𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ──── hiii, i’m lena (she/her) i’m 20, a college student and an occasional writer. i’ve been scribbling stories since 2018 but i'm new on tumblr! english isn’t my first language, french is so i apologise for any mistake made! feel free to drop me a message if you have a request, a question, or just want to chat i promise I won’t bite!
DISCLAIMERS: some of my writing explores dark or mature themes, including violence and implicit sexual situations. reader discretion is advised. please check tags and content warnings before reading if these topics are not for you!
REQUESTS: open! send me an ask or message if you have an idea or a prompt. just please keep in mind that I’m a college student and I write in my free time, so it might take me a little while to finish your request. also, please be kind and respectful when sending requests. i’m happy to write and share my work, but mean or rude messages won’t be answered.
summary: aerion drives her home after the chaotic night and she ends up texting a certain someone, though the conversation quickly takes a turn she hadn’t expected.
warning: the following chapter features sexually suggestive conversations between characters.
──── SHE STUMBLED SLIGHTLY as they stepped out of the club, neon lights blurring everything around her. Her heels clicked unevenly against the pavement and she could feel every pair of eyes on her or maybe she was imagining that part.
"I'm fine," she mumbled, fumbling with her bag. "I can-"
"No," he cut her off and she blinked at him. "The streets are full of creeps. I'm driving you home."
Her stomach flipped. "I... I can't let you-"
He didn't answer. He just motioned toward his car like it was obvious, already opening the door for her. She hesitated, then slid into the passenger seat, gripping the edge of it like it was a lifeline.
The car smelled faintly of leather and something crisp, clean. She glanced at him; Aerion Targaryen, smoking hot, impossibly calm and felt her chest tighten. The neon lights of the city streaked past the windows as he started the engine.
"You don't have to sit here quietly," he said finally, eyes on the road. "But don't start babbling either. I don't do drunk confessions."
She exhaled shakily, leaning back, trying to make sense of herself. "I... I'm just a bit shaken... everything's falling apart."
He shot her a quick glance, brow raised, lips pressed into a thin line. "Figures. And somehow you think dragging me into it will help?"
"I- I didn't drag you!" she protested, waving her hands helplessly. "I mean... you offered, technically, and- ugh! Never mind!"
He smirked faintly at that, though his eyes stayed sharp. "Just... keep your hands to yourself and your apologies short. I'll get you home safe. That's enough for me."
She pressed her lips together, letting out a shaky laugh. "Safe... right... okay..."
The drive wasn't long, but to her it felt endless. The first minute, she stared out at the city lights, watching empty streets pass by. It was what- 2 a.m.? Hardly anyone was outside.
Her eyes drifted toward the car's display screen. Yeah... 2 a.m. Perfectly deserted. Safe, in theory.
But as the minutes stretched, she found herself glancing at him again and again.
He lit a cigarette, the ember glowing orange in the dim light of the dashboard, and cracked open the window. The breeze carried the sharp smell of smoke mixed with leather. Gods... he was so impossibly hot. Perfect face, perfect eyes, perfect everything.
She couldn't stop herself from smiling faintly. Her thighs rubbed together almost unconsciously as she tried to keep her hands in her lap. Her gaze kept flicking back to his arms gripping the wheel, muscular, strong, effortless and she felt heat rising to her cheeks. How could someone look so... fuckable?
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to think about literally anything else. The alcohol had mostly faded but she knew if even a trace of it lingered, she would have jumped him, kissed him, maybe even more right there in his insanely expensive car. The thought alone made her flush hot enough to burn her ears.
He spoke then, cutting through her spiraling thoughts: "We'll be there soon."
Her heart skipped. "Soon," she repeated softly, half to herself and pressed her hands into her thighs to stop shaking.
Aerion flicked a glance toward her, a corner of his mouth tugging upward in a brief smirk. "Are you still drunk?" His voice was calm but there was that edge of teasing under it that made her stomach flip.
She blinked at him, shaking her head quickly. "No... I'm fine."
"Then why do you look so tense? Like you're about to combust." he said slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
She swallowed hard, fumbling with the strap of her bag in her lap. "I... I don't know. Just... everything's... everything."
He let out a soft chuckle, low and dry, shaking his head. "You don't have to babble. You're kind of exhausting."
She bit her lip, trying to hide her blush. "I- well, yeah, maybe... I just- shit, I don't even know why I'm talking."
"Of course you don't," he murmured, amusement creeping into his tone. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he pulled the pack of cigarettes from his jacket and held one out toward her. "Want one?"
She blinked, staring at the dangling cigarette. "Uh... no," she said quickly, waving her hands. "I... I don't smoke."
He let out a low sigh, shaking his head as his eyes flicked back to the road. "Shame. Smoking feels good. Especially when you're tense... or, depending, about to fuck someone. Just... helps."
She blinked at him, mind briefly short-circuiting at that admission. "...What...?" she managed, though her tone came out flustered and awkward.
He smirked faintly, never taking his eyes off the road. "It's a habit. Helps me focus. Calm down. Or... warm up, depending on the situation. Don't overthink it."
She pressed her lips together, hands gripping the edge of the seat. "I... I tried it once," she admitted, hesitating. "Smoking, I mean. Just once. Thought it'd make me feel... cool or something. Ended up burning my tongue and coughing for like... twenty minutes. Not exactly what I expected."
He glanced at her briefly, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching at the corner. "Figured you'd fail at something so simple."
She shrugged, cheeks heating even more. "Well... I wasn't exactly sober and it was... not a great idea." She laughed nervously, trying to hide the warmth creeping up her neck and chest. "Also, I don't like the taste, and I... I don't want to look like a dumb girl trying to be something she's not."
He let the cigarette dangle between his fingers for a moment, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling of the car then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Then what kind of girl are you?"
She froze.
What?
Her brain stuttered. He'd never looked at her like this before, not the two times they'd met, not with the bathroom chaos, not even in that ridiculous fake-dating discussion. He'd always been sharp, annoyed, distant... uninterested.
And now he was asking her?
She rubbed her thighs together nervously under the seat, biting her lip so hard she almost tasted blood. "...I... I guess... I'm... a girl trying to survive," she admitted honestly, voice quieter than she intended, almost a whisper.
He glanced at her, that sharp, calculating look in his mismatched eyes softening just a little. "Trying to survive... huh?"
She nodded, swallowing, cheeks still warm. "Yeah. I... I work. At leased I used to until I got fired. I study. I try not to screw up everything all at once... mostly. I... I'm not perfect. I make a lot of mistakes. But I... I try."
He studied her for a long moment, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers then his eyes sharpened again, a subtle challenge flickering in them. "And... how far is this girl willing to go to survive?"
She frowned, unsure what he meant. "...What do you mean exactly?"
He didn't answer, just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod toward the road ahead. She swallowed hard and met his gaze. "...I mean... I'd do anything. To get my shit together. To repay the damn cars, get a job back, keep my apartment... and finish this fucking assignment so I can get into the school I've always wanted."
Her words spilled out and even as she said them, something in the tone, the way her voice carried in the quiet car felt oddly intimate. Fucking hot, she realized, cheeks burning again.
He didn't look at her; his focus returned to the road. He nodded once and lit another cigarette, the ember glowing briefly. The small gesture made her stomach twist for reasons she didn't want to admit. Then he spoke again, voice low. "So... what exactly are we going to do... as a couple?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "...Uh... couple stuff?" she said, uncertain, trying to make it sound casual, but her words felt stupid even as they left her mouth.
He let out a short, almost incredulous laugh. "Couple stuff? You mean like... what? I've never really... been in a relationship. Every time I've been with a girl? It was either to fuck, or... to fuck. That's it. So... you probably have more experience than me, don't you?"
Her throat tightened slightly and before she could stop herself, she found herself telling him. "...Well... I've only had one boyfriend. Like... a year ago." Her voice dipped slightly, quieter now, a little embarrassed. "We... didn't last long. He dumped me. First and... last heartbreak. Not exactly a great experience."
He let out a sharp, humorless "Ah..." and she could hear the faint mock in his tone, as if her story barely registered as impressive or maybe he was just teasing.
"Hey!" she said quickly, cheeks warming, pressing her thighs a little tighter together. "Don't mock me."
He flicked a glance at her, a faintly ironic smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah okay sorry," he said, tone deliberately dry. "For mocking you... kind of."
She rolled her eyes slightly but didn't argue further. After a moment, he asked, curiosity softening his voice just a fraction: "So... why'd he dump you?"
She laughed nervously, a little breathless, fingers twitching against the fabric of her skirt, her legs pressed together. "Well..." she swallowed, trying to make it sound casual though her chest tightened at the memory. "We... didn't really see each other. I was... busy. I spent all my time studying, trying to get the highest GPA I could and apparently... it was a problem for him. He... he called me selfish and self centered and then... dumped me. On... a random Thursday. Valentine's Day, actually."
She pressed her lips together and looked down at her hands, heart thumping harder than it should. "...Yeah. Romantic, right?"
He let out a low hum, almost like a chuckle, but more ironic than amused. "Valentine's Day. Of course. Perfect timing."
She felt heat rise in her cheeks again, more from embarrassment than the story itself, and adjusted slightly in her seat. "...It wasn't... great. First heartbreak and... last one too, probably."
He raised a brow, glancing at her briefly, clearly curious. "What do you mean last one?"
She let out a small, rueful laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah... I don't plan on seeing anyone else. Not now. Not really. It's still too recent. I just... want to focus on... having a stable situation, which... isn't really the case right now." She pressed her lips together, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. "I... I doubt I even want to talk to anyone, at least... romantically, or commit to it. Not yet."
He tilted his head slightly, frown forming. "Aren't we supposed to date tomorrow?"
She blinked at him, quickly shaking her head. "Yeah, but fake. It's... not the same. You're not going to bring me flowers or take me to the cinema. You're not meeting my parents like a real couple or some other dumb stuff real couples do. It's just... appearance. That's it. For show. To... fix your image, help me... survive. That's all."
He exhaled, flicking the cigarette again, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling of the car. "...So it's all business right?"
She nodded, biting her lip. "Yeah. Business. Survival. That's it."
He gave a slow nod. "Noted," he said, voice flat.
The car hummed quietly as he guided it down familiar streets. Soon, the neon glow of the city faded behind them, replaced by the dim, dusty parking lot she knew all too well, the one tucked behind her apartment. A few stray lampposts flickered weakly, illuminating the cracked asphalt and a couple of rusted trash bins.
He slowed, bringing the car to a gentle stop. The engine's low rumble filled the space for a moment before he switched it off.
She swallowed, staring out the windshield at the familiar, unglamorous lot, the contrast to the night she'd just survived hitting her full force. "Yeah... this is it," she murmured, voice small.
He glanced at her briefly, expression unreadable and nodded once. "Safe and sound," he said, tone neutral, but she caught the faint undertone of... something else. Concern, maybe. Or just acknowledgment.
She exhaled shakily, gripping the seatbelt, her stomach still twisting from adrenaline, alcohol, and lingering embarrassment. "Thanks... for... driving me," she murmured, almost under her breath.
He shrugged, lighting another cigarette with the same calm precision. "Just stay out of trouble," he said then he gave her a sharp look, and she felt it in her bones.
She nodded quickly, cheeks burning, and finally opened the car door.
The cold air hit her like a jolt, making her skin prickle painfully. Her bare arms and legs, exposed in the neon pink crop top and short black skirt, shivered instantly. She tried to pull herself out of the car, but before she could fully step down, a firm hand grabbed her arm.
Her heart skipped a beat. She spun toward him, mind firing off a thousand ridiculous scenarios in a second: him pulling her closer, a stumble, a kiss, hands roaming... all the dirty fantasies she had tried not to think about tonight.
"What?" she managed, cheeks blazing red, fumbling with words as her pulse raced.
He held her gaze calmly, yet there was something weird in the way he looked at her. "I need your number," he said simply. "For tomorrow. Remember, dating."
"Oh... right. Right," she stammered, fumbling in the back pocket of her skirt for her phone. She handed it over, hands trembling slightly.
He took it and started typing. She watched, frozen for a moment, as a notification popped up: Valarr – updating you on the car's situation... His brow flicked downward at it, a subtle frown, though he didn't say a word. He handed the phone back once he finished entering his own number.
She took it, holding it like a lifeline and exhaled shakily. "Thanks..." she said, forcing a smile, then opened the car door fully.
She stepped onto the asphalt, trying to maintain her balance in the boots and scandalous skirt, waving awkwardly at him as she started walking toward her building.
Aerion watched her go, eyes sharp. His hand tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles white as he pressed it almost painfully hard, though the engine hadn't yet roared to life. He didn't move, didn't speak, just stared at her retreating figure, frustration clear on his face.
The fluorescent light above her flickered as she fumbled with her keys, fingers slightly numb from the cold.
"Come on... come on..." she muttered under her breath.
The key finally slid into the lock with a metallic click. She pushed the door open and slipped inside quickly, shutting it behind her with a quiet thud.
Silence.
Her apartment greeted her exactly the way she had left it that morning: small, slightly messy, and far too quiet. A stack of textbooks sat on the kitchen table, open and accusing. A half-empty mug of coffee had dried into a sad brown ring beside them. Her couch was buried under notes, highlighted pages, and the sweater she had thrown there in a rush before leaving earlier.
She leaned back against the door for a second and exhaled.
"Gods..." she whispered.
Everything from the two previous days rushed back at once; the crash, the money she owed, the fake dating plan, the drive, the conversation, the way he had looked at her.
Aerion Targaryen.
She let out a small, hysterical laugh and dragged both hands down her face. "I'm fake dating Aerion Targaryen tomorrow," she said out loud to the empty apartment.
The words sounded ridiculous. Completely insane.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
She looked down.
Valarr:
Good news. They'll cover your friend’s car fully. The other one... still discussing. I'll update you tomorrow.
Her stomach dropped a little again. Tomorrow. Of course. Then she noticed another new contact saved in her phone.
Aerion
No last name. Just that. Her thumb hovered over it for a moment. For some reason, her chest tightened again.
She tossed the phone onto the couch instead.
"Nope," she said firmly. "Not thinking about that tonight."
She kicked off her boots, wincing as her feet finally relaxed, and padded into the tiny kitchen. The fridge light flooded the room when she opened it, revealing... very little. Half a yogurt. Some leftover noodles. A lonely bottle of water.
She grabbed the water and took a long drink, leaning against the counter.
Her eyes drifted back to the table. The assignment. The reason all of this even started.
She groaned. "Right... school. My life isn't already collapsing enough."
