✸ WELCOME TO THE TARGARYENS VI — modern!targaryen au
summary. you return to King’s Landing and the aftermath of everything finally unfolds.
warnings. hospital setting
note. wow. I can’t believe I’ve actually gotten to this part of the fic, I will leave a longer note above this post later but for now I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed creating this fic🤍
previous part. series masterlist.
The cab ride from the airport to the hospital was tense in a way that a wire pulled too tight is tense. And at the moment you were that wire — threatening to tear and cause absolute disaster.
From the very minute you had received Daeron’s message, it was as if your organism had forgotten the proper order of things. The basic functions of your body suddenly became irregulated — your breathing felt too shallow, your thoughts ran ahead of themselves and you were rigid with tension. Every second stretched and collapsed all at once.
You hadn’t slept in over twenty–four hours. Your eyelids were yearning for rest but at the same time they refused to shut. Your mascara was smudged and you couldn't help the yawn that escaped you every thirty seconds. Your body simply refused to calm down.
Not since hearing about Baelor’s accident.
The city outside the cab window blurred past in smudges of grey stone and budding green trees, but you barely registered any of it. King's Landing felt both foreign and familiar now that you were back.
You still felt the cups of sour airport coffee sitting in the pit of your stomach as your leg nervously bounced up and down. The driver glanced at you once through the rearview mirror, furrowed his brow, before deciding it was better not to say anything.
Your luggage sat in the trunk like the remains of a small disaster. Clothes had been shoved into the suitcase in a hurry — linen dresses crumpled, blouses half–folded, a silk scarf caught in the zipper. At security you had nearly forgotten to remove your jewelry entirely. The guard had to remind you twice.
You had apologized three times, and all the while you had been shaking. Even now your fingers trembled faintly in your lap.
You couldn't stop thinking about Baelor.. You didn't know him very well — but you knew he was the heir to the Targaryen dynasty and such a horrendous accident would cause absolute chaos if any serious harm came to him. Your stomach flipped at the thought.
And not to mention he had been so incredibly kind to you that one night he took you home. He was polite and understanding and he carried himself with a grace few possessed. He was a good man, he did not deserve anything bad to come his way.
The moment Daeron texted you, you had immediately written to Kiera. Hoping to strangle some information out of her. You knew it must be terribly painful for Valarr at the moment.
What are the doctors saying?
Who is taking care of him?
Her replies had come slowly, cautiously, like she was measuring every word before sending the message. What she told you was —
Aerion had gotten into an incredibly ugly fight in some club in the city, of which the details she had spared you.
A very bad one apparently and Maekar had gone to retrieve him.
Except Baelor had been notified as well — and of course he had gone too. As he always did. You thought back to the time Maekar stumbled into the house with a drunk Daeron and Baelor followed them, making sure everything was fine. Always the one to fix things, to smooth the damage his nephews left behind and to tame his brother's fury.
On the way there a drunk driver had crashed into him. A frontal crash. A nasty accident.
Kiera hadn’t given the details. But Daeron had told you enough.
He was in a coma at the moment and no one was certain when he would wake — that is if he would even wake up at all.
The thoughts had settled into your chest like something cold and heavy. A ticking time bomb. Nothing about a coma was good. At least he was alive — yet it was of little comfort.
Since then a quiet dread had taken root inside you. It lived somewhere beneath your ribs, pulsing with every heartbeat. Everyone you spoke to seemed careful — too careful. Their voices calm, measured. Controlled.
As if they were trying to keep the situation contained, wrapped in a neat layer of composure. But you could feel the truth beneath it.
Baelor Targaryen was fighting for his life and all any of you could do was sit around in hallways and wait for doctors to say words that would change everything.
Helpless didn’t even begin to describe it.
What frightened you almost as much was not knowing what state the others were in.
Was Maekar pacing somewhere, furious with himself? Blaming himself for all of this?
Was Aerion bloodied and bruised after the fight? Was he also laying in a hospital bed?
Was Daeron drinking himself numb somewhere in the city?
Had the girls been sent to someone else's house?
Your thoughts circled endlessly.
But most of all you thought about Aegon.
The boy’s face kept appearing in your mind. His wide violet eyes filled with fear. The way he clung to you that day when you found him in the park.
You had demanded both Kiera and Daeron tell you where he was. Who was with him and if anyone was looking after him.
Their answers had been infuriatingly vague.
Not until you saw him yourself.
The cab stopped outside your apartment first, only long enough for you to hop out and shove your luggage inside and grab a clean cardigan. You didn’t even change clothes and you almost forgot to lock the door to your aparment on your way down.
Then straight to the private hospital where Baelor had been taken. Kiera had texted you the location-
As the cab pulled up you noteed it was nothing like the massive medical center in King’s Landing. This building was quieter, much more subtle, tucked behind tall iron gates and carefully manicured gardens.
It was painfully exclusive but more importantly secluded. The sort of place where powerful families waited out tragedies behind closed doors. Where no press and no media could feed off their sorrows.
The guards at the entrance looked skeptical when you hurried in. Your hair was wind–tangled from the flight. Your makeup slightly smudged. Your clothes unmistakably wrinkly and travel–worn.
You probably looked like you had just walked off a sleepless red–eye flight. Which, in truth, you had.
But after the glare you shot them they let you through.
The air outside still carried that early spring warmth unique to King’s Landing. Not the dry golden heat of Dorne you had learnt to expect in the last few weeks and not the scent of dust and citrus groves. Here the warmth smelled of flowers and damp stone.
The hospital halls were quiet. The usual sterile lights didn't feel as intruding as they usually would.
The lady at the reception had asked you for your information and id, but after you had told her you were Daeron Targaryen's girlfriend (just to avoid all the trouble) she had nodded skeptically and pointed you towards the waiting room the Targaryens were seated in. She demanded two guards accompany you in case you were lying but halfway throught the hallway you had convinced them to let you go on alone.
The polished floors gleamed under the soft lights and your footsteps echoed faintly as you rushed through the corridors, chest aching from how fast you were walking.
Sunlight filtered through tall windows. Outside,the green trees rustled gently in the breeze. It was around ten in the morning. A beautiful day.
The only thing ruining that thought was that somewhere in this building Baelor Targaryen lay unconscious, suspended in the fragile space between life and death. Fighting for another moment on this planet.
Your heart hammered in your ears as you turned the final corner.
You were scanning for something, anything, a familiar face a—
White hair. That unmistakable pale silver. And then you saw them.
The waiting room looked less like a hospital room and more like a quiet, luxurious living room.
Soft plush armchairs were strewn about. A polished coffee table. Muted beige walls.
And inside the Targaryens. Not all of them but… most of them.
Valarr sat on a couch beside Kiera. Their hands were intertwined, her fingers brushing slowly over the back of his hand in a steady, soothing rhythm. Valarr’s posture was rigid, shoulders tight, his expression hollow and sleepless. You noted Kiera’s hair was messy, strands falling loose around her face. Her brows were drawn together in quiet concern.
