Daeron the Drunken Dreamer [Original Art]
"Not that I ever asked to have my honor redeemed. Whoever has it can keep it, so far as I'm concerned. Still, here we are. For what it's worth, Ser Duncan, you have little to fear from me."
What begins as polite professionalism, but slowly turns into late-night conversations and unexpected friendship—and when he finally finds comfort in her presence, the lines between duty, trust, and something deeper begin to blur.
Word Count: 6.3k
[Chapter 4/5]
Mostly angst and agony in this chapter. Pressure hitting the two from everywhere. Both are in denial, not sure what they're exactly feeling yet.
The news of Valarr’s engagement moved quickly—first through private family calls, then through the wider web of executives, partners, and investors who treated personal milestones as corporate signals. Daeron heard it within the hour; she saw it online before breakfast, the announcement already polished for public approval.
By Monday, it was common knowledge. By lunch, it was commentaries around the office.
Valarr—the golden son, the heir of the heir, so disciplined, never a crease in his shirt—had done exactly what was expected. He had chosen carefully and advantageously. The match pleased their grandfather, reassured their father, and satisfied a board that preferred predictability over passion. It looked less like romance and more like strategy executed flawlessly. At the office, congratulations were offered to Daeron as though the engagement were a shared victory.
“Must be nice,” a senior manager remarked, clapping his shoulder in the corridor. “The family’s really consolidating. This kind of merger? Strong signal.”
“Your generation’s settling in,” another observed over lunch. “Time flies. Can’t believe your generation is of age.”
On paper, they were. Daeron’s division was outperforming projections. Retention rates were steady, audits clean, margins healthier than forecast. A year ago, his department had been nothing but an afterthought padded with interns and whispered accusations of nepotism. Now it is structured, efficient, and respected. His leadership was understated but still very effective; he ran meetings without theatrics, corrected mistakes without humiliation, and rewarded initiative without drawing attention to himself.
And beside him, constant and capable, was his associate.
They moved through presentations in seamless coordination, anticipating each other’s adjustments, closing gaps before they formed—earned through long hours and unspoken understanding. It looked like a partnership in its most functional form.
From the outside, it looked like success.
From the outside, it looked like balance.
From the outside, it looked like a man fully in control of his trajectory.
So when his father summoned him on Wednesday evening, Daeron assumed the conversation would circle back to Valarr. The timing made it inevitable. The official announcement had been distributed that morning; congratulatory emails were still filtering through company channels. Senior executives had been exchanging knowing glances all day. The air itself seemed to hum with the implication of what’s next.
The office was dim when he entered, softened by lamplight and the blurred reflection of traffic against the glass. A half-finished whisky sat near the edge of the desk. His father stood by the shelves, reviewing a thin folder with deliberate patience.
“You’ve seen the announcement,” he said without looking up.
“Yes. I already congratulated him.”
“Good.”
The folder closed. Only then did his father turn, assessing him with the same careful scrutiny he gave financial statements.
“You’ve done well this year,” he said. “Your numbers are strong. The board is beginning to rely on you.”
“I try to earn that.”
“You have,” his father replied evenly. “You’re steady. Disciplined. Focused. You’ve built something sustainable. You don’t invite chaos into your work. You don’t let emotion interfere with judgment.”
The praise was methodical, almost clinical. Daeron felt a subtle tightening in his chest—not discomfort, exactly, but awareness. Approval from his father was rare, and never casual.
“I’m glad you see it that way,” he answered.
There was history in his words and expectations of Daeron and his younger siblings. His father had spent much of his youth measured against an elder brother who excelled without visible effort. Every achievement had existed in comparison. Every success had been framed as second. Even now, decades later, there remained a quiet, stubborn resolve in him: his sons would not stand in anyone’s shadow the way he once had. They would not be footnotes to their cousins. They would not be outpaced by their uncle’s line.
It was not resentment, not exactly. It was something more complicated—an old, unextinguished desire to prove that he, too, could build something superior. That his branch would not merely match the other, but surpass it. Valarr’s engagement was a triumph, yes—but it was also a benchmark. And benchmarks demanded answers.
“I believe you’re ready,” his father said at last.
“Ready for what?”
“A proper engagement.”
The words spoken were calm, almost gentle. Daeron couldn’t exactly place whether it was more scary to him or should it make him feel more at ease.
“One that reflects your standing in this company and in this family, son,” he continued. “You’re no longer the young man trying to find his footing. People follow you. They measure themselves against you. Your private life should reinforce that stability.”
Daeron remained still, his expression neutral by habit.
“There are families who have expressed interest,” his father added. “Educated. Well-connected. Daughters raised to understand partnership. Some are, granted, not as ambitious. But they ares sensible matches. Strategic ones.”
“I see,” Daeron said quietly.
“You’ve earned this,” his father concluded, voice softening by a fraction. “Valarr has taken his place. Now you take yours.”
Nothing about it was framed as pressure. It was presented as progression—orderly, inevitable. He did not tell her that night.
The next morning, when they returned to the office, everything appeared unchanged. They revised projections together before noon, leaning over the same spreadsheets and trading quiet observations the way they always had. They debated a pricing model before lunch, their disagreement gentle and precise, more refinement than conflict. Later, in a review meeting, they sat side by side and presented their conclusions with such unity that no one interrupted them even once.
She noticed the difference anyway.
He was quieter than usual—not withdrawn, not cold, nothing that could be named without sounding unreasonable. He still listened when she spoke. He still held doors, still asked for her thoughts in meetings, still rested his hand briefly at the small of her back when passing in narrow corridors. But a fraction of his attention seemed elsewhere, as though part of him remained fixed on something just out of reach.
When she asked if he was tired, he gave her an easy smile and said he was fine. When she suggested rescheduling dinner, sensing the subtle lag in his responses, he shook his head gently and told her there was no need. And yet something felt faintly misaligned—like a melody they both knew by heart, now shifted half a step off key.
Just before lunch, she watched him pour himself a drink in his office. Not much—just enough to cover the bottom of the glass. He did it absentmindedly, as though it were part of the routine of reviewing documents. He did not offer an explanation, and she did not ask for one. He finished it quickly. After lunch, he poured another.
Later that afternoon, near the printers, two colleagues lowered their voices as she approached. The shift was immediate—conversation clipped mid-sentence, eyes briefly avoiding hers before snapping back with polite neutrality. She felt the small, unmistakable tightening in her stomach.
He did not react.
If he heard, he gave no indication. He continued walking beside her, discussing timelines and deliverables in the same calm cadence, as though nothing in the air had changed. As though silence had not thickened behind them.
By then, the rumors had sharpened. They no longer drifted carelessly through corridors; they gathered in corners, took on structure, attached themselves to names. Speculations became suggestions, and suggestions edged toward assumptions.
And without fully realizing it, she now stood at the quiet center of two forming storms—one building within the office walls, the other rising inside his family—each gaining force, each moving steadily, inevitably, toward the other.
One afternoon, between meetings, she slipped into the break room to refill her coffee and answer a message on her phone. The room was quiet, lit by fluorescent panels and humming softly with the sound of machines. Two juniors stood near the counter, their bodies angled toward each other, their voices lowered in the unconscious posture of people sharing something private.
“I heard Legal flagged something,” one of them murmured, glancing briefly toward the door.
“About who?” the other asked.
“You know,” came the hesitant reply. “Daeron’s associate.”
There was a brief pause, followed by a small, uneasy laugh.
“Flagged what?”
“Conflict of interest. Or… perception of it. Something like that.”
“That’s ridiculous,” the second person said, though her tone lacked conviction.
“Is it?” the first replied quietly. “I mean, they’re always together. Late nights. Dinners. Just the two of them, you know.”
The coffee machine finished whirring beside her, the sound suddenly and absurdly loud in the small room.
“They say his father’s asking questions,” the first voice continued. “About whether she’s … appropriate. Long-term.”
“Appropriate?”
“You know. For his future.”
The conversation went quiet when they noticed her standing there. Too late.
Their smiles came too quickly, too brightly. One of them muttered an excuse and hurried out. The other pretended to become absorbed in her phone, and neither met her eyes. She poured her coffee in silence, and thanked them politely before she walked out.
She did not cry in the hallway. She did not falter in her next meeting. She did not go looking for him or demand an explanation. Not because she was strong, and not because she was unaffected—but because she did not yet know what, exactly, she was meant to ask, or when she was supposed to ask it, or if she was supposed to ask anything. Everything felt too blurred, too uncertain, too fragile to touch without risking something she was not ready to name.
Instead, she returned to her desk. She finished her reports and answered her emails. She corrected an error in a budget forecast and responded to messages with the same politeness and warmth, and nodded in meetings at exactly the right moments.
By the time Daeron noticed that she had grown distant, she had already learned how to hide it. By the time he reached for her in the small, familiar ways he always had, she had already built a wall around it.
He heard it days later, from Valarr of all people. They stepped out through the spill of warm light and fading conversation, the doors closing behind them as the laughter from inside dulled into a distant hum. Gravel crunched beneath their shoes as they crossed the parking lot. Partway to the cars, Valarr slowed his stride and deliberately fell into step beside him. He adjusted his cuffs, cleared his throat, and cast a sideways glance that lingered a second too long.
“You doing alright?” he asked, too casually.
“Fine,” Daeron replied at once, without breaking his stride.
Valarr hesitated, then shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back slightly on his heels, exhaling through his nose. “I’m not supposed to say anything,” he muttered.
Daeron stopped walking almost immediately, to Valarr’s grimace. “Which means I’m going to say it badly.”
“There’s talk,” Valarr said, choosing each word with care. “At home. And elsewhere. About you,” Valarr answered carefully. “And your associate.”
The impact was immediate. Daeron did not move; he did not blink. For a moment, he simply stared ahead as if the words had not quite landed. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight as wire. “What about her?”
Valarr shifted his weight again, gaze skimming over the dark rows of parked cars. “People think you’re… attached. In ways that might complicate things.”
A short, humorless breath escaped Daeron. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Valarr’s tone lowered. “I told them it was nonsense. That you’re professional. That she’s competent.”
“And?” The single word snapped.
“They said that’s what everyone says.”
The muscle in Daeron’s cheek worked visibly. “Who said this?”
Valarr hesitated. “Father’s heard it. The others too. No one’s accusing you outright. Just … wondering if she’s influencing you. If you’re distracted.” Valarr faltered, then finished quietly, “If she fits.”
Daeron let out a sharp, empty laugh. “Fits,” he repeated flatly. He straightened, shoulders squaring as something defensive and resolute settled into place. “She’s the best associate I’ve ever had. She keeps my division afloat half the time. She works harder than anyone. She’s more qualified than half the people they praise.”
“I know,” Valarr said quickly. “I’m on your side.”
“Then why are you telling me this?”
“I just wanted you to know first.”
The next evening, his father invited him for a private drink after dinner—surely, it’s not gonna be about work. The absence of formality was definitely intentional, but Daeron accepted, followed him into the study, and closed the door behind them. Near the shelves, Maekar occupied a chair, several papers in hand, though he did not turn a single page. Daeron remained standing a moment longer before sitting opposite him, both hands resting on his knees.
“You’re very loyal,” his father said abruptly.
Daeron lifted his gaze only briefly before lowering it again, his eyes settling on the amber liquid in his father’s glass. The light caught the surface each time it shifted, gold folding into gold. He focused on that instead of the words.
“To certain people,” his father continued.
Daeron did not move. His back remained straight, shoulders squared in the careful posture drilled into him since childhood. He could feel the familiar tightening beneath his ribs—not surprise nor shame, but more of an anger pressed thin and flat so it would not show.
“You rely on her,” his father went on calmly. “She is present in nearly every decision. It invites interpretation.”
“People are already interpreting,” Maekar added. “You know that.”
The fire cracked softly. Daeron’s gaze drifted, unbidden, to the sideboard where another bottle sat untouched. He could almost taste it already the burn, the quieting of noise, the brief mercy of it. His jaw tightened. Not here. Not now.
“No one questions her competence,” his father said. “But suitability is another matter. She is not a partner. Not someone whose position aligns with where you are going.”
Where you are going. Leadership. Marriage. Legacy. The path had been drawn for him long before he understood it. Daeron listened as he always had—respectfully, without interruption—even as his thoughts churned hard and fast beneath the still surface.
“You were not raised to blur lines,” his father continued. “Attachment complicates judgment.”
Attachment. The word struck sharper than it should have. Daeron’s fingers curled once against his knee before he forced them still. He kept his gaze lowered, fixed stubbornly on the drinks instead of meeting either of his father’s eyes. If he looked up, something might show.
Maekar watched him closely. “It looks like influence, Daeron.”
That almost drew a reaction. Almost. His pulse ticked in his throat. Influence. As though he were weak. As though he could not choose clearly.
“If there is perception,” his father said evenly, “it will become reality soon enough. You cannot afford that.”
Silence pressed in. Daeron’s mind raced ahead of him—arguments assembling and dismantling themselves, defenses rising sharp and indignant inside him. She has never asked for anything. She works harder than anyone. You are wrong. The words burned at the back of his tongue. But he had never defied his father. He drew a slow breath, steadying himself, eyes still fixed on the glass.
“She has never asked me for anything.”
“She does her work,” he added. “That is all.”
“You’re defensive,” Maekar observed, only after two short sentences from his son.
The anger flared again and for a heartbeat Daeron imagined standing, imagining saying something unforgivable, and storms out of the room. Instead, his eyes dropped once more to the amber glow in the glass, to the promise of forgetting waiting only a room away. He did not say more. He did not need to.
But as the conversation moved on without him, his mind remained fixed on the bottle — and on how easy it would be, later that night, to stop thinking altogether.
