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moon song [viii] | Modern!AU

Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.

Word Count: 7.5k+

Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, slightly dark!Targaryens, medical inaccuracies, inaccurate description of firearms, inaccurate description of vehicles (apparently idk shit lol) canon inaccuracies (I'm literally making shit up), age gap

Note: sorry that this took longer than expected to post!! had some family issues that made it so that I haven't really had time to write recently. The next chapter is already in the process of being written, so you should see that soon <3. Unedited

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There was a triple interconnecting spiral carved into the false drawers of Baelor's desk.

You hadn't noticed previously but you excused your prior lack of observational skills on the nature of your last visit to the study. It wasn't done intentionally, but after your first night at Summerhall you avoided Baelor's study like the plague. It simply reminded you of why you were there.

Not that you were generous enough to help, not that you begin to care for these strange people, but rather because you were forced to.

Because you were unsure what was to occur if you refused.

Yet here you were once more, listening to Baelor's words blur into the ringing that trilled in your ears, your mind floating to that weightless space as a thick fog veiled your thoughts, feeling as if your cerebellum had been muddied.

Fuck.

You were utterly fucked.

That was the only thought that had flashed through your mind, the rest of your consciousness resembling radio static as you struggled to even get a grasp on yourself. All you could do was stare at that triple spiral mocking you.

It was a triskeles.

A part of you was surprised that you even remember the name of the cyclical symbol as under any other circumstances you were sure your memory would fail you. Instead you found your mind wandering to the source of your knowledge.

It had been the spring of your third year at King's Landing University, the foreboding exams teetering around the corner as you tried your best to focus on revising your Clinical Pathology module flashcards rather than the sweltering heat that had been torturing you.

King's Landing was ablaze. Or at least that was how it felt as you sat in your kitchen as the ancient metal standing fan rattled in the corner, simply wafting warm air in your direction as it whirred. Your father was working downstairs, ensuring that the few animals that were in his care were hydrated with plenty of fluids as he spoke to the contractor he hired. He was having an air conditioning unit installed in the animal wards. You couldn't afford to have one installed in your home, but your father always ensured that the animals had the best of the best.

At the time you had been annoyed by your father's logic, unsure of why he couldn't also scrape up some more money to make your lives more comfortable, why he was always insistent that the animals had to have everything sparkling new while you were expected to just be thankful to receive the scraps. But now you knew he'd be laughing to see you do the very same.

Even though you now share that same ideology with your father, the one that dictated that you would rather deny yourself of small frivolous luxuries in preference of the animals having all the resources and comforts you could dream of, you were annoyed at the time. It didn't help that your mind kept going blank when you would struggle to recite your definition of extramedullary haematopoiesis (for Seven's Sake, it also occurs in the liver, not just the spleen!) and the fact that you were becoming far too aware of the sweat that was beginning to collect along your hairline: to say you were frustrated was to oversimplify the issue.

So when you noticed the cracked screen of your phone brighten up for the nth time, you succumbed to the urge to discover the source of the notification.

It had been Rowan.

The notifications were never ending, your poor phone struggling to keep up with the barrage of texts that began to make your screen lag. She didn't have any exams, her fine art degree was solely coursework. Yet despite that, you knew her schedule was certainly not free as she had a 5000 word essay about Feminist and Queer Approaches to Modern and Contemporary Art due within ten days, an essay she had not even began to draft despite the looming deadline.

Yet she wasn't messaging you with frantic texts about how she had fucked up, about how she should've began planning her essay sooner, no, instead she was messaging you about something extremely different.

She was messaging you about an Ancient Valyria lecture that her crush at the time, Aethan Velaryon, had suggested she attend. Because he was attending it. And he still hadn't been able to muster up the courage to ask her out on a date like a normal person would have, and instead invited her to spend her time with him in a lecture theatre.

And Rowan was pleading with you to come with her so that Aethan would realise that this lecture was not a date, that if he wanted to spend some time alone with her, he should ask her outright. She never explicitly shared this with him yet it appeared that he would get the message subliminally because the next time Aethan would talk to her, it was to ask her to go to a nice restaurant with him on a proper first date. "Without your friend," he would clarify, sending you a sheepish grin.

And you had suppressed the urge to laugh at him, because you had hated those ninety minutes more than he had, listening to the lecturer drone on about Ancient Valyrian motifs that could be found in artifacts that had strayed from Old Valyria.

One of the main motifs had been the triskele.