She dragged her notebook closer, flipping it open again. Highlighter marks, notes scribbled in the margins, diagrams she barely remembered making.
For a moment, she just stared at the page then, without warning, her mind flashed back to the car.
His voice. His hand grabbing her arm. His calm expression when he said we're dating tomorrow.
Her thighs pressed together unconsciously and she immediately slammed the notebook shut.
"Oh my god," she groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Focus."
She pushed herself off the table and wandered back to the kitchen, opening the fridge a second time like it might magically contain something new. It didn't. Just the sad half yogurt.
"...Great."
She grabbed it anyway, peeled the lid off and ate it standing there with a spoon she found in the sink. The yogurt was slightly warm and tasted like disappointment, but she finished it in a few bites anyway.
"Dinner," she announced dryly to the empty apartment.
Once it was gone, she tossed the empty cup in the trash and padded toward the couch. Her phone was still sitting there between a pile of notes and her abandoned sweater.
She dropped down onto the couch with a small sigh and grabbed it.
Her thumb hovered over the screen then she blinked.
"...Wait."
Her brain caught up with something important.
"I didn't tell Rowan."
Her eyes widened slightly.
Rowan was literally the reason half of this mess existed in the first place—the car, the insurance situation, the whole night spiraling out of control—and she had completely forgotten to update her.
She checked the time.
2:40 AM
"...Hmm."
Was Rowan awake at two in the morning?
She stared at the screen for about two seconds before answering her own question.
"Yeah. She's probably awake."
Rowan had the sleep schedule of a raccoon.
Without thinking too hard about it, she tapped Rowan's contact and hit call.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three-
Click.
"HELLO?" Rowan's voice burst through the speaker, breathy and slightly strained.
She blinked. "...Hi?"
There was a weird pause on the other end then a muffled male voice somewhere in the background.
"Rowan-"
"Shut up!" Rowan hissed, clearly not to her.
Her brows slowly lifted.
"...Are you-"
"NO," Rowan said immediately.
A second later there was a very obvious thump sound, followed by what sounded suspiciously like someone falling off a bed.
A groan echoed in the background.
"...Was that Raymund?" she asked slowly.
Rowan exhaled loudly. "Unfortunately."
Another pause.
"...Were you two fu-"
"Yes," Rowan said bluntly.
She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. "Oh my god, Rowan, I am so sorry."
"Don't apologize," Rowan said. "He's fine. His ego needed the fall."
From somewhere far from the phone, Raymund's offended voice called out, "I did not fall-"
"You did," Rowan snapped then she came back to the phone. "Anyway. Why are you calling me at two in the morning? Did you get arrested? Did you kill someone? Did the car explode?"
She took a deep breath.
"...I'm fake dating Aerion Targaryen."
Silence. Complete, stunned silence then Rowan said, very calmly:
"...I'm going to need you to repeat that."
She sank deeper into the couch, rubbing her forehead. "I said... I'm fake dating Aerion Targaryen."
There was another pause then a loud CLANG on Rowan's side of the phone.
"What the fuck was that?" she asked.
"My brain hitting the floor," Rowan said flatly.
In the background, Raymund's voice cut in immediately, much closer to the phone now.
"...Wait. Aerion?"
She blinked. "Yeah."
Another pause then Raymund said, with sudden alertness, "Aerion Targaryen as in my friend?"
Rowan groaned. "Yes, genius. The only Aerion that exists in this city."
Raymund sounded way too entertained. "Hold on. Hold on. Back up. How did you even end up fake dating Aerion?"
She groaned and buried her face in the pillow again. "It's a long story."
"I have time," Raymund said.
Rowan snorted. "You definitely do. You weren't doing much five minutes ago anyway."
"Rowan-"
"You fell off the bed," Rowan reminded him.
"I did not fall-"
She squeezed her eyes shut. "Can we focus please?!"
Both of them went quiet.
"...Fine," Rowan said. "Explain."
She groaned and dropped her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Okay. So first of all, this whole thing started in the nightclub, like you said he’d be there,” she began, still clutching the phone like a lifeline. “I went in, trying to somehow spot him in this sea of people, and…” she groaned, “…it was chaos. Music pounding, lights flashing, everyone dancing like they were auditioning for a movie, and me just trying not to trip over my own boots.”
Rowan laughed softly. “Sounds about right.”
“I know, I know,” she continued, ignoring the teasing tone. “I’m bumping into people, getting stared at like I’m some… walking neon sign and somehow, I’m still trying to find silver hair. Impossible. Absolutely impossible.”
“And then?” Rowan prompted, a note of barely contained curiosity creeping in.
“Well…” she said, her voice dropping a little. “…then someone grabs my waist from behind.” She swallowed, wincing. “I thought it was just another random guy, right? So I turn around and…” She groaned, covering her face with her free hand. “…I told him to shut up and kiss me.”
Rowan nearly snorted into the phone. “Wait. You told Aerion Targaryen to shut up and kiss you?”
“Yes!” she practically screamed, her cheeks heating. “And he- he didn’t! He didn’t move, didn’t even lean closer. Just… stared at me like I’d lost my mind!”
There was silence on the other end for a moment, then Rowan’s voice came back low and incredulous. “You… you basically threw yourself at him, drunk, in a nightclub, and he didn’t even respond?”
“I… I mean-” she flailed, “he told me I was drunk and that I’d probably kissed half the club already!”
Rowan burst out laughing, and even Raymund let out a chuckle from the background. “Classic,” he muttered.
“And then,” she continued, ignoring their laughter, “he dragged me through the crowd, like- like some kind of… I don’t even know, straight to the bathroom. And that’s when I realized… it was him. Silver hair. The whole impossible, fuckable… Aerion Targaryen thing. Standing there. In a bathroom and of course I explained everything. Cars, my apartment, my lost job, King’s Landing Journalist School… the disasters, all of it. And then…” she gulped, “…I proposed fake dating him.”
Another pause on the line. Then Rowan said slowly, “You proposed fake dating and he said yes?”
“Yes!” she burst out, almost laughing at herself. “And… and he’s insisting we start tomorrow!”
Rowan’s voice was a mixture of awe and exasperation. “Oh my god… you are literally insane and also… obviously already like, totally smitten.”
She froze, heat creeping up her neck. “I… what? I… no! I-”
“You called him hot three times in the story alone,” Rowan cut in, triumphant. “Don’t even try to lie.”
She groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Yeah… he’s hot. Like… ridiculously hot. The hottest guy I’ve ever seen. And I’m not even… the type to drool over guys when they’re sexy, but… he’s… so fuckable. It’s… unfair.”
Rowan’s voice immediately perked up, teasing as hell. “Wait- are you gonna fuck him?”
“What?!” she yelped, flinging her hands up in horror.
Rowan didn’t miss a beat. “I mean… if you’re dating him, even fake, you might end up fucking him, right? Ain’t every day someone dates Aerion Targaryen. Take your chance, girl. Bet he fucks good.”
She went silent, staring at the ceiling, heart thudding. Thoughts were firing at her faster than she could process: the car ride, his arms on the wheel, the way he’d looked so calm while she was panicking; the bathroom incident; imagining him on her couch, in the shower… every scenario dirtier and more impossible than the last.
Rowan’s teasing voice cut through the haze again. “Uh… are you fantasizing?”
She froze, cheeks burning hotter than they had all night. “…I… I’m… not…” she stammered, though her racing heart and the vivid images in her mind begged to differ.
“Oh, honey,” Rowan laughed, sharp and knowing. “Don’t even try to lie to me. You definitely are.”
She groaned into the couch cushion, muttering, “…this is… this is a disaster.”
Rowan laughed. “Disaster? No, girl. This isn’t a disaster. You hit the jackpot. Good dick, money, a fake boyfriend to save your ass… what else do you want? Girls would kill for that setup, and you’re sitting here whining like it’s the end of the world.”
She pressed her face into her hands, groaning. “I… I know, I know, there's so much going on. I didn’t even think-”
“Of course you didn’t,” Rowan interrupted, voice teasing and full of mischief. “You never do. That’s why I love you. But seriously… you’ve got the hottest guy in the city, who’s rich as hell and he’s willing to give you what you need. And what do you do? You panic and imagine every possible sexy scenario in the club and in the car. Classic.”
She peeked through her fingers, cheeks red as a tomato. “Rowan! That’s… that’s not… I mean…”
Rowan snorted. “You were thinking about him. You’re not subtle at all and guess what? That’s fine. That’s really, really fine. You’re allowed to think about him, fantasize, whatever. It’s not the end of the world. It’s… fun. And dangerous. And probably totally illegal in your brain right now.”
She groaned, hugging her knees to her chest. “My brain hates me.”
“Exactly,” Rowan said, smug. “And that’s why it’s perfect. Just… don’t get yourself arrested tonight. Or in love with him before you even start pretending. Baby steps, okay?”
She let out a shaky laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah… baby steps.”
She was about to hang up, letting out a long sigh when her phone buzzed again.
“…Shit,” she muttered, frowning at the screen. “I forgot to answer him.”
“Who?” Rowan’s voice immediately perked up.
“Valarr,” she said, scrolling quickly.
Rowan groaned. “Valarr? Who’s Valarr?”
“The guy whose car I… crashed,” she explained, groaning. “The hot one. Remember? The insanely hot one?”
Rowan squealed softly. “Oh gods… you don’t know how lucky you are!”
She blinked at her phone, confused. “Lucky? What do you mean?”
“You have two smoking hot guys in your contacts right now girl wake up,” Rowan said, voice dripping with mock envy.
She huffed, trying to sound defensive. “It’s nothing like that with Valarr! It’s just… car insurance and… logistics. Nothing more. I don’t even know the guy.”
Rowan snorted, clearly not buying it. “Do you… find him attractive?”
She rolled her eyes, cheeks flushing. “Yeah, obviously.”
“Then shut up,” Rowan snapped, teasing. “Stop pretending you wouldn’t fuck both of them.”
“I wouldn’t!” she protested, voice sharp, almost offended.
“Don’t lie to me,” Rowan said, her tone softening into that sisterly but merciless mockery she always used. “I know you. I birthed you.”
“Why do you always have to make everything sexual?” she groaned, burying her face in her hands.
“Because,” Rowan replied, chuckling, “you’re not as innocent as you like to pretend. I know you, and it’s hilarious to watch you squirm.”
She peeked through her fingers, glaring at the ceiling. “…You’re horrible.”
“And yet,” Rowan said, laughter creeping back into her voice, “I still love you. Now text Valarr back before you overthink it into oblivion.”
She groaned, staring at her phone like it had betrayed her. “…But what do I even text him? It’s all about insurance and… cars. Why would I tell him anything else? It’s weird.”
Rowan snorted. “Exactly why you should. He’s hot. You’re single for the night. Just do whatever you want.”
“…What, like-” she started, blinking, “…sext him?”
Rowan laughed, completely unbothered. “Yes! I don’t know! That’s what I used to do when I was bored and stressed. You’re an adult, experiment a little. He’s already thinking about you. Why not?”
She groaned again, hiding her face in her hands. “He’s the guy whose car I crashed, for gods’ sake.”
“And that makes it spicy,” Rowan teased. “Come on, it’s not like he’s going to bite you- well, maybe he would, but that’s on him. You’ll survive. Just… text something. Don’t overthink it. Just… play it.”
She let out a shaky sigh, shoving her hair behind her ear. “…Okay, fine. I’ll text him. But… god, what if I say something stupid?”
Rowan snorted. “You won't. Shut up and text him and if you excuse me, it’s not like I don’t wanna stay on the line with you but… I’d hate being on the phone while you sext a guy. Goodnight.”
Before she could hear Rowan respond, the line died.
She sighed, letting her shoulders slump. Just like Rowan had said, she pressed the conversation with Valarr and started typing:
Hey… about the car… I just wanted to tell you it's gonna take a while, im sorry.
Her thumb hovered over the send button, heart hammering. She took a deep breath, and with a tiny sigh, pressed it.
Almost instantly, her phone buzzed. She froze, eyes widening.
I figured. It’s fine. We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.
Her heart skipped. He had answered immediately. She blinked at the screen, unsure whether to feel relieved, embarrassed, or… something else entirely.
“…He actually… replied,” she whispered to herself, voice shaky.
Her fingers hovered again. She wanted to write something, anything, but words tangled in her throat. The apartment felt suddenly too quiet, too small.
She let out a long exhale and muttered, “…Gods, why does this feel like the start of something insane?”
Then, against her better judgment, she typed back:
Thanks… I really didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I… appreciate it.
She pressed send and immediately regretted how plain it sounded, how utterly normal, and yet her chest felt tighter than it had all night.
Her phone buzzed again.
Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Just… keep me updated. Goodnight.
She stared at it, cheeks hot, stomach twisting. “…He… wants me to keep him updated,” she whispered, half to herself, half to the empty room. “…What does that even mean?”
The goodnight at the end made her chest twist as well. Did that mean he was actually going to sleep? Or just wanted to cut the conversation short?
Rowan’s voice echoed in her head, teasing and insistent: Just text something. Don’t overthink. Play it.
Against her better judgment, she typed again. Her fingers hovered for a second before she pressed send:
Wait
Immediately, panic bubbled up in her chest. Oh gods, what the hell am I doing?
She quickly added another message:
Can we text?
Her thumb hovered over the send button for a heartbeat before she pressed it, the words zipping across the invisible wires to him. She buried her face in her hands, heat rising to her ears.
Why did I do that?
Her phone stayed silent. And silent. Her chest thumped painfully, fingers clenching around the edge of the couch. She imagined everything. Maybe he thought she was weird. Maybe she’d just completely embarrassed herself and he’d blocked her on the spot. Maybe he’d told his friends about it already.
Gods, he’s going to think I’m insane, she muttered, staring at the screen like it might magically fix itself.
Minutes crawled. Her thumb hovered over the messages again. She imagined him, calm and impossibly attractive, reading them and judging her. He probably thinks I’m a desperate mess.
Just as she was about to throw the phone across the room, it buzzed.
Her eyes snapped open. She gasped, clutching the device like it was suddenly alive.
Sure. What’s up?
Her fingers hovered. Short. Simple. Yet it felt like a lifeline.
She swallowed, heat rising again. Slowly, cautiously, she typed back, feeling herself teeter between terror and exhilaration:
Pretty bored… can’t sleep. You?
She pressed send and immediately regretted it, chewing her lip. Why am I even texting him like this?
The phone buzzed almost instantly.
Same. Just trying to unwind.
She blinked, surprised. He… answered? Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed again, a little more casual this time:
Lucky you then. I’m too awake.
