—Blackwind prowls the edge of the ring. Each time Baelor comes at you a little too hard, or your boots skid dangerously on packed snow, the direwolf’s growl prickles along your skin. It ratchets up in pitch when Baelor feints left and drives in close, his body a warm wall against yours, breath puffing at your cheek.

“Easy,” Baelor murmurs, though you aren’t sure whether he’s speaking to you or the wolf. His hand covers your wrist, steadying your grip. “I’ve got you.”

“You most certainly do not,” you answer, breathless, and twist out of his hold—mostly because you can feel Blackwind’s stare like a weight between your shoulder blades.

Baelor laughs, delighted, even when you land a stinging blow on his side.

Later, when you sit together in the hall, shoulder to shoulder on the dais bench while your father nurses his ale and watches the room, you feel something heavy and warm press against your boots under the table. You glance down.

Blackwind has stretched himself out so that his flank brushes your feet… and Baelor’s.

Every so often, his tail flicks, nudging Baelor’s ankle deliberately, as if reminding him: I am listening.

Baelor schools his face into polite neutrality, but you can see the way his fingers curl tight around his cup, the faint tension in his jaw. When your knees knock together—accidental, you tell yourself, though you do not move away—his hand shifts to let his thumb brush the back of yours in the shadows of the table.

Blackwind emits a low, conversational rumble.

“Does he disapprove?” Baelor murmurs, leaning closer, his breath stirring loose strands of your hair.

“He disapproves of everything,” you whisper back. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Oh, I will,” he says, smiling into his cup. “I fully intend to win over your entire pack, my lady. Direwolves included.”

Your heart, damn it all, behaves like some flighty southern thing, tripping over itself in your chest.

—

Acceptance comes on the last night of Baelor’s visit.

You don’t realise it’s happening until it’s already done.

It’s late—past the hour when the great hall empties and even the most stubborn men seek their beds. The sky above Winterfell is a deep, velvet black, stars dulled by thin cloud. You and Baelor walk the inner wall walk, side by side, faces turned to the wind. Your cheeks burn from the cold; he’s flushed, unused to the northern bite, but his eyes are bright, even merry.

“You’ll find our summers shorter,” you are saying, breath rising in plumes, “but the nights are kinder in truth. No heat lying on you like a wet cloak.”

“And here I was thinking of asking your father to build me a solar with a proper window,” he teases. “So I can sit in it and remember Sunspear without freezing solid.”

“You are spoiled, Your Grace.”

“Terribly.” His hand brushes the back of yours where it sits on the stone. “I am told it’s curable, with the right company.”

You look anywhere but at him. At the yard below. At the faint glow from the kitchens. At the shadow that moves with silent certainty up the stairs to meet you.

“Blackwind,” you say softly, by way of greeting.

He comes up between you both without hesitation, fur ruffled by the wind, eyes catching what little torchlight there is. He pauses, looks from you to Baelor and back again, then does something he has never done before. He pushes between you, hard enough that you both have to take a step back to keep your footing. You nearly collide with Baelor’s chest; his hand flies out, steadying you at the waist.

“Gods,” Baelor breathes, sudden and low, his fingers warm despite his gloves.

Blackwind turns in a tight circle, then drops onto his haunches with his back pressed against Baelor’s legs and his head nudging insistently under your hand. As if arranging you both precisely where he wants you: one on either side of him, close enough that Baelor’s shoulder is a solid line of heat against yours.

You freeze.

So does Baelor.

“He is…” Baelor starts, then stops, as if not quite daring to believe it. You feel, rather than see, the slow expansion of his chest. “Is he—”

“Claiming us,” you manage. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. “Or… permitting you. One of the pack.”

Blackwind grunts, a heavy, satisfied sound, and settles more firmly against Baelor’s shins.

You look up. Baelor is already looking down at you. In that moment, with the wind cutting sharp and clean around you, Winterfell laid out below like something carved from pale stone and shadow, his gaze on you and your direwolf pressed between you like a living vow, it feels suddenly very simple.

This is what the gods have given you: a dragon who will kneel in the snow, a wolf who will share his place by your side.

Baelor lifts his free hand—slowly, always giving the direwolf time to object if he chooses—and lays it on Blackwind’s shoulder, fingertips sinking into thick black fur.

“Thank you,” he says, not to you, not to the wolf alone, but to the cold night, to the heart tree in the distance, to any god who might be listening. His thumb strokes once, reverent. “For trusting me.”

Blackwind exhales a long, steady breath and lets his weight lean into Baelor’s leg in answer.

The dragon pull, you think, watching the line of Baelor’s throat as he tips his head back to look at the sky, is not all fire and command. Sometimes it is this: a quiet, inexorable gravity that draws even wolves closer, until they find they are no longer circling, no longer baring their teeth, but standing shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the same dark world.

You slip your hand into Baelor’s, where it rests on Blackwind’s back. His fingers close around yours at once, as if this too is an easy, inevitable thing.

an: this made me remember how badly I want a direwolf :(

[se7entyrell]

hi! can we get a moodboard-drabble of jack with a veterinarian reader (maybe specialising in emergency vet med)? thanks in advance!

love your work btw <3

(this is my first request ever omg)

read THIS and request your own until the 13th of feb :)

Jack knew that you loved animals. He can't imagine somebody having a very successful career in vet medicine without a certain love for them.

He just hadn't realised it would mean his house would become a zoo.

Three dogs, two cats and a bird. He's not even sure that's the end of it. You've been mentioning a dog at the shelter you volunteer at who might be getting put down if they can't find a home for her.

He's positive that the dog will find his way into his apartment before that happens.

Even your bed is overrun. Where he was once able to stretch out freely, now each stretch of his legs ends up bumping a dog. Sometimes Penny, who likes to sleep at his feet. Or Dexter, who curls up between you both every single night. And then there's Bogie, who's your absolute shadow.

He can't help but look forward to the day when you have children, and some of the pets can start sleeping with them instead. Except, knowing you, you'll just populate the house further so that everyone has someone to share a bed with.

[tw1sters]

Room for Three

Hell hath no fury like a child scorned by his previously single, not-so-newly divorced dad's new dating life. Only the holiday season will reveal whether this obstacle brings you closer together or tears you apart.

▸ PAIRING: Divorced Single Dad!Luca x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: hurt/comfort, kids being kids (this kid a lil evil lowkey), reader is child of divorce ▸ WORD COUNT: 14.3K ▸ A/N: and with that, the holiday season comes to an end!!! this isnt my best luca and it's a lot of parent/adult-child dynamics than romance, but it was pretty fun to write (lots of projection yall). hope y'all have enjoyed this collection! if you enjoyed this story, please reblog / comment / like, i appreciate every single one :) mwah!!!

↤ holiday collection masterlist | main masterlist

Growing up a romantic means that you’ve absorbed all of your understanding about love and all that it entails from sappy, over-dramatized romcoms. Love is meant to be boomboxes outside your window, secret folded notes passed across a classroom, and grand declarations of love outside of Grand Central Terminal with a horse-drawn carriage to whisk you away to Central Park at the end. You’ve always liked that idea. 

It’s natural for you to think that the challenges you would face in finding love would be similar to those in movies. Toxic in-laws who wear white on your wedding day, cunning exes who spew lies to manipulate the protagonists, and a good old dose of miscommunication. All of them ultimately end up with happy endings, and that is the kind of love you thought you would face and conquer. 

Little did you know, the only thing that would stand between you and the love of your life is a seven-year-old boy. 

Meeting Luca feels like kismet. It’s straight out of Hollywood, like a perfectly planned script that the two of you are performing. The way you two bump into each other at a grocery store, both reaching for the last box of butter on that fateful October day, knuckles brushing.  

The moment your hands touch, you look up to find blue. Blue, blue, blue. Sparkling, beautiful, sapphire blue. Blue like the Pacific. Blue like the sky on your favorite day of the year.

Goddammit. 

Only you would get caught in a butter-buying match with someone this good-looking.

His blonde hair is windswept, twisting and curling in ways that feel intentionally effortless. He looks a little frazzled with how big his eyes are blown, but no less handsome. He’s tall, ridiculously so. And broad, so fucking broad and beefy that you can’t help the way your eyes trail over how his leather jacket stretches along his arms. He has a couple of tattoos on his hands but you don’t get the chance to decipher them before he opens his mouth. 

“Sorry, I’m not usually this rude, I swear,” he says and your brain completely short-circuits over his words with his delicious British accent. “I am in desperate need of this. It’s for a customer cake order and I’m missing a bit of buttercream.”

Now, you’re not one to care much about accents. However, you are also running on very limited sleep, your taste buds have gone numb from all the sugar you’ve been consuming, and the adrenaline from your boss’ last frantic email is still coursing through your veins. So sue you for being more vulnerable in that moment. 

Unfortunately for him, this is a fight you cannot back down from. You wince when you reply, “I’m also usually not this rude, but I also really, really need this for an article going out tomorrow on Halloween cookies. Otherwise, my boss will fire me.”

It’s a standoff. Neither of you releasing the box. Each of your fingers wrapped around one half of the carton. 

The man looks up to the ceiling for a second, either in frustration or in thought, you can’t tell. “How many sticks do you need?”

You do a quick mental math. “Two.”

“I also need two. How about we split the box instead of arguing over who gets it?”

Oh, a problem solver. You feel tingling in your legs. 

“That… is perfect.”

The two of you make a beeline for the self-checkout, and you’re already pulling out your corporate card before he can swipe his own. He seems conflicted by it, immediately reaching into his wallet to pull out a couple of bills.

You stop him with a hand on his. “Don’t worry about it. Let capitalism pay for this. I need it for work so I can expense it.”

His brows — strong, sharp brows — furrow, blue eyes softening in concern. “Are you sure? I really don’t mind. It’s only right.”

“No, please. It’s nothing big. I do have to run though, so…” You pick up the box and rip it open, handing him two of the sticks. “Thanks for the quick thinking, I probably would’ve been standing there for an hour trying to figure out how to clone that box.” 

His lips tug up at the corners. “No, thank you. For the butter. Appreciate it.” 

“No problem, good luck with your buttercream!” 

And you think that would be the last you would see of the blonde British boy who bought some butter. It’s a blip in the grand, boring scheme of your life. However, you would be lying if you said you didn’t think about him in the days that followed. He looks familiar, but you can’t quite put a finger on it. 

The last thing you expect is to run into him again. 

The beginning of November comes with the rush of Thanksgiving recipes that you have to test with your team. This means you have transitioned from being covered in flour and sugar and chocolate, to grease and butter and fats. You’re convinced you’ve lost your fingerprints with how much oil is coating your fingers. You will certainly not be checking your weight anytime soon because god knows how much mac and cheese you’ve inhaled the last couple of days. 

You’re working on a new recipe for Cajun turkey wings when you realize you left the one bottle of sauce on your desk, so you make a mad dash back to your cubicle to grab it.

It is worth noting that you are in the safe space of your workplace. Mind you, there was never any risk of running into any hot guys; the cute ones in the office are a no-go to avoid any HR violations. You’re in a constant state of disarray from oven heat, ingredient spillage, and an overall lack of effort to impress. 

A stained t-shirt, worn jeans, your frayed apron, and the myriad of sauces on your face and hands are practically uniform. 

As you rush back to the kitchen, your eyes glued to the label of your bottle, you end up knocking into something extremely hard and extremely big. So much so that you land firmly on your ass, bottle thankfully safely in your hands still. You would prefer to avoid another trip to the grocery store. 

“Are you okay?”

Oh. Oh no. When you look up, you see the same sight. Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue eyes widened in surprise. Pleasant surprise. There’s a hint of mirth dancing in his eyes when he reaches down with a hand extended to pull you to your feet.

“You— you’re here,” you announce rather dumbly. 

“I am,” he notes in amusement. “So are you.”

“What are you doing here? How are you in here?”

Blondie grins and you swear your heart beats louder and faster. You may have to do a quick check-in with a cardiologist after this. “I was here for an interview.” You echo the last two words in confusion. “They’re doing a piece on bakeries in the city.”

That makes you perk up. It makes sense since he was looking for butter for a customer order. “Oh! What bakery are you part of?”

“Luca’s.”

You light up at that revelation. “Oh my god, you guys have the best baguettes in town. That crisp exterior, soft interior, that perfect crunch when you just crush your fingers into it.” You’d be a little bit more embarrassed about how eagerly you’re describing this particular bread if it weren’t for the fact that you would take a bullet for said bread. “There’s also that amazing shiso dessert. Genius really. I never thought that would’ve worked. Wow, that’s— wow. You work for an amazing place. And sorry, here I am rambling on and I never even asked for your name.”

He stares at you in amusement before delivering the final blow. “Luca.”

Well shit. “That’s— that would make sense, yes. That’s your bakery and your name. A bakery named after you. The bakery that you own.”

Luca looks like he is actively trying hard not to laugh. “That’s correct.”

“Right, well, I should probably let you go before I embarrass myself any further.”

“No, please, continue to do so, I’m in no rush,” he teases. 

Heat spreads to the tips of your fingers as you squirm in humiliation, groaning. “If I ever think about speaking again, please remind me not to.”

This time, he does laugh and the sound is deep and delicious and wholly addictive. It’s like a sweet treat at the end of a very tough day — and you’ve had some very tough days recently. “I fear I may lose all sense of joy in life if you choose not to speak ever again.”

“You’re cute,” you say with a roll of your eyes, before it hits you. “Not in a flirty kind of way. Just that you’re acting cute. Again, not flirting.”

“Not flirting? Shame.”

Your lips part in surprise. Flames lick at your cheeks again as you have your foot in your mouth once more. Friendzoning the hot guy who runs one of the best bakeries — if not the best bakery — in town should be on top of your list of criminal offenses. 

“Shouldn’t you be going back to your award-winning bakery? Buns to make.” 

“Lots of buns to make,” he smiles. “I should probably return to ensure the place hasn’t burned down in my absence.”

“That’s probably important. Having an intact bakery so you could, you know, run a bakery.”

Luca appraises you with a humored gaze. “Before that, I did want to thank you again. For the butter. I’d love to take you to dinner sometime to show my appreciation.”

Suddenly, your tongue feels like a paperweight in your mouth and you can’t seem to move it even an inch to form a word. It sounds like he’s asking you out, but that couldn’t be. He’s probably just a really friendly guy; maybe it’s that British charm seeping through to make it sound more provocative than it actually is.

Or maybe you’re just delusional. 

“No, no. Please, don’t even stress about it. It was a small thing and I’m glad it worked out.”

Luca tilts his head, hand raising to his jaw as he strokes it thoughtfully. The scruff on his face looks more delectable than it needs to be. “Alright, then what do you say if I ask you to dinner because I want to take you to dinner? No gratitude involved, just pure selfishness.”

Now, you’re really tongue-tied. 

“Oh, uhm, well, I suppose that would be nice?”

Your face morphs to a cringe. Luca chuckles low, “Are you sure? You don’t seem very certain.”

“No, it’ll be fun.”

His lips twitch again. “How about you give me your number and I will set up some time for us?” He pulls out his phone and extends it in your directions. 

You look down at your fingers covered in stains. Luca, appearing to notice your dilemma, solves your problem once again. “How about you read your number out to me and I can add it in?”

So you prattle off the digits slowly, ensuring that each number is correct as you give them to him. With the current state of your mind, you wouldn’t be surprised if you just started counting one to ten. You watch the numbers appear on the screen and then he adds your name on top. 

You freeze. “I— how do you know my name?” Could his friendliness be fake? What if he’s actually a stalker? What if his British accent isn’t even real? 

As an answer, Luca’s gaze drops to your apron. Your apron where your name is embroidered. Stitched in big, bold letters. 

Way to embarrass yourself for the hundredth time today. 

“Well, that would make a lot of sense,” you mutter.

“I hate to keep you longer,” he pauses then smiles, “that’s a lie. I’d keep you as long as possible if I could. Unfortunately, I believe your duty calls.”

Your duty calls? Oh shit. You whirl around to find your coworker waving you over from the kitchen. Your turkey wings! “I need to get back to it but it was nice seeing you again!” You’re already halfway down when Luca calls out that he’ll text you.

–

The way down is easy. Falling for Luca makes it feel like you’re skydiving out of a plane with a functioning parachute and a very attractive man attached to your back telling you that he’s got you covered.

He texts when he says he will. He calls you after he drops you off at your door. He asks you about your day and means it when he says he wants to hear more. He laughs at your terrible jokes and proceeds to make even worse ones himself, so much so that you’re giggling to a point that the table next to you shushes you. He defends you against said table and then whisks you away to a less uppity place to save your date night.

The conversation flows easily even without alcohol as a lubricant. You’re intoxicated on his presence, his smile, the sound of his voice, the charming lilt of his laughter. Your cheeks are aching by the end of the evening with your lips still stretched in a punch-drunk grin.

And when you break your not-on-a-first-date rule, you find it all too easy to drag him into your apartment by the collar of his shirt and his lips glued to yours.

The days begin to blur together. Waking up with legs tangled together in your sheets. Breakfasts in your little nook where he whips up the most delicious pancakes with homemade strawberry syrup. Calls in the middle of the workday when you’re both waiting for your ovens to preheat. Texts with heart emojis that have your own heart jolting in your chest. Even midday pick-me-ups when he swings by your office to drop off special treats he has baked just for you, much to the envy of your colleagues who can’t help but tease you for this budding romance.

While you’ve had previous romantic entanglements, none of them have felt like this. So natural, so easy. It hasn’t been that long and yet you find yourself completely bewitched body, heart, and soul by this beautiful blonde man.

Gone is the stranger at the grocery store. Now, you spend some of your weekends picking produce at the vegetable aisle, dropping a variety of baking ingredients into your cart, and pulling together delicious recipes in your own comfortable kitchen.

The holiday season makes it challenging to see each other, but you know what they say — distance makes the heart grow fonder. There are weekends you don’t see Luca at all and even his weekday evenings can be surprisingly busy. It’s understandable since he is the owner of his own bakery. You give him some grace there; after all, it’s not his fault that you’re just so incredibly greedy when it comes to spending quality time with him.

One night, when the two of you are curled together on your couch, warm and full from the apple pie à la mode he threw together from scratch, you let a vulnerable confession slip from your lips.

“You might call me insane,” you start, staring down at your fingers twisted together, “but with everything that has happened so far — how we met, how we met again, and how easy everything has been, it almost feels like—”

“Fate, right?” He completes.

You draw away from him, looking into those cerulean eyes in surprise. “Fate, yeah,” you whisper. “It’s crazy. Tell me I’m crazy for thinking that.”

“Well, then, pot meet kettle.”

Luca makes things official with you on a dinner date that he planned and cooked in his kitchen. It almost seems silly to have to ask someone to be your official girlfriend when you’re adults like this, but when it is Luca who shows up with your favorite flowers, who cooks your favorite meals, who looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars in the sky, the only answer you can give is yes.

So everything should be fine and dandy.

Should is the word of the day here.

Should indicates what is probable. Should is not a certainty.

Because just when you think that everything is peachy, life throws another curveball your way.

“So, you know how we were talking about how I might call you insane that one night” is how Luca decides to prompt the conversation. “You might call me insane next, but I need to tell you something.”

You were half distracted by the book on gastronomy in your hands when Luca chose to bring this up to you. He looks nervous, an unfamiliar expression on the usually confident man’s face. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him even worry before, so nervous takes it to a whole new level. Setting your book down, you turn to him with a frown.

“Alright, go on.”

You’re not entirely sure what to expect.

“I actually have two thumbs in my left foot.” (He doesn’t, you’ve seen it)

“My bakery is failing.” (You have seen his P&L sheet, so you seriously doubt this)

“I have been cheating on you.” (His phone doesn’t even have a passcode, he can never do this)

Luca is a lot of things, but a traitor and a liar aren’t even considerable options.

Well, if you don’t count a lie by omission.

Because then he says — “I have a son.”

Your brain understands the individual words, but the entirety of it combined and coming out of Luca’s mouth have the gears in your mind turning very slowly. The phrase feels foreign for someone you’ve been dating for nearly two months.