Of course Daeron did not tell her any of it. Not the rumors. Not Valarr’s warning in the parking lot. Not his father’s measured dissection of “suitability.” Instead, he adjusted. He began arriving earlier to meetings and leaving later, ensuring she was never alone under scrutiny. He interrupted more quickly when someone challenged her recommendations. He cited her data before presenting conclusions, credited her by name, redirected praise toward her work with deliberate precision. He stood a fraction closer when conversations turned pointed. He watched who watched them. The protection was subtle and strategic, in the ways that he knows how to.
It only sharpened the attention, making the eyes lingered longer. Snarky comments came wrapped in humor, her proposals were dissected twice over. And she, sensing the shift without knowing its source, recalibrated in return. She stopped lingering in his doorway, kept physical distance in conference rooms, limited their one-on-one discussions to glass-walled spaces. Her tone slowly grew formal. She began declining small invitations—coffee, working lunches, late revisions side by side. She told herself it was caution. Told herself she would not be the reason his world tightened around him.
Neither of them realized the line had already shifted.
At Friday dinner at Daeron’s grandfather’s place, it began as a suggestion rather than instruction.
Aunt Jena, passing a porcelain dish across the table, mentioned the daughter of an old family friend who had “just returned from abroad,” her tone warm with deliberate approval. The girl, she said, had studied in The Reach and moved comfortably in diplomatic circles. Aunt Aelinor added that she was socially astute, the sort who remembered names and never misplaced them. Dyanna did not say much at first, but her gaze lingered on Daeron a fraction longer than usual as she refilled his glass. Even Maekar joined the chorus once, pouring tea as he remarked that it would not hurt to think long-term.
Daeron deflected each time with the same measured restraint. Work was demanding, the quarter was closing, expansion required focus, everything he could think of. He wasn’t interested. No one argued with him. No one contradicted him openly. They simply nodded, patient and composed, and let the topic settle—only to raise it again the following week, softer but closer.
Eventually, the suggestion turned into an arrangement. A reservation was made. A date was fixed. A name was spoken without further preamble.
Doreen Martell.
The restaurant chosen for the occasion was expensive in a way that pretended not to be. The lighting was soft and warm, the white tablecloths pressed with no crease, the waitstaff are discreet and wordless. The skyline shimmered beyond tall windows, distant and ornamental. Everything about the space signaled refinement without ever appearing to try.
She was undeniably beautiful, her dark hair styled flawlessly, her jewelry subtle but unmistakably costly. When the sommelier approached, she did not glance at the menu. Instead, she ordered a Dornish red by vineyard and vintage, adding lightly that it was “stored properly here, unlike in most places.” The comment was delivered with an easy confidence that drew approving smiles from his relatives.
She knew the right names. The right events. The right way to reference them.
Conversation flowed from her effortlessly. Doreen spoke of embassy galas, of charity boards, of weekends spent at coastal estates. She mentioned mutual acquaintances whose reputations carried weight in the room, slipping their names into sentences with casual precision. Each anecdote landed exactly where it should.
“And of course,” she added at one point with a soft laugh, “I’ve always believed partnerships work best when families understand one another’s expectations.”
She laughed often. Too often.
Even his most neutral responses were met with a bright, lilting giggle, as though he had offered something charming instead of factual. When he answered briefly about his division’s recent performance, she tilted her head and called him modest. When he nodded rather than elaborated, she filled the silence with another story, another name, another achievement.
There was nothing technically wrong with her conversation. In fact, it was flawless. That was the problem.
As she continued speaking, his attention began to drift without permission. He found himself noticing the cadence of her laughter, the careful way she complimented his father’s legacy, the precision in her posture. Everything about her was curated.
His ‘associate’ would never say it like this, he thought, the comparison arriving uninvited. She would not name-drop. She would not giggle at something that is not funny nor silly. She would not praise him so openly. If she complimented him at all, it was usually followed by a correction.
She never flatters me like this. She just tells me when I’m wrong.
The contrast irritated him more than it should have.
He reached for his whiskey.
The first glass burned sharply, grounding him in the moment. Doreen continued, describing a recent fundraising gala and how she had navigated seating arrangements to avoid offending rival donors. She leaned slightly closer as she spoke, perfume subtle but persistent, though slowly sickening him.
He asked for a second glass.
The room grew warmer. Conversation around the table blurred at the edges, he is not paying attention any longer. Someone remarked that the pairing seemed well matched though their nods and smiles. Doreen lowered her gaze modestly before meeting his eyes again.
He asked for a third glass.
By then, her voice had softened into background noise, pleasant but indistinct. He responded when addressed, and nodded when required. He believed the drinks allowed the evening to move forward without interruption. From the outside, it looked seamless.
Inside, he felt hollow.
It was not that she was unworthy. On the contrary, she was precisely what his family would want—intelligent, poised, socially fluent. She knew how to move through their world without friction.
And yet he felt as though he were drowning in performance. In expectation. In the relentless correctness of it all. When the dinner finally ended and he stepped into the cool night air, exhaustion settled over him in a way work never induced. The alcohol dulled the sharper edges of his frustration but could not erase the comparison that had taken root.
In the back of the car, city lights streaking past the window, one thought returned with quiet persistence. She would have hated this place. And she would have said so without apology.
By the time she saw the pictures on Monday, more than half the office already had.
Someone had zoomed in on the table setting. Someone else had commented on how “appropriate” the match looked. A merger of legacies, one message read, followed by a knowing emoji. In the corridor outside the conference rooms, conversations paused a fraction too long when she walked past.
She told herself it meant nothing.
They were friends.
Just friends.
She had no claim to irritation, no right to the sharp flicker in her chest when she saw the way he had leaned slightly forward in one photo, attentive in a way that looked—if one were inclined to read into it—intentional.
The girl looked composed. Elegant. Confident in the particular way of someone raised around power. She looked … cool.
And what did she expect? He was exactly the kind of man who would be seen in places like that, with women like that. Strategic. Suitable.
She repeated it until it sounded reasonable.
They were friends.
But the repetition began to fray at the edges. If there was nothing there, why did it feel like something had been displaced?
He had seen the photos too. He said nothing about them. If the whispers reached him, he absorbed them without visible reaction. That was his way—contain first, analyze later. Feeling required space, and lately he had none.
He would not admit, even privately, that the idea of her seeing those images unsettled him. That he had thought about it—briefly, sharply—before pushing the thought aside. He had enough on his mind without dissecting why the possibility of her misinterpreting the dinner irritated him more than the rumors themselves.
That evening, the office was nearly empty. The lights were dimmed across most of the floor; only a few offices glowed against the glass walls. The cleaners moved quietly between desks. Elevators chimed at long intervals, hollow in the quiet.
She remained at her desk, shoulders slightly hunched, scrolling through revisions on her tablet. He approached and stopped beside her.
“You’re still here,” he said softly.
“So are you.”
He hesitated. “Do you want to get dinner? The place downstairs is still open.”
Her stylus paused just a fraction too long.
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m behind.”
“You’ve been behind all week. You haven’t taken a break.”
“I’m fine.”
He studied her more closely now—the stiffness in her posture, the careful neutrality, even the formality in her Teams messages.
“You’ve been distant,” he said. “Did I do something?”
She looked up at that. There was almost a smile, almost a deflection. She could still retreat. Laugh it off. Congratulate him. Keep everything clean. Instead, fatigue won.
“I saw the pictures,” she said evenly.
His expression did not change, but something in him went alert. “I didn’t want to be there.”
“I know.”
“Then—”
“She seems…” She forced a small smile. “She seems cool. Really. Elegant. I heard she travels a lot.”
The word sense lingered between them like a boundary marker. He frowned slightly. “It wasn’t like that, I—”
“You don’t have to explain,” she cut in, too quickly. “We’re friends. You don’t owe me explanations.”
She heard the bitterness in her own voice and hated it. What right did she have to feel displaced? He was free to meet whoever he wanted. Free to sit in candlelit restaurants with daughters of powerful houses. Free to be photographed looking composed and compatible. She swallowed the rest.
“Congratulations, by the way” she added, softer now. “If that’s where this is heading.”
Something tightened in his jaw.
“It’s not—” He stopped himself, recalibrating—he wasn’t sure what it was. Obligation? Pressure? Duty? He had difficulty naming it, which made defending it harder. Thinking about how it made him feel required to confront too many other things at once—his father’s expectations, Valarr’s announcement, the weight of comparison, and a million other things that trails behind.
“It was dinner,” he said finally. “That’s all.”
“Of course,” she replied. The silence that followed was no longer neutral.
Across the floor, a vacuum hummed. The building settled into the night around them. Two people standing a careful distance apart, each pretending the distance had always been there. He had no immediate response.
The pause stretched a second too long, and in that space, she understood. Silence, sometimes, was clearer than denial. She did not press him to fill it. She let it stand. Whatever might have followed dissolved there, unspoken.
The next conversation never happened.
She did not confront him. She did not ask about the dinner, or the photographs, or the approving tone of the headlines that followed as if they had been waiting for confirmation. She did not mention Legal, or the way colleagues lowered their voices when she passed. She did not demand reassurance, explanation, or clarity.
She knew better than to speak too much. Instead, she adjusted.
The shift was subtle enough to avoid notice. She stopped lingering at his office door between meetings. Requests were routed through assistants instead of arranged in passing. She left at reasonable hours rather than staying beneath the same dim lights that once felt shared. In conference rooms, she addressed him with the same measured professionalism she extended to every other executive—polite, precise, appropriately distant.
If he noticed, he did not comment.
Perhaps he told himself this was equilibrium restoring itself. The word had been repeated often that week until it began to sound like wisdom. Perhaps he did not realize he had drawn the first faint line weeks earlier: when his attention began dividing itself; when pauses entered conversations that had once flowed easily; when plans were delayed until she had no time left to accept them; when part of him seemed perpetually elsewhere, preoccupied by expectations he could not name aloud.
He had not intended to create distance.
But she felt it all the same, so she stepped back. Lunches grew quieter, then different. She began sitting with other analysts and associates instead of slipping into the empty chair across from him between meetings. She gravitated toward those closer to her level—people whose ambitions were immediate and self-built, whose futures were determined by performance reviews rather than private dinners downtown.
That quarter, a new cohort joined their wing—bright and eager to prove themselves. Duncan asked thoughtful questions and listened as though every answer mattered. He took notes compulsively, even for details she considered obvious, his pen moving with earnest concentration she found unexpectedly endearing. Raymun was sharper, quicker with commentary, his blunt observations often earning a quiet, corrective nudge from Duncan on his arm before he could say too much.
She took time with them. She guided them through internal systems and unwritten rules—the politics of presentation order, the choreography of executive meetings, the subtle signals that determined who spoke and who stayed silent. She showed them where not to stand during reviews, when not to volunteer, how to survive their first performance evaluations without attracting the wrong kind of attention.
She even walked them through the better cafeterias on the upper floors, laughing lightly as she told them which stations were worth the price and which to avoid. There was something quietly satisfying in introducing fresh eyes to corridors she had long ago memorized. In watching their apprehension soften into familiarity. With them, her competence stood on its own. There was safety in that. She knew her place, and she figured that it is with her new friends.
There were rules in Daeron’s world—quiet, inherited rules. Families aligned strategically. Names carried expectation. Public appearances were curated. Dinners were seldom just dinners.
She could not compete with legacy. She would not even try. And yet it was complicated, because she had never meant to compete. She had believed they were friends. That had been the steady word. The safe one. Friends stayed late because the work demanded it. Friends trusted each other mid-sentence. Friends understood glances across a crowded room without needing explanation.
When had it shifted? When had she started noticing who stood too close to him at company events? When did a photograph begin to feel like displacement? When did approval in the press sound like a door quietly closing?
Jealousy felt childish. Defeat felt pathetic. So she named it neither.
Across the open floor, she laughed at something Raymun said—an easy, unguarded sound that carried farther than she realized. Duncan stood beside her desk with a draft model in hand, tall enough to cast a partial shadow over the screen as he leaned in. She shifted her chair closer to explain a correction, patient and composed, her expression open in a way it no longer was around him.
From his office, Daeron looked up at the familiar sound.
He told himself it was nothing. That this—this visible recalibration—was better. Cleaner. Appropriate. Something his father wouldn’t further comment on. This was what distance looked like when done properly. This was what professionalism required.
Still, his gaze lingered a fraction too long.
He recognized the sensation that followed, though he did not immediately name it. A tightening low in his chest. A quiet irritation that felt disproportionate to what he was seeing. He had known that feeling before—years ago, when achievements were announced at family dinners and comparisons were made with casual cruelty. When a cousin’s success was held up like a mirror and he was measured against it without mercy. That familiar burn of being displaced. Of being replaced in someone’s attention.
Daeron’s relatives stopped being subtle; Doreen’s name surfaced more often, woven deliberately into conversation. Casual mentions turned into pointed inquiries. Suggestions hardened into expectations. He felt the walls narrowing around him, choices shrinking, every path quietly redirected toward something already decided. And when Daeron felt cornered, he withdrew.
He told himself it wasn’t about her—that it was temporary, that he only needed space to think. But the change came all the same, gradual enough to excuse at first. He stopped stopping by her desk. He answered her messages later than usual, sometimes long after he’d read them. Their conversations shortened to essentials. Coffee invitations disappeared. Lunch became nonexistent—partly because he’s avoiding the eyes, partly because he no longer eats them. When she approached him, he remained polite, kind, attentive sometimes—but there was a thin layer of distance now, almost invisible, yet unmistakable.
From across the office, he watched her with the new friends. He saw her leaning against Duncan and Raymun’s shared cubicle, smiling at a story he couldn’t hear. He caught the sound of her laughter drifting down the hallway. He noticed how seamlessly she fit back among her peers, how easily the space he had once occupied closed without resistance. Something in his chest tightened. He told himself he had no right to feel that way; he was the one who had stepped back. So he swallowed it.
