moon song [v] | Modern!AU
Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.
Word Count: 7k+
Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, slightly dark!Targaryens, medical inaccuracies, age gap
Note: Sorry that this chapter took a bit longer to be posted, hope you enjoy!!
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The two youngest of Maekar's children were certainly unrelenting.
Their parentage could not be denied, with glimmering silver-gold hair (and despite Egg's bald head, you could still see small pale fine hairs that the razor hadn't managed to cut completely), and sparkling amethyst irises that watched you with both wariness and intrigue. Yet this wariness seemed to quickly dissipate within the presence of Meraxes, who was contentedly purring upon your lap.
Egg quickly announced that if Meraxes liked you, he did too, claiming that the kitten was a good judge of character. Rhae nodded along with his declaration, seeing the logic within such a statement. And you could only smile as they knelt beside you on the floor, their body weights leaning against you as they cooed at the kitten, both of the children petting her carefully with their index fingers only, as if fearing they might hurt her if they used any more force.
You had performed the nose-to-tail exam once more, more so for Egg's satisfaction rather than necessity, repeating the same results you had announced the day prior.
"I believe Meraxes is in perfect health, she just needs to be careful of her foot. You must be taking really good care of her." You said lowly to the children, trying to maintain a low volume as Aerion laid asleep just a few feet away from you.
You had returned to Aerion's room quickly after you had finished the sad breakfast offered by Daeron — two pieces of sourdough bread that he had attempted to toast. But you could not complain too much, it was almost sweet that he had at least offered (was it truly sweet, or had you just been so deprived of interacting with sane individuals within the last 24 hours that you simply deluded yourself into believing his actions were good-natured?). And as soon as you had entered, the two youngest Targaryens bursted in afterwards, bundles of energy and havoc as they spoke in loud voices of everything Meraxes had done since the last time you had seen her. What she had eaten, who she played with, how many times Daeron had to clean the litter tray. Everything.
And you played along, writing every detail on the back pages of your notebook, clearly writing the name MERAXES in all capital letters as you created a patient profile accompanied with tge messy doodles of a fluffy kitten. This simply encouraged the little Anvils further, their faces brightened with grins as they giggled through their excited speeches. You were unsure of exactly how long the young Targaryens had given you company, the only evidence of time passing was the sky beginning to darken, fading from soft blue to the shades of dusk; blushing pinks and bruised violets.
"And then Daeron bought her a bunch of kitty food, but then she wouldn't eat any of it—" Egg rambled, only to be interrupted by his sister.
Rhae leaned further into you, her elbows resting against your thighs. "— So Daeron went back to the store and bought her some wet kitty food instead, and he said it was really expensive, and she finally ate all of it—"
"—And she gobbled it all up, and she was making a sound while eating, like gobble gobble—"
"—No! It was more like—"
Their voices continued to layer on top of each other, creating a symphony of clashing chaos as they argued over the sound Meraxes steadily purring, the soft vibrations trembling through the clothes Daeron had lent you. The joggers, soft black cotton lined with fleece, had a purple falling star painted onto the outer leg. You could see the brushstrokes of lilac paint, where the fibre strands of the brush had strayed, and immediately could begin to imagine Daeron painting the star himself. You didn't allow yourself to continue thinking about the image; no, you didn't want to think about any of the Targaryens in such a light, perfectly human and domestic, which was unfortunately becoming harder when the youngest of the Targaryen's seemed to be insistent on keeping your attention captive.
Yet it did not take long for this image to dissipate, a gruff voice cutting through the younger Targaryen's rambling
"What the fuck are you two doing?" Aerion called out, struggling to sit up as he glared at his younger siblings, his eyes narrowing as he scowled at them. His voice was heavy with sleep, exhaustion weighing on each word, his lips curling into a harsh snarl. Aegon immediately quieted, yet his glare rivalled Aerion's, the very same disdain lacing his gaze. But Rhae did not rein in her annoyance.
"Go away, Aerion." She replied haughtily, pouting as she turned her back to her older brother.
"It's my room—"
"Go away." She repeated, not bothering to listen to his voice.
Aerion's scowl twitched, his irritation deepening as his gaze flickered between you and his siblings. He wanted to get up, to hit them across the heads and force them out of his room — how dare they just sit there, Aegon glaring at him, Rhae being an overall nuisance, both of them just stealing away your attention.