Next to them sat a boy you didn’t immediately recognize.
But you quickly placed him. Matarys. His chestnut hair — inherited from his late mother, Jena Dondarrion — fell across his forehead in soft disarray. Yet his face carried the unmistakable lines of Baelor. He looked as utterly defeated as his older brother.
Further across the room sat Daeron the Good. He was older now, his neatly cut silver hair framed a face lined with age and responsibility. He wore a navy button-up shirt tucked into matching trousers, his posture was straight, composed — though the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
Beside him sat his wife Myriah Martell. You recognized her immediately. Her tan Dornish skin contrasted softly with the pale colors of the room. Dark hair was gathered neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a beige wool sweater and matching trousers, her hand wrapped firmly around her husband’s.
Then there was Daeron. Your Daeron. He sat slightly apart from the others, shoulders slouched, gaze fixed somewhere distant.
He was disheveled and tired in that way you had come to recognize and appreciate.
The girls weren’t here, neither Daella nor Rhae. Neither was Aerion.
And finally, your eyes searched for him.
Maekar stood near the window with his back turned to the room. He was as tall and as rigid as ever. His hands were clasped behind him as he stared out at the trees beyond the glass.
You couldn’t see his face. You had no idea what storm was happening inside his head or behind his eyes.
The moment you stepped into the room Myriah’s brows knit together. She clearly did not recognize you.
For a split second you were certain she was going to call a guard. But before that could happen Kiera looked up and her eyes widened instantly. Relief flashed across her face like sudden sunlight.
Daeron turned too and he immediately stood, eyes wide with something dangerously close to relief.
And Maekar, Maekar slowly turned from the window.
Gods. He looked terrible.
There were deep shadows beneath his eyes, his expression sharp with exhaustion and something darker beneath it. But as his eyes recognized you his purple irises softened.
And before you could even speak a sudden blur of movement rushed toward you. You barely had time to brace yourself before a small body collided into your torso with surprising force.
You stumbled back a step as arms wrapped around you. Their grip was clutching and desperate and unwilling to let go.
He buried his face into your shirt, gripping you as if you might disappear into thin air if he held you any less tightly.
“Gods—” A breathless laugh escaped you. Relief flooded through your body so quickly it made your knees weak. Your hands immediately came up, cradling the back of his head. His pale hair was still growing back in soft, uneven strands.
You pressed a kiss to the top of his head, caressing him with such love. Your vision blurred slightly.
Your boy was here. In your arms. Safe.
“It’s alright, Egg…” you murmured softly.
The room had gone silent behind him. Everyone was watching you but you didn’t care.
Aegon finally lifted his head just enough to speak into the fabric of your shirt.
“Never ever leave again.”
Your chest tightened painfully. A pang of guilty moving through you.
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
His violet eyes were glossy with unshed tears — a strange mix of sorrow and overwhelming relief.
You brushed a thumb beneath one eye.
“Never,” you said quietly. “I promise.”
He sniffed, looking weary.
You held out your hand without hesitation.
His small finger hooked around yours and a weak smile appeared on the corners of his lips.
Only then did you notice Daeron approaching.
He looked exhausted too, hair as messy as ever, his shirt wrinkled — but he gave you a genuine smile of relief.
“Hey.” The crinkles around the corners of his eyes were undeniable.
“You look good,” he said gently.
You snorted quietly. You knew you looked horrible and all messy after so much rushing.
“Yeah. After all that travelling, I bet...”
He just shook his head and huffed out a chuckle, still not believing you were here in front of him.
Then suddenly you remembered where you were. Your eyes drifted toward Daeron the Good and Myriah standing just a few paces away.
“Oh—” You cleared your throat awkwardly. You should probably introduce yourself. Explain why you had intruded on this private family matter.
Daeron lifted a hand slightly, stopping you from murmuring any further.
The voice came from Myriah. Her Dornish accent wrapped around the words like you had come to recognize.
“Our boys… and girls,” she continued calmly, “have told us quite a lot about you.”
Daeron nodded beside her, a warmer look in his violet orbs.
Your hand drifted nervously to the back of your neck.
You scratched your hair awkwardly.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Daeron’s mouth and his wife chuckled. Your attempt at humor wasn't so horrible after all.
“They told us,” he said slowly, “that you are the greatest thing that has happened to our family since the defeat of the Blackfyre rebels.”
His face was slightly amused.
You blinked. Processing what he just meant with that.
Good enough — you decided.
Somewhere behind them, Maekar was still watching you. Utterly silent.
You inched forward. It was the instinct of someone who could not bear to simply stand still while the world was cracking open around them.
Your body wanted to do something — anything — yet your feet suddenly felt as though they had grown roots deep into the polished hospital tiles beneath you.
You swallowed. The quiet of the room pressed against your ears. Slowly and reluctantly, you let go of Aegon.
The boy’s hand lingered in the fabric of your cardigan, clutching the soft knit as if it were a lifeline. His fingers slipped free only when the stretch of the fabric forced them to, his wide violet eyes still locked onto you with a mixture of relief and confusion. He looked as though he might follow you again.
But Daeron had already crouched slightly beside him, resting a steady hand on his shoulder.
You took a breath. And stepped toward Maekar.
The distance between you wasn’t more than a few feet, yet it felt strangely enormous. As you approached, the room shifted in that quiet social choreography people perform when two individuals clearly need a private moment.
Valarr leaned toward Matarys and murmured something low. Kiera began asking him about something in a soft voice. Myriah and Daeron returned to their seats with the calm dignity of people who knew when to look away.
Daeron had bent slightly toward Aegon, pointing at something outside the window as if a bird had suddenly become fascinating.
No one looked at you Maekar stood there waiting.
For a moment neither of you spoke. Up close he looked worse than you had first realized.
The lines in his face had sharpened overnight. Dark shadows hollowed the space beneath his pale eyes, and the tension in his jaw was so pronounced it seemed almost painful.
His hair — normally so meticulously kept — had come slightly loose, pale strands pushed back unevenly where his fingers had clearly run through them again and again.
He looked like a man who had not slept. A man who had been holding himself together by sheer force of will.
The words came out stiff and formal. So unmistakably Maekar.
You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Not because it was funny, nothing about this moment was funny — but because beneath the rigid tone you could see it. The quiet unraveling of relief behind his eyes.
“You came,” he added more quietly.
You met his gaze steadily.
As if it had been the most obvious thing in the world. But the truth sat heavier than the simplicity of the words.
That one call still lingered on your phone like a shadow. Unanswered.
You had seen it after waking from a brief, restless ten–minute nap somewhere above the clouds during your flight. For a moment you had thought your sleep–fogged mind had conjured it up.
No message. No explanation.