You could hardly remember what it symbolised, probably something cliche like time or stages of a lifespan, but now when you were staring at it, all you could feel was an impending sense of doom.

'Sorry for your loss.'

It was a threat. No matter how many times you rearranged the words, no matter how many times you tried to form an anagram from the Valyrian script, the message remained the same. It was undeniably a threat.

The Blackfyres were threatening you, and you hardly knew why. What would they gain from your fear? What would they gain from harming you? It simply didn't make any sense.

Was it because you helped the Targaryens? Was that why the Blackfyres decided that you were now an enemy. A friend of my enemy is my enemy, you supposed.

But you were not a friend of the Targaryens, you were the furthest thing from it. You were their hostage. Were you to be punished by the Blackfyres for completing actions you were forced into? Was that why they were threatening your loved ones?

That was the only way you could interpret the message. A preemptive apology. A mockery of your uselessness. That you would simply have to wait idly by while they inflicted loss upon you.

You complied with what the Targaryen's wanted for the safety of your loved ones, yet now they were being threatened once more because of your compliance.

What a cruel joke.

Baelor murmured your name gently, his hand finding yours with a gentleness that caused you to flinch. You kept your gaze fixed on the triskele as you tried to pull your hand out of his grip, but he didn't let you. Instead, his fingers curled tighter around yours, his thumb tracing a slight arc as he followed the bones of your knuckles before lingering at the base of your ring finger, trailing up and down the bare skin.

He repeated your name, voice soft as directed his sole attention to you. "Poor thing, you're trembling."

You didn't reply to him. Instead your focus shifted, watching Maekar pace along the side of study, his voice hissing into the microphone of his phone ("Brynden, how in the Seven Hells do you not fucking know? I thought that was your full thing, you absolute cunt—")

Baelor followed your line of vision, a crooked smile twitching at his lips as he listened to his brother's unsavoury words.

"Rest assured, you'll be safe—" He continued, but your voice interrupted him before he could try to offer you tedious words of comfort.

"Safe?" You rasped out, your brows furrowing as you stared at him incredulously. "Are you fucking joking? How am I safe right now?"

"We've increased the amount of Kingsguard on the premises, and Dad will figure out how they were even able to get into Summerhall." Daeron interjected from behind you, sat on one of the black leather sofas within the study as his hands busied themselves with the lighter in his grip, flicking it open, a small flame sparking before the steel lid of his lighter swung shut, killing the fire. Aerion was sat beside him, seemingly wordless for the first time in his life, his crutches half propped against the armrest.

Valarr was not there. You were almost thankful that he wasn't.

Baelor joined in, trying his best to reassure you. "I promise you, everything will be fine."

You ripped your hand out of his grasp, the action fuelled by a sudden strength sparked by the unbridled anger that buzzed within you. That certain fury felt almost physical, unfurling within your chest, tightly coiling its tail around your heart, strangling the organ.

"Do you honestly think that's my— my main concern?" You felt your jaw tremble, your words begin to waver as they betrayed you. Fuck, you needed to get your shit together. "Baelor, that's not the only thing I'm thinking about right now."

He murmured your name. "You don't need to worry—"

"You don't get to say that. Not when everything I've done was for the sake of my— of the people I love. The fact that they're still getting threatened means…" Your words got clipped onto a shuddering sigh, your hand lifting to rub at your collarbone as you refused to look at him. You couldn't look at him. If you did, you were certain you would just begin to sob all over again. "Means it was all for nothing."

"For nothing?" Baelor repeated, his head tilting slightly, gaze boring into your skull as you denied him once more of your full attention. Ever since he had guided you to the study, you had been strange, your mind distant as you refused to interact with any of them. He was just thankful that you were finally speaking again.

"Yeah, for nothing. I just deluded myself into thinking that I could just help and leave and everything would be fine. That I wouldn't lose anything by the end of it." Your words came out small, as if you had feared even acknowledging the truth behind them. And hearing them aloud just made you feel all the more pathetic.

"Do you regret it?"

Your gaze flickered up, meeting violet and chestnut.

"I will if something happens to them."

Baelor was silent after your confession, his lips pressing into a tight line as he nodded imperceptibly at you, his gaze never leaving yours. Not even when your gaze darted away from yours, your eyes quivering as you tried to suppress the tears that stumg your waterline. Not even when you stood up suddenly, your thighs roughly hitting the edge of his desk as you stumbled onto your feet, dragging yourself out of the room as you felt your breathing begin to quicken.

He just remained in his seat, his gaze trailing after your fleeting figure.