“A son,” you echo numbly.

“I was married before this. Very short stint. It was one of those college pregnancies. My ex and I, we got married because we thought it would be the right thing to do. We had our son — Jamie — and realized that we weren’t meant to be together, so we now have joint custody. It’s why I’m only available on alternating weekends and why my weekdays are so busy,” he admits almost shyly. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, I promise.”

“I just—” you stop yourself, “why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Luca winces, his finger twitches on his lap like he wants to reach out to you, but he resists that temptation. “I never know how things will go. I don’t tend to mention my son until I know it’s getting serious, and I’ve never felt the need to bring him up.” His eyes flick up to meet yours. Sharp and warm. “Until now.”

You’re quiet, turning the information in your mind like you’re inspecting the cover of a book. This book that you’ve just started reading, barely scratching the surface of the first chapter. You want to keep flipping through the pages, devouring each word like it’s gospel. But this plot twist has you pausing.

“And I understand your hesitance, I did not mean to deceive you in any way. I’m just careful about my son and who I mention him to and who I introduce him to—”

“Introduce him?” You balk. The reaction is likely the incorrect one because you see the hurt settle on his expression. With your face crinkled, you internally scold yourself. “It’s not that I— I understand why you didn’t say anything. This is just… a lot all at once.”

Luca licks his lips. For the first time since you met him, he looks anxious and all you want to do is chase away that look with kisses. “I know. I apologize for putting you in a delicate situation. But I wanted you to know that I do really enjoy being with you; the reason why I’m bringing this up is that I see a future with you.” Your heart throbs painfully, fondly in your chest. “My son is the most important person in my life right now. You— you’re quickly becoming someone very important to me too — if not already. I figured it would be time for the two of you to meet. My two favorite people.”

He means well. You know he means well. But a son? You love children and you do think you are perhaps ready to start building a family. However, it’s far from what you’ve imagined and you’re not entirely sure that this is the picture you want to paint. While you’ve never discounted adoption, it’s a terrifying thought for you; it’s one thing to have a baby who grows to love you with time, it’s another to convince someone else’s child to love a stranger like you. 

But this is Luca we’re talking about. Luca whose heart is gentle and hand is firm. Luca who presses kisses onto the cuts on your fingertips whenever you slide your knife a little too far. Luca who calmly handles every crisis in and out of his bakery. Luca who you absolutely know would be the most devoted father, who raised a good kid just like him.

Luca who you love.

It’s a terrifying realization to have after mere months, but it’s a realization that feels right.

So, there is only one path forward from this point. “Okay,” you murmur, “I want to meet him.”

The way his face lights up the room is enough to know that you’ve made the right decision.

Unfortunately, it is clear upon first meeting that Jamie will not like you. Jamie looks like an almost replica of Luca, just smaller. His blonde hair flops over his blue-green eyes that peer up at you curiously.

Jamie takes one look at you, glances at Luca, realizes what is happening, and immediately storms upstairs to his room. Luca looks absolutely aghast, apologies spilling from his lips as he ushers you for the first time into his home. While you busy yourself with cataloging every inch of his living room, Luca goes to address Jamie.

The room looks lived-in but tidy. A few superhero action figures are strewn across the room, ones dressed in blue and red, others in silver and black. They lay on the floor like characters that have been abandoned in the middle of the scene. There’s a shelf to the side with cookbooks that you also own. Then there are the family pictures.

Ones of Luca and Jamie, Luca and his friends at his former restaurant, a few of Jamie through various stages of his life, and then there are the ones of Luca, Jamie, and an unknown woman, whom you presume is his mother. Luca’s ex. You’ve never seen her before, but she’s stunning. The kind of beauty that steals the breath from your lungs.

You can see why the two of them would be together. They look like they belong together. They look like they could have beautiful babies together — and they did.

Before you can think too hard about her and what it all means, Luca reappears by the doorway with a sheepish look. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over him. He’s usually not this stubborn.”

“Well, he does take after his father,” you tease, an attempt to lighten the air.

Luca smiles weakly, gratefully at you. “He’ll come around. I’m sure of it.”

Instead of dwelling, the two of you end up busying yourselves in the kitchen. You ask him what Jamie’s favorite dish is and, when he says lasagna, you get to work. It is one of your specialties after all. Even Luca is forced to admit that it may be better than the one he makes.

“Perks of testing every single lasagna recipe to ever exist,” you grin.

Luca prepares dessert instead: homemade chocolate ice cream with peanut butter, one final attempt to bribe Jamie to come out of his room. His favorite dinner and his favorite dessert.

It works — only because Jamie’s hunger beats out his obstinacy.

You’re wringing your fingers together under the dining table the entire time. Jamie sulks quietly, lips pinched together in distaste. He eases up a little when he sees lasagna on the table. His eyes brighten a smidgen when he takes the first bite of the meal. The frown on his face smooths into confusion. “This tastes different,” Jamie points out.

A sharp palate. Replica, you think to yourself.

“Do you like it?” Luca asks with a small smile.

“It’s better than the usual,” Jamie mutters under his breath before greedily shoveling another few spoonfuls into his mouth.

Luca’s eyes fly to you in relief. Your chest untangles slightly too, your lungs working again for the first time that night. However, the moment Luca mentions that you had made the dinner, Jamie pales again and pushes the plate away. Your heart sinks.

“Jamie,” Luca warns gently. “That’s not polite.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You were hungry a minute ago when you said that it’s better than how I usually make it.”

“Well, you didn’t make it.”

You have to bite back the curl of amusement on your lips when you see how frustrated Luca’s getting. This is probably unfamiliar territory for him. He has never introduced his son to anyone before. His son has always only known his mother and his father to be in his inner circle. You’re a stranger. Someone who he perceives to be “replacing” his mom. It’s not surprising that he’s acting this way.

Being a child of divorce and your parents having both remarried, you know exactly what it’s like. You empathize with him.

All you can do is squeeze Luca’s knee under the table, subtly shaking your head to urge him to let it go. You don’t say anything still, wary that a single syllable out of you would send the child screaming for the hills again.

“Alright, well, we have dessert,” Luca sighs, “that I made.”

The first meeting is as successful as it can be. Luca offers to drive you home and you insist that he stay with Jamie. Then he insists that you can also stay there.

You give him an incredulous look. “I’ve only just met your son. He already hates me—”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“Oh, trust me. When I first met my mom’s new boyfriend, I loathed him. I’m not entirely offended, it’s a normal response. Give him time and let up on him. He’s a kid,” you smile, bumping your shoulders together. “I’ll see you another time, okay?”

Given this first introduction, it’s not unfounded that you are incredibly suspicious that the next time you meet Jamie, he tries to be friendly with you. It’s a complete 180 and you feel as if you’ve entered the Twilight Zone. You’ve seen the movies, you’ve watched The Parent Trap; before you know it, you might be the evil almost-stepmother waking up floating in the middle of a lake on a blow-up bed.

Luca — ever the optimist — finds this promising. You’re not about to rain on his parade so you play along with Jamie’s sudden change of heart.

However, it quickly becomes clear to you what his plan is. He is out to destroy you — or at least your reputation with Luca.

It starts off with a meal that Jamie had suggested. He tells you that he loves your lasagna and would love to try more of your cooking. You are both elated and nervous because children can be picky and this child is one you need to impress. So you spend your week plotting out this dinner, down to every last detail. You’re cooped up in Luca’s kitchen to prepare the meal after kicking said man out so you can do this yourself.

Jamie comes around as you’re mixing dessert and offers to help. You’re in a good mood because the preparation has gone well. So when he asks you if he can add in the sugar and do the mixing, you let him do so. You keep a close eye on him, of course — gentle, nothing that would be considered too overbearing.

Dinner goes exactly as planned. Jamie even enjoys your main courses, compliments you. For the first time, you feel like you’re actually making progress.

Then comes dessert.

“Bloody he—” Luca stops himself, gagging on the spoonful he just put into his mouth. You look at him in alarm then at your dessert. “Love, I—” he chokes again, “this is incredibly salty. And spicy. Are you trying a new spin on caramel pudding?”

You most certainly are not. Your eyes wander to Jamie, who did not touch his plate, knowing full well what he had done. With a smug smirk, he pushes away the dish in front of him.

Instead of pointing fingers and giving him the satisfaction of seeing you fail, you instead play along, “Ah, yes, something we’re potentially doing for the holiday collection. There’s supposed to be good balance with the salt and the sweet and the spice, but I may have overdone it.”

“Just a little bit,” Luca says with a wry smile, eyes watering. “It’s not a bad idea though. How about we work together to refine it? That way we’ll test the recipe again and we’ll have dessert.”

“That sounds perfect.”

With proper measurements and a little tweaking, the enhanced pudding recipe turns out to be a real hit. Luca even suggests doing a collaboration with you publishing the recipe and him selling it at his bakery for a limited time. Through it all, Jamie keeps the pout on his face as he licks his own bowl clean.

Of course, Jamie doesn’t give in. He’s much too stubborn for that, just like his hopeful father.

When you and Luca have a big date planned — a much coveted reservation at a restaurant the two of you have been meaning to try for a while, you’re slipping on the final touches of your jewelry by the door. Luca has cleaned up nicely too, wiping off all the flour and syrup stains from his face and swapping out his dirtied apron for a crisp shirt and trousers.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you this dressed up since our first date,” you murmur as you fix his collar.

“I like to keep surprising you,” he grins right back. “The babysitter should be here soon, then we can head out.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Dad, I’m seven,” Jamie chirps from the side, arms crossed over his chest. He’s giving you a stink-eye but it melts into mild irritation when Luca turns to him.

He ruffles his son’s hair affectionately. “Alright, kid, I trust you but I’ll trust you more with Kara here.”

Speak of the angel, Kara arrives shortly after, carrying the light and positivity of a thousand suns with her. 

It is only when the two of you are about to walk out the door that you hear it.

“Ow! Ow! Dad! It hurts!” 

Luca leaps into action, immediately whirling around to check on his son who is curled up on the floor. You’re quick to drop to your knees next to him, hands flying like you’re not quite sure what to do with them. Luca is immediately checking his temperature, his stomach, his limbs to diagnose the root of the pain.

“My stomach,” he whines, “it just hurts so bad.”

“Alright, bud, let’s get you to the hospital and get you checked up, yeah?”

“No!” The protest is swift, Jamie’s wide eyes suddenly alert. “I just— can you stay with me? I don’t really wanna be with a babysitter tonight.”

Luca’s eyes flick up to you in desperation and you immediately shake your head. “Let’s stay in tonight, make sure Jamie’s okay. I can make some porridge or something while you figure out the meds. Something easy for his stomach.”

“He hasn’t eaten anything all day, been stubborn about wanting fast food,” Luca winces. “That would be great, thank you.”

“I don’t like porridge,” Jamie scowls, much too aggressively for someone who is sick.

“Chicken soup, it’s his favorite when he’s sick. I have stock in the pantry and leftover chicken in the fridge,” Luca supplies then turns back to his son with a scalding look. “Though you shouldn’t be so picky when that’s what got you into this in the first place.”

Jamie has the decency to look sheepish.

The two of you work in tandem. With the babysitter cancelled and paid, and the reservation dealt with, you keep your hands tied up in the kitchen. Start with the mirepoix and a mix of garlic, onion, carrots, and celery before adding in ginger and turmeric for additional flavor and health benefits. With that, you also add in the broth, the chicken, and more seasoning. The delicious aroma floats around the kitchen, like a warm blanket on this cold winter day. 

For a bit of weight, you throw in couscous which will be easy on his stomach. Then you reduce the heat and let it simmer.

Luca left to pick up more medicine that he unfortunately does not have in the house. You pad upstairs to check on Jamie while the soup is on the stove, knocking on his door gently.

“Hey, Jamie, soup will be ready in a bit. Your dad’s just gone out to pick up medicine.”

“Whatever.”

Instead of being annoyed, you find yourself amused. He reminds you a lot of your younger self, angry and bitter at the prospect of a new family when you’re still holding onto your old one. You swallow your chuckle and instead say, “Alright. Let me know if you want anything else okay? Whatever you want, I can make it for you.”

“Fried chicken sandwich.”

A snort does make it out of your lips this time and you hope it didn’t carry through the door. “Unfortunately, that one is above my pay grade but I do make a mean fried chicken sandwich, so I’ll do that for you one day. When you’re feeling better.”

You hear an unintelligible grumble from the other side and figure the conversation is over. 

Luca returns shortly after and you plate up bowls of hearty chicken soup. Jamie gets dinner in bed, while Luca fusses around him. You wait with bated breath as Jamie lifts a spoonful into his mouth, tasting it quietly. You observe how his eyes light up, some of that color returning to his cheeks, before he looks up at you and his face completely sours.

It’s a complete change and, once again, you have to bite back your laugh as you anticipate his next words. “My mom’s is better.”

“Jamie!” Luca chides, shooting you another apologetic look. “What are you actually supposed to say?”

He is bitter when he ducks his head down and mumbles an apology and a thank you. 

Part of you has a very strong feeling that Jamie is pretending. It’s a terrible thing to assume of a child in need of help, but you’ve also used the same tactic on your mom before. Times may change, but the deviousness of children does not. 

Still, you can tell Jamie is a good kid. A good kid who just adores his parents and is incredibly protective of them. You can’t blame him entirely for acting up.

“It’s okay, you can tell me how your mom makes it and we can cook it together next time. Just how you like it. How about that?” 

Jamie only purses his lips and you don’t say anything when Jamie finishes his bowl and asks for another. And then a third.

—

Your first real, serious responsibility with Jamie is when Luca calls you in a breathless plea. 

“Sorry for asking you so last minute.” You can practically see his guilt-ridden face with the apology dripping in his tone. “The order for Blüdhaven’s mayor is a heavier lift than I thought and I still have to make the delivery. Zoe’s on a trip out of town. Would you mind helping me pick up Jamie? I’ll call the school ahead of time. He knows what to do at home so you just have to keep an eye on him. I’ll be home by dinnertime.”

Zoe being his ex. You being his last resort. 

This is how you find yourself in front of the elementary school, tapping your finger nervously on the wheel. Children are beginning to filter out and you take your final breath, one last one to build up enough courage to step out your car to wait with the other caretakers. 

You twist your fingers behind your back, keeping a close eye until you spot a familiar mop of dark blonde curls. You lift your hand in a small wave, the action is almost reluctant. He’s not your biggest fan and you don’t know how he feels about you picking him up. The last thing you want is to give him another reason to be upset with you. 

When Jamie’s gaze finally snags on you in the crowd, there’s a brief flicker of surprise before his expression flattens into a balanced combination of disappointment and irritation.

“Hey, Jamie,” you force out the friendliest smile you can muster, which apparently isn’t at all that friendly because Jamie still makes a face at you. “Your dad got caught up with work, so I’m here to take you home.”

“Whatever,” he mutters and starts stomping ahead of you. 

You guide him to your car and he immediately plants himself in the backseat, straps on his seatbelt, and glares out the window. 

Well, that’s the best reaction you can hope for. 

Your attempts at conversation are shot down at every turn, whether it’s by a whatever, a no, or blatantly ignoring you. 

It doesn’t get any better at home. Jamie slams his door shut and you’re left sitting downstairs, twiddling your thumbs. You try and make progress on the recipes you’ve been working on, making an entire to-do list for your holiday items that you need to start on tomorrow. 

When the clock chimes six and Luca still isn’t back (“so sorry, love, we’re down an oven”), you end up tiptoeing back upstairs. 

A light rap on Jamie’s door is met with silence. “Hey, Jamie, your dad’s gonna be late. I can make you dinner if you want. Anything you’re craving?”

There’s silence again and you wonder if the kid has snuck out and you’re going to be put in jail for child endangerment. So you knock again, but before your knuckles can meet the door a third time, it swings open and Jamie is pursing his lips at you.

He opens his mouth and his stomach growls. Loud. 

He pinks to the tips of his ears. “I could eat. You promised me a fried chicken sandwich last time.” 

This is progress. You brighten and confirm his allergies and restrictions. Luckily, Luca keeps his fridge well stocked so you have everything you need to whip the chicken up from scratch. Jamie sits quietly at the table, scribbling away while occasionally curiously peeking at you; he quickly ducks whenever you catch him watching and you smile to yourself. 

“What’re you working on?”

“None of your business.” The answer comes sharp and fast. You’re not fazed; instead you huff a small laugh to yourself. 

“Writing a love letter?” You try to tease. The way his entire face flushes red is answer enough. Your heart aches with how endearingly embarrassed he looks as he curls around the paper on the table. “That’s lovely, love letters are always nice to receive.”

Jamie is silent for a second, eyes darting around the room before they land back on you. “Are they really? Do people like them?”

“Sure. It may be old-fashioned in a world full of emails and texts but I remember how excited I was when I got love notes from my crushes when I was younger, even now.” 

“Does my dad write them for you?”

You’re not sure how to tread here. On one hand, it would be nice to share. On the other, you’re not sure if it’ll only upset him. However, you decide to opt for honesty.

“He leaves me little sticky notes sometimes — on tupperwares when he makes me food, on my fridge reminding me to drink enough water.”

“That’s a love note?” He deadpans in disbelief.

Your lips twitch into a smile. “Sometimes it’s nice to see little notes that remind you that they’re thinking of you, that they care about you.”

Jamie appears to ruminate on it for a second before his attention redirects to the page before him. His brows are puckered in thought, fingers absentmindedly tapping his pen.

“Tell me about them.” He looks up, eyes alert. “Your crush.”

He scowls but the blush remains. You wonder if his grumpiness comes from his mom or a younger version of Luca. “I don’t have a crush.”

The corners of your lips hook into another smile. “No?”

“I love her,” he says, voice so quiet that you nearly miss it. “She’s the coolest. She was the lead singer for our school’s band performance last week. She’s two years older than me and has a cool accent. Kind of like dad. She’s so pretty.” 

As if he realizes he has said too much, he promptly seals his lips shut as his face contorts into an expression of discomfort. 

You smile softly at him. “She sounds wonderful.” 

“She is,” he mutters, fidgeting with the paper on the table. “But she’s leaving. She’s moving away next week with her family. It’s sad, I guess.” His words leave his mouth with a feigned nonchalance only someone his age would have. “But she doesn’t even know I exist.”

Tilting your head, you regard him curiously. “Well, there is one way you could let her know.” Your gaze flicks down to the paper before him. “I think it would be sweet to give her a love letter. Something sentimental she can hold onto when she leaves.”

Jamie’s eyes flicker with light. Hope. “You think so?” He mumbles.

“I know so.”

His eyes skim the paper again, like he’s digesting your words and his own to bridge the gap. When his gaze briefly meets yours again, only for him to shift it quickly away with a stubborn press of his lips, you have a feeling there is a question that hangs on the tip of his tongue.

To give him a hand — and knowing full well that he won’t be asking you for any help, you offer, “You know, I’d love to take a look if you’re okay with it. Just because I love love letters. I like to think of myself as an expert in them too.”

A scoff lands on your ears. There’s no malice behind it, almost sounded in part amusement. “Alright, maybe I’ll give you a peek.”

You round the counter to join him at the dining table, sliding into the seat next to him. You’re encouraged by the fact that he doesn’t scooch his chair away from you, even if he does lean slightly further away. You look over what he has so far, which isn’t very much, but the words are endearing and honest. What he needs is just the boost of confidence to keep going, and maybe some suggestions for lines he could use.

As you compliment him for his work, he brightens. Eyes lighting up into baby blue gems. He listens attentively, brows furrowed in focus similar to how Luca looks in the kitchen. He scribbles more, checks in with you on if the phrases sound good. Eventually, he joins you by the stove as you’re preparing the buns and frying the chicken.

Sometimes, you forget how young Jamie is. He’s naturally curious with the inclination to learn more about what he doesn’t understand. Regardless of how he feels about you, you can feel him watching you closely, assessing you, picking you apart to piece you together into his own picture in his mind. He’s probably trying to understand you to understand what his father sees in you. It’s enthralling to see him try to resist smiling or blushing, see that stubbornness fight to stay in place when all he wants is to peek at whatever you’re doing.