At first, it was small enough to excuse. He worked from home more often, citing off-site meetings or strategy calls. On the days he did come in, he arrived later than usual, loosening his tie as he walked in, offering quiet explanations about traffic or a restless night. No one questioned him. No one dared to.
But the rhythm was off. His office door stayed closed longer. The lights inside remained dim well into the morning. A glass appeared on his desk before noon—just one, he told himself. Something to take the edge off. By lunchtime, the bottle had shifted a few inches from where it had stood the day before.
He began missing small things. A figure misquoted in a report. A deadline extended without urgency. Emails left unanswered until someone else quietly followed up. Details that once would have caught his eye slipped past him unnoticed.
In the afternoons, the blinds would half-lower against the glare of the sun. His jacket draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled carelessly, he would lean back and close his eyes “for a moment.” The moment often stretched longer than intended. By three, he would rise, smoothen his suit, and leave the building quietly, as though the day had been productive.
The bottles in his cabinet emptied faster. Cleaning staff began replacing them more frequently, discreet and silent. The amber level dropped in uneven increments. The sharp scent of whiskey lingered faintly beneath the polished smell of wood and paper.
The old habits returned the way they always did—quietly, almost politely. A drink before lunch. One after. A dismissal of concern with a measured smile. A narrowing of his patience. A flicker of temper quickly contained. From the outside, he still looked functional. Still impeccably dressed. Still capable of delivering when pressed.
›
The plates had been cleared, the servants dismissed early at Dyanna’s insistence. She claimed she preferred washing a few dishes herself now and then; Maekar suspected she simply liked the quiet.
He stood at the counter drying silverware while she rinsed porcelain beneath warm water. Their domesticity was a bliss, compared to the long days he often have at work. Outside, the house had settled into evening stillness.
“He looks tired again,” Maekar said at last, not looking at his wife yet. “There are shadows under his eyes. He was doing better a few months ago. I heard those bottles in his office are in rotation again.”
Dyanna hummed faintly in acknowledgment.
“It is the workload,” he continued. “Expansion brings strain. His department’s getting bigger.”
“Is that what you think?” she asked mildly.
He set a fork down with deliberate neatness. “What else would it be?”
Dyanna turned off the tap, drying her hands slowly before answering. “He was not this tired when she was around.”
“She has a name,” Dyanna replied, though her tone remained gentle. "I know you know."
“She was a distraction,” he said evenly. “He does not need distractions.”
Dyanna faced him fully now. “You are certain?”
“I am certain that discipline steadies him,” Maekar answered. “Routine. Expectation. Direction. It did to me.”
“And yet,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “when was the last time routine made him come home early?”
Maekar did not respond. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You saw it. He drank less. He argued less. He listened.”
“He was performing,” Maekar countered, a flicker of defensiveness entering his tone. “Men behave differently when they are infatuated.”
Dyanna’s lips curved faintly—not in mockery, but in memory. “Do you remember Sunspear?” she asked suddenly.
The shift caught him off guard. “That was decades ago.”
“You were not sleeping,” she continued, ignoring the deflection. “You had taken on too much too quickly. You insisted you were fine. That pressure would make you better.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened.
“You stopped eating properly,” she went on. “You snapped at your father. You spent longer hours at the office than anyone required of you.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?” she asked softly. He did not answer.
Dyanna’s gaze softened with recollection. “It was not your father’s lectures that steadied you,” she said. “Nor the weight of expectation.”
Maekar finally looked at her this time.
“It was when you allowed someone to stand beside you,” she finished. “Not in front. Not behind. Beside.”
The implication lingered between them. Maekar exhaled heavily through his nose. “You are suggesting I drove him away from something that helped him.”
“I am suggesting,” Dyanna replied carefully, “that you may have mistaken support for weakness.”
Silence stretched. He picked up the dish towel again, though there was nothing left to dry. “He is his own man,” Maekar said, but the certainty had thinned. “If she was so essential, he would have chosen differently.”
Dyanna studied him for a long moment. “Pride is hereditary,” she said quietly.
A muscle shifted in his jaw. “I will not beg,” he said at last, the old steel returning—not anger, but stubborn dignity. “If he wishes to prove me wrong, he may do so.”
Dyanna reached for the last plate and placed it carefully in the cupboard. “You have always preferred being proven wrong to admitting it first,” she said gently.
What begins as polite professionalism, but slowly turns into late-night conversations and unexpected friendship—and when he finally finds comfort in her presence, the lines between duty, trust, and something deeper begin to blur.
Word Count: 4.9k
[Chapter 3/4]
Fluff. Angst later. Daeron is very sad and lonely, but eventually found a friend. I want him to have some happiness too.
It began, as most things did, in a place no one thought to watch too closely.
The cafeteria on their floor was unusually crowded that afternoon. A training session had just ended, and junior staff flooded in at once, filling the space excitedly because they had never been in the executive areas before. Baelor entered casually with his jacket folded over his arm and phone tucked into his pocket. He joined the end of the coffee line like everyone else, nodding politely when a young associate immediately tried to step aside for him.
“Please,” Baelor said gently, gesturing for him to stay put. “I’m in no hurry.”
Another employee offered a similar courtesy a moment later. He declined again with a soft smile, shifting forward only when the line moved. It was while he waited—hands loosely folded around his empty cup—that he noticed his nephew; sitting near the windows, partly obscured by a row of tall potted plants. The table was small and round, the kind usually occupied by interns or staff grabbing quick lunches. Daeron looked entirely at ease there, jacket draped over his chair, tie loosened just slightly, both sleeves rolled carefully to his forearms. His phone lay face down beside a neat stack of documents, untouched.
Across from him, his associate sat with her tray angled against her knee, salad pushed aside so she could spread papers between them. Two coffee cups rested near the edge of the table, forgotten, faint stain rings forming beneath them.
They were leaning toward each other, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, heads bent together—concentrating. Despite the noise around them, they spoke softly, as if enclosed in their own pocket of space. Daeron lifted his fork and tapped lightly against one of the pages.
“No, look,” he said, voice lowered. “If we shift the projection here, it stabilizes the cash flow in Q4.”
She traced the line with her finger, eyes narrowing as she followed the figures. “Only if legal clears it by September,” she replied. “If they don’t, the delay pushes everything back.”
He frowned, scanning the numbers again, lips moving silently as he recalculated. After a moment, he exhaled and leaned back slightly.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “I missed that entirely.”
She glanced up at him, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her mouth. “You always miss it.”
Deron huffed under his breath, shrugging as he shook his head. “That’s why I keep you around.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as she gathered the papers and straightened them.
Baelor watched from his place in line, the forgotten cup still empty in his hands. It wasn’t the discussion itself that held his attention. Daeron had always been diligent when [if] he cared to be. It was the way he listened—truly listened. The way he didn’t interrupt, the way he leaned in without realizing, and the way his expression softened when she spoke, as though her voice steadied something in him.
Around them, people passed, laughed, stood up, and sat down. Trays were clattering as people returned them to the stations, and someone bumped a chair and apologized. They didn’t notice. Daeron laughed quietly at something she murmured. She nudged his foot lightly under the table in response. He shifted his chair closer without thinking.
When Baelor finally reached the counter and ordered his coffee, he glanced back once more.
Daeron was still there, head bent toward hers, completely absorbed. And for the first time, Baelor wondered—not with suspicion, not with concern, but with faint surprise—when his nephew had begun to look much lighter.
Aerys noticed it too, in the middle of an ordinary afternoon on the seventeenth floor.
Legal occupied a quieter wing of the building, far from Sales and Marketing’s constant movement. Corridors were carpeted thickly, offices enclosed in glass with blinds rarely fully raised. Even conversations seemed to lower themselves out of habit.
That afternoon, a joint compliance review was scheduled—routine, tedious, and meant to end quickly. Aerys took his place halfway down the long table, laptop open, stylus balanced between his fingers, prepared for hours of regulatory language and cautious revisions. Around him, associates murmured, shuffled documents, and checked their watches.
Daeron stood near the screen, jacket unbuttoned, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. He had been speaking for nearly an hour, walking everyone through projections, risks, and timelines with calm precision. Nothing about him suggested distraction.
She sat near the end of the table, close enough for him to glance at her without turning his head. Occasionally, she paused, scrolled, or added to a separate document. At first, Aerys didn’t notice, seeing only a competent employee at work. Then he began to observe the pattern.
Daeron would hesitate mid-sentence, barely perceptible. His gaze flicked toward her, and she looked up immediately, sometimes nodding, tilting her head, or lifting her pen as if questioning. Daeron responded seamlessly to her cues.
When an associate raised a regulatory concern, he began to answer—then paused. “What was the clause again?” he asked her quietly.
“Section twelve, subsection C. It conflicts with the Crownlands amendment,” she replied. He repeated it to the room as if it had been his all along.
During the short break, chairs scraped as people stretched, and low conversations resumed in scattered clusters. Daeron, instead of joining the small group near the windows, moved toward her. He stopped beside her chair, leaned down slightly, resting a hand against the back, knuckles brushing her hair. His voice dropped instinctively, murmuring something only she could hear.
She looked up immediately, smiling, before turning her laptop toward him. “Here,” she said quietly, tapping a highlighted section. He bent closer, brows furrowed, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. “Wait… ah, okay, that makes sense.”
“That’s what I thought. Look at the second projection,” she replied.
They remained like that for several moments, heads close, voices low, the rest of the room continuing around them as if they were in their own pocket of quiet.
Across the table, Aerys pretended to focus on his notes, but his attention kept drifting—the way Daeron leaned in, the way she didn’t flinch, as though this were already routine.
When the meeting adjourned, Daeron waited beside her while she slipped her laptop into her bag, tucked a pen into her folder, and adjusted her strap. Only then did he reach for his own tablet.
“Did you want to go over that section later?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” she replied. “Maybe after lunch?”
“Wanna try that new place that just opened?” he said, and she answered with a smile and a nod.
They walked out together, still talking as they headed down the corridor. Their voices softened with distance, blending into the hum of the building until they were gone from sight.
Aerys closed his laptop slowly. He remained seated for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the blank screen in front of him, replaying the scene in his mind. It wasn’t unprofessional nor inappropriate. But he wasn’t sure what to make of it yet.
Two days later, on a different floor, Rhaegel and Maekar began noticing the same thing.
Rhaegel and Maekar worked in entirely different corners of the company, though their responsibilities often overlapped in theory. Rhaegel oversaw Corporate Finance and Risk Management, where every decision was filtered through projections, liabilities, and long-term exposure. His department lived inside spreadsheets and forecasts, and most of his meetings were slow, precise, and relentlessly cautious. Maekar, on the other hand, managed Operations and Internal Systems, a world governed by logistics, staffing flow, supply chains, and infrastructure. Problems in his domain rarely stayed hidden for long. Inefficiency surfaced within hours, sometimes minutes.
Under normal circumstances, they rarely found themselves in the same room for more than quarterly meetings or some other urgent matters. That week, however, a restructuring initiative brought their departments together for a joint review session on the twelfth floor. Strategic Development, Operations, and Finance were all expected to coordinate their projections and resource plans before the next quarter.
Rhaegel arrived early, as he always did, settling into his seat with his tablet and reviewing the latest financial models quietly. The conference room was still half-empty, sunlight filtering through the glass walls and reflecting faintly off the polished table. A few staff members moved quietly around the room, setting out water and refreshments, and arranging documents.
Daeron stepped inside first, jacket neatly buttoned, tablet tucked under his arm. She followed close behind him, adjusting the strap of her bag as she entered. They paused briefly at the doorway, letting a latecomer pass. He held the door without much further, pausing when she stopped to fix her sleeve and adjust the strap of her bag. He waited quietly, hands loose at his sides, his attention fixed on her movements instead of the notifications lighting up his phone. Rhaegel noticed because Daeron, who was usually glued to his phone screen between meetings, hadn’t checked it once. He simply stood there, watching as she smoothed the fabric and shifted her things into place.
“Go ahead,” she murmured when she was done.
“After you, my lady,” he teased.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” she joked in return, only for the two to break into a laugh after.
Rhaegel frowned almost imperceptibly at the sight, a fleeting crease between his brows, then dismissed the thought and returned to his tablet, telling himself it meant nothing. Maekar, however, noticed something else entirely. Daeron did not take the head of the table. Normally, as Vice President of Strategic Development, he had to take a seat by the end of the long table, closest to the screen and control panel, a position he had occupied for years without conscious thought. This time, he bypassed it without pause and chose a seat midway down the table—beside her.
Maekar lifted his coffee, watching over the rim as Daeron pulled out her chair for her without comment and took his place next to her. The gesture was small, casual, and easily overlooked. Still, it registered.
About halfway through the meeting, a junior manager stumbled over a cost estimate. “So, if we allocate—uh—around four point six million here—” He hesitated, eyes darting nervously between his laptop and the projected slide, fingers hovering uselessly above the trackpad. The room gradually fell quiet. Everyone waited for someone more senior to step in.
Daeron leaned forward slightly, already preparing to correct him. But before he could speak, she reached out and touched his wrist lightly and briefly, it was barely more than a brush. He froze at the contact and fell silent. She leaned forward instead, her voice calm and steady. “There’s a revision from yesterday,” she said. “It’s in Appendix B, page twelve. The updated figure is closer to four point two.”
The manager blinked, flustered, then hurriedly scrolled through his file. “Yes—yes, sorry. I see it now.” Daeron nodded once. “Take your time,” he added smoothly. As the presentation resumed, his gaze lingered on her for a second longer than necessary before he turned back to the screen.
Later, when Maekar raised concerns about a logistics delay, Daeron frowned slightly. “That shouldn’t be happening,” he said. “We accounted for the route adjustments in—” She leaned closer and murmured something under her breath. He paused mid-sentence, recalculating, then continued, “—unless the vendor hasn’t finalized the transport corridor yet. Have they?”
Maekar checked his tablet, scrolling slowly, before nodding. “No. They’re still waiting on regional clearance.”