You could feel your chest begin to tremble, that familiar suffocating feeling begin to creep up on you as you tried to slow down your breaths. Inhale, hold, exhale. Yet no matter how many times you tried to steady your breathing, you could feel your lung rattle against your ribs, pressing uncomfortably against the cage of bones as each breath came out stuttered.

You couldn't breath.

Each inhale was caught in your throat, the oxygen unable to reach your lungs no matter how desperately you tried, your back pressed against the hallway wall (which hallway you were in was an entirely different story, you were unsure of where exactly you were in the manor, your body had wandered through the many twists and turns without a true plan) the cold seeping into your back through the cotton of your shirt. The wall before you began to tilt, the textured paint forming swirls as a stabbing pain pinched at the back of your eyes. You forcefully screwed them shut, your brows furrowing in an attempt to relieve the pain.

You didn't notice the soft clicking of plastic against wood approaching you.

A hand wrapped around your wrist, dragging it so that the palm rested against a firm chest. Your hand flexed slightly, pressing further against the warmth as you felt a steady thumping tremble beneath your touch. You began to count each beat, one, two, three — and slowly, you felt your breathing begin to even, the mechanism becoming natural rather than forced.

Your eyes fluttered open, only to meet startling violet watching you through a narrowed gaze.

It was Aerion.

His grip around your wrist tightened for a moment, the pads of his fingertips digging into your radial pulse, and you quickly became aware of the fact that he too was measuring your pulse.

He only released you once it had slowed down enough to his liking.

"Not here." Aerion muttered, the leg of his crutch kicking against the side of your calf. "Keep walking, you're not going to be weak here."

You're not entirely sure why you listened to him, trailing after Aerion as he guided you through the winding hallways, until you arrived at his room. He messed with the handle for a moment, balancing his crutch as he struggled to open the door. You wanted to offer your help, to forcibly supply it despite the fact that he never asked for it, but soon the handle yielded to his clumsy touch, the door swinging open as pushed at it roughly.

And once more you trailed behind him, hearing the soft click of the metal of the bolt latching back into place. You just watched him, observing as he rounded his bed, discarding the crutches with a carelessness you had become familiar with.

Yet regardless of how lax his movements appeared, there was a certain sluggishness that you could not ignore. Like every action required a level of deliberation, as if he needed to weigh the value of the potential outcome of his gestures before he could even consider carry them out.

And right now his gaze was flickering around his bed sheets, lips tight as he considered just laying on top of them. He had used his crutches too much today and was now reaping the consequences. His wound seemed to flare with an unforgiving ache with each action he attempted, and even if he would never admit it, he was beginning to regret even leaving his bed in the first place.

You moved before Aerion could come to a decision.

You were at the opposite side of the bed, hands tugging at the corner of the duvet as you pulled the fabric back, exposing the silk sheets that were pulled taut against his mattress. Pushing at one of the numerous pillows that populated the top half of the bed, you sat down. Your legs cross at the ankle as you made yourself comfortable, your back pressing against the ornate wooden headboard. The chiselled design dug against your spine, your shoulder blades brushing against wooden swirls as you adjusted yourself slightly.

You didn't say anything.

And neither did he as he joined you, his body gradually lowering itself to sit beside you, before he shuffled slightly so that he could lay down. His hand found your thigh, fingers ghosting an indecipherable pattern against the cotton-blend of your skirt. The pressure of his touch was light, almost fleeting. Yet despite this, it almost felt as if he was writing something, a hidden promise etched in words you would never be able to translate.

You felt his finger form a loop once more (was that an 'a'? You weren't entirely sure), and it was only then you found yourself able to speak.

"Daella's room is right next to mine." You blurted out, your fingers playing with a loose thread at the edge of your shirt, the wrapping around it around your index watching as the fibres frayed before snapping.

He hummed softly, his eyes fluttering shut as he shuffled closer to you, the side of his face leaning against your thigh. His arm moved to hug your legs. "It is."

"And what if they entered hers? What would've happened?" You questioned, gnawing at the fat of your bottom lip

"Don't think about that." He mumbled, his cheek pressing further against you.

"It's a valid question, Aerion." You argued weakly, your voice wavering slightly. You understood where he was coming from, why he didn't want you to ask any more questions. But you just couldn't stop thinking. "What could've happened?"

"She's a Targaryen, they would've treated her as one."

Your mind flashes to the malformed bullet you had to dig out of his abdomen, to the blood and torn flesh. You can almost smell the iron.