You shouldn’t be texting strangers at 2am
She laughed softly, shaking her head. Strangers? Technically true…
Well, maybe not strangers anymore
There was a pause that felt like forever. Then the phone buzzed:
Hmm. Guess we’re not strangers then
Her stomach twisted. He doesn’t even know me… why does this feel so… electric?
She shook her head, trying to laugh off the heat rising in her cheeks. Don’t be a pick-me, don’t be a pick-me, she told herself firmly.
So… what’s your secret for staying awake this late? she typed, keeping it casual, careful not to sound desperate.
Her chest skipped a beat, but she kept her fingers steady. Okay, just text like normal. He doesn’t even know you.
Good to know. I guess I’ll try music then or maybe counting ceiling tiles.
Counting ceiling tiles? Really?
Hey, desperate times
He didn’t reply for a few seconds and she almost put the phone down; almost but then it buzzed:
Fair enough. Not the worst coping mechanism
She grinned, biting her lip.
So… are you always this judgmental?
Not always. Only to strangers texting me at 2 a.m
She smirked, typing slowly, teasing now, just a hint:
I’m hardly a stranger. I just… crashed your car. But no big deal.
The phone stayed quiet for a moment, then:
You’re right, no big deal, just a lot of money
Her grin widened. Okay… subtle, teasing, not desperate. She tapped out another:
You think I’m trouble yet?
Maybe but the fun kind
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, stomach twisting in that familiar fluttering way. Okay… maybe a little risky won’t hurt. Just… a little. Just enough to tease him. She rubbed her thighs unconsciously, thinking of Aerion’s arms on the wheel, his smirk in the club, the way he’d looked so calm while she was a mess. Ugh. She couldn’t help it.
Can you handle it? she typed, biting her lip as she hit send.
Almost immediately, the phone buzzed:
Oh? And what exactly do I have to handle?
Her heart skipped. She grinned at the screen, feeling bold.
Someone very awake, very reckless and maybe just a little naughty rn
There was a pause. A long pause. She almost put the phone down, imagining he’d block her, think she was insane, whatever… but then it buzzed:
Hmm. Interesting. I like interesting.
Fair warning… I might be trouble in ways you wouldn’t expect.
The reply came almost instantly, and she froze for a second:
Good. I like trouble
Her fingers trembled slightly as she held the phone in one hand, the other brushing idly along her thigh and went in between them, under her skirt. She pressed her legs together instinctively, heat creeping up her cheeks. Okay… maybe this is too much, she thought, but the thrill of the game and the fact that he didn’t even know her properly pushed her forward.
She pressed her lips together, cheeks burning, her fingers trembling over the screen. Fuck it, she thought. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to go all in.
I’m not just trouble… she typed slowly, biting her lip as she stared at the phone. I’m trouble you’ll want to handle
Her thumb hovered over send for a second, then she hit it. Almost immediately, the phone buzzed:
Oh? Elaborate miss
Her chest tightened, heat spreading across her body. She swallowed hard, feeling the thrill, and typed faster, fingers brushing against her own skin again:
Let’s just say… I know how to make someone beg for more through texts.
The reply came almost instantly, teasing, controlled, and perfectly provocative:
Bold. I like that. Tell me more about it, let’s see if I can beg
She pressed her lips together, fingers hovering nervously over the keyboard. Okay… one step further. Just a little bolder.
I could make you think about me all night if I wanted rn… she typed, biting her lip as she stared at the screen.
The reply came almost instantly:
Oh? And how exactly would you do that?
She paused, heart hammering, and glanced down at herself. “…Okay,” she muttered to herself, voice shaky. “Time to surprise him… not just with words.”
Her fingers fumbled with the hem of her neon pink top. With a quick, nervous motion, she pulled it off, tossing it aside. Now she was left in her push-up bra, the one that made her chest look impossibly full. She hugged herself for a second, cheeks flaming, before grabbing her phone.
Opening the camera, she tried to pose. Her face twisted in all sorts of awkward expressions; she looked ridiculous but she kept trying. Finally, muttering a frustrated “perfectly awful,” she gave up on showing her face.
Instead, she angled the camera down, capturing just her chest in the bra. Heat climbed her neck and burned her ears as she stared at the photo. “…Okay, that’s… bold enough,” she whispered.
With a shaky thumb, she sent it.
Almost immediately, her phone buzzed.
You’re so hot. Are you comfortable to send me more?
She felt her cheeks heat up, a rush of adrenaline making her pulse spike. Fingers trembling, she typed quickly:
Yes sure
She pressed send, heart hammering and set the phone down on the couch beside her. Her hands lingered a second on the fabric of her skirt before she slowly peeled it off, leaving herself in just her underwear. The cool air against her skin made her shiver slightly and she bit her lip, feeling both bold and nervous.
Grabbing her phone again, she adjusted the angle, capturing more than just her chest this time, the line of her bra, the curve of her waist, a hint of what lay below. She stared at the image for a long second, cheeks flushed, before pressing send.
The little thrill of rebellion, the rush of risk, made her stomach flip as she set the phone down and waited, heart pounding, for his next reply.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately. She snatched it up, pulse racing, and read the message.
You’re so sexy. I wish you were here right now
Her cheeks flushed hotter than ever. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, she typed, a little breathless:
What would we do?
The reply came fast, blunt, and her heart nearly stopped.
We would fuck
Heat hit her like a wave. She gasped softly, chest heaving, breath coming out louder than she realized. Her skin prickled, sweat forming along her neck and back. Oh gods, he was… so sexy. Too sexy. Impossible.
She swallowed hard, a grin tugging at her lips despite the heat pooling in her stomach. Fingers trembling, she typed one more message, bold and teasing:
I want you to fuck me right now.
Her thumb hovered a second, heart hammering, before she pressed send, and the little thrill of danger made her shiver from head to toe.
Her phone vibrated almost instantly. She snatched it up, pulse racing, fingers trembling.
Soon
Her chest tightened, stomach fluttering. She bit her lip, trying to steady her breath, but it was no use, her pulse was loud in her ears, her legs pressed together almost unconsciously.
How soon? she typed, heat rolling through her with every word.
As soon as I can see you. You’ll regret being this bold
Her phone buzzed again. She froze, heart hammering.
Can I send you a pic?
She froze, heart hammering, and then her fingers trembled as she typed back, almost breathless:
Yes please.
The phone buzzed almost immediately. She stared at it, gulping, waiting. One second. Two. Ten. Her chest tightened, pulse racing as she hesitated, then finally tapped the notification to open it.
Her eyes widened. Boxers. Shirtless. Lying in bed. One edge of the fabric revealed… enough to make her stomach flip, her thighs clench, and yes, her toes curl. Heat pooled between her legs, a sharp delicious burn.
She pressed her lips together, breath catching. “…Oh gods,” she whispered under her breath, cheeks flaming. Her pulse raced as she stared at the screen, mind spinning with possibilities.
The thrill, the audacity… she hadn’t expected this. And yet, she wanted more.
She tapped out a reply, breathless, teasing, letting the message linger between boldness and mischief:
I think someone is horny
Her phone buzzed almost instantly. She snatched it up, fingers trembling.
I think we both are
She bit her lip, cheeks burning, and typed back quickly, teasing:
I bet I’m hornier than you
The reply came almost immediately, confident and teasing:
Not a chance.
Her stomach flipped. Then another notification: a new picture. More revealing this time. The edge of his boxers showcased exactly what she’d imagined; a bulge under his boxers that made her feel a burning heat pooling sharply between her legs. She bit her lip so hard she thought she might draw blood, breath hitching.
Heart hammering, she fumbled to snap a photo herself. Quick, daring, just enough, her hand slipped under her panties, her hand trembling slightly as she tapped send.
I need more of you soon, hands are not enough. I’ll imagine us tonight
She barely had time to catch her breath before the phone buzzed again.
He’ll be thinking about us fucking too
Her stomach did a little flip, and then another notification appeared almost instantly.
I don't want you to think I want to end this. I don't but I can't lie I’m getting tired
She pressed the phone against her chest for a second, heart hammering.
When can we call? the next text read. I won’t talk about the insurance or anything I just want to hear you
She blinked, feeling that strange mixture of thrill and panic. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart racing, and she typed back, careful to balance boldness with… something like control:
Tomorrow works but only if you promise no insurance talk.
She pressed send and exhaled shakily, heart hammering. Tomorrow. That gave her time to think, to prepare, to… not completely lose her mind before hearing his voice.
Almost immediately, her phone buzzed again.
Tomorrow then. I’ll wait for your call. Going to sleep now. Goodnight. Take care
Her cheeks warmed as she read it. Fingers trembling, she typed back quickly, smiling like an idiot:
Goodnight. You too
She set the phone down, staring at it for a moment with a dazed grin. Gods… what had just happened?
Shaking herself slightly, she rose from the sofa. She absolutely needed a shower. Her eyes flicked to the oven clock: 3:27 a.m. Perfect. Fired from work? A blessing. At this pace, she was going to sleep the whole day anyway.
The hot water hit her skin, washing away sweat, panic, and the lingering adrenaline from the night. No shower had ever felt so refreshing. Her mind wandered between what had just happened with Valarr’s texts, the chaos of the nightclub, and Aerion… Gods. Aerion. Rowan’s words echoed in her head: “Stop pretending you wouldn’t fuck both of them.” She bit her lip and flushed, shaking her head at herself.
Wrapped in a towel, she dried her hair and slipped into soft pajamas. Sliding under her sheets, she grabbed her phone one last time and quickly texted Rowan:
The sext was so good.
She set the phone on her nightstand, turning off the light. Curling under the covers, a small, nervous smile tugged at her lips. Tomorrow was going to be… interesting. Very, very interesting.
summary: her life starts falling apart, and in trying to fix it, she makes a wild plan that lands her drunk, out of her comfort zone and face to face with someone unexpected.
──── SHE WOKE UP TO THE SHARP vibration of her phone against the nightstand.
For a moment she didn't move. Her neck throbbed as she shifted slightly against the pillow, the dull ache running down into her shoulders. She winced, groaning quietly, and pressed her face deeper into the sheets as the phone buzzed again.
And again.
"Rowan..." she muttered hoarsely.
With a sigh, she forced herself to reach out, fingers blindly searching until she found the phone and dragged it toward her. The screen lit up painfully bright in the dim room.
ARE YOU ALIVE
She squinted at the screen, brain still sluggish with sleep.
yes
A reply came instantly.
good because i might not be
She let out a quiet huff of air, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand before pushing herself slightly upright. The movement made her neck protest again and she winced.
Gods. Why did everything hurt? Fragments of last night flickered through her mind. Raymund driving. Rowan half-asleep and slumped dramatically against the car window. The streetlights passing in soft blurs.
And the crash.
Her stomach twisted faintly at the memory of it. And him.
She shook the thought away quickly and typed again.
what does that mean
Three dots appeared immediately.
my head hurts
my dignity is gone
and raymund told me you CRASHED MY CAR
She closed her eyes briefly.
Right. That.
YOU WERE DRUNK
IRRELEVANT
A small smile tugged at her mouth despite herself. She stretched slightly, rolling her shoulders before glancing at the top corner of the screen.
Her brain froze.
9:03 AM
She stared at it for a full second then bolted upright.
"Fuck."
Her shift. Her shift started at 8:30.
"Fuck, fuck fuck!"
She scrambled out of bed so fast the blanket tangled around her legs, nearly sending her crashing to the floor. Her phone slipped from her hand onto the mattress as she rushed toward the closet, already dragging a shirt over her head.
How had she slept this late?
Her heart was pounding now as she pulled on jeans, hair still a complete mess from sleep. Her mind raced through the consequences.
The bookstore opened early. Her boss hated lateness. And she needed this job desperately.
Rent didn't pay itself.
Her parents helped where they could, covering a part of the rent and sometimes groceries, but the rest was on her. Tuition, bills, everything else.
And being late was not a good look.
Her phone buzzed again on the bed.
Rowan.
She snatched it, quickly typing as she shoved her feet into her shoes.
I have to go
I'm late to work
Another message came before she could even lock the screen.
WAIT
WAS THE GUY HOT OR DID I HALLUCINATE THAT ???
She groaned under her breath, grabbing her bag and heading for the door.
Now was really not the time But despite herself, the memory flashed again.
The mismatched eyes. The freckles. That silver streak in his hair.
And that ridiculous, devastating smile.
Heat crept up the back of her neck as she shoved the phone into her pocket.
"Focus," she muttered to herself, already rushing out the door.
She was late and the time she reached the bookstore, she felt every eye on her, though she knew it was probably just her imagination. Her hair was a tangled mess from rushing, no time for even a brush-through, and her face was bare; nothing to hide behind. She hadn’t even had time for the tiniest swipe of mascara.
Her outfit… well. Let’s just say it had been thrown together in a panic: a loose sweater over a tank top, jeans wrinkled from sleeping in them, sneakers instead of something slightly more “presentable.” She looked like she had wrestled her wardrobe in the dark and lost.
She groaned quietly, adjusting the bag on her shoulder as she stepped inside. The bell above the door jingled, announcing her arrival, and immediately the manager’s eyes flicked toward her.
“Late,” he said flatly, voice sharp enough to make her wince.
“I… I know,” she started, voice trembling slightly. “I- there was… a reason-”
Her boss held up a hand, cutting her off before she could finish. “It’s over,” he said flatly, eyes cold.
“What?” Her mouth fell open. “Over?”
“You don’t work here anymore,” he replied, crossing his arms. The words landed like a punch.
“No! No, no, no- wait!” she said, stepping forward, panic rising fast. “I need this job! I have rent to pay! I can’t- if I lose my apartment, I have to go back to my parents’ house, and the school… the one I want to get into… it’s too far! I’ll have to… I’ll have to abandon the whole idea!”
Her words tumbled out in a frantic rush, like a dam had burst. She could feel heat rushing to her cheeks, chest tightening, and her hands trembling slightly as she gripped the bag strap.
Her boss didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. Didn’t blink. “I said it’s over,” he repeated, voice flat, almost bored. “You were late. Again. I’m done explaining.”
She felt her knees weaken. “But I… please! I’ll do better! I’ll- just… don’t fire me please!”
He shook his head, stepping past her as if she wasn’t even there. “Rules are rules. I can’t have someone unreliable handling the store. You're fired.”
Her chest heaved and she pressed her fingers against her forehead, fighting back tears. She had worked so hard for everything; rent, bills, even her tiny apartment and now it was slipping through her fingers because of one bad morning.