To anyone else it might have meant nothing. But you knew him. You understood the language of the things he didn’t say. That call had been his version of a confession. His way of saying I need you.
Maekar exhaled slowly now, the breath leaving him like something he had been holding for far too long.
His hands clenched at his sides. For a split second you thought he was angry. But the longer you watched him the clearer it became.
It wasn’t anger. It was something far more complicated.
It was shame, relief and gratitude — all of it tangled together beneath the surface of a man who had never quite learned how to properly process or show any of those things.
He gave a small, tight nod.
But before he could say anything else arms suddenly wrapped around you from the side.
Their embrace was warm and familiar.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” she whispered into the crook of your nec as she embraced you in a near death grip. Her voice trembled slightly.
You turned into the hug immediately, your arms circling her waist as if anchoring yourself to something solid.
Her scent — soft perfume and the faint trace of her shampoo — filled your senses, and the familiarity of it made something deep in your chest finally loosen.
“So am I, Kie,” you murmured. Your voice came out more hoarse than you expected. “So am I.”
Kiera pulled back just enough to look at you. Her eyes were slightly red. She sniffed, letting out a small laugh through the last remnants of tears.
“I am never letting you go away again,” she said, half joking. “Ever.”
You nodded seriously. “Deal.”
She wiped quickly at her cheeks, trying to regain composure.
When you glanced up again, Maekar had already stepped away. He had retreated quietly across the room and now stood beside his parents, posture once again carefully controlled. The sight of it was oddly surreal.
Maekar — who carried himself like a soldier even among his family — looked subtly different standing near Daeron and Myriah.
Not smaller exactly. But… younger. More like a son than the imposing figure he usually was.
You leaned slightly closer to Kiera.
“How’s Valarr?” you whispered.
She glanced toward the couch where he still sat beside Matarys. Valarr’s posture was tense, shoulders slightly hunched forward, fingers laced together between his knees.
“Not great,” she admitted quietly.
“I mean… he’s worried sick.” Her voice softened.
The silence that followed lasted only a moment before another thought pressed forward. A more intruding and unwelcome one. “…and Aerion?”
Kiera blinked. The question clearly caught her off guard. But she answered regardless.
“Um… he’s in that room,” she said, tilting her head subtly toward a door at the corner of the waiting area.
“He’s fine. Just… pretty beat up.”
“I wish to see him.” The words came out louder than you intended.
Kiera immediately turned back toward you, her gaze unsure.
But before she could finish Daeron the Good spoke.
“If the young lady wishes it so.” His voice was calm, measured. He inclined his head slightly toward you in permission.
You met his gaze gratefully and then you walked toward the door.
As you passed the others, you felt several pairs of eyes follow you. Aegon’s confused frown and Daeron’s uncertain look all but pierced through you. But you kept walking.
The room beyond was quiet.
It looked much like the rest of the hospital — soft lighting, clean walls, polished floors — though here machines hummed quietly and medical equipment lined the walls.
A hospital bed sat in the center. And in it lay Aerion.
Your breath caught slightly. He looked terrible.
One of his eyes was swollen shut, the skin around it bruised in deep shades of purple and blue. His lip was split and stitched, the thin thread stark against pale skin. There were nasty cuts along his cheekbone. A bandage wrapped loosely around his ribs beneath the hospital gown.
You couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of fight had led to this. You stepped closer, careful not to disturb him.
The machine beside the bed emitted a steady rhythmic beep.
He appeared to be asleep or unconscious. You couldn't be entirely sure.
Up close the sharp arrogance usually carved into his features had vanished completely. Like this, lying still beneath sterile hospital light, he looked strangely young. Almost harmless or boyish one could say.
Your throat tightened. “You idiot,” you murmured quietly.
The words carried no real anger. More a weary reprimand. A quiet frustration reserved only for someone you cared about.
You shook your head softly. But then someone cleared their throat behind you.
Daeron stood in the doorway, carefully watching you.
Your eyes snapped away from Aerion. You shifted towards his older brother.
Daeron was leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The hallway light behind him cast a soft glow around his messy blond hair, making the uneven strands look almost like a golden halo.
Your shoes made barely any sound against the polished floor as you padded over to him. You glanced once more toward Aerion.
“He’ll be fine,” Daeron said quietly, taking note of your concern. His voice was low, careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb the fragile stillness in the room.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the hospital bed before settling back on you. Those familiar violet eyes studied your face with quiet intensity.
You nodded, even if the sight of Aerion bloodied and bruised had twisted something unpleasant in your stomach.
You didn’t like him. You had never liked him — not really. Not in the way you liked the others.
But seeing him like this, broken open by the consequences of his own recklessness, it still made something inside you recoil.
It irked you. No one deserved to look like that.
“But you…” Daeron breathed.
Your attention returned to him. His brow furrowed slightly.
The question caught you off guard. No one had asked you that in a long time.
You blinked. For a moment you hadn’t even considered your own state — the exhaustion still clinging to your bones, the tight knot of anxiety that had lived in your chest since yesterday.
“I… now that I’m here, I’m fine,” you admitted quietly.
It wasn’t entirely true — but it was the closest thing to truth you had at the moment.
Daeron nodded slowly, yet something in his expression told you he didn’t fully believe you.
“Listen,” he said after a moment. He pushed himself off the doorframe and stepped a little closer.
“I’m sorry about what I said.”
Your brows knit slightl, not sure what he was talking about.
“That day on the porch,” he continued. “About my family. About my dreams. About not being able to fix us.”
His gaze dropped to the floor.
“It wasn’t right... It wasn't fair.” His shoulders slouched slightly, the posture of someone who had been carrying that guilt longer than he should have.
The apology hung in the air between you. You watched him quietly for a moment and then the question slipped out before you could stop it.
“Did you dream about this?”
You immediately clarified. “About Baelor’s accident, I mean.”
Daeron blinked. A faint crease appeared between his brows as he considered it.
“I… I’m not sure,” he admitted slowly.mHis hand rose absentmindedly, brushing a strand of dirty blond hair away from his forehead.
“My dreams… they’re strange sometimes.” He glanced briefly toward the hospital bed, towards Aerion.
“They’re not always clear.”
“They’re more like riddles.”
You hummed quietly in response. Though you couldn’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like. To glimpse fragments of things that had not happened yet. To feel the pull of past and future threaded through your mind like tangled string. And still be powerless to stop what was coming. It must be terrible for him.
Daeron opened his mouth again, but this time he spoke before you could ask anything else.
“Listen.” His voice shifted slightly.
“I think you should take Aegon out for a little while.”
You blinked. “He’s been cooped up in here all day,” he explained.
Your expression softened immediately.
Poor Egg. The thought of the boy sitting in that quiet waiting room for hours, surrounded by anxious adults and whispered conversations, made your chest ache.
