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@ladyfreyaofhousestark
welcome i’m freya stark!
multi-fandom writer with a heavy focus on game of thrones / hotd / asoiaf. you’ll find fics, drabbles, headcanons, and occasional chaos. this blog is multi-era. expect dragons, direwolves, and bad decisions.
asks are open. lurkers welcome.
masterlist: coming soon
tags:
freya writes
freya speaks
the rookery (inbox)
I just stared reading a knight of the seven kingdoms and I love this art work!
Midnight ballerina 🩰
I’m thinking about Jack Abbot dating a midnight ballerina
Warnings — alcohol consumption mentions of weed and drugs (not done by reader or Jack). Reader is early 20s dating old man Jack. Jack is Jack. Oh and reader has jacks initials tattooed on her hip because he’s slightly possessive and wants everyone to know that she’s his. Reader is also judge of because of her job.
Divider credits to @saradika-graphics 🩷 I’ve been loving there stuff
A/n requests are open
They never say your name.
They call you that girl, one of those, the midnight ballerina with a curl of the lip that says they’ve already decided what you’re worth. The women are always impeccably dressed pearls, pressed linen, money that never had to earn itself. They look at you like you’re a stain that wandered too close to their table, like glitter might transfer if they stare too long.
Their husbands don’t look away. You recognize them even when they pretend not to recognize you. The man who tipped extra on a slow Thursday. The one who slipped bills into your garter with shaking hands and a wedding band that caught the stage lights. The one who whispered thank you like you’d done him a favor he couldn’t name. They avoid your eyes in public, faces carefully neutral, mouths tight with guilt they’ll never confess.
Their wives notice anyway.
They notice the way their husbands linger. The way their attention drifts. And instead of turning toward the men who betray them in small, cowardly ways, they turn toward you. It’s easier to look down than to look inward. Easier to believe you’re the problem than to admit their marriage is brittle.
So they judge you loudly.
Too young. Too obvious. Too shameless. They talk about girls like you as if you’re a cautionary tale instead of a person. As if you didn’t learn poise because you had to. As if grace wasn’t survival.
Jack hears it all.
He’s older, yes old enough that people think they understand him. Old enough that they assume this is a phase, a vanity, a transaction. They think he bought you. They think he’s embarrassing himself. They think you’re temporary.
Jack never corrects them He stands at your side, hand steady at your waist, thumb brushing the edge of his initials inked into your hip small, deliberate letters that peek out when you move. He doesn’t hide the tattoo. He likes that it makes people uncomfortable. Likes that it answers questions they were never brave enough to ask.
Possessive? Maybe.
But it’s not about control. It’s about clarity.
He wants the world to know you are chosen.
When an older woman sneers about your age, your clothes, your work, Jack only raises an eyebrow. When someone suggests softly, politely that you’ll grow out of this, he smiles thinly and says nothing. His silence is heavier than their words. It tells them this isn’t a mistake. This isn’t a phase. This isn’t something he’ll apologize for later.
You see the shift then the discomfort, the recalculation. The realization that they can’t shame him into letting you go.
At night, under lights that don’t pretend to be kind, you dance. Men tip with hands that tremble and eyes that linger too long. Alcohol flows, drugs come out and smoke curls through rooms you don’t breathe or go in. You take the money, keep your boundaries, leave with your dignity intact.
And when you walk out, Jack is there.
Not to rescue you. Not to save you. Just to be seen with you. You’re used to being looked at like something disposable. Like something other women warn their daughters about. What still catches you off guard is being looked at like something deliberate. Like something someone chose knowing exactly what the world would say.
Request are open for
A knight of a seven kingdoms
The Pitt
Does anyone know how to make headers and make text have that gradient effect? I’d really like to make one to use.
They say I am wild.
That I have too much bite for a girl and not enough patience for courtly lies.
I broke a prince’s nose once. I do not regret it.
I am Elowyn Stark, firstborn of Torrhen Stark.
I was raised on steel, snow, and the quiet understanding that loyalty matters more than pretty words. The Old Gods hear better when you don’t beg.
I do not bend easily.
I do not smile when ordered.
And I do not forget.
The South is loud. The court is worse.
Every word there is sharpened to wound or flatter, and I have learned to listen more than I speak. Wolves survive by watching.
If you are looking for softness, look elsewhere.
If you are looking for truth, it is usually colder than you expect.
The North remembers.
And so do I.
Check it out
I made a side blog for Elowyn Stark my OC @elowynstarkofhousestark
I’m fixing to start writing my Valarr Targaryen x Elowyn stark fic!
leave comment if you want to be tagged!
Daeron Targaryen I love you
I’m glad I don’t live in The Pit universe because I would jump old man dilf Jack Abott respectfully of course.
—too sweet
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jack abbot x chronically ill! reader
wc: 8.7k
summary: being in and out of the hospital all the time has never been an enjoyable experience. But after meeting a certain ED doctor who you can't seem to get away from, things just might start looking up.
warnings: probably inaccurate medical procedures (i’m usually unconscious or incapacitated when they do this stuff to me) past medical gaslighting (not from Jack ofc) Javadi is ur roommate idc that it’s inaccurate, unresolved sexual tension cause i don’t write smut
a/n: abbot said “is anyone gonna take care of her?” and didn’t wait for an answer. anyways me and my oomfie @leeknowpegger came up with this in the comments of one of my posts cause we both are in desperate need of this man
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"I’d rather take my whiskey neat My coffee black and my bed at three You’re too sweet for me.” —Too Sweet, Hozier
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Being a frequent flier in lots of places gets you perks. Free coffee, rewards points, stuff like that.
Being a frequent flier in a hospital is just depressing.
You’re only about three or four months into your recent move to Pittsburgh when you get sick. And you’re one of those, special, lucky people who has the immune system of an un-vaccinated Victorian orphan, so despite having several hours worth of college assignments waiting for you, you’re currently lying on your bathroom floor, face smashed against the cool tile.
It is, genuinely, the only comfortable place in your shitty apartment. (At the moment.)
You pull the thermometer out of your mouth and slowly blink at the reading:
100.2 degrees.
Like you usually are. Just barely outside the normal range. Well, normal range can eat bricks because there’s no way having a mild fever is making you feel this bad. And you’re not being dramatic. Your throat genuinely feels like it’s on fire, and every breath is laborious and agonizing. Your face and head feel like they’re about to explode, and you’re pretty sure someone or something is stabbing you over and over again in your legs and lower back (which also feel like they’re on fire.)
Time passes in a weird way on the bathroom floor. Not really slow, but the pain and discomfort of each breath keeps it from moving too quickly.
You recognize, distantly, that you’re really sick. Really sick even for you.
There usually comes a certain point in the common cold that never fails to absolutely destroy you when it faces a fork in the road: get better or get much, much worse.
It’s fairly obvious which path your immune system decided to take.
There’s a large puddle of drool wetting your cheek because swallowing hurts too bad, and it’s not like you can breathe through your nose anyway. You don’t even have the energy to be grossed out.
You never really do.
Being sick is all about distracting yourself from how much pain you’re in until the worst of it passes, but right now you’re only getting worse. You can’t keep anything down, not even water, which means you’ve just been digesting snot for the past two hours which is bound to make you throw up (again.) No matter what kind of sickness you get, you always end up throwing up.
You measure how much time has passed by how large the puddle of drool grows. When it surpasses hand-sized, you attempt to haul yourself up, maybe take some more ibuprofen (you really shouldn’t, your liver is honestly toast at this point) but upon making an effort, you find that you can’t.
It feels like executive dysfunction. You want to get up. You need to get up. You cannot get up.
You’re so tired.
Alarm bells are ringing in your head. The same alarm bells that went off the time you had walking pneumonia and genuinely came to terms with dying in your sleep. It’s a spike of panic in your chest, a small dump of adrenaline and cortisol that’s just barely enough for you to haul yourself upright.
The action takes more energy than it feels worth, and you feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest.
You kind of feel like you’re dying. And honestly, with how bad you feel, you wouldn’t mind going to sleep and not waking up.
And that isn’t a usual thought to have when you’re sick, not to level of sheer apathy and exhaustion you’re feeling now, so you think that maybe it’s time to go to the Emergency Room.
You come to that conclusion about the same time that your roommate, who you aren’t quite friends with, comes into the bathroom and promptly screams when she finds you lying on the floor. (You don’t remember lying back down.)
“Hey,” She says, kneeling down and shaking your shoulder, “I think you need to go to the hospital.”
—
On another day, maybe when you don’t actually feel like death warmed over, you might be thankful that there is at least someone to take you to the hospital, to grab your hospital bag (you’d had to tell her where it was when you first moved in, and being a medical student herself, had understood your need for it) and to already have the route to the ED memorized. Probably because she currently works there.
“You’ll be fine,” Victoria rambles as she pulls into the parking lot with practiced ease, “I’ve worked with the night crew before, they’re great. They’ll make you feel better.”
Unlikely, you think.
Maybe you look particularly awful, or maybe it’s not that busy in the ED, or maybe you get some sort of special treatment as the roommate of a medical student, but before you know it, you’re shivering in a triage bed, still drooling uselessly into a wad of paper towels Victoria had been kind enough to shove into your hands.
It’s weird being in a hospital that doesn’t know you.
Nurses come and go, asking questions you barely answer and poking and prodding and you think, probably, that you should communicate that while on the worse end of the spectrum, this is still fairly normal for you. Being this sick from the common cold.
You think Victoria is talking to whoever is working on you, and then you’re in a wheelchair, and then they run more tests you don’t remember and then you’re in a bed.
“Dr. Abbot is gonna come see you,” Victoria tells you, looking mildly uncomfortable in a chair to your left.
She's honestly been so nice for this whole thing. Like, way too nice, considering that you guys aren't really friends (yet?)
“You should go home,” You tell her, speech really only possible because of the Toradol they gave you a few minutes ago, “You have work in the morning.”
She purses her lips and looks like she’s going to argue, so you painfully swallow and speak again.
“Go. I’ll be fine here. You said it yourself.”
It takes a few minutes to get the words out, and you have to pause more than once, which probably isn’t very reassuring, but logic seems to win out because she makes sure that you have everything you need before heading out.
And then you’re alone.
You attempt to pass the time by sleeping, to no avail. Discomfort, ever the unwanted companion, makes itself incredibly known. The Toradol helps, but since it’s basically just ibuprofen in IV form, there’s only so much it can do.
You’re just about to slip into a doze when a knock on the door frame rouses you. As the current pulls back, you have exactly one thought:
Victoria could’ve warned me that Dr. Abbot is insanely fucking hot.
“Hello there,” The man says, grabbing some hand-sanitizer which only served to extenuate the rippling muscles and veins of his forearms and biceps, “I’m Dr. Abbot. Javadi told me you weren’t feeling so good?”
Okay, focus. He can definitely see the heart-rate spike on the monitor. He’s just another doctor. You’ve had hot doctors before.
(Not like him.)
You shrug with the non-chalance of a twenty-something year old who has designated hospital clothes.
“Been better.” Kind of.
“Well, let’s see if we can’t get you better.”
He asks the same series of questions that Javadi helped you answer before since your brain still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, but Dr. Abbot is patient and listens attentively while you stumble through answering every single one.
“Any pre-existing conditions?”
“Yes and no.”
He raises an eyebrow, finger hovering over the tablet in his other hand. “That sounds like a story.”
You wince. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”
“You’re totally fine,” He immediately soothes before you can continue, voice rich and smooth like high-quality chocolate, “You’re actually the nicest patient we’ve had so far tonight.”
“Really?”
“Yep. No screaming, no cursing, you haven’t asked a billion and one questions or needed anyone to explain every single thing we’re doing.”
He grabs one of the spinny-stools on the other side of the room and wheels it over, sitting down with his tablet in his lap.