He watches your hands move with rapt attention, the care you put into every act as you flip the sizzling chicken in the bubbling oil, how the color quickly darkens and changes, wet batter crisping up into a delicious outer layer that has him leaning closer and closer. You have to urge him to lean back a little and instead grab him a stool to better witness how the ingredients transform into a meal.

By the time Luca comes stumbling home with apologies echoing down the hall, you and Jamie are discussing how to tie off this love letter while your empty plates sit to the side, only crumbs left as evidence of dinner.

“I’m so sorry,” he says to both of you, quickly pressing a kiss to Jamie’s head, then yours. Of course, he notes with surprise that the two of you are sitting next to each other, appearing to be getting along swimmingly. “What’s going on here? What are you both working on?”

Your eyes fly over to Jamie at the same time he looks at you. He shares a private smile before looking at his dad. “Just some homework,” he lies smoothly, shuffling his pages together close to his chest. “You’re really late.”

“I know,” Luca grimaces, “there was a fiasco with one of the ovens. The mayor was incredibly patient thankfully but a last-minute order also came in from a good friend so I had to also prepare pies and cakes for an event he’s attending. Anyways, I hope this wasn’t too much trouble.”

That line he mainly directs at you. From the corner of your eye, you can see Jamie squirm. You only flash a reassuring smile at your boyfriend. “Don’t worry. I think we got a lot done. We have some leftover fried chicken if you want to make your own sandwich.”

“Yeah?” Luca brightens then turns to Jamie, “Good sandwich?”

“Wasn’t bad,” Jamie mumbles quietly, which is the biggest compliment he can bestow upon you at the moment.

The two of you share a look. Luca’s smile stretches wider just a fraction. “That’s good, I’m glad you’re both getting along now.”

Your flinch is swift. While you are making headway with Jamie, you also know his personality — which means you’re already expecting how tenaciously he will reject this notion.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jamie spits out venomously, his answer clearly catching his father off guard while all you can do is sigh. He throws a glare your way for good measure, the withering look wavers momentarily before the walls slam back up. All the progress you’ve made today gone with the wind.

Then he’s hopping to his feet and stomping all the way back up to his room.

“I’ve completely butchered the situation, haven’t I?” Luca stares at you remorsefully, sliding into the seat next to you and tucking you close to him. His lips against your shoulder as he peers up at you with those god-honest blue eyes. Similar to the ones that had just looked at you with pure vitriol only seconds ago.

“Not entirely — at least, I hope not,” you try to comfort him. “He’s just a kid. A kid who’s seeing his dad go through something new. Give him some space and time. I never expected him to like me immediately; nobody does.”

“I did,” Luca murmurs sweetly, dragging his lips up to meet yours. “Love at first sight.”

Love. You try not to think too much about it. It’s not a phrase you’ve shared, not just yet. “You like seeing me freeze up by the single box of butter? Like being my knight in shining armor?”

“I’m just a man who met a lovely woman, both looking for the same thing and ended up finding something more.”

A giggle rises from your chest, light and airy. “You’re a damn cheeseball.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

Little did you know, Jamie is still eavesdropping right around the corner — listening to his dad fall in love all over again, but not with the woman he wants. 

–

You thought that you and Jamie had come to some form of truce after you helped him pour his heart onto pages for the love of his life. Unfortunately, children are fickle, and that includes their acceptance of you. This means that Jamie is still attempting to foil whatever plans Luca and you have put together; in this case, it’s the at-home dinner date the two of you have been plotting to test out new recipes and make yourselves a grand feast.

Jamie’s mom was supposed to pick him up and whisk him away for the evening, some children’s show that Jamie has been begging for her to take him to. However, when Zoe shows up at Luca’s door, she appears befuddled.

“Wait, what show? I thought we were all having dinner here.”

Her voice carries down the hall to the kitchen where you are tucked away. You didn’t think it was an appropriate time yet to meet her, even if you’ve met her son a handful of times. While you’re not one to shy away from your boyfriend’s ex-wife, you’re also not entirely prepared to meet her either.

Certainly not today when you’re covered in spills and stains.

When Luca returns to the kitchen, he has that contrite look on his face again and your stomach sinks. You’re trying your hardest not to be disappointed that your date has been changed again, but it’s difficult when it begins to interfere with your private time with Luca.

“I’m sorry, love,” Luca sighs, “it seems there is a mix-up. Zoe and Jamie will be joining us for dinner. Zoe has offered to take Jamie out for the evening but Jamie seems insistent on staying here to get a home-cooked meal.”

There is nothing else to say except— “Sure, we’ve made plenty anyway.”

That is how you end up at the dining table next to Luca, across from Jamie, and diagonal from Zoe. Zoe, who looks beautiful even in a casual tee and jeans. Zoe, who has these gorgeous eyes that are both sharp and kind. Zoe, who Jamie looks up to with adoration.

Zoe is an artist, another creative soul who spends her days painting masterpieces, moulding sculptures, carving statues, all of which end up in museums or some billionaire’s home. Her works in the industry are equivalent to Luca’s reputation in the baking world. Long story short, she is incredibly impressive and you can’t help that nip of envy in your chest.

It’s clear that the two have a lot of history. They move in tandem like they’ve learned each other’s rhythms, passing around spices they knew the other would want, ensuring that Jamie behaves well and eats all his vegetables. If you were anyone else, the sight would have been heart-warming. A picture perfect family.

You are the outsider, an intruder in this otherwise warm home. Zoe loops you into the conversation, Luca provides you context, but it’s becoming abundantly apparent that you are the odd one out. They speak of memories that you aren’t a part of, laughing fondly around tales you’ve never heard before. They’re spinning sugar and all you can taste in your mouth is bitterness.

There is this tear in your chest that you can’t seem to patch. You try to stitch it closed with the memories that you’ve made with Luca, the few moments of amicability with Jamie, but each word that leaves their mouth, each shared laugh, tugs the thread loose.

Your eyes are focused on the food in front of you, the half-eaten meal that loses all its flavor the moment your lips wrap around your fork. All the hard work you’ve dedicated to the meal feels fruitless in the grander scheme of things. You can’t even bring your gaze up to meet theirs, instead opting to quietly pick at your food.

At some point, Luca’s hand brushes against your back. A frown mars his pretty face and your gaze darts around the table to find Zoe also looking at you in concern and Jamie with an unreadable expression. You can feel the tears start to come, sitting on the edge like they’re waiting to tip off the cliff, but you quickly blink them away when Luca’s voice quietly cuts through the rattling in your ears.

“Are you okay, love?”

“Yeah, just not feeling so hot,” you force out a smile that you hope is convincing. Luca’s persistent sullen look says otherwise. “I might’ve just eaten too much,” you chuckle.

Luca’s lips twist in concern. “Do you want to lie down? I can get you some meds for indigestion.”

“No, please, don’t worry about me, I probably just need to let the food settle,” you grit out with a small curl of your lips.

“Are you sure?” Zoe’s voice is sweet. Thoughtful. Kind. You can see why Luca had fallen for her. “I’m sure I have something in my purse.”

You shake your head resolutely. “I promise, I’m fine. I do have work tomorrow though so I should get going. You all please continue. I have an early day.” Your chair scrapes back as you move rather abruptly, Luca’s confusion only deepens. You gather your bag quickly, tell Zoe it’s nice to meet you, tell Jamie it’s nice to see him again, and move towards the door.

Luca’s quick to stay close on your tail. His hand grasps your elbow before you can disappear into the night. “Listen, I’m so sorry about all this. I’ll make it up to you. Shall we do dinner tomorrow night? I’ll make your favorites.”

Your heart untightens, but only partially. The bitter twist lingers. “Stop stressing. Things happen. We can figure it out another time.” With that, you lean forward to kiss his cheek only for him to turn at the last second and catch your lips.

The kiss is deep, hungry, and knee-weakening. You almost forget that you’re standing on his front porch until he presses you against his doorframe. His fingers dig into your hips, keeping you firm. “Sure I can’t convince you to stay? Zoe can take Jamie to her place after this,” he whispers against your lips.

The offer is tempting. It would be too easy to say yes to him, to fall into his bed like you’ve done countless times before. However, with your heart still hanging on by a string, you know what you need is some distance to think things through, to compartmentalize.

“No, it’s okay. Go spend time with your family.”

The last sentence sounds bitter even to you, Luca doesn’t miss your tone and worry plagues his face again. “You’re part of it too, you know,” he says quietly.

You bite back the urge to deny, to tell him that he’s being ludicrous. What exists between the three of them is a family. You look like the homewrecker that bulldozed your way into this house, tearing down the carefully crafted houses into rubble. At least, that’s probably how Jamie sees you.

A cough to the side draws both your attention. Zoe catches both your gazes, eyes dropping to Jamie who stands by her briefly. A warning.

No PDA in front of the seven year-old. Noted.

You take a step away from Luca, further out onto the porch. He looks pained to see you distance yourself, but doesn’t reach for you again, knowing that he has to maintain some semblance of decency in front of his son. “I’ll see you all around. It was nice meeting you, Zoe.”

“You too,” she replies with a gentle smile.

Before you can change your mind, you slip into your car and drive into the night.

The final straw comes in the form of a conversation you have no part in. One that you probably weren’t supposed to hear but you suppose you’ve always been a glutton for punishment.

Another dinner in Luca’s home as an attempt to extend an olive branch to Jamie ends in pieces. Jamie still scowls at you. Luca still scolds him for his behavior. At some point, you do have to accept that perhaps you are the problem in this unsolvable equation.

When Jamie makes another comment about your cooking, Luca draws the line and sends him to his room. You grimace when you hear the door slam upstairs and Luca looking more irritated than usual.

“I’m sorry about him,” Luca sighs, “I promise he’s a good kid. He’s just incredibly stubborn.”

“It’s okay,” you say. You’re not sure that you mean it.

“No, it’s not. He should know better than to act up like this. I don’t know why he chooses to be so difficult.”

Your hand brushes his shoulder, stroking down his back. “You know why. It’s new territory for him. Let him have this. He probably feels like he’s losing his father to someone else. You just need to show him you’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m trying, I’m just not… pleased with how he’s dealing with this.”

“Talk to him. All he wants is for his dad to see his perspective. Make him understand that there are no sides, that you’re not choosing me over him. Or me over his mom.”

Luca smiles softly at you, lips brushing against your temple thoughtfully. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

Part of your request is selfish. Part of your desire for his reconciliation with his son is for your own benefit. Deep down, you know how important it is for Luca to have this connection with Jamie, because you had been in the exact same position once.

If they cannot see eye to eye, it is a sign that perhaps you and Luca should be reconsidering this relationship — for the sake of his own with his son.

As Luca moves up the stairs, you can’t help but let curiosity take over. You give it five minutes — five before you cave and make your way towards his room. That is when you hear the muffled voices carry through the closed door.

“She’s not mom! She will never be mom. I hate her.”

“Jamie! That’s enough. I understand you’re upset because this is a big change, but it doesn’t mean that you can behave this way. You need to apologize.”

“I don’t need to do anything. If mom were here, she would understand me.”

“Your mom would agree that the way you’ve been treating someone new, someone who has been nothing but kind to you, is completely unacceptable.”

“You’re the worst!”

“Jamie!”

This is a conversation you shouldn’t be listening to any longer, nor should you have been listening from the start. Your heart splinters at the hurt in Luca’s voice, the frustration and the agony. Luca has always been patient and kind, you’ve seen how he is with Jamie, even how he acts with his staff. This is probably the first and only time you’ve ever heard him raise his voice like this — and you’re the reason.

Jamie is a good kid. You know that. Luca knows that. The only reason he is acting up, the only reason this rift now exists between them, is you.

You are the why.

But you don’t want to be.

You’re an adult but Jamie is still going through his developmental phases, a critical time in his life when his parents are important variables in his growth. You don’t want to be the wall that stands between them. As a responsible adult, there is only one thing left to do.

It happens on a planned lunch date. One that you know won’t actually happen. You’ve been yanking your hair, nibbling on your nails, and wiping away your tears over it for days. The words have been formed on the tip of your tongue, rehearsed to a point where the syllables are numbing. You ball your fists in your pockets as you stand in front of the restaurant, having arrived thirty minutes early to calm yourself down; only problem is that arriving early has granted you time to sweat it out further, which has your mind reeling from thoughts and a billion what-if’s.

By the time Luca arrives, your mind is sufficiently a scrambled mess. You’ve turned your script over again in your head, picking out words and replacing them with others. He appears before you with a bright, sweet smile.

“Ready, love? I was thinking you would like the truffle omelette here.”

“Luca,” you interrupt, “can we talk real quick?”

A look passes over his eyes, one that says everything. He knows. You haven’t said a thing but you have a feeling he knows. His lips thin as he follows you to a quiet street corner, his hands stuffed deep into his coats as he looks at you warily.

“Listen—”

“No, I need to get this out. I’m sorry. I just—” you bite your tongue, wincing. “I can’t do this, Luca. I know we’re trying but I don’t think this will work out.”

Fissures crack open his expression. His smile wipes away into a downturn of his lips, eyes dimming. The lines in his face only deepen. “Please don’t do this.”

“It’s for the best, I promise—”

“It’s not,” Luca emphasizes, taking a step towards you. You back away from him and the look on his face is a slap to yours. “It’s not. You can’t tell me that. We’re good together, you know this. Things with Jamie— I know it hasn’t been easy, but I know we can work through it. Jamie is just— he’s a kid, like you said. He’ll come around. Maybe I could be firmer with him.”

Your carefully crafted lines fall apart at the seams as you look at his crestfallen face. Your eyes have to shift away to the wall to stop the tears from falling. If you come apart now, it’ll only weaken your resolve — and his.

“No. No, you don’t. He’s a good, Luca, I’m fully aware of that. He is a good kid who loves you, who only wants the best for you. He is your priority and I completely understand that because it’s how it should be. The last thing I want to do is come between you both. With how things are going, it’s clear that our relationship is a strain on yours. I think— I’m bowing out now, not because I don’t love you, but because I do. Because I care about the two of you. I’d rather you mend your relationship with him. If we keep going, there will always be resentment — on my part, on yours, and on Jamie’s. It’s not… healthy. I’m so sorry, but this is for the best. I promise.”

To that, Luca is quiet. His eyes are conflicted, because he knows you’re right. The disappointment is palpable, the hurt rolls off him in waves.

But with this, the acceptance on both your ends, you have the courage to move towards him. Your hand slides up his cheek, warm against his cold. “Thank you. For everything. The past few months have been a dream and I— it’s been a joy getting to know you and Jamie.”

His lips part, but the words don’t come. So you lean forward and press a final, firm kiss to the corner of his lips, quick enough that he doesn’t have the chance to turn and catch your lips.

And then you’re gone.

–

The days leading up to Christmas are usually filled with bated breaths and impatient anticipation. The office is teeming with life as everyone hurries to get their work done quickly to free up the holidays for themselves. The air is brimming with the kind of tension that makes you giddy, makes you excited about the season.

While it is still the case for your coworkers, you can’t say the same for yourself. It’s been a week since you last spoke to Luca, since you left him with an expression on his face that’s burned to the back of your mind. It has been a week of your finger itching to pull up your messages with him on your phone, a week of writing messages that you never send, a week of putting your phone down and burying yourself under the covers instead.

You’re listless at work and, while your closest friends at work notice, they try not to pry. Well, except one.

“You’ve been miserable all week,” Sydney points out, “I can’t have you be this depressed when Christmas rolls around. What plans do you have?”

Initially, you had spoken to Luca about Christmas and the plan was to spend the week between Christmas and New Year’s at his. Obviously, things have changed.

“No plans, I was thinking of getting a head start on recipes for next year. Valentine’s Day is going to be a pain,” you groan, dropping your forehead to your desk with a thud.

“Oh, absolutely not. I have a holiday gathering on Christmas Eve. I want you there. Dress up. We’re going to cook, eat, and drink. It’ll be fun.”

“You really don’t have to,” you say.

“This is not pity,” Sydney emphasizes, “I don’t think you should be alone and, for some unknown reason, I really do enjoy your company.”

Your head turns to peek up at her with a wry smile, which she matches. “Thanks.”

“So you really haven’t spoken to him since?” You roll your head on the desk multiple times again in a shake of your head. “Damn, do you think it was the right call though? He obviously really likes you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to be some witch that ruins his life. That ruins his son’s life. It’s for the best.”

Before Sydney can respond again, a knock on your cubicle draws both your attentions. “There’s, uh, someone for you at front desk.”

You raise your head slowly with a frown, eyes flying over to your schedule. “I don’t think I’m expecting anyone today. Are you sure they’re looking for me?”

“It’s a kid.”

Sydney and you look at each other briefly before you’re scuttling towards the front. To say you’re surprised to see Jamie there is an understatement. He’s bundled up in a thick coat, beanie pulled down low on his head where his blonde curls peek out. The tip of his nose is red with the cold, his mittened hand reaches up to swipe at his face. He blinks when he sees you.

“Jamie, what— what are you doing here? Isn’t it a school day? Aren’t you supposed to be at school? Did something happen?”

You find yourself looking him up and down, tracing over his frame to see if he is hurt in any way. He doesn’t say anything, merely presses his lips together.

Your stomach drops when you think of the alternative. If Jamie is here alone and he looks as worried as you’ve ever seen him then…

“Luca—” Your words choke up before you can get the rest of your question out. 

Sugar, the front desk receptionist, is clearly curious when she keeps throwing glances your way. You drop to a crouch in front of him and ask again, “Jamie, honey, did something happen? Should I call your dad?”

He finally responds with a shake of his head. Still, he says nothing.

“Is your dad okay?”

He nods.

That at least has you breathing out a sigh of relief. Because you don’t need the entire office to think you’ve suddenly kidnapped a child, you take Jamie to an empty testing kitchen, ushering him in with his little backpack. As the door clicks closed behind you, you watch as Jamie wanders into the large space.

His eyes skip over the myriad of cooking utensils, the gleaming pots and pans, the bottles of spices and sauces across the counters. He seems to marvel at the open room, hand reaching up to graze over the surfaces with quiet interest.

“This is where you work?”

You nearly get whiplash from how quickly you look up to see him, now across the room from you. A distance that feels like a chasm. “Yes,” you clear your throat. You’re not sure how to handle this situation. You should probably let Luca know that he’s here, in case he’s worried where his son has gone.

“Looks bigger than dad’s,” Jamie points out.

Wetting your lips nervously, you slowly inch towards him to close the gap. “Yeah, we do a lot of testing here so we have all sorts of things with a big team.”

Jamie is quiet again as he continues his exploration. He peeks into the fridge, the freezer, the cabinets. You follow him quietly and watch as he pauses in front of the mixture of pistachio paste and katafi. “What’s this?”

“You know those viral chocolates? We were making holiday versions of it. This one was leftover from our final peppermint batch.” He stares at it wordlessly. Your lips tug into a small smile. “Do you want to try?” 

Reaching for a spoon, you scoop up a little bit and hand it to him. He slides it into his mouth and you witness the way his face morphs between curiosity, surprise, a hint of delight, before it lands on feigned disinterest. Poorly feigned. 

“How does it taste?”

His lips pinch. “Alright.”

“Do you wanna try some other things we’ve been testing?” At that, Jamie can’t hide his excitement, 

With a variety of bowls and plates spread out, the two of you sit side by side tasting every single thing you can pull out of the fridge. For some, Jamie crinkles his nose, for others, he lights up like a Christmas tree. 

His excitement is contagious and you find yourself grinning whenever he enjoys a flavor. 

It is only when you begin to run out of things to test that Jamie quiets down again. He turns to you, eyes hardened with a determination that you’ve only seen against you. You steel yourself for Jamie to tell you to back off again.

“I need you to take dad back.”

You’re convinced you’re finally losing it, maybe it’s all the fumes and the smoke from cooking all this time. Because if you didn’t know any better, it almost sounded as if Jamie wanted for you and Luca to get back together. 