"What does that mean?" You ask, even though you are certain you already know the answer.

"It means that we're lucky they entered yours."

"Why wouldnt— why wouldn't they not just kill me?" The words just began to escape you, and you were just thankful that you didn't start crying again. You weren't sure that you could cry anymore. "Why leave the flowers and the note and just leave? I don't understand it."

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering up to meet yours before answering. "Because it makes you spiral. You'll constantly be thinking about it, and you'll be waiting for them to do it again. They want you to be paranoid and afraid."

"I think it just pisses me off more than anything." You confessed.

"Good." He replied, his eyes shutting once more, his voice slightly muffled as sleep began to pull at the seams of his consciousness. "You can't be weak."

You found yourself nodding to his words despite the fact that he couldn't see you.

In any other situation you would've laughed at yourself. How pathetic did you have to be to seriously take advice from Aerion? From every single person within Summerhall, it was Aerion who you found comfort in. A fucking ridiculous concept.

Yet you found your heart had calmed, that your mind was no longer tripping over its scattered thoughts that argued over each other.

For the first time that evening, you could finally breathe.

Perhaps a dangerous thing because you were reminded of how wonderful that simple mechanism was, and you'd rather continue doing it before the Stranger took you prematurely.

You only moved when you were certain Aerion was sleeping. His breathing shallow, his features finally relaxing, no longer scowling or frowning; he looked younger like this.

It was a difficult thing to escape the grasp of the dragon, his arm tightened its grip around you each time you even attempted a movement, his fingers curling into your skirts. He was determined to not let you go. Even in his unconscious state, he was unrelenting, dedicated to making your life more difficult.

You began with his hands, slowly prying them off your skirt, only to find that they would latch onto your own hands. You maneuvered yourself, lifting his arm as you began to slide out of his grip, replacing your body with a pillow.

You did so with baited breath, gently resting his arm onto the pillow.

For a moment you thought he had caught you, his brows twitching as a slight frown tugged at his lips, as if his sleeping mind had detected an anomaly, that something strange was occurring. But it appeared that his dream-addled mind could not find enough evidence to prove this suspicion, and soon his arm wrapped around this pillow, his cheek flush against it.

You remained quiet, gaze flickering back to his sleeping figure as you scoured the rest of the room, slowly opening drawers (ensuring that you lifted them slightly to prevent any scraping noises to occur), searching through them. Drawer after drawer, you investigated the contents of each of them, before you found the drawer. It contained the most random accumulation of trinkets; a compartment that had been dedicated to five watches that spun on illuminated pedestals (each watch was far more expensive than the last), scattered pens and cufflinks, a throwing knife (which you were honestly not surprised to see), and, finally, the one thing you had been searching for.

A set of keys.

The actual clasp had been fashioned into the shape of a star, with two keys that had been hooked into it and a plain keyring that had the classic Targaryen sigil engraved into the metal. One of the keys, the one that you were far more invested in, had the word ZALDRĪZES anagrammed into the black plastic.

The blade of the key was slimmer than the blade of a car key, and it was lighter too. You gently pulled it off the clasp.

And as you left Aerion's bedroom, keeping the handle down as you slowly shut the door, only releasing it once you were certain the latch wouldn't make a sound, you were thankful you had not entered Summerhall completely ignorant about the Targaryens.

ZALDRĪZES was the Targaryen's attempt of entering the motoring industry. It was a successful company, one that had been destined for greatness, but it never advanced the way the market had expected. It simply remained a motorcycle company, nothing more.

Perhaps that was because it had been founded by Baelor's younger brother Rhaegal — it had always been rumoured that he wasn't exactly cut out for the brutal nature of business, and he retreated as soon as ZALDRĪZES had garnered some attention. Yet, ironically, his detachment from the industry only made his products more sought after, and soon having a ZALDRĪZES motorbike became the new craze, a new way to flaunt your wealth due to the limited supply.

No wonder Aerion also had one, you would expect nothing less.

You stuffed the key into your sleeve, the metal quickly warming as it lay flush against your inner wrist. Tugging at the cuff slightly, you ensured that it was tight enough that the key wouldn't accidentally escape its fabric prison.

You moved onto your own room. It was vacant, thankfully, and you were finally able to move quick. You startled yourself slightly, your mind moving faster than you expected as you changed out of your a-line skirt, replacing it with a pair of baggy sweats that did not cling to your skin.

You wouldn't be able to ride a motorbike in a skirt.