“Now. About those pre-existing conditions?”
You slowly and painfully explain your situation— very obviously chronically ill to pretty much everyone except the doctors you need to diagnose you.
Dr. Abbot doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t defend the doctors you’ve seen, just dutifully jots down everything you tell him.
“Any history of heart issues?”
You nod. “I went to a cardiologist last year and did a few tests. Second degree AV block, um, I think Mobitz one? And mild diastolic dysfunction.”
Another eyebrow raise. “And your cardiologist didn’t decide to move forward with any sort of treatment plans?”
“Just diet and exercise. He told me to drink more water.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Your eyes widen. “Sorry?”
He sighs, looking up from his tablet. “I apologize, that was unprofessional of me. I agree that Mobitz one is normally benign, so long as you’re asymptomatic or old. But coupled with that ‘mild’ diastolic dysfunction and the fact that, from you’ve told me, you are experiencing symptoms means it’s something that should be addressed.”
Oh.
Dr. Abbot barrels on. “I’m going to give you a referral for a cardiologist I know. She’s good.”
“Thank you so much,” You croak, barely able to believe what’s happening. "I don't know how to thank you. Um. Other than saying thank you."
He gives you a tiny grin, like this interaction is some sort of secret you're sharing. Is he not aware of the effect he has on patients? On you?
"Don't worry about it, kid. Call it duty of care."
Kid.
The way he says it doesn't make it seem condescending or pitying. It's an acknowledgment.
It makes your skin feel hot.
(That might be the mild fever.)
He breezes through the rest of the preliminary examination, questions all answered and typed into his tablet, which just leaves the physical examination.
He has gloves on, stop freaking out. And there's like, no way he isn't married, and he's literally your doctor for crying out loud. Don't make this weird.
No amount of internal begging to keep your rampant issues under control actually keeps said rampant issues under control. At the very least, you hope it isn't too noticeable when you bask in the feeling of his blissfully warm (you're already running a fever, so really, it should be uncomfortable) hand as it palpates here and there. Checking for internal bleeding, probably. Or an inflamed appendix. Or something like that.
Palpating is likely one of the least sexy touches a human being can experience, and yet, presumably due to the fact that hospitals are actually nostalgic to you and palpating is an experience you go through more often than most other people, and, you know, your issues, you genuinely manage to get a little... hot under the collar.
Like, his hands are right there. Gloved, sure, and he's not actually touching your skin, just the battered band t-shirt you've been wearing since you got sick three days ago, so again, really not hot circumstances, but his deliciously freckled and really enticingly well-muscled forearms are right fucking there.
Can Toradol make you high? Are you having an allergic reaction to the fluids? Has the common cold finally decided to snatch your soul, leaving you the shuffle miserably off this mortal coil?
He glances up at the monitor.
"Bit of a heart-rate spike there."
Oh sweet mother of Christ.
Dr. Abbot gives you a little knowing smile, which does nothing but make you want to crawl in a hole and die, and finally finishes his palpating.
"So from the look of things, you really do just have the common cold--" He winces when you groan, "I know, I know. But you do have a touch of strep-throat, which I think might be contributing to your general awfulness and malaise. Your labs came back a little all over the place, so we're going to send you home with a prescription for some broad-spectrum antibiotics. Have you ever taken Azithromycin before?"
You shake your head no.
"The coarse is only for a week, and you'll take them twice a day. As for your cold symptoms, I'd have to recommend your basic over-the-counter cold medicine and lots of rest. Sound good?"
You nod. "Thank you so much."
Another heart-rate-spiking smile. "Anytime. I hope you feel better, but come back straight back here if you feel any worse, okay?"
You agree, and offer him another thanks and pretend like you're not going to be silently wondering if this is who your roommate works with every day.
—
A few days of antibiotics later, you're staring at yourself in the mirror after a late-night everything shower, and you think you might be cursed.
"Hey Victoria?" You shout through the door to where you know she's studying in the nearby living room. "What are the normal symptoms after taking Azithromycin?"
"Uh, none?"
"Thanks!"
Motherfucker. Who the fuck is even allergic to antibiotics? They're antibiotics.
You stare at the rash-slash-hives that's developed on your arms and legs (you convinced yourself it was razor burn the first two days) and wonder how life threatening it really is. Like, what could even really happen?
You skip lotion and throw on what was supposed to be a cute-pajama set, but now the striped tank-and-shorts combo serve to be functional— no fabric touching the sensitive skin where the rash covers and for ease of access, because of course you're going to run it by Victoria before you jump to any sort of conclusions about severity and allergic reactions.
Maybe this just one of those things. Like when doctors say "Just a little pinch" or "You'll feel some pressure" and then you go on to experience a level of agony previously only experienced by mafia traitors.
Like, maybe you won't even have to go to the ER. It might be a low-level twenty-four-hour-clinic type of deal.
—
So apparently between the rash, your flu-like symptoms (you thought you were just sick) and the fact that your heart rate has been all over the place since starting the antibiotics, Victoria does, in fact, insist that you go to the ER. Again.
At least this time you're lucid enough to drive yourself.
You've only just checked in, settling in the moderately-empty waiting room, cursing your existence when a familiar face walks in the front door, backpack slung over his shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand.
It's pure coincidence that you happen to be sitting in like, the only seat in his direct eye-line as he glances down and then comes to a full-body stop. You shove down the shiver that threatens to overwhelm your body as a sharp, calculating gaze scans up and down your body before coming to rest on the visible rash on your legs.
He blows out a breath.
"Oh, kid."
Dr. Abbot leaves in the waiting room with the promise to return shortly after he clocks in and does his... whatever it is doctors do upon clocking into work. Rounds? Or is that a general medicine thing?
Before he walks through the door, he points a finger at you and says:
"Stay."
Like the loyal dog you are, you comply. First of all, where would you even go, (do patients jump ship often??) and secondly, like there is any universe in which you are arguing with that man.
YOUR DOCTOR, you mentally correct. HE'S YOUR DOCTOR. THERE ARE LITERALLY LAWS IN PLACE FOR THIS KIND OF THING. HE'S ALSO PROBABLY MARRIED. GET A GRIP.
It doesn't take him long to return to you, and like, isn't that unusual? Don't nurses and whoever usually get patients instead of like, the doctor on shift?
He gets the door for you (which is hot, even though he literally has to since it's only opened via staff-issued key-card.)
You feel kind of bad for skipping the line, cause there's other people in the waiting room, and surely some of them have more pressing medical concerns than your little rash?
You paraphrase this to Dr. Abbot as he leads you down the hallway towards one of the triage rooms, but he just snorts.
"You questioning my triage and risk assessment skills?"
Horror fills every aspect of your being.
"No no no no no, no, of course not, I didn't mean—"
Then he starts laughing.
"Relax, kid," He huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyeing you from the side, "I was just poking at you. I think it's very... sweet, that you're worried about the other patients, even if it's unnecessary. I promise, if someone else had a more pressing medical concern, they would get seen first."
You deflate a little at his reassurance, though you still feel thoroughly mortified.
"Besides," He continues, pulling back a curtain and gesturing for you to take a seat in one of the large triage chairs, "You're having a fairly serious allergic reaction. I'm guessing this started after you started taking the Azithromycin?"
You nod as you situate yourself. "Yeah, sorry. Um, it started—"
He holds up a hand, and you cut yourself off.
"Respectfully," He starts, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. "What the hell are you apologizing for? And don't say being allergic to Azirthromycin."
"Um... For having to bother you again..? Right when you get on shift?"
"Kid," That shouldn't be hot, that shouldn't make your stomach flip-flop around, "Didn't I tell you to come back if you got worse?"
"Yes."
"And did you come back because you got worse?"
"...Yes?"
"Yes, you did. It was good that you came back," He says the second sentence slow and careful, like he's trying to cement it into your brain.
"It says on your intake form that you were experiencing fast and irregular heartbeats and dizziness accompanying the rash and hives, is that correct?"
"Yes. I thought I was just having a flare-up. And I kind of thought the rash and hives was just razor burn, but I don't shave my upper-arms, so."
He nods slowly. "...Right. I know that you've had a lot of unfortunate experiences with doctors and treatment in the past, but that's not going to fly with me, understand? There's a very real chance that if you'd ignored your symptoms you would've gone into anaphylactic shock. And while I trust Javadi to recognize the symptoms of a severe allergic reaction, I also know that she spends most of the day at the hospital or at lectures, meaning that if you had gone anaphylactic, there wouldn't have been anyone home to help you."
Dr. Abbot leans down when he notices you staring at your lap, sheepish, avoiding his gaze. "I don't say any of this to scare you. I just need you to understand the seriousness of your reaction."
He snatches the tablet off the cart. "You can't minimize your health issues. They're real. If you do, doctor's won't take you seriously. And you get enough of that without contributing to it or doing it yourself."
There's a few beats of silence while he types some things on the tablet and you digest his words.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."
He flashes you a grin, a little sharp. "Like I said before. Duty of care."
—
Victoria is happy that you had such a nice experience at the PTMC —"I told you they were great!"— and both of you are happy that the new antibiotics are working the last dredges of your cold are fading.
Since you finally feel (relatively) well, you decide to go to the coffee shop Victoria has been trying to convince you to go to for ages. Apparently, she loves their coffee so much she gets it there on hospital days and lecture days, despite it being much closer to the hospital than it is to the university. Thankfully, the apartment you share is fairly close to the hospital (a win both for your constant medical issues and for your roommates chosen career) so the coffee shop is within walking distance. Honestly, living in the city like this, there aren't a lot of things that aren't within walking (or bus, depending on the weather) distance.
You arrive to the cafe roughly around the time it opens, desperate to get as many hours studying and playing catch up as you can. Most of your professors were understanding when you explained your frequent health problems and the fact that you had to go the ER twice in the span of a week, and gave you extensions, but there's always a few no-nonsense hard-asses who think a 6,000 word paper can easily be accomplished from a hospital waiting room or bed, even when you explain how incapacitated you were. And to top it all off, in your endless wisdom, you hadn't thought to ask Dr. Abbot for a doctor's note that you could've held over the aforementioned hard-asse's head's, since they have to comply when you have actual evidence of illness, signed by a medical doctor.
So yeah. Lots of work, very little time.
You order yourself a gigantic coffee with several extra shots of espresso, heart-problems be damned, because there's no way you're accomplishing the amount of assignments you have without drugs, and since you can't do drugs, medically inadvisable amounts of caffeine is the next best thing.
Sure, the caffeine kind of makes your chest feel like it's floating, but the study work-flow you manage to accomplish is unparalleled.
With your headphones on and your eyes glued to your laptop screen your neck might as well be made of stone. Which means you don't really notice the man who's approached the table in the corner you've tucked yourself into.
"Do I even want to know how many shots you had them put in there?"
You jump, launching yourself backwards and straightening, causing your skull to crack rather unpleasantly against the wall behind you. You hiss in pain at the same time that Dr. Abbot says "Shit."
"Sorry," He rumbles, stepping forward. "Can I see?"
He really didn't have to ask. He could've just told you that he was going to look and you wouldn't kick up a fuss. You'd like it actually, if he told you what to do. What's that line from Fleabag? “I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about." Yeah. Dr. Abbot could do all of that for you.
Still technically your doctor you depraved lunatic.
You must've nodded or made a noise of affirmation or something (or maybe he got tired of waiting for you to respond) but he steps forward and. Well. Okay. You had this idea, in your head about what him 'seeing' actually entails, and conceptually, you understood that it involves him touching you, without gloves or a sterile, anti-septic wall between the two of you, but actually feeling his large, warm hands (is he always this warm, then? You remember how warm they were at the hospital) cradling the back of your head, fingers rubbing along your scalp, checking for a bump or scratch or whatever is a completely different ballpark.