"Get out of my room." Aerion gritted out, pain prickling along the edges of his mind as he felt his vision begin to swim once more. Seven fucking hells, why was everything still so painful? What was the point of you if you couldn't even get rid of his pain? "Get out!"
The words came out as a bark as he threw a pillow at his younger siblings. He missed, yet it appeared his failure did not matter as he swiftly received the result he desired, the two little Anvils quickly scattered, stealing Meraxes out of your lap as they abandoned you, rushing out of the room.
The door slammed shut. The door swung against the doorframe, clattering shakily as the vibrations seemed to travel into the walls. The sound was deafening, and you instinctively flinched at it, your ears aching from the way it seemed to continue ringing in your mind.
"That was childish." You accused, raising from your seated position so that you could hover near his bed, staring down at him.
He adjusted the way he was sat, head tilting to meet your gaze, scowl fading. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze tracing your features once more as if wanting to remember you from this angle.
"They are children." He responded as if that had explained everything, voice lower — softer than it had been when he was addressing his own blood.
"Not them." You quickly corrected, your hands messing with the thermometer as you began to take his vitals once more. "You. You are acting childishly."
He opened his mouth, prepared to deliver a swift retort to your criticisms, only for the words to die on his tongue as you shoved the thermometer into his maw. Aerion could only roll his eyes at your actions, yet he did not fight them, instead allowing you to fuss about him, collecting vital after vital, scribbling each piece of information into that damned notebook of yours.
You finally removed the thermometer, cleaning it as you placed it upon the table.
"Of course you would take their side." He grumbled, refusing to meet your eyes as he looked away from you, resembling a petulant child rather than the Brightfire he had been monikered by the tabloids. Gods, he was even pouting. "Everyone always takes their side. Uncle, father—"
"Because you're an adult, Aerion." You interrupted, keeping your tone saccharine as you forced a smile. "You can't seriously believe that anyone would think you've been wronged in this situation, so suck it up."
"Suck it up?" He repeated incredulously, a sharp laugh exhaling from his lungs as his head snapped towards you, pale brows furrowing. "You know you're here to take care of me, right? So stop defending those demons."
You bit your tongue, trying to resist the urge to smother him with the very pillow he had thrown at the alleged demons. Don't correct him, don't correct—
"I'm not here willingly." You reminded him (against your better judgement, despite the more logical part of your brain pleading with you not to), watching as the frown deepened on his face as he noticed your sharp tone. Yet you didn't care, and as soon as you began, the words wouldn't stop. Any attempt to be civil and calm immediately failing as every grievance that had haunted you the past 24 hours began spilling out from between your lips. "I'm not a doctor. I'm not a nurse, I don't take human patients. I did nothing to deserve being here, yet you all are just so content being so dense. And truthfully Aerion, I don't give a singular shit about you."
Aerion just stared at you, watching as you glared back at him so prettily, your attention solely focused upon him. A shame, he quite liked seeing you in such a state, frustrated and bothered.
You waited for some sort of response, for him to remind you the difference between you both — that he was from the top of Aegon's hill and you were from the bottom, that his blood ran blue and had history, while yours carried nothing. That you were just a nobody from nowhere while he was a son of the Blood. Yet you received nothing. Just his quiet attention as he watched you, amused.
But then his gaze flickered. Lifting slightly, away from your face to something behind you.
"Bit fucking dramatic." A familiar voice remarked, and your whole body immediately stilled at the sound of Maekar's grumbling voice. You hated the fact that you could recognise it, that your brain immediately identified the source of the deep vocals. You should never be so accustomed to any of the Targaryens, but now you were able to distinguish them from voice alone.
Shit. Fucking shit — of course this was the moment they would walk in. You had been so good this entire time, you had controlled your emotions so well that it had actually begun to disturb you, yet the one moment you failed it just had to be witnessed by them.
It didn't matter if every word you uttered was the truth, if the words had been running rampant within your mind ever since they had taken you from your home — it simply didn't matter. They would see your words as a deliberate provocation, use them against you. You had already exposed your true thoughts, had exposed how genuinely felt. Any attempt to be civil would be seen as it unequivocally was. A lie.
"You think that's dramatic?" You questioned, not fully turning as the words gritted out from between your teeth. The words tasted bitter on your tongue as you tried to steady your breathing, becoming all too aware of how rapid your pulse was, how you could feel your heart clattering against your ribs.