“Take his mind off all of this,” Daeron continued gently. “Some fresh air. Sunlight.”
He shrugged slightly. “It’ll do him good.”
You nodded, agreeing with him.
“Yes… it will.” But another thought surfaced.
“What about… your father?”
The question made Daeron’s jaw tighten faintly.
“He blames himself,” he said simply.
The words were blunt. Honest.
“He hasn’t said it,” Daeron continued, “but we all know he thinks that if he hadn’t called Baelor to come, it wouldn’t have ended like… this.”
His voice trailed off. The weight of the unspoken hung heavy in the room.
You shook your head immediately. “Hey,” you said softly. You reached out and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“It was Baelor’s choice to get in that car.” Your voice was steady, sure. “He couldn’t have known what would happen.”
You squeezed lightly. “It’s not his fault.”
Daeron stiffened slightly under your touch — the reflex of someone unused to comfort — but after a second the tension melted away.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose you’re right.”
He let out an exhale. “But try convincing him of that.” A weak laugh escaped him.
It faded almost immediately and you withdrew your hand.
“Alright,” you said gently. “I’ll take Egg out.”
The two of you stepped back into the waiting room together. The soft murmur of voices returned immediately.
Aegon was now perched comfortably in Myriah’s lap, holding a small book in his hands.
He looked utterly bored. His legs swung absentmindedly off the side of the chair as he flipped half–heartedly through the pages.
But the moment his eyes landed on you, they light up. Bright and alive again.
You walked over, crouching slightly so you were level with him. “What do you say,” you suggseted with a small smile, “we go for a little adventure?”
His eyebrows shot up instantly.
“Just you and I.” You tilted your head playfully. “Like in the beginning.”
There was an unexpected optimism in your voice. You weren’t entirely sure where it had come from.
Maybe from relief or maybe from exhaustion. Maybe the quiet determination that sometimes light appeared even when things felt darkest.
Whatever it was, Aegon reacted immediately. He hopped down from Myriah’s lap with the enthusiasm of someone who had been waiting for exactly those words all day.
“Aye aye, captain!” he declared dramatically. Clearly imitating the voice of the SpongeBob cartoon he loved so much.
Then he grabbed your hand. Violet eyes sparkling.
Daeron had tossed you his car keys with the quiet practicality of someone who understood that getting around the city with a nine–year–old and no vehicle would be nearly impossible. Public transport was out of the question.
Not with Aegon attached to your side like a limpet and half the city likely recognizing the unmistakable white buzzed hair of a Targaryen child.
So now you found yourself behind the wheel of Daeron’s car. It was nothing like Aerion’s ridiculous black Porsche that looked like it belonged in a music video.
Daeron’s was much more… sensible.
A grey Audi. Very clean and understated. The sort of car that blended into traffic without drawing a second glance. It didn’t scream luxury — but it was undeniably nice. Quietly expensive in that way people with old money preferred.
Aegon had insisted on sitting in the front seat and you hadn’t even bothered with arguing.
The moment he buckled himself in he immediately began fiddling with everything within reach — the air vents, the radio dial, the window button that he pressed down and up several times just to watch the glass move.
“Alright,” you said, adjusting the mirrors. “Where to?”
Aegon nearly bounced in his seat with excitement.
Outside the hospital gates the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze, sunlight flickering between their leaves. It was the first time he had seen anything beyond hospital walls all morning.
“Well first of all,” you said as you eased the car out of the parking lot, “I need to stop at my apartment.”
“To change my clothes,” you added with a small huff of laughter. “Because I look like an absolute disaster.”
He gave a thoughtful nod. Very serious.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “You do.”
You gasped, feigning offense. “Excuse you.”
But he was already staring out the window again as the streets of King’s Landing slid past.
“I’ve never been to your apartment,” he noted suddenly. The statement carried a curious kind of weight — like it was a fact he had only just realized.
“Well…” you said, glancing at him briefly before returning your eyes to the road. “Trust me, it’s nothing grand compared to your house.”
All the houses in the Red Keep district were practically palaces. And your apartment was… not.
“Good,” Aegon said simply.
You blinked, you tilted your head towards him. “Good?”
But he had already turned the radio dial, flipping through stations until he found something he liked. A Queen song filled the car and he immediately began humming along under his breath.
You smiled faintly as you drove. It still felt strange being behind the wheel again. After so many days of taking buses and trains, the quiet control of a car felt oddly luxurious.
Ten minutes later you pulled up outside your building. “We’re here,” you announced, turning off the engine.
Aegon looked up. His expression shifted from excitement to visible confusion as he took in the surroundings.
Older buildings with simple stone facades. Laundry hanging from one balcony down the street. Nothing remotely resembling the sweeping marble courtyards and iron gates he had grown up around.
“Yep,” you said, stepping out of the car.
You stretched slightly before shutting the door behind you.
“Told you it’s nothing spectacular.”
Aegon climbed out too. He stood on the pavement, tilting his head back to examine the building with intense concentration.
You watched him, slightly nervous for his verdict. After a long moment he nodded thoughtfully.
“It’s not perfect,” he said.
You braced yourself for something worse. “But it’s nice.”
You blinked and then laughed. “Well alright then, if you say so.”
You nudged him toward the entrance. “Come on, architecture critic.”
The building hallway was quiet as you led him upstairs. When you reached your door you pulled your keys from your bag and unlocked it. The familiar creak of the door opening made something warm settle in your chest.
You stepped aside dramatically and gestured him inside. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
Aegon walked in slowly, turning in a small circle as he took everything in.
“Not exactly Red Keep style but—”
“It’s perfect.” The sincerity in his voice surprised you enough that you paused mid–sentence.
Your apartment looked exactly as you had left it. Your suitcase still stood unopened near the couch. A blanket draped across the armrest. A few plants drooping slightly from lack of watering. You silently thanked the Hightower girl who had been staying here temporarily for not turning the place into a complete disaster before leaving.
At least one thing had gone right.
“Okay,” you said with a sigh, dragging your suitcase toward your bedroom.
“Stay here while I change.”
You pointed a finger at him. “And try not to make a mess.”
Your gaze narrowed in mock suspicion. Aegon raised a single eyebrow with impressive dignity.
“Do I look like a child to you?”
You stared at him. Then the two of you burst out laughing.
“Just— seriously,” you called over your shoulder as you closed the bedroom door. “Don’t set anything on fire.”
“Got it!” he shouted back.
The apartment grew quiet again. Aegon wandered slowly through the small space.
It was… very different from his home. He was used to the enormous ceilings and echoing hallways, antique furniture polished to perfection.
Your place was compact. Cozy, with plants everywhere and mismatched thrifted decorations. Stacks of books on the shelves and floor.
It felt lived in, warm. It felt like you. And he found that he liked it immediately. His curiosity eventually led him to a box tucked beneath the bookshelf.