Her thoughts raced. No, no, no… I can’t go back. I can’t. I can’t give up. I’ve worked my whole life for this school…
She stepped closer again, desperation clawing at her throat. “Please! I’ll do better, I promise! I’ll come early every day, I’ll-”
Her boss’s voice cut through hers, louder this time, sharp and unyielding. “Enough!”
She flinched, the volume shocking her. “Go back to your miserable parents’ house for all I care,” he snapped, eyes narrowing. “This is the third time this month. We needed someone reliable, not someone who shows up late and makes excuses!”
Her stomach dropped. Her apartment. The rent. The small, fragile life she had built for herself in King’s Landing. All of it felt like it was crumbling.
“I… I can’t!” she whispered, almost to herself. Her hands trembled around her bag strap, her voice barely audible. “I can’t go back there. I… I have to make this work. I… I have to get into the school!”
Her boss didn’t move, didn’t soften, didn’t even blink. “Then I suggest you start being reliable. But right now? You’re done. Go.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving, feeling trapped. Every plan she had, every small step toward her dreams, felt like it was slipping away, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
A lump formed in her throat. She pressed her hands to her face, trying not to cry in front of him. “I… I can’t lose this,” she whispered. “I just… I can’t…”
The bell above the door jingled behind her as her boss left, leaving her standing in the middle of the bookstore like she had been dropped into another world.
She sank slightly to the floor, staring at the ground. She had lost her job.
What could she do now? Rent wasn’t going to pay itself. In just a few weeks, the owner would come knocking if she couldn’t keep up, and then… she’d be forced to move back to her parents’ house. Far away. Too far to commute. Too far to chase her dream of getting into King’s Landing Journalist School.
Her chest tightened and her knees felt weak. It was like the world had tilted, leaving her sliding helplessly down a cliff she hadn’t seen until now. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision as she pushed herself upright.
She stepped outside into the harsh morning light, still trembling, the streets buzzing around her like a world moving forward without her. Fuck. How did it come to this? Why hadn’t she set an alarm? Why hadn’t she- anything? Why was she so stupid sometimes? Her thoughts tumbled, chaotic and unstoppable.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She barely registered it and kept walking, letting the cold air sting her cheeks. Another buzz. She pulled it out, almost afraid of what it might be.
Unregistered Number:
Got home safely, no crash?
Her heart skipped. She froze mid step, phone in trembling hands.
Valarr.
Then the memory hit her like a punch: the crash, his car, Rowan’s car… the insurance. She didn’t have any. She didn’t have the money. She hadn’t even thought about it because last night had been a whirlwind, and now… oh fuck.
Her hands trembled violently as she gripped the phone tighter, chest hammering. She started walking again, faster now, panic clawing at her, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
The weight of everything pressed on her; lost job, rent, the apartment, the assignment, the school, the car crash. She felt like she was spiraling, powerless and completely alone.
And yet… the text glowed in her hands. A single line of calm amidst the chaos.
Got home safely, no crash?
She cursed herself silently and muttered under her breath: No. No, I didn’t. Not really. And I’m about to pay for it in so many ways.
By the time she finally reached what she could call home; though she’d only been here for less than a month, renting the tiny apartment she could barely afford, she felt utterly spent. She sank into the sagging cushions of her cheap sofa, letting her bag drop to the floor beside her. The memory of the bookstore, the crash, the assignment, Valarr’s text… it all hit her at once.
“How is life so… shit right now?” she muttered, voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers absently traced the worn fabric of the couch as if grounding herself would make any of this make sense.
The apartment smelled faintly of old books and leftover takeout, a mix that somehow felt fitting for the chaos of her life. She let her head fall back against the cushion, eyes staring at the ceiling, mind racing a mile a minute.
Rent. Her apartment. The bookstore job she’d just lost. The assignment for King’s Landing Journalist School. The Targaryens. The cars. Valarr. Aerion.
It was all too much.
Her phone buzzed again. She barely had the energy to pick it up, but when she did, the glow of the screen made her heart skip.
Just making sure you survived the morning.
She froze. Valarr again.
She bit her lip, staring at the message. She wanted to answer, to explain everything but the words tangled in her mind. How could she explain that she had lost her job and had no idea how she was going to pay it back and pay her rent without sounding completely incompetent?
She dropped the phone onto the couch beside her, letting it light up the dull room.
“Ugh,” she groaned, pressing her face into her hands. “How did it all get so… out of control?”
Her phone buzzed again. She picked it up, fingers shaking.
I called my insurance by the way. They said they can’t cover either car since I’m not held responsible for the accident. I’m really sorry.
She froze. Wait… what?
It clicked. She was responsible. Both cars. Rowan’s cheap hatchback and… his car.
Her chest tightened. That silver, perfect nightmare of a car; the one she had crashed, the one that gleamed like it had been built for a prince, maybe the prince of a whole city and now she had to pay for it. She didn’t even know how much that could cost.
She pressed her face into her hands, letting out a strangled groan. Her cheap apartment, her rent, the bookstore job she had just lost: everything was colliding in a chaotic mess. She couldn’t breathe for a moment.
Another message buzzed.
Will you manage?
She stared at the screen. Manage? How the hell could she manage this?
Her mind raced. I don’t even have insurance. I don’t know anything about cars. One of the two is worth more than my entire life savings. I… I can’t…
Rowan’s car would be fine, eventually she could pay her friend back but his car… his car…
She muttered under her breath, voice trembling, “How is this my life? How am I supposed to pay for both? One of them looks like it costs the price of a whole fucking city…”
Her fingers trembled as she typed, every word feeling absurdly heavy.
Yes it’s fine.
She hit send before she could stop herself.
Immediately, panic clawed at her chest. Fine? Nothing is fine. She could already feel her pulse racing, her stomach twisting into knots. How was she supposed to manage this?
Without thinking, she grabbed her phone again and dialed Rowan’s number.
It rang twice before Rowan answered, voice still groggy and carrying that unmistakable hangover drawl.
“Hello? Hello! Who is this?!”
“It’s me, Rowan! I need- no, I desperately need your help,” she blurted out, voice shaking.
“I- It’s the cars! Both of them! His… and yours! I don’t have insurance! I… I don’t even know how much the damage is!” She felt tears prick her eyes, frustration and panic bubbling over.
Rowan groaned loudly on the other end. “Ohhh… Shit. Okay, okay, calm down. We’ll figure this out. Just… breathe. Tell me everything from the start.”
She sank further into the sofa, hugging her knees. “I… I don’t even know where to start. His car- Rowan, it looked like it cost the price of a whole fucking city. I… I’m screwed.”
There was a long pause on the line then Rowan sighed, a little exasperated but clearly still awake enough to take charge. “Alright. First, slow down. Second… you’re not dead yet. Third, we make a plan. And yes, that means me helping you pay. Don’t panic. We’ll start there.”
She let out a shaky laugh, half sobbing, half relieved. “I… I don’t even know how I’m going to survive this week.”
“Of course you’ll survive,” Rowan said firmly. “Don’t be stupid. You always do.”
She shook her head, feeling the panic clawing back. “No, Rowan… this is different. I lost my job today, my apartment’s barely holding together, the cars- everything! My life is a fucking mess. I don’t even know if I should… just disappear or… or die.”
There was a sharp, shocked intake of breath on the other end. “Whoa. Whoa, don’t say shit like that! You scare me.”
“I’m scared too,” she admitted quietly, pressing the phone to her ear like it could somehow hold her together.
Rowan’s voice softened, but the mischief was still there. “I have a plan.”
Her brow furrowed. “A plan? There’s no damn plan that can fix… everything.”
“Yes, there is,” Rowan said, tone sly. “Why don’t you… find a rich husband?”
“Please, Rowan,” she groaned, “this is not the moment. I mean, jokes really?”
“I’m not joking,” Rowan said firmly. “Well… maybe the husband part, but think about it. What good is a guy if he can’t buy you things or give you money?”
She stayed silent, blinking at the ceiling as if it might offer an answer.
“Don’t you get it?” Rowan pressed.
“No…” she whispered, voice small.
“Find a fucking guy who has money and is stupid enough to give it to you,” Rowan said, almost shouting, excitement bubbling through the line.
“Who the fuck is stupid and rich?” she muttered, incredulous.
“You know damn well,” Rowan replied, voice dripping with amusement.
Her stomach dropped. She stared at the ceiling. “…Oh no. You’re not serious…”
“Yes. I am serious,” Rowan said, her voice sharp but steady.
She groaned, pressing the phone against her temple. “I’m not talking to him again. The first time was humiliating enough. This… this is the last time. I’m not going to beg him for money.”
“Do you want to keep your apartment? Secure a place in your dream school?” Rowan shot back, tone sudden, urgent.
“…Yes?” she whispered, voice trembling.
“Then fucking act!” Rowan shouted, a little wild but filled with conviction. “Who the hell cares if it’s embarrassing? Your future is on the line, genius. Your entire future!”
Her chest heaved, panic still tugging at her, but Rowan’s words hit something deep. The fear, the shame, the embarrassment; it was nothing compared to losing her dreams. Losing her apartment. Losing the one shot she had at King’s Landing Journalist School.
She took a shaky breath, sitting up straighter on the sofa. “…Okay,” she muttered, more to herself than to Rowan. “…Okay. I’ll… do it.”
“Good,” Rowan said, triumphant. “That’s my girl. Now get your ass together. Make a plan. And remember, the world doesn’t give a damn if you blush like a fool. You do this, or everything else falls apart. Got it?”
“…Got it,” she whispered, trying to steady her shaking hands.
Rowan laughed softly. “Good. Now breathe, get your brain in gear, and go fix this mess. And yes… that means him too.”
Her stomach twisted again, a mix of dread and determination. It was terrifying. Absolutely mortifying. But there was no other choice.
Her future depended on it.
──── ROWAN HAD, OF COURSE, been very helpful once she committed to the idea.
Apparently, Rowan had squeezed the information out of Raymund earlier that day of where he might be tonight, what places he usually went to, what kind of crowd he hung around.
“Just do the same thing you did last night,” Rowan had said confidently over the phone. “Wear something attention-grabbing. Something that doesn’t make you look like everyone else.”
Which was exactly how she ended up standing in front of her mirror an hour later, staring at herself like she had just possessed someone else’s body.
Her wardrobe… was not exactly designed for this.
Most of her clothes screamed underpaid bookstore employee who drinks tea and reads investigative journalism essays, not dangerously confident woman with a mysterious agenda.
But Rowan’s wardrobe?
That was another story.
She looked down at herself again.
The black skirt was… scandalously short. Rowan’s, obviously. She had never worn it, and now she understood why; it was slightly too small and rode up every time she breathed.
“Okay,” she muttered to herself, tugging it down. “Great start.”
The neon pink crop top was somehow worse.
It practically screamed I am a horny bitch, which… was not exactly the message she had intended. She had been going for something closer to charming and mysterious woman who might flirt for financial stability.
Still.
Too late now.
Under it, the push-up bra Rowan had insisted on made her chest look… frankly suspicious.
She tilted her head at the mirror.
“…When did I even have that much cleavage?” she murmured.
The black heeled boots also borrowed from Rowan made her taller and forced her posture straighter. Her hair fell in loose curls down her shoulders, and the makeup was heavier than anything she had ever worn: eyeliner sharp, mascara thick, contour dramatic, lipstick bold.
She blinked at her reflection.
“Will he even recognize me?” she asked the empty room.
The girl in the mirror definitely didn’t look like the one who had crashed two cars and lost her job twelve hours ago.
She looked… dangerous. Or at least like she was trying to look dangerous.
She struck a pose. Hip out. Chin up.
“…I’m a sexy bitch who needs money,” she declared to her reflection.
Then she immediately burst into laughter.
“Oh my god, I can’t do this.”
She tried again, straightening. Hand on hip with a slow, confident smile.
“I am mysterious,” she whispered dramatically. “And possibly expensive.”
Pause.
“…But also deeply in debt.”
She groaned, covering her face.
“This is a disaster.”
But when she lowered her hands, the girl in the mirror was still there: tall boots, bold makeup, scandalous skirt, neon pink confidence.
And beneath the embarrassment, beneath the ridiculousness of the situation, there was something else. Determination.
She grabbed her bag, took one last look at herself, and pointed at the mirror.
“Okay,” she told her reflection firmly. “You are a sexy bitch who needs money.”
A beat.
“…And tonight you’re going to go get it.”
Of course, the place Rowan had sent her to was not somewhere quiet, classy, or remotely appropriate for someone who had spent most of her life shelving books and drinking cheap tea.
No. It was a nightclub. Not just any nightclub either; King’s Landing’s biggest one.
She had heard Rowan talk about it for months. Mostly in the form of dramatic retellings over cheap noodles.
"The guys there are insanely hot," Rowan had once declared, pointing her chopsticks like she was giving a lecture. "Like criminally hot. Honestly, if I didn’t have a boyfriend I’d fuck half of them. Maybe more."
At the time she had laughed, assuming Rowan was exaggerating. Now, standing a block away from the glowing neon lights and the thumping bass she could already feel through the pavement…
She suspected Rowan might not have been exaggerating at all.
She had only ever been to a nightclub once before. Rowan had practically dragged her there, insisting it would be “character development.”
It had not been character development... It had been loud, sweaty, overwhelming and she had spent most of the night awkwardly holding a drink while Rowan disappeared with strangers on the dance floor.
She hadn’t loved it but tonight was different. Tonight Rowan wasn’t forcing her, she was forcing herself.
So she adjusted the tiny black skirt that still felt illegal to wear in public, shoved her headphones deeper into her ears and started walking.
People stared. Of course they did. The neon pink top alone could probably be seen from space. A group of guys walking past did a very obvious double take. Someone whistled but ignored them all.
Her music blasted in her ears; songs she normally would never listen to. Loud, confident, shameless music. The kind Rowan called “main character energy.”
Normally she preferred quiet playlists and investigative podcasts. But tonight she was, apparently, a sexy bitch who needed money so she had to commit to the role.
She walked all the way to the entrance like that, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in her stomach. The line outside the club was long, glowing under purple lights. Music pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat.
When she reached the door, the bouncer barely glanced at her before gesturing to the payment.
She paid and the moment the last of her coins disappeared from her account, the reality hit her.
That was it. Her last money.
“Great,” she muttered under her breath. “No pressure.”
Then the doors opened and the sound hit her. The music inside was loud.
Not just loud; violently loud. Bass shook the floor. Lights flashed in electric blues and pinks. The air smelled like perfume, alcohol, and something vaguely expensive.
The crowd was massive. People dancing. Laughing. Bodies moving together in a chaotic blur.