But that would be insanity, right?

“He’s sad. He’s miserable and sad. He misses you like crazy. He won’t stop stress baking and my pants can’t take any more of his croissants.” 

The thought of Luca putting his body through the wringer just so he doesn’t have to think of you tears open your heart. A jagged line straight through the middle. 

“Jamie—”

“You broke up because of me, didn’t you? I’m telling you now that I’m okay with the two of you dating. Just— can you just get back together?”

Your face twists into an involuntary flinch. “Honey, no — look, your dad and I have made this decision and it’s for the best, okay?”

“It’s clearly not,” Jamie scowls, “you’re both unhappy without each other. Do you not love each other?”

Love. It’s a complicated situation. Neither of you have labeled it as such, never said the word to the other, but the feeling that sits in the space between you cannot be called anything other than that. 

It’s not as if you don’t want to tell Jamie that you’re in love with his father; it is that it would hurt that the first time you admit that out loud would be to his son when you tell him that sometimes love isn’t enough. Not as an adult. Not when there are other things — other people — at stake.

“Relationships are a little more complicated than that,” you choose to say instead. “I care about your father a lot, Jamie. There are just… more things for us to think about, for us to discuss, but that’s between us. You don’t have to worry about it. Your dad will be fine, I promise.”

Jamie is about to interrupt again but you give him a stern look this time.

“Before we keep going, aren’t you supposed to be in school?” He at least has the decency to look sheepish. “Come on. I’m going to take you back.”

“Are you going to tell dad?” His feet shuffle slightly, guilt overtaking his expression. 

With a deep breath, you sigh. “We’ll see if your school finds out that you’ve left. If they notice, I have to tell your dad. If not, then… let’s keep this conversation between us, yeah?”

The drive to Jamie’s school is silent. Only when you pull up the curb does he finally speak again. “Are you really not going to call my dad?”

“Jamie, we’ll see what the school says—”

“No, I mean to get back together with him.”

Your limbs stiffen, your grip on the wheel tightening. “Your dad will be fine. It’s an adjustment period but I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Doubt it,” he mutters under his breath. 

Instead of addressing his comment, you nod your head towards the front door. “Go on. Also,” you wiggle your fingers in front of him, “give me your phone. I’m going to put my number in. I don’t want you to show up like that again, I don’t even know how you got to my office or how you found it, but it can be incredibly dangerous. If you want to speak to me, you’ll know how to reach me. I’ll pick up. Regardless of what happens with your dad. Okay?”

You punch in your number as Jamie nods. “Okay.”

“Alright. Now, go… study or something. Be good.”

A soft snort carries between you, and then he’s out the door. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief. Hopefully that’s the last of it for now. 

As you do so, Jamie has begun concocting a plan of his own. 

–

Sydney’s Christmas party is the very definition of a girl’s night. Free-flowing cocktails, decorations strung across her apartment, and her very best friends who treat you like one of their own. With the alcohol being generously passed around and giggles filling the bubbly atmosphere, you find yourself at ease for the first time in a while.

It has been a week since you last saw Jamie. He hasn’t said anything else so you’re hoping that he has let the matter slide — or that Luca is finally getting over you.

Somehow, you don’t know if that’s better.

You look down at your velvet red dress. The theme for tonight was festive and this was the most festive you could muster on short notice. It hugs you in all the right places and, for the first time in a while, you felt good dressing up. It’s the one highlight of the week now that the office is closed for the holidays. 

“At least you’re not sulking anymore,” Sydney teases, sliding onto the couch next to you. “Everything okay with the kid?”

“I hope so,” you grumble, “he gave me a scare. Since I haven’t heard from either of them, I’m going to assume that they’re fine.” 

“Have you given it more thought? What the kid said. About taking him back.”

Of course, you have. It’s impossible not to. When the son of the love of your life tells you that his father is in pieces after you walked away, you can’t simply brush it off — especially when said son is now telling you to take him back. His request has been tucked into every nook and cranny of your brain for days, occupying every single space of conscious thought.

After dropping Jamie at school and returning to the office, Sydney is quick to pepper you with questions. You let everything spill. She knows the gist of what happened, but not the extent. With the full breakdown, all she can say is what a clusterfuck.

She isn’t wrong.

It would be easy to give into Jamie’s request — to agree to speak to Luca again. However, it doesn’t change the crux of the issue, which is that Jamie isn’t your biggest fan. Even if he’s desperate for you to somehow fix his dad now, he may grow to resent you and Luca again in the future. That is not a risk you’re willing to take, particularly as you’ve already left Luca once.

“I don’t think I’m going to do it.” Your teeth catch your bottom lip. “It’s not going to change anything and I’m not sure I’ll survive a second breakup.”

“Or you may actually stay together forever this time,” Sydney tries with a bump of your shoulders.

“Wishful thinking. It would take a Christmas miracle—”

Your phone ringing on your lap has you pausing, lifting the device to find an unknown number calling. With a frown, you excuse yourself to answer the call.

“Good evening, ma’am. This is TSA.” TSA? “We currently have your son in custody.” Son? Custody?

Have you entered some multiverse dimension in which all of those words combined make any sense. “I, uhm, what is this exactly about?”

“Your son, Jamie.”

Jamie. Your heart plummets to the ground, stomach sinking cold and fast. “Jamie— what is he— what happened?”

“Can you please come as soon as possible to pick him up?”

“Sure. Is he okay? Is he hurt?”

“No, but he did injure several officers in the chase.”

Chase? Oh god. “I’ll be right there,” you breathe out, “can you please—” The line goes cold before you can say another word. Cursing to yourself, you’re hurrying back to the main room, catching Sydney by the arm. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“We haven’t even done cake!”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just— Jamie is in custody at the airport and I don’t know what happened but I need to go get him.”

Her eyes widen immediately before she urges you to hurry. You hail a cab and your knee bounces the entire thirty-minute ride there. You contemplate calling Luca the entire time, wondering if Jamie had informed him too; you’re not even sure why Jamie had flagged you as his parent in the first place. If that’s the case, then perhaps he had done something that he doesn’t want Luca to know and you have been made an accomplice.

So you tuck away your phone. You can call him after you pick up Jamie and deal with… whatever this is.

When you finally leap out of the taxi, you navigate to whichever officer is willing to speak with you. Then they take you to one of the rooms where Jamie sits there on the table, his lips splitting into a huge grin when he sees you. This kid should not be smiling in his situation. Your eyes chide him silently, a plea to at least look apologetic. He doesn’t.

You move to his side, hands checking him all over for any signs of hurt. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I got my letter to her.”

“Letter—” you freeze, “your love letter.”

“She was leaving today. I had to catch her but by the time I found out about her flight, it was really late. She was past security and she couldn’t hear me, so I just… had to run past them.”

“Jamie!” You gasp.

“Well, the truth is I’m in love and there is nothing I can do about it. But you can.”

As if on cue, Luca comes barging in, looking as frazzled as you had been. His eyes dart around the room — an apology to the officers, worry at Jamie, and then surprise with you. This Luca looks a little different from your Luca. His hair is slightly longer, curling around his ears. A mustache and short beard now cast shadows across his face. He still looks handsome, but certainly isn’t the Luca you’re used to.

His hand reaches up almost self-consciously, smoothing back some of his flyaways. He looks at you in what can only be deemed as embarrassment. For a moment, you think he’s about to say something to you when his mouth opens, but the officer interjects.

After sufficient scolding from security, and a potential threat to completely bar Jamie from air travel — which you talk down to a child in love by appealing to their romantic side, the three of you step out into the cool air outside the airport. The crowds are buzzing all around you, last-minute travelers catching flights to visit their loved ones for the holidays.

You nearly get knocked over in someone’s rush through the automatic doors. Luca’s hand shoots out to catch you by the elbow, steadying you. His touch burns even through the thick layer of your coat. It’s been a while but his hold still feels familiar.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“No need to thank me,” he whispers, eyes cautiously optimistic as he appraises you from head to toe. “You look—” he pauses, breath hitching, “—beautiful. I mean, you always do. I hope this hasn’t completely ruined your evening. Did you have something to attend to tonight?”

“Just something small,” you admit shyly, glancing down at your dress partially hidden underneath your jacket.

Luca seems to stop himself before he goes ahead with the question. “Were you on a date?” Your lips part, caught off guard. “You don’t have to tell me, of course, I was just—” he stops, unsure how he should address his curiosity, especially when jealousy stains his tone.

“Oh, no. It was my friend’s Christmas party. We just had a potluck at hers.”

“Syd?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah, well, that sounds nice.” He appears to breathe easier, relief flooding through his veins. His throat moves as he swallows thickly. His hair is unruly with the winter wind combing through it. His curls look untameable for the first time since you’ve known him.

He looks cute. Boyish.

“I can take you back there, if you want. I have my car.”

“Don’t worry about me,” you wave him off with a reassuring smile. “I can get a cab.”

“I’m more than happy to drive you.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he insists — and it’s as if a dam breaks because then he’s standing right in front of you and your hands are now in his. “I miss you,” he whispers, “God, I miss you so much. It’s been— I know we hadn’t been together for very long but I love you. I’ve been in love with you. I wish I told you sooner, to let you know. To convince you to stay. I should’ve done more.”

“Luca,” you wince, your gaze flicking to Jamie to the side who still has a shit-eating grin on his face. “This isn’t the time and place.”

“If you’re worried about Jamie, trust me. If he has gone ahead and gotten you involved in this instead of his mother, that means he trusts you. It’s also all part of his masterplan, isn’t it?” Luca looks humored at his son who merely shrugs in response. “He’s seen how miserable I am without you. How terrible I am. Because now that I’ve had a taste of life with you, I don’t ever want to imagine or experience my life without you. So please, if you could give us a second chance, I’ll make it work.”

“Please just put both of us out of our misery,” Jamie chimes in this time.

A wet laugh escapes you and Luca’s hand slides up your face to cup your cheek. “You see, the kid knows better than both of us.”

“He has a great dad,” you smile back.

“So what do you say? Want to give us another go?”

You shift your eyes to Jamie who is looking up at you hopefully. You draw away from Luca to lean down and look at him. “Jamie, I don’t want you to feel pressured for this just because you think your dad is miserable. I’m— I don’t want to make your life harder. I promise you I have no hard feelings whatsoever. We don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, you do,” Jamie asserts. “It’s not… just for dad.” His voice is low, almost incoherent in the midst of the chaos in the airport. His head is ducked, gaze focused on his shoes. “I like having you around. Didn’t realize how much until you were gone. I’m sorry for everything I did. That wasn’t fair to you or dad.”

With a reassuring smile, you use your fingers to tip his chin up to look at you. “You don’t have to worry about that at all. I’ve been in your shoes, kid. I probably would’ve done worse.” His mouth flutters with the threat of a smile. “But if you’re okay with it, I’d like your permission to date your dad again. Maybe get him to stop baking so much. And maybe even buy you a new pair of pants.”

Jamie laughs. “That sounds like a plan.”

When Luca finally slants his lips over yours again, the air is knocked straight out of your lungs and yet, you feel your heart become whole once more. Luca chuckles against your lips before he draws away, keeping his hand around yours. 

His attention moves to his son. “As for you, never do anything like that ever again, you hear me? You could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”

“Well, the things we do for love, right, Dad? At least now you can stop stuffing your face with eclairs and stuff your face with your giiiiirlfriend instead.”

“Jamie!”

luca is kissing (taglist): @avengersfan25 @catclaw1 @pinksplace @natskisses + @lunexiax @toxicrelief @fancypeacepersona @shrekzwifey @kelbrave

+ add yourself to my taglists !

[buckyarchives]

You suck! / S. Harrington

Steve Harrington x f!reader

summary: Steve has a new work crush.

w.c: 4.7k

Tags: fluff, meet cutes, sorta alt!reader, Eddie is alive and working at Family Video because canon is my bitch, timeline is also fucky with the release dates of some of the movies. Who carrrressss

Read on AO3 | the archives

-

“Excuse me? Can you recommend a good horror movie? I’m pretty lost here and a little indecisive.”

Steve saw the bird's nest of light brown hair first, clipped up and styled upon the top of the girl's head. Bangles of bracelets knock against the counter of the Family Video. Steve noticed her eyes, shy smile—eh, cute. He thought for a moment.

“Well, what kind of night are you looking for?” Steve turned on the hollow charm he had learned over years of practice.

“I don’t know, what are the options?” She giggles, leaning against the counter. Steve’s practically pulled in with opportunity.

“Well,” Steve drags out, “if you want something yucky and gross, The Fly will have you grossed out and screaming. If you want something a little cuter, Gremlins is also a good choice.”

Steve spews out his minimal knowledge, learned from working here for the past few months; most of it he’s copied from Robin's rants to customers. And Eddie insists on needing to “know” the classics. He points to the cute plush of a tiny gremlin, forcing out the most charming smile he can, “See, cute.”

The girl smiles, she’s amused, at least. Steve takes it for now. She messed with her bangle bracelets, letting them clack against her nails. “Well, my boyfriend's sick on the couch right now so I don’t want him running to the toilet every few minutes.”

Steve leans back, the charm in his face drops, and his smile no longer reaches his eyes.

One more point for Robin.

Steve Harrington's journey to a date has led him down some scary, embarrassing, and borderline dangerous paths. What once used to be an easy feat has turned into a horrible and way overtracked challenge. The “you suck” sign had honestly started to plague his nightmares at night. Somehow the word “my boyfriend” followed by a giggle or smile had become a real-life trigger word for Steve.

So Steve felt his pride crumble for the 3rd time this week as he checked out Gremlins for the pretty girl with the bangle bracelet—who has a boyfriend.

“It’s just getting sad at this point, Harrington,” Eddie smirks from aside from him, leaning far back in a chair behind the counter. The Shining plays behind him as he fidgets with the homemade pins on his Family Video vest. “Your fall from the throne has just been, woof…”

“It’s not that bad, I mean, if she were single then I would have had that!” Steve defends himself. A stressed-out hand runs through his hair.

Then the jingle of the bell on the entry door echoes through his ears, Steve slaps on a smile and turns around to greet the incoming customer. “Welcome to—“

“Drop the script, dingus, I’m just here to clock in.” Robin waved him off as she sped-walked into the back, obviously reluctant to be at work today.

Eddie jumps up from his seat, “thank god, that means—“ he checks his watch, breaking out in a sing-song voice, “I am free!”

Steve flips him the bird as he walks around the counter and heads to the door like a bull out of the gates.

Eddie's back hits the door, “Good luck, Harrington. I mean it, one day… one day.”

Steve plucks a pencil from a cup next to the register, promptly chucking it at the curly-headed boy. Eddie smiles and laughs when it hits his shoulder before he’s out the door and on the way home, or to the bar, or band practice. Steve couldn't keep track anymore, spending all his time in the VHS-covered hellhole. Even if he could score a date from any living-breathing woman that walks through those doors, he’d probably never have the time. Steve is practically halfway to store manager at this point.

“How bad has it been? How many marks are on the board?” Robin says, shrugging her sickly green vest on. It was noon yet, and she looked as if she had just woken up, which was probably true.

“Ya’ don’t gotta mark anything!” Steve protested.

Yet, Robin still pulled the whiteboard from under the desk. As she marks another tally under “you suck” it’s like a deep cut on his skin. It almost physically burned him.

Robins tsks Steve, shaking her head and letting her already messy hair fall in her face. “It’s tragic, truly.”

“It’s not. You guys are just so focused on my love life it’s honestly getting obsessive,” he grumbles, slipping into his chair. “I’d like to see you or Eddie try and pick someone here instead of teasing me for my failures.”

Robin laughs, “Well, as you should know, my so-called best friend, my mind is occupied. And well, Eddie's options are pretty slim—I mean, how many people come in here wearing black handkerchiefs?”

“Excuses…” Steve mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes.

The door bells jingle again, and Steve pops his head up in an instant. His eyes find the body that walked in and his breath hitches. Thank god for his stubborn nature, truly.

Maybe it’s the lighting, the way the sun is shining on your face, outlining your body like you were a goddamn angel. Walking in with strides of confidence and a smile that men used to go to war for. Your eyes find him, and instead of anywhere else you walk towards him. To hopefully ask him a question that doesn’t end with “for my boyfriend.”

You're only a few steps from the counter when your eyes shift and they light up, “Hey, Robin!” You’re holding two VHSs in your hands, dropping them on the counter to the left of him as Robin greets you. “I meant to drop these off yesterday, hopefully I’m in no trouble.”

“Never.” Robin smiled at you, taking the film from your hand. “How ya been? Did you enjoy Blue Velvet for what? The 3rd time now?”

“I can’t help it. I’m in a seriously committed relationship with David lynch.” You say.

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with Kyle Maclachlan." Robin teases, her head cocking to the side knowingly. Her words pull a hearty giggle from you.

“Shhhh…” you shush her, a lighthearted joke between two seemingly close friends, except Robin is his best friend and you have never been mentioned before. To Steve’s very unfortunate knowledge. “Well, anyways, I gotta run but I’ll be back, yeah?”

“Oh, you know I await you every week!” Robin dramatically declares as you're backing up to leave already.

“I'm truly touched. Be still my heart!” You laugh, clutching your chest before slipping out the door.

Already gone. Away from Steve’s grasp and Robin had completely stomped on any chance he had to turn on that charm. Her title as wing-women had been officially revoked, as if it wasn’t a few weeks ago when Robin out loud cackled behind a shelf after a badly worded flirt from Steve. Either way, not even an introduction to possibly the most beautiful women who walked through those doors.

“Steve. You’re drooling.”

Steve snaps out of his gaze, seeing Robin gives him that knowing smirk she loves so much.

“Who was that?” Steve asks, wiping his chin just in case.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Robin teased with a dramatic head shake, walking away from him to put away the two VHS tapes you had just dropped off.

Steve stumbled around the corner to follow after, only seeming a tiny bit desperate. Pathetic and desperate had been his defining traits recently, why not own it?

“Yes, yes, I really would.” He affirms, despite that obvious teasing manner. Steve didn’t care, he just needed a name and a relationship status.

Robin turns to him, pushing a tape to his chest, “Put this away and maybe I’ll tell you.”

The Elephant Man, it read, Steve found the ‘el’s’ on the shelf (where Robin could not reach.) and set in there. Shooting Robin a look, eyebrows twitched up, “Is she single?”

“Yes, Harrington.” She says and Steve's heart leaps in hope. “But, you have no chance.”

“What? Wha- why? Why not?” Steve stumbles over his words, trying to keep Robin's attention when she turns around to actually do her job.

“Because she’s cool.”

“I’m cool.”

Then, Robin laughs. A genuine laugh. As if what Steve had just said was the funniest joke to ever be thought of. “Stop laughing, I am!”

“King Steve, you are high school cool. She is real-life cool.” Robin says, and Steve should honestly be offended.

“That’s just rude.”

Robin shakes her head, donning a light-hearted smile, and goes to the back to bring out the new releases.

-

Steve had to stay late for his shift on Wednesday, someone had thrown up their lunch in the men’s restrooms and Robin had called nose goes with the job as an excuse for it being the men’s.

Steve had a permanent scrunched-up face, convinced the smell of vomit was lingering on his clothes. More than ready get the hell home and in a shower.

It’s only when he’s shrugged off his vest, put back the mop and bucket, holding back a gag from the lingering smell. When Steve hears that familiar voice, the one he shamefully hasn’t stopped thinking about. His full body stops, hearing you and Robin talking from the front of the store.

In the most cool, calm and so not overly eager fashion, Steve is at the front in only a few strides. Playing is so, so cool. Biting back a giddy smile when he sees your smile from your conversation with Robin.

Steve has noticed that you existed with a thin-lipped smile and overjoyed eyes, or you just really enjoyed talking to Robin. Either way, it charmed Steve and knocked him off his feet in a way he’s never experienced. It was borderline shocking, his pull towards you came from curiosity. You were a stranger to him but he needed more.