Inside he found various records. Lots of them. He opened it without hesitation and began flipping through them.
Artist after artist. Some he recognized, while others he had never even heard of.
He was so absorbed in the discovery that he didn’t even notice how much time had passed, until you came out of the bedroom.
“Okay I’m— hey, what are you doing?”
He looked up. You were standing there in the doorway now, wearing a simple t–shirt and jeans, hair brushed back and looking far less like someone who had survived a twenty–four–hour travel marathon.
You strode over, eyeing the open box.
“You listen to Sabrina Carpenter?” he asked mischievously, holding up an album.
You planted your hands on your hips.
“Yes,” you said defensively. “Sometimes.”
“Do you have a problem with her?”
He immediately dissolved into giggles. “No… it’s just unexpected!”
“There’s everything here..” he went on.
You squatted down beside him, scanning the records.
“This is kind of like my treasure box.”
He carefully slid the album back where he found it.
“It’s cool,” he concluded. Then he closed the lid.
You stood up and offered him your hand.
“Alright then,” you said. "Shall we go grab something to eat?”
He took your hand and you pulled him up. “I’m starving,” you added.
You hadn’t really eaten since yesterday. That tiny airplane sandwich hadn’t stood a chance against a stomach full of nerves. Now that things were calmer, hunger had come back with a vengeance.
“I agree,” Aegon declared. “I could eat a cow.”
He happily skipped toward the door.
You paused and raised an eyebrow. Had anyone fed this kid today? You wondered but then as if right on cue.
His stomach growled loudly.
You groaned. Yeah. They definitely forgot to feed him.
As you exited your neighborhood, the radio hummed softly in the background — some forgettable song playing low enough that it blended into the rhythm of the car engine and the distant city noise.
Sunlight streamed through the windshield, warm and gentle. For the first time since arriving back in King’s Landing, things felt… almost normal. You drummed your fingers lightly against the steering wheel while Aegon kicked his feet against the dashboard area.
The two of you were currently engaged in the most serious discussion of the day. Where and what to eat.
“We should try that Mexican place,” you suggested thoughtfully as you slowed at an intersection. “Kiera said it’s really good.”
Aegon made a face so dramatic you nearly laughed.
“I do not wish to have a bathroom disaster.” He spoke with the grave wisdom of someone who had clearly learned this lesson the hard way.
Then he giggled behind his hand.
You scrunched your nose. “Ew. Disgusting.”
“…but valid.” You nodded solemnly.
Aegon seemed very pleased that you had acknowledged the seriousness of his argument. You drove another block in silence, both of you thinking.
Then he leaned forward slightly in his seat. “How about that bakery on the main street?” he suggested. “The one with the delicious pastries.”
You hummed, considering it. “That actually sounds perfect.”
Then your brain caught up. “Wait.” You frowned slightly. “Isn’t it Sunday?”
Aegon blinked and nodded his head.
You groaned. “I think they close at noon on Sundays, me and Kiera wanted to go once but it was closed”
He slumped dramatically back into his seat. “Right.”
The world clearly conspired against hungry children.
“We are never going to decide where to eat like this,” he declared miserably. The hangriness was starting to show. You scratched your jaw thoughtfully as you turned right at the next street.
Then just on cue the perfect solution appeared.
“Oh.” Aegon turned his head slowly, anticipating your answer.
“How about…” you began. “McDonalds?” His eyes lit up instantly like someone had flipped a switch.
“Lead the way!” he declared dramatically, pointing forward like a tiny general commanding troops into battle.
You pulled into the first McDonald’s you found a few districts away. The bright red and yellow sign stood proudly beside the road like a beacon of questionable culinary decisions.
You parked the car. Aegon was already halfway out the door before you even finished locking it.
The moment you stepped inside the building the overwhelming smell of fried oil, salt and something terribly artificial hit you.
It smelled exactly like processed junk food. Somewhere in the back of your mind you concluded Maekar wouldn't be too happy if he found out what you were feeding his son.
But right now it smelled incredible. You both walked up to the big digital ordering screen.
You began tapping through the menu. “Okay,” you sighed. “What do you want?”
But before you could even start selecting anything, Aegon gently shoved you aside. “I got it.” The kid moved with the calm precision of someone who had clearly studied this system before.
Very professional. He selected a happy meal — cheeseburger with no pickles, apple slices and four chicken nuggets.
Then — with the confidence of a seasoned strategist — he added a vanilla ice cream.
He stepped back proudly. “All done.”
He gestured toward the screen.
You stared at him and raised an eyebrow. You decided not to argue so you just ordered your own meal and paid.
The machine whirred before spitting out the receipt.
“Okay…” you read. “Our order is sixty seven.”
Aegon’s mouth opened. A very familiar mischievous smirk appeared. His hands twitched like he was about to perform the six seven meme gesture.
Your glare shut it down immediately. “Don’t even think about it.”
Your voice was sharp and utterly final-
He burst into giggles but wisely kept his hands to himself.
When your order was finally called, the tired-looking worker barely glanced at you as he handed over the tray.
You carried it outside. The weather was too nice to sit indoors.
The outdoor seating area was shaded by a few trees, and several people were scattered around eating their meals and chatting quietly.
You found an empty table. The moment you sat down Aegon tore open his happy meal like a feral raccoon.
Fries first, always fries first.
“Whoa,” you said, watching him inhale them. “When was the last time you ate?”
He paused with a fry halfway to his mouth. He thought about it, scratching his head.
You raised a hand immediately. “Wait.”
He froze. “I don’t think I want to know,” you continued. “Because I’ll just end up yelling at another Targaryen.”
He shrugged. Fair enough.
Then he unwrapped his burger and kept eating.
You finally started on your own food, sighing softly at the first bite. It tasted incredible. Mostly because you were starving.
Neither of you spoke much for the first few minutes. The table was filled only with the sounds of chewing and the occasional crinkle of paper wrappers.
Eventually Aegon leaned back slightly. Food high settling in.
You froze mid–bite as your brain scrambled slightly.
“It was nice,” you said carefully. “I mean… everything is so different there.”
“How different?” He shoved another nugget into his mouth.
“Well…” You thought how to answer for a moment. “It’s much hotter than here.” You glanced at the sky.
“Everything is more colorful.”
“The markets. The spices. The clothes people wear.” You smiled faintly at the memory. “The people are different too.”
Aegon listened quietly. "I heard they have some of the best puppet shows in Dorne." You hummed in response and then he asked the inevitable question.
“Do you wish you could have stayed?”
His tone was casual, almost careless. But you knew him well enough to hear the quiet weight underneath it.
You set your food down slowly and your shoulders stiffened.
He immediately sensed the shift and tried to correct himself.
You cut him off gently. “Egg.”
“If I had wanted to stay,” you said softly, “I would have stayed.”
Your gaze met his directly.
“But I didn’t want to.” You shrugged slightly.