And you were thankful that Maekar had been right about the gun. It was easy to conceal on your person. You checked it twice, ensuring that the safety mechanisms were activated. You tucked it into your waistband, tugging out your shirt so that it would veil the lump of plastic that had the potential to kill.

You could not explain why you had decided to take the necklace.

You knew how the Targaryen's navigated these sort of situations. You had been in Summerhall long enough to witness how they resolve issues with each other — with space and ignoring the fact that it had even ever occured. Half-addressed. And right now, they would be more focused on providing you with space, and when they will finally register that they haven't seen you for a while, you will have disappeared.

Maybe Pentos, the way Aerion had implied hours prior.

Rhae would just have to forgive you for breaking your promise.

But as you rounded the corner, your mind attempting to piece together a pathway to the manor's garage from your fractured understanding of the layout, you found yourself crashing into someone.

You yelped slightly, feeling slightly embarrassed by the noise that escaped you as you stumbled backwards, staring at the sudden obstacle.

Maekar.

His head tilted slightly as he watched you with an emotion akin to amusement.

"Where are you running off to, Doc?" He questioned, gaze chasing yours as he noticed the way your focus dipped, as if your mind had already wandered from this small encounter.

You tightened the grip on the cuff of your sleeve slightly, tilting your arm so that your inner wrist faced you.

"None of your business, Anvil." You replied, trying to keep your voice light as you smiled at him, hoping that you sounded more teasing than confrontational. The laugh he huffed out suggested that you succeeded.

You continued walking, inching closer to the stairs that would lead you closer to your desired location. You just had to keep walking, to avoid the main rooms. You could do that.

He called out your name and your heart dropped at the sound of it. You stilled in your spot as you replied, not able to turn to face him. "Yeah?"

"You sure you're alright?"

"I will be."

But apparently that answer did not satisfy Maekar, as he approached you once more, making sure his body was in front of you, blocking off your access to the stairs. His gaze fluttered down, latching onto the sweatpants you had changed into, before returning to your eyes. And as soon as you noticed that slight flicker in attention, you prepared one hundred and one excuses for why you replaced your skirt. You felt cold in your skirt, you spilt something on it, you wanted to be comfortable—

Maekar's hands were hesitant, gently coming up to rest against your biceps in a gesture you were sure was meant to come across as comforting.

It did not.

If anything, you could feel your heart quicken. Did he notice the gun? Did he know what you were doing? That you were going to disappear?

"You know you can talk to me, right?" He comforted in a hush tone, as if he knew that you would be embarrassed by such words spoken in a louder register. And you were disgusted to notice that the frown that marred his face was one of pity.

You gently nodded at him, trying to relax your features so that you wouldn't betray any hint of nervousness.

"Of course." You replied, your voice sounding distant as all you could hear was the rushing of blood in your ears.

He sighed at your response, his grip tightening a fraction before he pulled you closer, his arms winding around you, caging you in against him. One of his hands was pressed against the crown of your head, pushing you further into him, your cheek flush against his chest and all you could smell was sandalwood and soap. The other was firm against the small of your back.

What the actual fuck?

You weren't entirely sure how you were meant to respond to this…hug? Was Maekar hugging you? It sounded too strange to be true, but that was the only word that could describe this gesture. It was rougher than a hug was meant to be, his suffocating warmth searing your skin. You could just feel him everywhere, engulfing you whole, your skin sparking as you tried to even your breathing.

You kept your arms limp at your side, the seconds stretching as he refused to release you.

"Dōna riña." He murmured, the words almost getting lost in his throat. You had no clue what it meant, and as he gently stroked your hair, you could only hope that he couldn't feel the gun that was pressed against your hipbone. (Sweet girl)

"Don't get soft on me, old man." You mumbled, leaning out of his embrace, your hand awkwardly patting his bicep. His arms finally unwound, releasing you from his grasp as his amethyst gaze seized you once more, his attention solely on you as you offered him a tight-lipped smile.

"Would never dream of it." Maekar grumbled, yet his eyes sparkled with a silent mirth despite his rumbling tone.

You waited until he passed you once more, returning his path to whereever he had initially intended to go before you walked down the stairs, each step slow as you became far too aware of the plastic that had warmed against your hipbone, of the key that was digging against your inner wrist. Each step felt heavy, as if you feared that the gun would become dislodged if you made a single mistake. You could almost hear the plastic rattle across the wooden stairs.

You simply had one issue now.

To get to the garage unnoticed.