For a moment she just stood there, blinking, slightly stunned.
“Okay,” she murmured to herself.
Then she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and stepped further inside.
The crowd swallowed her almost immediately. Bodies everywhere. Moving. Grinding. Laughing.
She blinked in disbelief. How were people even dancing when they were packed this close together? It felt suffocating, like the air itself was thick with heat and noise.
The bass vibrated through the floor, up her legs, straight into her ribs.
“Okay… okay…” she muttered under her breath, trying to squeeze past a group of girls who were dancing like they had forgotten gravity existed.
She murmured apologies every few seconds.
“Sorry sorry excuse me, sorry-”
But she doubted anyone could hear her. The music was so loud it felt like it was living inside her skull.
People stared as she pushed through the crowd. Some looked casually curious. Some looked… very curious. A few men openly eyed her in a way that made her skin prickle; slow glances from head to toe, lingering a little too long on the skirt, the neon pink top, the suspicious amount of boobs.
One guy raised his eyebrows at her in a way that was so blatantly sexual she nearly tripped over someone’s foot. She pretended she hadn’t noticed and kept moving.
Eventually she reached something resembling the center of the dance floor and stopped, standing there awkwardly while everyone else kept moving around her like water around a rock.
She tried to look confident. She was fairly certain she looked like a confused flamingo. A guy appeared beside her a minute later. Tall. Dark hair. Smiling a little too smoothly.
“Hey,” he leaned close to her ear to be heard over the music. “You want a drink?”
“No thanks!” she shouted back.
He grinned wider. “Come on.”
“I’m good!”
He didn’t move. Instead he lifted the cup he was holding, clearly trying again. “Just one.”
He was being very, very insistent. She stared at him for two seconds then she sighed, grabbed the cup from his hand, and downed the entire thing in one go. The alcohol burned like liquid fire down her throat.
She coughed once, wiped her mouth, and handed the empty cup back. “I drank it now move the fuck away now,” she told him.
The guy blinked then he chuckled, clearly amused, raised his hands in surrender, and disappeared back into the crowd.
She exhaled slowly as the alcohol settled in her stomach like a small explosion. Gods, that had been strong. But honestly? She didn’t complain. If anything, the burning warmth helped slightly with the overwhelming chaos of the room.
She straightened again and scanned the crowd. Silver hair. That was what she needed. Except under the flashing lights, purple, blue, pink, red everyone’s hair looked like every color imaginable.
People kept moving. Dancing. Blocking her view.
She turned in a slow circle, trying to spot something familiar. Nothing.
“Great,” she muttered.
She tried asking a few people. Or at least she attempted to.
“Have you seen-”
“What?”
“A guy with-”
“Huh??”
“…Never mind.”
The music swallowed every word she said. She tried again with someone else. No success. After ten minutes she had accomplished absolutely nothing except getting elbowed twice and stepped on once.
She groaned quietly. How the hell was she supposed to find one person in this ocean of bodies?
After a while, she stopped trying.
The alcohol was starting to crawl through her system now, warm and dizzying, like her brain had been dipped in something soft and slow. The noise didn’t feel quite as violent anymore. The lights didn’t stab her eyes quite as badly.
Instead everything felt… distant. Floaty. Like she was slightly above the floor rather than standing on it and suddenly, she realized something strange. Nobody cared. Nobody cared about the neon pink top she was wearing that showed half her boobs. Nobody cared about the ridiculous skirt. Nobody cared that she probably looked like a hooker.
Everyone here looked like a bad decision and the thought made her laugh. Actually laugh.
A loud, slightly hysterical laugh that disappeared instantly into the music. “Fuck my life!” she screamed suddenly, throwing her arms up toward the flashing lights.
No one reacted which somehow made it even funnier because really, what was left? She wouldn’t find him. She wouldn’t get the money. She wouldn’t fix the cars. She wouldn’t get into her dream school.
So fine. Fine.
Tonight she would stop thinking. Tonight she would let herself breathe.
Tomorrow could ruin everything but tonight… Tonight she would dance. And so she did.
At first awkwardly then less awkwardly then recklessly.
The bass pounded through her ribs as she moved with the crowd, bodies pressing against her from every direction. She danced with strangers, laughing breathlessly as the room spun in flashes of pink and blue.
Guys moved close to her, too close. Sometimes she felt hands wandering under the edge of her skirt, sometimes fingers brushed her waist. Her thighs. Her back. Her ass.
Normally she would have shoved them away but tonight she barely processed it. She was too drunk to care. Too drunk to even really notice the faces around her.
People talked to her, flirted with her, pulled her into dancing but everything blurred together into one chaotic stream of noise and movement and heat.
She was a mess. A complete, ridiculous mess.
At some point she wasn’t sure when she kissed someone. Just suddenly a guy leaning close, shouting something in her ear and then she was kissing him. Messy and sloppy. Like the way Rowan kissed Raymund when she was drunk; too much saliva, teeth bumping, skin pressed too close together.
She pulled away laughing then someone else kissed her then another. It all blurred together into a ridiculous, dizzying loop of music and bodies and alcohol.
She felt disgusting and strangely free at the same time.
Like none of it mattered. Like she had stepped outside of her real life for a few hours.
At one point, strong hands suddenly wrapped around her waist from behind, pulling her backward through the crowd.
She let it happen. Why not? Her head lolled slightly as she leaned back against whoever it was.
A voice spoke close to her ear. “What are you doing here?”
The words barely reached her through the haze. She blinked slowly, trying to process them but her brain didn’t bother. “Shut up,” she slurred, turning toward him clumsily. “And kiss me.”
But the guy didn’t move, didn’t lean closer, didn’t kiss her. She blinked again, trying to focus on his face. It was blurry under the flashing lights.
Dark. Silver. Familiar? Her brain struggled to catch up.
“I said,” she shouted loudly, grabbing the front of his shirt to steady herself, “fucking kiss me!”
Still he didn’t kiss her. The realization came slowly, pushing through the haze of alcohol and noise in her head. For a moment she just stared at him, blinking like the world had glitched.
Nobody had refused her all night. Not the first guy, not the second, not the third. But this one just stood there, unmoving, his hands still around her waist to keep her from tipping over as the crowd shoved past them.
“You’re drunk,” he said. His voice was calm, almost bored, but close enough to her ear that she heard it despite the music.
She squinted up at him, offended. “Yes,” she replied, like that explained everything. “Which means you should kiss me.”
“That’s not how it works.”
She frowned deeply at that, as if trying to solve a complicated math problem. “Well it should,” she muttered.
The music pulsed around them, the crowd shifting and pressing like waves, but he didn’t move. His hands stayed firm on her waist, keeping her upright while she swayed slightly in place.
He studied her for a moment before asking, “Why are you drunk?”
She blinked at him, then let out a small laugh that sounded more tired than amused. “Because life is shit,” she said simply.
He didn’t argue with that. In fact, he gave a small, almost thoughtful nod. “Fair enough.”
Encouraged by what she interpreted as agreement, she leaned closer, grabbing the collar of his shirt with one hand and tugging him toward her.
“See?” she said triumphantly. “You understand me. Now kiss-”
He turned his head just in time and her lips met empty air.
She froze for a second, then slowly pulled back, blinking at him in confusion. “…Why did you dodge?” she demanded.
“Because you’re drunk.”
“So?”
“And you’ve probably kissed half the club tonight.”
She straightened a little at that, looking deeply offended. “Excuse you,” she corrected, raising three fingers in front of his face. “Only three.”
He glanced at her raised hand. “That’s more than enough,” he replied flatly. “You don’t need to add another one.”
She squinted at him suspiciously. “Why do you care? Nobody in this club fucking cares,” she continued, gesturing vaguely around them. “Everyone’s kissing everyone Everyone's fucking everyone. It’s like… a public service.”
His mouth twitched faintly, though whether it was amusement or disbelief was hard to tell.
She leaned closer again, peering up at him like she was trying to read a very confusing book. “Who are you?” she asked.
That seemed to surprise him as his brows drew together slightly. “You don’t remember me?”
She stared at him. Really stared this time, her drunken brain trying very hard to cooperate.
She leaned in closer, squinting. “…Should I?” she asked slowly.
He stared at her for another second, as if deciding something then, without a word, he grabbed her wrist.
She yelped in surprise. “Hey- what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer. He just started moving. And because the crowd was thick and she was still very drunk, she stumbled after him whether she wanted to or not.
“Hey! Wait-” she protested, trying to pull her hand back, but his grip was firm and unbothered by her attempts. “Where are you taking me?!”
He pushed through the crowd with the kind of ease that suggested he was used to this place, people parting just enough as he guided her along behind him. She bumped into shoulders, nearly tripped twice, and spent most of the journey trying to keep her balance in the ridiculous boots.
“Excuse me- sorry- hey!” she kept saying, though she wasn’t sure anyone heard.
Eventually the crowd began to thin.
The music was still loud, but less suffocating. The air felt cooler, the flashing lights dimmer as they moved toward the hallway that led to the restrooms. He finally stopped outside one of the doors and before she could ask anything else, he pulled it open and guided her inside.
Her brain, already operating on half capacity, immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion.
“Oh! Wait- wait, wait, wait-!” she blurted, trying to brace her feet against the floor. “I tried to kiss you, yes, but that doesn’t mean I want to do anything sexual with you!”
She was babbling now, words spilling out faster than she could think.
“I mean not that you’re ugly or anything, you’re actually very... well, I can’t see properly but still! That’s not the point! I just don't wanna fuck-”
The door closed behind them with a solid click and she stopped mid-sentence.
Her eyes lifted and immediately widened. Because standing by the sinks, leaning casually against the counter like he had been there the whole time, was a man she recognized instantly.
Tall. Sharp and completely unmistakable. Silver hair catching the harsh bathroom lights.
Her heart dropped straight into her stomach. “Oh-”
The alcohol fog in her brain shattered like glass. “Oh no.”
Her gaze snapped back to the man who had dragged her in here then back to the silver-haired one then back again.
Panic spread across her face. “…Oh my god.”
He crossed his arms and tilted his head, the faint smirk returning to his lips. “Recognize me now?” he asked.
Her cheeks flamed hot, heat spreading all the way up her neck. Of course she did. Totally, undeniably. The thought nearly made her stumble.
Totally fuckeable Aerion Targaryen… right here, standing in front of her, in a bathroom, once again. And somehow, this time, it was worse. She was wearing less than the last time, drunker than ever, hair loose and falling over her shoulders. The neon pink crop top practically screamed at the ceiling and the skirt… she couldn’t even think about it without cringing.
“I… I needed… I needed to find you,” she stammered, clinging to her balance and trying to sound somewhat coherent.
He raised an eyebrow, exhaling slowly. “Right… And what exactly do you want from me now? Are you going to ask me some dumb ass questions like the last time?” His tone was sharp and he already started to turn away.
“No! No, it’s not about that!” she blurted, grabbing his shoulder firmly, almost desperately. “I’m not here to interview you. I’m not going to ask stupid questions, I swear! It’s… it’s something else!”
He paused mid-step, flicking her a look of mixed curiosity and boredom.
“Yes!” she blurted, almost spilling her drink of courage in her hand. “I… I just… I need help.”
He straightened fully, sighing sharply, annoyance clear in the lines of his face. Tired, too she noted the faint dark shadows under his eyes.
“Help? Why the fuck would I help you?” he snapped, voice low.
“I… I need… money,” she admitted, voice trembling despite the bravado.
He scoffed, a sharp, humorless sound that made her stomach twist. “Of course. Another dumb bitch trying to use me for money. I should’ve guessed,” he muttered, shaking his head, already shifting to leave.
“Wait!” she barked, grabbing his arm more firmly this time. The grip was desperate. “I… I don’t want money to buy clothes or makeup or whatever people do with free money! It’s… it’s for a good cause.”
He froze for a fraction of a second, brows knitting. She hesitated, then plunged ahead, words tumbling out too fast to edit.
“My life… it’s… it’s completely crumbled today,” she started, voice shaking. “I lost my job, I’m about to get kicked out of my apartment, I… I crashed two cars- one of them really expensive and I have no insurance, no money, no plan. If I don’t fix things… I can’t even get into King’s Landing Journalist School. Everything I’ve worked for- gone!”
She gulped, gripping his arm like a lifeline. “I’m… I really need your help.”
He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes narrowing, clearly unimpressed. “You think I’m a charity worker?” he asked, voice flat. “Fuck off. You’re not getting my money.”
She shook her head, panic threatening to overwhelm her. “Wait! Listen!” she insisted. “I… I need your help as much as you need mine.”
He raised an eyebrow, expression sharp, incredulous. “Why the fuck would I need your help?”
She gulped, trying to steady herself, and blurted out, “Please… don’t get mad, but… I, uh… I Googled you. Like… four hours last night.”
His eyes narrowed sharply and she panicked instantly. “Wait! No, no, I’m not a freak! Not a stalker! I was just… desperate!”
She pressed on, words tumbling over each other. “I read… I mean, I don’t know if it’s reliable, but… that you’ve been involved in… scandals.”
He rolled his eyes, a long, exasperated sigh escaping him. “Of course. Great. Here we go again.”
She ignored him, pressing further. “I know you’ve had problems… with drugs, alcohol, sex… and that your family… your family is very powerful.” She paused, blinking rapidly. “I… I’m sorry if it’s not true, what I read. That would be… super embarrassing but… uhh… I read that you’ve never been with a woman properly,” she added quickly, stumbling over her words. “I mean… in a real relationship. Not hookers, not...uh, anything like that… real girls.”
He arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, but said nothing.
“So… here’s the idea,” she rushed on, voice shaky but determined. “I could… be with you… for good image. Help you fix your… reputation. And in return… you give me the money I need to… fix things. Seems… fair?”
He blinked at her, annoyance and disbelief clear in the tilt of his head, but a small smirk threatened the corners of his mouth. Then he let out a mocking laugh.
“You think I need help with my image?” he asked, tone dripping with amusement and exasperation. “Fuck. You’re stupid.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice, sharp and precise. “I don’t want your stupid ass talking about my scandals or whatever. Got it?”
She should have been embarrassed, hurt, maybe even intimidated but the alcohol and adrenaline made her braver than she thought. She shot back without thinking, voice rushing out in a heated blur.
“Well, maybe I am stupid! But at least I’m not lying to get your money!”
She realized she’d raised her voice a bit too loud, the music outside pounding through the bathroom walls, but she didn’t care. Her chest heaved, words tumbling out before she could stop them.