He studied your face, looking for a sign of deception.
“Why did you leave then?” he asked quietly. You inhaled sharply.
“Because…” You hesitated. Then decided that honesty was easier.
He blinked, unsure what you meant.
“Of what?” You looked down at your food. “Of myself, I guess.” A small shruge escaped you. “Of how I felt.”
He didn’t push further. Instead he wiped his hands and quietly started eating his ice cream. The conversation faded into a comfortable silence again.
When you both finished eating, you gathered the wrappers and wiped your hands. “I think your father would kill me if he knew I was feeding you McDonalds,” you said casually.
Aegon rolled his eyes. “He never lets us eat this.”
He paused, but then he added quietly.
“But I think he would have gone mad if you hadn’t shown up.”
The truth of that sat between you, both light and heavy. So he quickly changed the subject.
“So.” He leaned forward. “What now?”
You checked the time. 1:30 PM.
What did one do with a ten–year–old in King’s Landing on a random Sunday afternoon?
Then you remembered the very first day you had babysat him. Mario Kart. Any child loved video games.
“How about…” He leaned forward, attentively listening. “…an arcade?”
His eyes immedieately exploded with excitement. He leaned back in his chair, hands dramatically over his chest.
“I think this might be the best day of my life.”
Then he jumped up and sprinted toward the car. You laughed under your breath as you followed.
Gods. You had really missed this kid.
You ended up spending the rest of the day at an arcade in a nearby mall.
It had been Aegon’s idea, well technically it was your suggestion that he had accepted with the enthusiasm of someone who had just been promised unlimited sugar and zero parental supervision.
The place was exactly wha one would expect it to be, filled to the brim with flashing neon lights and electronical whirring. The cheerful chaos of children running between machines while teenagers tried to look cool in front of outdated racing games.
It was loud and colorful and incredibly overwhelimg, but in this moment it was oddly perfect.
For the first time since that awful phone call from Daeron, your mind had something else to focus on. You had bought a giant stack of arcade tokens and handed half of them to Aegon like a solemn business transaction.
“Spend them wisely,” you warned.
He squinted at the tokens in his palm. “Or what?”
“You’ll have to work them off doing chores.”
He gasped. “Cruel woman.”
“Don’t push your luck, Egg.”
The competition began immediately.
Your first stop was mortal kombat. Aegon cracked his knuckles dramatically like a tiny professional gamer preparing for battle.
“You’re going down,” he announced confidently.
“You realize I was playing this game before you even existed, right?” you replied sweetly.
His purple eyes narrowed and the fight lasted exactly thirty seconds. You absolutely destroyed him.
Aegon stared at the screen in disbelief.
“I absolutely did not cheat.”
“You pressed something weird.”
He folded his arms. “This rematch will be your downfall.”
It wasn’t — you beat him again and his outrage was immediate.
“You are banned from mortal kombat,” he declared, pointing accusingly at you.
“Fine.” You gestured toward the basketball machine nearby.
“Winner of this one gets bragging rights.”
Now that was a game he could get behind. The machine beeped as the timer started.
You grabbed a basketball and missed the first shot entirely. Aegon laughed so hard he nearly dropped the ball he was golding.
“Oh my gods you really are terrible!.”
“Focus on your own hoop!” You yelled back at him.
Soon both of you were frantically throwing basketballs toward the baskets while the timer counted down and the scoreboard blinked aggressively above you. Balls bounced everywhere and one even rolled across the floor.
Aegon dove for it like it was the final point in the Olympics. “HA!”
The timer beeped and the scoreboard flashed. You had clearly lost, but only by a few points.
“I AM THE CHAMPION.” He announced.
“Relax, Michael Jordan.” At that you both erupted in a fit of giggles-
The entire afternoon passed like that. Game after game.
There was pac-man and space invaders, racing simulators where Aegon drove like a reckless maniac and crashed into every digital wall available.
You kept trying a claw machine. But unfortunately you lost three tokens trying to grab a tiny stuffed dragon.
Aegon watched the attempt with brutal reluctance.
He did and failed miserably.
“…This machine is rigged.”
You nodded solemnly. “Clearly.”
Eventually you both collapsed onto a bench near the prize counter, slightly sweaty and completely out of breath. Your pile of tickets had grown impressive.
Aegon counted them with great seriousness.
“This might buy us… one plastic dinosaur.”
While he sorted through the tickets you leaned back against the wall. “You know,” you said casually, “on my first date my boyfriend took me to an arcade.”
Aegon froze then he slowly turned his head toward you.
“You had a boyfriend?” The offense in his voice was soincredible you burst out laughing.
“Yes.” He looked personally betrayed.
He made a horrified face.
“But it was very short lived,” you added quickly.
“I don’t even want to know,” he muttered.
“Oh come on, it was very innocent.” He shoved a handful of tickets toward the counter.
“I refuse to imagine your romantic life.”
“That does not erase my past, Egg.”
He shook his head like a disapproving old man. “Disgusting.”
The rest of the afternoon continued in the same cheerful chaos. You played until your tokens were gone and your laughter had turned slightly hoarse.
For a few hours, you managed something rare. You simple existed — without the dread of hospitals and duty looming over you like a constant reminder. Just flashing arcade lights and childish competition.
Eventually exhaustion caught up with both of you. When you stepped outside the mall, the late afternoon air felt cool and refreshing after the artificial buzz of the arcade.
You drove toward Blackwater Bay — the docks were quiet, as some people walked their dogs or engaged in late afternoon activites.
The sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the water in streaks of orange and gold. A soft breeze rolled in from the bay, carrying the scent of salt and distant ships.
You and Aegon walked along the wooden dock. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie now, energy finally fading after hours of excitement.
For a while neither of you spoke. Just the sound of the waves and distant gulls.
You leaned against the railing.
“Are you worried about Baelor?”
He shrugged. It wasn't exactly dismissive but rather uncertain. As if he didn't know what the right response should be.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. His shoe nudged a loose pebble across the wood.
He paused. “But everyone else is already worried.”
That was such a child’s answer.
You nodded softly, understanding where he was coming from. “That’s fair.”
The sun dipped lower and the sky deepened into shades of pink and lavender.
Eventually you checked your watch. 6:30 PM.
“We should probably head back.”
Aegon groaned dramatically.
“Must we?” He kicked at the dock railing with mild rebellion.
“Yes, it’s getting late.”
Your phone had remained untouched in your pocket all afternoon. There were no messages and no calls. You weren’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying.
But sooner or later you had to go back.
You glanced at him reluctantly. “Come on.”
He sighed again but followed you toward the car. He was still slightly disappointed and much more tired.
But lighter than he had been that morning. Both of you were.
The hospital halls were quieter than before.
Not empty, they were never truly empty — but softened somehow, as if the building itself understood the fragile weight of the hours that had passed within its walls.