You had initially oversimplified your plan; you had thought, or rather foolishly hoped, that you would just simply be able to navigate the less populous rooms, to avoid the social rooms like the kitchen and the many parlors. You forgot to consider one vital fact.

The manor had just experienced intruders infiltrating.

Every room was crawling with Kingsguards. You were unsure of when they had all arrived, but it was clear that Baelor had incited some sort of lockdown protocol, making it difficult to wander the halls unseen.

You had to be clever.

You began your route in the dining room. Matarys and Aegon were setting the table, mindlessly chattering as they placed down dishware and silverware. Aegon brightened up once he saw you, his grin widening as he placed down a cup with a little too much force, the glass clammering against the wood, threatening to shatter.

"Have you seen all the Kingsguard?" He excitedly whispered at you, his gaze flittering to the man that stood by the doorway. "Dad says they're here to train, do you think he'll let me join?"

Training. That is what they told their children. They didn't reveal the fact that Summerhall was not safe, that people who wished death upon them had wandered these very same halls, that the Kingsguard were here to prevent those people from having their wished fulfilled.

But you couldn't say that you blamed them. It was the reasonable thing to do, to keep the children in the dark. What good would it serve them to know these facts?

"That sounds so cool, Egg, you should definitely ask him!" You replied, ensuring that the smile on your face betrayed no sense of anxiety. Children were able to detect such emotions with ease, and you couldn't allow Aegon to witness anything that resembled apprehension or else he would announce it to every resident within the manor, Kingsguard and Targaryen alike.

You continued walking towards the other doorway, not stpooing despite the fact it was clear that the two Targaryens wanted the conversation to continue.

It was Matarys who called out your name, confused.

"Where are you going?" He questioned, placing down the last set of utensils (fork to the left of the plate, tableknife and spoon to the right — it was evident that someone had educated him in the etiquette table setting). "Daeron said that dinner will be done soon, you might as well wait here."

"Of course." You replied, nodding slightly at his words, your hand resting on the door handle as you turned slightly, offering the red-headed Targaryen a soft smile. "I'll be back in just a second, just have to do something quickly."

You made sure the door didn't swing shut as you left, instead your hand pressed against just above the handle to slow down its momentum, the latch bolting with a soft click. You could tell that your lie confused them slightly, that they wanted to investigate you further, but you knew you couldn't give them the opportunity to.

They would simply make you rethink your decision.

And you couldn't start reconsidering your options now, not when you had passed numerous Kingsguards, not sparing them a glance as you confidently walked in the direction of the garage, no one else interrupting you. Not when the motorbike stood right before you, painted black with detailed flames decorating the sides, the helmet resting off the mirror. Not when you listened to the garage door slowly opening, the metal scraping against its metal scraps, the door shuddering with a mechanical groan.

Maybe it wasn't the brightest idea to escape on a motorised vehicle, especially when you were in the mental state you were in. But as you secured the helmet on your head, tightening it before you pushed down the visor, you decided that there was no way you could turn back.

And you twisted the key, the motorbike coming to life.

It lurched forward when it began to move, the action forceful, unnatural. You could feel how heavy it felt, the weight uncomfortable beneath you as your thighs pressed against the sides, feeling the soft vibrations tremor into your bones as you adjusted the speed, the bike gradually speeding up.

Your shoulders felt tense as you guided it through the winding path, the gravel beneath the wheel rattling as they were spun, flinging against the plastic. It wasn't your bike, and it felt as if you didn't deserve to be sat upon it, your spine feeling as if it were made of steel as you gently turned.

The cool evening air bit at your neck, slicing at any exposed skin as the sky began to darken, blooming into darker hues of blue, resembling spilled ink.The clouds looked almost grey, like sparse dustbunnies that had been wafted into the air.

Summerhall's grounds were slowly being illuminated by garden lights. Each light flickered to life as you drove past, your shadows spilling against the ground as turned towards the entrance. Or rather exit.

You didn't slow down as you approached, watching as the two Kingsguard began to shout at you.

Shit.

Fucking shit.

Why weren't they opening the gates?

They didn't know it was you, right? They couldn't know, right?

They couldn't see your hair.

The shade of your locks had been concealed by the bulky lump of plastic that shielded your head — they couldn't see that it wasn't silver-gold. They couldn't see that you weren't a Targaryen.

You began to speed up as you approached the gates, cursing yourself as your heart clattered in your chest, beating against your lungs, feeling the pulse travel into your head as you found it difficult to think. You tightened your grip, fingers curling around the rubber coverings of the handle.

And finally you saw it.