“Then that explains it,” Daeron replied evenly. “We’ll adjust the schedule accordingly.” Across the table, Rhaegel adjusted his glasses, studying them both more carefully now, while Maekar leaned back in his chair.
When the meeting finally ended, chairs scraped softly against the floor as people gathered their belongings. Conversations resumed in low clusters. Phones came out. Assistants hurried ahead to book rooms and schedule follow-ups.
That evening, before heading home, Maekar stopped by Rhaegel’s office. Most of the floor had already gone dark. Desks stood abandoned, chairs tucked in, monitors dimmed to black. The usual daytime hum had faded into a distant, mechanical quiet, broken only by the soft whir of ventilation and the occasional elevator chime somewhere below.
Rhaegel, however, was still at his desk. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, his tie loosened, and his glasses resting low on his nose as he scrolled steadily through a stack of risk assessments on his screen. One hand held a pen, which he tapped absently against the desk as he read.
Maekar crossed the room, poured himself a glass of water from the small dispenser, and leaned back against the counter. He took a slow sip, watching his brother in silence for a moment.
“Do you think we should be concerned?” he asked at last.
Rhaegel leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes still on the screen. He already knew what Maekar meant. After a moment, he turned his head.
“Concerned?” he repeated quietly. Then he shook his head. “No. Not concerned.” He paused, choosing his words. “He looks happier, and he’s more present in attending company matters. That’s not something we should discourage.”
“No,” Maekar agreed softly. “If anything, it’s a relief.”
Rhaegel hesitated, then lowered his voice. “But he does seem more… attached. To that girl.”
Maekar’s brow furrowed faintly. “You think he realizes it?”
“I doubt it,” Rhaegel replied. “He never notices these things until he’s already too deep. But I suppose it is nice to see him having a friend.”
Maekar let out a quiet breath. “He’s always been like that.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. They stood there in the half-lit office, listening to the building settle into night—the distant hum of electricity, the muted sounds of cleaners working several floors away, the quiet that only came after everyone else had gone home.
Finally, Maekar straightened. He set his empty glass by the sink, adjusted his jacket, and reached for his phone. “Don’t stay too late, brother,” he said, lightly, already knowing his brother probably would.
Rhaegel gave a faint smile without looking up. “I’ll try.”
By the end of the week, no one had accused Daeron Targaryen of anything, and no one had named what they were seeing. No one had spoken aloud what was slowly forming in private conversations and sideways glances, in whispered remarks over coffee and raised brows in passing corridors. But across multiple floors, in different departments, the same quiet thought had begun to take root. Daeron was different. And somehow, inexplicably, it always seemed to happen when she was near.
One afternoon, Maekar entered the cafeteria with Baelor and several department heads in tow, on their way to a late working lunch before an afternoon round of meetings. With them were Lord Velaryon’s regional liaison, Corwyn Celtigar from finance, and two senior operations supervisors who had long-standing ties to the Targaryen group. It was an informal gathering—no assistants, no reserved room, just trays and coffee before returning to their respective floors.
The lunch rush had already faded by then. Most of the tables stood empty, chairs tucked in neatly, trays stacked in orderly rows near the return station. Cleaners moved quietly between aisles, wiping down counters and collecting abandoned cups. The usual noise had thinned to a low murmur, the air calmer now, stripped of its earlier chaos.
They had nearly reached the serving counter when Baelor slowed without meaning to. Near the windows, at the same small round table Daeron seemed to favor lately, his nephew was sitting with her again.
This time, there were no papers between them. No folders, no tablets, no spreadsheets open on screens. Only two cups of coffee rested on the tabletop, thin rings of condensation spreading beneath them, and a shared plate of pastries—some half-eaten, others left untouched. Sunlight slanted through the glass, catching motes of dust in the air and casting pale lines across the table. Outside, traffic crept along the street below, distant and muted, as though the world beyond the building had been pushed far away.
Maekar followed his brother’s gaze.
“And then he emailed me at midnight like it was an emergency. I think he did put the word ‘urgent’ with three exclamation points!” she was saying. “So I panicked, opened it immediately—”
“And?” Daeron prompted, leaning forward slightly, elbow resting on the table.
“—and it was just him asking where the attachment was.”
He laughed under his breath. “You’re joking.”
“I wish.”
“That sounds familiar,” he admitted, resting his chin briefly against his hand.
She pointed at him without hesitation. “You. You’ve done that. Twice.”
He winced theatrically. “Only twice?”
“At least twice,” she corrected.
He grinned. “I’ll deny everything.”
She laughed, shaking her head, and he watched her with amusement, his smile lingering even after her laughter faded.
Maekar slowed his steps, and Baelor stopped beside him without a word—he recognized the changes in his brother’s movements. They drifted toward a pillar near the edge of the room, pretending to study the menu board while their attention remained fixed on the table by the windows. Corwyn and the others, sensing something unspoken, continued ahead to order, leaving the brothers momentarily alone.
From a distance, it was easy to see the difference. They were talking about colleagues, about late nights and small frustrations, about shared jokes that meant nothing to anyone else. When she lowered her voice, Daeron leaned in automatically, as though he didn’t want to miss a single word. When he teased her, she nudged his elbow lightly, and he accepted it with exaggerated offense, hand pressed to his chest as if wounded.
And when he laughed, it was real, none of those corporate-polite laughs. Maekar felt something tighten quietly in his chest, like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for years. For the first time in a long while, he found himself thinking it without hesitation, without doubt, without the need to temper it with caution.
My son looks happy.
Because he laughs easily now. Because he listens without tension in his shoulders. Because his smile no longer feels rehearsed or forced, as it no longer arrives only when it is required. Because, for once, he is not measuring himself against the others' expectations, or waiting for permission to exist as he is.
Baelor shifted beside him, hands folded loosely in front of him, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the windows. His expression was thoughtful, softened in a way Maekar often saw. Neither of them spoke out loud about this. Years of shared responsibility and worry had taught them when words would only dilute the truth of a moment.
Several more weeks passed, and it began with remarks that sounded harmless—casual, almost complimentary, the sort that slipped easily into meetings without raising alarms.
Larys Bracken mentioned it once during a budget review, observing that Daeron and his staff made “an impressive unit.” He said it with a small, pleasant smile, fingers drumming lightly against his notebook, as though he were merely stating an obvious fact rather than planting a thought.
A few days later, during a late-afternoon briefing, another remarked that it was “convenient” how Daeron always seemed to have her nearby whenever a decision needed clarifying. When someone glanced at him, he added quickly, “Efficient. Just efficient,” as though the distinction mattered.
No one challenged either comment.
They weren’t wrong, after all. She and she did work well together—better than most. Their rhythm was seamless, built over months of shared deadlines and late nights. They anticipated each other’s questions before they were spoken. They filled in each other’s gaps without discussion, as though it were simply instinct.
From the outside, it could look like favoritism.
On a Wednesday afternoon between meetings, when most people were hurrying down the corridor with coffee cups in hand and tablets tucked under their arms, Daeron had stopped near the glass wall of a small conference room, scrolling through his phone, distracted enough that he didn’t notice her approach. She saw it immediately—the crooked line of his tie, the careless way it had shifted after a few hours.
“Crooked,” she said quietly.
“What?” He glanced up, momentarily lost.
“Your tie,” she replied, already stepping closer. “Hold still.” She straightened it quickly, fingers brushing his collarbone—the same way when she adjusted his microphone before bigger presentations or handed him documents mid-sentence. He smiled down at her, comfortable, entirely at ease.
“Better?” he asked.
“Eh, not by much,” she joked.
They turned back to their work at once, already halfway into their next conversation, as though nothing unusual had happened. Neither of them noticed Larys standing at the far end of the corridor, watching through the faint reflection in the glass wall.
The following week, Larys began asking questions that sounded, on the surface, like concern. He stopped by Daeron’s office one afternoon, leaning casually against the doorframe while Daeron reviewed a report on his screen. From where he stood, Larys could see the open spreadsheet, the notes she had added in the margins, the careful color-coding that had become familiar to anyone in the department.
“Do you ever worry about perception?” Larys asked lightly.
Daeron didn’t look up at first. “Perception of what?”
“Leadership,” Larys replied, adjusting his cuff as though the thought had just occurred to him. “People notice patterns. Who you rely on. Who do you listen to most. It shapes how things are read, whether you mean it to or not.”
Daeron frowned faintly, finally lifting his eyes. “We’re talking about work performance, not politics,” he said.
“Of course,” Larys agreed easily. “Just… something to be aware of.”
Elsewhere, Velaryon’s nephew from Daeron’s team began lingering near their desks more often than necessary. He positioned himself close enough to overhear their discussions, close enough to glance at her screen when she wasn’t looking. He volunteered for projects she was already leading. He asked to be copied into email threads that had never involved him before.
During meetings, he started questioning decisions she had recommended—always politely, always framed as caution, always delivered with a mild, reasonable tone. “I just want to be sure we’re being thorough,” he would say, tapping his pen against his notebook. But his gaze never lingered on the data. It lingered on Daeron; on whether he hesitated, on whether he defended her. By the end of the week, others had begun to notice the shift as well.
Not long after, the rumors began. They did not arrive loudly or all at once. They surfaced in fragments, in lowered voices near the printers, in half-finished sentences over coffee. Someone suggested, casually, that she was being “groomed” for promotion. Another implied, during an after-hours drink, that she had “special access” to decisions before anyone else. A third hinted that she knew things she shouldn’t, that she was being told information before it reached the rest of the department.
No one ever claimed to have proof. No one ever named a source. And the more they tried to dismiss it—the more Daeron emphasized her competence, the more she stressed her professionalism and boundaries—the more, to some, it began to resemble defensiveness. Each clarification was interpreted as justification. Each denial became, in certain minds, confirmation.
By the time the quarterly review finally ended, it was well past nine.
She closed her laptop with a soft click and leaned back in her chair, exhaling. “I think that’s the longest quarterly discussion we’ve ever had.”
Daeron smiled faintly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I really thought we’d have to come in this weekend.” He gathered his tablet and documents, stacking them neatly. “You still hungry?”
She glanced at her phone. “I skipped lunch. And dinner.”
“Then yes,” he decided. “We’re fixing that.”
They left the room together, joining the slow stream toward the elevators. Their footsteps matched without either of them noticing. When the lift doors opened, he stepped aside automatically to let her in first. She murmured thanks without thinking. It has become a habit.
The lobby was still alive when they reached it. A few executives were gathered near the reception, laughing tiredly over takeaway cups. Two managers stood by the security desk, debating tomorrow’s schedule. Someone from IT was arguing with facilities about a malfunctioning badge reader. Outside, the city glowed through the glass doors, traffic humming in the distance.
They stopped near the seating area, waiting for his driver.
He checked his phone. “Ten minutes.”
They fell into comfortable silence, just scrolling on their phones, looking at everything that could get their mind off work, watching people pass, sharing tired smiles when someone from another department recognized them and waved.
Nearby, a group from Corporate Planning drifted past on their way out. Kevan Reyne slowed slightly when he saw them.
“Well, look at that,” he said lightly. “Still standing.”
“Barely,” Daeron replied.
“Going home?” Kevan asked.
“Dinner first. Starving,” Daeron said.
“With—” Kevan gestured vaguely between them, smiling. “—the usual partner in crime?”
She laughed, not saying anything.
“God bless you for that,” Kevan said, shaking his head as he walked away. “The rest of us would’ve mutinied months ago.”
Another pair of analysts drifted past them, their pace slowing just enough to be noticeable. One leaned in toward the other, murmuring something under their breath. The second analyst cast a quick glance over their shoulder before looking away too fast, as if caught mid-thought.
He shifted forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, posture casual but deliberate. “Ignore it,” he said under his breath.
“I am,” she replied. A small pause followed. “Mostly.”
His phone buzzed in his hand, the vibration breaking the moment. He glanced down at the screen. “Driver’s here.”
They rose at the same time and walked toward the entrance, keeping their distance neither too close nor too far apart. The glass doors slid open with a soft mechanical hush, letting in the cooler night air and the distant hum of traffic. At the curb, his car idled, headlights casting a muted glow across the pavement.
He reached for the door handle—then stopped.
“Hey,” he said, lowering his voice just enough that it belonged only to them. “If you ever feel uncomfortable about… any of this—”
She looked up at him, faintly surprised. “About dinner?”
“About us always being seen together,” he clarified.
She studied his face, searching it with quiet seriousness, then shook her head. “Do you?”
He hesitated, but only briefly. “Of course not,” he said. “We’re friends.”
They climbed into the car, doors shutting with a soft, insulated thud. Behind them, in the brightly lit lobby, a few lingering employees remained near the security desk and elevators. They watched the vehicle pull away from the curb and merge into traffic. And the story, quietly and steadily, continued to grow.
It was Friday evening, after a quarterly review that had stretched far past its allotted time. Most of the floor was empty now, glass-walled meeting rooms reflecting tired faces, loosened ties, and abandoned notebooks. Somewhere down the corridor, a cleaner pushed a cart slowly, its wheels whispering against the carpet. The office, stripped of its daytime urgency, felt hollow in a way it never did when it was crowded.
She had stayed behind to upload revised figures and send summary emails. By the time she finished, her eyes burned from staring at spreadsheets. She saved her file, closed her laptop, and leaned back for a moment, pressing her fingers lightly to her temples before standing. A quick stop at the pantry seemed reasonable before heading downstairs.
The cafeteria was nearly empty. She chose a small corner table by the window, facing the city stretching beyond in muted afternoon haze. As she began eating slowly, grateful for the quiet, a pair of voices drifted from the table behind her.
Two people she vaguely recognized sat close together, chairs angled inward, shoulders nearly touching. They weren’t whispering, exactly—more like speaking with the relaxed confidence of those who believed themselves unobserved. At first, she didn’t listen, cutting into her food, eyes fixed on the traffic outside.