Your footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floor as you walked beside Aegon, his small hand clasped tightly in yours.
The warmth of it grounded you. The entire day replayed in your mind in small flashes, the neon arcade lights, the sound of basketballs hitting plastic hoops, his delighted laugh when he beat your score by ten miserable points.
For a few hours the world had been simple again. But now the hospital smell had returned. And the sterile sharp smell grounded you back to reality.
The receptionist glanced up when you passed the front desk. Her eyes immediately recognized you. There was a brief flicker of something — sympathy perhaps — before she simply nodded.
You nodded back and then continued down the corridor.
The waiting room door came into view and your stomach immedieately tightened.
You pushed it open. The room looked mostly the same as when you had left. The quiet tension of people who had been waiting far too long was still palpable.
But this time there were two additional figures sitting near the couch — and the moment they saw you they jumped to their feet.
“Oh my gods!” “It’s really her!” “You’re back!”
Daella and Rhae practically launched themselves across the room. You barely had time to brace yourself before they wrapped you into a double hug that nearly knocked you off balance.
“Hey—” you laughed softly, stumbling half a step backward under the impact. Both girls were talking at once.
“We could hardly believe it-”
“We thought he was joking-”
Their braids bounced as they spoke, still neatly done from school earlier that day though their uniforms had been replaced by casual sweaters and skirts.
You squeezed them both tightly. “I’m here,” you said gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”
They finally released you, though clearly reluctant to do so. Only then did you notice Aegon standing slightly to the side. His little arms crossed and face mildly offended.
He looked like a cat who had just been informed that his favorite human had other responsibilities.
You smirked. “Hey,” you nudged him with your elbow. “No jealousy now.”
“I’m not jealous,” he grumbled immediately. The lie was awfully transparent. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and marched straight toward his grandparents instead.
Within seconds he had begun enthusiastically recounting your entire day. “And then she cheated at Mortal Kombat—”
You rolled your eyes but let him continue.
Across the room, Kiera was still seated beside Valarr. Their hands were still clasped together, fingers intertwined in quiet solidarity.
Valarr looked up when you entered, and his expression softened immediately.
Matarys, you noticed, was not there. You hadn’t properly met him earlier and the absence tugged briefly at your curiosity.
But before you could ask Daeron appeared beside you.
“Oh— right,” you remembered suddenly, digging into your bag. “Your keys.” You tossed him the Audi keys and he caught them easily.
He opened his mouth to say something but the waiting room door opened again.
And this time everything stopped. A doctor stepped inside, his white coat flashing in the late sunlight, glasses perched on his wrinkled face and a clipboard held firmly in his grip-
Every single person in the room fell silent. The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Everyone held their breath.
No one had been allowed to see Baelor since the surgery that morning. The swelling in his head had been severe, and the procedure delicate. They had placed him in an induced coma afterward. You all knew what that meant, but none of you dared say it.
This moment and the doctor’s words would determine everything. The fate of Baelor Targaryen. The very fragile fate of this entire family sitting in that room.
You felt the sudden prickle of cold sweat along your spine.
Maekar stepped forward before anyone else could move. His posture was rigid, shoulders tight as steel, awaiting the verdict.
The doctor cleared his throat gently. “Yes… I apologize for keeping you waiting so long,” he began carefully. “You must understand the situation was quite serious.” Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto him.
Go on. Please just go on. You silently willed him on.
“We have successfully reduced the swelling in the head,” the doctor explained, his expression unreadable. “The wound will scar, of course, and recovery will likely take some time.”
He adjusted his glasses. “We are not entirely certain when Mr. Targaryen will regain consciousness.”
Aegon had stopped talking and the girls had gone completely still. Valarr’s grip tightened around Kiera’s hand.
“He will likely experience some difficulty with fine motor control and vision during recovery—”
“He will live? Maekar’s voice cut through the room, rough and direct like the rest of him. It was the only thing that mattered right now.
The question carried both command and desperate prayer.
The doctor paused and to your utter relief — he nodded.
“Yes." A breath escaped him. “Yes. He will live.”
The room collectively exhaled. Like a single body finally allowed to breathe again.
You saw the tears immediately and you felt your own begin to form.
Myriah’s hand came up to her face, wiping quickly at wet streaks that had formed on her cheeks. Daeron the Good leaned slightly toward her, relief softening the stern lines of his face. Across the room, Kiera pulled Valarr into an embrace and he held her tightly. His shoulders shaking once.
Your own body loosened slowly, tension draining from muscles you hadn’t even realized were clenched.
He was going to live. Baelor was going to live. The though overwhelmed you with such joy.
Daeron let out a small disbelieving laugh beside you. A quiet burst of victory.
The girls had already turned to Aegon, whispering excitedly about somethingz that hardly mattered now.
And Maekar — Maekar collapsed into one of the armchairs like a man whose bones had suddenly lost all their strength.
He leaned forward, elbows perched on his knees and his face buried in his hands. For a moment you thought he might actually start shaking. The relief had hit him like a storm.
You leaned slightly against the wall. Your voice came out softer than you anticipated. “Well,” you murmured quietly. “It was about time some luck caught up with this family.”
Daeron huffed out a small laugh beside you.
“Yeah,” he said. “It was really about time.”
But he wasn’t looking at the others. He was looking directly at you.
And for the first time since stepping off that plane in King’s Landing, your heart finally felt like it was exactly where it belonged.
The days after that seemed to settle into a strange, fragile sort of peace. It kind of felt like the air that follows a storm when it sill smells faintly of rain but the sky has finally opened up again and the sun resumed to warm the world.
At first it felt almost unreal. For weeks everything had been so incredibly loud — your own fear, rushing footsteps in hospital corridors,sleepless nights in Dorne and the constant dread of something missing.
And then suddenly… all of it calmed. Life resumed in that steady, familiar rhytm you had come to appreciate more than ever.
You went back to your apartment, back to university lectures and crowded hallways and professors droning about assignments you had almost forgotten existed. You started meeting Kiera for coffee again in the little café across from campus, the one with the old chairs and the Sade playlist that looped endlessly.
In the beginning people stared at you. A lot. Word had travelled — of course it had. Students whispered, curious glances following you down corridors. A few brave souls even asked questions.
Why did you leave Dorne so suddenly?
Why are you back already?
You simply smiled politely and changed the subject. After a while they gave up and stopped asking. You refused to reveal anything.
Life, it seemed, had an extraordinary talent for continuing.
You returned to yoga classes on Tuesday mornings, your muscles protesting the long absence. Pottery on Thursdays, your hands slowly remembering the gentle pressure needed to shape clay. There was something grounding about it — about the wheel spinning steadily under your palms while the world outside moved forward.
Ordinary things. Beautifully ordinary things that filled life with so much happiness and meaning.
And then there was the house. The Targaryen house. The family.
You started going there again in the afternoons, just like before.