The metal gates begin to swing open, one of the Kingsguard frantically pushing it as he yelled profanities at your racing figure. You shifted the bike slightly, letting it tilt to fit through the small gap given.

You had left.

You had actually left.

A laugh began to bubble up within your chest as you continued to swerve into the winding country roads, the roar of the engine deafening any sound that escaped you. You no longer felt so cold.

And even though you sped up, following the twisting roads blindly, hoping and praying that you would soon see some sort of road signs that would provide some inclination of where you were, you could feel your heart begin to calm. It was no longer rattling within its cage, your head clearing as you began to hear the sound of the wind whipping against your helmet, the soft rumbling of the motorbike.

You were unsure of how long you rode exactly, the inner muscles of thighs beginning to ache before you finally saw it.

KING'S LANDING M25 ⬆️

As you drove down the motorway, you were the only vehicle on the road, spare for a few racing cars that whizzed past you every so often, ignoring the speed limit. You suppressed the urge to do the same. You just knew you would get caught if you did something foolish like that, and word would eventually spread back to the Targaryens.

You couldn't be stupid.

Yet despite this thought being the sole one to rattle around your mind, crashing against your skull, you found yourself driving to Rowan's apartment instead of yours, the engine purring as you stayed sat.

You just stayed for a moment, staring at the illuminated window that represented her home. Every other light within the apartment complex had been dimmed, and you just knew that it was later than you expected. You wanted to jump off the bike, to run up the stairs to finally see her — and then to do what exactly?

To tell her that the entire time you had been missing, you had actually been kidnapped? That the one opportunity that you did find to communicate with her, you decided not to reveal this vital piece of information?

Sorry for your loss.

Fucking Seven Above, what were you doing? You couldn't even be here right now, it was stupid for you to stall.

No matter how much you wanted to see her face, to hear her voice, to just hug her, you couldn't. You couldn't be stupid, you couldn't be selfish.

Not when the Blackfyre's had promised to make you experience sorrow, not when they promised to steal something from you.

The engine rumbled back to life as you began to accelerate, this time without a proper plan.

You could return to your own home, but you could only see the flaws with that plan. The Targaryen's must've noticed your absence by now. Whether it be becuase you failed to show p for dinner, or because of the Kingsguard you almost mowed down; they would know.

And the Targaryen's being in your home would be the best case scenario.

What if you arrive to find the Blackfyres? You weren't even sure what the Blackfyres were meant to look like (you suspect that they would look similar to your abductors), and truthfully you weren't exactly vying to be taken by the Blood of Old Valyria once more. You didn't want to make a habit of it.

You had always thought King's Landing had a smell. Despite the fact that you had spent the majority of your life within the capital, despite the fact that this scent had weaved its way into each and every memory of your childhood, you had always noticed it.

It was a thick smell, the sort that lingered and suffocated. It was the scent of desperation, of dreams dying and hopes diminishing. It wasn't pleasant, to say the least. And the scent of the city had always become stronger to you when you had returned from the beach.

During the day, Blackwater Bay was often veiled in a heavy fog, the mist rolling along the water. Your father would only ever take you during the night. When the night sky twinkled with scattered diamonds, and the tide was far.

You had abandoned Aerion's bike a while back, kicking out the stand so that it rested against a stonewall. You didn't really want to haul it onto the sand, and you decided that if anyone had the patience to break into the ZALDRĪZES lock mechanisms without the keys, they truly deserved the motorcycle.

As you layed across the white sand, feeling the small granules dig into the skin of the back of your neck, you found yourself pulling out the necklace from your pocket.

In the dim moonlight, it almost appeared unremarkable.

Unfortunately that was until the moonlight glinted against the valyrian steel, exposing the waved metal as the centre ruby glinted mockingly at you.

You struggled to make sense of your situation. You had managed to leav Summerhall, to escape the very people that had abducted you, but why were you now just wishing to return. To return to their grasp, to be able to play the role of an ignorant victim once more, to scorn them as if you have no choice in the matter. It was stupid. Utterly brainless, yet you wanted nothing more than to sleep in your bed at Summerhall.

For Sevens' Sake, intruders had entered your room while you slept, leaving behind a threatening message as evidence, how could you be so delsional to think of that damned room as being safe?

How could you think of Summerhall as being safe?

It didn't make sense.

You didn't want to acknowledge it, but why was that elation of being free so fleeting? Why had your mind decided that you had your fill, and that it was now time to return? Why were you missing the children, why was it that you just wanted to talk to Daella, to gossip with her mindlessly as some Lysene Dating Show would drone on in the background? Why were you craving a cigarette, especially the brand that Daeron had stocked in his room?