If you thought the palpation was difficult to endure, it doesn't hold a goddamn candle to him leaning over you, dressed in his own clothes that smell like him, hands bare (!!) and actually touching you, skin-to-skin. There's no rumpled band tee or blue latex gloves between you now.
"No bump," He affirms after a few (unrequited and one-sided) sexually charged moments. "Sorry about that."
"No, it's not your fault. Coffee makes me jumpy."
His eyes skate down to the large, mostly empty cup next to your laptop. "And I'm sure the quantity was helpful."
You smile, more than a little embarrassed. He's charted your medical history. He knows exactly how stupid it is for you specifically to be drinking a twenty-four ounce iced cold brew with five extra shots of espresso. Realistically, that is an unhinged and borderline masochistic coffee order for a normal person.
"Enlighten me," He starts, his head tilted to the side, eyes once again looking you up and down. But this time, his gaze isn't clinical. Maybe you're imagining it, making things up to feed your delusions and issues, but right now, it's almost like he's looking at you like he's... hungry.
"Why would little-miss-mild-diastolic-dysfunction be drinking a concentrated heart attack?"
Jesus H. Christ.
"—Little-miss—“
This is genuinely becoming a very serious problem. You might have to leave Pittsburgh forever. Forget your master's program. Maybe your professors will understand that you ended up with a giant, overwhelming, unhinged, and slightly insatiable and completely inappropriate crush on the ER doctor you are definitely going to be seeing a lot of.
That's it. You can never come back to this coffee shop. Or go to the ER again. Ever. You'll just die next time you have a health problem, thanks.
Oh, fuck. How long have you been just staring at him?
He's smiling at you, all teeth and a knowing sparkle in his eyes and you know what, you actually hate him, he's such an asshole--
"You know I'm willing to bet I'd see a spike if you were still hooked up to that heart monitor."
"Oh, fuck you," You laugh, your shoulders relaxing.
"She does bite back," He says, humor clear on his features. "Was wondering if I should start concussion protocol."
You roll your eyes. "If you must know, I have a mountain of homework to do and very little time to do all of it, so."
You gesture to your coffee cup. "Caffeine it is."
"You know, as your former doctor, I'd have to advise you against finishing that. Please tell me you at least ate something with it?"
"... I had a pack of fruit snacks from the bottom of my bag?"
Dr. Abbot sighs, looks heaven-ward and mutters "kids" under his breath and, in a mirror of the week prior in the hospital room, points one finger at you and says:
"Stay."
Again. You're not sure where you would go and you are very inclined to listen. Probably too inclined to listen. Whatever.
He returns after a few minutes with a large iced water, a ham-and-swiss croissant on a plate, and another coffee, this one hot.
Then, smooth and confident, he moves your laptop back to make room, and sets the plate and water in front of you.
"Eat that," He points to the croissant, then to the water. "And drink that. All of it."
Your eyes widen. "Dr. Abbot, you didn't have to--"
"Jack."
"What?"
"We're not in the hospital. And I'm not your doctor."
Your face feels so hot. It has to be on fire. Are you on fire?
“I really can’t—“
“You can,” He assures, self-confident and jeez-us there is no way you’re not thinking about that in bed tonight. Or like, maybe forever?
You want to fight him on this, maybe push back a little, because there’s absolutely no universe in which this means what you want it to mean, but—
There’s a certain temptation to give in. Plus, who knows what other downright sinful things he’d say if you kick up more of a fuss?
“Okay,” You acquiesce (it feels a lot more like melting, though.)
Dr. Abb— Jack doesn’t say anything as you dutifully sip the water and take a bite, he just—
Watches. It’s almost worst than anything that could come out of his mouth.
“There we go,” Okay, you take it back that is a million times worse, “You’d better finish that, you hear me?”
“I will. I promise.”
Jack hums, then pulls a pen out of the pocket of his hoodie and scribbles something on a napkin. He hands it to you, then says:
“Call me.”
And then he just. Turns around, and walks out the door, coffee in hand.
What. The. Fuck.
—
Two things occur after your interaction with Jack in the cafe. Well technically, don’t occur, since the first thing is that you don’t tell your roommate that her kind-of boss maybe possibly flirted with you a teeny bit and gave you his number?
There isn’t really a way to bring that up organically, so you just. Don’t.
The second thing is that after an embarrassing long time about what to even name him in your phone (you settle on Dr. Jack Abbot, keeping the Dr. part as if you’re going to forget) you do not, in fact, call him. Or text him.
So yeah, actually, two things do not occur. There is no occurring. There is a severe lack of occurring.
It’s not that you don’t want to text him (you really do) you’re just not sure how to go about doing so? Like, what does that first text even look like?
‘Hey, thanks for not medically gas-lighting me, wanna get coffee? Except you probably don’t want to get coffee with me, because you’ve seen first hand how neurotic coffee makes me. So, drinks?’
No. Not happening.
You mainly just try to focus on staying busy. Which is easy, because master’s programs are so incredibly good at making sure you never have a waking moment to yourself. It’s so great. (You’re dying.)
Weeks come and go in a blur of late nights, intense study sessions, and minor breakdowns over your workload that turn into major breakdowns about your life (you are now the not-so-proud owner of homemade nose piercing, courtesy of you, Victoria, and two bottles of rosé.)
Soo the nose piercing probably wasn’t the best idea, but now you’re kind of too scared to take it out and honestly it doesn’t even hurt. Victoria made sure that everything was clean and sterile, and honestly she did an amazing job with the placement, so no complaints there.
You just now have a semi-permanent reminder of why not to get drunk when you’re having a bit of a breakdown. At least you didn’t tell Victoria about Jack. You might’ve given yourself bangs.
As it stands, though, the whole “don’t get drunk when you’re having a breakdown” apparently didn’t stick, because a dark Wednesday evening has found you at a bar Victoria told you was great, nursing a a third or fourth beer you really don’t have the money to be drinking.
(It was the cheapest thing the bar sold, anyways.)
You stare at the ring of condensation on the counter in front of you, thinking about the un-texted and un-called contact that’s currently burning a hole in your pocket. For some reason, no matter how busy you get, you never really manage to forget that it’s there.
“Call me.”
God, you think to yourself, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, the memory of the low timber of his voice and how warm and nice it felt to be the center of his gaze; the center of his attention.
The memory makes your skin flush, so you throw back the rest of your beer so you can blame the heat on the alcohol.
It’s an unconvincing lie and a miserable action.
“Didn’t know you were old enough to drink.”
You really need to stop taking Victoria’s recommendations. Or maybe remember where she works.
You don’t bother turning to face him, because he sidles up next to you at the empty bar seat.
“I’m legal,” You mumble, the tiniest bit buzzed from the beer.
Glancing over turns out to be a mistake, because he’s wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up, which means that the arm he has propped on the bar is exposed in all it’s deliciously muscled and freckled glory.
And he’s looking at you. Eyes a little narrowed, tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
He’s a bad idea, is what he is. Just like the sparkling stud in the side of your nose. Except that tiny piece of jewelry doesn’t look nearly as fucking good as he does.
You might be a little more than buzzed, if how much you want to kiss him is anything to go off.
“You stare more than you talk,” Jack says, curling his fist to prop his head up, absentmindedly waving the bartender over. “Always looks like there’s a lot going on in that pretty head of yours.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I’m not sure you mean them.”
The silence between you too isn’t really silence. Not with the dull sounds of bar chatter and shitty bar music and Jack telling the bartender to pour him a drink.
Whiskey, neat.
Figures.
“I would’ve told you that I meant them,” He tosses back the whiskey, almost all in one go. Leaves a tiny bit at the bottom of the glass, swirls it around before continuing. “If you’d called.”
More not-quite silence.
“I wanted to.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” You turn your body to face him, newly mirroring his position, “…I almost did. A few times.”
“Why?”
“Why didn’t I?”
“Why did you almost call?”
You swallow, nearly choking on the sudden lump in your throat. “Um.”
Very eloquent, you are. Truly, a master of poise and class.
“Need some liquid courage, sweetheart?”
“I’ve been drinking beer all night,” You say, sheepish. Sweetheart. God. It’s like he’s trying to torture you.
Is he?
“That’s not real alcohol. Come here.”
The next chain of events are much too sexually charged to happen in a cheap bar with a man who used to be your doctor.
It happens anyway.
You don’t move closer— frozen stock-still in something like apprehension or fear. But not necessarily the unpleasant kind?
The ‘Come here’ must’ve been figurative or metaphorical or something, or maybe he knows that you’re too nervous to comply (even though something in you desperately wants to) because he moves.
Jack reaches a hand up— slow enough that you could back up or push it away if you wanted to.
You don’t. You don’t want to, anyways.
His fingers ghost up your neck before settling on the edge of your jaw, his thumb pressed firm against your chin. He tilts your head back, just a slight angle, and then—
He takes his glass, the one with that little bit of whiskey in it (oh god, did he plan this? Did he leave that whiskey in there on purpose?) and raises the glass to your lips, letting the rum rest heavy against your mouth.
“You ever had whiskey before, kid?”
You shake your head no. You probably have, at some point, but relaying that would require a certain amount of effort and speaking skills— neither of which you are in current possession of.
“It’s gonna burn a little. Swallow it quick.”
What the fuck? Is—
He—
Then he tips up the glass, and you really don’t want whiskey on your face, so you part your lips enough to let the amber liquid be poured into your mouth, and he’s right, it does burn, and it kind of tastes gross.
You screw up your face at the flavor, but do your best to swallow it quickly, feeling the burn of it lick down your throat before settling like a warm, heavy weight in your stomach.
Like that was a normal thing to do, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened, he sits back onto his stool, releasing your face and resuming his position propped up on the bar.
“So. When did you almost call me?”
You don’t drink often. It’s honestly way too expensive, you despise hangovers (you have headaches and migraines all the time, why induce one?) and you don’t much care for the taste of most alcohols.
All of that to say. You are an embarrassingly easy lightweight. A cheap drunk, if you will.
“First time was two weeks ago,” You mumble, maybe not loud enough for him to hear over the shitty bar music, “Got a tea instead of a coffee to study with. Wanted to text you a picture.”
Jack has this easy, warm, but also simultaneously shit-eating expression on his face, which you take to mean that he’s aware of your incredible intolerance for alcohol.
“And what reason did you whip up in that pretty head of yours as to why you shouldn’t?”
You shrug. “Thought you wouldn’t care. Like, maybe you just want to hookup.”
“I do not want to hookup.”
“Oh.”
He motions to the bartender, who pours him more whiskey. What is it with men and whiskey?
“And the other time?”
This one you don’t really want to tell him, but with the alcohol burning away in your stomach and Jack’s equally burning stare, you give in.
“… Wanted to call you and ask you to yell at one of my professors. Cause he’s a dick and doesn’t believe in giving extensions or allowances even if you go to the hospital.”
He snorts. “And why didn’t you?”
You let your head flop onto your arm, halfway on the bar halfway off. “Didn’t wanna bother you. Seemed stupid. Plus, I managed to catch up on all my homework.”
Jack finishes the rest of his drink, then nudges your head off the bar and back onto your arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t lay on there. It’s gross.”
You whine. Your arm isn’t as comfortable as the solid bar top.
He didn’t really respond to your explanation (at least not in any normal way) so instead you decided to amuse yourself by just staring at his face. It’s a nice face.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Did you get me drunk on purpose?”
“No.”
“Then how come I’m drunk?”
“Because you’re a lightweight and whiskey has a higher alcohol content than beer.”
“Oh. Was that flirting? With the—“
You gesture vaguely to his glass and then to your lips. He just raises an eyebrow.
“Do you really need confirmation?”
“Yes.”