You could hear shuffling behind you, the rustling of clothes slowly approaching — closer and closer until you could see the two figures beside you from your peripheral.
You bit the inside of your cheek, of course Baelor was here also. Of course he too had to witness your inability to control yourself. Recently it seemed as though each interaction involved you acting upon your emotions, being unrestrained due to the circumstances he had forced upon you.
You tried to ignore that fact, instead directing your attention to focus on your breathing. Inhale, hold, exhale. You focused on the feeling of your lungs filling, the contraction of your diaphragm, how your chest raised due to the movement of your ribcage. You steeled yourself. You couldn't them see the chinks in your armour.
Maekar huffed out a dry laugh at your response, rounding the bed so that he could lounge in the seat that you had previously spent the majority of your time curled up upon. He looked strange on the chair, his body seeming to cover the back of it entirely, legs spread leasuirely as he leant back, eyeing you lazily.
"Do not antagonise her, Maekar." Baelor reprimanded, his tone warning. Yet despite the fact that he was speaking up for you, that you could argue that he was defending you, he only served to further your anger. It felt condescending — for him, out of all people, to be the individual to validate your emotions, to give you permission to experience your annoyance, only angered you more. "She has taken good care of your son."
You nod your head slowly, your gaze darting between all three Targaryens, only to find them all already staring at you. Dragons watching their prey, a voice mocked within your mind, and you tried to ignore it as you began to force a soft smile on your face, praying that it didn't appear as strained as it felt.
And just as you had done with Dunk, you softened yourself once more.
Keeping your tone even, smoothing the harsh edges of your words as you restrained yourself, keeping the insults and jabs captive within your mind, ensuring that you would not slip up again. You even controlled your face, forcing yourself to not expose the disdain that festered within you, keeping your expression consistent — a gentle smile, watching Baelor through your lashes.
You could almost hear Rowan's voice within your mind egging you on. He's just a man. And all men were weak. Yet despite that, you felt like a complete fool right now.
"He had a bit of a fever during the morning." You began, keeping your eyes fixed on his, your gaze flickering between the two contrasting hues of his irises. Violet and brown. You suppressed the urge to fidget, to busy your hands with the notebook within your grasp, to flick through the pages under the guise of appearing busy — but no, you wouldn't lose the staring match that you had unknowingly began.
Gods, it really did feel as if he was trying to search your soul, as if his unwavering gaze would allow him access to each and every thought that drifted through your mind.
"Fever?" Maekar immediately interrupted, his voice harsh and interrogating and your head immediately turned at the sudden sound. Fuck. You lost.
Your smile was tighter, trying not to frown at the stupid disappointment you were feeling as you responded. "It's normal after surgery, and due to the nature of his, it should almost be expected. But he is entirely coherent, he's had a dose of antibiotics, should continue fluids, keep his wound clean and…" You made a vague gesture, your eyes betraying you once more as they dipped down to Aerion who was being strangely quiet. You had hoped he had drifted back into unconsciousness, that the conversation had begun to bore him and he had surrendered to the temptation of sleep once more, only to be disappointed to find the silver-haired Targaryen staring back appearing far too entertained witnessing you trying to be civil. "—And he'll be fine."
You forced your gaze away from Aerion, returning to Baelor. The brunet Targaryen did not respond to your words immediately, just watching you with an undecipherable emotion flashing across his face. Silence settled for a moment, and you couldn't ignore the awkwardness of the situation.
Just moments prior you were preaching about your unwillingness of being apart of this situation, that you were not qualified for these circumstances, and yet now here you were, providing a patient report to your captors. No wonder Aerion seemed so amused.
"Okay." Baelor finally replied, disrupting the quietness that had began to terrorise the room, his soft-spoken voice filling the air.
You blinked. Was that all he had to say?
"Okay?" You repeated, slightly incredulous by the lack of response. You had almost expected an interrogation, for them to deliver a barrage of questions of how Aerion could have gotten the fever, of what evidence you had to support such a claim, yet no — they did not even ask about the antibiotics you were giving him.
Your gaze darted to Maekar, expecting for the brooding blond to provide the resistance you were almost hoping for. And even then, he simply just stared back.