“…I’m just saying, it’s not subtle,” one murmured.
A soft breath of laughter followed. “It’s obvious.”
Her hand stilled midair. When her name surfaced—quietly, clearly—she couldn’t ignore it.
“They’re always together. Meetings. Late nights. Even off the floor.”
“That’s because she’s his associate.”
“Sure, but you’ve seen the way he looks at her.”
“People are starting to talk.”
Her chest tightened. She lifted her glass, taking a slow sip, face composed despite the sudden awareness of being watched.
“Legal’s going to step in if it keeps up. They don’t like optics like that.”
“Especially with his family watching everything he does.”
The words settled heavily. She lowered her fork.
“I mean, I’m not saying anything’s happening,” the second added quickly. “But perception is perception.”
“That’s the problem. It doesn’t matter if it’s real.”
Silence followed, brief but weighted. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t even turned, when familiar footsteps crossed the tiled floor, and the voices behind her faded.
“Ready?” Daeron asked, stopping beside her chair.
She looked up, forcing a smile. “Yeah.”
His gaze flicked once over her shoulder—curious, but not confrontational. Behind them, the coworkers had suddenly absorbed themselves in their plates.
He reached for her tray. “I’ll take that.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
They walked toward the exit together, maintaining a natural distance. The cafeteria doors closed behind them with a soft click. The conversation at the other table resumed only after they were far down the hall, lower than before.
What begins as polite professionalism, but slowly turns into late-night conversations and unexpected friendship—and when he finally finds comfort in her presence, the lines between duty, trust, and something deeper begin to blur.
Word Count: 5.3k
[Chapter 2/3]
Fluff. Angst later. Daeron is very sad and lonely, but eventually found a friend. I want him to have some happiness too.
›
By the second month, something subtle had changed between them.
There was no clear moment when it happened, just a gradual loosening; the spaces between messages shortening, the formality that had once governed every exchange quietly slipping away. Somewhere along the way, the longer conversations moved elsewhere, and he began texting her directly, first with things that could still pass as necessary, a simple ‘Are you free tomorrow morning?’ before drifting into messages that had nothing to do with work at all, complaints about endless meetings, bad sandwiches, small confessions of being tired or nervous, questions he never would have typed in a work chat. Her phone lit up more often than her Teams notifications now, and she always answered, until it became natural: Teams was for work, and her number was for everything else.
As the days go by, she would sit down, set her bag aside, open her laptop, and begin skimming through overnight emails. Somewhere near the top of her inbox, there would almost always be something from him. A question about a draft, a comment on a spreadsheet, a link to some news that they talked about earlier, followed later by, Thought you’d like this.
Some messages were clearly written too early, sentences trailing off, punctuation forgotten. He never apologized for it, and she never teased him. It simply became normal.
At some point, he stopped calling her into his office. Instead, he came to her. Daeron would appear beside her desk with quiet steps, tablet tucked under one arm, sleeves already pushed back. He never interrupted. He waited until she looked up.
“Do you have a minute?” he would ask.
Or, “Can I show you something?”
Or, more softly, “Would you mind checking this with me?”
He always phrased it like a request, never an order, towards an inferior. He always meant it. In a building where authority usually announced itself through sharp voices and impatient gestures, the contrast was striking. He never used his position to shorten conversations or hurry her along. He made space for her time as if it mattered as much as his.
Coffee became part of their routine without either of them acknowledging it. After their first meeting, he would pause by her desk, jacket already in hand, tie loosened just enough to signal the day had begun in earnest.
“Coffee?” he would ask. Sometimes that was all he said.
They walked together through the lobby, past security and glass doors and clusters of hurried employees, trading observations about reports and deadlines and small, manageable frustrations. It was work talk, mostly. But it was theirs.
Lunch followed. Some days meant trays in the cafeteria and whispered debates over spreadsheets when there’s a meeting after. Some days meant the small café down the street, sunlight spilling across narrow tables. Some days meant his office, documents pushed aside so there was room to eat.
Without comment, they began learning each other’s habits. He remembered how she took her coffee. She noticed he always forgot to eat when meetings ran long. He started leaving snacks on her desk when she looked too focused to move. She began reminding him, casually, that it was past two.
And slowly—so gradually that neither of them noticed it at first—he began to change. At first, it was only once or twice a week. She would arrive, shrug out of her coat, and glance instinctively toward his office out of habit. The light would already be on. The door would be slightly ajar. His jacket would be hanging neatly instead of abandoned over a chair. Some days, she would hear the faint sound of him on a call, voice low and focused.
Then it became more frequent. During meetings, he spoke more, but not in the sharp, commanding way some executives favored. Daeron did not do it with raised voices or dramatic gestures meant to dominate the room, but he waited, listened, and then, when he spoke, his voice was calm.
When something seemed vague, he leaned forward slightly and asked about it.
“I’m not sure I follow that timeline,” he would say, tapping his pen lightly against his notebook. “What happens if supplier delays extend past August?”
Or, “Can we clarify what assumptions this forecast is built on?”
When a topic was brushed aside too quickly, dismissed with a vague promise to “revisit later,” he brought it back.
“Before we move on,” he would interject quietly, “we still don’t have an answer on the cost overruns. I think we need that before approving this.”
And when he wasn’t sure, he went to her. Daeron usually hesitated first. He would stand in his doorway for a moment, glancing down at his tablet, scrolling through figures again, as though hoping the answer might appear if he stared long enough. Only when it didn’t would he straighten his jacket and walk out of his office to her desk.
More than once, she looked up from her screen to find him there.
Standing a few steps away from her desk with a new tablet held loosely in one hand, while the other rested in his pocket. His brows were faintly drawn together, concentration softening his usually composed expression. There was something thoughtful about the way he stood—weight balanced evenly, shoulders relaxed, as if he were careful not to intrude. Daeron did not want to seem like he was hovering, micromanaging her work; he never leaned over her desk, nor did he ever interrupt the rhythm of her typing.
He simply waited. Sometimes he watched the cursor move across her screen. Sometimes his eyes drifted to the small notes pinned beside her monitor. Sometimes he absently adjusted his grip on the tablet. But he remained quiet, patient, until she noticed him.
When she finally looked up, their eyes met.
“Oh—sorry,” she would say, pulling out an earbud or pushing her chair back slightly. “Did you need something?”
He would blink, as if returning from his thoughts.
“Yes,” he replied softly. “When you have a moment.”
And only then would he step closer.
“Can I run this by you?” he would ask.
She would swivel her chair slightly toward him. “Sure. What is it?”
“I’m not convinced this projection holds past Q3,” he would say, tilting the screen so she could see. “It assumes stable demand, but that hasn’t been true for two years.”
She would lean closer, scanning the data. “You’re right. See here? This spike is temporary. If you adjust for it, the curve flattens.”
He nodded slowly. “So we should revise the baseline.”
“Yes. And probably flag it in the presentation.”
Another time, he approached her desk more hesitantly than usual, and she noticed it immediately. His steps were slower. The tablet was tucked closer to his chest instead of held loosely at his side. He stopped a little farther from her desk than he normally did, as though unsure whether he was interrupting something important, and hesitated for a brief second before speaking.
“Does this assumption make sense,” he asked quietly, angling the screen toward her, “or am I missing something obvious?”
She took the tablet from him and leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes moving steadily over the figures. The soft glow of the screen reflected faintly against her face as she read in silence. He watched her closely, hands slipping into his pockets, jaw set with restrained anticipation.
“In theory, it works,” she said at last. “But in practice, regulatory delays will push it back.”
His brows knitted together at once.
“By how much?” he asked.
“Three months,” she replied without hesitation. “Minimum.”
He stared at the screen for a moment, then lifted his gaze toward the ceiling, as if mentally dismantling the entire schedule he had just built. A quiet breath left him.
“Then this timeline is useless,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
She handed the tablet back gently. “We can fix it,” she said, her tone steady and reassuring. “I’ll adjust the projections and rerun the model.”
He looked at her for a second, surprised by how quickly she had moved from criticism to solution. Then his shoulders relaxed slightly.
“I’d appreciate that,” he said, a faint, genuine smile touching his mouth.
When she began explaining her reasoning, he gave her his full attention. He didn’t glance at his phone. He didn’t shift restlessly or look past her toward the corridor. He remained where he was, leaning in just slightly, eyes focused on her screen and her face as she spoke. When something wasn’t clear, he asked follow-up questions. When a figure surprised him, he repeated it quietly under his breath. He took notes in the margins of his tablet, stylus scribbling on her explanations
By the time she finished, he had already begun adjusting the framework in his head.
“Okay,” he said thoughtfully, nodding once. “Let’s do it this way.”
And without hesitation, he reshaped his plans around her input, trusting her judgment as though it were his own.
Sometimes, in meetings, she noticed the way his attention shifted toward her when discussions grew complicated. It was subtle. Easy to miss if you weren’t watching for it.
A brief glance in her direction when a projection became uncertain. A pause when a proposal felt too optimistic. A quiet check-in, almost instinctive, as though he were measuring his own confidence against her reaction. If she frowned slightly, he slowed down and reconsidered his wording. If she nodded once, he continued without hesitation, voice steadying as if reassured.
No one ever commented on it during the meetings themselves. He trusted her judgment enough to let it shape his own. He trusted her insight enough to slow down when she hesitated and move forward when she was certain. He trusted her presence enough that it grounded him in rooms that had once made him restless and distant.
And slowly, everyone in those rooms began to see it, but it wasn’t until a Sunday dinner that his family noticed the change in a way that couldn’t be ignored.
The Targaryen house was louder than the office, warmer, and more chaotic, especially with the younger children around. Long dining tables crowded with lavish dishes and drinks. Voices were overlapping, laughter spilling from one end of the room to the other. Daeron sat halfway down the table, sleeves rolled up, listening as his uncles debated market expansions and regional investments with the same intensity other families reserved for sports.
Normally, he would have stayed quiet because he wasn’t interested at all. When a disagreement stalled the conversation, he leaned forward slightly and said, “Actually, there’s a model we’ve been testing that might solve that.”
The table quieted. Baelor looked up from his plate. Aerys paused mid-sentence. Rhaegel’s brows lifted in mild surprise. Even Maekar turned fully toward him. But Daeron e explained the framework clearly. He outlined the risks and acknowledged the weaknesses. When he finished, there was a brief silence.
Baelor was the first to respond. He set his fork down carefully beside his plate and leaned back in his chair, eyes still on Daeron as he considered the proposal. After a moment, he nodded slowly.
“That does make sense,” he said. “If we restructure it that way, the risk drops significantly.” He glanced toward Aerys. “Can we realistically implement this within the next quarter?”
Aerys rubbed his chin, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as he thought. Then he gave a low, thoughtful whistle.
“Possibly,” he said. “Legal would have to clear it first and tighten a few compliance points, but… yeah. It’s doable.” He looked back at Daeron, one brow lifting slightly. “Didn’t expect you to have all that mapped out already.”
Uncle Rhaegel, who had been quietly sipping his drink, lowered his glass and smiled faintly in Daeron’s direction. “Someone’s been paying attention,” he remarked lightly. “You’ve been sharper lately.”
At the head of the table, Maekar had said nothing. He watched his son for a long moment, elbows resting on the armrests of his chair, fingers loosely folded. There was something measured in his gaze—not scrutiny, but careful observation, as though he were trying to understand a change he had sensed for months and was only now able to name.
“You’re different, son,” Maekar said at last. His voice was quiet, almost casual, but it carried weight. “I noticed you’ve been more attentive than before. And your department seems to be holding up alright. Have we done something to the interns?”
Daeron blinked, genuinely surprised. He shifted slightly in his seat, one hand moving to the back of his neck in an unconscious gesture.
“I—” He paused, then gave a small shake of his head. “It’s not just me.”
The table grew still. Baelor tilted his head. Aerys glanced up from his plate. Rhaegel’s smile softened into curiosity. Even Maekar’s expression sharpened with interest.
“The new hire on my team,” Daeron continued, his tone earnest now. “She came in from another company, so kind of an experienced employee. I used to only have interns and freshgrads.” He let out a quiet breath, lips curving in a faint, self-conscious smile. “A lot of this is because of her, honestly.”
“Sounds like a good influence,” Baelor said simply. Maekar nodded once in agreement.
Daeron didn’t answer. He only looked down at his plate, tracing the edge of it absently with his thumb, a thoughtful crease forming between his brows. The conversation soon drifted to other topics—travel plans, upcoming negotiations, someone’s renovation project—but the moment lingered with him.
Later, when the dishes were cleared and voices softened into scattered conversations, he found himself sitting back in his chair, watching the warm light reflect off the windows. And without quite meaning to, he smiled to himself. For once, the praise felt real, not a mockery or a jab at his incompetence.
The long stretches of his unexplained absence grew shorter over time. They didn’t disappear all at once. It happened gradually, in small, almost unremarkable ways. Fewer mornings when she arrived to find his office dark and empty, the glass walls reflecting only her own desk light. Fewer afternoons when meetings had to be postponed because he hadn’t shown up, and no one quite knew where he was. Fewer vague apologies sent hours later, followed by silence. When someone’s looking for him mid-day, he was actually sitting behind that huge desk, more often than not.
In the morning, sometimes he comes walking in a few minutes after her, coat folded neatly over his arm. Sometimes, he even waits by the coffee machine, scrolling through his phone while the machine hissed and steamed.
Some weeks, she noticed something else, too.
The side cart in his office—the one that had once required frequent restocking—no longer changed as often.
During one board meeting, Baelor leaned back in his chair, folding his arms loosely over his chest, and surveyed the table with mild amusement before letting his gaze settle on Daeron.
“You’ve been remarkably consistent lately,” he remarked lightly. “Haven’t missed a session in weeks.” Valarr glanced up from his tablet, the corner of his mouth lifting as he joined in his father’s remark.