His face makes a funny expression. “Yes, that was flirting. The thing at the cafe was too.”
“Oh. That’s good to know. I wasn’t sure.”
“You weren’t sure?”
“Yeah,” Your neck is starting to hurt from lying there, so you prop it up with your hand. It’s only mildly more comfortable. “People don’t flirt with me very often.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe they are and you just don’t notice?”
“I would notice.”
“Kid, you just asked me if hand-feeding you my whiskey was flirting.”
You shrug, jostling your head and nearly slipping. “I don’t come to bars like, ever. Maybe that’s normal bar etiquette.”
“If you don’t come to bars, then why are you here tonight?”
You arm is too tired to keep holding your head up and your vision feels like it’s processing at a lower frame rate, like an old video game, so you put your head back on the bar top. Jack does a funny little huffing noise, and sticks the palm of his hand under your head right before it lands on the table, so you’re lying on his hand instead of the bar.
“Your hand is warm.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.”
His eyes catch on the piece of jewelry now adorning your nose.
“When’d you get that?”
“Last week. Got drunk with Victoria— uhm, Javadi.”
“I know what her first name is, thank you sweetheart.”
“Right. Anyways, she had some nose jewelry from her mom, and kept drinking rosé and crying about our workload, I mean, hers is like, definitely worse than mine, you know, medical student and all, but we were drunk and we thought why not? Like, she’s a doctor, she knows how to sterilize stuff and keep it clean. She chickened out and wouldn’t let me give her one. Which makes sense. Cause I didn’t give myself a nose piercing. I had her do it.”
“You been keeping it clean?"
“Mhm. Twice a day.”
“Good girl.”
Jack sighs a little, the thumb that’s pressed against your temple beginning to sweep back and forth.
“You don’t belong in a place like this, kid.”
“I don’t?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay. I think I wanna go home.”
Jack just nods, still rubbing your temple. It feels too intimate for a bar, but it feels really nice, and you don’t really want him to stop.
“Do you have a ride?”
“No. Victoria went to sleep before I left. She has an early morning. She works really hard.”
He hums. “I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t have to,” You mumble, “I know you’ve got the. The leg.”
Some sort of unreadable look flashes across his face, the kind of look you probably wouldn’t be able to decipher even if you were sober and fully in possession of all your faculties.
“I know I don’t have to. But I’d feel better if I saw you get home safely with my own two eyes.”
You huff. “This isn’t some sort of sex thing, right? Like, you get me drunk so you’ll have to take me home, and then you know where I live, and then you take me to my room and then I’m drunk so i’m easier to coerce—“
“Fuck, no. Has someone ever tried that with you?”
“No. I’ve heard about it, though.”
“Look at me,” He raises your head a little with his hand, eyes searching your face. “You ever feel uncomfortable or unsafe, in any way, call me. I don’t care what time it is or if you think you’re bothering me. You’re not. Okay?”
That’s probably too intense for… whatever thing you guys have going on. But you’re not really normal, and it just sounds so nice, having someone to call.
“Okay.”
Jack nods again. “Alright. Let’s get you home. Come on, up we go.”
He manages to get you too your feet after a minor amount of stumbling on your part —“Jesus, kid, you are a lightweight”— and keeps one stabilizing arm around your waist as he helps you home.
“Your arm feels nice.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t talk very much except little mutterings here and there.
“Careful— there’s a big crack there.”
“Don’t walk into that trash can.”
“Keep your eyes open.”
“Almost there.”
The walk back to your house isn’t far, like most of the places you go to since moving to Pittsburgh.
“I can get up there myself,” You say, motioning to the stairs that lie in front of you and lead up to you and Victoria’s apartment, “Thank you, though. I’ll text you in the morning. I promise.”
Jack let’s go of you and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Don’t forget to drink water before you go to bed. At least a full glass.”
You clasp your hands behind your back. “Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight, kid.”
—
Two days later finds you sitting at your tiny table, phone sitting face-up, Jack’s contact open and painfully empty.
You forgot to text him in the morning, because your hangover was fucking awful (You can’t even think about whiskey without getting nauseous again) and then you had school and… well. Now it’s been two days, and you still need to text him.
Victoria walks past you, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. She sets one down in front of you and sits down at the table.
“Still haven’t texted him?”
Apparently, Victoria had set an alarm on her phone to check if you’d made it home okay and ended up seeing you and Jack outside the apartment. She’d had the kindness to wait until the next morning before asking:
“So, you and Dr. Abbot?”
Vomiting had saved you from answering immediately, though you did end up telling everything that had happened after you finished worshiping the porcelain altar. Talking and throwing up don’t mix.
“No,” You answer her miserably. “I just don’t know what to say.”
“I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he’s into you. Based on,” She winces, “Past evidence. I doubt a text is going to put him off. Probably?”
“I told him I’d text him yesterday morning.”
“In your defense, you spent pretty much all day yesterday dying, so. I’m sure he figured that might happen.”
You take a generous gulp of coffee. “Should I just say hi?”
“I’m really not the person you should be asking for romantic advice.”
You take her by the shoulders. “You’re all I have, Victoria.”
“Um,” She sets her mug down. “Maybe something like, hello? Say sorry for not texting?”
You hum, typing out the sentiment, then slide the phone over to her. “Does that sound awkward?”
“Again. I really do not think you want to ask me.”
You chew on your lip, drink the last of your coffee in one go, totally burn the shit out of your tongue, then send the text.
You promptly stand, your chair screeching loudly as it nearly tips over, and run over to your fridge.
“Fuck. Do we have any of that rosé left?”
“It’s seven in the morning?”
“Desperate times, Victoria.”
She leans over, glancing at your phone, then gasps. “He’s typing!”
“Already?!” You screech, running back over to the table and hunching over your phone. Sure enough, the little bubble is on your screen, little dots jumping.
“What’s he saying?”
“I don’t know! You read it!”
Victoria snatches your phone and stares at it with the same amount of focus that you’ve previously only seen when she’s an hour deep into some medical textbook.
“Oh my god.”
“What? What?!”
She shoves the phone into your face.
Don’t worry about it, kid. Thought you might be hungover. You could always make it up to me, though.
“Oh my god,” You repeat. “Is it weird that I think it’s hot when he calls me kid?”
“Like, in the grand scheme of things? No. But probably.”
You pick absentmindedly at your hangnails. “I’m gonna text him back."
You type out a quick message and hit send before you can chicken out.
How am I supposed to make it up to you?
The dots reappear for a few seconds.
Let me take you on a real date.
You slam your hands (and phone) onto the table and whip your head to Victoria.
“He wants to take me on a date!”
The apartment becomes filled with the shrill squeals and screams of hysterical joy.
“Say yes!” Victoria screams. “You have to say yes. Please. For both of our sakes.”
“Shouldn’t I play hard to get? Don’t guys like that?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t you like, already unintentionally done that? Plus, Abbot is a pretty straightforward guy.”
“You’re right.”
When are you free next?
Tomorrow. You?
I have class until 3 :/
I’ll pick you up at 5.
You squeal again, practically jumping out of your seat and running to your room, throwing yourself on your bed.
Victoria follows a few minutes after, though in a much calmer manner.
“I can’t believe this is happening. You’re going on a date with my boss—“
“Oh my god, don’t say it like that.”
“So we’re ignoring the age gap?”
“No.”
“No judgement here, I know some people think experience is quite the kink—“
“Shut up—“
She laughs, leaving your room but leaving your phone on the nightstand by your bed.
You’re actually going to do it. You’re going on a date. With Jack Abbot. He wants to go on a date with you.
You only manage to stop screaming into your pillow when the downstairs neighbors shout for you to stop.
—
5 pm the next day arrives in a whirlwind of panic, about two million outfit changes, desperate makeup application, and way too much deliberation over what panties to wear for somebody who never has sex on the first date. Or like, ever, really.
By the time Jack has arrived (bearing a bouquet of flowers. Not roses, not the cheap dyed ones, but the kind of selection that takes time to make and time to choose) you’ve worked yourself into a frenzy about possibly being both under and over-dressed at the same time.
All Jack says, however, when meet him downstairs is a sort of winded:
“You look beautiful.”
And then you’re off.
The date itself is actually relaxing and easy, like being in Jack’s presence usually is. He asks about your schoolwork and classes and actually listens when you tell him what you’re studying. He doesn’t belittle your major or make himself seem self-important, like his job and career are better than yours. He actually says that he’s impressed that you manage to balance your health and workload so well, to which you respond by pointing at your nose stud and say “Not all that well.” which makes you both laugh.
He glares at you when you even glance at the check, which kind of makes you want to punch him and kiss him senseless.
He walks you home and, when you hesitate to initiate, pushes you against your apartment door and kisses you so hard your lips are tingling when he whispers a breathless:
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
After that, Victoria bans you from speaking about anything beyond talking or hanging out that happens on your dates, because: “I still have to look him in the eye at work, and I really don’t want to hear about how good my boss’s tongue feels in your mouth.”
You can’t exactly blame her for that.
One date becomes two which becomes three, then four, and then you start staying over at his place a couple times a week because it’s way nicer than yours anyway.
One of the adjustments of your boyfriend (can you call him that? Are you guys dating? Or just going on dates?) being a doctor, and also apparently caring about you as a human being on a fundamental level, is that he actually worries about your health. Like, always.
“Put the ibuprofen bottle down, you’ve already had five today.”
“Are you tracking my medication usage?”
“Yes. Who else is going to stop you from giving yourself liver failure?”
Or:
“What’s your heart rate average been today?”
“…One-forty?”
“So do you think having an energy drink for breakfast is a good idea?”
“…”
“That’s what I thought.”
In some ways, it’s annoying. But in a lot of other, overpowering ways, it’s so… relaxing, to have someone around to think of you. You don’t really understand why or how he gets fulfillment out of helping you manage your life day-to-day, but he does, and does anything else really matter?
There are, of course, hiccups. There is the awkward moment where a two-week long flare sends you to the PTMC because you faint at school and school protocol requires they dial 911, and then even after the paramedics arrive and you explain to them that your body just hates you, your heart rate won't lower from the low 120's so then they insist they take you to the hospital, where Dr. Robby gets to meet you for the first time. And the entire day shift. It's about as awkward as it sounds.
Sometimes Jack has bad pain days too. He gets a little waspish, a little snappy, because being the man that he is (and just a man, at the end of the day) he doesn't like acknowledging that not having a leg means he has limitations. But just like he doesn't pity you or make you feel incapable when you hate your body or get sick for the thirty-millionth time, you do your best to make sure he knows that you get it, and he's still the ridiculously hot doctor you wanted to bang even with a 100.4 degree fever.
"It was actually 101.4," He likes to correct from the bathtub, steam curling around his neck and shoulders. "Your heart rate would spike every time you looked at me."
You bear through the reminders of your own awkwardness for his sake. Plus, it's hard to hate him for it, especially when he's always coming up with new and inventive ways to thank you for taking care of him (even though you insist he doesn't have to, because he's literally been taking care of you since the day you met.)
And, you know. There are worse ways to spend one's time.
₊⊹
Eric Dane passed away
I support Rhaenyra Targaryen’s rights and wrongs 
Mad About You [V.T.]
pairing: valarr targaryen x f!baratheon!reader
word count: 10k (don't ask)
content warnings/contains: spoilers for akotsk! fluff, barely angsty tbh, canon-typical violence, swearing, canon-divergence (no trial of seven, baelor lives!), we don't care about aerion here, he isn't mentioned, some physical description of reader (baratheon traits), use of y/n, the baratheon-siblings' fav curse-word is "cunt", she's a bit unhinged at times, valarr is kinda shy but also charming as hell, they're whipped, this is cheesy be warned, like the opposite of a slowburn, literally love at first sight, not proofread, typos etc. me still trying to get a hang of interesting dialogue, i don't think much else?
requested: no
a/n: first valarr fic! when i first started watching the show i totally didn't get what everyone's obsession with this guy was about... safe to say that changed. and here we are. this took on a bigger dimension than i thought it would, well, anyway. the first like 3-4k of this fic will probably make you think it's a dunk x reader, but just trust the process, okay? girly is whipped for our boy valarr. i'm also tempted to do a second part with more interactions between them (like the wedding and stuff), but we'll see.
link to masterlist
“Cunts. All of them.” You grumbled as you downed the last bit of the remaining wine in your cup, which was far too little in your opinion.