"If you are saying he will be fine, I believe you. I see no reason to doubt you." Baelor continued, noticing the confusion that began to seep onto your features, the way your smile had faltered for a moment, the way your brows had almost began to furrow before you began to control them again.
His response only confused you further. If anything, he had every reason to doubt you — but you didn't want to focus on that.
"Well, um." Your voice came out slow, forcing yourself to speak with the little courage you had left, trying to stall as you thought about your next words. "In these sort of situations, where there's concern about how the patient is faring, especially with such an injury, and especially due to the circumstances of—"
Maekar's voice cut through your rambling.
"Spit it out, Doc." His tone was mocking, and when your gaze returned to him, you caught the full force of the scowl he directed to your direction. He had already become bored. You had not even slept in 24 hours, spending that time caring over his cunt of a son, recording each one of his vitals over and over, yet he had the audacity to become bored while you were speaking.
"Ignore him." Baelor interrupted, directing a disappointed look towards his younger brother. "Continue."
Do not react. You forced yourself to ignore the anger that flared at Maekar's grating behaviour and Baelor's false generosity. Continue, as if he were granting you permission, how very gracious of him.
You bit your tongue, the pain that danced along the muscle grounding you as you refrained yourself from spiralling further.
"As I was saying." You continued, keeping your tone steady, yet you could hear it shake slightly. No matter how carefully chosen your words were, no matter how you deliberated over the very manner in which you voiced them, you knew that they could tell that you were furious. That your anger was evident regardless of how successfully you tried concealing it. It was impossible to censor such an emotion, to try to blur its fangs and claws while you tried kidding yourself in refusing its presence. "In situations like this, the first 24 hours are the most important as they are the most dangerous, meaning that they require the majority of the monitoring. And they've now passed, and his fever is subsiding so I believe Aerion will be fine onwards."
"That is good news."
Motherfucker, was Baelor purposefully being dense or could he truly not tell what you were hinting at.
"It is." You confirmed, repeating the same sentiment of your sentence prior. "So he doesn't need any further monitoring."
Yet once more your words did not receive the reaction you were hoping for, the brunet Targaryen simply nodding at you. But there was a flicker of emotion across Baelor's face, an annoyance that confirmed that no, he was not stupid, he knew exactly what you were suggesting yet he refused to acknowledge the concept.
So you would simply have to force his hand.
You continued, unrelenting. "Meaning that there is no reason for me to be here." No one spoke — there was no reaction to your words, it was as if you had stated something as mundane as the weather rather than suggesting that they release their captive. So you rephrased your words, ensuring that the intention behind them was glaringly evident. "I can leave now."
You received one syllable as a response.
"No." Baelor simply stated, not bothering to provide you with any explanation.
You stared at Baelor as if the refusal had been delivered in High Valyrian rather than the Common Tongue. No. How succinctly he denied you.
The word threatened to shatter any restraint you had, but no, you couldn't be weak — you couldn't just succumb to the fury that had been slowly building within you. You had to be reasonable, you had to think.
Your grip on the notebook tightened slightly, feeling the edge of the cover dig into the soft of your palm before you forced your hand to relax again.
"I understand that you might be nervous." You replied, your tone resembling the one you would use on the nervous pet owners that would visit your practice. Except with your clients it was genuine, it did not have to feign sympathy like it did now. "But I will just be one call away if you have any questions or need anything—"
Baelor uttered your name in the same disappointed tone he had directed toward his younger brother moments prior. "You're not leaving."
This was nonsensical. What exactly was their great plan? There was truly no logical reason for you to remain.
You forced your tone to be light, to be softer, to not allow him to twist the situation to make you into the hysterical one. "Baelor, come on. You know I can't just stay here. I have responsibilities, a life, I can't just leave everything to be here. I need to return to them."
"Doc, do you not understand?" Maekar finally snapped, becoming annoyed of how gently his brother was treating you. You were getting on his final nerves. "You're not fucking leaving, so drop it."
You found yourself unable to respond, tear pricking at your waterline as you just glared at the flying dragons carved into Aerion's bedpost. Fuck, you couldn't start crying. Not now, not when they were staring you.
You couldn't cry, you couldn't speak. you couldn't be angry, you couldn't leave.
You couldn't, you couldn't, you couldn't.
Yet despite the way you tried forcing yourself to rein in your emotions, it proved to be a difficult task as you felt your jaw begin to tremble, vision blurring.