A few people around the table chuckled, sounding more like reflex than genuine mockery. Papers were shifted as some people cleared their throats. The meeting moved on without anyone lingering on the remark.
Across the table, Maekar said nothing. He did not smile widely, nor did he add a comment of his own. Instead, he watched his son for a moment longer than necessary, as if recalibrating an image he had carried for years. There was something like cautious surprise in his expression, something almost hopeful, held carefully behind a flat smile.
Daeron pretended not to notice, but of course he did. He was once a sucker for such a validation, too. He kept his attention on the agenda, answering questions when they were directed at him, presenting his reports without hesitation. He spoke when required, listened when others did, and gave nothing away that might suggest the remarks had unsettled him in the slightest.
It took him longer to notice what was happening inside himself.
There was nothing dramatic about it. No sudden realization in the middle of the night, no sharp, cinematic moment where everything fell into place like in the movies, nor is there a whispered confession made in the dark. There was no single instant he could point to and say, that was when it began.
It was her taking three days off for a conference, and him checking his phone far too often in her absence, scrolling through emails that were not from her, opening their chat window only to remember she would not reply during certain hours. It was the faint, unreasonable disappointment that followed every time he closed it again.
It was sitting in meetings without her and feeling inexplicably restless, as though something essential had been misplaced, as though his familiar routine had been disrupted and no one else seemed to notice. It was drafting a message that began with, Can you look at this? and stopping halfway through, his stylus hovering over the screen while he remembered that she was not there to read it.
It was being mildly, irrationally irritated when she told him she was too busy for lunch.
“Another department dumped something on me,” she had said apologetically once, her voice slightly breathless over the phone. “Rain check?”
“Of course,” he had replied immediately. “No problem.”
And then he had spent the next hour staring at spreadsheets without absorbing a single number. He told himself it was practical.
She was efficient, insightful, and reliable. She understood his work better than anyone else in the building, anticipated his questions before he asked them, and noticed problems before they became bigger issues.
Of course he missed her input.
Of course things felt off without her.
That was normal.
That was professional.
That was all it was.
He repeated it to himself often enough that he almost believed it.
Still, when she finally returned from her conference and walked into the office, dropping her bag beside her desk and stretching slightly before looking up with a tired smile, something in his chest loosened.
“I’m back,” she announced lightly.
“Oh,” he said before he could stop himself. “Good. I mean—welcome back.”
She laughed softly, setting her cup down on the edge of her desk. “You sound relieved.”
“Those interns are asking me questions repeatedly,” he replied, attempting a joking tone that did not quite mask his sincerity.
She raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re a great teacher, Daeron, don't sell yourself short like that.” He smiled, faint and genuine, unable to think of a better answer. As he walked back to his office, feeling lighter than he had in days, he became dimly, uneasily aware of the truth he had been avoiding. This was no longer just about work. He simply did not know what to do with that yet.
› ›
By late spring, afternoon coffees had begun to stretch into something else.
It started one Friday when neither of them seemed in a hurry to leave. The last meeting had ended quietly, the office thinning out as people slipped away for the weekend, and she had lingered at her desk longer than usual, finishing a report that did not truly need finishing by that weekend. When she finally stood and reached for her bag, she found him waiting near the glass wall of his office, jacket draped over his arm, both sleeves rolled up.
“Do you have plans tonight?” he asked, almost casually.
“Hm?” She hesitated. “Not really.”
He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself. “There’s a place nearby. We could… get a drink. If you’d like.”
She studied him for a moment, surprised, then smiled. “Sure. Why not?”
The bar was tucked into a narrow side street, its entrance marked only by a small brass sign and a door framed in dark wood. Inside, the air was dim and warm, washed in amber light. Soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers, slow and smooth, threading through the low murmur of conversation around them. Leather booths lined the walls. Small round tables glowed beneath shaded lamps. Everything looked so polished and expensive without being loud about it.
The host recognized him immediately.
“Good evening, Mr. Targaryen,” he said with an easy, practiced smile. “Your usual corner?”
“Yes, please,” Daeron replied quietly.
She noticed it then—the subtle shift in the room when he spoke. The way the host straightened just a little, the way a nearby server paused, attentive, the way people seemed to register him before returning to their conversations. But it was all in just a short beat; no one was staring nor making it obvious.
They were led past the main floor to a secluded table near the window, half-hidden by a tall potted plant and softened by a curtain of amber light. The hum of conversation faded into something distant and gentle. It was private without feeling isolated, elegant without being cold. She slid into her seat, smoothing her skirt unconsciously, fingers brushing the edge of the polished table as she looked around.
“This place is really nice,” she said carefully, as if unsure whether that word was enough.
He smiled faintly. “They’re very kind to me.”
A server appeared almost immediately, placing two water glasses down. “What can I get you tonight?”
She hesitated, scanning the menu. “Um… a Clover Club, please.”
Daeron barely glanced down. “Old Fashioned,” he said calmly. “And maybe some appetizers. Just bring out a few.”
“Of course,” the server replied, already smiling.
When they were alone again, she released a small breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“This place is really nice,” she said again.
“You think so?”
She shook her head. “Uh, duh. My idea of going out is usually a crowded pub with sticky tables.”
He chuckled softly. “Those have their charm too.”
Their drinks arrived first. Hers was pale pink and delicate, served in a coupe glass, foam resting lightly on top like a cloud, a thin twist of citrus balanced along the rim. It looked almost too pretty to touch. His, in contrast, was short and heavy, dark liquid swirling around clear ice, orange peel twisted neatly along the edge. She studied hers for a moment, then took a cautious sip. “Oh. That’s… stronger than I expected.”
He smiled. “They don’t dilute much here.”
She laughed and tried again, slower this time. “Okay. I see the appeal.”
Plates followed—crispy calamari arranged in careful spirals, garlic fries dusted with herbs and various small bowls of warm spiced nuts. They began picking at them absently, the rhythm of eating and drinking settling naturally between them. At first, they talked about work.
“Legal’s still dragging their feet,” she said, spearing a fry. “If they delay another week, the timeline’s useless.”
“I know,” he replied. “I’m drafting a contingency plan. I’ll send it to you tomorrow.”
“Please do. I have opinions.”
“I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”
They talked about presentations, about budget negotiations, about a department that had lost three files in one week. Outside the office, under soft lighting and slow music, it all seemed smaller. After her next sip, she grew quieter. She leaned back slightly, one arm resting along the booth, gaze drifting toward the dark window where city lights blurred together.
“You know,” she said eventually, “this is kind of … my first real look at your world.”
He turned toward her. “My world?”
“This,” she gestured lightly with her glass. “The money. The influence. The way people know you before they know you. It’s… intimidating. And exciting. And a little terrifying. But not in a bad way, if you get what I mean.”
Daeron considered her words, rolling his drink once between his fingers. “I forget sometimes that it isn’t normal,” he admitted.
“It isn’t,” she said, smiling. “Where I grew up, a four-star Dornish restaurant is the fanciest place anyone ever brags about.”
He laughed softly. “That sounds wonderful, still.”
She shifted in her seat, shoulders loosening as the alcohol warmed her. “Most of the people you’ve worked with before … they’re different from me, right?”
“Yes,” he said after a brief pause, lifting his glass and turning it slowly between his fingers, watching the amber liquid slide against the ice. “Most of them went to private universities. Or are the children of my father’s allies. Or sons and daughters of old family friends.” He exhaled softly through his nose, not quite a laugh. “It was … expected, I suppose.”
She rested her chin lightly on her knuckles, elbow propped against the table. “Like Lord Velaryon’s nephew?” she guessed.
His mouth curved with immediate recognition. “Exactly like Velaryon’s nephew.” He shook his head faintly, eyes flickering with quiet amusement. “He submitted his résumé with three recommendation letters and a story about having lunch with my uncle.”
She smiled at that. “And me?”
He set his glass down carefully, the base clicking softly against the polished wood. For a moment, he seemed to consider his words, gaze drifting past her shoulder toward the dimly lit bar. “I told HR to run a proper interview,” he said at last, voice low. “And to find someone with real ambitions.”
“Seriously?”
Daeron nodded once, firmly. “You were competent, experienced—but not too experienced, thoughtful, honest,” His thumb traced absent circles against the rim of his glass. “You didn’t treat the company like a headline, you know? Trust me, those kids were trying to drop compliments and name-drop executives every five minutes. Trying to impress me instead of doing the actual work. You didn’t treat me like the front page of a tabloid.”
Her lips curved slowly, mischief glinting in her eyes. “Like the ‘drunken Targaryen nepo baby’ from last year?”
He lifted his glass to drink and nearly choked, coughing into his fist as he set it down again a little too quickly. “Did you just—”
“Come on! It was everywhere,” she teased, leaning back in her chair.
He ran a hand over his mouth, half-mortified, half-amused. “… yes,” he admitted. “Unfortunately.”
As the server passed their table, he caught her attention with a subtle tilt of his head and a quiet nod, signaling for another round. She returned the gesture with a polite smile and disappeared toward the bar. He turned back to her, expression softer now.
“It’s nice,” he continued, more seriously, “having someone who takes me seriously. Who isn’t impressed by my last name. Who challenges me, in a way.” His gaze dropped briefly to the table. “I mean, my father does that too, but he makes me feel stupid. I know he doesn't trust me that much. Comparing myself to Valarr makes me feel incompetent. You…” He hesitated for a beat. “You make me feel like I want to be better.”
She shifted in her seat, brushing a crumb from her napkin onto the plate. “I just do my job,” she said with a small shrug.
“And you do it well,” he replied without hesitation.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The soft hum of instrumental jazz filled the space between them, the slow rhythm threading through the murmur of conversations and the clink of glassware. Somewhere across the room, someone laughed quietly. Candlelight flickered against the window, catching in the curve of their glasses.
He broke the silence first. “I think I learned something from you,” he said.
She tilted her head. “Oh?”
“Contentment, but like, not ambition-less,” he replied. “You don’t chase things just because they’re shiny. You know what matters to you, and you stick to it.”
Her smile was gentle, almost shy. No. Actually shy. “I kinda get that from you, too.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, meeting her eyes. “I suppose we’re similar that way.”
The server returned then, setting their second drinks down with practiced grace. Her glass caught the light, ruby-pink foam clinging delicately to its rim. She took a small sip almost immediately, shoulders relaxing as warmth spread through her.
“You know,” she said, leaning slightly closer, lowering her tone, “some of the new hires tease me—from the other departments. My ‘on-boarding buddies.’”
Daeron raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
“About working under you,” she replied. “They act like I just show up and do nothing. Like I’ve somehow won a lottery.”
“Come on, that’s nonsense,” he said dryly, shaking his head.
She laughed, the sound light and unguarded. “Hardly. But they were shocked when I told them we’re kind of … friends now.”
“Friends?” he repeated, quietly.
She met his gaze, unflinching. Gods, the alcohol is really doing the work for her. “Aren’t we?”
Daeron hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around his glass. Then he smiled—slow, thoughtful, as if the word were settling into place inside him.
“Of course we are.” The realization seemed to surprise him as much as it pleased him. His smile lingered, unforced, as the soft jazz drifted on and the night deepened around them.
They left just after eleven. The bar had quieted, lights dimmed further, music slowed into something almost wistful. Outside, cool night air brushed against her flushed cheeks, sobering and refreshing. His car arrived a few minutes later, gliding to the curb with barely a sound, its dark surface reflecting the glow of streetlamps and signs from the bar’s windows. The driver stepped out first, moving quietly before opening the rear door.
“I can take you home,” he offered, adjusting his coat against the cool night air.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hands tucked into her sleeves for warmth. After a moment, she shook her head.
“Ah, it’s not far. And I think I need the walk,” she said softly. “Clear my head.”
He studied her then—her slightly flushed cheeks, the faint smile that lingered at the corners of her mouth, the way she swayed just a little before steadying herself. For a moment, it looked as though he might argue. Instead, he gave her a nod. “Alright.”
They lingered on the sidewalk, neither quite ready to leave yet. Traffic whispered past in the distance. Somewhere down the street, a door was slammed, followed by muffled laughter. She reached into her bag and fumbled briefly before pulling out a small, worn pack of cigarettes. Her fingers were a little unsteady as she tapped one free. Daeron noticed immediately.
“You smoke?” he asked, brows lifting slightly.
“Not really,” she replied, slipping the cigarette between her lips. She cupped her hands around the lighter, shielding the flame from the wind. It flickered once, twice, before catching. “Only on very specific occasions.”
He watched the ember glow to life. “Like tonight?”
“Like tonight,” she said, exhaling slowly, a thin ribbon of smoke curling into the cold air. A faint smile touched her lips. “Need to warm up. And sober up.”
He didn’t comment, only observed quietly, his gaze lingering with a mix of concern and curiosity, as though trying to memorize the moment—the way the streetlight caught in her hair, the way she held the cigarette awkwardly, like someone who wasn’t quite used to it.
After a beat, he spoke. “Text me when you get home?”
“Okay.” she promised.
The driver opened the door again, waiting patiently. Daeron stepped forward, then hesitated. One hand rested briefly on the frame before he turned back to her.
“Thank you,” he said. “For tonight.”
She smiled, genuine and warm. “Anytime, Daeron.”
He returned the smile, softer this time, before ducking into the car. The door closed with a muted thud, and moments later, the vehicle pulled away, its taillights fading into the dark.
She stood there for a few seconds longer, finishing her cigarette. She took one last drag, exhaled slowly, and watched the smoke disappear into the night. Then she turned toward home, walking beneath the streetlights, still carrying the warmth of jazz, and two Clover Clubs, and a good company in her heart.
What begins as polite professionalism, but slowly turns into late-night conversations and unexpected friendship—and when he finally finds comfort in her presence, the lines between duty, trust, and something deeper begin to blur.