Steve crashed into the counter, almost pathetically bumping Robin’s hips away from you. So much for not being overly eager. But the smile on Steve’s face was infectious, unrelenting.

“Hey, need any help?” Steve says, as if you weren’t in full conversation with Robin already. Who in fact did work there.

You cover your mouth to giggle, and Steve is hypnotized instantly. Your smile reaches your eyes as they turn into crescents.

“She’s already helped, and you're off the clock. So scram!” Robin comments, looking between him and you.

“Are you sure she doesn’t need any extra assistance?” Steve says, it’s stupid and not even remotely smooth. Coming out more as an overbearing coworker than a flirt.

“I’m all taken care of, thank you—“ you say, peering at his nametag, “Steve?”

“Don’t wear it out.”

Steve can’t feel Robin's gaze on him, the second-hand embarrassment hitting her harder than Steve could comprehend. Who is currently immune to his own pathetic flirts, too busy amused by the giggle it pulls from you. If only you’d stop covering your face with your hand.

You bid Robin goodbye, excusing yourself for an appointment you were already late to. Steve was a gentleman, he wasn’t going to hold you with more definitely not over-eager conversing.

(If that’s what you wanna call it.)

Right before you leave, turning your back to press against the glass Family Video door. You brought your hands up to do the slightest finger wave at the two, a sly grin on your lip as you said, “Goodbye Buckley.” Then your voice almost drops an octave, dripping like honey, “bye Steven.”

Steve’s brain short-circuits for so many reasons. The proper name, the grin, the way you spoke like you had a hold of him. As if you knew you already had him wrapped around your finger. Steve's knees went weak.

“You’re drooling again, dingus.”

-

Approximately 2 hours into Steve’s Thursday night shift he had decided the first thing he was going to do after closing was to look up a good masseuse. Still, that didn’t stop him from his frantic checking of the door at every person who walked through it. Hoping to see you.

And with every nerd and old dude that walked in, his dreams got smaller.

The bells jingle. Steve tears his eyes away from the inventory list he was told to update, his hair wiping in his face as the speed in which he glances over it. A mother and father with a pair of toddler twins trailing in front as they race to the kids’ section.

“Holy shit, Harrington, you’re gonna give yourself whiplash. Expecting Jesus to walk through those doors.” Eddie teases, in his usual chair, feet propped up against the counter as he lazily watches another random movie showing.

Steve opens his mouth to excuse his behavior, but instead, Robin beats him to it. “Close enough. Steve has a new crush.”

Eddie shoots him a wide-eyed look, one that Steve doesn’t even want to know what torturous tease comes next.

“Barely. I don’t even know her name.”

Robin walks up to the two boys after restocking the foreign film section, “Well, you won’t figure out your true love's name tonight. So spare your neck pain”

Steve's eyebrows furrow, “What?”

“She comes in every Sunday and Wednesday, dingus. You’ll have to wait.” Robin tells him.

And suddenly Steve wants to pound his head on the desk until another concussion arises. Maybe he’d be close to brain-dead and wouldn’t even worry about finding love at that point. Because of course the universe would put the hottest girl in Hawkins and give her a movie schedule that completely avoids his work schedule.

“Those are my usual off days…” Steve whines, utterly hopelessly.

“Once again, tragic.” Eddie sighs.

Steve shoots a glare, and Eddie returns with a cheeky grin. God, Steve just wants to wipe that off his face.

Maybe it was fate, Steve thinks—hopeful as ever, that whatever caused you issues last Sunday that made you come in on a Monday. Or the vomit on Thursday. That maybe those issues were a sign from the universe to bring you in his direction. Just maybe…

Eddie groans, "Alright, Buckley. What’s her name?”

“Huh?”

“I’m tired of the hairringtons sighing and groaning from his pathetic loneliness,” Eddie says, pushing his wheeled chair over to the computer. “We are gonna get a profile on this girl so maybe he has some action in getting a date.”

Once those syllables of your name left Robin's mouth, Steve spoke them under his tongue, testing out the way it sounded when it left his. He sounded borderline whipped, gazing off in the distance whispering your name.

Eddie's finger made quick work of the customer files, finding your name. Steve was hovering over his shoulder in an instant.

A hum left Eddie’s mouth as he went through your rental history, it was extensive from what Steve would see. “Eraserhead, Possession, Carrie, Labryinth…”

“What? What does that mean?” Steve impatiently asked. Out of the three, Eddie was by far the most cultured when it came to movies. His ability to read people and recommend niche movies based on how a person dressed or walked was impressive, and it made up for his horrid work ethic.

Eddie was silent, studying the movie titles.

“Eddie.” Steve tries to get his attention again.

A dry laugh leaves him, “You’re hopeless, Harrington.”

Steve ignores the way Robin snickers from afar, “You can tell that based on a movie list?”

“She watches movies like Suspiria and Nosferatu, this girl is not your type and probably would eat you if you tried to turn up that king Steve charm.”

Defeat hit him like a freight train, his shoulder slumped. “Really?”

“I mean, if she’s as hot as you make her out to be I might even make a move with this movie list…” Eddie says, Going back to check your history. Steve throws another pencil at his back, and it falls to the ground going unnoticed.

The clock ticks above Steve, impossibly slow. He truly was hopeful.

Eddie makes an abrupt sound, a ha-zah even. Catching both Steve and Robin's attention. Steve awaits whatever information Eddie found as Robin leans over the other side of the counter, curious.

“Well, Harrington.” Eddie's smooth voice echoes through, mouse still clicking at the screen. “We may have hit the jackpot.

“Tell me.” Steve springs from his seat to check the screen. Eddie meets him halfway, rotating his chair to face him.

“Well, based on her past rentals of Grease, Valley Girl, and The Great Gatsby. Our girl is a romantic—“

“Don’t say our.”

“Already being possessive, wow,” Robin says.

Steve opens his mouth to bite back, but he’s interrupted.

“And our possible saving grace, drum roll please….” Eddie announced like a dramatic performance. Always over the top.

On cue, Robin rapidly drums her hands on the counter. An echo through the store, and despite Steve’s stolen attention he still spares a glance around the store in hopes no one was in earshot of the ruckus his coworkers were making.

“In the last 6 months, she had rented and returned Pretty in Pink 10 times. Which is…. Honestly, a little unhealthy but we all have our vices, who am I to judge?”

Steve tries to come up with an answer to his problem with this information, completely lost. Even more so when Eddie and Robin share a knowing look. “Oh, Steve Harrington, you are so in there.”

He smiles, hopeful, and grateful that the intensive negative teasing from his two friends had suddenly turned positive. That at least someone believed in him and his slowly dying charm. “That’s great! Uh, what does that mean?”

“Well, obviously a few points just got docked for never seeing Pretty in Pink, which is honestly criminal.” Eddie starts on his rant.

“Get to the point, Munson.” Steve snaps.

Suddenly, Robin is behind Steve, holding up a VHS she had quickly grabbed from a few shelves away. “Ta-da!” she announces, holding the tape next to his face.

Steve’s still sincerely lost, even more so when a further knowing look grows on Eddie as his eyes glance from Steve's face to the cover of the VHS.

“I’m lost, what is this?” Steve snatched the VHS from Robin's hands. Looking at the cover.

Robin pointed finger hovering on the man on the far right of the cover, “That is Andrew McCarthy, and the majority of the reason people watch that movie is for him—to my disagreement—yet, he has a specific appeal.”

Eddie pushes himself closer to Steve, the wheels rolling over the floor's carpet, “the same appeal our dear Steve The Hair Harrington shares.”

Slowly the cogs in Steve's head turn and grind against each other, connecting the dots that his coworkers were laying out for him. “So you are saying… I’m in?”

“We are saying, you have a chance.”

-

It was Sunday.

Approximately 10 minutes before getting off last night, Steve had begged Keith to let him work today. Offered to cover his shift or whatever part-time teenager he had hired since Robin was not budging on getting the day off. Insistent on seeing what trick Steve Harrington pulls to try and knock your panties off, or just ask you out. Depending on how well this goes.

Finally, Keith let up, agreeing and grateful in the end since a new shitty space adventure movie shipment had come in that day and he’d been wanting to sit down and watch that.

So Steve woke up that morning, put on his best pair of pants, and cleaned up his old and worn pair of Nikes. Spent 20 more minutes on his hair routine. Showed up maybe an hour early to work and waited, that familiar strain in his neck already arising.

Steve had talked to Eddie, and he never thought he would say this, about advice. You obviously liked movies and had a similar taste to his (and thank god Eddie was on a masc kick recently or Steve would have lost you to the metal head before he could even think of a pick up line.) So Steve sat and listened to Eddie go through the options to recommend to you, since Robin had informed him that Sunday was your movie rental day.

So Steve studied over the titles, the summaries, and any fun facts we had to convince you to just listen to him. Kept them top of mind while pacing around the store like a stir crazy maniac.

“Hey dingus, are ya trying to make a track in the carpet?” Robin asked, watching Steve walk between the 4-foot radius he had mesmerized. “I think if she walks into you doing that, she is more likely to run for the hills than fall head over heels.”

Steve flipped Robin the bird, huffing and puffing like a dramatic child. Finding his place back behind the counter, Steve went to fix his hair for the 10th time.

“You got it bad, Harrington.” Robin shakes her head in pity. “If you’re gonna waste energy pacing around, can you at least pace the entire store and maybe put some tapes back?”

Steve almost whined, to protest something about greeting customers. But then Robin shoved a box of put-backs in his face and he knew he wasn’t winning. Reluctantly clutching the cardboard in his hands, a pathetic frown on his face, he started to drag his feet around the aisles of the store.

Somewhere between the G’s and I’s of the action/adventure section, Steve’s dragging feet slowed even more, his fingers dragged on the spines of the VHSs. He thought of you, of your pretty smile and defining confidence. What you did with your day before and after visiting the store, how you knew Robin, if you went to Hawkins, and how he could have missed you?

It was a mystery Steve was determined to figure out. Like some sort of prayer, he heard the shuffle of feet on the carpet next to him. It was you, perusing the aisles with a slight pout to your lip. Steve must have missed the sound of the doorbell.

Your neck slowly twitched in his direction, shamefully Steve’s gaze flinched away, just in case that drool problem kicked in like Robin keeps commenting on. Not too eager. Right, right. Stew kept his eyes upwards.

“Steve?” Your voice called out, and he was a second too long to turn to you before you continued with an edge of humor, “Is that exit sign super interesting?”

God, that smile. Steve could barely breathe. To hell with trying to actually converse.

“What, um no! Well, uh, I mean the fluorescents... Super interesting…” Steve choked out, he might as well have had his foot in his mouth as well.

“Oh, I'm sure.” You teased, “totally not looking for the closest exit route from me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the words left his mouth before he could think, instantly looking to see if it landed, or if you thought he was creepy—running for the hills, all that.

Instead, Steve was gifted with a shy smile, he focused on the way the edges of your lips curved up, the way they met your eyes, and practically sparkled. Your eye faltered from his for a moment, just to look back at him once again—a certain curiosity, amusement, maybe adoration if Steve would allow himself to think such things—had crept up your gaze towards him.

You bit your lip, “You’re cute, Steve Harrington?”

He always passed out, “yeah?”

“Very,” you nodded. “But can Cute find me a good movie to watch this week?”

Steve's brain scrambled, too giddy with a smile to think, “of course.”

He looked back at what letter he was on, what genre. Trying to rack his brain on the inventory, new releases. Fuck, Eddie gave him options for if this came up, Steve had practically studied for this moment.

“Follow me?” He offers you.

You just nod, and he sets off. You close behind him, catching glances at his perfectly curled brown hair, which looked soft, you thought.

(Off to the side, Robin almost broke her neck, back, and the chair leaning backwards to watch you trail behind Steve with stairs in your eyes. A knowing, and proud grin on her face.)

Steve found the ‘W’s and plucked a movie from the shelf, placing it in your hands. His finger lingered on your palms for a moment, warm and soft. The feeling shot up his arm and buzzed in his chest.

You scanned the front, flipping it over to inspect what Steve recommended. “The Witches Of Eastwick… I like Cher… Susan Sarandon… hmm.” You hummed, before clicking your mouth to look back at him. “Maybe pretty privilege didn’t get you the job.”

You winked at him, and Steve’s nervous laughter that followed was uncontrollable. You had him down bad, absolutely whipped.

Steve remembered something suddenly, taking a few steps to grab a tape he had set aside for you. Just in case. “Oh, and this one.”

“The Princess Bride?” You read, scanning over the cover. “Do you take me for a romcom girl, Steve Harrington?”

“Just a feeling.” He breathed.

You looked at the two choices in hand, a smile creeping on your lips. You looked satisfied. “I’ll take both, thank you.”

“I’ll check you out then.” Steve started towards the register.

“Getting rid of me already?”

Steve almost fell face-first with the way he halted, stumbling on his feet to come back to you, and as far as he could from the register. “Wha— no, never—“

“I’m kidding, Steve.” You laughed, “I’m ready.”

“Right. Yes.”

Steve slipped behind the counter as you rounded the corner to the front of the register. Steve was beaming with success, but not enough to practically shove Robin out of the way.

“Move. I gotta check out this very beautiful customer I oh-so graciously helped out.” Steve said, more bark than he intended. Not missing the way your hand covered up the heat rising to your face.

“Whoa!” Robin held her hands up in surrender, shuffling out of the way, “Well, excuse me, dingus.”

“Dingus?” You asked.

“Let’s not.” Steve smiled at you.

“Aye, aye.” You saluted, setting the tapes on the counter. Then quietly under your breath, “dingus.”

Steve pretended not to hear you while biting back a grin, despite the annoyance of that stupid nickname he was just overjoyed to pass the customer service talk with you.

You watched him intently as he bagged up your movies and handed them to you, his finger brushing against yours again and that familiar buzz of warmth found his chest.

You got him a confused look, eyebrows furrowed, “What’s the charge?”

“No charge.” Steve beamed at you. “It's on the house, employee discount.”

“Oh, thank you.” You smiled, a shot straight to Steve's heart. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, in that case.” You reach over behind the register to grab a notepad, plucking a pen while you're at it. “Since you so graciously paid for me,” you scribbled down those ten glorious numbers, Steve's eyes practically sparkled. Sliding it across the counter and in front of him. “Give me a call if you're free and you can watch them with me.”

Steve takes it from your hands, holding it as if it were glass. Rereading the numbers a few times in his head, to not forget, just in case. Because god forbid he lose this now.

“If you want.” You add, a little shy now.

Steve perks up, “I will— I mean, of course, of course I’d want to.”

“Great.” You nod, “See you soon, hopefully.”

“Of course,” Steve repeats himself, overly giddy, nodding like his life depends on it.

You waved that flirtatious finger wave, a sweet smile covered your face and then your back turned and you were gone. Steve's eyes lingered on you from behind the glass window, watching you walk off and into your car. In a not-so-creepy way, hopefully.

Steve's heart beams with hope. Not even believing himself to find a girl he was actually interested in. It sounded hollow and shitty, but it was true. After Nancy, his decline in social status and charm, this stupid competition to pick up a girl at work had started just offhand. A silly joke, a hollow thing to keep him distracted.

But Jesus Christ, Steve Harrington had never been more excited to see a girl before in his life.

Steve's hand slammed down on the counter in victory, a loud bang echoing through a hopefully empty store. Steve narrowed a pointed finger at Robin, “Put a fucking mark under “you rule” and then throw that goddamn whiteboard away, Buckley.”

[the-darklings]

𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 [𝒗𝒊𝒊.]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: "You treat people like projects. Fix this, fix that, fix them. And the second they don’t work the way you want? You write them off as faulty parts.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: billy hargrove x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 13.2k

⊹ ࣪ ˖ warnings: none this time.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: longest chapter but it needs to do a LOT of groundwork for the big Halloween chapter next week heh. I hope you enjoy this chapter, there's a lot that happens. And, as always, massive thank you to every single one of you who likes, reblogs and especially comments/messages me about this series, it makes me so happy!

read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.

The following day, you avoid the cafeteria entirely. 

Eddie follows you behind the school to your old smoking ground, bumping your shoulder to check in with you in his typical, Eddie way. An entire conversation exchanged in a single point of contact, the way it’s always been between you. You haven’t spoken about what transpired after the band practice. Eddie knows it’s been bothering you, because Eddie always knows. Because there was cruelty in what you said, and how deliberately you said it, knowing it would cut, knowing it would break something. 

You used his father against him.

Threw Neil Hargrove in Billy’s face like a weapon, like you had any right to touch that wound. And maybe he was being an asshole, maybe he made threats towards Eddie, but it doesn’t change the fact that you had no right to stoop so low. 

Fuck both of you. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Eddie murmurs, dropping his arm around you, heavy and comforting and him. 

You stare at your meagre lunch, and rest your cheek against Eddie’s shoulder for a moment, just the one. You’ve built so many walls around yourself over the years. One brick at a time for every time you’ve run into casual cruelty of your existence (poor, a woman, smart in a way that makes men feel inadequate), and it’s only with him and a few others that you allow yourself to be soft, if only for a moment. 

“Fine,” you reply distantly, pressing closer for a breath. “Just—fine.”

You’re not fine, and you both know it.

. . .

Tuesday, you glimpse Billy in the hallway between third and fourth period.

He’s got Tina Morrison pressed against the lockers, hand braced above her head, leaning in close enough that their mouths are almost touching. She’s giggling at whatever he’s saying, twirling her hair, and Billy is smiling with his teeth but not his eyes. You hate the fact that you recognise the difference now. 

You force yourself to keep walking. Force yourself not to look or linger, or give him any indication you’re watching. But you feel his attention snap to you like a rubber band pulled taut. Feel the weight of his gaze tracking your movement down the hallway, heavy and deliberate, a physical touch between your shoulder blades.

You don’t turn around.

In calculus, he shows up fifteen minutes late, his hair mussed and his collar skewed. Doesn’t look at you once as he swaggers across the classroom, all eyes on him. Just sprawls on his chair in the back row and stares out the window like he’s planning his escape route in his head. 

There’s a new bruise on his knuckles when his skin catches sunlight. Fresh. Purple spreading across the ridge of bone and tendon.

You wonder who he hit. Wonder if it helped. Wonder if anything helps when you’re Billy Hargrove and your Neil’s voice lives in your head. 

Mr Martinez calls on you to solve a problem on the board. You stand, move to the front on automatic, and as you’re writing out the equation, you feel it—that prickle at the base of your skull that means someone’s watching. No, not just someone. 

You glance over your shoulder. 

It’s him, of course, because it’s always him. Billy is looking at you, sprawled back into his seat, the chain around his throat winking in the afternoon light. His eyes are flat, empty, and when you meet his gaze head-on, he doesn’t look away. Just holds it, unblinking, until you’re the one who breaks first, something like shame curdling inside your chest, strange and unfamiliar. 

Your hand trembles as you finish the equation.

“Correct,” Mr Martinez calls, but you barely hear him over the buzzing in your ears.

You return to your seat with your pulse throbbing in your throat.

By Wednesday, everyone is talking about the party at Tina’s and, even more importantly, the Halloween bash next week. 

You cut through the hallways like a minefield, ignoring the bodies and the noise. You’ve been good; work, scholarships and grants, helping Eddie with his homework, ignoring the unspoken weight between you. 

Billy hasn’t so much as spoken a word to you, and a part of you is glad, while another part keeps you awake late into the night, staring at your ceiling, mulling over your words. How easy it was to reach for something you knew would hurt him. 

You sigh, lift your eyes from the floor, and stop dead in your tracks. 

Billy is half-leaning, half-slamming his weight against the locker beside yours, one hand flat on the dented metal, the other braced on his hip. His head tips back, laughter spilling out of him in a rough, deep spill that makes several girls down the hall turn reflexively towards the sound. 

There’s a girl under his arm. Blonde. Cheerleader skirt, perfect hair, lip gloss that catches the fluorescent light. She’s laughing too, high and breathy, one hand pressed to his chest like she’s trying to keep herself upright.

Your stomach does something unpleasant.