You could hear their voice continue filling the air, speaking over you as if you were just another piece of furniture. You couldn't focus on the actual words being uttered, yet you still knew they weren't directed towards you.
You flinched as you felt Baelor's hand touch you, gently rubbing your arm in a soothing gesture that made you want to slam the notebook into his face, to cause his nose to become broken one more time.
You didn't look at him, not even when his words were now directed towards you.
"Come on." He muttered gently, his hand travelling to the small of your back as he tried to encourage you to move, to yield to his touch and allow him to manipulate your body so you would follow him. Yet it simply felt like the warmth of his hand was searing your flesh through the soft cotton, the skin sparking. "You should go eat, everyone is waiting."
You refused to move, firm in your stance, unwilling to be pushed about as if you were just another possession.
"No, I'm fine. I think I should keep watching Aerion."
"That wasn't a request." Maekar grumbled, dragging his body out of the seat. He didn't spare you another glance as he left, disappearing through the doorway.
You didn't want to follow, but you knew he was telling the truth.
Baelor's hand remained there and you could feel the weight of his gaze as he tilted his head down slightly, trying to catch your eyes.
"You did say he was fine." Baelor remarked, and your brows furrowed at his words — he was already using what you had said against you. But it was only when your gaze met his did you see the soft smile that played on his lips and crinkled the corner of his eyes, deepening the crows feet. He was teasing you.
You couldn't return his smile. Not when your eyes were still stinging with unshed tears, not when your mind was running rampant with thoughts of how they weren't letting you leave.
But regardless, you let him guide you out of Aerion's room, his hand staying on your back despite the fact that you both knew it didn't need to be there. It wasn't like you were going to run.
It only dropped once you entered the kitchen once more, the smell of onions and garlic frying immediately hitting you.
It appeared they did know how to use the sterile kitchen; Maekar was in the centre of everything, the pristine sleeves of his button up had been rolled up to the elbows exposing pale skin littered with fine silver hair and evident veins. He was cutting something, a large wooden chopping board before him. The rhythmic sound of metal crunching through the vegetables before him, scrapping against the grain of the board with a knife that appeared too large to be used to cut salad.
Valarr was just behind him, manning the stove as he flipped sirloins on a large cast-iron skillet causing the harsh sizzle of meat searing against hot steel, oil spitting. He, like his father and uncle, was dressed in a manner more appropriate for a high-end business deal rather than flipping steaks.
From this distance you could see the silver-gold streak of hair that strikingly clashed against the soft brown, appearing like lightning. If you didn't know his lineage, you might have assumed it was dyed, that it was the result of a cocktail of chemicals and bleach rather than the blood of Old Valyria. But unfortunately for you, it was the latter, the flash of violet from one of his eyes confirming the forlorn reality as he turned to look at his father, his gaze straying to you for a moment before drifting over as if you were simply another faceless irritant.
You were simply surrounded by dragons.
You found it slightly strange. For individuals as stupendously wealthy as the Targaryens, it was strange to see them performing such domestic menial chores. How could they not have employed staff? You hadn't really thought about it early, yet Daeron giving you breakfast should have been a slight hint that something strange was occurring. But now with the sight of Maekar and Valarr cooking dinner, it just confirmed that something was amiss.
Even new-money families like the Hardyngs had personal chefs and maids, so you found it impossible to believe that the Targaryens cooked their own meals.
Another unwanted hand grabbed for you. Rhae. She was tugging at your hand, dragging you deeper through the kitchen until you reached another doorframe, abandoning it for another room. She was excitedly chattering at you the entire time, not noticing that you were now quiet, that you were finding it difficult to reciprocate her energy.
The other room she had dragged you into, which you had quickly concluded was the dining room, was simply another quintessentially Targaryen thing. It boasted obscene wealth; the room was stupidly ostentatious, large to the point that it bordered on excess, with a chandelier that you unfortunately had to admit was gorgeous, with small rainbows reflecting off its pristine crystals. The patrons of the rooms were the youngest of the Targaryen children, Daella and Aemon were already seated, already deeply engrossed within a conversation that you could only pick up snippets from but immediately you already knew what they were talking about.
The way they whispered Blackfyre was all you needed to know, and it successfully dissuaded you from even wanting to listen in.