And why were you feeling so guilty about breaking your promise with Rhae?

You hadn't expected it to torment your mind so much. It was meant to be a fleeting promise, one that held no weight as its sole purpose was to comfort, yet now you could feel remorse gnawing at your mind, weighing down your heart as you stared at the winking stars, watching as a cloud slowly blurred its light.

Fuck.

You couldn't do it.

You had done what you had deemed impossible, and now all you could think about was returning.

And your mind began to wander once more, the Targaryens had collated a list of who was deemed a loved one within your life — in fact, they had done so with ease. It was only reasonable to believe that the Blackfyre's would have similar capabilities.

But what if the Blackfyre's mistook your presence at Summerhall?

What would they gain from threatening you, it truly made no sense. Unless they believe that you held some value to the Targaryens. You were not sure what this value could be exactly, perhaps they thought you were a nanny? Or perhaps an old friend? Or maybe the family doctor, you couldn't truly decipher what that potential worth could be to the Targaryens.

But you couldn't ignore the fact that the message was written in High Valyrian.

If these individuals had the same resources as the Targaryens, they would have known that you have no knowledge in the language, that the message held no true value to you. Which only meant one thing.

The Blackfyres have no idea who you are.

You wanted to laugh at the irony. Why were the criminals hellbent on ruining your life so incompetent.

As you began to sit up, you could feel the night breeze kiss at your face, the scent of salt heavy in the gusts of winds, almost stinging your eyes. But you froze.

A noise.

From behind you.

It wasn't the wind whipping at the sand, or an animal scuttering along the ground. It was measured, deliberate.

You stayed facing the sea, slowly pulling out your gun, focused on the horizon as you listened.

It happened once more.

A crunch — too heavy to be accidental, too heavy to be conjured by the mind.

And you turned, gun pointed at the individual who had began to approach you, the barrel facing centre mass as you could hear Maekar's voice guide you through flicking off the safety.

The man before you yelped slightly, his hands immediately flying to his shoulders, a wear surrender gesture. It was Duncan.

But his presence didn't calm you. Instead, you readjusted your grip, fingers curling arounf the handle as you stood up.

"What the actual fuck, Dunk?" You hissed out, keeping the gun aimed at his chest, watching as he stared at you with wide eyes, his blue gaze flickering between your face and the lethal weapon pointed at him. You could see one of his hands fall, going for his waistband. "I swear to the Father Above, I will shoot you if you move again."

He muttered your name weakly, his hand returning to his shoulder, twitching slights as if he felt awkward without holding his own weapon. "Why don't— why don't you just put the gun down and we can talk?"

The wind roughly swept through his hair, messing with the strands as they forced them to whip in front of his face.

You ignored his plea. "How did you know where to find me?"

"Not exactly hard." He responded quickly, his gaze latched onto the gun as he found himself unable to look away from the small lump of plastic, He immediately recognised its make and model. And he found himself cursing the genius who decided to give it to the hostage. "I've been following you the entire time."

"No—" You shook your head, denial evident in your tone. "You can't have, I made sure no one was follwing me."

"The bike has a tracker built into its system."

"Shit." You replied. How did you not think of that?

"Yeah." He swallowed harshly. "I didn't tell anyone. About where you are, I mean."

"You might as well have." You bit back, finally lowering the gun as you tucked it back into your waistband, watching Dunk. He made no move to suddenly pull out his own weapon. You noticed that he was dressed a bit more casually for once, his blazer abandoned for a khaki jacket that looked slightly strange on top of his white button-up. "They would've noticed that I went missing."

"True, but they thought that you've been with me the entire time." Dunk confessed, the apples of his cheeks tinging a light pink. You were unsure if it was caused by his dishonesty to his employers or because of the biting cold.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because…" His voice trailed off slightly as he found it difficult to look in your eyes. He truly had no reason to lie to the Targaryens for you, it was a foolish thing to do. But he found himself not regretting his decision. "Because I knew you just needed some space, right?"

"Right." You parroted.

"Let's go back home, yeah?" He offered, his hands tucking into the pockets of his blazer. "You just need to follow me."

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

"You had a choice. You could've shot me and left me here." He pointed out.

You didn't respond to him, instead leaning down to pick up the discarded motorcycle helmet. You didn't want to acknowledge the fact that he was right.

Shit, what was wrong with you?

♤♡◇♧

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