“Now, now, sweet sister. They’re not all that bad.”
“Are they? Really?” you gave him a pointed look. A moment of silence, followed by: “Exactly. As I said. Cunts.”
Your brother chuckled from where he was seated at the high table next to you, the typical rasp of his voice almost drowned out in the loudness of the tent. “It is but only the first night, and you look like you’ve already sworn off talking to the male specimen all together.”
“I might as well.” you retorted. “They’re supposed to convince me to wish to marry them, no? Do I look like I will decide my future husband solely based on the fact of how many sheep he has?” you gestured loosely at the general mass of the tent, where a few of the lords who had already tried to win your favour – though in vain – still lingered. Your expression was contorted in disbelief, your tone incredulous. “Oh, and do not even get me started on the fucking arrogance they dare have. Came prancing up to me like peacocks, the lot of them. And more than half look like they’ve already seen one too many winters. Eaten enough to survive them too.”
An breathless laugh left Lyonel’s lips at your last jab. One of his hands landed on your shoulder, giving it a good shake. “Such a foul tongue, sister.” he remarked, his tone teasing.
“You’re one to talk.” you hissed back, though there was no true ill intention behind the words. Such bickering came as natural as breathing to the two of you. When you both were still younger, you’d nearly driven your parents insane with the constant jabs and insults thrown at each other’s heads, even if only in jesting manner.
Silence settled back between you both after that. You leaned over the table to get a grip of the carafe of wine, pouring yourself another generous amount and instantly taking a swig. You’d need much more than just this cup to survive the night, were it to continue how it had been going up until now.
You’d been dragged along with your elder brother, Lyonel, to Ashford to find a possible suitor, a future husband, which had already put you in a disgruntled mood to begin with. You were lucky enough to at least get somewhat of a say in the matter. But ultimately, you knew the choice would have to be made for you. Because unless an absolute miracle arrived, you wouldn’t even think about choosing to marry one of the many oafs that you’d seen around the terrain willingly.
It was only the first night of the festivities, but you’d already considered piercing your skull open on your brother’s antlered crown one too many times. You stared down into your cup, watching the swirling liquid as you tilted the cup in small circles, utterly bored out of your mind.
The chattering crowd inside as well as you startled as soon as Lyonel suddenly spoke up at a louder volume than before. The entire tent fell silent.
“I’ve had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen.” All heads had turned and all eyes in the tent were now focused on your brother.
“Four thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that,… big field outside to blood each other with sticks – and have a little bit of gay fun. And they say it was this country’s first ever joust. Well, I say…” he paused, leaning forward in his seat. They were hanging onto his every word, awaiting what the Laughing Storm would say next.
Yet, it seemed, he himself had forgotten.
“Uh, the fuck was I gonna say?” he muttered, eyes straying back to one of the other men at your table. “First-ever joust…” another pause. You only stared on with slightly raised eyebrows, unimpressed.
Suddenly, he directed his gaze forward again. “Ah.”
“Men could not have devised such a joy. So who was it?”
Only silence followed his question directed at the general mass inside the tent, safe for the sounds of a few clearing their throats or jugging down more of their drinks.
“Huh? Who was it?” Lyonel seemed to find great amusement in the fact that no one had dared to try and answer his question, giving you an entertained look as he leaned back into his seat.
“Fuck it. A hundred gold to the man, beast or god who sticks me best!” he exclaimed after another few moments, throwing a pouch of coins onto the nearest table. This seemed to revive the crowd quite effectively, given the cheers that echoed through the tent.
“Now, eat your birds so we can dance!” he added in a shout.
A sigh of relief left you in response to his last words. “Thank the gods, I was about to fall asleep.” you muttered under your breath. Due to the volume inside the tent, your complaint was barely audible, but Lyonel seemed to have caught it nonetheless. “What was that?” he asked sharply, his dark eyes locked onto you.
You returned his gaze innocently, taking a sip of your wine. “Nothing.”
Something of utmost importance, which was to be always remembered when in Lyonel’s presence: Never dare to call any of his festivities boring. Or you’d come to regret it.
The tent eventually started filling up with people dancing to the cheery music of the band, which had been stationed in the middle of the room. You were about to excuse yourself to up and dance yourself, when a man – taller than anyone you’d ever seen, came to a stop in front of the table. “Seven hells.” you breathed out, taking in the giant from head to toe as he munched on a tart. As it seemed, he had caught your brother’s attention as well.
“You ever been punched in the face before?” was the question Lyonel decided to start their first ever conversation with, which surprised you much less than it should have. The tall man, however, was startled, for obvious reasons.
“I beg- I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”
“Big men get punched more than little men, did you know that?”
“No, but- but I believe it.”
You almost felt sorry for this hedge knight, for he looked utterly helpless. He clearly didn’t quite know what to do with the taunting of your brother. This kind of exchange was nothing new to you, Lyonel had a knack for making people flustered in his presence.
“That why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?”
“I- I don’t slouch.” he tried to defend himself.
“Oh, you’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night.” Lyonel drawled with a chuckle. You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Stop making the poor lad uncomfortable, Lyonel.” you called out, but your words seemed to fall on deaf ears.
“I- I meant no disrespect, ser, honest. Where I grew up, you- you learn to go unnoticed, is all.”
“The seven above gave you tallness. So be tall.” Lyonel started, which was probably the first decent advice he’d given all evening.
“Or I will name you a heretic, and burn you… Drown you… drop you of a tall pl- I don’t know. W-What do they do to heretics?” Well, there went the good advice.
The man next to Lyonel spoke up with fervour. “Burn them, my lord.”
“Fine.” Lyonel concluded, dropping his knife onto the table in what one could have mistaken as defeat.
“What have you brought me?”
By the stunned silence which followed Lyonel’s question, you could already tell that he’d certainly brought nothing. You sighed once more, shaking your head. This poor guy had no idea what was coming for him.
“Uhm… Uh, ser I… beggin’ your pardons. I- I didn’t realize…” he trailed off, clearly at a loss for words.
Your brother’s gaze sharpened. “You wish to curry my favour some. Yet you come with an empty hand… Lord Caferen, the smug cunt in red. He is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter yet even he shinied up this… bauble from his family’s cellars for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You’ve come for my head then.”
Now, you truly did feel sorry for the poor hedge knight that stood before you, mortified as he came to the realization that he’d made the Lord of Storm’s End think he’d threatened him. But in a way, it was slightly funny as you regarded his dumbstruck expression.
“W-What? No! No.”
“Then why the fuck are you in my tent?”
The tall man hesitated, before stuttering out a “S-Supper?”
It was then that you couldn’t keep it in anymore as an amused chuckle tumbled past your lips. You quickly covered your mouth, muttering an almost inaudible “Sorry, sorry.” You tilted your head away from the exchange as you attempted to pull yourself together.
But it seemed even your brother’s stoic façade had been cracked as he broke into a laugh along with you. “Alright. Actually makes sense.” He muttered more to himself, than to anyone else.
“What is your name, man?” he asked as he turned his gaze back towards the “intruder”.
“Dunk- Ser Dunk.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Lyonel retorted without hesitation, a case of blunt Baratheon honesty. He leaned forward again, beckoning the hedge knight to come closer as well.
Quietly, as if it was a conspiracy, Lyonel asked: “Do you like dancing?”
His question caused you to perk up as well. A shy smile broke onto Dunk’s face. “Doesn’t everyone?”
You were out of your chair faster than anyone could blink, stretching your limbs that were tired from sitting in those godsforsaken chairs all evening. “Thank fuck. This was starting to get boring.” You quickly scurried off into the crowd, barely hearing your brother’s offended “Hey!” from behind you.
In a matter of mere seconds, both you and brother were up on tables on opposite sides of the tent, moving with practiced elegance. The pair of you were known amongst your peers for having a knack for dancing. Lyonel had discarded his golden cloak, now clad in a leathered vest, which he wore a loose black and long-sleeved shirt underneath. A whirlwind of black and gold hung from his belt, something akin to skirts that flowed with each movement he made. You were still draped in your gown, which too was a harmony of the colours of house Baratheon, though mainly black with a golden stag embroidered over your chest. It blended in perfectly with the rest of the tent yet standing out all the same. Your black hair, usually tied up in some ridiculous updo which only painfully tugged at your scalp, now cascaded freely down your neck and back.
And while you and Lyonel danced with practiced ease, Dunk, who was positioned right in the middle of the tent, seemed to struggle. His movements were stiff and awkward. Clearly, he didn’t quite know what to do with those enormous limbs of his. A few ladies locked their elbows with his, twirling him in circles along with them.
Within the blink of an eye, Lyonel had popped up next to him, sizing him up. Your brother was a tall man with a strong build. The tallest you’d ever encountered until Dunk stumbled into the tent tonight. Even Lyonel, the Laughing Storm, couldn’t reach the hedge knight’s height.
You were still perched on the table, keeping your body moving to the rhythm even as you leaned down to snatch the cup of one of those entitled lords right out of his hands. He gaped up at you in surprise, yet you only gave him a wink in response, downing a good portion of the wine inside the cup before discarding it somewhere behind you. You jumped down from the table, stalking right past the lord into the direction of Dunk and Lyonel without sparing him another glance.
The lord remained rooted in his spot, grumbling under his breath. Something along the lines of unlady-like behaviour. You didn’t pay it any mind.
The two giants had turned their dance into a war of stepping on each other’s feet. A war your brother had surely started – and was clearly winning. He evaded each of Dunk’s attempts with graceful ease, sidestepping every time the hedge knight even came close.
You looked away for one moment too long, and suddenly a pained groan echoed from behind you. Your eyes snapped back to your brother, seeing him hunched over in front of Dunk, clearly in pain as the giant removed his foot from Lyonel’s.
You could see the worry on Dunk’s face, afraid that he might have angered the Lord of Storm’s End, that he’d gone too far. But when Lyonel was in upright position again, his curls askew and falling over his eyes, he only grinned with his tongue caught between his teeth, sending Dunk a cheeky wink.
A bright and relieved smile broke out on Dunk’s face as he shoved at Lyonel’s chest, sending him reeling back into the crowd. The latter caught his footing with ease, returning to moving his body with the rhythm as if nothing happened.
Dunk now danced with no more finesse but much more confidence as both you and Lyonel practically twirled around him, guiding his movements as you spun the man in all kinds of circles and manoeuvres.
After what seemed like an eternity, the crowd in the tent began to settle as the music faded into comfortable background noise. Only few people were remaining as Dunk and Lyonel sat at the table, drunk out of their minds. Lyonel’s antler crown sat crooked on Dunk’s head as the two conversed with slurred words.
You were long since passed out on the chair next to them, the side of your head against the backrest as your legs were swung over one of the armrests, your back against the other. The dancing and the alcohol had certainly caught up with you.
Dunk’s gaze eventually wandered to your sleeping form over Lyonel’s shoulders.
“She’s your sister, no?”
“Aye, she is. Temperamental little beast, that one.” Lyonel responded drunkenly, but his words were laced with fondness. “She may be a Baratheon doe, but that girl’s got antlers mightier than any stag’s, let me tell you.”
Dunk huffed a tired chuckle in response. “I do not doubt that. She’s got a wild spirit. Charming.”