“You don’t get to talk to me like I’m nothing!” she snapped, stepping closer, hands shaking. “You don’t have to be such an ass with me! I’m just… struggling! I need a way out, and you don’t even know what that feels like! My life… my life is about to get fucking ruined and now when I’m trying to find solutions, I get talked to like I’m nothing! You know how that feels?”
He blinked at her, expression unreadable for a split second. Then, cold, sharp without hesitation: “No I don't know how that feels but maybe you should’ve been less stupid in the first place, then none of this would’ve happened!”
Something inside her snapped and before she even realized it, her hand shot out.
Slap.
The sound echoed in the small bathroom. She froze immediately, staring at her own hand as if it had betrayed her.
Aerion Targaryen. The same Aerion Targaryen whose family owned FireTube, who probably had enough money to buy the world and she had just slapped him.
He stared at her, expression unreadable at first and then slowly lifted a hand to touch the side of his face.
Her heart plummeted. “…Oh… fuck,” she muttered, cheeks heating so fast she felt like she might combust.
He didn’t move, didn’t yell, didn’t hit back. He just looked at her annoyed, maybe slightly impressed, and undeniably calculating as if weighing the absurdity of the situation against the sheer audacity of her.
Her legs felt weak. She pressed her hands against the counter, trying to steady herself. “I… I’m so sorry,” she stammered, chest rising and falling far too quickly, breaths coming out loud and ragged. “…I… I slapped you, right?” she asked, voice cracking, almost like she was laughing at herself through the panic.
He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t answer. But she knew. She had slapped him.
Her stomach twisted. She was making her life even more miserable than it already was. And gods… if she could just disappear, she would. Right now.
She lifted her gaze to his face, expecting anger, a glare, maybe even a slap in return. Anything to match the chaos in her mind.
But… there was nothing. Nothing at all.
Just… him. Calm. Controlled. And yes… hot. Ridiculously, devastatingly, impossibly hot. Smoking. 'Fuckable'. Rowans’s words echoed somewhere in her head, and she internally cursed herself for thinking about that right now.
She blinked, stomach twisting further. “Aren’t you… gonna say something? Talk back? Raise your voice at me? Slap me back?”
He shook his head slowly. Calm. Unmoved.
Her brows furrowed. “…Why?” she asked, voice quivering. “I- just a second ago I was acting like a complete bitch, I shouldn’t have-”
“Stop talking,” he interrupted, cutting her off with a calm, firm edge that made her pause mid-sentence. “You talk too much.”
She froze, blinking at him. Panicking, flustered, and somehow, more aware of him than she had been a second ago. “…I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, heart hammering. “I really am…”
Aerion sighed. Not dramatically, not angrily; just tired. Like the whole situation had drained something out of him.
He glanced down for a moment, then reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. The movement was familiar. Almost identical to the last time they had ended up together in a bathroom.
He placed it between his lips and lit it without a word.
For a few seconds, the only sound was the faint click of the lighter and the distant thump of music outside.
She watched him.
Gods.
He looked… unfair. The harsh bathroom lights caught the pale strands of his hair, making the silver almost glow. It framed his face perfectly, sharp features carved like something unreal. Too perfect. Too composed. Way too hot to exist in the same messy world she lived in.
Her brain, traitorous as ever, supplied Rowan’s voice again.
Fuckable.
Yes. Extremely.
He took a slow drag from the cigarette, the ember glowing briefly, then exhaled toward the ceiling. Only then did he speak.
“How much do you need?”
The question hit her so suddenly she blinked. “What?”
He looked at her briefly, unimpressed. “Money. How much.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it again. She actually… had no idea.
“…A lot?” she said weakly.
He didn’t react. Not even a little. He simply took another drag from the cigarette, considering something for a moment before giving a small nod, like that answer had somehow been sufficient.
Then he spoke again. “When are we starting?”
She blinked again, slower this time. “…Starting what?”
He lowered the cigarette slightly and looked at her like the answer was painfully obvious.
“Faking dating,” he said flatly. “When are we starting?”
Her brain completely short-circuited.
“Wha- what?” she whispered, mouth opening, then closing again as if the words might escape and betray her.
“Dating,” he repeated, calm, sharp. “Fake dating. Isn’t that the plan? You said you’d help my image. So when do we start being… girlfriend and boyfriend, or whatever shit you call it?”
Her stomach dropped. Her head spun. Aerion Targaryen… dating? Fake or not, the absurdity of it hit her full force.
“…You… you mean me?” she stammered, almost laughing through the panic. “You… want me to… to…?”
He gave a flat look, cigarette dangling from his lips, perfectly patient and maddeningly calm. “Yes. You. Or were you lying the whole time ?”
She blinked, trying to process it, heart hammering in her chest. The situation was ridiculous, funny, terrifying… all at once.
“…Gods,” she muttered under her breath. “…Fake dating Aerion Targaryen. My life… my life is a complete disaster.”
He raised a brow, unimpressed, like he was waiting for her to collapse into incoherent babbling.
“No! I mean… yes? I didn’t… not mean it that way!” she rushed out, words tumbling over each other. Her cheeks burned hotter than ever.
She cleared her throat, took a shaky breath, and tried to straighten herself. “…We’re starting dating… tomorrow,” she said, forcing the words out like a declaration.
He studied her for a long moment, eyes sharp, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “…Tomorrow,” he repeated, almost like testing her, his tone flat but deliberate.
“Yes,” she said quickly, nodding, biting her lip. “Tomorrow. We officially become girlfriend and… boyfriend.”
He let out a low hum of acknowledgment, expression still unreadable, though she could swear she caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.
Her stomach churned, panic and absurd excitement mixing, as she realized just how completely ridiculous and yet enviable her life had become. Fake dating Aerion Targaryen. Tomorrow.
summary: a journalism assignment about the infamous Targaryens leads to one disastrous interview, one crashed car, and a boy with mismatched eyes she definitely wasn’t supposed to meet.
──── SHE SHIFTED HER SEAT, tapping her pen against the edge of the desk. The classroom smelled faintly of old books and coffee, a mixture that somehow made the air feel alive. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, catching the dust in tiny specks. Her notebook lay open in front of her, mostly blank except for a few half formed notes she had been doodling absentmindedly.
"Your final internship assignment," the professor began, voice carrying across the room, "will determine whether you can fully integrate into the school. This isn't just a grade. This is your chance to prove that you can handle the responsibilities of a full journalist; to show initiative, creativity and judgment under pressure."
She leaned forward slightly, pen hovering over the page. Every student in the room was listening, some nodding, others scribbling notes frantically. She felt her chest tighten; this was it. Years of dreaming, of imagining herself here, had led to this moment. One wrong move, one missed opportunity and it could all slip away.
The professor continued, outlining the expectations. "Each intern will select a public scandal or controversy, something that caught attention, shook the public or had lasting impact. Your task is to analyze it thoroughly: who was involved, what happened, why it mattered and what the consequences were. You must verify your sources, understand the context and present your findings clearly. Your presentation should be polished, professional and thoughtful. Remember, this project is about insight, not sensationalism. You will be judged not only on the story you tell, but on how you tell it."
She frowned, tapping her pen against her notebook. "Professor," she said, raising her hand, "how specific do we need to be? I mean... are we supposed to pick scandals that are current or can we look at ones that happened a few years ago?"
The professor paused, considering. "Either is acceptable," he replied with his voice calm. "Current events can be compelling but historical cases often reveal patterns, motives and consequences that are just as important. What matters is your approach, your ability to dig deeper than the headlines."
Another student murmured something about wanting a safe, easy story. She glanced down at her notebook, biting the inside of her cheek. Safe? Easy? That had never been her style. Not if she could help it. Her gaze drifted out the window for a moment, and her mind started ticking through possibilities. A story that would make her stand out, something meaningful, something smart.
The professor leaned forward, scanning the room. "You will have two weeks to research, prepare and practice. Remember: the final presentation will be your chance to show the real journalist you are, the one we've been training all semester. This isn't just about grades, it's about whether you belong here."
Her chest tightened. This was it. The final step. The one chance she had to prove herself. She gave a determined nod and smiled, flipping open her notebook. On the first blank page, she wrote in thick letters:
SCANDALS?
and circled it, then highlighted it in deep red. The word seemed to pulse on the page, daring her to think bigger, bolder.
When the professor dismissed the class, she didn't linger. As she did so often, she headed straight for the library. The hallways smelled faintly of polished wood and lingering coffee, the chatter of students fading behind her with every step. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and she pulled it out to see a message from Rowan:
Rowan: wya
A grin tugged at her lips. She tapped out a quick reply:
Her: guess :)
Rowan had been her best friend since high school. They were inseparable, though Rowan's life had taken a different path ; she called it "esthetic school," a world of colors, textures and creativity, but it had never been about grades or books. She hated it whenever her friend spent long hours in the library.
Rowan: ugh again, I'm coming
She chuckled softly and slipped the phone back into her pocket. It didn't matter; she had her own rhythm, her own space to think.
Inside the library, she moved past rows of tall, dark shelves until she found a quiet corner where no one else was sitting. She set her bag on the chair beside her and eased herself into the seat. The soft rustle of pages and distant tapping of keyboards filled the space, grounding her.
She opened her notebook to the page with SCANDALS? highlighted in red. The word stared back at her, bold and insistent. Her pen hovered above the paper as her mind started spinning through possibilities. Historical cases? Current events? Famous corporate scandals? Political affairs? The thought of digging into something that mattered, something big enough to make people listen made her chest tighten with a mix of fear and excitement.
Her fingers tapped against the page, then she wrote in smaller letters beneath the heading: "Something unforgettable. Something no one else dares."
She leaned back in her chair and let her gaze drift over the page, scribbling down every idea that popped into her head. Corporate cover ups, political scandals, viral social media controversies, celebrity affairs, tech leaks, financial frauds... each one crossed her mind and then she crossed it out. Nothing felt daring enough. Nothing felt unforgettable. Her pen moved faster, almost frantic as she tried to push past the obvious and find something bold, something worth her final presentation.
Her phone buzzed again. She sighed, already knowing who it was. Rowan. She picked it up, pressing it gently to her ear and trying to keep her voice down ; the library wasn't a place for loud phone calls. "Hey," she whispered.
"I'm here! Where the fuck are you?" Rowan's voice came loud and clear, and she immediately lowered the phone's volume.
"Rowan, do you have to yell? You're going to get us kicked out," she said, trying not to smile.
"Ugh, this place is huge! I can never find you in here!" Rowan complained.
"I'm at the usual spot," she replied.
"Oh yeah," Rowan said, snickering. "Dark corner for weird people."
"I'll have you know I'm not weird," she said, mock offended, scribbling another note in her notebook.
"Well... you are. You spend all your time in this ugly library," Rowan teased.
"I have a big assignment to work on, so you better hurry your ass up and come sit," she said, tapping her pen impatiently.
"Sheesh, here in a minute!" Rowan replied, and the line went dead.
She shook her head, smiling. Of course, Rowan never really meant it; she'd be here in no time. And sure enough, a few minutes later, Rowan appeared.
"Finally! I thought you'd vanished into the stacks forever," Rowan said, dropping her bag to the floor with a soft thump. She leaned back in the chair, kicking one leg over the other. "Seriously, this place is like a maze. I swear I walked past the same shelf three times before I found you."
"You should try paying attention to signs instead of wandering around like a lost puppy," she teased, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I do pay attention! It's just that your dark corner for weird people isn't exactly... obvious," Rowan replied, grinning.
"'Weird people' is very specific," she shot back, waving her pen like a sword. "I prefer 'focused, ambitious, future top journalist.'"
Rowan laughed, leaning forward and peeking at her notebook. "Ambitious, huh? Let me see... oh wow. Big, scary word at the top. Scandals? Deep red?"
Rowan raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Right. Motivational. You know, most people don't highlight words like they're about to conquer the world."
"That's because most people aren't going to conquer the world," she shot back, grinning despite herself. She tapped the page again. "Anyway, I've got to brainstorm. I need ideas that will actually make this presentation unforgettable."
Rowan leaned back, crossing her arms. "Unforgettable, huh? Like, scandal-level unforgettable or... 'oh my god, she's going to get herself in trouble' unforgettable?"
"Both," she said without hesitation. "I need to stand out. This assignment isn't just a grade. It's everything I've worked for since... forever."
Rowan laughed softly. "You make it sound dramatic. Chill, future top journalist. You've got this." She wiggled her eyebrows. "But also... don't go getting yourself in trouble. Some of us like you alive and sane."
"Trouble is kind of the point," she said, pen already hovering, scribbling down a few half-formed ideas. "I need something bold, memorable, smart... the kind of story that makes people stop and actually listen."
Rowan groaned. "Do you at least have one idea yet?"
"Not yet," she admitted, flipping the page. "Nothing that feels daring enough but I'll get there. I always do."
Rowan smirked, settling into the chair. "Fine but hurry up. I can't sit here forever while you turn into a crazy scandal-hunting machine."
"Crazy?" she said, laughing, shaking her head. "I prefer focused and ambitious."
Rowan rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps you sleep at night, weirdo."
──── ROWAN HAD BEEN OF NO HELP. Every time she tried to focus, Rowan would launch into some new tangent and before long, they were both laughing and gossiping instead of actually working.
"Okay, but seriously," Rowan said, leaning back and wiggling her fingers, "look at these nails. Aren't they perfect?"
She glanced down at the bright, glittery tips. "Wow... okay, those are something," she said, trying not to snort. "How long did that take you?"
"Hours," Rowan said dramatically, pouting. "I had to redo the pink layer three times because it wasn't shiny enough. And don't even get me started on the little gems. They almost didn't stick!"
"I... can't even imagine," she muttered, shaking her head. "Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out how to make my final presentation unforgettable, and you're over here waging war on nail polish."
Rowan shrugged, grinning. "Hey, everyone needs priorities. My nails are art. Your presentation is... math?"
"Journalism," she corrected automatically, then sighed. "But yeah, kinda math-y in terms of logistics and sourcing and... ugh. Never mind."
"See?" Rowan said, leaning closer conspiratorially. "This is why I said I'd help. You need breaks, okay? Let me distract you for a while."
She groaned, closing her notebook with a soft thump. "Breaks are fine. But if we keep talking about glitter and gossip, I'm never going to get anywhere."
Rowan grinned, unbothered by her groan. "You have to hear about Raymund. He's driving me insane in the best way."
“Oh no,” she muttered, resting her forehead against her hand. “Not another boyfriend story. This is, what, the fifth this month?”