You’ve seen her before. In the halls, at games you showed up to only for Eddie—on those rare occasions you went at all—holding pompoms and cheering loudly. She’s not mean, as far as you’ve seen, not the way some of the others have been, treating you like a stain, a freak. She’s just… one of them. The ones who know precisely how to move through this world: eyes forward, lip gloss perfect, never bumping into the edges, an ease to her life you’ve always envied rather than resented. But it feels, oddly enough, like a slap to the face to see them together near your space. Because of course this is the type of girl Billy goes for, he’s been consistent if nothing else, and you’re just…

A stain. 

“—you’re terrible,” she giggles, swatting at his arm.

“I know,” Billy drawls, sounding delighted, a devilish grin tugging upwards. “That’s why you like me.”

“I never said I liked you,” she argues, but it’s a weak, unconvincing statement, and Billy knows it, too. 

“No?” he poses lightly, dipping his head closer in that cocky, confident way. “Could’ve fooled me Friday night.”

Your eyes flicker down her neck before you can stop yourself. And there it is—a faint bruise at the curve, half-hidden by her glossy hair. His handiwork. 

You slam your locker door a little harder than you strictly need to. They both look over at you due to the proximity of the sound. For a split second, his expression does something strange when he recognises you—surprise, then something else, darker and hotter, predatory around the edges. 

Then the mask slides back, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh, hey,” he says as if you’ve just wandered into his living room. “Didn’t see you there, grease monkey.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You’re shouting. The entire hallway sees you, Hargrove.”

His jaw pulses, once, gaze darkening further, growing more stormy by the minute as he drags his eyes over your features. Perhaps because he was expecting this conversation to go differently, but your tongue won’t obey, and you’re not sure how to backtrack on what you said to him that night outside of Gareth’s place. And another, smaller part of you is unsure whether he deserves an apology, given everything he’s said and done since getting to Hawkins. To you, to Max, to others. 

The girl under his arm looks between you, evaluation flashing in her eyes. She’s pretty in that effortless, catalogue way. Blue eyes, small button nose, hair glossy and smooth in the overhead light. 

“Hi,” she says, a little uncertain. “Do you… need the locker?”

“No,” you reply, briefly flicking your attention towards her. “Already got my stuff. You’re fine.”

“Oh. Okay.” She smiles, tentative but surprisingly sincere. “I’m Jessica. Jess for short.”

You know who she is. Everyone in Hawkins knows who Chrissy Cunningham’s best friend is. The two best cheerleaders at Hawkins High, beautiful and intelligent, both from good families. 

You give her a shallow nod. “Yeah. I’ve seen you around.”

“You’re the mechanic girl, right?” she asks, recognition sparking. “You fixed my dad’s car last fall. And for a lot cheaper.”

“That’s me. Cheap labour.”

“That’s really cool,” she says, and you can tell she actually means it, not just performing. “Thanks again. It’s running great.”

Something in your chest eases a fraction, defences folding back an inch or two. Billy’s eyes flick between you and Jess, like he’s watching a tennis match.

“Look at you, grease monkey,” he huffs, amused, but there’s something edged in meaness about how he rolls his words. “Making friends.”

You adjust your weight, cutting a brief look at him, then force your gaze away. “I have friends.”

“Sure you do,” he begins, and there’s something soft and cruel about his tone. He’s looking for a fight, you realise, nothing about your last interaction has left his mind. “Little brats and a local freak—”

“Don’t talk about Eddie like that,” you snap automatically, fire flushing through your system. 

Your gazes clash, and he grins, teeth on display. It’s his victory, you realise angrily, he’s forced you to meet him toe to toe again. “Jealous?”

The look you shoot him is withering at best, the air between you pulling taut, prickly with heat. 

You’re not running because you like this. 

The urge to prove him wrong, to shut out his voice from your head, wins out, working your tongue before you can pull the words back. “Of what? Your ability to turn any girl in a ten-foot radius into a cautionary tale?”

Jessica’s confused little smile falters. You see it, feel it, the way her fingers curl tighter on the strap of her bag as if holding on means she can brace for what’s coming.

“Hey,” Billy begins, but there’s no gravity in his voice, no incredulous anger on Jess’s behalf. You think, deep down, that he enjoys this, seeing you throwing back the same viciousness he can. “Be nice.”

You snort. “That’s a bit rich, coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jess whispers, frowning faintly as she tracks the tension between you two.

You hesitate, your tongue frozen behind your teeth. In truth, you don’t know her. She’s not your friend. She’s just some girl with perfect hair who picked the worst possible guy to hang out with. That’s on her, not on you. Not your business, not your headache. And yet…

You could let it go. 

You don’t.

“It means,” you begin deliberately, levelling your gaze on her, “he goes through girls like cigarettes. Enjoy the attention now, because once he’s bored, you’re just another stomped-out butt in the parking lot.”

Her face flushes red. “Excuse me?”

Billy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Damn,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Don’t act like it’s not true,” you snap at him, nostrils flaring, hating the knowing, smug little curve of his mouth, as if you just proved something right. “We’ve all seen it. You show up, you turn on the charm, you drag them into your car or some sad corner of a party, and then you move on. Next name, same boring game.”

“That’s not—” Jess starts, then stops, gulping down a breath. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know him.” And it’s frightening how certain you sound, how Billy’s expression tenses, eyes blackening like he’s considering wrapping his hand around your jaw again, dragging you towards him until you’re sharing oxygen again. “And guys like him don’t suddenly become relationship material because you wear a bow in your hair.”

Her eyes flash. There’s no mistaking the hurt beneath the anger, and you immediately hate yourself a little. She straightens, shoulders pulling back, drawing away from Billy altogether. He doesn’t stop her. 

“You’re just jealous,” she exhales, loud enough that several people around you look in your direction. “You’re jealous because he’s with me and not with some… grease-stained weirdo from the auto shop.”

“Ouch,” you say mildly. “There she is.”

“You don’t know what he’s like when it’s just us,” she pushes on, ignoring you. “He’s actually… he’s really… he’s nice.”

You risk a glance at Billy. He’s watching you with that familiar, intense stare. Not her. You. Something in your stomach twists, constricting painfully, leaving your skin tight and hot. 

“I’m sure that’s what he wants you to think,” you say quietly, weakly.

“You think you’re so much better than everyone,” Jess scoffs, voice going shrill at the edges. “Like just because you work with cars and hang out with those kids and know big words, you get to judge everyone else.”

You’re not sure whether to laugh or cry. “I don’t think I’m better,” you articulate in such a painfully flat way, you hope she realises how ridiculous her assumption sounds. “I’m the resident freak, okay? I’m fully aware of my social standing. I just think I know how this ends. Spoiler: not well.”

Jess swallows, folding her arms over her chest. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” You shrug, conceding the fact. Sighing, you attempt to soften your expression. “Which is why I’m telling you to be careful, not to stop. You wanna keep hooking up with him, go for it. But understand it’s not because you’re special. It’s because you’re available.”

A couple of students whisper under their breath, exchanging looks, sensing drama. Your spine prickles, tension coiling tighter around you. 

“Wow,” Jess says, eyes shining. “You must be really fun at parties.”

Humiliation burns your skin. “I don’t go to parties.”

“That explains a lot,” Billy mutters knowingly.

You glare at him. “Stay out of it.”

“You’re talking about me,” he replies boredly. “Kind of hard to.”

“That’s because you make it about you,” you snap, sucking in a breath, and it’s so much easier to do this with him. To argue, to fight, because you know which buttons to push, because you know he’ll push back. “You treat girls like… like they’re accessories. Something to hang off your arm until you get bored, then toss them aside. And everyone just goes along with it because you’re good-looking and you have a nice car. You’re not some bad boy, Hargrove, you’re just a bad person.”

The word “girls” comes out harder than you intended. Everything about your words slips out, knife-sharp, ready to tear and cut. 

Jessica flinches; a small, troubled thing, shoulders slanting downward. Billy spins fully to face you, stalking a step towards you, a feral glint in those blue eyes. You try to ignore the way both your chests expand simultaneously, as if something has loosened between you now that you’re near each other again.

“And what?” Billy poses, his voice going quiet in that way that makes your pulse spike. “You want me to take them to church instead?”

“I want you to stop acting like they’re disposable,” you argue, breathing hard. “Like they don’t walk away from you feeling smaller than when they met you.”

Jess’s face goes paper-white, her mouth wobbling. 

“Stop it,” she says suddenly. “Just stop.”

Your mouth snaps shut, your pulse deafening in your ears.  Jess looks between the two of you, chest rising and falling too fast.

“You don’t get to talk about me like I’m not here.” She looks towards Billy, but he’s still glaring holes into your face, ignoring her. “You don’t get to talk about him like he’s some… some monster and I’m too stupid to see it. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

“Yes,” she shoots back fiercely. “And if he… if he doesn’t feel the same way about me as I do about him, that’s my business. Not yours.”

The word feel hangs in the air like smoke. You see Billy’s jaw clench, something about his expression cooling immediately. 

“I didn’t say you’re stupid,” you say, a little softer. “I’m saying he’s… not good at this, with anyone. He doesn’t know how to be. He doesn’t care to learn. And you deserve someone who doesn’t have to unlearn treating you like trash.”

“Shut up.”

You look towards Billy. There’s a raw edge to his expression again, half-frozen, half-feral. The one from your drive when he backed you into your truck, the one outside Gareth’s house. The one that says you’ve hit something raw. Again. 

Jessica notices too. You spot the way her hand curls into his jacket, like she’s not sure if she’s holding back from putting his hands on you or anchoring herself.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks you, her eyes narrowing. “Did he reject you or something? Is that why you’re so obsessed with what he does?”

You actually laugh at that. You can’t help it. The sound comes out sharper than you intend. Meaner, too. “He didn’t reject me. He wouldn’t know what to do with me if he tried.”

“Try me,” Billy snaps, no hesitation. 

There’s a beat of silence. He looks like he regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth, but it’s too late. Jess’s face crumples, cracking around the edges. Her fingers jerk away from Billy’s jacket as if he burned her. But this is worse, so much worse. A breath scrapes down your throat when you suck it in, your eyes still locked. 

“You’re disgusting,” she whispers, and the quiet devastation in her voice makes you wince.

“Hey,” he says, turning toward her. “Jess—”

“No,” she snaps, stepping back. “You are. And you—” she hisses at you, tears bright in her eyes, burning in a way that makes something cramp in your stomach, “—you’re cruel.”

She snatches her books out of her locker with shaking hands and slams it so hard the metal rings. Then she pushes past both of you and disappears into the stream of bodies, one hand up to her face. You stand there, the echo of the slam vibrating through your chest, ringing in your bones. The hallway noise rushes back in like coming up from underwater. Snatches of broken conversations. Laughter. A locker door slamming shut two rows down.

Billy turns on you. Right there, too close, physically in your space in a way that makes your skin tingle. 

“What the hell is your problem?” he snarls, low and furious.

You blink, trying to process everything that’s just transpired. “My problem?”

“Yeah, your problem,” he repeats, more snarling this time, his head bowed towards you. “You see a girl smiling for five seconds, and you gotta come in and piss all over it?”

“You’re the one who said—”

“I know what I fucking said,” he snaps. “You think I don’t hear myself?”

“Funny,” you say, heat rising up your throat. “Because you sure act like you don’t.”

He steps in even closer, crowd tightening around you like you’re both generating your own gravity. You’re aware of people watching, pretending not to, the whispers, but breaking eye contact now would mean his victory. 

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” he snarls, low and furious. “You stand there with your big brain and your big mouth, acting like you’re better than everyone. You treat people like projects. Fix this, fix that, fix them. And the second they don’t work the way you want? You write them off as faulty parts.”

Heat creeps up your throat, your glare clashing with his. “I see patterns. And I’m not gonna stand there and watch you chew up somebody who actually seems nice just because you’re bored.”

“Maybe she’s not bored,” he says. “Maybe she likes it.”

Something about the way he says she likes it lingers in your mind, the implication blatantly clear. You cross your arms over your chest. “Maybe she thinks you’re capable of more than this,” you reason, voice dropping. “Maybe she’s wrong.”

His eyes flicker.

There it is—the nerve.

“You really think I’m that bad?” he asks scornfully, a laugh caught in his throat. “That I just… what, go around ruining lives for fun?”

“I think you go around making sure no one gets close enough to see you,” you argue back, equally as scathingly. “So you treat people like crap before they have a chance to expect anything from you. That way, when you bail, you can tell yourself they’re better off.”

He scoffs, but it’s weak. “You’re projecting. Daddy bailed, so now you walk around with a chip on your shoulder.”

You don’t bother asking how he found out, if someone told him, but the words are barely out of his mouth before you go for his throat in return. “Or maybe you just like being like him.”

His hand moves so fast you barely see it. Billy slams his palm into the lockers next to your head, hard enough that the metal dents. Several people jump. Someone gasps. You don’t move an inch; no blink, no gasp, just steady, hard eye contact. Your heart rockets, though, beating so loud you fear he might hear it due to your sheer proximity, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you shrink.

He’s inches from your face, breath hot, eyes wild. Your lips tingle where his breath fans over your skin. 

“Don’t fucking talk about things you don’t know,” he hisses through his teeth. “Or next time I won’t just hit the locker.”

He peels his hand away from the metal with a screech of protest and takes a step back, raking a hand through his hair. He turns and strides down the hallway, shoulders tense, head high.

You lean back against the cool metal and let out a breath caught in your windpipe, dizzy from the rush inside your head. The dent next to your head stares back at you. You slide your fingers over it, almost a caress. The metal is warm to the touch. You should feel shaken, and you do, but not in the way you expect. Because under the adrenaline, under the anger, there’s this stubborn, stupid ache.

You hurt him. Again. You meant to hurt him because he hurts everyone else. To make him feel, just for a moment, what it’s like to be on the receiving end of it. 

You also didn’t. It’s a tangle you can’t unravel properly. He brings out the worst in you, he’s an itch you can’t scratch, and yet… 

His face springs to your mind, the split second before his hand flew free, the series of small decisions and their outcome. It would be so easy to hate him because he’s a hateful person, because he fucks up, because he uses people and treats them like shit. He could choose to be better, but he doesn’t. Maybe because it’s all he knows, maybe because this is easier. His pain isn’t an excuse, you know that. 

You gather your books with hands that only shake a little and head to class.

. . .

After school, the shop feels more like home than your actual trailer.

The air is warm with the familiar mix of oil, rubber, and metal. The radio on the shelf keeps drifting between classic rock and static. The big bay door rest rolled halfway up, letting in a band of cool autumn air that smells faintly like wet leaves and something vaguely rotten. 

You brace one knee on the bumper of a sedan, elbow deep in the engine, fingers slick with grease as you retighten stubborn bolts. Your shoulders protest, but your brain never does. You like this part—problems with clear causes, clear solutions, parts that either work or don’t. Machines you’re good at, excellent at, even. 

If only people came with specs and wiring diagrams. If only you didn’t care about the damage your mouth can do. If only you could fold time back and choose less poisonous words. 

You get the bolt finally, the wrench slipping just enough to bang your knuckles against metal.

“Shit.”

You suck the sting, shake out your hand, and grin despite yourself. Pain makes sense when you can see where it comes from, when the price for it is success. 

“Everything alright back there?” Frank calls out from the office.

“Peachy,” you shout back.

You’re just leaning back from the hood when you hear it, a soft crunch of bike tyres on gravel. Your eyes skim towards the bay doors. A small figure on a bike slows to a stop just outside the concrete lip. The kid dismounts awkwardly, one foot hitting the ground before the other, hands wringing the handlebars like he’s reconsidering this whole endeavour now that he’s here.

Will Byers.

You recognise his rounded shoulders, the bowl-cut hair, the way he seems to fold in on himself like he’s practising taking up less space. You also recognise the hesitant half-wave he gives when he spots you looking.

“Hey,” he says, voice light but thin. “Uh. Is this a bad time?”

You wipe your hands on a rag and toss it onto the cart, searching for Mike or Dustin or even Lucas behind him, but it’s only Will, and after last year, the lonesome sight pings something like worry in your chest. “That depends. Did you bring snacks?”

His mouth twitches, eyes widening. “No?”

“Then yeah,” you say, mock-seriously. “Terrible time.”

His eyes bulge further before he catches the smile you can’t entirely hold back. He gives a huff of relieved laughter, visibly relaxing. 

“Oh. Right. I forgot you do that.”

“Joke?”

“Say things like you hate everyone when you actually really like us,” he replies sheepishly, wandering a little closer, eyes scanning the tools with an endearing kind of awe. “Dustin insists he’s your favourite person in the world.”

“Bold assumption,” you muse, tracking the unsure way he lingers, not entirely committed to staying yet. “What did you need, Byers? You’re a bit far from Castle Byers.”

The way his shoulders twitch at the mention of his hideout makes you wince inwardly. After the horrors he’s been through last year, the word castle must burn like a brand. 

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Habit.”

His feet shuffle, and you’re struck again by how small he is, even now, and your anger returns, fresh and hot. “It’s okay,” he whispers, avoiding your eyes.

You nod toward his bike to change the subject towards safer waters. “She holding up okay?”

He glances back at it like he’d forgotten it was there.

“Oh. Yeah. Mostly,” Will explains quietly. “Chain slipped earlier. But that’s not why I came.”

You lean back against the workbench, crossing your arms. “Alright. Lay it on me.”

He bites his lip, clearly rearranging thoughts in his head.

“Can I… hang out here for a bit?” he blurts finally. “Just… until my mom’s shift is over? Jonathan’s at work and… I don’t really wanna be at home alone right now.”

Something in your chest folds.

“Yeah,” you say immediately. “Of course. You don’t need a reason. You wanna sit, sit. You wanna help, help. Just don’t touch the welder unless I say so.”

His face loosens minutely. “Okay. Thank you.”

A pang goes through your heart at the shaky gratitude in his soft voice. You pat the stool near your bench instead, swallowing. “Parking spot for visiting royalty.”

Will climbs up, swinging his legs a little, eyes darting around the shop like there might be monsters hiding in the racks of tyres. You go back to the sedan, but not entirely. Your attention splits—half on the engine, half on the quiet shape perched on the stool.

“You wanna talk about it?” you ask casually. “Or just rest in mutual silence and pretend the world isn’t awful?”

He huffs. “The second one sounds really good, actually.”

“Done. Silence it is.”

The radio crackles through songs while you work. Will examines his surroundings with curious eyes, now a little looser, less sharp angles and trembling shoulders. You work quietly, falling back into your familiar rhythm, cycling through tools like they’re extensions of your hand. He watches you with a solemn sort of silence. If it were Dustin, he would be asking you a thousand questions right now, but Will has never been a loud audience, not even the few times he’s shown up alone. This feels different, though. Like something’s been fundamentally stripped from him since last November. 

“Do you ever feel…” he starts, then stops.

He’s quiet for a second, but you don’t rush him, keeping your attention on the engine in front of you. You hear him pick at the edge of the stool, fingernails clicking softly against metal.

“I feel… wrong,” he exhales finally. Small voice, yet bigger than the shop.

You put the wrench down.

“Wrong how?” you ask quietly.

He shrugs, shoulders hunching. “Like… like everyone else got given a script, and I missed rehearsal. So I’m saying my lines too early or too late, or I don’t know them at all. And they—” he gestures vaguely toward the world outside “—can tell and they judge me for it.”

Your throat tightens.

“And also,” he adds, voice dropping, “there’s the… other stuff.”

You know what he means. The shadows. The Upside Down and its stain. The lab visits Joyce and Hopper barely talk about. The way his eyes go somewhere else sometimes, dark and far away.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’ll do it.”

“Kids at school think I’m weird,” he blurts out, as if now that the dam burst, he can’t stop. “They always did, but now it’s… worse. They look at me like…” He fumbles for words. “Like I’m freak. Or cursed. Or… crazy.”

You drop the hood of the sedan with a careful thump and turn to face him fully, leaning back on your hands against the bumper.

“You’re not crazy.”

He shoots you a look that’s halfway between sceptical and please.