“A charming vocabulary as well. Quite colourful, I must say.”
“I can hear you, you dim-witted cunt.” you cut in from behind them, your eyes still closed yet very much awake in this moment.
Lyonel shot Dunk a look that said See? I told you so.
“Isn’t it long past your bedtime, sweet sister?” he taunted over his shoulder.
“It is. That is why I was sleeping. But you lot are too fucking loud.” you shot back, heaving yourself up out of the chair tiredly. “I’ll be in my chambers. And quit mouthing off about me.” you announced with a yawn, pointing a warning finger at your elder brother at the end. “It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Ser Dunk. Until we meet again.” you added with a gentle smile towards the hedge knight, who returned it with enthusiasm.
Until we meet again turned out to be much sooner than you’d anticipated. By the next midday, you were seated on an utterly uncomfortable wooden bench next to your brother and his men, who’d already had one too many cups of ale. They called watching a bunch of arrogant and sweaty men pull on a rope entertainment, you called it losing every last ounce of intelligence you’d once possessed.
You sighed, turning your head to take in your surroundings, in hopes to find absolutely anything other than this that might be worth your time. Your eyes eventually landed on none other than Dunk, who stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the lords, who not only wore clothes much more luxurious, but were also all a good portion shorter than him, even in sitting position. Next to him, perched on the table, was a small boy with shaved head.
His brother, perhaps? Or squire? Though you doubted a hedge knight such as him had one.
Without as much as a word, you sprang up from the bench, making a beeline for Dunk and his little companion. You flopped down on the bench next to him, sighing. “Ser Dunk. Nice seeing you again.” you chirped, looking up at the man with a smile.
He gazed down at you in flustered surprise. “L-Lady Baratheon.” He greeted you back politely with a bow of his head. You waved him off in response, a huff of mild annoyance leaving you. “No, none of that. Just Y/N.” you tilted your body to look around the giant and at the young boy at his side. You extended your hand for the child to shake. “Y/N. Baratheon.” you introduced yourself.
The boy gave you a smile, shaking your hand firmly. “Egg.”
“Egg.” you repeated. “And who might you be to Ser Dunk here?” you asked, genuinely curious.
“I’m his squire, my lady.” You held up a hand, stopping Egg before he could say anything else. “Ah. Y/N. That counts for you too. Lady makes me sound like an old hag.”
Egg chuckled quietly, nodding once. “Y/N.” he repeated your name, just as you had done with his.
Before either of you could say much more, your brother’s voice echoed in your ears, followed by fast approaching footsteps.
“Yes! Hedge knight, you.” he called out.
You sighed in response, shaking your head in despair. “Here we go.”
Dunk attempted to take another sip of his drink, yet your brother had snatched it out of his fingers before the rim could touch his lips. He glared down at the liquid as if it had personally offended him, discarding the cup somewhere on the grass. “What is this piss froth? I need muscle.” Lyonel smacked a hand to the side of Dunk’s neck, forcing the hedge knight’s eyes to meet his own.
“Will you heed my call to war?” the words were said with entirely too much enthusiasm and seriousness for the fact that he was only asking Dunk to help him in a game of Tug of War. Without awaiting the man’s response, your brother exclaimed: “Aha, good!” before turning and urging the rest of his men to get up and to the rope.
“May the luck be with you! For my brother is nothing if not competitive.” you called after Dunk and Egg as they both jogged off to help your brother in his game against the Tyrells.
Later that night, you were sat at one of the tiny circular wooden tables along with Dunk, whose birth name you learned to be Duncan, and Egg. Your surroundings were hardly becoming of a lady of house Baratheon, but such things had never bothered you much. And as your two companions scarcely had any coin on them, you’d treated them to a generous piece of meat with vegetables, despite Duncan’s protests.
You had decided to join them on their little adventure earlier that evening, rather than listen to Lyonel curse out his squires and servants while they aided him in putting on his armour for the first joust tonight. You’d been to few jousts in your rather short life-span. And every time, you’d come to the same conclusion. While it was tiring and off-putting to watch most lordlings and knights show off like they were above everyone else, it turned out to be even more entertaining to watch them get knocked on their asses by those who practiced quiet and humble confidence.
That was truly the only thing you looked forward to as the horn blared over Ashford Meadow, announcing the start of the first joust. You only really decided to watch the joust because Lyonel had insisted you needed to watch him win against the other highborns. And unfortunately, you’d promised him you would.
So here you were, trailing behind a thrilled Dunk, who carried an even more excited Egg on his shoulders as the three of you made your way to the lists to watch the spectacle. The crowd thickened by the second as you and your companions pushed yourselves to the front, even if Dunk could no doubt see very well over everyone else. You’d inherited a good portion of your elder brother’s tallness, but not quite enough to tower over those around you.
You perched your forearms on the fence in front of you as Dunk came to a stop shortly behind you, both his and Egg’s eyes focused on the events on the jousting field. You directed your gaze towards the lists as well, watching as various lords of well-known houses prepared for the first charge. Somewhere further back, you could make out the unmistakeable shape of your brother’s golden helmet, the giant and pompous antlers on each side hard to miss.
Your sight of him was blocked when another knight came to a stop with his mount not far from you. By the way he shouted and hollered you could already tell he was one of the more entitled ones. And from the fish you could see on the back of his cape, he must have been a Tully.
The crowd seemed to love him, for they cheered him on with incredible fervour. He held up something which looked all too much like a very real and a very dead fish. “For the new gods, and old!” he exclaimed, before unceremoniously biting the fish’s head off, throwing what remained of its body into the crowd. Thankfully, further off from where you stood.
You had to refrain from outright gagging at the sight of Lord Tully swallowing the raw fish’s head, running a hand down your face in exasperation. “For fuck’s sake.” you muttered under your breath. This was not the type of entertainment you had hoped for when you agreed to watch the first joust. At least Egg was having fun – or that’s what it sounded like as the young boy’s cheers erupted from behind you.
It was then that squires and helpers started fetching the shields and lances of each participant, hurriedly approaching their lords to have them ready in time for the first charge. Lyonel was fully armed in no time, lance in one hand, his shield – bright yellow with the crowned stag painted on it in black – secured in the other.
Your gaze strayed from your brother as a new knight, clad in black and red, rode up the lists, commanding attention without much hustle. There was no boisterous showing off as he led his pitch-black mount into position, no searching for validation or cheers of the crowd. Only silent and hard focus. You couldn’t see everything from the distance between him and you, but you were able to make out that he was quite young. Most likely around your age.
And he was possibly the most beautiful man you had ever laid your eyes on.
“Helmet!” his voice called out sharply, extending a hand for the helmet to be placed in. You felt a shiver run down your spine at the sound of his voice. So smooth yet with a slight rasp to it.
“Hey, who’s that?” Dunk asked behind you, voicing your exact thoughts. His eyes tilted up to look at his squire, who seemed to have the most knowledge about the participating knights out of the three of you. But you would be lying if you truly paid attention to anything that was being said. It also did not interest you in the slightest at that moment. Right now, it did not matter who he was. Only that he would stay on that field for just a few moments longer so you could keep looking at him. Because it certainly was a pleasant sight.
“Prince Valarr. Baelor’s son.” Egg replied to Dunk’s question, voice laced with a fondness neither of you really picked up on. “Second in line to the throne.”
A Targaryen, then. You thought to yourself, only then noticing the deep red three-headed dragon on his chest plate. You felt your cheeks heat up slightly at the fact that you hadn’t picked up on that beforehand, too focused on his pretty face to even realize what family he was representing. Now the small strand of silver you’d seen among his otherwise brown hair made much more sense.
“He’s the favourite I’d wager.” Dunk replied, slight tint of awe in his tone.
He’s certainly my favourite. You caught yourself thinking as your eyes still hadn’t once strayed from the prince ever since you’d first caught sight of him. If anyone would’ve told you the prince possessed magical powers, you would have believed them. Because he had truly and completely bewitched you.
“I’ll take that bet, ser.” Egg confirmed Dunk’s statement.
Without taking your eyes off the young prince – who was now too fully armed with a delicately detailed but robust helmet and shield, as well as a black and red lance – you threw the question over your shoulder, your mouth working just a tad faster than your brain.
“Is the prince betrothed, by any chance?”
Only silence met your question. When after a few moments, you still hadn’t received a response, you tore your gaze from the Targaryen prince, turning your head to face Duncan and Egg, who both regarded you with stunned expressions. You felt taken aback, slightly put off by the bewilderment in their eyes.
“What?” the word came out much more defensive than you would have liked. “It is only a question. I’m supposed to find a husband at this tourney after all.” you shrugged, redirecting your eyes towards Valarr, who had now taken off down the lists along with the other knights. Duncan and Egg only exchanged another look of strange curiosity, before ultimately deciding to return their attention to the tourney.
You all watched in amazement as Valarr knocked knight after knight off their horses, not once looking like he was even remotely struggling. And still, he did not try and boast before the crowd to make them cheer just that much louder for him. He remained focused, not once straying from the task at hand. He did this to prove his strength, not for glory.
Yes, there was your miracle.
Towards the end of the joust, you’d slipped away from Ser Duncan and Egg under the pretence that you were to head for your brother’s tent by the lists. At first, you had fully intended to do just that. Instead, you’d waltzed right past the yellow and black tent, walking further down the path into the direction of the black and red tent which was adorned by dragonheads carved out of wood.
You were very well aware of the fact that you intended to bluntly approach a crown prince – of house Targaryen no less – but you were never known to be shy. Quite the opposite actually. A sentiment you’d inherited from your brother, as his shamelessness had rubbed off on you throughout the years. Your dark eyes took in the extravagance of the Targaryens’ tent as you walked closer. Your averted gaze, however, distracted you from the obstacle which suddenly blocked your path.
Quite the handsome obstacle, at that.
You bumped into something hard. Staggering back a step, your eyes snapped back forward to take in what was in front of you. “Fucking-“ you started, ready to curse out in annoyance at whoever had stood in your way, but the three-headed steel dragon, just on your eye-level, silenced you instantly.
Your eyes trailed up the neckline of the armour, until they eventually landed on two mismatched ones. From your perspective, the right was a deep brown, the left a striking blue. The two colours contrasted each other drastically, yet it fit together so perfectly. Those exact were already staring back at you with an intensity that knocked the last ounce of breath out of your lungs. His brown hair fell over his forehead in thick strands, nearly reaching his eyebrows. The prince towered over you by a few inches, his head tilted ever so slightly downward. From your point of view, you could now also see the silver section of hair on the left side of his head much clearer.
Unbeknownst to you, the young prince did not fare much better.
When he’d returned to his tent just beside the jousting field, he certainly hadn’t expected a young lady – a Baratheon, he guessed, based on the colours of your clothing – to quite literally walk right into him. He’d too had half the mind to curse you out, something he wouldn’t have done on any other day, his manners always intact – especially around women. Yet he was exhausted from the joust, so there was a chance he couldn’t have controlled an accidental slip of his tongue.
But with one look at you, his throat felt like it had been sewn shut, never to let a breath or tone escape again. His eyes took in the black locks of your hair – a hereditary Baratheon feature – and how they cascaded down your neck, the strands framing your facial features oh so prettily. His gaze lingered on your face, which held a beauty he swore he’d only ever heard about in songs. He was certain that he could search every single inch of your body and still wouldn’t be able to find even one flaw.
Still too awestruck by the sight of you, he didn’t even realize when a single word slipped past his lips. “Gevie.”
The gentle and breathless sound of his voice snapped you out of your dumbstruck daze.
You blinked rapidly a few times, gathering your thoughts which had been all but erased blankly from your mind. “What?” you whispered to yourself, barely audible, as you head no idea what he’d just said.