Word Count: 5.1k
[Chapter 1/3]
Fluff. Angst later. Daeron is very sad and lonely, but eventually found a friend. I want him to have some happiness too.
›
She had been at her desk for an hour before she saw him.
An entire hour of polite smiles from passing executives, security badges being activated, passwords reset twice, and the routine of first-day observation. The executive floor did not hum the way the lower levels did. Conversations were kept low, laughter was softened before it could echo, and even the phones seemed to ring more discreetly up here.
The corridor outside her desk was lined with frosted glass offices, each name etched in clean silver or gold lettering. Directors. Senior Partners. Legal Counsel. The carpet was thick enough to swallow footsteps, a muted charcoal that absorbed sound and intent alike. Assistants moved with quiet efficiency, tablets in hand, heels precise against the floor. No one rushed. No one lingered either.
Her desk sat directly outside one of the largest offices on the floor.
Vice President of Strategic Development.
The plaque gleamed.
The desk itself was immaculate—larger than anything she’d been given at her previous firm. Two widescreen monitors were angled perfectly. A company laptop, still faintly warm from IT configuration. A leather-bound welcome folder embossed with the Targaryen crest. Even the stationery felt heavier than normal, thick ivory paper that made her old workplace seem almost temporary by comparison.
She had already read through her onboarding packet twice; once physically, once digitally, and she had begun digging into archived project drives out of sheer restlessness. Strategic Development, according to the internal database, oversaw cross-department initiatives, long-term forecasting, and exploratory ventures. In practice, the folders were thin. A handful of stalled proposals. A few draft presentations. Several initiatives were marked “pending executive alignment” with no further notes.
She leaned back slightly in her chair, taking it all in.
So far, the department seemed ornamental.
She had known the reputation before accepting the offer.
She had prepared herself for arrogance, indifference, or a quick transactional introduction from her new superior, who turns out to be the same age as her. He would skim her résumé, assign something vague to justify her salary, and vanish until his next required appearance.
At eleven past ten, the elevator at the end of the executive corridor chimed — a soft, restrained sound, as if even machinery was expected to behave up here.
She looked up from her screen.
The hallway was long and muted in charcoal and glass, light spilling in from the windows at the far end and reflecting faintly off brushed steel nameplates. Assistants moved in diagonals between offices, heels sinking into thick carpet. Somewhere, a printer exhaled a single sheet of paper. She’s not a stranger to such an environment.
Then, when she’s still comparing the past in her mind, the elevator doors slide open.
He stepped out alone without any assistants trailing behind; just a slim leather folder and a laptop in one hand. Dark grey suit, seems appropriately tailored. The fabric caught the light as he moved, dark and matte in contrast to the pale walls. His hair was brushed back neatly, though a few strands near his temple had fallen out of place. For a moment, he stood just beyond the elevator threshold, as if orienting himself to the fluorescent light before he began walking towards his office at the end of the corridor.
His gaze passed over the glass panels, perhaps trying to see if anything important was going on somewhere else that he might need to know. Daeron resumed walking toward her desk, placed the closest to his door.
Up close, she can take a better look of him; the faint shadow beneath his eyes—the slight pallor beneath the office lighting. The scent of perfume that already smells expensive; subtle and close-wearing—a clean musk that lingered so softly in the air, warm and understated, like freshly pressed cotton layered over something faintly woody beneath.
He stopped at her desk, hands relaxed at his sides.
“You the new hire?” he asked. His voice was low, smoother than she expected—unlike her old boss, touched with something almost dry—like he hadn’t spoken much yet that morning.
“Yes,” she said, standing. The chair wheels whispered against the carpet as she pushed it back. He blinked once and glanced toward the wall clock mounted between two offices. Eleven thirteen now. The second hand moved with clinical precision.
“You’ve been waiting long?”
“About an hour.” The leather folder and laptop shifted slightly in his grip. A small movement of his shoulders — not dramatic, just enough to register the information.
“I’m sorry.” It wasn’t said carelessly. He meant it. The word settled in the quiet corridor between them.
No one had given her an exact time to meet him; all she knew was that work starts at nine, and HR’s onboarding program finished at ten. It wasn’t entirely his fault. But he looked faintly displeased with himself, as if punctuality were a private contract he’d broken.
He stepped aside and pushed open the glass door to his office.
“Come in. We should talk.”
Inside, the temperature seemed cooler. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along the far wall, overlooking a spread of grey skyline softened by haze. The city looked distant from this height, reduced to geometry and muted traffic lines. The light filtering through the glass was pale and diffused, washing the room in a subdued glow.
The desk dominated the space—dark wood, broad and heavy, its surface almost too orderly. A crystal tumbler sat near the corner, it is empty but faintly smudged with condensation, and a neat stack of documents rested beside it. Two leather chairs faced the desk, perfectly angled as well.
She expected him to circle behind it, as every superior would. Instead, he moved around the side and leaned back against the edge, crossing one ankle loosely over the other. The leather folder came to rest beside the documents with a soft thud.
“So,” he said, glancing briefly toward the windows before returning his gaze to her, “why leave under a year? That’s usually either ambition or disaster. Sorry, I trusted HR more with the recruitments, so I didn’t have a chance to do the interviews.”
There was a flicker of humor beneath it. She hadn’t expected teasing.
She answered anyway; about stagnation at her old firm, about wanting exposure to legacy systems, about understanding how companies like this sustained themselves across generations, and something about her old boss giving three people's worth of tasks to just one person.
To her surprise, he seemed to be actually listening, and this is not just some ice breaker or anything. No wandering glance toward his phone. No tapping fingers against the desk. His attention stayed on her, eyes focused, posture relaxed but present. When she mentioned the structural inertia in older firms, his mouth tilted slightly.
“That’s a polite way of saying resistant to change,” he said.
“Or resistant to losing control,” she replied. “You know how it is when the people who still ask you how to combine PDFs are stubborn as hell.”
A faint exhale escaped from his lips, sounding almost like a laugh.
“Fair.”
He pushed off the desk then and moved slowly toward the window, hands slipping into his pockets. The city reflected faintly against the glass behind him, turning him briefly into a pale silhouette against steel and sky.
“Legacy companies survive by pretending nothing urgent is happening,” he said lightly. “Young companies survive by pretending everything is.”
He asked about her previous firm’s internal restructuring; specifics, not surface-level commentary. He referenced market shifts from two years ago without consulting notes. When she countered one of his points about scalability, he paused, considering, rather than dismissing. Within minutes, the air in the office had shifted.
The broad desk, the city view, the heavy furniture—all of it receded slightly as the conversation gathered momentum. It no longer felt like an onboarding discussion.
It felt like two analysts comparing observations across systems, neither entirely trusted.
The clock on the wall ticked quietly. Neither of them seemed to notice. They were discussing how old firms protected inefficiency under the guise of stability, how younger firms mistook speed for vision. Why does risk tolerance decrease with inherited wealth. He spoke thoughtfully, sometimes pausing mid-sentence as if reconsidering his phrasing. When she gently challenged one of his points about scaling strategy, he didn’t stiffen.
“Fair,” he said again, almost thoughtfully, as if he enjoyed being corrected. “That’s fair.”
The repetition wasn’t defensive. If anything, he seemed faintly entertained by it. There was a noticeable shift in him whenever the conversation pulled him away from whatever weight he carried into the room — a dryness to his humor, understated and intelligent, threaded through otherwise serious observations.
After a moment, he studied her with a tilted head.
“You’re not what I expected.”
“Should I … be worried?”
“Undecided,” he said, a subtle curve touching his mouth. “They usually rotate interns through this department. I’m a terrible teacher.”
The self-awareness was disarming. But it was not some self-deprecating joke for sympathy—just factual. She almost laughed, but still wanted to be polite.
He didn’t project authority the way the room suggested he should. The office was expansive, imposing in its clean lines and dark wood, but he moved within it like someone temporarily occupying borrowed space. As though the desk, the title, the skyline beyond the glass, all of it had been handed to him along with a key he never asked for.
He eventually stepped behind the desk, fingers grazing the edge of a drawer in passing. The contact lingered for half a second too long before he pulled his hand back, folding both hands together on the polished surface instead.
“You’ll have autonomy,” he said. “I don’t micromanage. Mostly because I don’t believe in it.”
“And partly because I’m not always here. I’m not here every day, but if there’s anything that you want to ask, hit me up on Teams.”
“That’s fine,” she replied evenly. “I don’t need hovering.”
His eyes lifted to hers properly then, holding them a second longer than before. They were lighter up close—grey, violet, she’s not entirely sure, and she doesn’t want to be caught staring too long like a weirdo. But whatever haze people spoke about wasn’t there now.
“Good,” he said, softer. “The workload isn’t excessive. We’re not understaffed. Someone decided departments of similar scope should have similar headcounts.” A small shrug lifted one shoulder. “So here you are.”
The way he said it carried a hint of shared absurdity, as if they were co-conspirators in a decision neither of them had truly made.
“But you’ll be treated fairly,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “As long as you do your job.”
From there, the conversation loosened.
They drifted away from anything that sounded like work and into the softer absurdities of the world they both occupied—mostly about the company events that seemed to happen every two months, to Daeron’s dislike. She learned that his father put every kid of age to work for a couple of years within the company first, then they’re free to choose whether they want to stay or do something else. He chose to stay because he prefers comfort to being challenged; even joked that he’s a coward—but under the joke, she understands what he meant. She caught herself smiling again, more openly this time.
It struck him, somewhere in the middle of her quiet commentary, how relieved he felt. They had finally placed someone his age under him—not a wide-eyed graduate trying too hard to impress, not a final-year intern watching him like a cautionary tale. Someone who didn’t look at him as an heir or a piece of gold, but simply as a person sitting across the desk, just another coworker.
The space between them shifted without either acknowledging it. The weight of his reputation—the whispers, the indulgent headlines, the inherited assumptions thinned. He felt less like the family’s errant son stationed in a borrowed office and more like a twenty-five-year-old young adult having a conversation with someone who understood the absurdity of it all.
When she eventually stood, glancing at the time and realizing nearly an hour had dissolved, neither of them remarked on it.
“Welcome to the team,” he said.
It was simple, almost understated. But there was a quiet gladness beneath it — not performative, not rehearsed. Something closer to relief. She stepped back into the corridor, back to her desk.
› ›
Two weeks in, she had learned the rhythm of her corner—or rather, the lack of one.
He had come in three times since her first day. Not consecutively, of course. A Tuesday afternoon that bled into early evening. A Thursday morning when he left before most people returned from lunch. Then a Monday that felt almost productive, his presence was quiet but steady behind the closed glass of his office.
No one announced when he would arrive. No one questioned when he didn’t. And she never asked—despite his offer to be present via Teams, she never really had anything she hasn’t been able to figure out with the other staff yet, nor anything urgent. Though she’d occasionally send updates on any finished tasks and proposals, which he’d only reply with a simple ‘Thank you’ and a separate smiley emoji.
By the third appearance, she had stopped feeling surprised when she glimpsed him stepping out of the elevator just before lunchtime—dark coat slung over one shoulder, no words were spoken until it’s his time to leave. Functional days, she had decided.
The executive cafeteria was noticeably quieter than the lower floors—not just in volume, but in atmosphere as well. The executive levels didn’t operate on hot desks or shared spaces; everything was assigned and insulated. During her HR onboarding tour, she’d been shown the three floors reserved exclusively for upper management and their small team of staff. The explanation had been simple: senior leadership preferred silence. It was where internal strategy meetings were held, where clients were received, where conversations carried weight and were meant to remain contained. So it is meant to be much better decorated and quieter.
She sat alone by the windows with a Caesar salad that was, unexpectedly, one of the best she’d ever had—crisp, properly dressed, and the chicken wasn’t dry. She scrolled through her phone more out of reflex than interest, just to do a little doomscrolling after seeing word documents after word documents, letting the quiet murmurs settle around her. It was easier this way. No one felt compelled to entertain the new hire yet, and she didn’t have to perform friendliness on demand.
She noticed him before she properly saw him—a shift at the edge of her vision, a presence that was difficult to overlook. He carried himself so casually, tall and broad-shouldered without seeming imposing, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested careless confidence rather than effort. Even in stillness, he occupied space instinctively, as if the room adjusted around him instead of the other way around.
He placed his tray across from her without preamble, the porcelain settling softly against the table.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, though he was already drawing the chair back.
She looked up, mildly surprised but not unsettled. “Now it isn’t.”
Up close, there was something altered about him. Dimmed at the edges? His tie had been loosened slightly, sleeves folded once at the wrist as if he’d grown impatient halfway through the day. There were no visible signs of excess, yet there is a fatigue that felt deeper than a late night. Was he working late?
His tray was sparse: black coffee and a slice of plain toast.
“You eat rabbit food voluntarily?” he asked, glancing at her salad.
“It’s actually very good,” she replied, unfazed. “I'm a big fan of Caesars.”
A quiet exhale left him—still not quite a laugh, but close enough, she thought
They fell into a brief, companionable silence. He drank his coffee slowly, thumb scrolling absently through what looked like news on his phone, expression unreadable but intent enough to suggest he was only half-invested. She continued eating, unbothered by the lack of immediate conversation.
Around them, the executive floor moved in its usual restrained choreography — low conversations overlapping without ever rising, assistants passing with tablets held close to their chests, glass doors whispering shut instead of clicking. It was the sound of a place that never truly stopped, only lowered its voice.
At their table, however, the noise felt distant. Contained. As if the two of them were seated just slightly outside the current of it.
She set her fork down lightly. “Did you actually come in for something specific,” she asked, “or were you just bored at home?”
A faint curve tugged at his mouth. “That’s classified.”
Her brows lifted. “Oh? A secret task?”
This time, he did actually laugh, and it sounded genuine. It softened his face in a way that made him look less like the reluctant heir to something vast and more like a man her age, amused by something small.