Your job title (you weren't sure what it was anymore) — babysitter, unofficial homework supervisor, occasional emotional support system for one extremely dramatic child, all of it resumed with immediate enthusiasm from its smallest employer.
He greeted you the first day back like a triumphant general welcoming a long-lost ally. “You’re late,” he informed you gravely, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. “You’re nine,” you replied, stepping past him into the hallway, removing your shoes. “You don’t have a concept of time.”
He sniffed dramatically. “Barely.”
Afternoons quickly filled themselves again with homework at the kitchen table, where Aegon would dramatically collapse over math worksheets and valyrian grammar like a tragic poet suffering artistic torment.
YouTube rabbit holes that started with history videos and somehow ended with twenty minutes of watching a man build tiny medieval castles out of sand. Dance breaks in the living room when someone put on music too good to ignore. Backyard soccer games where Aegon insisted on refereeing and playing striker simultaneously.
And of course there was cooking — if one could generously call it cooking. Your culinary experiments became somewhat infamous.
There had been the “fusion pancakes incident,” which involved blueberries, chocolate chips, cinnamon, and inexplicably chili flakes. Aegon still spoke about it like a survivor recounting a near-death experience.
“She poisoned me,” he told Daella one afternoon while doing homework. “I did not.”
“You did. I saw my life flash before my eyes.”
“That’s because I was trying to be polite.”
And the girls — they adored you.
Daella and Rhae had welcomed you fully, enthusiastically, and without any hesitation into their chaotic sisterly orbit. Which meant sleepovers and makeup tutorial and brutal fashion advice you absolutely did not ask for.
Somehow along the way you had acquired an entire drawer of expensive beauty products that appeared in your apartment one by one like mysterious offerings.
They insisted on braiding your hair, experimenting with eyeliner styles, and gossiping about school with the dramatic intensity of royal court politics.
You became their sounding board. Their confidant. Something between a friend and an older sister.
Aerion on the other hand, had changed in quieter ways. The aftermath of his fight had left him bruised in more ways than one. His usual sharp arrogance had softened slightly ,not gone but rather tempered.
He still scowled when you entered rooms. Still rolled his eyes at your presence. But he had stopped actively antagonizing you, which you were grateful for.
And sometimes, but very occasionally when you assumed he was in a good mood — he said hello. The first time it happened on campus you and Kiera had both stared at him like he’d just started speaking an entirely new language.
“Did he just greet you?” Kiera whispered.
“Should we call someone? Is he high?”
But the biggest change was Daeron.
He had started rehab. It wasn't easy and it wasn't perfect but he had started. You had pestered him relentlessly for weeks until he finally relented with an exhausted sigh and a muttered, “Fine, fine — you win. I'll go.”
Recovery was messy and some days were better than others.But he talked to you now. He talked to you about the nightmares and about the memories that refused to leave him alone. About the strange, fragile hope that maybe things could be different.
When you babysat Aegon in the evenings, Daeron would sometimes wander into the kitchen and sit across from you while you supervised homework.
You would talk about anything and everything. Sometimes about serious things. Sometimes about nothing at all.
He had even started talking about going back to college — and the first time he said it your heart nearly burst with hope.
And Maekar… Maekar had changed too. In a much more subtler and quieter sense. The man who once greeted you with cold suspicion and sharp looks now simply nodded when you arrived.
He stopped glaring at you and he began calling you by your name. Sometimes he even asked if you needed anything — though he phrased it like a practical observation rather than kindness. But the difference was there.
Whenever you walked through the front door, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. As if your presence meant something, as if things were stable when you were there.
It was his idea actually (though he would never admit that), to establish a routine, every Friday night would be family dinner. With no excuses. And somehow, week by week, it became tradition.
Tonight was one of those nights.
Daeron had picked you up from university earlier that evening, the car ride filled with half-finished stories and laughter over some absurd campus drama.
And instead of cooking, a fact that had apparently scandalized Maekar to his core, everyone voted for takeout. It was six votes against one. He stood absolutely no chance.
Which is how you ended up sitting in the massive marble kitchen surrounded by pizza boxes and noodle cartons while the house filled with something it hadn’t heard in years.
Real laughter and warmth. The kind that bounced off the high ceilings and echoed down the hallways through the entire house.
The girls were arguing loudly about the Grammys. Aegon had appointed himself judge of the debate despite clearly not understanding half the categories.
“That artist had artistic vision,” Daella insisted.
“It was boring,” Rhae shot back.
Aegon slammed his hand on the table dramatically. “Order in the court.”
You nearly choked on your drink laughing.
Even Maekar was talking , complaining about incompetent employees with such theatrical irritation that everyone kept laughing at him.
He scowled at the amusement, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Aerion, ever the outlier, had grabbed his food and retreated upstairs. No one had forced him to stay.
Healing took time. You understood that.
When you were with them hours passed like minutes and eventually you checked the time and realized it was nearly eleven.
You remembered you had yoga class early tomorrow and reluctantly stood up. “Alright guys… I think it’s time for me to depart.”
A chorus of protests erupted immediately.
“Must you?” Daella groaned.
“You could just sleep here,” Rhae suggested.
“We could have a sleepover!” Aegon declared enthusiastically.
You laughed, gathering your bag. “I have responsibilities tomorrow.”
“I think if you pester her any longer she might never come back,” Daeron added casually from his seat, chewing thoughtfully on a slice of pizza.
Everyone groaned. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow after—" You had just reached the doorway when—
“Wait!” Aegon’s sharp little voice rang out and you paused. He was staring at Maekar.
“Should I?” he asked quietly. Maekar rested his clasped hands beneath his chin, then he nodded. A strange glint in his eye
Aegon bolted from the room.
Before you could finish the question, he returned, breathless — holding a small box in his hands. He walked up to you carefully.
All of their eyes were on you now.
“Here,” he said softly, placing the little box in your hands. “This is yours.”
Your fingers trembled slightly as you cradled it, carefully removing the lid.
Inside lay a necklace with delicate pendants rested against dark velvet. A shooting star crossed with a sword — the sigil of House Dayne. A three-headed dragon — House Targaryen. And beside them… your own house’s sigil.
“It’s Valyrian steel,” Maekar said quietly.
“It belonged to our mother,” Aegon added, observing your face for the reaction.
“We added your sigil,” Rhae explained gently from her place beside Daella.
“It’s yours now,” Aegon finished.
Your throat tightened painfully and you shook your head instinctively. “I… I can’t. This is Dyanna’s locket. I can’t just—”
“Oh hush now girl and just accept it,” Maekar interrupted firmly.
But there was warmth in his eyes and a rare quiet smile on his face.
Tears blurred your vision. “I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s really not much to be said,” Daeron murmured, still gazing at you.
And then Egg spoke, his violet eyes were steady and his voice more sure than ever.
“Welcome to the Targaryens.”
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