There was another boy within the room, one that you did not immediately recognise. He was setting the table alongside Aegon, with a stack of porcelain plates that made you feel nervous as you watched him carelessly place them onto the table. Aegon was making you equally apprehensive as you observed the way he slid glasses across the table as if he were playing a game. With fiery red hair that curled at the nape of his neck and features that were softer than anyone else within this room, you found yourself unable to assign him with a name. It was only because of his dark violet eyes were you able to discern the fact that he was in fact one of the Targaryens.
With the rest of the Targaryens, you had been able to piece their identities together through the wealth of knowledge that had been collated on the internet. From a glance you were able to discern who Valarr was, who Daeron was, and even who Aerion was despite the fact that your first encounter with the silver-haired Targaryen involved him appearing blood-streaked with a gaping abdominal injury — there was a vast collection of images of the adult Targaryens, varying from discrete paparazzi shots to professional red carpet advents.
Yet the younger Targaryens' identities proved difficult to distinguish. For the youngest of Maekar's children, they had to identify themselves to you (although admittedly you had to mainly connect the pieces through context clues and hints provided through conversation). And once more the boy in front of you, who you estimated to be older than Aemon, was unfortunately nameless.
Until you paid more attention, until you looked just a fraction closer to discover that no, not both of his irises were purple. You had only been able to notice when he finally looked in your direction, the light hitting his irises differently, exposing that one was dark violet, the other warm brown.
He must be Baelor's son.
Yet despite this hint, you still had no name for the teenager. The Targaryens were good at shielding their young ones, ensuring that they were not exposed to the public eye from a young age. And you suspected that even if any information about these children was ever revealed online, it would be swiftly dealt with. It was clear that they had the resources to collect information on whichever individual they wished to learn about, information that was difficult to access, what would stop them from erasing information as well?
It took a moment before the boy began grinning at you, already far more receptive to you than his brother (or perhaps you should say alleged brother, his relation to the Targaryens that had taken you was still a mystery).
"You must be the doctor taking care of Aerion." He commented, watching with keen eyes as you approached the table, seating yourself beside Rhae. There was no hint of question in his tone, he wasn't asking you, but rather just restating facts that he had heard. "Must be so fun."
His words were heavily laced with sarcasm, and he didn't hide the way his grin widened at your lack of response that simply confirmed the sentiment of what he said.
Aegon joined in, his nose scrunching up in disgust as he slid another cup, the glass clinking against the ceramic of the plate, making you cringe. "I wouldn't do it for any price, Matarys. I think I'd die first."
You frowned slightly at his words — that was a harsh sentence, especially for a nine year old to say. You had noticed some hostility before, the way Aegon glared at his brother, the fact that he did not seem to care about the fact that Aerion had been seriously injured. Yet to hear the young Targaryen exclaim it so openly despite the fact that it exposed his aversion to his older brother made you strangely pity the young boy.
Tabloid articles often recounted how vile Brightflame was in public, how he was cruel and an utter cunt, how he would resort to violence and how he would silence people with his daddy's money. If that was how he acted in public with all to see, you couldn't help but wonder how he would act in the privacy of his own home.
So you replied with your own snide remark, offering Egg a soft smile.
"I wouldn't do it for any price either." You teased, watching as the repulsion began to fade from his features. The words were horrifically true — you weren't doing this for any reward, you were quite literally being forced into it. Yet that little fact did not seem to register in Egg's mind (for the better perhaps), as he began to grin at you also.
"Not even for a million dragon notes?" The red-headed boy, who had been exposed as Matarys by his cousin, goaded, his gaze flickering between you and the bald headed boy. You hesitated for a moment (that was a lot of money), but before you could even begin to weigh your decision, Egg gave his answer swiftly.
"Not even if it brought the dragons back." He declared, watching in triumph at the way the young Targaryens gasped at his answer.
"Not even for the dragons, Egg?" Daella's tone was interrogative, holding a hint of disbelied at the way her brother at so quickly renounced bringing back the very creatures that had once brought them to greatness if it simply meant not having to care for Aerion.
Egg hastily nodded, ensuring that no one could mistake a delayed answer for hesitancy.
"I said what I said." He confirmed, sitting across from you once the last glass had been placed.