“I’m not saying you’re not dealing with some serious supernatural nightmare bullshit,” you explain carefully. “Because you definitely are. But reacting to that? That’s not crazy.”

He lets out a breath, shoulders shaking a little. He shoots you a wide-eyed look, panic and desperation, small beacons lit with frantic need.

“Sometimes I just want to be… normal,” he whispers shakily. “But then that feels wrong too. Because if I were normal, I wouldn’t see things. I wouldn’t be able to help.”

“Exactly,” you say calmly.

He blinks, swallowing. “That’s not what everyone else says.”

You hum knowingly. “What do they say?” 

He shrugs one shoulder, scrubbing jerkily across his face. “‘It’ll be okay.’ ‘It’s over now.’ ‘It’s all in your head.’”

You make a face. “Yeah, that last one’s my favourite. Like, no shit it’s in your head, Brenda.”

He snorts, surprised.

You soften your tone. “You know why they say that?”

“Because they don’t believe me?” he guesses.

“Maybe some of them.” You search his expression until he’s looking at you, making sure he takes in your following words. “But mostly I think it’s because they’re scared. The idea that what’s happening to you is real? That it could happen to them? That breaks their whole brain. So they try to shove you back into a box where everything makes sense—‘oh, he’ll get better, everything’s fine.’ It’s not fair to you. But it’s easier for them.”

Will’s eyebrows crease. “That’s… messed up.”

“People are messed up,” you say, nodding. “I diagnose them all the time.”

He studies you for a moment. “Do you feel like that?”

“Like the world is wrong?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, a little shyer now. “You don’t… I mean you… You don’t seem like everyone else.”

A small snort escapes you. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” he says quickly.

You let your gaze drift over the shop. The stains on the concrete, the pegboard lined with tools, the calendar with a girl in a bikini leaning on a sports car that you keep threatening to take down.

“I’m a girl mechanic in a town that thinks women should only touch cars to wash them.” You swallow over the lump in your throat, sniffing once. “I’m poor. I’m smart in a place that doesn’t know what to do with smart without it becoming about a man. So yeah. I get it.”

The groove between Will’s brows deepens. “Do people… treat you differently?”

You huff. “You mean besides the customers who ask to ‘talk to the man in charge’ when I tell them what’s wrong with their cars?”

His eyes go wide. “They really do that? Still?”

“Weekly,” you confirm flatly. “Sometimes daily. Had a guy last month call me sweetheart three times and explain to me how the engine works while getting every single part wrong. I finally let him finish and then told him I’d put his air filter in his glove compartment if he didn’t shut up.”

Will laughs out loud—a real laugh, not the strained kind.

“What did he do?” he asks.

“Got red,” you say. “Left. Came back two days later when the car stalled out on the highway, like I said it would. Didn’t call me sweetheart that time.”

Will’s smile fades into something more thoughtful.

“But,” you continue, “being treated like I don’t belong? Like I must be confused about what I want? Yeah. That’s… constant.”

Something about that clearly hits close to home because he follows that up with, “How do you handle it?” 

“Badly,” you admit. “Yell a lot. Get into arguments I shouldn’t. Say things that are too sharp.”

Your jaw remembers the pressure of Billy’s fingers. Your tongue remembers the taste of every nasty thing you hurled at Jess. At Billy. How easy it is to judge, to tear down because you’re so used to baring your teeth, to biting, so you won’t be hurt first.  

You swallow again, a discomfort blooming inside your chest, alongside realisation you shouldn’t have done what you did. 

“But sometimes,” you add more carefully, shaking off your spell, “I use it.”

“How?” Will asks curiously.

You dip your head in a nod, rubbing the edge of your thumb, oil sunk deep into the groves of your skin. “Everyone underestimates me. That’s their first mistake. They talk over me, so they don’t hear the part where I’m right. Then, when the car fails—or whatever metaphorical car they’re driving—I’m the only one who knows how to put it back together. That gives me leverage. Options. And someday, if I play it right? A way out.”

“A way out,” he echoes, more thoughtful.

“Yeah,” you say. “I wanna be an engineer. Or… something like that. Fix bigger things than transmissions. Design stuff that doesn’t break in the first place. But college costs money, and money costs time, and time is currently measured in overtime pay and how much sleep I can sacrifice without turning into a zombie.”

“You’d be a really good engineer,” he says, earnest in a way that punches clean through you.

“Tell the scholarship committee,” you choke out, but the warmth lands anyway, warming you from inside.

He hesitates, eyes dropping to the floor. “Do you… ever feel guilty for wanting to leave? Like you’re abandoning people?”

You think of your mom, asleep in her small bed with her back to the wall. You think of Dustin and Lucas and Max and Will himself. Of Eddie, his warmth all encompassing, his laugh thawing something cold and jagged inside you. You think of Hawkins, with its rotting underbelly and monsters both literal and metaphorical. That horrible, belly-deep sense that what happened last year isn’t concluded, not really. 

“Yeah,” you exhale heavily. “All the time.”

“But you still want to go,” he says slowly, a question there.

“I have to try.” You shrug, kicking the floor with the tip of your boot. “If I stay here forever just because other people need me, I’m gonna end up resenting them. Or myself. Or both. And that’s… not fair.”

He looks down at his hands. “I want to go too. Sometimes. But it feels like the other place is tied to me. Like if I leave, it might follow.”

“That’s not on you,” you say immediately. “You didn’t ask to be kidnapped by a monster and kept in another dimension.”

He laughs weakly. “No, guess not.”

“If anything,” you go on, “you’ve done more than anyone to keep the rest of us alive. You’ve survived, Will.”

He looks up, eyes dark and too old for a face so young. “Then why do I still feel so…” He scrunches his face, searching for the right word, exhaling a shaky, “Broken.”

You exhale slowly.

“Because people keep treating you like you are. Because kids are jerks. Because adults are cowards. Because what happened to you was horrible, and it’s not a light switch you can flip off when it’s inconvenient.”

“That’s depressing.”

“Depressing is telling you everything’s fine when it obviously is not.”

He considers that. Then: “Is that why you told Jess those things? Yesterday?”

You blink, thrown by the sudden change in conversation. “How do you—?”

“People talk,” he answers, tips of his ears going red. “Also, Lewis Brown’s older sister saw the whole thing, and he overheard her on the phone last night with a friend.”

You press the back of your wrist to your brow, trying to rub out the dull ache suddenly forming there. 

“He said it was kind of awesome,” Will adds hastily, seeing the twist of your mouth. “In a terrifying way.”

You grimace. “I was… not nice.”

“You told the truth,” he says, echoing your own words.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “But…”

You picture Jess’s face, the way her eyes filled with tears, the tremor in her voice when she said, That’s my business, not yours.

“I talked about her like she wasn’t there. Like she was stupid. Like she needed me to tell her what was good for her.”

“She kind of does,” Will says, frowning. “You were just being honest, right?”

“That’s not the point,” you say with a tired groan. “Honesty is great. Necessary, even. But there’s a line between being honest and being cruel. And I stomped right over it.”

He swings his legs a little, the soles of his sneakers scuffing the stool. “You were trying to protect her.”

You wish it were the case. Because maybe, yeah, a part of you was. But this wasn’t about Jess, or even doing the right thing. It was about Billy. Everything in your life is about him these days. “Maybe. But I was also… angry. At him. At the way he uses people. At how everyone lets him. At how normal it is. Jess caught the shrapnel for that.”

Will watches your struggle play out, frowning thoughtfully, then, “Do you feel bad?”

“Yeah,” you admit quietly, the response immediate. “I do.”

He looks at you for a long beat. “You should tell her.”

You huff out a breath. “I know.”

“You’d tell me to,” he insists, giving you a pointed look. “If I yelled at Mike because I was mad at the world and made him cry, you’d say I should apologise. In fact, that’s exactly what you did last summer when Lucas and Mike had their fight.”

“Don’t use my own logic against me, kid,” you grumble, squeezing your eyes shut.

Will smiles, small but real, slightly crooked. “Then maybe you should stop being so logical.”

You throw a rag at him. He ducks, chortling.

“I’ll… think about it.”

“You’ll do it,” he corrects right away, looking smug and knowing, and you can’t even be mad because it warms you to see him like this again, even if only for now. “Thinking about it is for people who aren’t you.”

You flip him off lovingly and go back to the sedan.

You work until the sky outside the bay door goes from light grey to deep slate. Will sits in his spot, legs swinging, notebook out, scribbling something with a pencil you pulled out of your pocket and passed to him with a sworn promise you’ll get to see the finished thing. 

A soft call of your name jerks your head towards him. You haven’t noticed him pack up, but he stands there, backpack on, no notebook in sight. There’s something about his expression that makes you stand up straighter. 

“What’s up?”

Will sucks in a tiny, wet breath. “There’s…. something else. I haven’t told anyone, but…”

The hairs on your arm prick up, the comfortable air from moments prior dissipating like smoke. You bite your tongue, not pushing him, letting Will process whatever it is in his own time. Will battles with whatever is stuck in his mouth, the words that won’t come out, but you can tell it’s something bad. He’s shaking, you realise with a quiet curl of dread in your stomach. 

“Hey, kid, I’m—”

You both jerk towards the office, where Frank stands frozen in place, his eyes on Will. “Oh, Will. It’s good to see you again, son.”

Will attempts a weak smile. “Mr Hopkins.”

Not waiting for another moment, Will hurries towards his bike. You follow after him, your eyes narrowed. “Will.”

“Thanks,” he blurts out, one foot on his bike pedal, one hand on the brake. “For… you know. Everything.”

You search his face. He drops his gaze first, fingers wringing around the bike handles. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? You wanted to tell me something.”

He jerks his head in a nod. “It’s fine. It can wait.”

He pedals off, light blinking on the back of his bike, disappearing into the early evening light. You watch him go until he’s no longer visible, then turn back to shut the bay.

His words linger.

You should tell her.

You go to bed with them still echoing in your head, and the lingering terror on Will’s small face burned into your mind.

. . .

The next morning, you get to school earlier than usual.

Partly because you finished your shift at the shop on time for once. Partly because you woke up before your alarm with your heart pounding from a dream about pipes bursting and water flooding everything you own.

You see Jess in homeroom. She looks rough in a way that’s unusual for her.

Her ponytail is lopsided today, dark circles linger under her eyes highlighted by too much concealer. Her cheer jacket is wrinkled around her shoulders. Her laugh rings too loud when her friend says something, the sound unusually brittle.

You see Billy later in the hall after the second period.

He looks… fine. Tired, maybe. There’s a scratch on his neck that wasn’t there the other day, and a hickey peeking above his collar that you try very hard not to stare at. His walk is the same, his smile the same. If anything, he seems more relaxed. Loose around the edges, content. 

You hate the way your brain puts two and two together.

After the third period, you march towards your locker, only to find Jess already there. 

She’s in her cheer skirt, a sweater layered over it, hair pulled up into a high ponytail that’s been redone since homeroom to be sleeker. Her back is to you, shoulders hunched slightly, like she’s trying to make herself small even while wrapped in school colours.

You suck in a deep breath, square your shoulders, and walk forward. 

“Hey,” you call out, keeping your voice low.

She stiffens. Slowly, her head turns in your direction. Up close, Jess looks more haggard, drained somehow. There are faint shadows under her eyes, the kind you only notice if you’re looking for them. Her smile sits on her face wrong: polite, small, flat.

“Hi,” she says.

You lick your chapped lips. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re not great at this—apologising, being vulnerable, admitting mistakes. You’re much better at fight-or-flight. Mostly fight.

Still.

“I—” you start, stop, force yourself to go on. “Look, about yesterday.”

Her hands close around the books in her arms. She stares at the locker door. “It’s fine,” she says too quickly. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s not fine,” you cut in. “I was an ass.”

She blinks, surprised enough to look at you.

“I shouldn’t have talked about you like you weren’t there,” you say, grimacing. “Or like you’re stupid. You’re not. It wasn’t my place to make you feel small. I was angry at Hargrove, and I took it out on you. That’s… not okay.”

She swallows. The movement is small but visible. “You were just trying to help.”

“Maybe, but intent doesn’t cancel impact. I meant what I said about him being bad at this. But you didn’t deserve to be collateral damage in our weird little war.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, like she wants to smile but isn’t sure if it’s allowed.

“Your… war,” she repeats.

This time, you grimace for a different reason. “We’ve been… clashing. Since he came by the shop. He brings out the worst in me.”

She nods like she gets it. You lean against your locker, watching her, scratching at the spine of your textbook.

“Look,” you begin, sucking in a fortifying breath. “I’m not gonna pretend to know everything about what’s going on between you two. And I’m not gonna tell you what to do. If you like him? That’s your business. But if he hurts you? If you ever need someone to… not look at you like you’re crazy for feeling how you do? I’m around.”

The words feel clumsy and too soft in your mouth, but you let them sit. Jess studies you, something complicated jumping across her features, as if she’s unsure whether you’re making fun of her. 

“Why?” she asks quietly.

“Why what?”

“Why would you care?” she clarifies bluntly. “You don’t even like me.”

“That’s not true,” you disagree, almost offended. “I don’t know you enough to like or dislike you. I dislike what this place does to girls like you.”

“Girls like me,” she echoes, but there’s less heat this time.

“Ones who are expected to smile,” you explain, watching understanding dawn across her face. “To be pretty and sweet and small and never complain. To date the quarterback or the new guy with the cool car, and be grateful even when he’s a dick. To never be angry in public.”

You pause, cutting your gaze across the moving throng of students around you.

“Girls like me are allowed to be angry. That’s the only thing we get. We do something wrong, and everyone rolls their eyes and says, ‘of course she’s like that, look at her.’ But girls like you? You’re not allowed. So when you do snap, they call you crazy, or ungrateful.”

Her throat works. “You’ve thought about this a lot,” she says.

“Occupational hazard,” you say with a scoff. “I overthink everything. Comes with the wrench, I’m afraid.”

She huffs a tiny laugh despite herself, and it makes you feel at least ten pounds lighter to hear it.

“Anyway,” you say, clearing your throat. “What I’m trying to say is… sorry. For yesterday.”

There’s a long pause between you, too much noise, but not enough relief in the tension arcing between you.

“It hurt,” she whispers at last. “What you said.”

“I know.” The admission sits heavily in your chest. “You don’t have to forgive me.”

“I…” She fidgets with the edge of her sweater. “I don’t know. Yet.”

You fight to keep your expression steady. “That’s fair.”

“But,” she adds, so soft you almost miss it, “thank you. For saying it.”

You nod, too, a little stunned by how much lighter you feel just hearing that. How a tight knot in your chest loosens, letting you breathe a little easier. Briefly, your traitorous mind slots Billy in her place, and you almost bite your tongue in retaliation. Would it feel like this? Would forgiveness and communication be even possible between you, or would you default to your usual warfare?

Before either of you can say anything else, a familiar voice slices down the hallway.

“Jessica.”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is. The hair prickles at the back of your neck anyway.

Billy. Like your mind has conjured him up from thin air. 

He’s striding down the corridor like he owns it, denim jacket slung over one shoulder, boots hitting the floor in measured, unhurried thuds. Even at this hour, he looks like he’s been awake for days and doesn’t intend to sleep anytime soon.

Jess goes still.

You watch her knuckles whiten around her books. Billy stops a few feet away, gaze flicking from her to you and back again. There’s a tightness around his mouth that wasn’t there yesterday. He looks coiled.

“Can we talk?” he says to Jessica, not taking his eyes off you.

She hesitates. Then she nods, looking equal parts determined and focused.

“Alone,” he adds pointedly, chin jerking in your direction.

You feel your spine stiffen.

“I should get to class anyway,” you say, catching Jess’s eye as you turn to go. “ You need me, you know where I am.”

Her mouth parts slightly, like she wants to say something, but Billy is already stepping into the space you vacated. You move down the row, pretending to fuss with a poster on the bulletin board around the corner. You’re not proud of it, but you don’t leave, either.

You lean your shoulder against the cool cinderblock wall and listen, the thin metal of the lockers carrying their voices along like a tin can telephone.

“What do you want?” Jessica asks stiffly, her voice small but not weak.

“Yesterday,” Billy says bluntly, as if it explains everything. “We need to clear that shit up.”

“There’s nothing to clear up,” she replies, trying to match his tone. “You made it pretty clear what you think of me.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

This is the part where the charm starts to fray, you think knowingly, tracking the pitches in his voice like weather. 

“I don’t have to,” she says, and there’s a tremor under the steel now. “You said them yourself.”

You close your eyes briefly, remembering his careless, heated, Try me. 

Billy exhales sharply, laughing under his breath. There’s heat under the sound, smoke fanning, but it’s not seductive; it’s heated in an angry, destructive way. 

“I was pissed,” he says. “She was being a—”

“Don’t talk about her,” Jess cuts in, surprising you enough to blink.

“I’m not here because of her,” she continues. “I’m here because of you.”

“What, you believe every word that came out of her mouth?” he demands, mockery creeping back into his tone, pointed and sharp. “You’ve known me what, a few weeks? A couple of nights? You think she’s got me all figured out?”

“No.” Jessica’s voice shakes, only once. “But I think she was right about one thing.”

“Oh yeah?” His tone dares her to say what you’re all thinking. “Which part?”

Don’t do it, you want to warn her. Don’t pick this fight, not with him, because he’ll break you. He will find a way to rip you apart from the inside out. Because a monster raised Billy Hargrove, and the monstrous parts in him keep winning, keep eating the man he could be and spitting out something ugly and cruel. And worse still, you realise how much you’ve done to draw that side of him out.

“You don’t care,” she says, her voice quiet with defeat. “About me. Not really.”

You hear the soft thunk of locker metal. You picture Jessica setting her books down, needing her hands free.

“You’re fun,” he says eventually. “We have fun.”

“I’m not… a toy,” Jess says shakily. “You can’t just pick me up when you’re bored and then drop me when you’re done.”

“I never said—we never said this was anything. You knew what it was.”

Fun. A way to pass the time. A distraction so he doesn’t have to go home and face reality. 

“I thought I did,” she says miserably. “But then you said those things in front of her like I wasn’t there. Like it didn’t matter what I felt.”

“What you felt,” he repeats, like the word is a foreign language.

“Yes,” she says, voice gaining strength. “What I feel matters. Maybe not to you, but it does to me.”

Billy lets out a derisive noise, and you hear him moving, maybe adjusting his position, maybe something else. “You’re a cheerleader, Jessica. This isn’t a goddamn romance movie. We hang out. We mess around. That’s it.”

“That’s not it, though,” she argues. “Not for me.”

“So that’s my fault?” he demands with a cold laugh, and you can almost see how he rolls his eyes. “Because you decided to catch feelings?”

You wince. He always manages to find the sharpest possible phrasing. No hold backs, no hesitations. It scares you, just a little, how much of yourself you can hear in him sometimes. How attuned you are to going directly for the throat, directly for the softest bits that hurt the most. 

“I didn’t ‘decide’ anything,” she says. “It just happened.”

“You know what else just happens?” Billy asks, voice going cold and hard. “Gravity. People fall. Doesn’t mean the ground is to blame when they hit it.”

“You’re comparing yourself to the ground? Like you can’t help it if you hurt someone?”

“That’s not what I—” He cuts himself off with a growl. “Jesus, you’re twisting everything.”

You hear her shaky exhale, deep and exhausted. You feel sorry for her standing there with your shoulder against the cool wall, because Billy is a hurricane, pure destruction, and Jess is just a girl folding under his intensity. 

“I’m not twisting anything. I’m just tired.”

“Of what?” Billy scoffs. “Of being seen with me? ‘Cause I can solve that real fast.”

“Of pretending that it doesn’t hurt when you act like I’m… nothing,” she says, voice cracking. “Like I’m just—just some girl you can kiss when you feel like it and ignore when you don’t.”

“You’re—”

He stops. The silence stretches between them. You find yourself holding your breath, waiting for his response.

“I’m what, Billy?” Jessica asks, barely audible. “Say it.”