A clearing of your throat, which was solely intended to help you find the right words, seemed to bring the prince in front of you back to his senses as well.
Before you even had the chance to say anything else, he spoke up, worry lacing his tone.
“My lady, are you alright?” he asked, his eyes roaming over you once more, his left hand hovering near your upper arm, not daring to make contact. This time, instead of dumbstruck awe, his eyes searched for any sign that you’d been hurt from one; walking straight into his steel armour and two; stumbling back upon impact.
You gave a small chuckle in return. “I am unharmed, your highness. I hope you are as well? Though I am sure your armour can withstand the impact of an inattentive woman knocking right into you.” your voice was laced in humour and light-heartedness, despite currently talking to a prince of the crown.
It seemed even he could not hold back a upwards-twitch of his lips as that. “I can assure you it does, lady …” he purposely trailed off towards the end, inviting you to grant him your name.
“Y/N, your highness. Y/N Baratheon.” you replied confidently, boldly holding out a hand for him to shake.
He took it, the grip of his gloved hand firm around yours.
“Ah, well, I am honoured to make your acquaintance, lady Y/N. I am Valarr Targaryen.” he introduced himself politely, despite the both of you being aware of the fact that you knew perfectly well who he was.
“So, lady Y/N, what brings you quite literally walking into me?” he mused as he let go of your hand, shuffling lightly to put an appropriate distance between the two of you. You knew it was only proper in the eyes of the realm, for you were neither very familiar with each other nor betrothed. Yet, you couldn’t help but despise the space between you and the prince.
You huffed a chuckle in response. “Well, I merely intended to congratulate you on your impeccable performance at the joust tonight.” A lie. Blatant lie. You just wished to see him up close, to talk to him and hear that smooth voice again. “Though I must say, this encounter turned out to start off a bit differently than what I expected.” That was the truth. But you’d do it a thousand times over if it meant you’d see those pretty mismatched eyes roaming over you again.
“Thank you for the congratulations, my lady. It is not often that someone seeks me out especially for such a reason… Unless there is something else you wish to talk to me about?” he replied with a kind smile, a small glint of knowing in his eyes.
Gods, you wanted to grab his pretty face and kiss him.
You quickly forced that thought from the forefront of your mind, trying to focus on the current conversation. “I mainly intended to congratulate you, your highness. Yet, now as you mention it, I would like to invite you to my elder brother’s festivity tomorrow evening. It may not have the size you are surely used to as a prince of the crown, but Baratheon parties have never been known to be dull.”
Valarr looked almost surprised at your blunt invitation. It was bold after all, to simply offer a future heir to the Iron Throne to stray from his own family to join a festivity in another house’s tent. “My lady, I am not sure-“
Other’s would have surely lost their tongues for what you did, but you sensed the prince was not exactly sensitive in these types of matters. So you cut him off.
“Oh, nonsense.” you retorted, waving him off. “I mean no offense, your highness, but all those princely duties surely must be exhausting. Take my word for it, a night filled with music and good company does wonders to one’s mind.”
“And I take it by good company, you mean your company, my lady?” he returned, an almost teasing tint to his tone as the corner of his lips twitched up once more.
“Yes, I do actually.” you responded confidently. “Now, I must go before my brother sends out a search party for me. Yet, just know I intend not to pressure you to attend. However, consider yourself kindly invited to join. And that a certain lady would be delighted to encounter you there.”
“Good night, my prince.” you gave him another smirk before turning on your heel and leaving back down the way you’d originally come from. What you didn’t see was that the prince remained rooted in his place for much longer than it was necessary, staring as you disappeared from his line of sight. And even then, he did not move for several minutes, eyes fixed on the spot where you’d vanished around the corner of a tent.
The following night, you were seated beside Lyonel once more as the tent started filling up more and more. You sipped on your cup of wine, eyes trailing to the entrance of the tent ever so often in the hopes of a certain prince entering.
For a while, your brother was otherwise occupied with talking to various of his lordly friends, but your almost longing gazes towards the tent-entrance did not go unnoticed by him. He brushed it off at first, you were quite the interesting fellow at times. Yet when almost an hour into his festivity, you still had barely taken your eyes off the flaps, he’d had enough.
He leaned over in his seat until his head was almost right next to yours.
“What exactly is it you’re searching for, sister?” he asked, curiosity lacing his tone.
You jumped lightly in your seat, clearly not having expected your brother’s voice so close to your ear. “Seven hells, Lyonel.” you breathed out, followed by a string of curses as you calmed your now rapidly beating heart. Lyonel remained silent, patiently waiting.
“I am waiting for someone. I invited him yesterday.” you eventually answered his initial question.
“You- Him? Who did you invite?” Lyonel returned, almost bewildered. You weren’t a stranger to social interactions. He knew you to be quite the outgoing person, in fact. Yet it came to a great surprise to him that you would willingly invite a man to this gathering. Especially knowing what the whole point of this tourney was for you.
“I am not even sure if he will come. He seemed a bit hesitant.” was what you said in response, eyes focusing back on where more people entered and intentionally avoiding his question.
Lyonel’s head tilted in slight disbelief as he started at side of your head in silence for a few seconds. “Dear sister. Am I understanding right that you’ve been staring at the entrance of this tent like a lovesick fool for the past hour for a man you’re not even sure will even come?”
You pursed your lips as you turned your head to look at your brother. “Well, if you put it that way, it sounds rather pathetic.”
Lyonel was just about to say more when you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. Glancing towards the threshold of the tent once more, you fully expected to be disappointed, again. Yet, this time a familiar head of brown hair ducked his way into the main hall of the tent, the silver strands on the side unmistakable.
A smile broke out onto your face as you moved to stand up from your chair. “Ah, there he is.” you exclaimed happily. Lyonel’s face blanked as he caught sight of who the literal man of the hour was. He mentally congratulated you. You’d just managed to achieve what many attempted yet always failed to do.
You’d rendered him absolutely speechless.
When he’d finally regained his senses, his hand shot out of curl in your sleeve, stopping you from waltzing off with two cups of wine in your hands. “You invited a crown prince?” he hissed. “This is who’s had you so dumbstruck the whole evening?”
You nodded, as if your were talking about something as trivial such as dinner. “Yes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, brother. I have to welcome my guest.” Pulling your arm out of his grip, leaving the table into the direction of the prince. Lyonel remained dumbfounded in his chair. “Unbelievable.” he muttered under his breath, his eyes never once leaving you as you approached the Targaryen.
Valarr had made it barely a few steps into the main hall of the tent when you arrived at his side. “You came.” you said, a smile on your face as you looked up at him. He returned the expression, gratefully accepting the cup you were holding out for him to take. “I couldn’t have left the lady undelighted in my absence, now could I?”
You huffed out a breath, something akin to a laugh. “Is that teasing I hear, your highness?”
“Possibly.” he returned.
“Well, feel free to keep on doing it. It suits you. Mayhaps not always at my expense?”
“I will make sure to keep that in mind.”
You led him back over to the table where you’d kept an empty chair beside you, just in case. Coming to a stop behind the seats, you laid a hand on your brother’s shoulder to get his attention, not that it had been anywhere else ever since you’d gone to greet Valarr.
“May I introduce, my elder brother. Lord Lyonel Baratheon.”
Lyonel rose from his seat, a tight-lipped smile on his face as he shot you a gaze that clearly said We will talk about this later.
“An honour to meet you, your highness. My sister has been so kind as to inform me she’s invited you today. I was most delighted.” he lied, for the sake of politeness. Had it been up to him, the dragon prince would not have set foot near this tent.
The rest of that introduction went by rather well, albeit slightly tense.
Valarr eventually took a seat next to you. Neither of you had taken notice of it at first, but as he now had the chance to take a look around the tent, he saw that most eyes were firmly trained on him. You could tell that it clearly made him mildly uncomfortable, to have so any eyes on him in a rather small space.
You sighed in annoyance, standing up once more as the chair scratched over the floor behind you slightly. “Stop gaping, you idiots. It’s almost as if you’ve never seen a prince before.” You exclaimed. “Get back to your plates and drinks. This is a festivity, not an exhibition.”
Your words seemed effective, as all the people in the tent – now quite flustered at having been caught staring so bluntly, averted their eyes. You sat back down, turning to look at Valarr, who’s head was already tilted in your direction. He seemed impressed. “Thank you.” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. You nodded in return, giving him a smile.
The dinner itself went by rather smoothly, nothing out of the extraordinary. And as it always was in the Baratheon tent, after dining came dancing. Your brother, now rather unaffected by the prince’s presence, had left the table already to go and join the dancing crowd.
You’d stayed next to Valarr, who clearly seemed to not quite know what to do with himself. “Dancing not your cup of tea?” you asked him, tilting your head in curiosity.
“Not really.” he shook his head ever so slightly, taking another sip from his cup of wine, which still had contents from when you’d first given it to him earlier in the evening. You hummed in acknowledgement, craning your head to look around you a few times – to make sure no one was watching you.
When you were sure that no watchful eyes were trained on the two of you, you took ahold of his wrist, getting out of your fur-lined chaise. “Come on. I have a better idea.” you nodded your head into a different direction, urging him to get up and follow you. You led him towards the back of the tent, where you pulled a loose flap to the side, ushering him out of the tent while ensuring that no one had noticed.
You slipped out right after him, once more grabbing onto his wrist and quite literally dragging him with you. You walked through the terrain in between the tents, making sure to avoid any of the main paths. “Where are we going?” you heard Valarr ask from behind you. “You will see, my prince.” you shot over your shoulder, making another sharp turn and walking uphill through a thick section of trees, eventually reaching a clearing on top of the small hill.
From here, you could see almost the entirety of Ashford Meadow, the fields now lit up by all the lanterns and the tents which littered the terrain. And especially now, at night, it was an even more beautiful sight. Everything was pitch black except Ashford Meadow, illuminated by the gathering of so many houses. It was so full of life, yet so peaceful from up here, where the music could not be heard.
“Beautiful view, is it not?” you asked, turning to look at Valarr, who was still taking in the sight.
He nodded. “Beautiful indeed.” he pondered for a few moments, before turning his head in your direction. “Why did you bring me here, my lady?” he asked what had been on his mind ever since you all but ushered him out of the Baratheon tent.
You lowered yourself onto the grass, not caring about dirtying up your clothes. “We are alone, I’d prefer for you to simply call me Y/N, my prince.”
He took a seat on the grass next to you, nodding in response to your words. “Well then, Y/N, it is Valarr to you.” he returned the sentiment.
“To answer your question, Valarr, I could tell that you weren’t feeling all too well back in the tent. After you confirmed by suspicion that dancing was not something you enjoyed – an atrocity, by the way – I came to the conclusion that you do not seem to be fond of such festivities in general.” you explained your observations, a teasing glint in your eye as you called his distaste for dancing an atrocity.
“I am not. Not really.” he confirmed your suspicion.
“Then why did you come? I said there was no pressure. And I can assure you I would not have spoken ill of you, had you decided not to attend.” you returned in genuine curiosity.
“I wished to see you.”
Now you were the speechless one.
He cleared his throat, shuffling slightly in his place as if to search for the right words.
“When you walked up to me last night, or well, into me,” he gave you a pointed look, to which you sighed. “You will not let me live this down, will you?”
“Under no circumstances ever. Anyway, you conversed with me more or less as if we were commoners, rather than a lady of Storm’s End and a future king.” he paused. “It was refreshing. And I quite enjoyed your sense of humour. I wished to talk to you again.”