Rowan waved a hand dismissively. “Pfft. Details don’t matter. What does matter is that this one’s different. He’s… charming. Irritating. Sweet. Infuriating. Basically, all the things that make me like him too much.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And the other four weren’t?”
“Okay, okay,” Rowan said, holding up her hands in surrender. “Fine, they weren’t exactly… stable. But Raymund? He’s… a perfect.” She grinned, eyes sparkling. “ He took me to that tiny ramen place downtown, the one with the spicy miso broth that makes your nose run. And you know what? I met some of his friends and they are… well…” She wiggled her fingers like she was about to cast a spell. “…a mix of trouble and charm. Totally obnoxious, totally fun, totally… ugh.”
“Rowan the break is over,” she said, lowering her hands and glancing at her notebook, “we are not talking about this no more. I need ideas for my presentation.”
“I am helping,” Rowan insisted, ignoring her protests. “I’m giving you inspiration. You need context for scandal, drama, people who make headlines. And guess what?” She leaned in even closer, whispering conspiratorially. “One of his friends? A hot, really annoying, totally fuckeable guy who everyone whispers about… Aerion Targaryen.”
She blinked at her friend, incredulous. “Okay… so, what exactly do you want me to do with this information?”
Rowan threw up her hands in exasperation. “Ugh! You can be so clever sometimes, and then so stupid other times. Don’t overthink it! Just… think!”
“I’m thinking,” she muttered, tapping her pen against her notebook. “I’m thinking… okay, repeat that name again. Just… slowly.”
“Aerion Targaryen,” Rowan said, savoring each word like it was the punchline to a joke. “A-E-R-I-O-N… T-A-R-G-A-R-Y-E-N. Doesn’t it ring a bell, girl?”
She frowned, rolling the name around in her mind like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit yet. “Targaryen… Targaryen… Why does that feel familiar? Isn’t that… a big deal name? Someone important?”
“Ughhh,” Rowan muttered, a little too loudly, just as someone from the next row shot them a sharp “Shhhh!”
Rowan’s mouth opened like she was about to shout back, but she caught herself, remembering her friend. She pressed the phone or rather, leaned closer to her in the chair and whispered, “Okay, okay… I’m being quiet. But seriously, you know FireTube, right?”
“Of course I do,” she replied, lowering her voice too. “Everyone knows it. The network with all the luxury channels, celebrity coverage, viral videos, all that stuff?”
Rowan grinned, leaning even closer, her words barely audible. “Exactly. The Targaryens? They own it. Every bit. Everyone knows it, but no one ever talks about them. High society, private, untouchable. You get close, and it’s like… the world changes.”
She blinked at her friend, mind racing. “Wait… they own FireTube? The Targaryens? All of it?”
“Yes!” Rowan whispered, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Think about it: wealth, influence, gossip, secrets. And you? You could have a story here that no one else would dare touch. Genius material, I’m telling you!”
Her pen hovered over the page again. FireTube. Targaryens. Scandals. Suddenly, the pieces she’d been trying to find were shifting in her mind, forming a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was already working on.
She blinked at Rowan, a grin spreading across her face. “Rowan… you are a genius.”
Rowan shrugged, pretending to be modest. “I know. It’s a gift.”
She grabbed her pen again, scribbling furiously. On the page, she wrote “Targaryens” in big letters, circling it in red. Next to it, she added “FireTube”, highlighting it in bright green so it practically glowed on the page. Her hand shook slightly with excitement as she muttered, “You… you literally just found my subject.”
Rowan leaned over, eyes wide and mischievous. “I told you. Genius material. Scandal, power, secrecy… it’s all there, practically screaming at you. And you’re going to dig it up, aren’t you?”
She nodded, her thoughts already spinning. Scandals, corporate secrets, public perception, private chaos… her pen hovered over the notebook again, ready to catch every idea as it came. This was it. This was the kind of story that could make her final presentation unforgettable.
“And just think,” Rowan whispered, leaning close enough that her breath tickled her ear, “you’re going to get all the gossip, all the chaos… all of it. And you’ll be the one to actually put it together. No one else is crazy enough to do it.”
She laughed, shaking her head, half in disbelief, half in excitement. “Yeah… yeah, I think I’m crazy enough.”
Her eyes flicked back to the highlighted words. Targaryens. FireTube. Scandals. Each one pulsed in her mind like a dare, a challenge, and a promise all at once. She was already imagining how she would start digging, where she could begin, what she might uncover…
──── ROWAN HAD PRACTICALLY shoved her out the door. “Okay, so here’s the plan,” she said, pacing the small apartment like a general preparing for battle. “You’re going to meet Raymund, fifth boyfriend this month, yes, yes but this one is educational.”
“Educational?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes! Totally educational,” Rowan insisted, tossing a stack of clothes onto the bed. “You’re observing, gathering intel, watching social dynamics, doing research. You’re a journalist. It counts.”
She sighed, eyeing the pile warily. “Right… ‘educational.’ Sure.”
Rowan’s grin widened. “Now, we need you to stand out. I picked some outfits that scream… memorable. Bold. Attention-grabbing. Educational.”
To be honest, she should have known better. Rowan’s idea of style was anything but subtle. Nothing about these clothes whispered ‘professional’ or ‘polished.’ They shouted, flirted, and demanded to be noticed.
Minutes later, she was standing in front of Rowan’s full-length mirror, and she cursed under her breath. Tiny black denim shorts that barely covered anything, a T-shirt clinging to her like it had been painted on, and heels that made her wobble just slightly with every step. Her hair had been curled into perfect waves by Rowan, bouncing mockingly around her shoulders.
“You’re going to catch attention,” Rowan said, clearly delighted with herself. “Educational, remember? Bold, memorable, unforgettable… totally research.”
She stared at her reflection, slowly spinning around. Bold. Memorable. Educational. She snorted. “Right… educational,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Nothing says journalism like showing almost everything you own.”
Rowan leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “Look, you’ll get noticed, you’ll observe, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get a story that no one else could. Trust me.”
She groaned again, tugging the shirt down slightly. “I feel ridiculous.”
“Good,” Rowan said, clapping her hands. “That means you’ll stand out. Go. Gather your educational material and don’t faint from your own genius while you’re at it.”
She grabbed her bag, slid her notebook and pen inside, and took a deep breath. The words Targaryens. FireTube. Scandals. ran through her mind like a mantra as she straightened her curls, adjusted her shorts, and stepped out the door. “Totally educational,” she muttered again, forcing herself not to groan one last time.
To be honest, she had never expected they’d go to a bar. But, oh… that was Rowan. Why would she be surprised?
The moment they stepped inside, the noise hit her like a wall. Music pounding, people shouting over it, glasses clinking, laughter that bounced off the walls. She clutched her notebook like a lifeline, arms tight around it, and let Rowan pull her through the crowd. Rowan’s hand was firm in hers, guiding her past groups of people drinking, dancing, and yelling.
Finally, they reached the bar. Rowan’s eyes lit up and before she could blink, Rowan had darted ahead, weaving past strangers like she owned the place. She nearly stumbled trying to keep up and then… she saw her boyfriend Raymund.
Rowan threw herself at him, and… she was kissing him. No, not just kissing; making out like she was trying to swallow the guy whole. She counted silently in her head: one… two… three… ten… thirty… until Rowan finally pulled back, breathing a little hard, hair falling across her flushed cheeks.
She turned and waved, her grin triumphant. “This is my friend! And this,” she said, gesturing dramatically to the slightly stunned guy in front of her, “is Raymund!”
She swallowed, notebook clutched tight, still trying to process the scene. Rowan’s energy was ridiculous. Raymund looked… well, exactly like Rowan had promised: charming, maybe a little smug, with an easy smile that made him look harmless for now.
Rowan grabbed her hand again, dragging her forward. “Go on, introduce yourself. Educational purposes, remember?”
She let out a dry laugh. “Right. Educational.” She swallowed hard, clutching her notebook a little tighter, and held out her hand. “Hi… I’m- uh- ” She faltered for a second, cursed herself silently, and added, “-nice to meet you.”
Raymund grinned and took her hand, shaking it firmly. She immediately regretted it. Heels, heels, heels! she thought frantically. Girls in heels were never supposed to be doing handshakes. Her fingers tingled from the awkward grip and she cursed Rowan silently for dragging her into this “educational” chaos.
“Raymund,” he said warmly, voice carrying easily over the noise, “good to see you.”
She nodded, muttering a quiet, “Yeah… you too.”
Just as she was trying to regain some composure, a voice behind him called, “Raymund!”
They both turned, and her eyes widened. A tall, white-haired guy was laughing as two girls, danced or rather grinded on him. They were both wearing skirts so short she couldn’t believe anyone would think that was legal. The sight made her flush hot all over, heat creeping up her neck and into her ears. She clutched her notebook tighter, pretending it was a shield.
Rowan leaned in, voice low but urgent over the music. “This is Aerion. The center of your assignment. The… totally fuckeable targaryen.”
She swallowed hard, trying to make her heartbeat behave. Educational. Right. Totally educational. She reminded herself she was here to observe, to take mental notes, to… survive this without fainting.
Rowan, clearly enjoying the show as much as her discomfort, gave her a little nudge. “Come on. You’re here for a reason, remember? Assignment, school, your dream… all that. This is it. Educational purposes, girl. Get close.”
She blinked at her friend, mortified, but Rowan’s tone left no room for hesitation. “I… okay. Right. Educational,” she muttered, though her voice came out shakier than intended.
She stepped forward, notebook clutched like a shield, heels clicking nervously against the bar floor. If she could just go back in time, she thought, she would. Every step felt like a bad decision she couldn’t undo.
As she got closer, the girls who had been dancing on Aerion suddenly stopped. They turned to look at her, scanning her from toe to head, and then both burst into laughter. Her stomach flipped.
Aerion’s head snapped toward her. His silver hair caught the flashing lights, and his eyes narrowed in amusement. “So…?” he said, voice casual, but there was a hint of curiosity in the tilt of his lips.
She froze. So… what? Her mind raced, words jumbling in her head. She wanted to retreat, to curl back into herself, maybe sink into the floor and disappear. Instead, she opened her mouth.
“I… uh… I was wondering if… could I… interview you?” she blurted out.
There was a pause. A long, bewildered pause. Around her, the music thumped, people shouted, glasses clinked, and the girls behind Aerion smirked and whispered something to each other. He blinked at her, tilting his head slightly. “Interview me? Here?”
She swallowed hard, heat rising to her cheeks. “Yes. Educational. For… my… assignment.”
Rowan, standing just behind her, let out a long, exaggerated sigh. She leaned forward, muttering under her breath just loud enough for her friend to hear, “You can be so clever… and then so dumb sometimes.”
Aerion laughed. A low, amused laugh that carried easily over the music. Then, as if cued, everyone around him seemed to notice her awkward stance, her notebook clutched like armor, and joined in. A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, eyes turning to watch her, some whispering, others nudging each other.
“So,” Aerion said, smirk widening, voice dripping with mock seriousness, “let me get this straight… you want to interview me? Here. Now. At a bar. With two girls who seem intent on climbing me like a jungle gym.” He gestured vaguely toward the girls still giggling behind him. “Is this… standard journalistic procedure?”
She swallowed hard, heat burning her cheeks. “I… yes… well… technically, I-”
He cut her off with a sharp, playful tilt of his head. “No, no, go on. I am intrigued. Are you always this… bold? Or is it just when you’re trying to gather ‘educational’ material?”
She felt her stomach twist, wishing she could disappear, but she pressed on. “I… I’m… I’m just trying to… do my assignment.”
Aerion raised an eyebrow, silver hair catching the light as he leaned slightly back, letting the laughter fade into teasing amusement. “Assignment? Ah. So this is why the notebook. The heels. The… attention-seeking. All very professional.”
Her hands tightened around her bag and notebook. Educational. Assignment. Dream school. Keep it together. “Yes,” she said, voice a little firmer despite the pounding in her chest. “Professional.”
He laughed again, low and teasing, and she knew she was the only one in the bar feeling entirely mortified. The girls behind him whispered something and giggled, clearly enjoying her discomfort.
She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to take a breath, and nodded slightly to Aerion. “So… um… could we, maybe… talk somewhere a little… quieter?”
Aerion’s smirk widened, amusement dancing in his pale eyes. “Quieter, huh? You're bold. I like it.”
She blinked at him, suddenly realizing exactly what he was insinuating. “No… I mean, yes… I mean, no-” She cursed herself silently, mentally smacking her own head. Keep it together, this is professional. Educational. Assignment.
Aerion didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looked even more amused, that smirk tugging at the corners of his pale lips. Without a word, he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers before gently taking her arm.
“Uh…” she started, but he guided her through the crowd with the kind of confidence that made her feel like a leaf in a windstorm. She had no idea where they were going.
She glanced back at Rowan, hoping for some kind of reassurance. Rowan’s response? A slow wink, one perfectly mischievous eyebrow raised. That did not make her feel any better.
They moved quickly, and she barely registered the thrumming music or the chaos of the bar around them. Her heels clicked awkwardly on the floor, her notebook bouncing against her chest. Educational. Professional. Right.
She blinked around the cramped bathroom, clutching her notebook like it might somehow protect her from the absurdity of the situation. She had never expected, never that she would be interviewing someone in a bathroom, with music from the bar still thumping through the walls like a relentless heartbeat. But, well… her life was surprisingly ridiculous, and this just added another notch to the list.
Aerion leaned casually against the sink, silver hair catching the harsh bathroom light, and produced a cigarette from somewhere in the folds of his pocket. He lit it, inhaling slowly, smoke curling lazily around his head.
She froze. “What… what are you doing?” she asked, incredulous, her pen hovering above the notebook.
He exhaled a long plume of smoke, smirk tugging at his lips. “Getting ready to be interviewed,” he said, voice calm, teasing, like this was the most normal thing in the world.
She blinked. “In a bathroom…? Are you kidding me?”
“Why not?” he asked, shrugging, cigarette balanced effortlessly between his fingers. “It’s quiet… relatively speaking. No one’s bothering us in here. You wanted a quieter place, didn’t you?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to steady herself. Educational. Assignment. Dream school. Totally professional.“Right. Quieter. Totally… educational.” Her voice wavered slightly, betraying the tiny panic creeping up her spine.
He laughed softly, the sound low and amused. “Relax. Just ask your questions. Take notes. Pretend you’re a journalist and I’m… your subject. Seems simple enough.”
She glared at him, voice sharp despite the pounding of her heart. “I don’t need to pretend. I am a journalist.”
He lifted a brow, clearly amused, smoke curling lazily between his fingers. “Are you?”
She bristled. “Yes. I am.”