"What did you say?" Daeron's voice interrupted as he slunk into the room, somehow appearing far more dishevelled than he did in the morning. He really did look like shit (not that you could speak, you were still in the exact same shirt you had been taken in and at this point you were desperate for a shower), dressed in an oversized shirt with the words 'it's ok i'm batman' painted on in a scrawling script. The heavy scent of cigarette smoke seemed to envelop him, the smell almost suffocating.
Fuck. What you wouldn't do for a cigarette. You hadn't smoked since university, but gods, the way you immediately started craving that nicotine hit as soon as you smelt that stale scent of burned paper and something chemically unique to the way burned tobacco clinged to the fibres of your clothes.
Egg began to present Daeron with the same dilemma, only for him to be cut off by his older sister. Daella frowned at Daeron, the full force of the disappointment of a teenage girl hitting him as she interrupted Egg.
"You do know Dad hates it when you smoke, right?" She
"He hates it when I do anything, I'm pretty sure one cigarette won't kill him." He sarcastically replied, offering her a bright grin as he settled down beside her. She rolled her eyes at him.
"It'll kill you. Hope it does it fast." She grumbled, turning away from her older brother.
There was a certain awkwardness that fell over the room after that, the kind that didn't fade even when conversation began once more. Perhaps it was because Daella addressed something that everyone noticed, or maybe it was because she cared enough to comment on it. Yet she didn't push the issue. She left it there, half-addressed dangling in the air making it impossible to deny the fact that you had in fact seen it.
You quickly concluded that that was simply the Targaryen way of dealing with issues; acknowledge it to prove that you are not stupid, but to not truly handle it. It was evident in the way that they were discussing your kidnapping because they were willing to admit your circumstance that yes, you were kidnapped yet it appeared the conversation stalled there. Baelor appeared agitated that you even reminded him of the fact, Maekar seemed angered that you wasted his time by talking about something you had no control over — it was half-addressed.
Maybe you needed something stronger than a cigarette.
You were almost thankful for the reappearance of the three missing Targaryens, until you realised that their presence simply meant more stilted conversation. Marvellous.
You weren't one to complain about food, the Seven know that you are no chef by any means, normally living off discounted meal deals from whichever supermarket crossed your path (which tended to be The Crownland's Convenience), yet as you tried to chew through tough piece of steak you had struggled to slice your knife through, you quickly realised that neither were the Targaryens.
You stole a quick look at Daeron, relieved to find that he was struggling with the exact same dilemma. In fact, it appeared as if nearly everyone was, as throughout the enitre meal nobody dared speak (most likely trying to conserve energy towards the mountanous task that was simply chwing the overcooked steak).
It was dramatic to admit but you mourned the steak on your plate, the poor cow that had been slain only to end up on the hands of Valarr Targaryen who (allegedly) did not know how to use seasoning (he was more Dornish that Targaryen, for Seven Sake, he should have at least known how to appropriately add salt). You spent most of your time chewing the steak, you couldn't even call it well-done at this point, it was something beyond that, and the rest of your time picking at the salad that was provided.
You suppose the meal suited the kitchen it was made in afterall, such a clinical kitchen would yield such meals. The meal before you appeared like a nutrition diagram, as if a person had researched what the contents of a dinnerplate such include and had replicated to such accuracy that the meal had the taste of printer paper and black ink. It was mainly leafy greens accompanied with thinly sliced bell peppers and red onions, and next to that was what you suspected was the designated carbohydrate, a small pile of mashed potatoes. And then, of course, the pièce de résistance — the steak. You suppose your initial assumption of the kitchen being unused was true — no one in this family could cook.
From your peripheral, you could see Egg pushing the food around his plate, trying to make it appear as if he had eaten more than he had.
"Aegon." Maekar warningly called out. "Finish your food."
The boy immediately began to pout.
"But—" Egg began, prepared to counter his father's demand. But this attempt was quickly stopped, Maekar swiftly interrupting him.
"I don't care, you're going to eat everything on your plate."
You couldn't help but notice that despite the fact that Maekar demanded this of Egg, it appeared he was not taking his own advice. It seemed the older man was more content in drinking the Dornish Red in his wineglass than finishing his own meal.
"You should lead by example." You commented, and as soon as the words left your lips, you began to regret them. Maekar's head turned slowly, narrowed eyes finding yours as he glared at you. And despite the urge to look away beginning to intensify, you steeled yourself, matching his glare with your own as you gestured towards his plate.