You smiled at him, his words filling you with warmth. Most of your life, you’d only heard that you were too unladly-like, too much, too loud, too bold. The list could go on. It was not becoming of a lady of your status to behave like you did. You never shied away from a fight, discussion or from a good cup of wine – or three. You did not refrain from making your opinion known, no matter what the topic may be. This was something a lot of people in court did not know how to handle. And they did not appreciate it either. An outspoken woman was almost as bad as a lost war to the self-esteem of men. The only one who had never truly judged you was your brother, Lyonel. But he did not care for propriety as such in general. Therefore, hearing Valarr, a man – a highborn at that – tell you that it were exactly those things that drew him to you was a good feeling.
And it seemed that your attitude in his presence made him feel a similar type of way. He was used to always have people bow before him and talk to him with utmost respect. Which would not exactly be a bad thing, would that respect not stem from mostly fear. The Targaryens were a family whose reputation certainly exceeded them. The madness that was said to flow through their veins left many frightened. They were either feared, or hated. Outside of his own family, he had no one that dared to talk eye-to-eye with him, without the constant reminder that he was a prince of the crown looming over his head. So having you, a lady of high becoming, talk with him as though you were friends that had known each other for years, gave him a much needed change from who he needed to be every other day.
“Well, for what it is worth, I am glad you came. I quite liked your company as well.” you replied softly.
A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you stared ahead, taking in the life and bustle of the meadow below, the calmness up here a stark yet appreciated contrast. It was then, that a certain moment from last night sprang back into your mind.
“Say, Valarr, yesterday you muttered something. Right after I so ungraciously bumped into you.” you started, turning to look at him once again. “If I heard correctly, it was not the common tongue. What was it that you said?”
He looked confused at first, before you could practically watch the realization wash over his – now flushed – face.
“Oh- uhm… that is of no importance.” he muttered, trying to wave you off. For obvious reasons, this only made you more curious.
You sat up straighter, pointing at him accusingly. “Oh no. Just by walking into you like a blind donkey I’ve given you more than enough material to tease me with for practically all eternity. And you are already using it to your advantage, might I add. I would go as far as to say you owe me this, princeling. I would very much like to know what you said about me, in a foreign language at that.”
Your words may have come across as rude, but the slight grin on your face made it clear that you were not truly offended by him. He still troubled with letting his “prince-persona” fall like an armour removed from his body. But it seemed that your less than courteous and proper attitude wonderfully cracked through his façade.
He swatted at your finger, which was still pointing at him. “Princeling? Now that is bold, coming from – what did you call yourself? A blind donkey?” he retorted, his voice breaking into a laugh towards the end as you stared back at him, stunned.
“And as for what I said; the word was ‘gevie’. It is High Valyrian. The language of my ancestors.”
Your expression turned deadpan, unimpressed. “Well, I could have guessed that.” you replied, exasperated. “But what does that word mean?”
His grin turned smug as he simply shrugged in response. Rolling your eyes, you nudged his shoulder harshly with your hand, though the shove did not do much to move him. It only seemed to amuse him further.
“You are horrible. Truly horrible, do you know that?” you asked him.
“And here I thought you just said you enjoyed my company.” Valarr drawled, giving you a pointed look.
You shrugged. “I take it back, then.”
Now it was his turn to look stunned. “Take it back? You cannot just take it back.”
“Of course I can. I just did.” you scoffed.
You both stared at each other, expressions feigning seriousness, until you both broke into gentle laughter.
When you’d caught your breath, your eyes strayed to Valarr again. “Will you truly not tell me what g- whatever it is that you said means?” you asked, voice softer this time, void of the teasing tone from before.
His eyes turned gentle as he gazed at you with quiet fondness. “It means beautiful.” he gave your long-awaited answer, his voice barely above a whisper.
Your eyes remained trained on his mismatched ones as you were at a loss for words, utterly unsure how to reply to this.
Valarr did not give you the chance.
“I was exhausted from the joust. Therefore when you bumped into me, I was more than ready to curse you out. As you were, from what it seemed.” he paused as his eyes roamed over your face like it had done the day before. “But when I looked at you, everything I initially wished to say was forgotten.”
The tiniest smile twitched into your lips, uncharacteristically shy for you. “So the only thing you managed to say was beautiful?” you asked, barely audible.
A breathless and flustered chuckle escaped him as he nodded. “Yes. And as it seems, I forgot the common tongue altogether, given the word was said in High Valyrian.”
You stayed silent for a few moments, pondering over what to say next. You had never expected that seeking him out yesterday would lead to a conversation such as this. You weren’t in awe because you were currently sitting out on a field with a future king, in the dead of night. Something which would be considered highly inappropriate. You weren’t in awe because the future king of Westeros – a Targaryen prince – had called you beautiful. You were in awe because it was him – Valarr – who had said it, who was sitting here with you. His title did not matter to you in the slightest. You had known that he was arguably the most handsome man you’d ever seen before you even knew who he was. That he was a prince of the crown had changed nothing, better or worse.
“Just so you know,” you broke the silence. “When you first rode onto the lists yesterday, I am pretty sure I forgot how to speak for a few moments as well.”
For a reason you could not quite make out, because look at him, this seemed to surprise him. “You did?”
You chuckled. “Of course. I accompanied by brother to this tourney because I am due to find a suitor. For the past two days, I’ve dealt with nothing but old and arrogant lords who believe themselves to be above everyone else. Lords who boist an brag to show me how great they are so they can achieve the status of marrying a Baratheon. They make me want to retch, quite honestly.” you paused. “But then you came riding into the lists. Quiet, focused. Not looking for attention. I already liked that about you. And I was too busy staring at you like a simpering mutt to take a look at the crest on your armour. Up until I heard someone say your name behind me, I did not even know who you were. But I knew I wanted to talk to you. So I did. Regardless of your name.”
“I do not think anyone has ever truly seen past my family name and what it means. I cannot express how glad I am that you did.” Valarr responded, his hand inching closer to where yours laid on the ground to steady yourself, until his pinky brushed against yours.
As your conversation faded into silence, you tilted your head back to look up at the sky, void of clouds and littered with stars.
“You know,” you began. “As a child, I used to spend every night staring up past my assigned bed time, staring out at the stars from my window.”
“As did I.” Valarr responded, following your gaze into the sky. “There is something soothing about it. I think as I got older, I lost touch with the calm that it brought me.”
“Do you know a lot about stars, Valarr?” you asked him.
“No.” he shook his head. “I would have loved to know more, but all the time I really had was spent reading about my family’s legacy and what would await me once I ascended the throne.”
You hummed in response, letting him know you’d heard him.
Then you went ahead and spent what was probably the better part of the next few hours explaining everything you had read about stars during your childhood to him. You pointed out several constellations you remembered from the endless pages of parchment, telling him what each of them represented and meant.
While others may have grown bored of it after a while, Valarr hung onto your every word, interrupting you with questions whenever there was something he did not quite understand or that he wished to know more about. And whenever your voice faded into silence, unsure whether he still wanted to hear more, he’d mutter a soft. “Tell me more… please.”
It was in the very early hours of the morning, when the stars you’d talked so much about slowly started to disappear, that the two of your realised you’d been out here the entire night.
“We should head back, most likely.” Valarr spoke up, yawning slightly as he stood back up. You’d been awake the whole night, after all.
You heaved yourself up as well, gladly using his extended hand as aid to get on your feet. “We should.” you agreed, yet neither of you moved, your hand still in his.
“Yeah.” the word came out as nothing more than a faint breath as his eyes flickered between your own and your lips, before ultimately settling on the latter. You returned the sentiment, a ragged breath slipping past your parted lips.
You glanced up at his eyes once more, seeing them still firmly trained on your mouth. With another shaky breath you raised your free hand to rest on the side of his neck, fingers curling around the back, before you leaned up and connected your lips to his.
It was almost uncertain at first, until he relaxed against you, his lips beginning to move against yours. The hand that engulfed yours let go, instead coming to rest on the side of your face as he pulled you closer against him, his lips never once leaving yours. Your arms ultimately wound themselves around his neck, leaving no space between the two of you.
After what felt like an eternity and yet not nearly long enough, you parted for air. When Valarr had somewhat caught his breath, he breathed against your lips: “This is highly inappropriate.”
You chuckled, a breathless sound. “Do you regret it?”
“No.” his response came instantly as he kissed you once more, this one shorter and more timid.
“Good.” you muttered into the kiss before returning it.
The two of you had ultimately, albeit unwillingly, parted ways with a solemn Until we meet again. Unfortunately, you hadn’t had another chance to have even one moment with him for the rest of the tourney, much to your dismay.
Now, a moon later, you were sat in the dining hall of Storm’s End – enjoying your breakfast – as your brother came literally storming in with a roll of parchment in his hand.
“Sist- Ah, there you are.” he had already started shouting in his typical demeanour before catching sight of you. “A raven has just arrived.”
You swallowed a bite of your food, raising an eyebrow. “And?”
“It is a marriage proposal.”
You groaned, falling back into your seat. “This is what? The third one this week? Why are you even still informing me about these? They’ve all been horrendous, thus far.”
A smug grin etched onto Lyonel’s face as he pointed the roll of parchment at you. “Ah, ah. I think you will quite like this one, sister. This one is from King’s Landing. Prince Valarr Targaryen asks for your hand.”
You choked on the sip of your drink you were taking, breaking into a coughing fit as your brother approached and clapped you on the back a few times. “Aye, maybe I should have waited for you to swallow.”
“You think?” you croaked out, slowly gaining back your ability to breathe.
“And this is not a joke?” you asked, a hopeful glint in your eyes.
Lyonel placed the opened roll of parchment in front of you on the table. “There, read it yourself.”
You did, and oh.
Oh.
He certainly was not lying.
You cleared your throat, containing yourself. “I assume we will not deny such an offer?” you asked.
Lyonel only gave you a pointed look in response. “Do not take me for a fool, Y/N. You think I did not notice you sneaking out of the tent with the prince hot on your heels back in Ashford? And do not even get me started on that lovesick expression on your face once you returned – in the early morning, might I add.”
“I-“ you were just about to protest, but only sighed. “Alright, alright. I want to accept this proposal. Is that what you wish to hear?”
“Yes, thank you.” Lyonel replied, with a look that said Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?
He then sighed, loud and clearly overexaggerated as he leaned back into the backrest of the chair next to you.
“Unbelievable. My sister, a future queen of the seven kingdoms. Who would have thought? When even Lord Hightower did not want to take you as bride.”
You smacked the side of his arm in response to which he only laughed heartily.
“I am happy for you, for what it’s worth. I may not like the dragon-fellows, but from what I’ve heard, Valarr is a good man. And you seem to fancy him.” You gave him a small smile. “That I do.”
song: mad about you - toto
(this is one of my fav songs of all time and somehow using it for valarr felt right)
people that asked to be tagged: @randomgurl2326
To be Read later
Helaena Targaryen I love you so much my sweet girl 💙
Meet the oc
Elowyn Stark, firstborn daughter of Lord Torrhen Stark, was known throughout the North and whispered of even in the South for many things. For her sharp, unrepentant tongue and the bright red hair that marked her unmistakably as a Stark of old. For the white-and-grey dire wolf that followed her like a living shadow, silent and watchful, going wherever she went. For the trouble she delighted in causing, never content to be quiet, obedient, or small.
But most of all, Elowyn was known as the Wild Stark girl the one who refused to be tamed. The girl who ran faster than the boys, fought harder than she ought to have, and laughed when told to mind her place. The girl who, as a child, bloodied the young Prince Aerion’s nose with her fist and did not once apologize for it.
Some called her feral. Others called her fearless. Elowyn Stark did not care what they called her at all.
Vibes of the story
Enemies lovers
Arranged marriages
Elowyn doesn’t put up with anything
Slow burn-ish
Untamable FMC
Elowyn loves to bully and humble Aerion if they don’t end up together then they’d be friends and she’d make his life miserable
Pick an SO
Valarr
Daeron
Baelor
Aerion
My box
Landoscar cracks me up