“You’re pretty,” he grinds out finally. “You’re easy to be around. You don’t nag. You don’t ask questions. Or you didn’t, until she—”

“Don’t,” Jess snaps, and this time her voice rings louder, clearer, syllables more solid. “Don’t blame her. She might be rude, but at least she doesn’t lie to my face.”

“I haven’t lied.”

“Yes, you have,” she snaps back. “Every time you looked at me like I was special when I wasn’t.”

Something in your chest twists. You’re not sure who you’re feeling it for.

“You are special,” he says, frustration bleeding into his tone. “Just not—”

“Not enough,” she finishes for him. “Not the right kind of special.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I like you,” she says. “I know that’s stupid. I know you’re… you. But I do. And I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That you might care. Even a little. Eventually. Not just about how I look in your car.”

“You look good in my car,” he says automatically.

“You’re not listening,” she spits back, “You never listen.”

“I listen,” he protests.

“To what you want,” she stresses, more assured now. “What you need. What you’re angry about. But when I try to talk about me? You change the subject. Or you make a joke. Or you…” She trails off.

You hear a soft thud. Maybe her head against the metal.

“I shouldn’t have slept with you,” she says quietly.

You exhale through your teeth.

“Don’t say that,” he snaps.

“Why not?” she asks, genuinely confused, and you close your eyes. “It’s true. You wouldn’t talk to me if I hadn’t. You’d just find some other girl to climb into the back seat with.”

Don’t say you regret him. Your eyes open, a shaky breath escaping your lips. That’s why he’s angry, why he’s demanding she doesn’t say stuff like that. Because it hurts. Deep down somewhere, it nags at him because it’s one thing when he uses, but another when someone regrets letting him. 

“That’s not—”

“You told her you’d ‘try her’ right in front of me,” Jess snaps, voice shaking with anger now. “Do you have any idea how that felt?”

You hear him move. A shoe squeak, a shift of weight, you stop breathing for a moment.

“I was pissed,” he repeats. “She was being a bitch.”

“Maybe she was.” Jess lets out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “But she saw something I didn’t want to see. And instead of proving her wrong, you proved her right.”

“She doesn’t know me,” he says, low.

“Do I?” she demands immediately.

Silence. You stare at the chipped paint on the opposite wall, jaw clenched. You could and should walk away, but your feet won’t move. 

“Answer me,” Jess says, fiercer than you’ve ever heard her. “Do I know you?”

“No one knows me.”

There’s no brag in it. No cocky edge. It sounds… empty. Hollow in such a way that it rips clean through you. Once upon a time, you thought the exact same thing: that no one could understand you, that no one saw you. Or ever could. You were an oddity in a world demanding conformity, to be eradicated at first chance, not here to be understood or accepted. 

What must it be like? To live with Neil Hargrove in your house, to fear the hand and voice and presence of a man who should love and protect you, but instead hurts you? It doesn’t excuse the harm Billy does, but does it not explain it? If all you know is fear and hurt, is that not going to be what you put out into the world? Kindness requires the kind of bravery people like Eddie possess. To be open and loving in a world that’s determined to punish you for it. 

“Whose fault is that?” Jess whispers after what feels like a small forever.

Billy laughs once, sharp and humourless. “Yours, apparently,” he replies flippantly. “For thinking there’s something to know.”

“That’s not what I—”

“You want some douchebag who’s gonna write you poems and hold your hand and talk about forever?” he asks, words turning cruel in that quick, familiar snap. “Go find someone else. I’m not your fucking boyfriend, Jessica. I’m not your saviour. I’m not your anything.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she chokes out, voice cracking.

“You wanted honesty,” he spits out. “There it is. Now get lost.”

There’s a sharp, wet inhale, and you hear, more so than see, the hurried retreat. The slapping of feet and the hiccup she sucks in as she runs past, mercifully turning in the opposite direction and not noticing you standing there. Your heart thuds as you watch her retreating back, your brain buzzing, caught in a maelstrom of warring emotions. 

Footsteps draw in your direction, and you tense, hurriedly checking if you can make a quiet escape. 

“This is where you say I told you so,” Billy announces dryly, rounding the corner, his expression closed off. 

Your gaze roams over his profile, the glinting earring at his ear, the tension in his jaw. “How did you know I’m here?”

He barely turns his head, but the electric blue of his eyes is devouring, zapping you until your back brushes the wall behind you. The way he’s looking at you is answer enough. Because you both always know. Because your personal, inbuilt fucked up sensor for one another never seems to fail. 

“And I wasn’t gonna say that,” you add, readjusting your stance.

“Why not?” he sneers, his teeth appearing in a predatory smile. “You were right.”

“Being right doesn’t feel good right now. It just feels… sad.”

He laughs once, bitter enough to sting. “Get used to it, grease monkey. That’s life.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

He shoulders past you. You catch the faintest brush of his arm against yours. No shove. No deliberate hit. Just contact, like he has to have this, even now, when everything is bubbling hatefully between you. 

“You think you’re so different from me,” he throws over his shoulder. “But you’re not. You break things too. You just convince yourself you’re doing it for a good reason.”

You flinch. An hour ago, you would have argued with him until you were ready to drop. But you can’t, not anymore because he’s not wrong. Billy disappears into the flow of bodies, broad shoulders swallowed by noise and colour. Yet he lingers on your mind the entire day. And maybe that’s the real problem.

Because for all the ways you can see him clearly—

You still haven’t figured out how to stop looking.

. . .

Friday arrives with rain and pre-game excitement. 

You spend the day in a fog, going through the motions—classes, lunch with Eddie at your usual table, more classes. Eddie finds you after seventh period with that nervous energy he gets before performances, talking too fast about setlists and amp settings and whether they should open with Zeppelin or Sabbath, or something else entirely.

You let his words wash over you, anchoring yourself to his familiar presence.

“You’re still coming, right?” he asks as you’re walking to the parking lot.

Your elbow meets his ribs gently. “I said I would.”

“I know, but you’ve been weird all week. I just wanted to make sure—”

“I’ll be there, Ed.” You soften your voice, force a smile on your face. “I promise.”

He relaxes instantly, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Good. Game starts at seven, but we go on at seven-thirty. Meet me by the bleachers?”

“Sure. I’ll see you there. Don’t suck or I’m disowning you.”

He flips you off with both hands, but he’s grinning now. Happy, a soft part of you notices, and you watch him climb into his van, watch him drive away with one hand out the window in a wave.

Then you go home, shower off the day’s grease and anxiety, and try to figure out what you’re going to wear to a basketball game you don’t want to attend. You settle on jeans and a sweater—nothing special, nothing that says you tried. This isn’t a performance. You’re just showing up for Eddie.

That’s all this is.

. . .

The gymnasium buzzes with noise.

You forgot how much this town cares about high school basketball. How it’s the only thing that matters from November to March, how everyone shows up to cheer for boys who’ll peak at eighteen and spend the rest of their lives talking about glory days that never were.

The air smells like popcorn and sweat as you push your way through the crowd, the air humid with so many bodies packed together. The bleachers are full already, the band is setting up at one end, and on the court, the team is warming up—running drills, taking practice shots, bodies moving with coordinated precision.

And there, in the centre of it all, is Billy Hargrove.

He’s in his uniform—number 8, white tank top with green and orange trim—and even from here you can see the way his body moves. Fluid and controlled. Every motion is calculated for maximum efficiency. He takes a shot from the three-point line. Swish. Nothing but net. 

The crowd roars.

It’s hard not to admire him, the predatory grace of his body, the subtle, coiled aggression in each gesture. You knew he would be here, of course. He’s the new star of the team, but you’ve never seen him in an actual game, and the last thing you want is for him to spot you. You’ve lost enough hours thinking about what transpired between you and Jess.

No one knows me. 

You find Eddie near the bleachers like you promised. He’s tuning his guitar, fingers moving across the frets with practised ease.

“You made it!” He’s grinning, nervous and excited. “We're on in twenty. You gonna stay for the whole game?”

“Maybe. Depends on how much I can take.”

He glances at the court, and something in his expression tightens. “Well, Hargrove’s been on fire during warm-ups. Coach is probably creaming himself.”

Your mouth refuses to work, so you say nothing, but you make the mistake of looking the same way and freeze. 

Because Billy is looking at you now, across the gymnasium, through the crowd and the chaos, his eyes find yours with that same unerring precision. He’s holding the ball in one hand, subtle tension in the tendons of his hand. Sweat glistens on his tanned skin, his curls pulled back, but there’s something feral in his expression.

Then someone shouts something at him, and the moment breaks.

“Come on,” Eddie urges, pulling you toward one of the last available spots. “Let’s get you a seat before it’s standing room only."

You follow him up, find a spot in the middle section where you can see the court and the band. Eddie lingers for a moment, like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it.

“I gotta go, but I’ll find you after?”

You try to smile, tap the metal bolt resting against his chest. “For luck,” you remind him, everything you need to say packed into those small words. “Break a leg.”

Eddie’s face softens, but he still rolls his eyes dramatically. “That’s theatre, sweetheart. For musicians, it’s—actually, I don’t know what it is for musicians. Don’t die?”

Despite everything, you laugh. “Don’t die then.”

He bounds down the bleachers, all nervous energy and long limbs, and you’re left alone in a sea of people who all seem to know each other.

The opposing team comes out. West Lafayette. Bigger school, better funding, players who look like they’ve been recruited since middle school. But when the whistle blows, and the game starts, none of that matters.

Because Billy Hargrove plays basketball like he’s trying to kill something.

. . .

He’s vicious.

That’s the only word for it.

He moves across the court with controlled violence, driving to the basket with his shoulder down, taking hits that would flatten other players and bouncing back like they’re nothing. When someone tries to block him, he doesn’t go around—he goes through, all elbows and aggression and the particular kind of rage that can’t be contained.

By the end of the first quarter, he’s scored twelve points and picked up two fouls.

The crowd is going insane.

You watch him intently, and something in your chest clenches tight. Because this isn’t about basketball, maybe it is to everyone else, but you know better. This isn’t about winning or glory or proving he’s better than West Lafayette.

This is about punishment.

Every drive to the basket, every hit he takes, every time he goes down hard on the court and gets back up—he’s hurting himself. Deliberately. Pushing his body past limits because pain is familiar, pain is controllable, pain is the only thing that makes sense.

You’re destroying yourself, you think, and something like anger and grief collect at the back of your throat until you want to push into the middle of the court and shake him.

The buzzer sounds for halftime. The teams head to the locker rooms, heads bowed in discussion. The crowd shifts now that there’s nothing to watch, talking, laughing, heading for concessions.

And Eddie’s band takes the floor.

You watch them set up, watch Eddie adjust his mic stand and make some joke that gets a smattering of laughs. They launch into their set. Covers, mostly, safe choices that won’t offend the parents in attendance, something you know Eddie abhors, but is better than not playing at all.

Despite that, Eddie transforms when he plays. You’ve seen it many times, but it never gets old—the way he becomes larger, more confident, more himself. His voice fills the gymnasium, rough and powerful, and for a moment, you forget about Billy Hargrove and scholarship applications and the crushing weight of wanting things you can’t have.

You simply watch your best friend play, and let yourself feel proud.

The set ends to genuine applause. Eddie catches your eye in the crowd and grins widely. You offer him a thumbs-up with a crooked smile.

Then the team comes back out, and the game resumes.

The second half is worse.

Billy is playing harder now, more recklessly. He takes a hit that sends him sprawling across the court, and he comes up with blood on his lip and fury blazing in his eyes. The ref calls a foul. Billy doesn’t acknowledge it; he just wipes his mouth and gets back into position.

West Lafayette is starting to get scared. You can see it in the way they hesitate, the way they give him space, the way they track him like he’s something dangerous.

They’re not wrong.

With three minutes left in the fourth quarter, Billy drives the lane. A defender tries to block him and gets an elbow to the ribs for his trouble. The defender goes down hard. Billy scores.

The whistle blows shrilly. Another foul. But Hawkins is up by fifteen, and Billy got twenty-eight points to his name.

The crowd is chanting his name like it’s a church hymn.

You feel sick to your stomach.

The final buzzer sounds. Hawkins wins, 78-60. The team swarms Billy, slapping his back, shouting his name, celebrating in a hooting, brash way guys often do. He accepts it with that sharp, empty smile, all cockiness and ease, letting the praise soak into his ego. 

Then, for just a second, his eyes find yours in the crowd.

And you see it. The exhaustion. The particular kind of emptiness that comes from pushing yourself past breaking and finding nothing on the other side. You stand before you consciously decide to. Start making your way down the bleachers, moving against the tide of people heading for the exits.

Eddie catches you at the bottom. “Hey, where are you—”

“I'll call you later,” you say, and keep moving.

“Wait—”

But you're already gone, pushing through the crowd, heading for the exit that leads to the back parking lot.

. . .

The back parking lot is nearly empty. Most people are still inside, celebrating or commiserating. The air is cold in a stinging way, making your breath visible in the lights that buzz overhead like dying insects. October in Indiana means the temperature drops deceptively fast after the sun goes down, and you can feel it now—the bite of it against your cheeks, the way it makes your lungs work harder.

Your truck sits parked at the far edge of the lot, under a broken light that keeps flickering on and off. You’re fishing for your keys when you feel it—that particular weight of his attention. 

You turn slowly.

Billy leans against the side of the building, half-hidden in shadow. Still in his uniform—number 8, white tank top dark with sweat, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair is damp, curls falling across his forehead, and there’s a bruise forming on his jaw from where someone caught him with an elbow in the third quarter.

He looks exhausted. Hollowed out. Like he’s been running on fumes for so long, he’s forgotten what it feels like to have anything in the tank. In the intermittent darkness, his eyes look more black than blue.

“You waiting for someone, mechanic?” His voice cuts across the space between you, sharp, edged with something mean.

Your hand tightens on your keys. “Good game.”

“That’s why you’re out here?” He pushes off the wall and starts moving toward you. Slow and deliberate. “To tell me I played well? Give me a little gold star on my homework?”

“No.” You force yourself to stand your ground even as every instinct screams at you to get in the car. So much has been said between you, most of it intended to harm, and right now, the weight of those words is like a third person between you. “I’m out here because you’re destroying yourself and somebody should probably say something about it.”

Billy laughs; short, cold, utterly devoid of humour. “And you think you’re that somebody? After what you said last week? After the shit you said to Jess? I’m supposed to believe you give a shit?”

The words hit exactly where they’re supposed to. Your chest tightens, shame and regret twisting together. A week of chewing over your words and their impact, and you try, once again, to find the words that are foreign to you. 

“About that—”

“Save it.” He’s closer now, maybe ten feet away, and you can see the exhaustion written in every line of his body. “I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your concern. Or for you to try and figure me out through a basketball game.”

A thousand insults and observations burn on your tongue. Yet you think of Will asking you if you feel bad, about the bruises on Billy’s skin, about Jess and the relief of apologising. About that soft, gentle part of yourself you’ve hidden away to keep yourself safe. A side of you very few ever see, and only because they deserve it: Eddie, your mom, the boys, Frank, and, more recently, Max.

Right now, the fire ebbs from you, and instead, you hear yourself say, “I’m sorry.”

Billy goes completely still. “What?”

“For what I said.” The words come out rough, reluctant, but honest. “About your father. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t have the right to use that against you. It wasn’t right.”

He’s staring at you like you just spoke a foreign language. A foreign emotion spasms his face, there and gone in an instant. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump in that trademark way you’re beginning to associate with him.

“But,” you continue, and your voice hardens, “I meant what I said about Eddie. He’s off limits. Whatever you think is happening between us, whatever this is, Eddie doesn’t get pulled into it. Do you understand?"

Something passes over Billy’s face, dark and primal, as he pushes towards you, the distance shrinking.

“So you do think something is happening between us.”

“I—” You falter. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Yeah, it is.” He takes another step, and now he’s close enough that you can smell him; sweat and something else, copper maybe, from his split lip. “You felt it.” 

The light flickers. In the darkness, Billy’s face is all sharp angles and shadows. He chuckles suddenly, looking away, then back at you, a rough, pleasant sound. Real, in a way his performative, arrogant displays of amusement never are. 

“I was pissed at you,” he says quietly, and there’s something dangerous in his voice now. “After last week. After you threw my father in my face like you had any fucking right—”

“I said I was sorry—”

“I’m not finished.” His voice cracks like a whip. “I was pissed. I wanted to make you feel it too. Wanted to make you as angry as I was.”

His tongue drags over his lip again, his stare searing. When he speaks next, Billy’s words tumble out raw, rough in a way that makes your spine tingle. “I wanted you to think I’d hit you, wanted you to believe I would.”

The parking lot light buzzes. Flickers. You can hear your own heart, thudding like a drum inside your chest. His head angles away from you, half-turned away. 

“But I wouldn’t have.” 

“I know.” 

The words are barely a whisper, but they land like a grenade between you.

Billy’s head snaps back toward you. “What did you say?”

“I know.” You’re surprised by how certain you sound, how serene, how true it feels even as you repeat it. “You wouldn’t have hit me.”

“How?” The word comes out surprisingly strangled, a crack you’ve never heard in his voice. “How the fuck do you know that?”

Because you’ve grown up around violent men, you’ve tasted their cruelty. You know how easy it is for them to commit to it. If he truly, deep down, wanted to hurt you, he could have. Would have—many, many times. Despite the cruelty and ego, despite his temper and threats, he hasn’t done anything you could truly hate him for because you’ve returned his fire with fire of your own. 

Because underneath all the rage and posturing and desperate need for control, there’s a line Billy Hargrove won’t cross.

At least not with you.

“I just do,” you say simply.

Billy breathes hard, his fists clenched at his sides. You’re intimately aware of how you’re the only ones here, your truck cold against your back, with him a stride away. You wonder if there will ever be a time when there’s not this torturous electricity between you, capable of destruction and—

“You think I don’t like it?” he asks abruptly. “The way you talk to me. The way you look at me like you see all the shit I’m trying to hide and don’t back away.”

“You act as if you hate it,” you point out, frowning.

“Maybe I do,” he counters with a breathless, dangerous little laugh. “Maybe I hate that I like it.”

You could kiss him. You could shove him. You could do both, one after the other.

“I should go,” you say instead, something breathless in your voice because you want. So much it’s making you dizzy, unbalanced, and wanting is a dangerous thing for a girl like you. 

“You sure?” he asks, low and throaty. Not mocking, not challenging. 

You swallow thickly. This is different, a new shade between you, something you’re not sure is safe to explore, something you doubted you were even capable of. No teeth or snarling, just… this. A prickling heat, simmering steadily between you. 

“No,” you admit despite your better judgment. 

Something like satisfaction licks across his face.

“You’re not good for me,” you say absently.

“I’m not good for anyone,” he says without missing a beat.

You believe that, too.

“Let go,” you repeat.

This time, he edges back slowly half a step, still drilling holes into you. He searches your face one last time, like he’s memorising it, seeking something. Like neither of you is entirely certain how to proceed now. 

“Go home, princess,” he calls out after what could be minutes or hours of watching each other. “Fill out your forms. Dream your big dreams. Pretend this is all temporary.”

“And you?” you can’t help but ask. “What do you do?”

Billy smiles; a small and sharp thing. “I play the game,” he replies lazily, mockingly. “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

His gaze sweeps over you, a flicker of something there, and you would give anything to know what he’s thinking about right now, as he examines you.

“Night night, mechanic.”

“Night, Hargrove.”

Smirking, he turns, ambling back towards the noise and the lights, the shape of him familiar and magnetic. Sad. Something about him walking away fills you with sorrow you can’t quite explain. You watch him go, hands trembling slightly where they hang at your sides.

You don’t know if he hates this or loves it. You don’t know if you do, either.

You just know that you’ve stepped too close to something with teeth, and part of you is already leaning in for another bite.

an: what's THIS? resolution to a conflict? actual communication? it only took 50k+, maybe in another 200k, we'll get to a kiss. but next chapter is gonna be Halloween, and BOY is it gonna be a joosy one. thoughts? ideas? musings? let me know and see you next week, hope you have a good one.