He leaned slightly forward, letting his eyes roam over her, and the smirk on his face widened. “Really? You don’t look like one. Not at all.”
Her stomach twisted, and she bit her lip, unsure whether to be insulted or flustered. “Well… I-”
“Where are you studying, anyway?” he asked, tilting his head with that casual curiosity that made her feel off-balance. “What’s your school?”
She hesitated. She wasn’t technically in a school yet, they hadn’t accepted her but she forced herself to say it anyway, her voice steady despite her nerves. “King’s Landing Journalist School.”
He blinked, the amusement in his eyes softening slightly into genuine interest. “King’s Landing… not bad,” he murmured, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Ambitious. Brave, maybe… or stupid.”
She opened her mouth to argue but stopped herself, letting the words die. Professional. Educational. Assignment. Deep breath. “Yes. Ambitious,” she said, nodding slightly, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “Now can I interview you?”
He leaned back slightly, smirk still lingering, as if testing her. “Interview me, huh? Alright. Go ahead. Ask whatever you want. But… be careful.”
She swallowed hard, opening her notebook and flipping to a blank page. Her pen felt heavier than usual, as if the weight of this “assignment” had suddenly turned physical. “Okay… um… first question,” she started, trying to steady her voice. “How do you… I mean… how do you decide what parts of your life are public and what parts stay private?”
He laughed softly, the sound low and teasing. “Oh, clever. Starting off with that. Who decides? Me, the rumors, or the headlines?”
She scribbled quickly, nodding, cheeks heating. “Right… yes. And… um… professionally, how do you handle public attention? The media, the gossip…”
His smirk flickered just slightly, a shadow passing over the amusement in his eyes. “It depends. Sometimes it’s entertaining. Sometimes… exhausting.”
She hesitated for a moment, then, after a deep breath, asked the question that had been lingering in her mind, trying to phrase it as neutrally as possible. “And… your family. You’ve had… public scandals, yes. How does that affect them? Your family? The way people see them?”
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly. The casual, teasing smirk faltered, and his eyes darkened just a fraction. The cigarette in his fingers lowered slightly. “Careful,” he said, tone soft but firm. “That’s… not exactly a light topic.”
She nodded quickly, pen hovering over the page. “Right. Of course. I… I just- wanted to understand the perspective. For… context.”
He studied her for a long moment, smoke curling around him, before leaning back and letting out a short, humorless laugh. “Context, huh? You journalists… always chasing the story, no matter what. Brave, or stupid. Which are you again?”
She cursed herself silently, cheeks burning hotter, but forced a steadying breath. “Ambitious,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze, hoping that at least she sounded the part.
He let out a slow breath, leaning back, eyes never leaving hers. “Ambitious,” he said, the word almost like a warning. “Ambitious people… are often the ones who fall first. It’s… something to keep in mind.”
She frowned, uncertain. “Fall first?”
He shook his head slightly, a shadow passing over his expression. “Every day is a reminder,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Of what’s been said… done… rumored. I have enough already.”
Before she could respond, he crushed the cigarette beneath his heel and turned toward the door, shoulders tense, movement sharp.
“Wait!” she blurted, panic rising. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”
He paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder, silver hair catching the harsh light of the bathroom. His smirk was gone now, replaced by something distant, unreadable. The smoke from the crushed cigarette lingered in the air like a warning, sharp and bitter.
“I… I just wanted to interview you,” she said quickly, voice trembling slightly. “For… for my assignment. Nothing more. Nothing harmful. I didn’t mean anything mean or… or hurtful.”
He paused in the doorway, one hand on the handle, and turned his gaze on her, piercing and cold. “Keep your assignment… and your stupid interviews… away from me,” he said, each word clipped, sharp. And then he left, the door swinging shut behind him with a heavy click.
She blinked, frozen, the harsh fluorescent light bouncing off the tiles making her head spin. Slowly, she looked down at the ground, then back at her notebook lying on the counter. Her pen hovered above the page, fingers trembling.
Scandals. Targaryen. The words stared back at her, bold and red, mocking her. She cursed herself under her breath, feeling the weight of the assignment crush her all at once. She had thought she was prepared for anything; bold, ambitious, professional but standing there alone in a bathroom after Aerion had just thrown her off so completely made her feel like she’d just run headfirst into a wall.
──── SHE FINALLY MANAGED TO PUSH push the door open and slip back into the main area of the bar. Music thumped, bodies swayed, and the smell of alcohol mixed with perfume and sweat. And, of course, as she expected, Rowan was making out with Raymund like it was a full-blown performance.
She froze, leaning against a nearby pillar, notebook still clutched against her chest. The two of them hadn’t noticed her yet, so she waited, counting silently, letting five excruciatingly long minutes stretch out as she tried not to gag at the display.
Finally, Rowan’s head snapped up. “Oh! Hey!” she slurred slightly, stumbling toward her with a drunken grin, arms open wide. She wrapped her in a hug that was entirely too enthusiastic, nearly knocking the wind out of her. “There you are! How did it go?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Uh… how did it go?” Rowan repeated, laughing. “I saw him leave furious! What did you guys do in the bathroom?”
She groaned, heat creeping into her cheeks. “Rowan,” she said, voice tight. “Don’t. I’m not telling you anything. You’re not getting anything from me.”
Rowan pouted dramatically. “Ohhh, come on! I can imagine though… nasty stuff, right?” She giggled, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Nope,” she said firmly, stepping back. “Nothing. And I am in no mood for teasing.”
Rowan shrugged, clearly still amused. “Alright, alright… fine. Want to go home?”
“No,” she said, voice careful. “You're too drunk to…” She trailed off. Her brain was still buzzing from the bathroom encounter, but she knew she couldn’t let Rowan handle it.
Rowan blinked, a little surprised, but let her take the keys. She kissed Raymund quickly, waved him off, and followed her friend to the car.
Inside, the car was quiet, the hum of the engine the only sound. She gripped the wheel a little tighter, heels awkwardly pressing the pedals, notebook tucked on the passenger seat. Her mind replayed the moment in the bathroom — Aerion’s expression, the way he had looked at her, the smirk, the cigarette, the warning in his words.
And then she cursed herself silently. Why did you ask that question so openly?
Rowan leaned back in the passenger seat, swaying slightly with the movement of the car. “Geez,” she slurred a little, squinting at her friend. “You are tense. Like, super tense. What went so wrong that you’re… ugh… vibrating in your seat?”
She exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “It’s nothing. Everything. Just… stressful.”
“Stressful?” Rowan echoed, clearly unconvinced. “Come on! You’ve gotta tell me. Was it the bathroom thing? The… cigarette? The… smirk?” She waved her hands dramatically, knocking lightly against the dashboard.
She groaned, resting her forehead against it. “Rowan… I don’t want to talk about it.”
Rowan pouted, slumping slightly against the seat. “I just want to help! Maybe laugh a little… lighten the mood?” She giggled, hiccuping softly. “You’re making me tense too, you know. And I’m drunk, so that’s saying something.”
She blinked, trying to focus on the road while her mind raced. Educational. Assignment. Dream school. Totally professional. She could not tell Rowan everything, not the panic, not the humiliation, not how absurdly flustered Aerion had made her.
Rowan nudged her shoulder lightly. “C’mon. Seriously. Was it that bad? You’re gonna give yourself a headache gripping the wheel like that.”
She pressed her lips together, gripping the wheel tighter. “It’s… complicated.”
Rowan laughed, a little hiccuping snort, and leaned back, waving a hand lazily. “Yeah, sure, complicated. That’s my girl. Always making life interesting. You know… someday you’ll laugh about this. Probably in like… thirty years.”
“I doubt it,” she muttered, more to herself than Rowan. “I won’t get anything out of him. Nothing… and maybe I’ll fail. Maybe I’ll never get into King’s Landing Journalist School. I’ve worked my whole life for this, and I-”
Her words tumbled over themselves, fast and nervous. She didn’t notice the car coming straight toward them on the opposite side of the road until it was almost too late.
“Watch out!” Rowan screamed.
Her hands jerked the wheel hard to the right, and the car skidded. Tires screamed on asphalt, and both of them jolted forward, chest slamming into the seatbelt. For a long, horrifying second, the world spun. Her heart was hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears.
They collapsed back against the seats, breathing so loudly it nearly drowned out the distant hum of the street. “Holy shit,” she whispered, still gripping the wheel like it might save her life.
The engine stuttered and came to a stop. She blinked, eyes wide, and slowly opened the door.
Her stomach dropped. She had crashed into a car. A very… very expensive-looking car. The kind of car that made her chest tighten in panic just by existing.
“Shit. Shit. Shit!” she muttered, scrambling out, heels clicking on the asphalt as she ran to the front of the car. “Is anyone- anyone here?! Are you okay?!”
To her relief, a man stepped out, unharmed. And gods… this wasn’t the moment she wanted to look like a mess.
He looked down at the car, frowning slightly, before his gaze flicked up and she froze. He was impossibly handsome. Sharp features, calm and controlled, with eyes that seemed to see too much.
She felt the heat rise immediately; embarrassed, panicked and painfully aware of the tiny shorts and tight shirt she was wearing. Her curls bounced around her face as she cursed herself silently. Perfect. Just perfect. Totally professional and educational.
The man’s gaze shifted to her, assessing, calm, and for a moment… she felt utterly, completely, ridiculously small.
“Uh… hey,” she stammered, hands twisting nervously in front of her. “I… I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t mean to… crash into your… your very expensive car…”
He raised an eyebrow, gaze sharp, and she immediately felt small under it. “Were you drinking?”
“No! I-” she started, voice rising nervously.
“I am!” Rowan shouted from the backseat, waving her arms and slurring slightly.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, whispering desperately, “Please, Rowan… this is not the moment.”
The man’s eyes flicked toward the car, then back at her, and she could feel panic bubbling up. The damage was worse than she had realized, a deep scrape along the side, maybe even a dent. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest as she imagined the cost, the lecture, the humiliation.
“I… I’m so sorry,” she repeated, voice tighter now, words stumbling over themselves. “I didn’t… I wasn’t paying attention… I should have… I-”
He studied her silently for a moment, calm, almost amused, though she couldn’t tell if it was at her panic or the absurdity of her outfit and heels.
She swallowed hard, cheeks blazing. “This… this is… going to be… so expensive… I… oh god,” she muttered, panic making her words tumble faster.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh, and she realized he had caught the exact moment she saw the damage and went full panic mode.
“Alright,” he said finally, voice calm but firm, “let’s start with the fact that you’re not seriously drunk, yes?”
“No! No, I’m not!” she said quickly, waving her hands. “Totally… sober…”
He gave a faint nod, eyes scanning the damage again. “Alright… I’ll have to call my insurance.”
Her stomach lurched violently. Insurance? She froze. I don’t have insurance. This isn’t even my car… this is Rowan’s!
He turned his gaze back to her, brow slightly raised. “Do you have insurance?”
She swallowed hard, panic flaring in her chest. “I… I… no,” she admitted, voice tight, almost trembling.
He noticed immediately, and his tone softened, calm and measured. “Hey… don’t panic.”
She laughed nervously, a sound that quickly turned into a strangled groan. “Don’t panic? This is going to be really expensive! I already-”
She trailed off, realizing she couldn’t even finish the sentence. Her hands were trembling, heart hammering in her chest.
Before she could think, he had stepped closer. Both of his hands landed gently on her shoulders, steadying her. The sudden closeness made her breath hitch. She froze, barely daring to move.
Gods… he looked ridiculously… handsome, in a way that made her knees weaken despite the chaos. Even in the dim light, the car’s interior casting shadows across his face, she could see everything. His eyes. mismatched, one pale, one darker and freckles scattered across his sharp cheekbones. And that streak of silver hair… original, striking, impossibly him.
“Breathe,” he said quietly, calm but firm, voice low enough that she had to focus to hear. “It’s just a car. Accidents happen.”
She blinked up at him, still panicked, still gripping the sides of her bag and notebook like a lifeline. “I… I… this is going to cost… so much… and I-”
“Look at me,” he interrupted gently, thumbs brushing lightly against her shoulders. “It’s okay. You’re fine. We’ll figure this out. No need to-”
Her heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might burst. She cursed herself silently. Why am I like this? Why is he here? Why do I have to be dressed like… this?
He finally stepped back, giving her just enough space to breathe, and pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll need your number,” he said casually, almost like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Her brain short-circuited. “My… number?” she stammered, cheeks immediately flushing.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, amused. “For the future procedures. We’re not going to wait here until the insurances process everything, are we?”
Oh. Of course. That made sense… technically. She fumbled, heat crawling up her neck as she reached for her phone, digging it out from the back pocket of her shorts. Her fingers trembled as she handed it to him, still too aware of how exposed she felt in the outfit Rowan had forced on her.
He took it, thumbs moving easily over the screen, and then looked up at her with that smile; the kind that could make someone forget how to breathe. Handsome, effortless, and infuriatingly bright. “I’m Valarr, by the way,” he said, as if that were the most casual introduction in the world.
She blinked. And then she smiled. Like an idiot. “Valarr,” she repeated, testing the name on her tongue, soft and incredulous.
Her thoughts were still somewhere between panic and awe when a loud, drunken shout cut through the tension.
“HEY! Raymund’s picking us up!” Rowan yelled from behind her, waving her arms in a dramatic flail.
She jumped slightly, turning toward the voice and giving a quick, awkward nod. Then her gaze snapped back to Valarr. He was watching her, calm and measured, and she felt the words sticking in her throat.
A sleek, black car slid up to the curb, its engine purring like a predator. Valarr glanced at it, expression unreadable. “I have to go,” he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. But there was that faint smirk again, that trace of teasing in his eyes. “I expect a text.”
And just like that, he turned, stepped into the car; rich, black, intimidatingly elegant and disappeared into the night.
She blinked, frozen, notebook and phone still clutched tightly in her hands, Rowan stumbling toward her and slurring something about getting in the car. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and muttered under her breath, still staring at the empty street where he had been: Valarr…
Her heart refused to settle. That smile, those mismatched eyes, the freckles, the silver streak; all of it burned into her mind. And somehow, despite the chaos, the embarrassment, the heels, and the crashed car, she knew this was far from over.
pairing aerion targaryen x fem!reader x valarr targaryen
NO use of y/n
notes: thank you so much for giving this story a chance and taking the time to read it. feel free to share your thoughts; i always love hearing what people think!
She only wanted a story good enough to get into the school of her dreams but following the lives of the Targaryens turns out to be far more complicated and far more personal than any assignment was supposed to be.