The grip around the stem of his wineglass seemed to tighten, and you could see him begin to conjure up a retort which you were sure would have insulted your ego if he had been successful in executing the act of saying it aloud, but unfortunately for the older Targaryen, he was interrupted by his brother.
"Maybe you should eat up, Maekar. Wouldn't want your food to go to waste." Baelor interjected, tone slightly teasing yet you could see the way he shot Maekar a look, a silent conversation being shared through those glances that caused Maekar to roll his eyes and remain silent, instead choosing to take a lengthy sip of his Dornish Red.
You didn't bother speaking for the rest of the meal, only replying to the younger Targaryens who began to hit you with a barrage of questions about Meraxes, and kittens, and animals in general.
Yet despite this, you couldn't quite distract yourself from the heavy weight of Baelor's stare. He didn't bother interacting with you either, seemingly more comfortable to observe the manner in which you spoke to the children that surrounded you.
You quickly decided that out of the two of his only children, you much preferred Matarys. The red-headed boy was far more sociable than his older brother, who appeared to be too busy analysing you rather than speaking to you. It felt as if Valarr was observing each and every one of your actions, dissecting them in his mind so that he could discover their true intentions.
Perhaps he was more cautious around you because he knew the true nature of your arrival, he had witnessed it afterall. The other children had all simply received second-hand recounts of what had occurred.
They hadn't witnessed the way you were thrown into the van like cargo, the way you had panicked when you realised what was happening. They hadn't seen the way Baelor seemed almost reckless in his actions.
Valarr had never seen his father act so carelessly, and for what? For a vet who hardly seemed qualified to care for Aerion? Valarr couldn't understand why they would undertake such a risk — he was certain there were one hundred alternate ways to deal with the situation, all that were far better than the one his father chose. He also knew that his father knew that.
Yet he still couldn't figure it out.
You weren't exactly marvelous, and it didn't seem like they had such significant information against you except what Bloodraven had delivered. So Valarr could not even come to a reasonable conclusion. Except one.
That his father wasn't acting reasonably. And Valarr was unsure if he wanted to know what might cause his father to act unreasonably.
Yet despite this, he couldn't help but look at you, bi-coloured eyes searching for something that he was unsure what it exactly was. He just knew that there must be a flaw that he would find.
But for now all he was receiving was your awkwardness as you stole glances at him to confirm whether or not he was still staring. And shit, he was still staring. Did he truly have nothing better to do?
As soon as you saw Daella leave the table, you copied her, taking your plate to the kitchen. Which, again, you were unsure why you were acting like a guest when they had made it glaringly obvious that you weren't a guest.
A guest could choose when they wanted to leave.
Your gaze latched onto the open glass french doors, staring through the ongoing void. The sun had long settled below the horizon, the sky now an inky black abyss that stared back.
It felt mocking. To see the doors wide open, nothing restricting you from leaving. And even while you walked through those doors, the chill of the night nipping at the exposed skin of your face, cheeks beginning to feel numb, the only thought that ran through your mind was that you could run. That there was nothing stopping you from darting through the courtyard, disappearing into the treeline.
No one would see you, no one would notice until it was too late.
But run where? You hardly even knew where you were; you knew you weren't in King's Landing anymore, and that was it.
You flinched at a noise behind you — it was muffled, the sound of metal scraping along metal. Your head snapped towards the source, only to find Daeron standing there, slouched against the wall, already watching you.
"Are you leaving?" He questioned, a cigarette trapped between his lips, the tip of it an angry red glare.
"No." Your voice sounded weak, and the way he stared at you revealed that he wasn't entirely convinced either.
"You thinking about it?"
Your gaze flickered down to his outstretched hand, looking at the cigarette balanced between his index and middle finger. You accepted his offering.
"Of course I am." You replied, bringing the cigarette up to your lips, drawing the smoke into your mouth before inhaling deeply feeling the way it made your lungs burn. You blew out the smoke, watching the pale tendrils twirl in the air, the sharp scent of burning paper filling the air.
He didn't reply, instead he just stole the cigarette out of your grasp and mirrored your actions, his focus stuck on you as he gauged your reaction. You didn't mind the way he was staring, it didn't feel as intrusive as the others, it didn't feel as if he was searching for something he was not privy to.
You remained with him in silence, listening to the rustles of night and watching the way the swirling smoke danced.
♤♡◇♧
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