He found himself watching her without meaning to; the absence of performance in her movements, the way she didn’t adjust herself under his gaze, or seem particularly aware of the significance others might attach to his presence. Most people carried something around him: curiosity sharpened to gossip, or caution disguised as politeness, or another bootlicking conversation.
With her, there was none of that. They felt, inexplicably, like two people who had met outside of hierarchy. Like friends who happened to share a table. She simply seemed normal—maybe because this is not her first job, he thought.
“I’m glad they didn’t send me another prodigy,” he said abruptly.
She blinked at him. “Should I ... be offended?”
“No— that’s not what I meant—” he replied evenly. “Prodigies are exhausting.”
“And what am I, then?”
He considered her for a moment longer than necessary. “Experienced. Seasoned?”
A small, genuine smile surfaced, though slightly confused. “I’ll take that … as a compliment?”
Neither of them acknowledged the quiet fact that he had chosen her table. That he could have remained in his office. That he rarely occupied shared spaces longer than required. When he eventually stood, his coffee still unfinished, he looked at her with something almost contemplative.
“I’ll be in tomorrow,” he said.
She arched her brow. “You sure?”
“Big monthly meeting, heads of departments and stuff. My dad’s gonna be there.”
He didn’t leave immediately after standing. Instead, he lingered by the table, coffee still in hand, waiting with an ease that suggested he had nowhere more urgent to be. When she gestured lightly to her half-finished salad and said she would head back up soon, he gave a small nod and remained there anyway, leaning a shoulder against the back of the empty chair beside him. He only stepped away to return his cup neatly to its proper place, then came back as if it had already been decided.
“Let’s go,” he said simply.
They walked toward the elevators together, the corridor quiet around them. When the doors closed and the mirrored walls sealed them into a private stillness, she glanced at him thoughtfully.
“Your grandfather started the company, right?”
He nodded once. “Daeron. He’s the one who built most of this. I was named after him.” His tone was even, stripped of embellishment. “Expanded the company beyond what it was meant to be. People like to romanticize it now.”
“And your father?”
“Maekar,” he said. “Fourth son.”
She tilted her head. “Fourth?”
“Uncle Baelor’s the eldest,” he explained. “Then Aerys. Then Rhaegel. My father’s the youngest of the four.” A faint pause. “Which meant he was never expected to lead the whole thing. Just manage his portion well. Which he actually did really, really well.”
“And you’re his eldest.”
“Yes.”
The elevator hummed upward.
“So where does everyone else fit?” she asked, genuinely curious now.
“Baelor’s son, Valarr, is the obvious successor,” Daeron replied. “He’s been groomed for it since he was old enough to sit through meetings without fidgeting. He actually enjoys it, and he’s really good, I have to admit.” There was no bitterness in his voice. “My brother Aerion will join at the end of the year. Father’s been preparing him for something—he’s graduating soon.”
“And you?”
He leaned back against the wall, hands in his pockets. “I was given a title early,” he said. “High enough to be respectable. Vague enough to be harmless.”
She studied him in the mirror. The structure was clearer now — Daeron at the top, then Baelor, Aerys, Rhaegel, and Maekar branching outward. Beneath them, their sons are slowly getting included. It wasn’t just a company; it was an inheritance layered over an inheritance.
“And you don’t want more?” she asked quietly.
He looked at her then, not at their reflections in the mirror surrounding them “Heh. No one has ever asked me that. But no, I don’t want to fight for something that was decided before I was born,” he said simply.
The elevator slowed, the soft mechanical sound filling the space between them.
For the first time, she understood the scale and the distance he kept from it. He spoke of the dynasty not with resentment, not with pride, but with the familiarity of someone who had grown up inside its walls and learned exactly which rooms were never truly his.
When the elevator doors opened onto their floor, he stepped aside automatically, one hand lifting in a small gesture for her to go first. Old-fashioned. They parted near her desk with nothing more than a brief look of acknowledgement.
After she returned to her desk, the executive floor settled back into another work rhythm. Several staff resumed their movements between offices, tablets tucked close to their chests. Somewhere down the corridor, a conference room filled slowly with low voices and restrained laughter, the sound carefully contained by frosted panels and thick carpeting. A printer hummed to exhaled a single page, and fell silent again. Phones vibrated discreetly against polished wood instead of ringing aloud. The building, having briefly acknowledged her return, moved on.
She opened her laptop and reread her notes, adjusting a few lines in the proposal draft she had begun outlining during their conversation. Her reflection hovered faintly in the darkened edge of her screen—focused, composed, already absorbed back into her work. From the corner of her vision, she could see his office door close, the glass dimming slightly as its opacity shifted.
But inside, the light changed—the afternoon sun filtered through the high windows at a shallow angle, softening the edges of the skyline and casting long, pale bands across the carpet. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, visible only where the light caught them. The office felt larger now that she was looking in from the outside, the silence expanding to fill the space she had occupied so easily.
Daeron remained where he was. He stood by the window with one hand resting loosely against the glass, his reflection faintly layered over the city beyond. From this height, traffic looked unreal—slow and distant, reduced to thin threads of motion between blocks of steel and concrete. People moved somewhere far below, while he stood suspended above it all in a room that was never quite his.
Behind him, the desk waited—immaculate, symmetrical, untouched by clutter. Her neatly stacked notes rested beside his folder, aligned more carefully than he remembered placing them. But then she noticed that he hadn’t sat down, checked his phone, or his computer; his Teams is still yellow. For a long moment, he simply stood by the window, staring out at the muted skyline without really seeing it.
Eventually, his gaze drifted away and settled on the small bar cart positioned neatly against the wall beside a bookshelf. It was stocked with quite a number of bottles, she remembered earlier—two crystal tumblers, a decanter, several bottles arranged by height and label, everything aligned as carefully as the documents on his desk. It’s not an uncommon sight for those high enough to have their own office space, especially the ones overlooking the city.
Then Daeron turned from the window and walked toward it. His footsteps were soundless against the carpet. When he reached the cart, he selected a half-empty bottle from the back and poured himself a modest measure of amber liquid. He didn’t linger over it too long to inspect it. He lifted the glass and drank slowly, eyes still fixed on nothing in particular.
Over the next hour, she noticed him return to it twice more. Once, while reviewing a draft, fingers idly tracing lines of text as he drank. Once, after a brief phone call, his expression was unreadable as he refilled his glass. Each time, the pour was slow. Each time, the glass ended up empty.
By the time she glanced up again, he had poured a fourth, but he didn’t bring it back to his desk. Instead, he sank onto the low leather couch near the window, one arm draped loosely along its back, the glass resting on the side table beside him. He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, unmoving, as though gathering himself, and took a nap.
He left a little after three.
He gathered his things without hurry; he didn’t bring much in anyway—sliding his laptop into a slim leather folder, tucking a few loose papers neatly inside. On his way out, he stopped by one of the corner offices where a department head was already waiting with a document flagged in yellow. Daeron skimmed it briefly, pen moving swiftly for a signature at the bottom. A quiet exchange, a nod, and it was done. He returned to his own office only long enough to retrieve his coat from the back of the chair. The fabric settled smoothly over his shoulders.
Though it was barely past three, no one questioned it. A few people glanced up as he crossed the floor—simply making themselves aware. His early departures were neither new nor debatable.
“If you finish the proposal, you can head out,” he said, tone casual, as though granting permission was an afterthought rather than something he had planned. “No one’s counting your minutes.”
She searched his face for a trace of irony and found none. “Even if it’s early?”
“Especially if it’s early,” he replied. “You’ve done what you needed to do. That’s enough.”
He gave a brief incline of his head, satisfied, and turned away. She watched him cross the floor before disappearing into the elevator lobby once more.
The doors slid shut behind him.
The floor continued exactly as it had before, but his absence was perceptible in the smallest way—like the dimming of a light you hadn’t realized one were orienting themselves by.
By 4:50 p.m., the floor had begun its gradual thinning. A few doors closed. A few supervisors packed up discreetly. The sky outside the windows had softened into late afternoon haze.
Her proposal had been done for nearly twenty minutes.
Still, she remained at her desk, cursor blinking idly on a reopened document she wasn’t really reading. It felt… presumptuous to leave early. She was new. Two weeks in. Everyone else seemed to stay until at least five, if not later. She didn’t want to be the junior who took advantage of a privilege she hadn’t earned.
The bottom right corner of her screen flickered with a Teams notification.
Daeron T.
Why are you still online?
She stared at it for a second before replying.
Finishing up a few things.
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
You finished the proposal.
She blinked.
How do you know that?
A pause. Then:
I can see the activity log.
Lol.
She exhaled softly, right.
I just feel bad leaving early.
Everyone else is still here.
The reply came slower this time.
Everyone else is not you.
She hesitated, then wrote:
It’s my second week. I don’t want to look unserious.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
You staying ten extra minutes won’t change their perception.
It’ll just change your habit.
She leaned back in her chair, reading that twice. Another message came through.
Go home.
That’s not a suggestion.
She couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her mouth.
Are you always this bossy?
Almost immediately:
I’m kind of your boss.
And that’s kinda my job.
She glanced around the floor — at the closed doors, the muted conversations, the quiet persistence of a building that would never truly empty.
Fine
A reply came before she could even turn around and gather her belongings.
👍
› ›
Another two weeks passed, and she was still online at 11:47 p.m, sitting by her kitchen table at her modest apartment.
She minimized her document and stretched, absently glancing at the corner of her screen.
Daeron T.
did u finish the deck for tmrw
sorry *tomorrow
ignore that
She stared for a moment, then typed.
Yes. It’s uploaded to the sharepoint.
The typing indicator appeared almost instantly.
thanks ur amazing
😄
i mean that politely
sorry
She smiled faintly.
No worries.
A few minutes passed, then:
long day?
She hesitated, then replied.
A bit. You?
Several seconds passed.
longer than it shouldve been
you make this place workable, btw
sorry that sounded weird
She leaned back in her chair, reading that twice.
It’s okay.
I get what you mean.
Then she was left on read.
From then on, it became a pattern.
Late-night questions, most of them dotted with small typos he never bothered to correct before sending. Early-morning apologies that followed—brief, polite, almost overly formal, as if he were trying to erase the informality of the night before. Half-finished sentences, sent too quickly, then amended in a second message with a single word changed or a missing thought restored.
There were occasional emails she quietly edited before sending back to him, fixing phrasing, smoothing transitions, attaching documents he had forgotten to include. Messages that began stiff and professional and ended, inexplicably, with the same three emojis he always used.
Sometimes, near midnight, he would begin typing and then stop, the indicator hovering on her screen for long seconds before disappearing altogether. No message followed. Nothing arrived.
Once, close to one in the morning, a notification appeared and vanished within seconds.
Message has been unsent.
She stared at the empty space where it had been for a moment, unsure whether she had seen the words or not. A minute later, another message arrived.
sorry
ignore that
She pretended to believe him.
One night, after asking so furiously about a forecast model she had built, he went offline without warning. No goodbye nor any formal sign-off.
She stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary, watching the green dot turn grey, watching her inbox remain stubbornly empty. Eventually, she saved her work and shut her laptop, the quiet of the apartment settling around her once more.
As she closed her laptop and headed back to the bedroom, she realized that she had begun to orient herself around those late-night green dots, looking forward to it, almost. Around his presence, even when it was reduced to a blinking cursor and imperfect sentences.
She told herself that perhaps they had become friends.
And my father ... he never thought the throne would pass to him, and yet it did. He used to say that was his punishment for the blow that slew his brother. I pray he found the peace in death that he never knew in life.
There are a lot of people who won't even be able to play the game for five years or more because they will have to wait for second hand equipment with the necessary hardware to run it.
This is what makes me so angry about all this 'late to the fandom' rhetoric - particularly in gaming. It's fundamentally classist, ableist, and generally discriminatory.
I was so excited to finally have equipment and money enough that I could buy both DA4 and BG3 when they came out, but my disability still means I am lagging behind the rest of you.
It's actually Very Common for people to not be able to afford a game for years and years - even a decade or more - after it came out. And if that's never been you, you're very privileged.
Gale, grasping Tav’s hand in his, speaking passionately as he reads from a sheet of parchment: I swear, with all the Gods above as my witness, to love you for the rest of my life and beyond. My sole purpose is to cherish you so deeply and with such devotion it will make the stars weep. I want to lie with you under the evening sky and make love to you until our cries can be heard from the heavens. I want to find ways to pleasure you so intensely that your nails will permanently mark my skin. I want my hands to be more intimately familiar with your body than your own. I want to taste every last inch of you.
The cleric officiating Gale and Tav’s wedding (in front of Gale’s mother Morena, Tara, the Dekarios extended family, Elminster, Shadowheart, Astarion, Wyll etc., and a smattering of Gale’s Waterdeep colleagues): …thank you, Gale, for those very…descriptive vows. If we may continue with the ceremony, do you hereby take—
• stop obsessing over people who don’t put any effort into your relationship (platonic, non platonic, whatever)
• if the “love of your life” is happy with somebody else, be happy that they’re happy and move on
• stop comparing yourself to people who are so bland, you are astronomical
• don’t say shit about other people that you 1) wouldn’t say in front of a large audience and 2) wouldn’t want said about you
• “friends” that tell you you’re annoying or weird, don’t talk to you about your general interests, and leave you out of shit are not your friends
• if you can only gossip with somebody, they are also not your friend. also, why you out here gossiping? get a hobby. gossip is only best in small portions. if you just blabbing ‘bout Stacy and her 10 boyfriends all the time, that just makes you dull
• don’t get hung up on bad grades, bad people, and bad shit. you have approx. 80 years on this planet to do something great before it’s all over. don’t waste your time being down. go pet a dog, hug your friends, have some hot chocolate, and scream your favourite songs
stormborns
dailybridgerton
areudirty
titsay
andulkaphoto
annaxmalina
